Shaming Otis

[[ Something to do with presentism (and presentism) and perhaps a touch of evolution. ]]

Why don't you live in the future,

little name, little two-dimensional

photograph?

We in the future have perfected 

the morality of what you filthy

beasts call man.

We in the future -- swimming in

your prehistoric sea -- do

not get wet.

We know, as clearly you do not, 

we are much better than you are

in your place.

Meanwhile we have some chimps to kick in the teeth.

Come at me, Enos.

Come at me, Washoe.

Do you want a piece of me, Nim Chimpsky?

dispossessed

[[ An ambiguous song about an ambiguous persona imagining a home he (could be she) used to know. Someone else is in the home now. A feeling of dispossession, real or imagined, some sort of revenge planned or fantasized. Fire and smoke imagery, maybe imagining the old chimney smoking, maybe imagining arson, maybe just a crazy phone call, maybe all in his head. The old phone is there for strangeness and to evoke an old time, dialing the number like a secret combination on a safe, with the phone's "cradle" doing double duty for imagery. Senses (taste and smell, fingers, warming, creaking) to introduce an uneasy nearness. And is he thinking of someone else (an invader? just a new owner) in his old home -- or is that "someone" just the persona sneaking back and creepily intruding in (calling on) his old home? It's coming from inside the house! Or not. ]]

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

someone tastes the fruit still growing

in our garden

someone smells the flowers planted

by our mother

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone opens creaking cupboards

in our kitchen

someone warms his chilly fingers

round our fire

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

now I am calling

dialing the rotary

my combination

into the past

lift the receiver

out of the cradle

lift the receiver

out of the past

fire will be burning

up through the blue air

sparks will be floating

floating on air

the song of a dove

[[ This started while reading  Ryszard Kapuściński , 'The Anatomy of a Coup d’État', in The Shadow of the Sun. ]]

A peaceful coup,

like the song of a dove,

and the man below

is the man above.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

This is your signal, 

faithful five:

take them at midnight,

take them alive.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

A coup must come at once 

from everywhere and silently.

A coup must come at once,

invisibly and deniably.

This is your signal 

at the waterfall:  

stop the five senses.

That is all.

It starts in IT 

on Saturday night.

It ends with pancakes 

at Mama's Delight.

Today is Saturday;

we live in the future.

Today is Sunday;

we live in the past.

...from everywhere and silently.

gasoline and perfume

the peace of the past

is gasoline and perfume

burning off surfaces

me pulling the zipper up 

the back of her dress

and watching her fix sticky lips

this is the soil

I am rooted in

this is the air

I inhale

me peeling his boots 

from his feet after work 

and watching the earth fall away

this is the soil

I am rooted in

this is the air

I inhale

gasoline and perfume

burn away in the sun


[[ smells and sights of childhood ]]