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Poems
Kaycee33
Jun 2013
The Quest for the Damsel Fish by Keith Collard
Author's Atmosphere
On the bow of the boat, with the cold cloud of the dismal day brushing your back conjuring goose bumped flesh you hold an anchor. For the first time, you can pick this silver anchor up with only one hand and hold it over your head. It resembles the Morning Star, a brutal medieval weapon that bludgeons and impales its victims. Drop it into the dark world beyond the security of your boat--watch the anchor descend.
Watch this silver anchor--this Morning Star--descend away from the boat and you, it becomes swarmed over with darkness. It forms a ******-metallic grin at first as it sinks, then the sinking silver anchor takes its last shape at its last visible glimpse. It is so small now as if it could be hung from a necklace. It is a silver sword.
Peering over the side of the boat, the depths collectively look like the mouth of a Cannibalistic Crab, throwing the shadows of its mandibles over everything that sinks down into it--black mandibles that have joints with the same angle of a Reaper's Scythe.
I am scared looking at this sinking phantasm. I see something from my youth down there in this dark cold Atlantic. I see the silver Morning Star again, now in golden armor. I remember a magnificent kingdom, in a saltwater fish tank I had once and never had again. A tropical paradise that I see again as I stare down into the depths. This fish tank was so beautiful with the most beautiful inhabitants who I miss. Before I could lift the silver anchor--the Morning Star--over my head with only one hand, turning gold in that morning sun-- I was a boy who sat indian style, cross legged--peering into this brilliant spectacle of light I thought awesome. I thought all the darkness of home and the world was kept at bay by this kingdom of light...
Chapter 1 Begins the Story
The Grey Skies of Mass is the Name of This Chapter.
Air, in bubbles--it was a world beauty of darkness revealed in slashes of light from dashing fluorescent bulbs overhead this fish tank.
Silver swords of fluorescent energy daring to the bottom, every slash revealing every color of the zodiac--from the Gold of Scorpio to the purple of Libra combining into the jade of the Gemini.
In the center, like a dark Stonehenge were rocks. The exterior rocks had tropical colors like that of cotton candy, but the interior shadows of the rocks that was the Stonehenge, did not possess one photon of light. The silver messengers of the florescent energy from above would tire and die at their base. The shadows of the Stonehenge rocks would stand over them as they died.
When the boy named Sake climbed the rickety wood stairs of the house, he did so in fear of making noise, as if to not wake each step.
Until he could see the glowing aura of his fish tank then he would start down that eerie hall, With pictures of ghosts and ghosts of pictures staring down at him as he walked down that rickety hallway of this towering old colonial home. He hurried to the glowing tank to escape the black and white gazing picture frames.
The faint gurgling, bubbling of the saltwater tank became stronger in his ear, and that sound guided him from the last haunt of the hallway-- the empty room that was perpendicular to his room. He only looked to his bright tank as soon as he entered the hallway from the creaky wooden steps. Then he proceeded to sit in front of this great tropical fish tank in Indian style with his legs folded over one another as children so often would sit.
The sun was setting. The reflections from the tank were beginning to send ripples down the dark walls. Increasing wave after wave reflecting down his dark walls. He thought they to be seagulls flapping into the darkness until they were overcome as he was listening to the bubbling water of his tank.
" Hello my fish, hello Angel, hello Tang, hello Hoomah, hello Clown and hello Damsel … and hello to you Crab...even though I do not like you," he said in half jest not looking at the crab in the entrance of the rocks. The rocks were the color of cotton candy, but the interior shadows did not possess a photon of luminescence. All other shadows not caused by the rocks--but by bright swaying ornament--were like the glaze on a candy apple--dark but delicious. Besides the crab's layer in the rock jumble at the center of the tank which was a Stonehenge within a Stonehenge--the tank was a world of bright inviting light.
The crab was in its routine, motionless in the entrance to his foyer, with his scythe-like claws in the air, in expectation of catching one of the bright fish someday. For that reason the boy tried to remove the crab in the past, but even though the boy was fast with his hand, the optical illusion of the tank would always send his hand where the crab no longer was. He did not know how to use two hands to rid the crab in the future by trapping and destroying the Cannibal Crab ; his father, on a weekend visit, gave the Crab to the boy to put into the bright world of the saltwater tank, which Sake quickly regretted. His father promised him that the Crab would not be able to catch any of the fish he said " ...***** only eat anything that has fallen to the bottom or each other..."
A scream from the living room downstairs ran up the rickety wood and down the long hall and startled the boy. His mother sent her shrieks out to grab the boy, allowing her to not have to waste any time nor calorie on her son; for she would tire from the stairs, but her screams would not, allowing her to stay curled up on the couch. If she was not screaming for Sake, she was talking as loud as screams on the phone with her girlfriends. The decibels from her laugh was torture for all in the silent house. A haughty laugh in a gossipy conversation, that overpowered the sound of the bright tropical fish tank in Sake's room that was above and far opposite her in the living room.
" Sake you have to get a paper-route to pay for the tank, the electricity bill is outrageous," she said while not taking her eyes off the TV and her legs curled up beside her. He would glad fully get a paper-route even if it was for a made up reason. He turned to go, and looked back at his mother, and a shudder ran through him with a new thought: someday her appearance will match her voice.
