Three Blind Men

I've been asked a couple times if I believe in intelligent design. Not as it's generally put forth; that there is something imposed from without to create order out of what would otherwise be chaos. Natural systems tend toward spontaneous and complex organization without any intervention. So in a way, there is a logical and ordered pattern, but it is not imposed from without. It is inherent in all things, kind of like the Mandelbrot set. It's a series of equations that, when graphed, show a repeating complex pattern that changes, but at the same time retains the same underlying equation. The graph has also been called the Mandelbrot Man, as it looks like a roly-poly man. He pops up on various scales of the graph, but is always there. I've always liked the idea that there is an equation that governs everything- we just can't understand it because of the sheer size of it. Looking at a small part, we can see the larger pattern, at least in part. It's kind of like the three blind men who encounter an elephant, and each grabs a different part of the elephant. One grabs the elephant's trunk, and concludes that an elephant is long and thin, like a big snake. Another grabs the elephant's leg, and concludes that an elephant is like a tree. The third grabs the elephant's ear, and decides that the elephant is like a giant leaf, wide and flat. All three are right, in part, but do not see the whole picture. And seeing that whole picture is not an easy thing to do.

Flashback No. 1

Reaching for a pen,

Time for blue flashback number one-

crowds parting, taxi called

A name and number on the

back of a business card-Thursday?

but that smacked of normality,

getting paranoid again

Far sound of water

dripping in the garage

sodium lamps casting their glare on

the hood, the silver pen (looks

expensive, like his watch)

the stack of papers

Waiting for my signature

The Goth Man Cometh

I stumbled across a great deal of Gothic poetry on the web- I typed that into the search engine, mainly to look for something I hadn't read before. There's a great deal out there, some good, some not so good. But I suppose that's true for any literary genre. When I think Gothic, I think of those great old chapels in Europe, an architectural period, and my European history, when the Goths swarmed all over the place. Whether or not they wore a lot of black and makeup is open to historical debate. But self-expression is a good thing. (Guess that's why we have blogs...) I didn't find too much in the way of inspiration there, but there are a few really well-written and genuinely creepy works out there. I never really understood too much about the whole Goth thing, but that's just me. I really like Type O Negative, though. But in my case, wearing a lot of black is largely incidental- it's my favorite color. At any rate, that's about all I learned about Goths. Incidentally, my little boy is worlds better today, a little antsy at being cooped up in the house all day, but otherwise fine.

One Night at the Casino

Waiting for the

words, like

shaking coins from a piggy bank

Staring at garish

bright casino walls

endless song of

slots ringing in my

ears

Drink in

hand, I'm

getting nowhere-

Where can I

find inspiration?

A timeless

blackjack table, and now I am

watching a middle-aged

woman laughing

Relax- It's later than you think

I spent the day tending to a sick two-year old, so really didn't get out much except to take him to the doctor. Poor fellow! The good news is, it's nothing serious, he should shake it off soon. I was all set to go hit the gym with a vengeance today, but my little boy woke up feeling pretty lousy. Funny how real life always seems to get in the way of the plans you make. But on the other hand, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. I'm still trying to add links to this site, but haven't quite figured it out yet. But then again, I can barely program the VCR, so it may be a little bit. Tonight's little opus is under the heading of highly experimental, not sure how it'll look typed out for all the world to see, but you never know till you try.

Polaris

From this dark

casement,

I see it,

I can no longer leave this

solitary tower room,

Save to leap

to my own death-such is its

Endless beacon, calling

shining, the

Pole star.

There must have been

something wrong from the start,

But I sought it out,

Filled with the faith

and hope that there was an

Easy gate, a

way to bring to light those

dim, half-formed

remembrances,

places now just

shadows, where,

perhaps, I

once had walked.

