How are ya? Long time no see, I know. But Sine Pecunia lives, and I'm planning on posting here more often in coming days. Here are a couple new poems. Enjoy.
He's Coming Out!
He's coming out!
His squiggle sensations have gotten him out.
He will kill,
Arbitrarily, he will kill,
Will
Grow legs and sexy biceps and will
Find creative new ways to kill,
To entertain, to teach that
Car bombs are old news.
He will kill things and kill other things
With those things.
He will jump to Europe when he
Reads about it. He will take over
Buckingham Palace and
See
What the fuss is about.
He will kill the Euro while he's there.
He will discover Mozart and Beethoven
And Bach and he
Will play it in the cities while
Kills,
Play it over the air-raid speakers
While he finds fun ways to smash
Faceless Apache helicopters from the sky.
He will catch a Yankees game and
Enjoy a beer and nachos
As he kills his section,
The umpires, the players
When
The game is over.
He will go to Wall Street and
Invest wisely, make a killing
While he kills, and he will
Get a PhD in law from Harvard,
And he will kill legally from then on,
And therefore more hilariously.
He will host SNL and kill Andy Samberg
In the funniest sketch ever, better
Than the cowbell one, and
He will kill Christopher Walken just in case.
He will run for president and
He will win without killing, then
Kill his opponent after, over the phone
When
He calls to concede.
He will put an end to war, AIDS,
Hunger, greed,
And he will make us laugh as he kills
In the Rose Garden.
He will win every Nobel Prize for ten
Years straight, and he will kill all of
Sweden when he gets sick of it, and he
Will
Win eight Tours de France,
Choke Usain Bolt with his cloud of dust,
And he will drown Michael Phelps,
And it will be entertaining and
Horrifying, and we will laugh
Ourselves sick
As he goes back in,
Placid and congenial,
Apologetic, and much,
Much
Better for it all.
Would You Like to Be in The Yardbirds?
Cuz everybody's doing it.
Cuz you can drum, crazy as you want,
Like you're pushing a wheelbarrow,
A real heavy one.
It'll be nuts.
It'll be heavy and
Scratchy
And wild. It'll be
Lucrative, think of all the
Wrought iron wheelbarrows you can
Have, if you just
Join The Yardbirds.
Damn the turnover rate, you
Can play bass, you can
Make Mom proud, if you just
Tell her you know music,
If
You sit at her mother's organ,
Curl up your fingers, graceful beyond
Your image, and show the family
Three or four chords
Of yourself, your dream
Of not being like lots of things,
And being like--
Not
Lots of things.
But when you see their faces,
You'll sally out. When you feel
Their eyes scraping through your skull,
You'll know
The Yardbirds aren't for you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Waiting Poems
Here are a few recently unearthed poems that were written in the span of a couple hours while I was waiting for somebody...
Pour Me Into a Cup
I am mostly water, yes,
But water I am not:
Pour water into a cup
And it will take the shape of a cup;
Pour water into a bowl
And it will take the shape of a bowl;
Pour me into a cup
And I may break my neck,
But I will maintain the
Shape of a man.
Who and What
Tonight, I am a compost heap
As with any other night
But not usually in my mind
The blue shadow-reflection of my cup
Feels like magic
But my studies would say otherwise
Sometimes I think
(hope)
I feel love
Most times I know it is myth
I want to believe
The clock’s chisel maddens me
I know it isn’t real
Time is the creation
Of a Blackberried fool
I acknowledge neither creation nor creator
Tonight
I am an organic stroke of luck
When I Tell the Papers
I would like, someday,
To tell the papers:
--I never dreamed; I only did--
For, by then,
I would be a picture of confidence,
My brilliance having been evident
Since nary I was a teen.
And people of my caliber
Do not dream, no no!
They simply do.
For what they do is a sure thing.
It is the starvers who dream.
They dabble in their studio apartments,
Awaiting the Prince of Opportunity
To apply the slipper which will show
That, yes, the dreamer is worthy.
