Episode 1: In which Uncle Clumseythumbs, attempting to write an introductory diary, smacks up against his penchant for longwindedness in the form of a character limit on Daily Kos Diary Entries, and reverts to old poetry.
Briefly put: I tried to write a longer op-ed form of entry, but found myself overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things I haven't said anywhere in the past year. Thus, as introduction (this is my first diary), I'll post some of my political poetry that has been published elsewhere on the web.
The poems presented here are part of a work in progress, tentatively titled "Exile's Anthem." Hope some of you enjoy.
This is an example of slam poetry: it clocks in at almost exactly 3 minutes when spoken, it remains tightly focused and visceral, it has at least one almost guaranteed laugh line, and it works in a bar. And it has won from time to time. It was previously published in the Spring 2006 edition of Muse Apprentice Guild.
If the objections aren't too overwhelming, I'm likely to post a few other past writings along these lines, and will also be attempting to refocus my writing on some of the thoughts I'm having during the current election cycle. They're considerable...even if they pale to much of the more news oriented content on Daily Kos.
The Next Time I See Abbie Hoffman
High Times, hot off the press,
& me still reeling from this week's news,
Abbie found dead in his New York pad,
punched his own ticket on alcohol & reds,
ah man,
he came to this dusty old town once,
I can't even remember what he said,
too star struck to see beyond the myth-
we both wore our anarchy jackets to see him,
& afterwards, I cut through the crowd
to shake his hand for reminding us
we always gotta fight-
& he told me, grinning, pumping my hand,
"Sure, you can shake my hand,
but I won't cure acne."
So it was I fell out of love with the politico,
ranting as we left about arrogant hippies & has beens,
& now, saving my money to be quit of the factory job
that gives me a ten cent raise every three months
for being on time,
staying at home on weekends,
flipping through these pages, finding
Abbie's last interview,
Abbie, he says
the coming generation is characterized
by a "pessimistic nihilism."
That's you and me, dreaming of a fast gas guzzling monster
of a car the shape of a flexed muscle,
the personification of manifest destiny, yeah,
we gonna rip the earth from under this beast,
burn everything down
& leave nothing for the enemy.
It's an American kind of despair,
a vicious beauty I see in you,
a demon twisting to be free of your flesh,
screaming for speed, speed,
faster boy, 120 mph and synapses clicking,
that furious western zen that won't let you sit still,
production's down, stock market's sluggish,
& this load's gotta be there by morning,
express mail, instant coffee,
& what people want
isn't fuel economy,
but a car that rumbles and rips up asphalt,
a frenzy and absence of preconception,
stronger and faster, play hard and play long-
& what's the sound of a bong, man?
Your grey grin you flash at me,
as you lean over, nostrils flaring
to the biting smell of meth,
burn out, sure,
gives your dreams the hard edge that you need-
but I saw you die, saw you heaving ribbed sides,
saw the faint blue light of the bathroom tile,
saw you pant rivulets of sweat
rolling along your starved ribs
like greyhounds,
cursed the sight of your corpse,
wondered how I could live,
no longer forbidden the pleasure
of naming your beauty,
& what the hell was I supposed to tell the cops?
The crisis passed, as have all crises since,
your face pressed against the base of the toilet,
your breath growing finally quiet, splayed thumbs
twitching, a comaic reflex, searching
for flaws in the cold, smooth porcelain,
& me stumbling to the living room, trying,
god knows why, to be quiet, as I take another hit
to steady my nerves,
the ridiculous shape of your thumbs
burned into my retina, remembered
caressing the hard metal of pistons,
pinching the butt of a Marlboro red,
curled round Coca-Cola-
it's an American brand of suicide,
painted lurid white & red,
& the next time,
the next time I see Abbie Hoffman,
I can tell him what I can't cure.