end of an era

today is the sy guy's last day. he is moving to another town. the sy guy once dressed up as a police officer, an easter bunny, and as santa claus. today, he is wearing a tux. he has a seven average in history. he thinks is better than everybody else. once, after i gave him a pat on the back, he said "don't touch me!" he can't read, but he won't let you read to him. he always says that the print is too small for him, but when you blow up the page for him, he still can't read it. he claims he needs the book on tape, and when you get it to him, he falls asleep. he claims he needs a computer, but when you give him one, he doesn't use it. he fails everytime, but his mom won't let him take the easier classes. she is in denial, claims that his problem is that "he is lazy." so, he soldiers on, the stupid snob, without support, alone, as, i suppose, we all are. today, we are having a party for him. there will be pizza, the people's choice for food. perhaps the sy guy will cry. maybe it will hit him that it is over, that life may not ever be as good again. failure in school is a gentle joke, but, in life, it can be death.

bye sy guy.

old jokes come back to me for some reason at this moment.

"your pants are like a cheap hotel...no ballroom!"
"what did the elephant say after being pulled out of the water by the balls? thank you, mr. and mrs. ball"

and old comments, statements, too.

my dad, after a bodacious beauty hurried by..."you don't mature, you just get older." a professor, talking about the reaction in his neighborhood to the rosenberg executions..."they were out on the streets, cheering. and, they weren't celebrating because they were communists." the same teacher, talking about racism..."i remember these old guys, sitting around the bar, saying "you know hitler had the right idea. but, he wasn't talking about the jews."

then, there was the old japanese guy talking about his experiences in an internment camp.

memories of lovely ladies and manly men, strutting from class to class at umass, thinking it meant something. in a way, it did, for never again would you sit around with others and discuss books, and not be seen as a weirdo for it.

sy guy's party coming to an end. i stuffed myself on pizza, cookies, chips, cupcakes, and other instruments of death. someone gave him a david ortiz book. well, he can look at the pictures anyway. p from copy center came by, a male ethel merman, without the pipes. other jerk offs were present too, but it beats working.

doesn't everything?

sy guy, you won't be replaced. none of us will.

today

almost all the students failed their science midterm, but as woody pointed out, "science is a dead end." woody only believed in sex and death. this whole thing is a joke without a punch line. school is shit stuck in a toilet that won't flush. the kids were bummed. they pouted over the pointless thing. there were the obligatory threats. "you guys have to get your act together...i expect you here after school until your grades improve." how are they supposed to masterbate under such conditions? leave these fuckers alone! but no, we won't be satisfied until we make them miserable replicas of ourselves. we were forced to memorize a lot of bogus bullshit, so let them stuff their brains with the same fare. but...it ain't fair. we are taking their time, can we at least let them keep their minds?

no, our culture wants it all. our culture will fill their heads with bad music, bad movies, bad education, because it knows no other way. we are deaf to our critics. they have been killed or made crazy, and we are left with what remains. as bukowski said "'I would like to be human if they would only let me."

confession: ate at wendy's today. got fries, a sandwich, and a frosty, all for $3.50. the cost of the heart attack will come later.

at work today it all seemed like a bad joke. kids coming and going, teachers bitching about the students and each other, an aide noticing my book and exclaiming "i love bukowski!" the teacher saying "he never heard of him" kids upset about their grades. and then, there is p from copy center. at school, he carries on like a flaming queer, high pitched, strutting like some down and out diva, but when i saw him downtown, his voice was deep as he said "hello." the man is a pain in the ass, a snob, a bore, who entertains himself by trying to bring others down. look fuckhead, you make copies! so just take out your judy garland record, (hey, i like judy too) lose the attitude, and shut the fuck up.

speaking of homosexuals, i am tired of the obviously gay guy who keeps pretending he loves the ladies, talking about how this one is hot and that one is cute and how he has to get that one's number. we all know you are gay, and it's ok. if you can't admit it to us, the decent ones, what chance do you have of ever leading an honest life? so for once, get out of the closet, and get into the bedroom.