***

Too far I delved, too

much have I seen-

leaving only this

feeble shell and blasted mind

Now its idiot song

follows me, endless, deafening

blocking out all

sleep and reason

I no longer know

where the dream ends and waking begins

I hate the moon, and the

things it shows me, but

soon I will

blot out this vision

If there be any

mercy in this crawling chaos,

it will be

oblivion...

Cleaned Out

I've found that's how I feel after a good workout- like a lot of toxins or chemicals or something got flushed out of my system. Whether or not this was really the case, I'm not sure. I hope not, as the thought of being full of toxins is somewhat disconcerting. I went out for a run last night, in the cold and dark. It was great, and I managed not to run into anything, streetlights on occasion leaving something to be desired. I started work on a couple short stories, which prove to be difficult. Coming up with a plot that isn't overly derivative isn't easy. I found actually coming up with ideas and characters is not, although the horror stories I'm writing are in a genre notorious for cliched plots. There's a lot that can be done, but I want to avoid just writing a spinoff of something else. Perhaps I should expand my literary horizons a little more; that never hurts. Back to the books!

For A Friend

Hello child, I

called from the fringe-

Her first memory was of wings

sitting at the

pier's edge, her

world stretching across

water's expanses in echoes

Her first memory was of wings

Tiger lilies nod their

orange heads in the breeze-

Here there be dragons

beyond the window, where

she slept

Her first memory was of wings-

Both of us know

she can fly

Nothing rhymes with Azathoth

Today was the end of a long weekend, so I spent a couple hours of it at the gym- I haven't been to hit the weights in a couple weeks, and, while never huge by any means, I do like to keep in shape. The better care you take of the equipment, the longer it lasts, or so I'm told. I was surprised to find after that much time, I was still able to do everything I used to be able to do. I expected to spend the time making up lost ground, but that's not the case. I'll probably be plenty sore in the morning, but that's the price you pay. I was all set to run Saturday night, but walked outside and realized a new definition of cold. So, when the air stings you as soon as you step out the door, it might be best to reconsider if you want to come back with all the fingers you left with. I was surprised I haven't lost anything by way of weight-lifting ability, despite being slightly softer around the middle. I'm afraid I haven't been able to come up with very much in the way of new poems, (most of the ones I post are written and finalized within two weeks, which is my normal time frame) so it's time to head down to the catacombs and see what I can unearth. Hope you enjoy!

Dharma Bum

Never had the privelege

to learn old worker songs in

Santa Barbara, thankfully

a written narrative, I

don't know which, along that

Long railroad-where was it

that Charlie Parker went

mad in Camarillo, then

returned to sanity and some

good playing-

Never had the privelege,

Glad you did, reciting

the Heart Sutra in a boxcar siding

Why commemorate the moment, the

wine is already drunk and the

moment passed.

The First Church of Burgerology

It was a slow Friday afternoon at the office. That's kind of the nature of the beast, though. Bored at work? Three words to remember- Power Point haikus. There's also a lot of fun clip art in Excel. We also had a long and involved discussion about a picture of a giant burger a coworker found in a magazine. Discussion ranged over probable origins and composition of the giant burger, how long it would take to eat such a burger, and where to get the best burgers. Probably shouldn't have had this discussion at 10AM, as it was still a while until lunch.
They say you should love what you do, but I often think of it as a necessity. My present job is not that bad at all- a lot of work, but the pay is good and we all try to make it as positive an experience as we can. I figure I've got to be there (or somewhere) so I might as well make the most of it. But I was always unsure just how emotionally involved I should be. I know there are people who become really attached to their jobs, and people who really don't care. I'm somewhere in the middle- work is work, and it's a matter of pride to do the best job I can. But if a higher-paying position were to come along, I'd have to take it, if for no other reason it means more money to take care of my family. And I suppose that's as good a motivation as any.

