Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Give me life or something less explicit, as the receipt of my boring considerations April 26 is a day of little relevance, posting idly on the internet and floating between transit or transom, trying to maintain a fresh status in the queue of  extemporaneous age (what does that even mean?)  Pop psychology! (The pain) Illiterate (transposed) on a bed of dying critics (capitalism's nightmare  is just an invitation to create garbage (creating a world of carbon copies) What would Baudelaire or Baudrillard think? Build a decadent Disneyland  for your fucked up imaginings.  Rhizomes from another mother, as Deleuze and Guattari found out soon enough (These roots go deep, back to radical and conventional thinking) Buried in the soil mossing yet another stone that refuses to gather momentum. Yet it remains the same. The damn song remains the same. Take that Zeppelin.  Take that Postmodernism. (Are you a capitalized thought?) (Are you a capsized thought?) Take that F...

A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. With scattered snow flakes graying out the sun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Instead the rotating orb does not stop for even a mourning dove's elegiacal cry. An old woman on the slushy sidewalk, dodging ice chunks, wishes winter was done. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. A muffled snore of a world never reborn nor showing its fragile eye It slumbers in fits and starts that block out the ruminating sun No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try Where are the frolicking foxes? Are the mousy bunnies too shy? The places they once cherished, they now practically shun. A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky. The snow crunches beneath my feet even though I hoped to wish the season goodbye. The icy touch of spring, an irony that's lost much of its fun. No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try. Soon it will turn to slush and the seasonal ach...

I used to be a wallflower at the punk show.  Standing in back like those cool people in that Jawbreaker lyric or Peter Parker, replete in sweater vest a tour song well defined. I watched everyone else participate, slunk in the corner like a ragdoll  in required black hoodie, shock of auburn hair, drooped over crooked glasses. '90s indie fashion or a Weezer video extra, the early days of emo.  A backpack possibly slung over my shoulder, and a lack of beer in my hand, made me stand out, an awkward clown, never a joiner. Even though I loved the volume of the music, the warmth of the room, distinguished from the blustery, wintery outside, I found it hard to join.  These states never get warm. The band never breaks a string. Once I finally joined and met the people in the room, I became a figure in the scene, with my own nickname and relevance. Seldom a band member, I was the eternal commenter, the guy who could talk records, a legend in my hometown. Like that irredeemabl...

I'm trying to write longer, languorous lines, you know, as I have not been writing like I should. These lines might form a rib, a bit, an attempt at honest expression, or an artistic endeavor to keep me from my dotage. To shake off the brain fog, post-Covid before I fix my shaky, sore carpal tunnel hands and get back to work. I wake up numb in brain, fingertips straining and hurting, finding it hard to talk, momentary, mental lapses, and an inability to move, work, or think. The cabin helps as the bright sun shakes off the long upper Midwest winter, which felt like it lasted eight months this year. The mosquitoes materialize from seemingly nothing to work like tiny Draculas on all available creatures. A bald eagle screeches in its deceptively tiny bird voice, and the chipmunks chase each other with much commentary. A toad hops through the gray dirt of the campfire pit in search of a cool escape from the torturous sun's red rays. I defog as I watch every other creature move thro...

Otis the cat should survey the trees and birds, But he'd rather annoy me. Since the sentinel spruce and maples do not heed him, He licks the window in small circles. Nearby chickadees care little For these feline demonstrations. The cold weather snaps us to attention, And the snow falls silently while we watch From inside a creaky house, hoping for touches of lenient spring amidst the wintery chills.

Snow on spruce boughs, The second coming of a rabbit Disrupts the morning silence I think of you asleep miles away In clouded memories of fog Here in the snowy north, The temperature dropped to negative 25 Even the birds are silent, But the spruces still contemplate our Tiny backyard, unaware of our plights.

Place matters in the grand scheme  as we plan the rest of our short lives in between careers, births, and death, tracing the lines of worry and doubt on faces that age like earthen masks,  cracking and morphing into new forms  that recall our parents and their familiar tragedies and strategies in months that begin with archaic, internalized letters, fomenting lethargy and resilience like the graying maples and elms, the wintry oaks, the desolate brown topped spruce,  as those seasons change and loss becomes static reality in this Upper Peninsula, this region of utmost cold, where the snow falls and blankets the silent masses, ergo, a laugh, a sound, an eruption of jubilant life in resistance to the colors that drain, clamorously calling out for meaning.  Ha! Relentless ones! You are stuck here! Lift up your choices and dig in!

We've been living on aspirin and hope for far too long. A Mountain Goats song gone to seed with an assorted crew of wellwishers and television addicts. Are we trapped in a Santa Monica basement in 1989 or a London flat with Maggie blaring on the telly? No, we are just treading water as we wait for the next circus and the inevitable sea monkeys. Temperamental 90s reverts to the spasmodic 50s as fall sets in. Generational or seasonal shifts increase anxiety. The sad fall inversion aches in the metacarpals and palms of our fragile hands. Here's to another year of going through emotions. Excuse my mixed metaphors.  I'm foundering near the coast without medication or the appropriate adjectives.