getting tired of these fuckers who don't feel cold. shit, it's ten degrees, and this guy is practically parading down the street in nothing but his shorts. since when did wearing pants become a felony? i notice alot of people are under dressing these days. our youth for example. look asshole, i don't need to see your scarface shirt, (which by the way is as long as a dress) so zip up that coat. gays under dress too, with those little zip up shirts which never come down over their pants. ok, you have a nice butt, what do you want me to do about it? why did i ask that? also, they wear those faded jeans, and walk too fast. slow down! and white guys. what is it with these guys? it's zero degrees outside and these guys are getting arrested for indecent exposure. are jackets legal in white america? and women too. ok, i know they want us to see their bodies, but shit!!

it's cold out there! doesn't anyone else feel it??

at least the whole queer eye for the straight guy thing has died down. i have a title for a show. it's called "queer lick for the straight dick." that should get them out there protesting.

believe me, i'm not angry at the moment. i'm just using old material that was left in the can. hey, it's not as good as a tina brooks record, but it will have to do.

until the real thing comes along. for now, the stormy weather is coming. let it rainn, wilson. it's good for the farmers.

by the way, i thought art blew the johnny most. perhaps that line wasn't worth jack bruce shit, but i've already typed it. so eric, i hope you will clap-a-ton after you read it. if not, i will cream you.
ah, nothing beatles a good blog, but how wood i know, nick? ah, the puns came back in the nick of time. they tell me that martha is the root of all evil, but i would rather dance in a street of quicksand during a heat wave with jimmy mac, than accept a socialist alternative. yeah, she needed nikes because her feet were sensitive. perhaps that was why we gave her the boot? well, she wasn't as bad as james herr. herr can touch a tree and turn the leaves to flame, the no good arsonist. rebecca kaim home in the middle of all this. in fact, she came on the bed and i had to wash the ben sheets. well, i've ben there, t.r. dunn that.

till mike gold falls from the sky,

a jew without money,

along with gordon jenkins,

says goodbye

walking

walking down comm ave, the girls of boston university surround me. they are a satisfied bunch, considering the world is saturated with sadness. they have a sameness to them. they are all white, regardless of their race. they are wealthy, well fed, ravishing robots. i quicken my pace, but they are everywhere. it's not their fault that they are robots, but they bother still. i want to shout. they hurry by, chatting on cell phones. the streets belong to them. they nudge you out of the way. no one has ever told them no. they have everything, except happiness. they know it all, except the truth. i wonder, where are all the men? don't young men go to school too? don't they walk down streets too? of course, they are also hateful in their generic white t shirts and their dockers and their bum look that costs hundreds. these are our good germans, busy fighting their battles, whatever they are. they are studying for tests, falling in love, talking, walking.

was i that hateful?

class today. kids were telling me how to teach the class, how to make it interesting. one of these days they will learn that it's all bullshit anyway. i tell them that i am thinking of coming to class in a bathing suit to liven things up. or maybe i will hire a chorus line. i tell a joke, which really happened. i was standing on a platform waiting for the train when a kid comes by and says "hey man, i like your boots. are they timberlands?" i pull my pant leg up over the label of the boot, read it, and then say "tomberlinds." the hipster looks away, somewhat thrown, as he has already admitted to liking a "bootleg" product. by the way, i got them at payless for 20 bucks. i shouldn't brag, they were probably made by some 12 year old girl in vietnam. i wonder what ho chi minh would be thinking now?

i just ordered fidel's autobiography from the library. the only problem is i already have 10 books out. well, i guess that doesn't rank high on a list of tragedies.

it is weird being in front of high school students, as a "teacher." what is there to teach? follow your heart, find a passion, and shit on the sacred cows. what else can i tell you? more and more i go through the motions. what the hell, the kids are cool and it's good pocket change. besides, they seem to think i'm ok.

