The Science of Happiness

  
Credit: http://image.clipdealer.com

The expanse between the question mark and the period
impossibly prolonged contains the secrets of all seekers. 

The distance run between confusion and understanding
measures the precise extent of pleasure in our pursuits.

The conquest of cause and effect links us to the principle
the paradox of seeking, knowing and adapting to facticity.

And once we find it, the answer, solution, and knowledge,
our joy ends, for the tickle of the quest vibrates happiness.  

 

Yo’ Mama

Daddy makes you dance still though brittle bones merely shake not shimmy.

When you were full bloom and wider than the sprig crouch you are now,

you could swivel your hips light on your feet and in sync with the song.

I didn’t inherit your body’s rhythm but I followed the beat of your words,

those words, shiny and adored, I could tell from the way you caressed them

pouring sweet-tongued in pristine ears framing fresh faces of your charges.

And while sparks sizzle out in your eyes cycling the dead grey matter zones

the heat of your humor and the glee of ironic days are frozen inside your skin,

a dead pan face with little recognition and remembrance of those words sharp,

flying shot gun but pinpoint targeted to prick, tickle and touch those of the world,

not the one you inhabit now, some filmy inchoate plane from once you lifted us,

your children whose words now breathe yours in silent days of stiff witness past.

A silent language heard timelessly is a nurturer’s toil and care, archetypal love

coating countless centuries streaming through bodies perpetuating in birth.

Ripped and rattled, torn and repaired, spited and sorrowed, she reawakens

each day renewed from sleep of the dead spirited with ancestral compulsion

and primal tenderness of urgency, survival, the burden of her species’ thruway.

And when she has been sucked dry of her duty, she sinks in immortal cliché.

Blister Toad

  
credit: http://static.ddmcdn.com/gif/cane-toad0.jpg

Old greedy blister toad,

brown and rooted, he is

surrounded by mossy scum,

squat-padded among the lilies,

too green with rage to notice.

Swizzle-tongue swats at flies,

he splat spits his beady hate

in a black glare of marbled stare

and glowering grin, grinding gut

that churns out pity, starved

for the want of a fatty gnat–

a wart on a brimming pond.  

 

Post-post graduate school poem about the nothingness of everything

 
credit:  http://www.tech-gaming.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/12-6-My-Pretentious.jpg

ironic  

myth 

materialism

blasphemy 

feminism

apostasy

dialectic

rhetoric 

cybernetic

construction

object 

oppression 

boundary 

illusion 

creatures 

intimacy 

power  

baroque  

colonization  

orgy

flaccid 

chimeras 

theorized 

purposive

ontology

transformation

racist

capitalism

appropriation 

reproduction 

pleasure 

construction

self

postmodern

utopian 

gender

genesis

oedipal

narratives 

symbiosis

apocalyptic 

telos  

humanist 

phallic 

Marxism

psychoanalysis

subversion

utopian

technological 

nature 

culture 

theory 

framework

Judeo-Christian 

ideology  

masculinist 

textualization

poststructuralist

epistemology

artefacts

post-industrial 

Orientalism

society

post-colonialism

transgress

oppositional

premises 

socialists 

binary

bodily 

iterative

being 

recoupling

identity

exclusion

discourse

patriarchy

class

capitalism

post-gender

post-racial

socio-politico

reification

deployment

isms

hermeneutic

apologist

And the War on the Poor Continues

  

war on the poor–

locked in jails for traffic tickets 

to feed the coffers of the insatiable

county that fines

and collects debt 

by killing the despicable poor.

Crime of poverty cannot be borne,

not even if born into it.

No excuse.

Don’t be poor.

Don’t be spawn of indigents

downtrodden

drug-addled

ignorant

uneducated

outcast

hated.

Don’t do it.

It may be your life 

–or death.

It’s hard to believe there are still debtor’s prisons that people die in. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have thought the story in today’s Guardian a lie. 

  

Power to the People:  Happy Memorial Day (a flag wave to free speech)

Flag waving

  
Credit: James Gort

I am not fond of patriotic measurement. Those who denounce others for lack of patriotism are often too busy waving flags to find time to write their Congress people about the injustices around them: the disproportionate number of black youth in prisons, the war against the poor, and the cycling of drug addicts in prisons on the wheel of blind ineffective policies and inhumane disdain for the weak and poor, to name a few. The ignorants of history get my guts gurgling. 

Peace-loving by nature, I do bite when rankled. My teeth sunk into an unsuspecting victim on Facebook (where else more appropriate?) on an ex-student’s thread after the post question asked why everyone was getting so riled up over PacSun’s new design: an upside down flag. The first responder raged about disrespect for the flag. I smelled that one coming.

Also inherently pedantic and boorish, I tried to positive spin the symbol as patriotic while teaching a history lesson about the founding fathers of our nation finding it so important to democracy that citizens of a nation DO speak up and out for what they believe are best policies and interests for the country, whether those sentiments are critical or supportive of existing ideas, policies and laws. However, the tepid response held that a positive critique helped more than a negative one. 

She misses the point.