Upon reaching his tank, Hoomah was trying to get his attention as always. Taking up pebbles in his big pouty pursed lips and spitting them out of his lips like a weak musket. The Hoomah was a very silly fish, it looked like one of Sake’s aunts, with too much make up on, slightly overweight, and hovering on two little fins that looked incapable of keeping it afloat, but they did. The fins reminded him of the legs of his aunt--skinny under not so skinny.’
The Tang was doing his usual aquanautics , darting and sailing was his trick. He was fast, the fastest with his bright yellow triangular sail cutting the water. Next was the aggressive Clown fish, the boy thought she was always aggresive because she didn't have an anemone to sleep on. The Clown was strong and sleek with an orange jaw and body that was built like a tigress.
Sake thought something tragic about the body if the orange Clown and the three silver traces that clawed her body as decoration -they reminded him of the incandescent orange glow of a street lamp being viewed through the rainy back windshield of a car. The Clown fish was a distraction that craved attention.
The Clown would chase around some of the other fish and jump out of the water to catch the boy's eye.
Next is the Queen Angel fish, she is the queen of the tank, she sits in back all alone, waving like a marvelous banner, iridescent purple and golden jade. Her forehead slopes back in a French braid style that streams over her back like a kings standard waving before battle, but her standard is of a house of beauty, and that of royal purple.
Lastly is the Damsel Fish, the smallest and most vulnerable in the tank. She has royal purple also, rivaling the queen. Her eyes are lashed but not lidded like the Hoomah. Her eyes are elliptical, and perhaps the most human, or in the boy’s opinion, she is the most lady like, the Hoomah and the Queen Angel come to her defence if she is chased around by the Clown. Her eyes penetrate the boys, to the point of him looking away.
Before the tank, in its place in the corner was a painting, an oil painting of another type of Clown donning a hat with orange partial make-up on his face (only around eyes nose and mouth there was ghost white paint) and it had two tears coming down from its right eye. The Clown painting was given to him by his mother, it seems he could not be rid of them, but Sake at first was taken in by the brightness of the Clown, and the smooth salacious wet look of the painting. it looked dripping, or submerged, like another alternate reality. The wet surreal glaze of the painting seemed a portal, especially the orange glow of the Clown's skin without make-up. . If he tried to remember of times before the Clown painting that preceded the Clown fish, he thought of the orange saffron twilight of sunset, and watching it from the high window from his room in the towering house. How that light changed everything that it touched, from the tree tops and the clouds, to even the dark hallway leading up to his room. The painting and the Clown fish did not feel the same as those distant memories of sunset, especially the summer sunset when his mother would put him to bed long before the sun had set.
Sake did not voice opposition to the Clown.
Then he was once again trapped by the Clown.
The boy was extremely afraid of this painting that replaced the sunsets , being confined alone with it by all those early bedtimes.
Sake once asked his mother if he could take it down, whereas she said " No." That clown would follow him into his dreams, always he would be down the hill from the tall house on the hill, trying to walk back to the house, but to walk away or run in a dream was like walking underwater or in black space, and he would make no distance as the ground opened up and the clown came out of the ground hugging him with the pryless grip of eight arms. He would then wake up amid screams and a tearful hatted clown staring somberly down at him from the wall where it was hung. Night made him fear the Clown painting more; that ghost white make-up decorating around the eyes and mouth seeming to form another painting in entirety. He could only look at the painting after a while when the lights were on, and the wet looking painting was mostly orange from the skin, neck, and forearms of the hat wearing clown. But the painting is gone now, and the magnificent light display of the tank is there now.
Sake pulled out the fish food, all the fish bestirred in anticipation of being fed. The only time they would all come together; and that was to mumble the bits of falling flakes: a chomp from the Clown, a pucker from the Hoomah, the fast mumble of the Tang, and the dainty chew of the Damsel. The Queen Angelfish would stay near the bottom, and kiss a flake over and over. She would not deign herself to go into a friendly frenzy like the other fish; she stayed calm, yet alluring like a flag dancing rhythmically in the breeze, but never repeating the same move as the wind never repeats the same breeze. She is the only fish to change colors. When the grey skies of Mass emit through every portal in the house at the height of its bleakness, her colors would turn more fantastic, perhaps why she is queen.
He put his finger in the top of the watery world; the warmth was felt all the way up his arm. After feeding, his favorite thing to do was to trace his finger on the top of the warm water and have the Damsel follow it. She loved it, it was her only time to dance, for the Clown would descend down in somewhat fear ( or annoyance) of the boys finger, and the Damsel and he would dance. The boy, thought that extraordinary.
Sake bedded down that night, to his usual watery world of his room. The reflective waves running down the walls like seagulls of light, with the rhythmic gurgling sound and it's occasional splash of the Clown, or the Hoomah swooping into the pebbly bottom to scoop up some pebbles for spitting making the sound "ccchhhhh" --cachinging like a distant underwater register. The tank’s nocturne sound was therapeutic to the boy.
