Double Cross At Movie's End?

Work No. 5

2008-06-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

WHERE THE RAINBOW SLEEPS

2008-03-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

2008-03-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

NEW

2008-02-01T14:07:00.000-08:00

LAMENT

GOOD_SENSE

2008-01-11T11:42:00.001-08:00

Kevin Spacey in the Lives of Others?

2007-12-03T14:14:00.000-08:00

I'm sure I'm not the first person to discover this, or find it amusing, but that's never stopped me before.

After seeing The Lives of Others last week, I wanted to do a John Sakkis doppleganger thing, even though there is no poet involved.

A couple times during the movie I tried to crack the joke, "I didn't know Kevin Spacey could speak German." My viewing partner was only mildly amused.

So HGW XX/7. . .

and KS

It's pretty uncanny right?. Regardless, the movie was pretty excellent, and the ending reminded me of a Chris Nealon essay I read a couple years ago, and if I remember correctly, it was trying to establish this type of writing aka poetry that can't be define as political writing or writing against a political condition (or I guess any condition in general) because the condition(s)and or era/age we currently find ourselves in has yet to be defined, or defined fully or completely, and therefore the "art" cannot be fully realized or executed because what one is writing against or making art against is has not reached that level either. The level of naming.

Anyway, what got me thinking about this is near the end of the film, when the wall has come down, and the playwright finally has a chance to meet the chancelor and ask him why he was never under surveillance only to discover that he was. During that exchange the political figure tells the playwright that no good art has been made since the wall has come down. It reminded me of a discussion that I've had a number of times about what it takes for the creation of "important" art, and yes I know I've got to define my terms, and blah blah blah. But my point is or what I just kept thinking, is is it true that the best art or most important art occurs when an artist indeed has something to write against, or paint against, etc.

More often that not, I believe so.

Ara

2007-10-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

Billy

2007-10-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

KSM

2007-10-14T15:39:00.000-07:00

Aaron Kunin

2007-10-14T15:38:00.000-07:00

Osman/Morse/Skinker

2007-10-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

2007-10-14T15:36:00.000-07:00

Bev Dahlen/Peter Gizzi

2007-10-14T15:34:00.000-07:00

rodney/LRSN

2007-10-14T15:33:00.000-07:00

Young/Ward

2007-10-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

A Day for Staff Development

2007-10-12T15:35:00.000-07:00

Since there was no school today in Oakland Unified, I decided to take a sick day.

I went to an early show of Michael Clayton at Jack London, and was pleasantly surprised.

Tom Wilkinson gives an amazing performance, on par or if not better than his work in Normal and In the Bedroom. Clooney emulates grizzly vulnerability like no other, and Tildan Swinton in all her pudgy nervousness holds the film together. I left the theatre in pouring rain.

Came home, and finished a poem entitled Wi-Fi Wifey. If you'd like to read it, let me know.

Finally got into the Okkervil River record, and the second side really makes it for me.

Am totally taken with In Rainbows, and have to say LRS, I think it's the easiest and laziest form of critique to say it sounds like a bunch of songs thrown together. My current faves are and in no particular order:

Nude (again LRS, you're wrong)
15 Step
All I Need
Bodysnatchers
Jigsaw falling into place

Stay tuned for portraits and more collages very soon.

Now waiting for baseball to hit my tv.

A new one tentatively called 'red bird' or 'saddle me into an emergency' or 'pull my face off' or 'title this whatever you want'

2007-09-14T10:17:00.000-07:00

SUP SIPPY CUP

2007-06-21T11:56:00.000-07:00

SUMMER TIME FUNK FACE

2007-06-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

grizzly hat wearer
scandolous pea pod
my little tree
grouchy goose
leverage leaner
saddle pants
hogger
keep it cozy travel mug
cover keeper
lazy labrador
you tamborine
lost in the shuffle
hey saucer
spittle head
clip within a clip
gross grosbeak
rug tag
waddle
transient tea
hey bug
sweet eagle
my little brawler
lanceface
lasso
krinkle cone
chill burger
sip the headband
night trousers
ah lunar
coffee kernel
rattle the sundial
morning bee
waffle sleep
see ya baldy

2007-03-01T08:49:00.000-08:00

The more corrupt the community, the stronger the lure of individual achievement.

2007-03-01T08:44:00.000-08:00

I'VE BEEN TAGGED BY S. YOUNG . . .