When PacSun disseminates t-shirts with upside down flags, it may be merely smart marketing to the rebel, the cool folk, the hipsters or youth generally, those with piss and vinegar in them about something–and not necessarily the country’s welfare. However, the symbol should evoke the ultimate patriotic act: expressing dissatisfaction with the nation’s behavior. 

What could be more patriotic than to care about the nation enough to speak up? To want changes? Apathy or blind complicity wreaks destruction to a democracy grounded on a bustling marketplace of ideas. 

How else do our nation’s law and policy makers know how to represent us if not for speaking out (yeah, I know…lobbyists, special interests and favors) at least in principle, on Constitutional constructs. Flag waving signals symbolic respect, approval and support of a nation, in whole or in part. Protests, letters to the district Congress person, flag burning and iconic imagery and slogans of dissent, such as upside down flags, literally and symbolically disapprove a nation in whole or in part. 

Patriots of a nation act, speak and opine. Shallow patriots wait for holidays to post sentimental gestures, gratified that they have done their part. Traitors silence speech of others, censor opinions they disapprove, the very acts from which the founding fathers of this country sought to protect its citizens. 

Plenty is upside down in America now. The downward facing flag speaks legions to me, one citizen among many who feel the same. Those who disagree speak freely in cafes on the streets, at the dinner table of their homes,  slouched at their desks on their electronic devices and behind the screens of anonymity on social media. 

And that’s the beauty of it–the freedom to express disagreement, exchange ideas and learn something–in a nation that not only tolerates but requires it for its very existence.

On this Memorial Day, remember American history. The antidote to tyranny lies in the people–who are the sovereignty in this nation–assembling, whether in private or public, to meet with other minds in order to keep the government in compliance with the needs of its rulers–the people. 

Power to the people, and their voices, echoing from the battle field groans of dying soldiers to the exclamation points typed on an IPad to punctuate a Facebook debate.

Bass Clef of a Mistress

  
credit: http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs41/i/2009/055/e/6/___Bass_Clef____by_cheinrich1981.jpg

A parade courses through my days,
one of twitters chirped from devices and trees.

An avuncular path leading back to my ears
sounds the thrumming pump of plasma drums.

I can hear my blood when the music starts,
like the rhythmic stump of dog tail in mid-scratch.

Silence moves me too in humming refrigerators,
ticking clocks, and buzzing transformers above.

Door knocks muted wood of knuckles shy
jar my attention in irritated curiosity and dread.

Like the broken peace pierced shrilly,
a dog barks inside echoing plaster and tile.

Water pour-sliding down pipes in gushes
forced like fingers hard-pressed on a fingerboard.

I hear the memory thrust of my grandfather,
his fingers crushing mine high atop the cello’s face.

“No, like dees, you put like dees, here!!”
A stranger loved in osmotic care for a family’s music.

Wind cries rarely as do the clouds in this desert,
so the trills of trickling rain sing sweetly suckling tears.

Muffled voices beyond closed doors wordlessly
play mornings mostly before the whispers of evening.

When the clanging of aluminum, teflon and iron
ring the truth fed in tones nourished by hand, we sing.

Our collective voices intone in the eyes of intention,
a shrugging will, and love-notes tucked in school lunch sacks.  

And when the confetti clears, the bass drum moves on,
the choir of antiquity will accompany me, soloist, alto, sotto voce. 

 

 

Going Inside

  
Tomorrow I will walk off into the flourescent light for good

never again wearing the same shoes, thoughts or smile.

The clay shapers will mold another figure, thinner, weaker

shaken and crumpled, in need of a step stool to peer out.
  

With re-formatted database, my memory sense will falter

feed me implanted lies of the consensus, a replacement

childhood, substitute story of a life never lived, imagined.

Read me all around the sphere, then, see what you think.
  

The words that will cut and shave, clip and trim, make me

appear like the tale of an other who skinned another ideal.

And there will be no return to the sanity of reality, no truth.

For tomorrow I walk inside myself–again–for the last time.   
  

Awakening

 
Credit:  http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/jjba/images/a/a9/Vlcsnap-2013-01-21-00h58m20s23.png/revision/latest?cb=20130125202637

Awakening prompts a glancing checklist:

Same place as last consciousness–

Darkness or light–

Feel my bones collect, my eyes adjust–

First blink: lids dragged over gravel or oil?

First move: any pinches, aches or strains?

On my feet, the day’s first inhale, 

a wet finger to the wind.

Last night the pings of paranoia 

called through the curtained phone

closed down for good–for the night,

disturbed the blank peace of erasure,

electric muted screams of digging rebuke

nagging disappointment and broken rules

known only to those who hide them.

Ping: You don’t know…

Ping: You don’t have…

Ping: You are not…

Ping: You … 

The device pinged and dinged, 

begging me to bury sound deep in darkness.

And I did.

The morning checked in misaligned,

a misstep of hungover, awed silence.

Roaming the days hunkered inside me, 

downward dream-filled head of cotton

clear cuts paths of fallen dead trees; 

upright sight, moving back like Mercury,

the illuminating specks piercing a miasma

best trailed in side-step unresolved truth,

prick the skin like sand in a wind storm

abrading hope-possible of reconciliation.