In the womb

You're beautiful
with the lights out,
only the glow
of the clock radio
on your skin. Like that
on your bed you're a babe
in the womb, your skin lit
from within by your heart's
electric pulses. Blankets
like these are uterine,
sticky and warm. I hope
you emerge head first.
It wouldn't be right
to cut you out.

Very Bad Post

You talk too much shit to be real.
What's the deal?
Are you swallowing pills?
Can't escape
Or maybe you can, my man:
Drink this milk out of a can
like some pussy ass man...

I know what you're thinking: Is this Sylvia Plath? Nope. Robert Pinsky? Wrong. It's not even Allen Ginsberg. You get one more guess. Did you say Vanilla Ice? There you go! (Note: Just read that again. I am one corny asshole. This opening is so fucking cliche. I might as well write for Maxim.)

Yeah, these lyrics are from a song called "Step Up or Shut Up," by that guy everyone forgot about 15 years ago, until VH1 aired his Behind the Music, but then we forgot him again, until VH1 reminded us in that annoying series of shows about the 1990's. Seriously, fuck you VH1. I used to watch you all the time when I was a kid. I loved that Paul Simon video with Chevy Chase in it, and all the Phil Collins you used to play. What happened to you?

Anyways, I don't know what the hell I'm writing about. I just find it funny that he points out how the cowards in our society tend to drink their milk out of cans. Isn't that weird? And so true? I prefer my milk out of a cup, or a plastic sleeve, and sometimes a canteen, but never a can. Dairy and aluminum do not mix. Real men like me know things like this.

God, this post sucks. If anything good comes out of it, it will be that you (Note: not sure who 'you' is. The only person who will read this is Shitface, who's heard this song already, and maybe some dudes from the Phillipines searching for "Ricky Davis Pony Shoes," whatever the fuck those are.) will try to buy or download Vanilla Ice's "Platinum Underground" album, which contains this track. It's my second favorite hiphop album, behind Macho Man Randy Savage's brilliant debut.

readings

These are the last sentences of an article I just read,

"And here lies the challenge for urban ethnographers: to demonstrate that they can apply the method without lapsing into a fatal reductionism. I have one admonition as they go forward: Watch your petards!

I had never heard this word, but I got it from context earlier. I found this funny. I am a nerd... Atleast I still have to mind frame to admit this. Soon this may be gone...

unorganized Marxist ramblings

Why do we make decisions? I primarily speak of the important ones. For example, what school will we go to? What job will we take? Well... hold on, why are these decisions important. Why is the question that you and I ask when we first meet people. It is laughable, when you think about it. A pick up line I often spit is, "so what do you do". Is these the essence of our lives? Has it come to the point, that our activities of reproduction, (that is essentially what drives our lives outside of being exploited by wage labor), are insignificant?

Ask any elder, and most younger than you, how the wage and the discipline of wage labor is. I throw the word wage in this equation, because simply, this is the kind of labor we participate in on our jobs. While I write this piece, I am laboring on my own accord. My tool is the keyboard, i guess the envi is my environment. This is not to say I am not completely alienated from the means I choose to produce this document. The computer screen confounds. Maybe, through some magical bullet equation we can know where the parts for this computer and who labored on them. But how about the intellectual property of the page I am viewing. These have been produced by some labor, but my screen is covered in seemeingly untracable elements.

Alas, I have gotten off topic. I am told everyday that I need to prepare to compete in a global notion. I reject this notion. I refuse to be alienated from makes me human, which Marx said was the manipulation of earth with labor. To view people strictly as commodities may be extreme. People are not purely their occupations. However, when we use langauge such as this, we much sell ourselves as employees. We have created a culture in which, is not only acceptable to fundamentally exploit people for our labor, but we are encourage to degrade ourselves in such an occasion into slave wage labor. There is certainly a mysticism assocaited with the wage labor/slave labor. Without getting to far into it, the difference here is the conceptualization of a human being as a commodity. The slave was recognized in the context of political economy as a commodity. We see that the slave was merely chattel or property. The owner (not always a capitalist) did not pay his slave, instead he (most slave owners were men) was responsible for the slaves reproduction. (Keeping him alive). shit man, I got off task, I will elobarte this point later. Also to be discussed, the media as social control, and the myth of the american dream...

I dreamt I pissed myself

I was at work at my desk
and its clutter
when my bladder
felt poked by a pin
so I walked to the toilet
and shut the door
and began to let it out,
let all of that painful urine
escape me, when my shirt
flopped down(I'd been holding
it up with my wrists
because my fingers were busy)
and when it flopped down
it broke the stream.