Among waking up, and being greeted by his sparkling treasure tank--that was always of the faintest light in the morning due to the grey skies of Mass coming through every portal to lessen the tropical spectrum-- the boy would render his salutations " Good morning my Hoomah.....good morning Tang, my Damsel, and your majesty Queen Angel.....and so forth. Until the scream would come to get him, and he would walk briskly past the empty room and the looming family pictures of strangers. His mother put him to work that day, to "pay for the fish tank" but really to buy her a new cocktail dress for her nightly forays. The boy did not care, the tank was his sun, emitting through the bleak skies of Mass, and even if the tank was reduced to a haze by the overcast of his life, it only added a log to the fire that was the tropical world at night, in turn making him welcome the dismal day.
On a day, when the overcast was so thick, he felt he could not picture his rectangular orb waiting for him at night. He had trouble remembering what houses to deliver the paper. He delivered to the same house three times. Newspapers seemed to disappear in his hands, due to their color relation to the sky. Leaves were falling from the trees—butterfly like—he went to catch one, he missed--a first. For Sake could walk through dense thorned brambles and avoid every barb, as a knight in combat or someone’s whose heart felt the painful sting of the barb before. He would stand under a tree in late fall, and roll around to avoid every falling leaf, and pierce them to the ground deftly with a stick fashioned as a sword. He could slither between snow flakes, almost like a fish nimbly avoiding small flakes.
After he finished his paper-route , he went to his usual spot under an oak tree to fence with falling leaves. As the other boys walked by and poked fun he would stall his imagination, and look to the brown landscape of the dry fall. The crisp brown leaves of the trees were sword shapes to him. He held the battle ax shape of the oak leaf over his eye held up by the stick it was pierced through, and spied the woodline through the sinus of the oak leaf lobe. The brown white speckled scenery, were all trying to hide behind eachother by blending in bleakfully; he pretended the leaf was Hector’s helmet from the Illiad—donned over his eyes.
“ Whatchya doing Sake?” asked a young girl named Summer. Sake only mumbled something nervously and stood there. And a pretty Summer passed on after Sake once again denied himself of her pretty company. He looked to the woodline again, a mist was now concealing the tall apical trees. It now looked like the brown woodland was not trying to retreat behind eachother in fall concealment, but trying to emerge forth out of the greyness to say "save us."
“ Damgf” he uttered, and could not even grasp a word correctly. His head lifted to the sky repeatedly, there was no orb, and the shadows were looming larger than ever; fractioned shadows from tree branches were forming scythes all over the ground.
He entered the large shadow that was his front door, into the house that rose high into the sky, with the simplicity of Stonehenge. He climbed the rickety petrified stairs and went down the hall. Grey light had spotlighted every frame on the wall. He looked into the empty room, nothingness, then his room, the tank seemed at its faintest, and it was nearing twilight. He walked past the tank to look out the w
Author's Atmosphere
On the bow of the boat, with the cold cloud of the dismal day brushing your back conjuring goose bumped flesh you hold an anchor. For the first time, you can pick this silver anchor up with only one hand and hold it over your head. It resembles the Morning Star, a brutal medieval weapon that bludgeons and impales its victims. Drop it into the dark world beyond the security of your boat--watch the anchor descend.
Watch this silver anchor--this Morning Star--descend away from the boat and you, it becomes swarmed over with darkness. It forms a ******-metallic grin at first as it sinks, then the sinking silver anchor takes its last shape at its last visible glimpse. It is so small now as if it could be hung from a necklace. It is a silver sword.
Peering over the side of the boat, the depths collectively look like the mouth of a Cannibalistic Crab, throwing the shadows of its mandibles over everything that sinks down into it--black mandibles that have joints with the same angle of a Reaper's Scythe.
I am scared looking at this sinking phantasm. I see something from my youth down there in this dark cold Atlantic. I see the silver Morning Star again, now in golden armor. I remember a magnificent kingdom, in a saltwater fish tank I had once and never had again. A tropical paradise that I see again as I stare down into the depths. This fish tank was so beautiful with the most beautiful inhabitants who I miss. Before I could lift the silver anchor--the Morning Star--over my head with only one hand, turning gold in that morning sun-- I was a boy who sat indian style, cross legged--peering into this brilliant spectacle of light I thought awesome. I thought all the darkness of home and the world was kept at bay by this kingdom of light...
Chapter 1 Begins the Story
The Grey Skies of Mass is the Name of This Chapter.
Air, in bubbles--it was a world beauty of darkness revealed in slashes of light from dashing fluorescent bulbs overhead this fish tank.
Silver swords of fluorescent energy daring to the bottom, every slash revealing every color of the zodiac--from the Gold of Scorpio to the purple of Libra combining into the jade of the Gemini.
In the center, like a dark Stonehenge were rocks. The exterior rocks had tropical colors like that of cotton candy, but the interior shadows of the rocks that was the Stonehenge, did not possess one photon of light. The silver messengers of the florescent energy from above would tire and die at their base. The shadows of the Stonehenge rocks would stand over them as they died.
When the boy named Sake climbed the rickety wood stairs of the house, he did so in fear of making noise, as if to not wake each step.
