Politics, sociology, and the institution of the politically correct has me feeling quite low this week. Americans know how something looks on the surface, like the oily top coat of a swimming otter, but ask out loud its favorite fish, or how many radios it keeps in its cozy den, and you’ll get an answer from everyone who has never seen an otter eat or tune in to its favorite popular music. Everyone is an expert of all things that comes out of the mouths of others.
It’s December. I always try to sell light at this time of year. Hoping, like the perpetual fool, that the ship will come in laden with exotic Christmas gifts to pass around to friends and loved ones. I’ll plug one of my books or a couple paintings online, rub my hands together in expectation, wait for Godot until my ear hairs grow several millimeters, to eventually forget about ever making one dime from creative effort.
Here we go…
This from my 2002 masterpiece On Rainy Days the Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself. A book of prose mostly, with a few outburst “poems” interspersed throughout.
God Please Give Me a Mop Large Enough to Soak Up the Schlop of Xerox
Just look at the awesome size of it!
It takes some time to pass this pile of
squares beside squares next to
little squares, big squares
on top of so many squares
Call ‘em walls
Steel, granite, gypsum
slabs of death-in-a-box
Hard, bitter waxed floors,
more squares, two or three rectangles,
a triangle and a tiny
octagonal shape from the shy zany architect
who committed suicide right after Xerox—
Two minutes to pass
at forty-five miles per hour
All these squares,
two thousand or more and
wires weaving through wire mazes of
small wires, fat wires, long, very long
thin wires and outlets to outlets to
boxes to more squares
Six hundred thousand outlets
with screws and twelve million nails
Six billion screws
Two trillion black top pebbles
a constant stream of human headlights
going round and round in circles
around the biggest square of squares
O whippee shit
Big sky my ass!
Big clouds, big snow
O whippy shoot shit
Big sun my ass!
O whoppee whippy shotty shitty woppa wumpa shit my ass!
Xerox in the middle of a forest by a lake
Deer turn a fuzzy muzzle
“what the hump is that?” they ask
Weasels, wrabbits, wraccoons wonder
the tubby house fed squirrels duck under
logs and sticks they stop
“What the crap is THAT!”
This is dawn of winter’s day
Look Mrs. Doe, it’s a Xerox!
If you need copies for no reason,
oh my dear deer, you have
bound and leapt to the wrong place.
Probably have to skin your own hide
and wrap the meat up in a butcher’s bag,
drop in the back of a bearded factory
hairy-faced human’s truck—
He’ll bring you inside to his break table
Throw you on it and say something like
“Here Jack. It makes damn good jerky.”
Jesus, bandit the coon,
the nicest old lady in the place
would stab your pups with silver knitting needles
before giving up her
data-entry job with benefits.
All of ‘em, every one
would walk by your head on a post,
and forest dead and burnt
acid in a stream
clouds raining radium and
constant heavy low moan sounds
rolling across the putrid air.
Any price for squares
cable TV, used boats
bumper stickers that read
“Topless, it’s the law!”and
“Greed is an act of fear”
envelopes in the mail
dirty carpets to clean
over and over again,
O I can’t write worth an industrial complex today!
the absolute truth is this:
Each man and woman to walk through the doors of Xerox would fornicate with a bunny rabbit, if no one knew, and it kept them their jobs.