2007-01-09T14:04:00.000-08:00

5 little unknown things about me

1. I once worked for Rosie O'Donnell (well G & J USA publishing) as the marketing coordinator for her magazine (now dead). I was the only man on an entire floor full of women answering questions like 'which ribbon do you think looks best around this wedding invitation?'

2. My uncle adrian was lead guitarist for the british band 'sparks' from around 1973 -1977. He later died playing blues guitar at a shack beach bar in thailand.

3. I was gumby for halloween every single year during middle school and high school.

4. I interviewed to be judith reagan's assistant , but unfortunately didn't tell her how I would murder someone, therefore not getting the job. bummer.

5. I religiously read e.e. cummings and t. morrison in high school and played the prince in a junior high adaptation of cinderella. we performed for a bunch for preschoolers on numerous occasions.

I'm not good at playing tag but you're it sakkis, , mosconi , nicoloff

IT'S HARD TO REMEMBER

2006-09-24T15:17:00.000-07:00

GOOD SENSE DURING INCLEMENT WEATHER

2006-09-20T13:16:00.000-07:00

Part II

Fear can penetrate through all natural belief
beyond the tantamount goose bumps from a daily
mishap and its unsettled breeze. Explosion
if you want to get real; overly layered paint
if you want to make believe. Take a look
at the law man beating up
the wrong guy.
Another rebuffed testimony set up to defuse
a furor over skivvies and suffocation. Get this:
a plutocracy pretends that it wears its own
desert fatigues when in fact credibility wears thin.
In this firestorm, I strain to reach for my big toe
and release the tightness
knowing that this is not
what “loosen a guy up for us” aims for. Perhaps,
it is “the treatment” that makes one bend
into a position of resentment and unfathomable rage.
You’re telling me you don’t know what’s going on.
That’s what I’m telling you.
Are you truly unaware
that a preemptive strike against our potential enemies
is nothing but an example that precedes the torture?
“There’s nothing so embarrassing as when things go
wrong in a war.” Or the embarrassing poses
in a picture book meant to decrease
the chatter,
acting out fantasies. The clouds loom and are ready
to touch down amongst the disarray and weep with us.
All we can do is ride the outspoken and utter
words like “incompetent” and “not a leader.”
I often wish I could turn and believe that a year
in the sun is a year in the sun, without
a year in the sand and a year in a cage.
Interrogations suffocate and are redefined
to blow away the air used
to keep the protection
alive. A timely memo indicates to “take gloves off”
and handle the new Reagan greenback, fund
the allowance with a ruler to knuckle approach.
A retrieval and solemn farewell points us
in the opposite direction not to notice the misleading
of mourners.
The rescue mission of seven soldiers
trapped in an ambush where one is a neighbor that you died for.
Now, as a pallbearer at the funeral, it was the least you could do
not knowing the Bay Area connection. Regret remains futile
under the rooftops that rained down all heck breaking loose,
and every type of fluid leaking. While in bad shape,
the tanks arrive.
In loss, there is no secret icing on the cake when Metallica
and Beethoven routinely get played back to back while expounding
the merits of both. Pile me a driver on these roads of discontent,
the barricades add to safety in the city that broadcasts snores.
The voices of where you’re going next. The cautious
yet artful
can become a stigma for the politically driven. I, myself,
don’t trust “the real me,” like you wouldn’t believe it
unless there exists a photo of the drips down
the helmet alive and the forgiven Vietnam flak jacket.
A bird unbeknown at your feet causes a scare:
IED magnitude. Don’t fault me
for my inhibitions over a dead dog.
“We never announced a scorched-earth policy; we never
announced any policy at all, apart from finding
and destroying the enemy, and we proceed
in the most obvious way” (Herr 153). It does not matter
if you are loved, anything will happen. Trust diminished,
truth demolished, gas siphoned. In order for me to realize
the importance of you
must you need to come
to terms with the significance of me? I prefer the public space
only when the private eye does not know privacy.
The civilized world indicted. It appears
that we are being crippled not only by attacks but
by the finances lost to disrupt such attacks,
society prefers if we not tell the truth.
The debt
it takes. Bleed me dry for Christ’s sake or the sake
of the profit. No, that was another moment in time.
Give me your ghost and I’ll make sure it gets
a proper burial, a proper way to favor intelligence reform.
No one wants to call anything preventable
except the dead.
Accept the dead for they travel by wind, in and through
surrounding disapprovals crouching besides the just cause,
the lost cause, and the assets that come from beneath
the grave. Sewage in the streets and enters from underneath
as there are many holes in boots.
To reduce the swagger
in a sun bleached light takes the bait for the recruitment
devices manipulating the walk in a sea of disposition.
Having felt a presence heavy on my torso while I made
my way into sleep, my limbs and sound were halted.
I could not move
pushing the bodies and their detached spirits
off the bed, but somehow their weight descended upon me.
Skin melted away but not from the sun, but from the place
that will disrupt the abeyance, my obeisance to those
who keep me from harm’s way. We’ve got more money than you
says we, says them and we know
how to spend it or lose it.
Let’s make the case that a vote for does not include an endless
price tag, nor a 1,000 milestone. Today there are the grief stricken
fumbling to latch on to the stories that explain why
this stuffed bear is without its own executioner.
I can’t tell you
what color “loss of control” is, only that
it trumps orange. A red capsule on its way to collect
solar wind crashes in the Utah desert and we say so long Genesis,
planet protection makes me nervous. It’s your birthday.
The dying fan belt’s squeak penetrates a head full of spark plugs,
a gas stove like clicking in my ear
that evolution never happened.
A newer walk passes with an accepting glance; I’m humbled
in your pretty gaze, wanting it to stop dead in its tracks.
Wanting to rid this crippled gate that is, if you call gravity
a god, it’s the only thing that pulls things together,
that and a death
can only involve the earth.
I don’t mind closure, but, of course, that closure
is made up, gussied to the point of caked on,
yellow cake from pretty sources becomes ugly in its beckoning.
My philosophies have shrunk to a dismal pea cake, now
my tank is empty and I’ve gotta fill it somehow.
Well, the grief-stricken father grabbed a hamburger,
a propane torch
and a can of gasoline and, in a fit of rage,
demolished the Marines’ van, seriously burning himself
in the process. A steady erosion deeper than the cracks
in your skull, you erupt into a cash pond equipped
with poisoned toads and quieter Siberian crickets,
a snowy egret flapping in fandango
over a new planet.
Far out and looking down on your bald spot and soft patch
of tended lawn that accompanies the dividends in a dived in pool.
So where am I now with all of this? Only a law above
can make us feel a difference in our weights, can calculate
the varying degrees in which we live, and locate
the remote locations from which we fall.