Until he could see the glowing aura of his fish tank then he would start down that eerie hall, With pictures of ghosts and ghosts of pictures staring down at him as he walked down that rickety hallway of this towering old colonial home. He hurried to the glowing tank to escape the black and white gazing picture frames.
The faint gurgling, bubbling of the saltwater tank became stronger in his ear, and that sound guided him from the last haunt of the hallway-- the empty room that was perpendicular to his room. He only looked to his bright tank as soon as he entered the hallway from the creaky wooden steps. Then he proceeded to sit in front of this great tropical fish tank in Indian style with his legs folded over one another as children so often would sit.
The sun was setting. The reflections from the tank were beginning to send ripples down the dark walls. Increasing wave after wave reflecting down his dark walls. He thought they to be seagulls flapping into the darkness until they were overcome as he was listening to the bubbling water of his tank.
" Hello my fish, hello Angel, hello Tang, hello Hoomah, hello Clown and hello Damsel … and hello to you Crab...even though I do not like you," he said in half jest not looking at the crab in the entrance of the rocks. The rocks were the color of cotton candy, but the interior shadows did not possess a photon of luminescence. All other shadows not caused by the rocks--but by bright swaying ornament--were like the glaze on a candy apple--dark but delicious. Besides the crab's layer in the rock jumble at the center of the tank which was a Stonehenge within a Stonehenge--the tank was a world of bright inviting light.
The crab was in its routine, motionless in the entrance to his foyer, with his scythe-like claws in the air, in expectation of catching one of the bright fish someday. For that reason the boy tried to remove the crab in the past, but even though the boy was fast with his hand, the optical illusion of the tank would always send his hand where the crab no longer was. He did not know how to use two hands to rid the crab in the future by trapping and destroying the Cannibal Crab ; his father, on a weekend visit, gave the Crab to the boy to put into the bright world of the saltwater tank, which Sake quickly regretted. His father promised him that the Crab would not be able to catch any of the fish he said " ...***** only eat anything that has fallen to the bottom or each other..."
A scream from the living room downstairs ran up the rickety wood and down the long hall and startled the boy. His mother sent her shrieks out to grab the boy, allowing her to not have to waste any time nor calorie on her son; for she would tire from the stairs, but her screams would not, allowing her to stay curled up on the couch. If she was not screaming for Sake, she was talking as loud as screams on the phone with her girlfriends. The decibels from her laugh was torture for all in the silent house. A haughty laugh in a gossipy conversation, that overpowered the sound of the bright tropical fish tank in Sake's room that was above and far opposite her in the living room.
" Sake you have to get a paper-route to pay for the tank, the electricity bill is outrageous," she said while not taking her eyes off the TV and her legs curled up beside her. He would glad fully get a paper-route even if it was for a made up reason. He turned to go, and looked back at his mother, and a shudder ran through him with a new thought: someday her appearance will match her voice.
Upon reaching his tank, Hoomah was trying to get his attention as always. Taking up pebbles in his big pouty pursed lips and spitting them out of his lips like a weak musket. The Hoomah was a very silly fish, it looked like one of Sake’s aunts, with too much make up on, slightly overweight, and hovering on two little fins that looked incapable of keeping it afloat, but they did. The fins reminded him of the legs of his aunt--skinny under not so skinny.’
The Tang was doing his usual aquanautics , darting and sailing was his trick. He was fast, the fastest with his bright yellow triangular sail cutting the water. Next was the aggressive Clown fish, the boy thought she was always aggresive because she didn't have an anemone to sleep on. The Clown was strong and sleek with an orange jaw and body that was built like a tigress.
Sake thought something tragic about the body if the orange Clown and the three silver traces that clawed her body as decoration -they reminded him of the incandescent orange glow of a street lamp being viewed through the rainy back windshield of a car. The Clown fish was a distraction that craved attention.
The Clown would chase around some of the other fish and jump out of the water to catch the boy's eye.
Next is the Queen Angel fish, she is the queen of the tank, she sits in back all alone, waving like a marvelous banner, iridescent purple and golden jade. Her forehead slopes back in a French braid style that streams over her back like a kings standard waving before battle, but her standard is of a house of beauty, and that of royal purple.
Lastly is the Damsel Fish, the smallest and most vulnerable in the tank. She has royal purple also, rivaling the queen. Her eyes are lashed but not lidded like the Hoomah. Her eyes are elliptical, and perhaps the most human, or in the boy’s opinion, she is the most lady like, the Hoomah and the Queen Angel come to her defence if she is chased around by the Clown. Her eyes penetrate the boys, to the point of him looking away.
Before the tank, in its place in the corner was a painting, an oil painting of another type of Clown donning a hat with orange partial make-up on his face (only around eyes nose and mouth there was ghost white paint) and it had two tears coming down from its right eye. The Clown painting was given to him by his mother, it seems he could not be rid of them, but Sake at first was taken in by the brightness of the Clown, and the smooth salacious wet look of the painting. it looked dripping, or submerged, like another alternate reality. The wet surreal glaze of the painting seemed a portal, especially the orange glow of the Clown's skin without make-up. . If he tried to remember of times before the Clown painting that preceded the Clown fish, he thought of the orange saffron twilight of sunset, and watching it from the high window from his room in the towering house. How that light changed everything that it touched, from the tree tops and the clouds, to even the dark hallway leading up to his room. The painting and the Clown fish did not feel the same as those distant memories of sunset, especially the summer sunset when his mother would put him to bed long before the sun had set.
