As Ives the Insurer

Ghosts of the past

Rising up in nightly dreams,

Wailing, clawing, resurrecting

Remembrance of damning deeds.

The artist cannot conjure

away these ghouls; but then,

a good artist sees in suffering

a Beauty impossible to ignore.

A confounding comparison:

That the haunting retinal light

of the past brings a

shiver of recognition - stunningly,

a similar sensation to

the insatiable inspiration of

a summer storm.

An artist, then, is not just an articulate auror; or

an accomplished authority in

"classic" contrivations!

No, like Ives the Insurer,

Any average Joe averaging

The standard forty-a-week

Willing to withstand the

waning structure of

Individuality,

Is capable of creating

Art: an attempt to

articulate the indescribable Beauty

found in ghoulish gleam

or summer storm.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

"An Artist," says he.

They chuckle.  "But what job do you want?  You need to make money, dear."

Downcast, he reverts to whatever his father does for a living.

"Oh, how sweet!"  And another Artist dies - giving way to to the blue-or-white collared prison known as the work force.

Being an Artist isn't an occupation, dear one.  It's a way of recognizing life.  There is Beauty in everything; it just needs to be discovered and appreciated for what it Is.

Are you a debt collector?  A mortician?  A hole-digger?  An insurer?  A librarian?  A marketer?  There is Artist in you: you only need to wake it.

Please, dear reader, don't kill the Artists.  If we are worth anything as humanity, it is only because, at some point, many, many years ago, there was Art.
Look for Your Art.  Maybe, when you grow up, you will find it.

Fellow Fallen Fairy

To my Fairy, for picking me up when I was Flightless.

One winged angel,

Feet firmly on the ground:

Earth bound,

Moping, moseying, meandering,

Living life in lurid grey,

Bemoaning broken wing,

Eyes ever downward,

Resigning, never rising:

Returning to the heavens.

But during daily drudge,

Our one winged angel,

Fumbles into his fate.

A fellow fallen fairy,

Feeling free, frisky, and whole,

Steeled by sadness,

Fortified in fun,

A whirl of a girl,

Caught the angel's hand,

And rushed him through the rain.

Side by side, the two gained speed,

Running madly and merrily,

Relinquishing rancid past.

In an instant,

Two wings become One,

And flightless angel,

Paired with his fallen fairy,

Takes flight again.

No end in sight,

No temporary flight,

Soaring; fly,

Keep us, Sky:

Two-winged Being.

Turn Up the Music

Day of the first,

Either best or worst,

Reset, start again,

Hoping the same goal to win:

Collections Department.

I'm supposed to be writing a paper to apply to two different institutions in an effort to begin studying for a PhD, but being the day that it is, I just couldn't bring myself to write coherently about social thought and political justice.  As some of you know, I work in a collections department now, and I have to be honest, when I first started this job, I had no idea how emotionally taxing it would be.  I mean yeah, everyone expects collections to be difficult, but you wouldn't believe how fast you become jaded and uncaring, or just how angry you can get over numbers you can't control.

For the second month in a row, I've missed a goal by literally one payment.  And the day after the deadline, that one payment comes through.  After listening to sob stories and lies day in and day out, the disappointment of a month seemingly wasted manifests itself in tirades against customers I speak to on the first.  The craziest thing is I ended up hitting my other goal - by a lot - allowing my team as a whole to hit their goal.  Ironically, if I hadn't tried as hard on that goal, I would have hit all of my goals this month.  That's the bizarre office space I live in, that I'm sure many thousands of people can relate to.

Leaving the office yesterday, I knew the odds of getting that goal were slim, so I turned up talk radio and tried not to think about it.  There is little other sign that you're getting older than listening to talk radio unnecessarily loud.  But finding out that you missed by one, and that you're going to have to drudge at the exact same thing, with the exact same lying customers for another month, hoping for a more favorable result...that's insanity inducing.  So much so that occasionally you have to be reminded that, perhaps, your customer actually does have cancer and can't pay today.

My manager asked us in an email what we're going to do differently this month to do better.  I wanted to sarcastically respond, "try less - maybe I'll hit goal then..." but as that would be unprofessional and earn me a reprimand, I'll just stick with something more mature.  I hope.

So here I am, pitching a little fit through poetry and verbiage.  Per usual.  I am reminded even more that, as good as this company is, it is not where my vision and calling is leading me.  So I plug in to my music, some of the angrier stuff, and turn it up.  For now, to me is not to fret about the future.  For now, to me is to listen to the lies, make it through the month, and help it along with some headbanging.  That seems to temporarily solve everything but the ensuing case of whiplash.

14 Year Stupor

There are times when the weight of life is so heavy only pen and paper can lift it.  Scrolling through Facebook, taking in an endless stream of information, looking around at my coworkers immersed in their own devices, and wondering if they feel the weight of the 3,000 souls that breathed their last breath 14 years ago.

Why is it that day is an icon to all our nation, but the feelings are gone?  Yes, we remember, but 14 years years has turned into history, and history doesn't Feel.  Why is today any different than then?  Why did it take three thousand deaths to momentarily wake us from our divisive, slumbering stupor?  Are we not one nation?  Are we not free?  If we are oppressed, if we bow to the drudgery of our daily grind, it is no fault but our own!  Stand, American.  Rise from your 14 year stupor.  There will be sleeping enough in the Grave!