IT'S HARD TO REMEMBER

2006-09-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

for mn & sy

It’s hard to remember when I planned to start my new life.

It’s hard to remember the handshake that started this whole thing. Fake spit was involved though.

It’s hard to remember that I used to love the smell of gasoline.

It’s hard to remember that not having an IRA this moment, and thinking about retirement is not the end of the world.

It’s hard to remember the thoughts you have while driving in a car.

It’s hard to remember that a gallon of gasoline hovered around a dollar.

It’s hard to remember that having a child does not complete the human experience. I think that would be death.

It’s hard to remember my license plate number.

It’s hard to remember that I shouldn’t always give out my social security number when asked for it.

It’s hard to remember that I had a crush on two Sarahs in elementary school. Both spelled with an h, and both seemed a bit young for me.

It’s hard to remember the lyrics of the songs I like to sing.

It’s hard to remember the names of faces I see every now and then or on a daily basis.

It’s hard to remember what causes me to wonder, after about 23-26 steps, whether or not I locked my car. After much internal debate, and regardless of whether or not I’m late for something, I usually return to my car to discover that’s it locked.

It’s hard to remember that I can drive my car tiger style if I wanted to, especially if my destination is a bar.

It’s hard to remember the year of my ’88 black chevy truck. It was my first car and it had an extra cab and bucket seats, a red pin stripe, and some extra power when accelerating.

It’s hard to remember that I used to collect gas money from my friends when we drove short distances to various places together.

It’s hard to remember that we used to ride the driers at the local laundromat, and see who could spin and stay in there the longest. I lasted 30 seconds once. We made use of a quarter in strange ways.

It’s hard to remember all the bad things I’ve done, sometimes.

It’s hard to remember that I start a new job pretty soon.

It’s hard to remember all the addresses of the places I used to live.

It’s hard to remember that history often repeats itself.

It’s hard to remember that I wanted to be an undercover cop, and I wanted my cover to be an ice cream truck driver.