Sake did not voice opposition to the Clown.
Then he was once again trapped by the Clown.
The boy was extremely afraid of this painting that replaced the sunsets , being confined alone with it by all those early bedtimes.
Sake once asked his mother if he could take it down, whereas she said " No." That clown would follow him into his dreams, always he would be down the hill from the tall house on the hill, trying to walk back to the house, but to walk away or run in a dream was like walking underwater or in black space, and he would make no distance as the ground opened up and the clown came out of the ground hugging him with the pryless grip of eight arms. He would then wake up amid screams and a tearful hatted clown staring somberly down at him from the wall where it was hung. Night made him fear the Clown painting more; that ghost white make-up decorating around the eyes and mouth seeming to form another painting in entirety. He could only look at the painting after a while when the lights were on, and the wet looking painting was mostly orange from the skin, neck, and forearms of the hat wearing clown. But the painting is gone now, and the magnificent light display of the tank is there now.
Sake pulled out the fish food, all the fish bestirred in anticipation of being fed. The only time they would all come together; and that was to mumble the bits of falling flakes: a chomp from the Clown, a pucker from the Hoomah, the fast mumble of the Tang, and the dainty chew of the Damsel. The Queen Angelfish would stay near the bottom, and kiss a flake over and over. She would not deign herself to go into a friendly frenzy like the other fish; she stayed calm, yet alluring like a flag dancing rhythmically in the breeze, but never repeating the same move as the wind never repeats the same breeze. She is the only fish to change colors. When the grey skies of Mass emit through every portal in the house at the height of its bleakness, her colors would turn more fantastic, perhaps why she is queen.
He put his finger in the top of the watery world; the warmth was felt all the way up his arm. After feeding, his favorite thing to do was to trace his finger on the top of the warm water and have the Damsel follow it. She loved it, it was her only time to dance, for the Clown would descend down in somewhat fear ( or annoyance) of the boys finger, and the Damsel and he would dance. The boy, thought that extraordinary.
Sake bedded down that night, to his usual watery world of his room. The reflective waves running down the walls like seagulls of light, with the rhythmic gurgling sound and it's occasional splash of the Clown, or the Hoomah swooping into the pebbly bottom to scoop up some pebbles for spitting making the sound "ccchhhhh" --cachinging like a distant underwater register. The tank’s nocturne sound was therapeutic to the boy.
Among waking up, and being greeted by his sparkling treasure tank--that was always of the faintest light in the morning due to the grey skies of Mass coming through every portal to lessen the tropical spectrum-- the boy would render his salutations " Good morning my Hoomah.....good morning Tang, my Damsel, and your majesty Queen Angel.....and so forth. Until the scream would come to get him, and he would walk briskly past the empty room and the looming family pictures of strangers. His mother put him to work that day, to "pay for the fish tank" but really to buy her a new cocktail dress for her nightly forays. The boy did not care, the tank was his sun, emitting through the bleak skies of Mass, and even if the tank was reduced to a haze by the overcast of his life, it only added a log to the fire that was the tropical world at night, in turn making him welcome the dismal day.
On a day, when the overcast was so thick, he felt he could not picture his rectangular orb waiting for him at night. He had trouble remembering what houses to deliver the paper. He delivered to the same house three times. Newspapers seemed to disappear in his hands, due to their color relation to the sky. Leaves were falling from the trees—butterfly like—he went to catch one, he missed--a first. For Sake could walk through dense thorned brambles and avoid every barb, as a knight in combat or someone’s whose heart felt the painful sting of the barb before. He would stand under a tree in late fall, and roll around to avoid every falling leaf, and pierce them to the ground deftly with a stick fashioned as a sword. He could slither between snow flakes, almost like a fish nimbly avoiding small flakes.
After he finished his paper-route , he went to his usual spot under an oak tree to fence with falling leaves. As the other boys walked by and poked fun he would stall his imagination, and look to the brown landscape of the dry fall. The crisp brown leaves of the trees were sword shapes to him. He held the battle ax shape of the oak leaf over his eye held up by the stick it was pierced through, and spied the woodline through the sinus of the oak leaf lobe. The brown white speckled scenery, were all trying to hide behind eachother by blending in bleakfully; he pretended the leaf was Hector’s helmet from the Illiad—donned over his eyes.
“ Whatchya doing Sake?” asked a young girl named Summer. Sake only mumbled something nervously and stood there. And a pretty Summer passed on after Sake once again denied himself of her pretty company. He looked to the woodline again, a mist was now concealing the tall apical trees. It now looked like the brown woodland was not trying to retreat behind eachother in fall concealment, but trying to emerge forth out of the greyness to say "save us."