But the Prince seems to often come
When the dreamer is out
Drinking his failure away.
I write this now to forewarn you:
When I tell the papers:
--I never dreamed; I only did--
I will be lying through my face.
All I do is dream
And stay sober enough to hear the door
When the Prince comes to it.
Pour Me Into a Cup
I am mostly water, yes,
But water I am not:
Pour water into a cup
And it will take the shape of a cup;
Pour water into a bowl
And it will take the shape of a bowl;
Pour me into a cup
And I may break my neck,
But I will maintain the
Shape of a man.
Who and What
Tonight, I am a compost heap
As with any other night
But not usually in my mind
The blue shadow-reflection of my cup
Feels like magic
But my studies would say otherwise
Sometimes I think
(hope)
I feel love
Most times I know it is myth
I want to believe
The clock’s chisel maddens me
I know it isn’t real
Time is the creation
Of a Blackberried fool
I acknowledge neither creation nor creator
Tonight
I am an organic stroke of luck
When I Tell the Papers
I would like, someday,
To tell the papers:
--I never dreamed; I only did--
For, by then,
I would be a picture of confidence,
My brilliance having been evident
Since nary I was a teen.
And people of my caliber
Do not dream, no no!
They simply do.
For what they do is a sure thing.
It is the starvers who dream.
They dabble in their studio apartments,
Awaiting the Prince of Opportunity
To apply the slipper which will show
That, yes, the dreamer is worthy.
But the Prince seems to often come
When the dreamer is out
Drinking his failure away.
I write this now to forewarn you:
When I tell the papers:
--I never dreamed; I only did--
I will be lying through my face.
All I do is dream
And stay sober enough to hear the door
When the Prince comes to it.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Dear Sky...
Oh Great Sky, how you giveth and how you taketh!
And how you so recently have givethed it so hard and so long and so savagely! And how we hath takethed it right in the ass! How you giveth new meaning to "right where the sun don't shine."
Sky, the gauntlet has been thrown. On behalf of my sullen people, I am taking to the streets, sign in one hand reading "We may be mostly water, but we have limits!" and megaphone in the other, through which I will lead cheers of "Rain rain go away, come again some other day!" I am protesting you, Sky.
And I call on all of you to join me. Embargo that oppressive thing. Don't even look at it. It feeds off of your begging, your cries of "Whyyyy?! Why won't you just stop it?!" Don't give it any more strength. Treat it like childish bastard it is.
According to this summary of June weather in southern New England, The whole last month sucked. Here are the first couple lines from it to give you the gist:
...JUNE 2009 WAS UNUSUALLY COOL...CLOUDY AND FREQUENTLY WET ACROSS MUCH OF SOUTHERN NEW ENGLAND...
THANKS TO A PERSISTENT TROUGH ACROSS SOUTHERN NEW ENGLAND...JUNE 2009 FEATURED PREDOMINANTLY COOL AND MOIST CONDITIONS.
Trough indeed, as if the Sky has been pushing our collective face into a trough of piss.
We can not work under these unsanitary conditions. We can not be expected to take this lying down anymore. Something must be done to protect our rights as human beings, because this treatment is downright inhumane. Sky, you have violated our dignity for the last time. We demand concessions. We demand guidelines.
First off, we demand no more killing. You struck a shellfisher in Orleans the other day with your electrical wrath, and we are not going to accept that kind of maliscious behavior.
Next, we demand you make your daily intentions clear and stick to them. Sun in the morning should not entail the darkness of Hades in the afternoon. If you want a gloomy day, fine. Have your gloomy day. Just make up your mind.
Finally, we cry for limits. June featured 16 days with measurable precipitation. Yes, that means that on more than half of June's days, something fell from the Sky into which you can stick a ruler. If you insist, Sky, on such an overbearing load being dumped on your meek people, we demand overtime! We call for the best July on record. We want a San Diego quality month, one where each day the meteoroligists get to come into work, look at their data, make a cheap graphic of the week with "Sunny, High of 75" maybe with a sunglass-weilding cartoon sun, and kick back and enjoy their coffee coolatas until air-time.
