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Im a person who dwells on the past and fears the future
Poems
Mateuš Conrad
Apr 2018
to follow up on a citation from
art & fear by
david bales and ted orland:
/ it seems that while the “quantity” group
was busily churning out piles of work -
and learning from their mistakes —
the “quality” group had sat theorizing
about perfection, and in the end had
little more to show for their efforts
than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay. /
imagine asking a mozart to appeal
to both a quality and a quantity,
point being,
quality will always remain
POP... while quantity will shut itself
off in king crimson song,
take what you're given
and stop acting like a pretentious
communist that even the Soviets would
have hated, as this overt censor
who censored so much,
that he turned an ancient oak
into a toothpick, and not 10,000,000
packets if not more...
much easier to call in a
quality surveyor when it comes
to carpentry: you sit on a chair
and it doesn't break:
give us 10,000 more replicas...
"apparently" rushed...
a mirage of qua (as being)
and quo (where?)
almost indistinguishable
after enough practice, and,
patience... but some much for these
little words...
that sequence of a tree
made into a single toothpick?
loony toons, foghorn leghorn
episode...
quality is a spare
of what dedication to quantity
arrives at...
quality is a byproduct
not the product itself...
don't ask me how capitalism rings
a bell, seeing how it's exhausted
in pumping out quality,
and quantity simultaneously,
having to tap into a.i. & algorithms
because, apparently:
human creativity is without
an imagination lax,
there are, apparently,
25,000 ways of reinventing
the hammer and the nail...
given that the fear of the hammer
and the he sickle disappeared...
Columbus discovering America
in a ******* can of sardines...
woo, hoo, honk honk.
sarcasm is not an easy humour,
witty people hardly notice
that wit and sarcasm are the Hanzel
und Gretyl of the comedy spree...
dry, martini, fixations on the image of:
getting away with easing out
a wet ****, only because attired
in what Rene Magritte would wear
when painting.
oh wait... **** **** ****....
both instances mind th3 qua-
prefix...
mind you, etymology of suffixes
with a strong latin prefix?
not my strong point...
-lity contra -ntity are not my strong...
what point of intrest
and: the most certain points
worth debating over?
we are summoned by the fickle nature
of: whatever comes our way,
much easier had it been but
a crude snout of a dog
with only a howling or a barking
to emerge from within:
so curse the mind the tongue the thumb,
and the spine,
or however else you might
want to evaporate expanding the senses
and not clinging to these pillars...
thing about quantity...
beggars at the feet of spontaneity,
never for a minute in need of:
attempting to perfect a square...
beside a rhombus?
a bonsai everest of cow dung,
towed by 12 horses and one donkey,
dubbed: Γołgoθa -
seems Pythagoras was an Aussie...
what with the up-side down right angle
like a swallow nest on a barn...
******* yob mismatched: oi oi oi...
how else to end it if not
with John Frusciante?
it really takes but one song
to cite, warm tape...
THAT CHORUS, IZ...
how do I put it...
the point of helium trapped in a ******?
the point of
mixing the dentist high on helium
and the patient high off nitrous oxide?
I mean, **** me,
is it to remain of matter of
hiding a higher realism in unachievable
cartoon sketches?
a theological dull and grey,
any day, compared to
man's phantasmagorical taste of colour
to revitalise urbanity with
a Braille reading of Vivaldi scores...
no clichés at this point,
even with the behemoths,
given the already exhausted and fly-riddled
moonlight sonnata...
hell, red hot chilli peppers, ooh, pop,
john frusciante, not carvel...
warm tape chorus:
remnants of...
pierdolone, baz'groły...
since how can the artist be
not deemed a pretentious ****,
if he perfects by sole theorising,
and not by making a *** note...
take an artist and a carpenter...
after a while the two concepts
are indistinguishable,
a bit like reading the tedium that
is the overburdened suicide explanation
lost in Zen and the art of motorcycle
maintanence...
QUA, sure, but then what?
10000000000 contra 1.0000000001?
numbing terminology,
contra: litany prospectus?
elsewhere in the discussion,
waiting rooms with jazz, rather than muzak
playing in the background,
qua-qua intersectionability...
no categorical imperative,
or an imperative to build walls and learn
to juggle a a third entry,
a joker sly upper-hand...
quality, and quantity,
are indistinguishable in jazz...
muchos gracias...
and your, ******* gospel choir
dance moves and jazz and all
the other encyclopedia entries of
black...
highschool,
black girls inventing cat fights,
and when vaseline cream first came
in contact with, afro.
art & fear by
david bales and ted orland:
/ it seems that while the “quantity” group
was busily churning out piles of work -
and learning from their mistakes —
the “quality” group had sat theorizing
about perfection, and in the end had
little more to show for their efforts
than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay. /
imagine asking a mozart to appeal
to both a quality and a quantity,
point being,
quality will always remain
POP... while quantity will shut itself
off in king crimson song,
take what you're given
and stop acting like a pretentious
communist that even the Soviets would
have hated, as this overt censor
who censored so much,
that he turned an ancient oak
into a toothpick, and not 10,000,000
packets if not more...
much easier to call in a
quality surveyor when it comes
to carpentry: you sit on a chair
and it doesn't break:
give us 10,000 more replicas...