That's How She Says Goodbye

That's how she says goodbye

Shaking off boredom

moves along under heavy skies

She's in Atlanta or Dallas or Vegas,

one of those convention cities

Shaved her head, bought a

jet-black wig;

her friends commented on the change

"Do not seek from

another

Or you will be estranged from self"

Reading her fortune cookie

Outside on the road

An old man and his

wife, arm in arm

Their slow progression

Stately, noble, speaks of

long association

Je vais aller,

she says to herself,

leaves a tip

for the waiter

What's in a Name?

Yesterday's dinner just happened to be with my folks. We had something I had never had before, apparently called Cuban sandwiches. They were made with a thick, heavy bread and had sliced roasted pork with a little jerk seasoning, ham, Swiss cheese and sweet pickles. To die from. For, I mean. Which put me in mind of the last couple days of my oh-so- thrilling job at work. I work in a call center, in the financial services sector, so there's always something new. I've had, over the past two days, two complaints about the automated touch-tone phone system. The people I spoke to took it as a personal offense (I'm not exaggerating) that the system had an option to hear everything in Spanish. (Press 2 for Spanish- that kind of thing). They said that English, being the official language of the US, should be the only option available. I myself have several ideas on this, but I'll try and keep it brief. First off, what is an official language? I was not aware we had one. And if so, what does that mean? That no one can speak anything else? That seems too silly to give any serious response to. Now it is true, that English is the most commonly spoken language in the States, although us barbarous Americans have been less than kind to our mother tongue.
Granted, if I were to go to Italy, I would probably have an easier time if I spoke Italian, but if I had the option of communicating in English, my first language, I would probably take it for ease of use. And since there are a great many people in the US who can speak Spanish much easier than anything else, this may well make it easier for them to use the system. So it does make sense solely from a business standpoint- make it easier for your customer to do business with you. (I'm deliberately leaving off any type of sociocultural commentary here, as I don't really feel I know enough to make a comment on that). If there were a large number of French-speaking persons, no doubt the phone menu would offer an option for French as well.
Irregardless of what culture a person is from, if it's easier for you to speak Spanish, and you have the option, then go for it, if it makes things that much easier. We're all in it together.

Day of the Dead

Quite a shock-

Little did I

expect them, their

festivities

The hordes of skeletons, their

flesh picked clean from

chalk-white bones, or

crumbled to dust

Now dressed up, now

leaping, full of

new life and old tradition

The women, clad

in brightly colored

dresses and silks, their

grinning skulls strangely

beautiful- up they

go to dance with

their fellows in

handsome black and

broad-brimmed hats,

their bony fingers

pluck the strings of guitars

Are these men

showing so many teeth

Laughing with their

Ladies, as they all

dance, jump, sing

And I am

remembering their

own lives

Happy Valentine's Day!

Hope you all had a great one! So Dick Cheney accidentally shot someone. Whoops. I wonder if that was a pre-emptive strike? (Sorry, couldn't resist). Since there's really nothing to report today, I'll share a pretty good blog I happened across.
http://fafblog.blogspot.com
Lots of links, too.

Through the heavy door,

Wood and glass to

keep out the draft that

sneaks in around you

Barroom floor, the

occasional peanut shell or

cigarette wrapper

Move between

loud laughter, booming

voices, to the bar-

ghosts of

drinks left rings

Smile from the barkeep, her

knotted shirt

inviting

bigger tips

Here to

share a drink

and a story with a stranger

Squeezed onto the

small stage, the

band rips into an

old Hendrix tune-

we pause to listen

Snowed In

Yesterday was quite a snowstorm, so I didn't get out of the house very much. I did get a good deal of cleaning done, which is a good thing. Which brings me up to the present- listening to Miles Davis and not really getting anything done. It's a really good album, though- an old Columbia recording of My Funny Valentine with Ron Carter on bass, (one of my heroes, being a bass player myself) and George Coleman on tenor sax (likewise here). I've been working my way through kind of a dry spell (must be the snow) by reading H.P. Lovecraft and various poets off of poetz.com- some of whom I've had the privelege to hear in person. Attempts at writing through it have met with mixed results. But if anyone has any recommendations for really good jazz albums, I'd love to hear them. I'm a big Charles Mingus fan myself. I know probably every bass player says that, but I enjoy the fact that his music demands something of you, that you really dig deep to get what he's saying. At any rate, time to go back to good old Miles.
I feel a little guilty about writing this one, as it is an ex-girlfriend- we kind of lost touch, but were friends for a while, and parted on pretty favorable terms. Not the lady I ended up marrying, but we shared a few laughs.