If you do not comply, sun, there will consequences. No more will we ponder what your puffy clouds look like. No more will we make out under your sunsets. No more will we lie in our fields and stare up in awe of your stars. Your eclipses will go unnoticed.
If you continue to abuse us, Sky, we will--I swear to God, we will-- send a nuke up to the International Space Station, and blow you to sunders. Sunders!
You have thirty days to comply. The ball is in your court, Sky.
Sincerely,
Jason D. Silva
And how you so recently have givethed it so hard and so long and so savagely! And how we hath takethed it right in the ass! How you giveth new meaning to "right where the sun don't shine."
Sky, the gauntlet has been thrown. On behalf of my sullen people, I am taking to the streets, sign in one hand reading "We may be mostly water, but we have limits!" and megaphone in the other, through which I will lead cheers of "Rain rain go away, come again some other day!" I am protesting you, Sky.
And I call on all of you to join me. Embargo that oppressive thing. Don't even look at it. It feeds off of your begging, your cries of "Whyyyy?! Why won't you just stop it?!" Don't give it any more strength. Treat it like childish bastard it is.
According to this summary of June weather in southern New England, The whole last month sucked. Here are the first couple lines from it to give you the gist:
...JUNE 2009 WAS UNUSUALLY COOL...CLOUDY AND FREQUENTLY WET ACROSS MUCH OF SOUTHERN NEW ENGLAND...
THANKS TO A PERSISTENT TROUGH ACROSS SOUTHERN NEW ENGLAND...JUNE 2009 FEATURED PREDOMINANTLY COOL AND MOIST CONDITIONS.
Trough indeed, as if the Sky has been pushing our collective face into a trough of piss.
We can not work under these unsanitary conditions. We can not be expected to take this lying down anymore. Something must be done to protect our rights as human beings, because this treatment is downright inhumane. Sky, you have violated our dignity for the last time. We demand concessions. We demand guidelines.
First off, we demand no more killing. You struck a shellfisher in Orleans the other day with your electrical wrath, and we are not going to accept that kind of maliscious behavior.
Next, we demand you make your daily intentions clear and stick to them. Sun in the morning should not entail the darkness of Hades in the afternoon. If you want a gloomy day, fine. Have your gloomy day. Just make up your mind.
Finally, we cry for limits. June featured 16 days with measurable precipitation. Yes, that means that on more than half of June's days, something fell from the Sky into which you can stick a ruler. If you insist, Sky, on such an overbearing load being dumped on your meek people, we demand overtime! We call for the best July on record. We want a San Diego quality month, one where each day the meteoroligists get to come into work, look at their data, make a cheap graphic of the week with "Sunny, High of 75" maybe with a sunglass-weilding cartoon sun, and kick back and enjoy their coffee coolatas until air-time.
If you do not comply, sun, there will consequences. No more will we ponder what your puffy clouds look like. No more will we make out under your sunsets. No more will we lie in our fields and stare up in awe of your stars. Your eclipses will go unnoticed.
If you continue to abuse us, Sky, we will--I swear to God, we will-- send a nuke up to the International Space Station, and blow you to sunders. Sunders!
You have thirty days to comply. The ball is in your court, Sky.
Sincerely,
Jason D. Silva
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Poetry
A couple of poems to help kick things off: The first is an old favorite of mine, and the second is excerpted from my book, The Sachem is Dead!
Supersonic
Skating away on blades of steel,
The cartoon town is behind us now,
And there’s nothing to see
But ten feet in front of our faces.
We see ourselves in third person,
In two dimensions, side to side,
We move—supersonic—
Up ladders, through loops,
Don’t die.
We only fear the cliffs,
The daggers that define our land,
Monsters of unspeakable strength,
A bop on the head and they fall.