All I remember is warmth
on my belly and down my thighs
and on my knees,
and there was a wetness,
of course, but that was warm too,
and everything was yellow
with a rank sweetness,
and the reason I don't remember
anything else is because
I think that's all that happens
when you piss on yourself.

Positivity

She had red hair and he didn’t know her name, but he could see in the curves of her cheeks and breadth of her smile how someone could love her. She was across the aisle, in one of the 20-odd folding chairs planted in the small meeting room, dressed smartly in a black suit, her skirt reaching just below her knees. He watched her ankles in glances, one bouncing in the air like a child on a trampoline, and they were chubby like a child, but with a feminine curve, which he liked.

He wore a suit too, grey and awkward on his frame. He held his resume, his life boiled down to snippets of experience, with his name across the top in bold and embarrassing capital letters: ERIC LOW. The redhead and he and about a dozen other men and women had come to this small office building off of the Garden State Parkway in hopes of a job, and were waiting for the owner to arrive to begin the information session.

Eric hadn’t gleaned much from his initial interview a week earlier. He had met with an attractive 30-something woman in a blank one desk office, hidden upstairs from a stationary store in his town. She wore a stylish cap, the kind an upscale cabbie might wear, leather and brown. Her name was Margaret.

“So, Eric, what are your goals?” she asked after formal introductions and they had both taken a seat.

“Hmmm…Security, I guess. I’m just out of college, so I’m looking for a tolerable job. With healthcare.”

“Interesting.” She wrote something down on the inside of a folder. “Do you have any special skills?”

“I’m competent with a computer. I can write proper sentences.”

“Good, good,” she nodded, half-smiled. Eric looked at her hat, which he liked, her short hair style, then the top button of her tight white blouse.

“Well, Eric, you seem like the type of person we are looking for. Energetic. Positive. Smart. You went to a good college. That’s what we want in an employee at Arthur Industries. Let me tell you a little more about our company. We are rapidly expanding as the fourth largest generic perfume distributor in the Northeast, and we’re looking for an office manager. Honestly, I’ve got a good feeling about you.” She winked, and he felt a tug below his stomach. She spoke some more but Eric couldn’t hear it, just nodded until he was in his car again with an address, date, and time in his hand.

*******

Redhead’s lips were moving subtly, forming mute words, and she would smile to herself every few sentences. She had index cards in her hand, her eyes intensely focused on them, so Eric could glance at will, longer and harder than before. Her ankles and calves were bare, the skin fair and blemish-free, like the tiled floor in his bathroom. Her face was the same, seeming so smooth from across the room, and her fingers were long, but he could see the skin tensed around the bones in her hand. Her chest was large, and he blushed when he noticed.

It was a minute late for the 10:30 scheduled meeting. Eric had seen Margaret and her hat when he arrived, said a quick hello, then sat in the empty room, the first to arrive. Twenty minutes later, the room was full of antsy prospective hires, all black except for the redhead and himself. Who they were waiting for, they didn’t know, he didn’t know, but he was reading down his resume for the 10th time that day when the man walked in.

His swagger matched his shirt: loose and breath-like, confident as a conductor. His slacks were grey and neatly pressed, and the aforementioned shirt, though slack to his body, was a business white, the top button opened to mix his message. His hair was full and brown, his face rough and handsomely craggy, deeply tanned, as if he had hoped the sun’s light could fill in those facial imperfections. A gold cross hung from his neck outside his shirt, nested in the chesthair that that curled at his open button.

Eric straightened up as the man walked down the makeshift aisle, shuddered slightly at the hollow clap that came from behind the podium. The man’s hands were large and wide, like fleshy cymbals, and his clap echoed significance around the room. It had begun.

He introduced himself in a low, gruff voice. “Welcome. My name is Jack Clifton. I’m President of Arthur Industries, and I’m glad to meet you all today. First, I’ll start with a little background.” He picked a batch of index cards from his chest pocket. Eric saw the hair again, its black contradicting the brown on his head. “Arthur Industries was started and is owned by a good friend of mine, Art Flowers. He worked his ass off with this company, and now he’s a millionaire out in California, living the good life. A few years ago, he asked me to run his East Coast operations, and I gladly accepted. Back then, we were small, barely on the perfume-distribution map, but now we’re a strong fourth and consistently growing.” Jack Clifton stopped talking and looked around the room. Eric glanced over at Redhead, whose eyes were wide like a porcelain doll’s. He felt that if she leaned back, her eyelids might descend.