I never live up to what I expect from myself. I have Imposter Syndrome and Generalized Anxiety. I achieve most of my goals, but I am still unhappy since I do not know when to quit.   I cannot stop comparing myself to others despite different career paths.  I compete with myself as much as others.  I have been teaching five courses per semester at the highest level for years. I have a vigorous publishing schedule that often gets in the way of my personal goals.  I enjoy writing most of the time.  I'm not getting any younger, so I think I might just have to give up. I should settle for what comes and finally write that book.  I will remain tired.   I am angry most of the time. 

Train Trestle, Train Trestle To the tune of an old Nick Cave song,              Some would say you block the view  of nature, of the sky, of the dirty, old  dumpster behind Lakeview Resort. I love your economy and utility. The nature lover in me dismisses  your role in bringing belching  smoke to the heartland.  Yet the romantic in me is  enamored with travel. Like most Americans, I  respect the promise of  coast to coast travel  that you exemplify. Dark metal and creosote wood bisecting nature. Green grass peeks from under  the wood of your tracks. The foliage will take back the land, but you will still peek from  beneath its lush carpet. Nature and commerce be damned. We all have a job to do. 

I rub my sleepy eyes and clean the last dishes. My week at the cabin is over, and I slowly pack the car. I'll be back in a few days when I will have to say bye for another year. The river is low again, but the grass is green, and the day is cool. More rain is in the forecast. I take a deep breath, lock the door, and move on.

While tidying up the cabin by washing the dishes and sweeping the floors before everyone leaves, I reflect on another year. We are all getting older and tamer. There are fewer altercations and more hugs along with earlier bedtimes and more snoring. We awake earlier each year, and people leave sooner on Sunday.

Early Morning coffee in the kitchen. Jim is making eggs.  I hear a clutch of conversation when I wake up. Peter, Donny, Josh, Matt, Joe. I let the discussions hang. I get up to take my morning walk, skirting other hungover zombies.

The creek is high, appearing more like a pond each year. Past it there is a dark patch of woods. Birch and Spruce mingle with Slender Ash. Big Rock looks inviting amidst stalwart pines. 

The cold rain is threatening to put out the fire. Fortunately, the weather won't stop us from breathing. When the sun comes out, I'm going in the river.

The river runs through here, doncha know. I can't hear it over the sound of the space heater. This summer is a cold one. 

Cabin Day One: Ask the Turtle Walking through Yarrow and daisies in the ditch as cars fly by I  spy a dead Snapping Turtle next to an anthill And a Subway cup tossed carelessly from a passing car. The ferns are tall and verdant next to scarred popple trees,  the sky blue with scattered, wispy cirrus clouds,  and the air fragrant. Wisconsin summer, colder than some yet still beautiful.  I raise you your harsh, snowy winters  and ask for more temperance. Ask the turtle who hides under ice and hollow log what she wants.  More summer or a buttercup. Something to eat and the sun on her shell. Give me more days like this one, content in my carapace,  walking through green, even as I shield myself  from speeding cars on County Road W that never slow down.

writing poetry is fun when you have free time; however, you might not take it seriously when  you have bills piling up in the corner, when  you have a pile of stacked midterms, when you have an article due with the editor breathing down your neck, when the editors are not responding to the lengthy e-mails you send them, or when you find that editors and readers want  a different style than you are selling, and students want a different grading system; you cannot pay the bills without the CVV number, the QR code, or  whatever that thing is; you cannot pay the bills without an exorbitant convience fee that ain't so convenient; editors don't care and students don't care that you have bills due, and creditors don't care that you are done  with their codes and numbers just like you are done  with the numbers on the midterms, or the unreturned phone calls to political campaigns; it is October  in an election year; however, you should take that seriously. wri...

Reading Palookaville. Arkansas past midyear. I'm waiting for fall to begin. Far away from winter snows, Metaphorically and literally. In the enduring humidity, I turn away. I'd give anything for a cold rain or a sad autumn day. I think I just wrote lyrics to an emo song, circa 1996. Don't hold that against me. 2020 needs to end.

The situation ain't real Like a world ending in pain Cataclysmic in poetry Like my great grandmother in 1925 What is the movie they're watching? Chaplin or Lloyd or the twin Diablo? There's a world alight like Watts Magically, the end. Ha, ha, ha. This is it. Foiled. Like a praying mantis. Poised for the kill. A reader of the red. The classic parabola. What's that? Ho ho ho. The life of Reilly? There's a world out there. Ask Mick Jones.