“ Damgf” he uttered, and could not even grasp a word correctly. His head lifted to the sky repeatedly, there was no orb, and the shadows were looming larger than ever; fractioned shadows from tree branches were forming scythes all over the ground.
He entered the large shadow that was his front door, into the house that rose high into the sky, with the simplicity of Stonehenge. He climbed the rickety petrified stairs and went down the hall. Grey light had spotlighted every frame on the wall. He looked into the empty room, nothingness, then his room, the tank seemed at its faintest, and it was nearing twilight. He walked past the tank to look out the w
James Bradley McCallum
Apr 2012
1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.
The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.
The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.
Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.
The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.
The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.
The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.
The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.
Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.
In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.
As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.
I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.
The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.
First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.
The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.
Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.
History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.
A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.
As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.
We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.
The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.
The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.
From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?
Was the illusive
article of liberty
worth its weight in
the blood expended?
Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?
Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?
Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.
The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.
Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.
Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.
I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.
2.
The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.
WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.
During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.
As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.
Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.
Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.
The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.
Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.
We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.
The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.
Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.
America desperately
needs a new narrative.
The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.
The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.
It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.
Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.
3.
During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.
Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.
The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.
They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.
They will spare nothing.
Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.
The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.
From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.
The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.
The capitol is
indeed burning
again.
Looters are
running riot.
The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.
Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.
MLK has lost
his humanity.
He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.
MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.
Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument, I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.
I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.
This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.
Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.
They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.
4.
A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.
The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.
Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.
Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.
To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.
5.
DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.
Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.
USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.
The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.
A crowd
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.
I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.
DC is all surface.
It is full of walls
and mirrors.
Its primary hue
is obfuscation.
Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.
The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.
Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.
Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.
Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.
They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.
They are the children
of privilege.
They will never
alter their path.
You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.
These young ones
portray a countenance
of benevolent rulers.
They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.
They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.
6.
Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.
I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.
I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.
Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.
America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.
Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.
I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.
I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”
The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.
The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.
I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.
The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.
7.
Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.
The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.
Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.
The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.
Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.
Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.
I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?
I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.
In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.
The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.
As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.
They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.
I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.
If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.
8.
I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.
My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.
My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.
The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.
Yet they remain
inert.
Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.
The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.
They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.
They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.
America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.
Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.
I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.
The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.
The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.
Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.
The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.
The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.
The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.
The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.
Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.
In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.
As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.
I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.
The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.
First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.
The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.
Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.
History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.
A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.
As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.
We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.
The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.
The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.
From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?
Was the illusive
article of liberty
worth its weight in
the blood expended?
Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?
Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?
Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.
The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.
Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.
Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.
I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.
2.
The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.
WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.
During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.
As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.
Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.
Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.
The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.
Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.
We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.
The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.
Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.
America desperately
needs a new narrative.
The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.
The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.
It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.
Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.
3.
During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.
Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.
The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.
They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.
They will spare nothing.
Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.
The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.
From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.
The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.
The capitol is
indeed burning
again.
Looters are
running riot.
The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.
Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.
MLK has lost
his humanity.
He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.
MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.
Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument, I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.
I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.
This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.
Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.
They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.
4.
A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.
The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.
Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.
Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.
To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.
5.
DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.
Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.
USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.
The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.
A crowd
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.
I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.
DC is all surface.
It is full of walls
and mirrors.
Its primary hue
is obfuscation.
Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.
The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.
Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.
Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.
Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.
They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.
They are the children
of privilege.
They will never
alter their path.
You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.
These young ones
portray a countenance
of benevolent rulers.
They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.
They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.
6.
Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.
I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.
I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.
Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.
America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.
Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.
I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.
I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”
The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.
The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.
I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.
The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.
7.
Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.
The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.
Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.
The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.
Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.
Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.
I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?
I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.
In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.
The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.
As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.
They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.
I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.
If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.
8.
I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.
My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.
My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.
The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.
Yet they remain
inert.
Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.
The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.
They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.
They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.
America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.
Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.
I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th
John Patrick Robbins Aka Gonzo
Oct 2010
The stage was set the little untalented ***** monkeys gathred
like bizzar attention seeking ****** all for the title
of Hello Poetry's top poet.
But enough with the weird named carbon copy poets
who now **** the charts im just saying im a little bitter.
Lets take a look at the judges you silly little donkeys.
It was a who's who of people who actully were something
that what in the real world we like to call original.
Jack yes the loveable kinda ******* ****** who deep
down would probaly have more in common with Jack the Ripper
than Lord Byron im just saying.
Baths yes the queen of Hello and i'd be a smart *** now but im scared she'd hurt me and not in a good way not that im into
pain dam you Marv Albert i never knew the tijuanna brass were so freaky.
Chris Smith the poet the model the all around hansome devil
with a heart of gold you go girl.
Phil Roberts the silent yet down right evil arch enemy of
all things sweet and pure finally off probation and his meds.
Still the restraining order was in full effect thank God Barney
that devil worshiping dinosuar was no where in site and as long as the voices in Phils head were happy we were all safe.
And the man the myth the pervert drunken ******* of Hello.
Just back from his recent vist to Shady Pines resort slash mental
institution.
Gonzo along with his court ordred doctor .
Dr Jerry Who held many degree's in bartending,Massage therapy with happy endings,And chemistry yes he was a real busy ******* slash drug fiend okay dealer.