A simple bridge—it will fall—
Lies square in our path,
Be quick.
Only now can we move
To the back of the cave.
Special Agent Dale Cooper Travels Back in Time to Stop King Philip's War
Diane, I have no idea where or when I am. In fact, I can’t be sure that you will be able to hear this recording, but here goes. As I cross the boundary of time, and therefore space, I am reminded of the emerging field of fractal geometry, of the concept of self-similarity. As far as I know, neither the English colonists nor the Native Americans of seventeenth-century New England knew anything about fractals, yet I suspect that, in some way, every person and animal ever born has understood them in full. The largest fractal, Diane, is but a conglomerate of many smaller versions of itself. Those smaller versions are seen to be made of still smaller versions, and so forth. It seems that everything is repeating in infinitely larger scope. In the space between these self-similar intervals, we find only more of the same: identical, yet smaller shapes of miraculous irregularity; curlicues and pointed edges abound. Diane, it is this space between where we seek meaning. Ultimately it is here where we find the abnormal movements and relations of every day, week, month, year, decade, century, millennium, and celestial epoch of our lives and the lives of all things animate or not. We find the same shapes, Diane, indistinguishable from all others.
Supersonic
Skating away on blades of steel,
The cartoon town is behind us now,
And there’s nothing to see
But ten feet in front of our faces.
We see ourselves in third person,
In two dimensions, side to side,
We move—supersonic—
Up ladders, through loops,
Don’t die.
We only fear the cliffs,
The daggers that define our land,
Monsters of unspeakable strength,
A bop on the head and they fall.
A simple bridge—it will fall—
Lies square in our path,
Be quick.
Only now can we move
To the back of the cave.
Special Agent Dale Cooper Travels Back in Time to Stop King Philip's War
Diane, I have no idea where or when I am. In fact, I can’t be sure that you will be able to hear this recording, but here goes. As I cross the boundary of time, and therefore space, I am reminded of the emerging field of fractal geometry, of the concept of self-similarity. As far as I know, neither the English colonists nor the Native Americans of seventeenth-century New England knew anything about fractals, yet I suspect that, in some way, every person and animal ever born has understood them in full. The largest fractal, Diane, is but a conglomerate of many smaller versions of itself. Those smaller versions are seen to be made of still smaller versions, and so forth. It seems that everything is repeating in infinitely larger scope. In the space between these self-similar intervals, we find only more of the same: identical, yet smaller shapes of miraculous irregularity; curlicues and pointed edges abound. Diane, it is this space between where we seek meaning. Ultimately it is here where we find the abnormal movements and relations of every day, week, month, year, decade, century, millennium, and celestial epoch of our lives and the lives of all things animate or not. We find the same shapes, Diane, indistinguishable from all others.
An Introductory Note on Death
Some stretches of time go by practically unnoticed. We simply breeze through days, weeks, and months without looking back to examine what they were all about. One day's news quickly blends into the next day's, the weather eventually breaks or darkens, and we move on.
This has not been the case over the last week or so. Recent days have been decidedly dominated by death, as if somebody gave the Grim Reaper a turn at open mic night and he's just having too much fun to get off stage. And yes, he's playing a variety of tunes, each with its own flavor. Here's the setlist:
-Ed McMahon: Johnny Carson's sidekick died last Tuesday in his sleep. Family sources say he suffered from a "multitude of health problems" in his final months, including a broken neck from a fall and reports of bone cancer. He was 86.
-Farrah Fawcett: The star of TV's Charlie's Angels and some much more high quality films (see The Beate Klarsfeld Story) lost her arduous battle with cancer, dying at 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. She was 62.
-Michael Jackson: Some guy who did some music or something. He was found unconscious and not breathing less than three hours after Fawcett passed on. The King of Pop was 50.
-Billy Mays: The bearded guy in the blue shirt who always yells at you to buy stuff died in his sleep and was pronounced dead on Sunday morning. Initial reports speculated a link to his recent rough landing at a Tampa airport, but coroners think it was heart-related.