"apparently" rushed...
a mirage of qua (as being)
and quo (where?)
almost indistinguishable
after enough practice, and,
patience... but some much for these
little words...
that sequence of a tree
made into a single toothpick?
loony toons, foghorn leghorn
episode...
quality is a spare
of what dedication to quantity
arrives at...
quality is a byproduct
not the product itself...
don't ask me how capitalism rings
a bell, seeing how it's exhausted
in pumping out quality,
and quantity simultaneously,
having to tap into a.i. & algorithms
because, apparently:
human creativity is without
an imagination lax,
there are, apparently,
25,000 ways of reinventing
the hammer and the nail...
given that the fear of the hammer
and the he sickle disappeared...
Columbus discovering America
in a ******* can of sardines...
woo, hoo, honk honk.
sarcasm is not an easy humour,
witty people hardly notice
that wit and sarcasm are the Hanzel
und Gretyl of the comedy spree...
dry, martini, fixations on the image of:
getting away with easing out
a wet ****, only because attired
in what Rene Magritte would wear
when painting.
oh wait... **** **** ****....
both instances mind th3 qua-
prefix...
mind you, etymology of suffixes
with a strong latin prefix?
not my strong point...
-lity contra -ntity are not my strong...
what point of intrest
and: the most certain points
worth debating over?
we are summoned by the fickle nature
of: whatever comes our way,
much easier had it been but
a crude snout of a dog
with only a howling or a barking
to emerge from within:
so curse the mind the tongue the thumb,
and the spine,
or however else you might
want to evaporate expanding the senses
and not clinging to these pillars...
thing about quantity...
beggars at the feet of spontaneity,
never for a minute in need of:
attempting to perfect a square...
beside a rhombus?
a bonsai everest of cow dung,
towed by 12 horses and one donkey,
dubbed: Γołgoθa -
seems Pythagoras was an Aussie...
what with the up-side down right angle
like a swallow nest on a barn...
******* yob mismatched: oi oi oi...
how else to end it if not
with John Frusciante?
it really takes but one song
to cite, warm tape...
THAT CHORUS, IZ...
how do I put it...
the point of helium trapped in a ******?
the point of
mixing the dentist high on helium
and the patient high off nitrous oxide?
I mean, **** me,
is it to remain of matter of
hiding a higher realism in unachievable
cartoon sketches?
a theological dull and grey,
any day, compared to
man's phantasmagorical taste of colour
to revitalise urbanity with
a Braille reading of Vivaldi scores...
no clichés at this point,
even with the behemoths,
given the already exhausted and fly-riddled
moonlight sonnata...
hell, red hot chilli peppers, ooh, pop,
john frusciante, not carvel...
warm tape chorus:
remnants of...
pierdolone, baz'groły...
since how can the artist be
not deemed a pretentious ****,
if he perfects by sole theorising,
and not by making a *** note...
take an artist and a carpenter...
after a while the two concepts
are indistinguishable,
a bit like reading the tedium that
is the overburdened suicide explanation
lost in Zen and the art of motorcycle
maintanence...
QUA, sure, but then what?
10000000000 contra 1.0000000001?
numbing terminology,
contra: litany prospectus?
elsewhere in the discussion,
waiting rooms with jazz, rather than muzak
playing in the background,
qua-qua intersectionability...
no categorical imperative,
or an imperative to build walls and learn
to juggle a a third entry,
a joker sly upper-hand...
quality, and quantity,
are indistinguishable in jazz...
muchos gracias...
and your, ******* gospel choir
dance moves and jazz and all
the other encyclopedia entries of
black...
highschool,
black girls inventing cat fights,
and when vaseline cream first came
in contact with, afro.
JJ Hutton
Apr 2014
His navy blue sports coat with brass buttons appeared to have been folded, again and again, as if to create ornate origami then unfolded to wear every Tuesday and Friday at his job at the Xerox call center in Colorado Springs. He kept his small, stubby fingers in his pockets, uncapping and recapping pens or fiddling with keys. As he passed by co-workers, adjusting his body to make adequate room in the narrow path between spines of cubicles, he would nod and say an almost audible hello. This was difficult for him, but he was trying something he'd read in a self-help book called Going Up.
And go up he had, ever so marginally. But up still. Despite his translucent blonde mustache, which was quite thick but only visible at a certain angle, under a discriminating light, despite his wrinkled clothes, despite the tight, Brillo pad, curly mess of hair atop his head, he'd stepped up from customer service representative to quality specialist, much to the yawning disbelief of his former spinemates.
Craig didn't have a girlfriend, but he had an ex, and, though he tried to never bring her up when talking with a woman in the break room, usually Kaley or Jewelz (spelled that way on her name badge), he did, nearly every time. He didn't know if this was an attempt to relate a yes, I've seen a woman naked in real life--so or evidence that he had, at least at one point, value.