For an Old Girlfriend, We Kept in Touch

If I look

hard enough on

Graffiti-ed concrete walls

the windows shards of

remembrance for

more prosperous times

Here is where I

wrote your name, next to where

Someone else recounts

seeing Elvis in

the mildew stains

La femme-

(La, the feminine article)

I would put her

on paper,

But why

dwell on the past?

That was

when things were

simpler, I

had long hair

and no beard

I can recall your

black-night hair

the flannel shirt you wore-red

checkered, and jeans

Thank you for

this

memory, that time

I head back to

the roadway

Above, two birds

watch for a moment

and fly away

Quoth the Raven...

I read The Raven to my two-year old last night- interestingly enough, he asked me to read it to him. One of the high points of my day is always reading stories to my little boy. He asks questions, makes up additions to the stories and has a running commentary on whatever we're reading, so sometimes it takes a little while to get through the story, but that's all right. It's a lot of fun, and my son thinks it's just the bee's knees to have Dad read to him. And of course, I'm happy to oblige. In this case, we read through the poem, which ended with the both of us laughing like loons, and my son jumping on the bed, yelling "nevermore! nevermore!". Perhaps we imbued a little more comedy into it than Poe originally intended, but really, I think that's what writing is all about. Sharing ideas with someone else, and moving them and yourself. That's why I started writing- because I wanted other people to experience the things that I have experienced, and to enjoy them as much as I have. If I could communicate my own experiences to one other person, I would consider that worth all the effort. That, and I heard women go for the sensitive types. (Just kidding, guys and gals. My days of having women 'go for' anything are behind me now; I'm blessed with a wonderful little boy and a dear wife. We've got a good thing.)
I wrote this poem one day driving to work, and happened to notice a sign on the side of the road that identified this particular stretch of road as the Yankee Expressway. It's actually I-84 Westbound into Hartford, CT just after the bridge- there's a tunnel with the words "Welcome to Hartford" written on it. I got in a nasty spin-out there once, but that's another story. I was fine, with only a scuff on the bumper to show for it. On my junky old car, you hardly notice.

The Yankee Expressway

Sing, O Muse,

Of the Yankee Expressway,

Faithful friend, I have

sought your blacktop four lanes

Every morning's coffee-fueled commute

You express to me

Exhaust fumes, garish tunnel lights

while from within my

glass and steel box

Around me the city

Rising up, tall glass and concrete, monuments

To Man's ambition,

the American dream

Seeing the city hum around me

Parking garages, power plants

Men and women, the

force that drives the machine-

Would they miss me if I

kept on driving

to the coast,

jumped ship to

a strange new land-

Would it make a

nick on the rolling stream

of progress, of the

rat race?