This lineup is rounding out like the '86 Celtics. Quirky role players (Mays is definitely Bill Walton), cagey veterans (Fawcett and McMahon are Parrish and McHale respectively), and of course, one transcendent super-star (Jackson/Bird). Even without Jackson's death, the rapid-fire nature of the trend is enough to steal news time away from the Iranian election fiasco. Throw in the most popular musician since Elvis, and people start to take notice.
The result is an odd sort of public grief. While the news about Fawcett and McMahon did not come as a shocker, Jackson's death was nearly unthinkable. Mays' death, a shocker for a man at the peak of his career thanks to Pitchmen, seemed like salt in the wound. All the memories, condolences, tributes, and news stories seem to blend into one mixed-up mass of mourning. We want to celebrate Jackson's music, message, and greatness, but we also can't help but think of the bizzarre, possibly dispicable life he led. Even the President had his press secretary tell the world essentially that "his music was good, but man, that cat was fucked up." Jackson has been able to wiggle out of so many weird conundrums that the world is almost skeptical as to whether or not he's really dead. The timing allowed zero time for the media to give McMahon and Fawcett their dues, and we're all so sick of death that Mays is almost ridiculous to consider.
Of course, this type of public mourning can only dominate so much of our lives. Mostly, the part where we sit in front of the TV or computer, watching old Michael videos just for the memories or inexplicably volunteering to sit through an Awesome-Auger commercial. Here in my hometown of Bourne, however, we have made the full transition from grieving for those whom have given us their art, talent, and charity to one who gave her friendship and personal touch.
A car accident early Monday morning took the life of Cassy Flynn, a 21-year-old Bourne native whom I was only acquainted with in passing. What I do know of Cassy, through friends, is that she was a caring person, the type that would go out of her way to help a friend. What I know from my own experience is that she had the kind of smile that was so genuine you couldn't help but smile back.
In hearing many reactions to her sudden death, the only likeness that could encapsulate them all is something like hypnosis. It's part shock, to be sure, but there is also a palpable undertone of fatalism, of a relinquishing of power. It's as if death has a stranglehold on us, and we all know it well. Perhaps it's the effect of the constant media barrage of celebrity death coverage. Perhaps it's something completely different, like the string of young people in this town dying in car accidents in recent years.
Whatever it is, it's brought a certain perspective on death and grief. The sort of emotion we feel at losing a public figure is so unexpectedly paltry in comparison to the impact of losing a person in our own community, one who effected so many people around us if not ourselves. At the very least, Cassy's death serves as a reminder that our electronic lives--the ones filled with our idols, villains, and trusted pundits--are always secondary to our corporeal lives, where we build real relationships, maintain them, occasionally destroy them, and always need them.
Should we celebrate Michael Jackson? No, we shouldn't. Nor should we villainize him. Why? We didn't know him. We should celebrate his music, his influence, his unlimited inventiveness; these are things which we knew, things we were truly affected by. The personal tributes and thoughts of love will come from the Jackson family and the many people whom Michael touched as a person. In due time, Cassy Flynn will be celebrated by those who loved her as well, because she was a genuine human being who affected a multitude of lives around her. Even in our age of 24-hour news cycles, we still know who is important to us, no matter what Wolf Blitzer says.
For now, in the words of Conor Oberst, we keep death on our heads like a heavy crown. And hope that the Reaper's voice is getting tired.
This has not been the case over the last week or so. Recent days have been decidedly dominated by death, as if somebody gave the Grim Reaper a turn at open mic night and he's just having too much fun to get off stage. And yes, he's playing a variety of tunes, each with its own flavor. Here's the setlist:
-Ed McMahon: Johnny Carson's sidekick died last Tuesday in his sleep. Family sources say he suffered from a "multitude of health problems" in his final months, including a broken neck from a fall and reports of bone cancer. He was 86.