The light is changing

2006-09-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

Along with the blusters and chill, has come a change in light. Whatever you want to call it 'fall tilt,' 'autumn slant,' it's here and I intend to soak it up. I need a seasonal device. Who's with me?

2006-09-15T11:08:00.003-07:00

I've been a bit Flickr mad the past day and a half for various reasons, one being I really get sucked into looking at other people's lives and feeling like I somehow am playing a part. However, I think I've come across some unwritten rule. So, I've been trying to build up my 'favorites' page, and have noticed that there is never more than one person that counts a photo as a favorite, which left/leaves me in a bind, because there are a ton of photos that I want but someone has usually already beaten me to it. Once someone has laid claim, staked their flag, is the photo now off limits? I know I'm a bit late to the game here, but is it a race to get the fave finish. Will we have to trade like baseball cards or postage stamps to get the ones we really want? Start building up the arsenal.

YOU BE DOIN TOO MUCH

2006-03-30T17:12:00.000-08:00

ANOTHER MONDAY

2006-03-20T17:51:00.000-08:00

THUG LIFE WEDNESDAY

2006-03-08T17:01:00.000-08:00

YOUR MONDAY

2006-03-06T17:31:00.000-08:00

PATCH HOPES YOU LIKE WORMS

2006-03-04T12:17:00.000-08:00

FAT THURSDAY

2006-03-02T17:47:00.000-08:00

ASH WEDNESDAY

2006-03-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

SAY IT AGAIN STAN

2006-02-28T15:44:00.000-08:00

Want to be in my new Aoody Wallen road movie?

in the house

2006-02-28T15:42:00.000-08:00

I AM NOT WILLIAM MOOR, MOORE, MORE

2006-02-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

No More Chucky

2006-02-07T17:43:00.000-08:00

BIRDS & WIND

2006-02-07T17:35:00.000-08:00

A Steller's Jay today, and a couple of downy woodpeckers, or sapsuckers,
couldn't decipher the red on the head
of course american robins and perhaps some Hammond's flycatchers.
Some chestnut back chickadees hit the feeder this morning.
California towhees scuttling and this passage:

"'There are a lot things that aren't your fault. Or mine, either. Not the fault of prophecies, or curses, or DNA, or absurdity. Not the fault of Structuralism or the Third Industrial Revolution. We all die and disappear, but that's because the mechanism of the the world itself is built on destruction and loss. Our lives are just shadows of that guiding principle. Say the wind blows. It can be a strong, violent wind or a gentle breeze. But eventually every kind of wind dies out and disappears. Wind doesn't have form. It's just movement of air. You should listen carefully, and then you'll understand the metaphor.'"

Musty

2005-10-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

FAKE LIFE, MUTHAFUCKAS

2005-08-22T14:21:00.000-07:00

From this electric jug I blow
at an accelerated rate through mud
with tied hands around my waist
and mingle with the muggers
and self proclaimed haters.
I felt always we were both here,
I have 2 empty wallets
and a prized purse to prove it.
Switch the plates on a blooming
Oldsmobile for a better getaway.
Los Angeles can occur
in no other way but in vignette form.
Oakland can locate itself
while staying in form to cram you
into a state of attention.
Albertson’s becomes a trash heap,
the smell makes a pass of endearment.
Cattails call me to a ruddy pond
not unlike the sirens that pull
me aside. When a hotel room
becomes the familiarity of your own
at home. I look down and see
letters tattooed in a half moon
across my stomach whispering
F—A—K—E—L—I—F—E.
Earthshine reflects the sacredness
of secularity, and I’m troubled
over the state I’m in.
To invoke the real thing
when it doesn’t involve the real thing.
On any Thursday afternoon
I would have left the same message,
but the weekend was long and fast.
This is where the frogs make noise.
I never thought I’d need so few people.
Oh, to be a playa knowing the farthest
it goes is a graze of the hip right
at the panty line. Make me forget
that this is not you. Talk enough
shit and it will make things happen.
The misty morning you wish
your fucking had. It’s damaging
enough to find. On the real,
hire education in the state
of approval; expirations have I one.
Contagious: don’t fuck around,
give me some love and a packet
of nails. Ask me about my future.
I’ll tell you when I’m dead.
Millie died.

2005-07-04T01:14:00.000-07:00

Okay and now it begins.