maybe they are right

i hope so

i'm tired

i'm tired

i'm tired of white girls
who curl their hair
and black girls
who straighten theirs
i'm tired of asians
who get surgery on their eyes
in a real life imitation
of a twilight zone
i'm tired of punks in army planes
who burn people with bombs
because their country called
and i'm tired of the fantasy world
known as reality tv
i'm tired of the worries that come
from working and the worries that come
from looking for work when you don't have it
i'm tired of bad music
buble and botti both
and all the bastards who buy their recordings
i'm tired of flat screen tv's, cell phones, cable, computers
and i'm tired of people driving their cars to a destination
that leads nowhere
i'm tired of getting up every morning
when both my body and brain
shout for sleep
i'm tired of paying rent to lords who have no right to the land
and i'm tired of water bills
in a world that is 3/4 water
i'm tired of the ceaseless search
the posturing, the playing at power
and all the small talk
i'm tired of conversation
i'm tired of saying hi
i'm tired of people saying my name but
i'm tired of quiet also
i'm tired of the crowds
but i don't want to be alone either
i'm tired of it all
but thirsty for more
i'm tired, and i'm sure you are as well
of this poem
peace

but, not yet. one of these days, we will sing. the song will flow out, the words will ring clear out of this world, and somewhere, sammy will say "good evening" but only pinko and i will smile. and from above, or below, dean gets drunk on tap water, and sinatra tells his amos and andy jokes between songs. right now, somewhere far from the hell that is our earth, jackie wilson spins, coltrane attempts, perhaps in vain, to speak to god through his music, and ike quebec has the time to make all the bossa records he wants. somewhere, eric dolphy makes a living, and martin and malcolm debate the necessity of non-violence. in the superior surroundings of my imagination, wardell grey floats above a trio and not in a river. in a better place, sam cooke doesn't face death for fucking a white woman, paul robeson is not drugged by the cia, and hemingway is not spied on by the fbi. i think i would kill for such a world, but i wouldn't know where to start. perhaps that's where suicide comes in; you want to kill so you start with yourself. the tragedy is that in our fucked, perverted world, we lose the good ones, while others get corrupted and see their idealism wither as they mature into nothingness. perhaps when literal bombs (we don't seem to be able to pick up on the figurative ones) are falling on our faces, we will realize that all is far from fine. but, by then, of course, it will be too late.

as, i'm sure you know, it already is.

so, eat and drink up. find a diversion of your choice. cover your eyes and claim blindness because the crimes of our existence are too compelling. so, we choose ignorance, indifference, apathy. we cry and complain about the wrong things, the shallow things, the meaningless things, the bullshit, who deserved to win american idol, whether the refs called the game right, who has the better body blah blah blah. such shit doesn't satisfy, it doesn't even make you snicker.

we are all fucked

have a nice day.

record

record
lp
33 1/3
wax
platter
vinyl
you are a little more effort
than the forms of listening
that followed
sometimes you
scratch
but
you satisfy
sensationally
so much of the time
you are worth the effort
i clean you
i watch you
spin around the turntable
i read your notes
and look at your cover
and finally
when i am finished
i file you away
yes, you take up space
but so do clothes
and food
and the house
you live in
but, of course
the inventions continued
first, the cd
which is good
in its way
it's smaller
more compact (no pun intended)
and all the music
is on one side
but, it is a little
less human
and a little
more like
a machine
you don't see them
spinning around
and they don't scratch
they skip
creating a sound
that is
merely silly
but eventually i built
a collection of compact discs
they didn't replace my records
but they did help me
get hip to mobley
and quebec
and sonny clark
and so many others
hundreds of cd's later
they have created the ipod
now, they have eliminated
the element of space
entirely
all effort has been erased
now, we are enclosed
within pristine, headphoned walls
the people no longer browse in record shops
they no longer leave the house and
engage the earth
they no longer rap about
various recordings with their
fellow fanatics
they no longer linger and learn from others
like themselves, who have skipped food
for that fantastic feeling
that only fine music can bring
they have eliminated
the hassle
that is humanity
that is the multiplicity
of man and woman
and replaced it
with the pornographic essentials
of penis and pussy
progress my ass
i'll take the feeling of pleasure
that comes from obsolete things
i'll continue to carry on
the rapture that is
listening to
records