-Farrah Fawcett: The star of TV's Charlie's Angels and some much more high quality films (see The Beate Klarsfeld Story) lost her arduous battle with cancer, dying at 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. She was 62.
-Michael Jackson: Some guy who did some music or something. He was found unconscious and not breathing less than three hours after Fawcett passed on. The King of Pop was 50.
-Billy Mays: The bearded guy in the blue shirt who always yells at you to buy stuff died in his sleep and was pronounced dead on Sunday morning. Initial reports speculated a link to his recent rough landing at a Tampa airport, but coroners think it was heart-related.
This lineup is rounding out like the '86 Celtics. Quirky role players (Mays is definitely Bill Walton), cagey veterans (Fawcett and McMahon are Parrish and McHale respectively), and of course, one transcendent super-star (Jackson/Bird). Even without Jackson's death, the rapid-fire nature of the trend is enough to steal news time away from the Iranian election fiasco. Throw in the most popular musician since Elvis, and people start to take notice.
The result is an odd sort of public grief. While the news about Fawcett and McMahon did not come as a shocker, Jackson's death was nearly unthinkable. Mays' death, a shocker for a man at the peak of his career thanks to Pitchmen, seemed like salt in the wound. All the memories, condolences, tributes, and news stories seem to blend into one mixed-up mass of mourning. We want to celebrate Jackson's music, message, and greatness, but we also can't help but think of the bizzarre, possibly dispicable life he led. Even the President had his press secretary tell the world essentially that "his music was good, but man, that cat was fucked up." Jackson has been able to wiggle out of so many weird conundrums that the world is almost skeptical as to whether or not he's really dead. The timing allowed zero time for the media to give McMahon and Fawcett their dues, and we're all so sick of death that Mays is almost ridiculous to consider.
Of course, this type of public mourning can only dominate so much of our lives. Mostly, the part where we sit in front of the TV or computer, watching old Michael videos just for the memories or inexplicably volunteering to sit through an Awesome-Auger commercial. Here in my hometown of Bourne, however, we have made the full transition from grieving for those whom have given us their art, talent, and charity to one who gave her friendship and personal touch.
A car accident early Monday morning took the life of Cassy Flynn, a 21-year-old Bourne native whom I was only acquainted with in passing. What I do know of Cassy, through friends, is that she was a caring person, the type that would go out of her way to help a friend. What I know from my own experience is that she had the kind of smile that was so genuine you couldn't help but smile back.
In hearing many reactions to her sudden death, the only likeness that could encapsulate them all is something like hypnosis. It's part shock, to be sure, but there is also a palpable undertone of fatalism, of a relinquishing of power. It's as if death has a stranglehold on us, and we all know it well. Perhaps it's the effect of the constant media barrage of celebrity death coverage. Perhaps it's something completely different, like the string of young people in this town dying in car accidents in recent years.
Whatever it is, it's brought a certain perspective on death and grief. The sort of emotion we feel at losing a public figure is so unexpectedly paltry in comparison to the impact of losing a person in our own community, one who effected so many people around us if not ourselves. At the very least, Cassy's death serves as a reminder that our electronic lives--the ones filled with our idols, villains, and trusted pundits--are always secondary to our corporeal lives, where we build real relationships, maintain them, occasionally destroy them, and always need them.
Should we celebrate Michael Jackson? No, we shouldn't. Nor should we villainize him. Why? We didn't know him. We should celebrate his music, his influence, his unlimited inventiveness; these are things which we knew, things we were truly affected by. The personal tributes and thoughts of love will come from the Jackson family and the many people whom Michael touched as a person. In due time, Cassy Flynn will be celebrated by those who loved her as well, because she was a genuine human being who affected a multitude of lives around her. Even in our age of 24-hour news cycles, we still know who is important to us, no matter what Wolf Blitzer says.
For now, in the words of Conor Oberst, we keep death on our heads like a heavy crown. And hope that the Reaper's voice is getting tired.
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