Join us every Monday evening for drinks at the new Kos community political poetry club. Drop by and speak your mind in rhyme or blank verse. Let’s use language to scream our passion to the world. Bongos, berets and turtle neck sweaters are optional. The keypad is mightier than the sword.
This week’s theme is rooted in personal economics on the human scale; financial hell in the great recession. The personal is public, and the public is personal.
I often refer to my poetry as lyric-poems; lyric poetry according to the basic definition of lyric poetry, as well as poetry that could be construed as song lyrics. Some are structured, and some are not. All have some kind of music to them, but that music is still deep inside me.
About this week’s offerings:
Occidental Accident (September 2005)
The words accident and occident drifted in on the wind separately one day, and then collided just outside my head. I had moved east a few years earlier and things, which had been unravelling since the move, began to pick up speed in their falling-apart-ness. It was that realization that no matter how much I do, it is not enough. No matter how good I may be, it is not good enough. Or maybe, just maybe, nobody wants what I have to offer. It sure seemed that way.
The Underside of the Divide (October 2006)
Hitting bottom emotionally.
Bite the Bullet (July 2007)
Hitting bottom financially.
Good People Falling (December 2010)
I’m repeating this one from my first Indigo Kalliope diary. I felt it needed repeating, as a protest song. We need more protest songs. I need to study music.
Paper Cuts (April 2011)
This lyric poem is hot off the press. And I finally opened the damned thing last night.
—
Occidental Accident
Is it an occidental accident
when it’s only an hour or two
from the shores of the Atlantic?
how far east until the Orient?
how far west can you ever get?
is there a line in the sand well beneath the ocean
or some kind of a seam with loose threads
something you can trip over?
how long does it take to run around
run around
run around
before exhaustion takes hold
and doesn’t let go?
Do you descend down untold stairs
curl up into a ball, really small
lose various pieces of yourself
when it feels like you’ve given it your all?
and what do they call you?
then what do you call yourself
when it feels like you’ve done too much
spread yourself too paper thin
or haven’t done enough?
done enough
done enough
so many different things on tap
so little in results
Wake up another morning
that is good, don’t get me wrong
but the sunshine glaring flatly
on the dismal walls of dinge
casts a dusty cluttered light
like a magnifying glass
on this diminishing existence
on what else can you subsist
when there is almost nothing left?
nothing left
nothing left
you don’t need a prescription
when you’re this kind of depressed
Is it the culture in collapse
or a mass short-sightedness
that allows such loss of beauty
and denies so much common sense
that all these gorgeous gifts
should go crazily unopened?
tie the ribbons ever tighter
use the whole damn shiny spool
so says the blind amnesiac
amnesiac
amnesiac
in the accidental occident
further east this time than west
—
The Underside of the Divide
The bus outside is squealing
like a pig on fire
a smoky sort of screaming
a burning reminder
of what you wish to leave behind
Like a soft underbelly
you are nothing if not vulnerable
you roll over for a scratching
but it's just another rub
where the open wounds reside
It's never been that easy
but it never felt so impossible
you once had a chance
an offer
a possibility
a reward
but now when just one door shuts
the others follow suit
and the windows jam themselves with nuts
and bolts and locks and screws
Lose your footing
then you stumble
and you tumble
and you fall
and when you're down and broken
that is when you crawl
It's an awful type of joke
on some obscenely grand scale
they'll talk about it for a month or two
until their memories go pale
and when the mud bakes dry
they'll find another line
to feed upon immensely
and shovel into pie
It's always kind of been like this
on the underside of the divide
—
Bite the Bullet
Ruminating rummage
accumulated garbage
a hunter and a gatherer
pillaged and plundered
Bite the bullet
and break your teeth
make that a soft and chewy bullet
like salt water taffy
bite the bullet
champ down on a chain
a healthy reaction
to feeling so disdained
dodge another bullet
and try to speed away
but there's no Coronet 440
waiting in the driveway
How many bullets do I have to bite?
the aftertaste of lead is keeping me up at night
I'm shot through with pellets from corporate bandits
it's criminal, and I shouldn't have to take this
Borrow from Peter to pay down Paul
rob from Robert to satisfy Saul
Simon says fork over whatever you can
to shush up the rest of them all
Now, I'm a disenchanted outlaw
just passing through this town
it wasn't in the plans
and the treasure maps are down
so I’ll bite the bullet one more time
and then I'll spit the damn thing out
—
Good People Falling
Credentials, connections, degrees and perfection
any excuse called upon to anoint you with rejection
numbered pages tumble loose as the calendar flips over
while bills accrue into mountains from here to October
intelligence, creativity, hard work and ability
dissolve into nothing along with your credibility
it’s all part of a game called ‘opportunity denied’
you can’t get it right, no matter how hard you try
Good people are falling through the cracks every day
wearing coats missing buttons, pockets packed with dismay
clutching bags full of splinters and a wilted bouquet
A complexity tangle of skyrocketing costs
that don’t begin to measure those things that you’ve lost
a license for paperwork with insurance and fees
now cross both your eyes while you dot all the tees
balance that tightrope, cracking eggshells as you walk
your best intentions below are outlined in chalk
tied loose to your tongue slips out this sour song
no matter what you do, it’s going to be wrong
Good people are falling through the cracks every day
they fee you and fine you and they make you pay
with money you don't have and they won't go away
A threadbare safety net down to the bone
with holes full of holes that continue to grow
wearing thrift store clothing, eating leftover soup
gratitude for anything not labeled destitute
in this race to the bottom through the halls of torpidity
and these constant pounding waves of such blunt stupidity
after so many years of this, how could it be so tough
no matter who you are, you are never good enough
Good people are falling through the cracks every day
while banks commit robbery and call it fair play
they’ve got greed on their side and that makes it okay
all is well with the wealthy, see the opulence on display
please ignore the broken dreams on the doorsteps of decay
where good people are falling through the cracks every day
—
Paper Cuts
Another envelope unopened
since it came in with the mail
and it sits there for weeks
before you muster up the nerve
to see what it entails
those rectangular papers
just inkspots and stains
an ominous presence
gnawing at your brain
the same old fears recreating
the damage it might contain
Paper cuts hurt
because paper cuts deep
when covered with words
which were formulated
to make you bleed
numbers that crunch
cracking down to the bone
numerical equations
that won’t leave you alone
won’t leave you much of anything
except two pebbles and a stone
You can feel it in your marrow
you can feel it in the cold
you can feel it in the wind
always threatening to blow
—
(All poems above ©2005-2011, Alexandria Levin)
—
Gray Rabbit With Not Much
oil on panel, ©2005, Alexandria Levin