He and twelve other quality specialists shared an office on the east side of the center. In each call he screened he made sure the customer service representative demonstrated the Three Cs: Courtesy, Commit, and Close. He no longer had to hand deliver critiques to reps because H.R. deemed it a liability risk with all the death threats he received. Instead, he sent out emails with no mention of his name. They read something like this:
Dear Customer Service Representative 216442,
Upon review of call number 100043212, which took place on 03/12/12, the Quality department noticed that while you did a super job of being courteous (great use of customer's name!) and closing (we love that you didn't just say, "Thank you for being a Xerox customer, etc., etc.," but instead said, "At Xerox it's our absolute pleasure to serve you." How true! We love that in quality), we noticed you over committed in your commitment statement. During the call, you tell the customer, "I'll have that problem fixed for you in no time." While that is ideal, there are situations in which you will not be able to solve the customer's problem. So instead of saying with certainty that you will have a solution, say, "Let me review your account and see what OPTIONS we have for you today." This tells the customer that you are concerned, yet you do not promise that which you cannot deliver.
Quality Control Team
CS Springs
Craig quit smoking two or three times a week, a hundred or 150 times a year. At 26, he woke up to wake up; he worked to work, to say yes, I have a job, to say yes, it's unbelievable how much of my money Uncle Sam gets, to say, I'm saving for a car or a new place or a full-size bed; he went to the bar after work on Thursdays and Saturdays to go to the bar on Thursdays and Saturdays; he'd say hello to say hello. Today was tomorrow is yesterday.
At the foot of Ute Valley park he lived in a home not all that different from where your mother sleeps, a white split-level with charcoal shutters and a two-car garage--though Craig slept where your mother would not: in the unfinished basement, for the home was not his but his brother's. His brother had a nice wife and a nice three-year-old boy, and they ate pizza on Wednesdays, went to the park, weather permitting, every day after supper for a nice time.
Craig observed this more than participated. He'd listen to blocks fall, his brother stepping on action figures, his brother's wife cooking--all from underneath them. As the floorboards creaked he committed each cohabitant's gait to memory. He vultured deli meat and low-fat slices of cheese out of the fridge when no one was in the kitchen.
At night he'd drink a bottle of his ex-girlfriend's favorite wine, just to watch it go empty. He'd fall asleep on top of the covers and dream, not without some anguish, **** dreams of her.
And go up he had, ever so marginally. But up still. Despite his translucent blonde mustache, which was quite thick but only visible at a certain angle, under a discriminating light, despite his wrinkled clothes, despite the tight, Brillo pad, curly mess of hair atop his head, he'd stepped up from customer service representative to quality specialist, much to the yawning disbelief of his former spinemates.
Craig didn't have a girlfriend, but he had an ex, and, though he tried to never bring her up when talking with a woman in the break room, usually Kaley or Jewelz (spelled that way on her name badge), he did, nearly every time. He didn't know if this was an attempt to relate a yes, I've seen a woman naked in real life--so or evidence that he had, at least at one point, value.
He and twelve other quality specialists shared an office on the east side of the center. In each call he screened he made sure the customer service representative demonstrated the Three Cs: Courtesy, Commit, and Close. He no longer had to hand deliver critiques to reps because H.R. deemed it a liability risk with all the death threats he received. Instead, he sent out emails with no mention of his name. They read something like this:
Dear Customer Service Representative 216442,
Upon review of call number 100043212, which took place on 03/12/12, the Quality department noticed that while you did a super job of being courteous (great use of customer's name!) and closing (we love that you didn't just say, "Thank you for being a Xerox customer, etc., etc.," but instead said, "At Xerox it's our absolute pleasure to serve you." How true! We love that in quality), we noticed you over committed in your commitment statement. During the call, you tell the customer, "I'll have that problem fixed for you in no time." While that is ideal, there are situations in which you will not be able to solve the customer's problem. So instead of saying with certainty that you will have a solution, say, "Let me review your account and see what OPTIONS we have for you today." This tells the customer that you are concerned, yet you do not promise that which you cannot deliver.
Quality Control Team
CS Springs
Craig quit smoking two or three times a week, a hundred or 150 times a year. At 26, he woke up to wake up; he worked to work, to say yes, I have a job, to say yes, it's unbelievable how much of my money Uncle Sam gets, to say, I'm saving for a car or a new place or a full-size bed; he went to the bar after work on Thursdays and Saturdays to go to the bar on Thursdays and Saturdays; he'd say hello to say hello. Today was tomorrow is yesterday.
At the foot of Ute Valley park he lived in a home not all that different from where your mother sleeps, a white split-level with charcoal shutters and a two-car garage--though Craig slept where your mother would not: in the unfinished basement, for the home was not his but his brother's. His brother had a nice wife and a nice three-year-old boy, and they ate pizza on Wednesdays, went to the park, weather permitting, every day after supper for a nice time.
Craig observed this more than participated. He'd listen to blocks fall, his brother stepping on action figures, his brother's wife cooking--all from underneath them. As the floorboards creaked he committed each cohabitant's gait to memory. He vultured deli meat and low-fat slices of cheese out of the fridge when no one was in the kitchen.
At night he'd drink a bottle of his ex-girlfriend's favorite wine, just to watch it go empty. He'd fall asleep on top of the covers and dream, not without some anguish, **** dreams of her.