to those who consider themselves rebels

there are those who think they are sticking it to the man. but always, the one they are sticking it to is not the man, or if he is, he is the man with a small m. like the guy in the chinese restaurant who refused to serve me, and the other one who wanted to charge me 35 cents for duck sauce, or the mexican guy who still gave me my food to go even though i said "for here" twice. then there were the black kids who asked me where i lived, and the latino kid who asked me if i was puerto rican. i replied "am i supposed to be? and he said "yeah" so i said "yes, i'm puerto rican." he let me pass. there were the other kids who would run me out of the parks and those who asked me why i was walking through "their" park. my answer was that i worked at the high school the park led to. luckily, this satisfied them.

these are the modern race rebels. they haven't done a thing to alter the positions of those power. they know little of institutional oppression, as those same white supremacist institutions have already oppressed them. they choose their opponents wisely. they never victimize ceo's, heads of state, slum lords. they think they are rebels, but they are really the new toms, posturing, playing at power. the only whites they strike out at are the poor, the winos, the ones without suits, the long hairs. of course, they have every right to be angry, but they take their anger out in a cowardly way, on those without the cannons, on those who have committed comparably minor crimes. to the others, the administrators, the teachers, the preachers, the home owners, the employers, they tom.

their bullshit has become a bore. they are not race rebels, but rather, each one is a reactionary. they condemn only those whites victimized by class, and not those who most fully capitalize on their victimization.

now, i know that white supremacy and institutionalized racism are crimes that dwarf this crime that i am currently writing about, but it gets to the point when stupidity in all of its shades no longer satisfies.

my message? if you want to stick it to the man, please, go ahead. it is something that needs to be done.

but, do it for real. cut the crap, and fight for a credible cause.

you heard it here, from me, a bookish, jewish, arm chair commie nerd, who has never starved, been beaten by the police, or called an n every day of his life, whether literally or figuratively, by a racist, genocidal, culture.

i think that gives my words some credibility.

a brain on fire

i am reading like my time on earth is limited, which, of course, it is. i just stole time from my gig to walk to the library. celine and henry miller are in each hand. today, my bag will be heavy with words, and i am free from school. no one tells me what to read anymore. no one grades me. no one calls me to answer questions in classes that call for large cups of coffee. now, i choose what i read. i used to think i wanted to be something. but then it hit me that i already am something...me. no career can alter an essence. fortunately, it hit me that it's all bullshit, and while knowing the deal doesn't pay the bills, it has its own reward.
at one point, i was going to be a teacher. let me tell you, you can not find a more mediocre collection of people. our educators are in need of knowledge. the last thing they should have are students. in fact, there is nothing to teach. it is up to the individual to find his own path and pursue it. school clutters the path, creates academic niches which divert from fundamental understandings. as far as i know, you can not major in american genocide.
yes, you can become a craftsman. you can learn skills, memorize facts. but the real thing must come from you. you must be pulled by passion, managed by your own, unique mania. no one can teach you who you are, and who you are will determine what you want to learn. in order to follow your own path, you must be independent. you must be in a position to call the shots, to stop reading if you want, to switch albums in mid song, to walk down the street reading as the cars side step your distracted gate. sitting in a class as a passive participant, being fed finals as you pay the price, is not the way. it has its merits, and beats working. you can learn things that way, but the real thing comes from the search made from deep within your personal solitude.

start with a walk on a nice day to your local library, and a list of things that interest you. there will be no interest rates, you won't go bankrupt, and there will be no one grading you.

best of all, you will be in charge.

imagine that.