“Now,” Jack Clifton began again, “we’re here today to find three,” he held up three-fifths of a hand’s fingers, middle ring and pinky, thumb and pointer shaping an ‘O’, like the gold-rings that each counting finger held, “office managers for sites we’re planning to open in the future. These are very good, lucrative positions we’re offering. Who here thinks they have what it takes?” He put a hand to his ear, and it sounded like everyone applauded a little. Some people shouted, “I’m your man, Jack.”

“Good. I like to hear energy, positivity. And I hope you all have energy today, because I have more good news. Not only are we hiring office managers, but, in fact, we are also looking for salesmen to fill those offices. These are high commission positions for strong self-starters. If you want to be living in Cali like Art Flowers, this is the position for you. So, who wants to be rich?”

Again, the whole room seemed to respond, only louder than before. People began talking to each other, high-fiving. Eric heard someone say, “You my boy, Jack.” There was laughter and smiles everywhere. Eric looked at Redhead. She looked solemn, listening like an angel in service.

“Honestly,” Jack Clifton said when the speaking began to diminish, “there’s no reason why every person in this room won’t have a job by the end of this meeting.” People clapped, pointed approval. “As long as you have that winning attitude, that go-getting spirit we love at Arthur Industries, then…” He trailed off.

His darting eyes stood still, saw what Eric could only guess was enthusiastic faces, happiness, hope. Then his eyes rose up to look at the back of the room. His mouth was tight like a stretched rubber band. Some people craned their necks, turned around to follow Clifton’s eyes, but Eric kept his gaze straight ahead. The man lowered his eyes, shook his head, then looked up again. He breathed a sigh. His eyes looked like pebbles.

“I can’t do it,” he said to nobody, to himself, but his voice was angry, as if the audience had provoked him. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.” And he walked down the aisle and out of the room.

*******

There was silence, a stop in time. Life was a single slide rather than a moving picture. Then there was more silence. Then Eric started laughing, shrill as a flute, which the rest of the room took as a starter’s pistol. Everyone began to chatter, their voices filled with outrage, with disbelief. The men were clutching their ties, the women had their arms folded, and all were swinging their heads, looking to the front in case Clifton hadn’t really walked out, and then to the back, where they knew he’d gone. There was no choreography, only chaotic neck flailing.

*******

By the time Eric had ceased laughing, his eyes were wet and seeing fuzzy shapes grow in height and lumber to the exit. He cleared away the tears to watch everyone go. A glance told him Redhead had left already.

The parking lot was full of complaints. “That motherfucker,” and “Waste of my damn time.” Eric wheeled around the crowd outside the door and went towards his car, giggling helplessly every few seconds. Ahead he saw tense white legs move across the concrete. Above that he saw a head of red hair.

To say something, he thought. To say something, a joke, an observation, how Clifton’s chest was full of spiders or, oh, look how the newly autumn leaves drift like falling pilgrims. She seemed to be parked next to him, and she stopped when she reached the hood, slammed one hand on the red-painted metal and put the other to her face. Eric let his left leg levitate for a couple of seconds, then walked to his car and got in.

He looked at her as he turned the ignition. The engine erupted, and there were black lines stretching down her pale face. Her eyes were closed, so he could look all he wanted. From here he could see the tangles in her hair, her bra strap peeking out on her shoulder, the soft fuzz on her chin. From here he could see tiny makeup-filled scars.

Most of this is Unimportant

It was a desolate land, to be accurate, or maybe to exaggerate the smallest bit. Because there was grass, in small square grass colonies, and there were trees that sucked the moisture from the ground. And there was death, for sure, for how could it be otherwise? But this death was neither more or less than a place less desolate. It just was, like the pebbles that roll under the weight of your foot.

There were people who lived in this desolation. They had hopes, like cognizant beings in far better locales, and they had these hopes smashed like stained glass. Constantly, a hope was being crushed, its blood trickling into the shallow water table to feed the the red-leafed trees that somehow survived. One could find dead hopes underfoot as one will notice cigarette butts on a sidewalk, the hopes' faces brown, too, like a spent cigarette filter.

Some people kept wild hopes chained in their barren backyards. On certain days you could hear the hopes' howls, and the clanging of their chains as they pulled and pulled at the stake that stopped their wanderings. Curiously, this made many chained hopes cross-eyed. The morning after a full moon would find many a hope clinging to its home stake, spun around by its marred vision and choked by its chain.