What a girl has her needs.
Sitting at the judges table it was the usal chatter how are you.
Nice ***'s hey Phil put down the knife.
Jack wear did you get that muzzle and straight jacket?
Baths reminding me she didnt wanna have to use the pepper spray
like at the Hello christmas party.
Gonzo pouring his wild turkey.
Dr Jerry yelling hey just what do you think your doing?
What are ya drinking by yourself?
Good point you silly ******* so after four strong drinks
some lines of uhh sinus powder from Columbia they dont just
make records to my suprize we were off like lindsy lohan
on a drug I mean well a drug run.
The first couple of guys read there genitic poems all of which
were like taco bell food.It pretty much would either give you food poisening or the ****'s.
Person after person read there poetry the drinks poured
people gave there opinions Chris well the poem was great just maybe pace it better.
Baths giving another deep comment that was always welcome
that and the contestants outta sheer fear knew not to cross her
cause **** happens after dark around here and the Hello dumpster
is filled with not just bottles of wild turkey yeah remember Drew?
Exactly.
Jack gave a long muffled comment that must have surely been brillant someone should really remove that dam muzzle.
Phil goddamed dinosuar i'll teach him for playing hard to get.
oh yeah he'll like it he'll like it real good oh look
a puppy dog.
Okay kinda weird but well yeah.
Then the attention turned to the attention grabing little *****
of Hello no not Gary ****** man.
the only G that matters beside's spot Gonzo.
Well I think you need to lean more into the microphone when you
read and um well to relax show more clevage.
And may I say if that was a samba it totally ******
1 star.
The room and other judges must have been amazed by my depth
for they were all silent.
Dr Jerry aplauded dam he really knew how to fill out that cheerleading outfit we really needed to take a fishing trip im just saying
male bounding is okay sometimes just ask Phil.
The people kept rolling in i slept through most of the mens readings
the women because im a gentleman and a scholar I had DR Jerry give my card cause if Ican help inspire and guide maybe cuddle fresh hot
young poets im all for it I know what your saying yes I am
giving back to the Hello community and not just STD's and hangovers.
But enough with the foreplay finally with the tension built up
like little catholic school girls waiting for there savior Justin Bieber to make a appearence it was time.
Who was Hello's top new poet.
The short little **** ******* slash napoleon of hello walked to the mic.
And after several attempts at reaching it one of his many
assistants slash friends with benfits of staying on the charts forever
assumed the possition.
So he could stand on there back and talk in the mic.
Get your mind outta the gutter.
The winner is for there poem the Gentic.
There began a rumble beside me ****** Dr Jerry
stop jerking off were public man.
But it wasnt my dealer I mean doctor .
It was My fashion forward amigo Jack.
The rumbling continued slowley the straps began to snap
as his color changed to red once would have been to green
if not for copyright infrigement dam you king kong.
The red devil burst from his restraints like a stripper off
a four week ******* binge let loose at Macdonalds.
tables flew clothes were ripped.
Bathe's yelled at the top of her lungs look ****** I have a tazer
so if you try to cop a feel i'll use it.
Must have been talking to Phil or Chris.
I knew what to do in this chaos i quickly ran with the special talent of Hello to my dressing room DR Jerry emergency bring wild turkey duct tape a video camera a inflatable swimming pool some jello mix and a Kenny G cd and some roofies .
Im kidding I never listen to Kenny G.
The screams were that of a german shapard ripping a smurf to shreads.
Help me plaese mommy I almost felt sorry for Eliot.
But i did what a true gentleman slash long winded journalist does in these time's. Sat back with some cocktails and enjoyed some jello
wrestling opps I think the tickle monster is loose.
Me first me first ****** Phil well if it keeps the voices at bay
why the **** not.
We laughed we danced Jack Horner bathed in Eliots blood.
While Chris said please stop including me in these ****** stories
Gonzo.
While Baths kept her tazer in hand and dry white wine in the other.
Much like a bad habbit I grow on you.
Jack looked at me as old brothers in shared insanity often do.
Hey Gonzo when ya gonna end this one mate?
Hey amigo as soon as ya get that *** on stage and close the show
with a lady gaga preformance.
The *****, the *******, the Brits,And Gonzo,
With his doctor slash roadie slash personal man servant bartender
who could ask for anything more than a purple dinosaur's head on a platter but enough about Phil.
Untill next time Stay Crazy Kids.
Gonzo.
like bizzar attention seeking ****** all for the title
of Hello Poetry's top poet.
But enough with the weird named carbon copy poets
who now **** the charts im just saying im a little bitter.
Lets take a look at the judges you silly little donkeys.
It was a who's who of people who actully were something
that what in the real world we like to call original.
Jack yes the loveable kinda ******* ****** who deep
down would probaly have more in common with Jack the Ripper
than Lord Byron im just saying.
Baths yes the queen of Hello and i'd be a smart *** now but im scared she'd hurt me and not in a good way not that im into
pain dam you Marv Albert i never knew the tijuanna brass were so freaky.
Chris Smith the poet the model the all around hansome devil
with a heart of gold you go girl.