Wishing for the Weekend

"Don't wish your life away."  We've all heard it, I'm sure.  Ever since we were kids, and probably still now, our parents, our bosses, our professors, all tell us to live in the now.  Focus on your job!  Keep your head out of the clouds of the future, and focus 20/20 on the present.

This week was a long one for us - I get to say us now - and the weekend is finally here.  For probably the first time in my life I get Labor Day off, and so this weekend is going to be a longer one.  Just like anyone else working a 9-5, I've been dreaming of this weekend since the week previous.

Today during my lunch break I was reading a bit of The Poet's Guide to Life, a collection of letters and poems by my hero, Rainer Maria Rilke.  Very rarely have I thought of myself a disciple of any mortal man, but every time I read anything of his, I feel as if I'm sitting at the feet of the master.  No, his life was not exemplary, nor would I recommend making the same choices he did.  However, he always makes me think, and think deeply - and I adore that.

Today, I was reading a portion of commentary on his poem "The Flamingos".  Using an atypical bird, Rilke makes the point that certain things that we place more value on: a woman losing her sight, undying love, and death, for instance, really only have as much value at their core as a flock of flamingos.  I see his point, from his philosophy - if we are alone in this world, and there really is nothing more than the here and now, then we should value our marriage, say, just as much as we would value watching the rain fall on the window.

Ah, but we are not alone in this world.  And the wonderful thing I have been contemplating in the shower this evening (I get a lot of my best thoughts in the shower...I'm sure I'm not alone), is that my wishing for the weekend has much more significance now than it ever has before.  I'm not wishing for solitude or for a good book alone, or for "me" time...the beaming face of my lovely bride instantly reminded me of that when I walked through the door today.

This time, I think, the Master Rilke and my boss, and your parents, and his professor, and her uncle, are wrong.  If you have the fantastic fortune to be in my position, wish for the weekend, dearest reader.  Sometimes that wished away time stands still the moment you walk through the door and are captured by her shining eyes.

Weary of the week,

Washed by kiss on the cheek,

Time stands still,

Redeemed though force of will:

Wishing for the Weekend.

The Marionette Drummer

Shivering canvas of silence,

Expectantly awaiting the brush-stroke of sound.

Squeak of the seat,

Sticks rest on the rim,

And my body is surrendered to puppet-master,

Like a marionette merely along for the ride.

Sensual whispers guide my hands from head to head,

Crash in my ears like waves of pleasure,

Hair rising, skin quivering,

Mistress of music demanding

My undivided attention.

The ride leaves me breathless, shaking,

As last brush-stroke rings unencumbered:

Brilliant color giving way to the forgetful silence.

And here I sit – just another drummer,

Just another day.

Unbounded by Words

Dearest reader,

I have said time and again, to you specifically, that the happiest things in life are unbounded by words: specifically mine.  So it happens that I am putting virtual ink-to-page for your enjoyment two weeks and two days after the most joyous day of my life.  I am sitting in my wingback armchair listening to Brahms, and watching my lovely bride read a book on philosophy on my right.  I don’t have much more to say in this respect, not because I am indifferent; rather, I am, to be sure, one of the happiest men alive at the present moment.

I find that being married has occupied my mind in ways that have diverted my attention from my inspiration as no other.  Or perhaps I should say, it has changed the form of my inspiration for the time being.  In the last few days I have been divulging my lunch-hour to Rilke, Bastiat, and Fitzgerald, and so it happens that my Scarlequain is merely simmering in the rear of my mind.  Like the Music, my poetry is always present in the recesses of my cognizance, but as of late it has resigned itself to an ironic:

Crawling, parched

Month-long march.

Dry and barren,

Take me, Charon:

Silent Muse.

And while I in no way feel that the Ferry Man of Hades is pulling my inspirational muse to hell by his boney grasp, I am well aware of my tenure in the desert of noninspiration, if I may coin a rather unoriginal term.

My job has felt new and daunting to me for some time now, until, as it happened, an employee newer than I asked helplessly for directions on a simple task.  “I told [her].  And as I walked on I was lonely no longer.  I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler.  [S]he had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood,” which was, in this case, my workplace.  Ah, Fitzgerald.  Even in the third or fourth read-through (honestly, who is counting?), Gatsby still fails to disappoint.

I have also been spending time reading The Poet’s Guide to Life: The Wisdom of Rilke in my spare time, and if you know anything about me you’ll know I cling to every word this literary giant saw fit to pen.  As it turns out, Rilke hand-wrote thousands of letters during his lifetime – mostly as a distraction from his “work” – poetry writing.  I stumbled across a passage where Rilke describes these letters, on all topics and to all demographics, as an escape from the desert of noninspiration.  An oasis, if you will.  Indeed, it has often been said that Rilke has done more good for the literary community through his letters than he did through his poetry.  I daresay Rilke was beginning to suspect the same as he approached his final stroll towards Charon’s ferry-house, as he gave permission for them all to be published.  At any rate, it made me smile, because I realized there is no ear more open than the blank page intended for some distant recipient.

And so, dear reader, this is where I bid you farewell for the time being.  This is where I take my last sip at the oasis and hope with a smile that the desert ends just over that hill.  For, you are my open ear: my addressee that gives my poetic halt a respite.  I sincerely wish that I, like Rilke to me, have conveyed some measure of hope and happiness to your daily walk.

May the sand quickly leave your shoes.