Fact: Hopes are androgynous and asexual.

One man I knew had a hope which he repeatedly buried in the dry land, only to see it dig its way out. This happens, too, when you pour sand on an ant. Watch long enough, and you will see the grains tumble and give way, maybe just a few at a time, until an antenna is peeking through back into the air. The same happened with this man's hope, until he grew tired of this sport and drowned his willful pet in his above-ground swimming pool. It sank like a skeleton key.

All of this is unimportant.

Moreso, most of this is unimportant.

What is important is: It was a desolate land.

44 S. Broadway

There is shade here, in the mornings,
when the sun is still hiding
in the sky's shallows. A chill
controls the air, orders each arm hair
to stand up like soldiers. Exhaled smoke
is carried away, abducted, spun around
swirling in this windy valley.
While classy black cabs stop and go,
pull over, open doors for animate bodies,
speed down the road like impatient Charons
on a pavement Acheron, the sky I know
is blue without a glance liplessly spits
ethereal rain. This is only first impression:
it must be stranded water from
my building's roof, blown over the edge
by a bossy wave of air, but still it dots my skin
like needle tips, like the smallest shards
of glass. It makes me look up
at that wide sky; such trickery, contradiction:
the clearest of skies and water falling
from its direction, sprinkling my forehead,
an invisble baptism. I can feel my heart beat
then; I shiver--uncleansed--rattling the drops off
like a dog does. But still the stray rain falls,
subdivides me until I feel fit to dissolve
if I dare, if I am called to.

The end of time and space

Read the title. Read it aloud. It doesn't make sense, does it? Neither can really end, can they? Many said that the invention of the locomotive effectively blotted out a nascent industrial culture's conception of space. Other's would point to the similarity of air ports, on a international level. You leave one airport and you arrive in another. The language has changed, but the shops are still there. The name is different, but the news stand still has flawless tiers of magazines arranged by interest. The increasing fluidity of capital and labor (sometimes known as globalization; A U.S. driven international capitalism) has bulldozed discrepancies not only between modes of reproduction, but cultures as well. There is an international hatred for the American government, however cultural imperialism has taken its course. Coke is not 'our' culture, it is everyone's. To summarize, space and time seems to have ended because of advanced transportation technology and the bland commodification of everything.
I didn't come to lecture, but instead to describe a recurring daily experience I have been having for the last week. I ride the subway everyday. On Friday, I rode in public transportation for close to five hours that day. I had purpose, it wasn't just for exploration.
Maps make us believe that we can accurately conceptualize space. It really is an endemic quality to humans. I have seen many 'natural wonders'. Tall mountains, large Valleys, gargantuan oceans, but nothing amazes me like this man built network of tunnels. A whole world built beneath the city. If the city is second nature, is this third? Is that possible?
I think of all the people who wait on these platforms. Most of them are working people. Rich people really don't take public transportation. That is what the statistics show anyway. I ride the train with dark, friendly, and understanding faces. The universal respect of the subway is evident, or so it seems.
Why doesn't the city make a map of the subway telling us which trains go to poor neighborhoods. Where the slapped together stucco called public housing is. Then a map of the ethnicity of riders. I would love to overlay them on a map (I am so human), and publish the results.
Anyway, the underground is damn near congruent throughout. Shouldn't it be? Don't conflate this post with somekind of personal revelation, but sometimes it feels like I could be riding to nowhere. My cardinal direction skills, (which are not too great in the first place), are knocked for a loop. What is north? What is south? Directions lose their purpose. The water or other landmarks become non existent. The sun, forget it. My cell phone stops working. I rely on a message in the train posted in red, and a quite pleasant voice whispering in my ear, that this is a southbound express train.
The subway really epitomizes function over form, and to be honest, I love it.

One Man's Story

He wanted to pluck
something out of the air
like a child's magician:
a story. Words upon words,
consonants and vowels
fucking each other
into coherence, like a man's mind
ten seconds after that last push
when everything is serene
and beautiful, except
for the woman beside him.
So he slides against the wall
and stares at the chipped paint
until those defects become faces
with see-through bodies, and those bodies
have see-through bowels, and inside the bowels
live men unashamed of truth who tinker
all day on their robotic brides. Then
she taps his shoulder and again
he's feeling the sweated sheets
wetting his skin. Then paint is all he sees.
I guess that's his story.