On I go, another

day, another salary

Chasing the same carrot,

the same dream

Fun with Flash player

One of the important things I learned today is that anger and compassion are not incompatible. To explain further, I have often found myself in contact with people who need help, be it a place to stay, or a couple bucks for dinner, or whatever. I really try not to look down on anyone who needs help, for whatever reason. But at the same time, I feel like if I'm looking down, I want to pull whoever I'm looking down at up to my level. It's kind of an abstract idea, but I would rather all people live up to their full potential, and my anger comes not at them, but at the situation that keeps them from realizing that full potential. It's frustrating, looking at a person and seeing at least the potential for greatness there and not being able to help them realize it. But on the other hand, this may be overly idealistic. I should do what I can where I can, and rest in the knowledge that I did what I could, and there are more people out there than me doing the same thing. Life is unfair- if it were fair, I think we would have a Utopia, where everyone is free to develop their own potential. But with this comes responsibility to do just that. From my own experience, advancement is not free. It depends to a large extent on how hard you work. I'm afraid I'm waxing very philosophical, so I'll just leave today's little opus and also a website I had a great deal of fun with- I myself am a Buddhist, of the Kadampa school to be more precise, but like most of us Western barbarians, started off learning about Zen. Here's a fun little mouse-driven thing that made me laugh, but the advice is pretty sound for all those considering meditation. And I would encourage you to do so, regardless of spiritual tradition.
www.do-not-zzz.com

Untitled #8

Coming here to

see two herons

graceful forms flying low

over the

water's glassy surface, they

Do not disturb it as they

circle and I,

honored by this gift

Do not disturb them

(Seemed appropriate, as I'm in kind of a Zen mood tonight. This was inspired by just such a sight at the Glastonbury ferry docks- there were two of these huge and magnificent birds flying together, almost touching the water of the Connecticut river. It was really a beautiful sight to see.- J. )

Day off

I had today off from work, which was a nice change of pace. I spent it just hanging out with my family, which was also really nice. It got me thinking, though, about all the things I'd like to do, but may never get to, like travelling through India. Maybe when I retire, but that's very much on the horizon at this point. But that's all right, the present is pretty darn good too.

View of Hartford

Flags on the brick wall

Faded sign hangs over old men,

A world contained in their

Afternoon card game

Here the sidewalk leads

beyond the unlit windows-

Music from inside

A dark smell of coffee

mixes with the spice of book pages,

paper

Nothing good was written in the

twentieth century

That's why I love Hartford

It was a beautiful clear New England winter day today. I made it a point to get out of the office and outside on my lunch break. I spent a little time walking around the city, as I do pretty much every day, but today I was thinking about all the family history that has happened in Connecticut. There was my grandmother, who almost was there on the day the circus fire happened. I can recall the Connecticut river flooding and shutting down some of the streets. I can recall watching someone take a boat down the middle of Bedford Avenue when I was a boy. I can recall seeing a warehouse fire just next door from where we used to live. Maybe not of any great historical significance, but I've seen a lot, and heard a lot more from old stories passed down from one generation to the next. I'm sure I'm not the only person with a long list of memories, though.

Long Run on Fall Morning

I am moving when there is no I

Defined as motion, across

Countless Buddha-lands, breath, the life of

All that is-

No sense of stop/start, the ground

Slides away to reveal

New vistas, new mastery of ancient ways

And I am moving where there is no motion

A falling away of senses, grasping

Leaves ego spinning, unmoored, no more

than a point of reference in the void

Sound of rubber on road

Thunderous, a mantra; follow the sacred to

its source

the breath

run on

Day from Hell

I've been having a tough week, and my wife has been working long hours as well- so between trying to make each other feel better, we've been at each other's throats. But she works hard too, so I try to be understanding and flexible. This got me thinking, however-things could be worse. Sometimes you're up, and sometimes not. If I was up all the time things would get pretty dull. And besides, if things go wrong it's a chance to look around and see what went wrong, and what you can fix. Keep your happy thoughts, I guess. And on that note-

Music

Cold sleet ticks against the window

opening to winter's gray skies

Sun fading behind low clouds and cold air

Cannot fade memories of summer

at this old desk

A young boy, warm afternoons

Mom's old hi-fi, listening to LPs, maybe

Neil Young or Handel's water music

Small hands careful with shiny

black vinyl

Mornings in Maine, a new day

of fields to explore, trees to climb

Grandpa's old farmhouse

Waking up early to find rock and roll

on the old radio, mysterious with

glowing dusty tubes

Turning the yellowed plastic knobs

Needle jumping behind cracked glass

"I didn't think that thing

still worked!"