Phil Roberts the silent yet down right evil arch enemy of
all things sweet and pure finally off probation and his meds.
Still the restraining order was in full effect thank God Barney
that devil worshiping dinosuar was no where in site and as long as the voices in Phils head were happy we were all safe.
And the man the myth the pervert drunken ******* of Hello.
Just back from his recent vist to Shady Pines resort slash mental
institution.
Gonzo along with his court ordred doctor .
Dr Jerry Who held many degree's in bartending,Massage therapy with happy endings,And chemistry yes he was a real busy ******* slash drug fiend okay dealer.
What a girl has her needs.
Sitting at the judges table it was the usal chatter how are you.
Nice ***'s hey Phil put down the knife.
Jack wear did you get that muzzle and straight jacket?
Baths reminding me she didnt wanna have to use the pepper spray
like at the Hello christmas party.
Gonzo pouring his wild turkey.
Dr Jerry yelling hey just what do you think your doing?
What are ya drinking by yourself?
Good point you silly ******* so after four strong drinks
some lines of uhh sinus powder from Columbia they dont just
make records to my suprize we were off like lindsy lohan
on a drug I mean well a drug run.
The first couple of guys read there genitic poems all of which
were like taco bell food.It pretty much would either give you food poisening or the ****'s.
Person after person read there poetry the drinks poured
people gave there opinions Chris well the poem was great just maybe pace it better.
Baths giving another deep comment that was always welcome
that and the contestants outta sheer fear knew not to cross her
cause **** happens after dark around here and the Hello dumpster
is filled with not just bottles of wild turkey yeah remember Drew?
Exactly.
Jack gave a long muffled comment that must have surely been brillant someone should really remove that dam muzzle.
Phil goddamed dinosuar i'll teach him for playing hard to get.
oh yeah he'll like it he'll like it real good oh look
a puppy dog.
Okay kinda weird but well yeah.
Then the attention turned to the attention grabing little *****
of Hello no not Gary ****** man.
the only G that matters beside's spot Gonzo.
Well I think you need to lean more into the microphone when you
read and um well to relax show more clevage.
And may I say if that was a samba it totally ******
1 star.
The room and other judges must have been amazed by my depth
for they were all silent.
Dr Jerry aplauded dam he really knew how to fill out that cheerleading outfit we really needed to take a fishing trip im just saying
male bounding is okay sometimes just ask Phil.
The people kept rolling in i slept through most of the mens readings
the women because im a gentleman and a scholar I had DR Jerry give my card cause if Ican help inspire and guide maybe cuddle fresh hot
young poets im all for it I know what your saying yes I am
giving back to the Hello community and not just STD's and hangovers.
But enough with the foreplay finally with the tension built up
like little catholic school girls waiting for there savior Justin Bieber to make a appearence it was time.
Who was Hello's top new poet.
The short little **** ******* slash napoleon of hello walked to the mic.
And after several attempts at reaching it one of his many
assistants slash friends with benfits of staying on the charts forever
assumed the possition.
So he could stand on there back and talk in the mic.
Get your mind outta the gutter.
The winner is for there poem the Gentic.
There began a rumble beside me ****** Dr Jerry
stop jerking off were public man.
But it wasnt my dealer I mean doctor .
It was My fashion forward amigo Jack.
The rumbling continued slowley the straps began to snap
as his color changed to red once would have been to green
if not for copyright infrigement dam you king kong.
The red devil burst from his restraints like a stripper off
a four week ******* binge let loose at Macdonalds.
tables flew clothes were ripped.
Bathe's yelled at the top of her lungs look ****** I have a tazer
so if you try to cop a feel i'll use it.
Must have been talking to Phil or Chris.
I knew what to do in this chaos i quickly ran with the special talent of Hello to my dressing room DR Jerry emergency bring wild turkey duct tape a video camera a inflatable swimming pool some jello mix and a Kenny G cd and some roofies .
Im kidding I never listen to Kenny G.
The screams were that of a german shapard ripping a smurf to shreads.
Help me plaese mommy I almost felt sorry for Eliot.
But i did what a true gentleman slash long winded journalist does in these time's. Sat back with some cocktails and enjoyed some jello
wrestling opps I think the tickle monster is loose.
Me first me first ****** Phil well if it keeps the voices at bay
why the **** not.
We laughed we danced Jack Horner bathed in Eliots blood.
While Chris said please stop including me in these ****** stories
Gonzo.
While Baths kept her tazer in hand and dry white wine in the other.
Much like a bad habbit I grow on you.
Jack looked at me as old brothers in shared insanity often do.
Hey Gonzo when ya gonna end this one mate?
Hey amigo as soon as ya get that *** on stage and close the show
with a lady gaga preformance.
The *****, the *******, the Brits,And Gonzo,
With his doctor slash roadie slash personal man servant bartender
who could ask for anything more than a purple dinosaur's head on a platter but enough about Phil.
Untill next time Stay Crazy Kids.
Gonzo.
Im back ******* and back to being a true gentleman of Hello.
Okay more like the lovable **** slash drunken perve you all love
okay tolerate cheers
Okay more like the lovable **** slash drunken perve you all love
okay tolerate cheers