Older now, kid's songs

Little boy's raucous delighted laughter

New memories for his own desk,

his own winter days

St. Raymond of the Dogs

Well, we're marching fearlessly into the 20th century- my family has internet access from home. Which means a little more time to post, apart from doing the dishes, the laundry and cleaning the house. But that's all right- it's worth it. Today was one of those thoroughly unproductive days at work. But that's one of the drawbacks to working in a call center- you have down time, and, on occasion, no way to productively fill it. Except catch up on your reading, which is what I used the time for. I also heard from my brother in law (via his blog, actually) that he got to meet Martin Espada, one of my favorite contemporary poets. I probably would have done something dorky like asked for his autograph.
Untitled

Days merciful fate she
grants me
My own hand to scatter riches
to the four winds
under what strange new skies
Together let's
plumb the higher things of man
Adam's ordered assembly
All is exposed, the beating
bleeding heart
The house you built or
was built for you
Do not despise a humble man
Do not shy from the sinner's hand
wise friends, be not far
Come, be a fool with me

'little gray cells '

In response to a comment I recieved earlier- Izzy, thanks so much for your feedback, I appreciate it. Secondly, I think you may be right in regards to the Beats. Definitely got the little gray cells working. Experience is all well and good, but ultimately one will need to move beyond this and make some effort to apply it to life. The idea is the same, but wandering around with a rucksack and seeing the world is not always a practical choice. I have a family to support, so unfortunately can't be ranging all over creation. On the other hand, working hard doesn't mean turning dead to the world- whatever you do, make an experience out of it. It's not what you do so much as how you do it that really counts. To a large extent, the ideas are the same, but the execution is a little different.

East Hartford Train Yards

Sunlight on the railroad tracks,
me a boy, little, holding onto
Dad's big callused hand,
watching the trains go by from
other states, like other foregin-sounding lands to young ears
Old wanderer, weathered face,
tattered clothes, fresh song for the new day
Just moving along the
shining rails where
Dad flattened a penny-
laid it on the tracks and
Thundering metal wheels, noise
bigger than all the world
Picking up a copper oval,
hot and wondrous, stretched and beat
by all the miles from here to
Des Moines-
Old friend, did you know
This is where we came to walk?

Vanishing Elephants and Good Coffee

I started reading The Dharma Bums the other day, and got a strange comment from a co-worker- "Nobody reads Kerouac any more; that was the 1950's". Not a bad point, today is definitely not the 50s. I wasn't alive then, so I don't have much of a basis for comparison. I really like the book, though. Prior to this I had read On the Road and really enjoyed it. It seemed almost sad at points, not what I thought it would be. None of that "crazy, man" kind of dumb optimism one often thinks of with the Beats. I missed it by about 20 years, but very much relate to the ideas of the Beats. But that was then, this is now. Nonetheless, it's a good thing to keep that kind of hope alive.


A Lesson

The elephant vanishes-fog
at dawn, bald-headed monks
In self-imposed unity
Where is the hot dog man, to
Make me one with everything
Late night outside the Polo Club, a
fortunate meeting
Holy men dim their lights and
mingle with the dust
To walk amongst ordinary virtuous men
A chill wind-ours- this time
Is nothing but a clockwork bird


(This one may need some explanation- the Polo Club is a drag club and gay bar in Hartford- no, my bread isn't buttered on that side, but at the time I wrote this a friend of mine was working there and took me along one night. I had some very interesting conversations with a number of people, and the bartender mixed a mean rum and coke. After we left, I had a huge hankering for a chili dog, and lo and behold, there was a man with a hot dog cart! I was joined by one of the drag queens who had performed that night, and we sat and had our chili dogs on a nearby bench and just kind of shot the breeze for a while. It's the little things like that that stick with you for some reason. A real sweet guy/gal, too, and I really enjoyed our conversation. The chili dog was fantastic, too).