A short thought.
I thought it'd kill it as a teacher.
I had the six syllabi of the Apocalypse
trotin' down
trot
trot...trot..trot.trot.
I got this.
I can do this.
Fuck you. I can handle it.
I will start a revolution.
I will redefine.
I will turn a light on.
I will be adored.
God, I was a self-centered little wannabe guru, wasn't I?
I was always that way. Even when I was in school there.
Here's what you need to know,
here's what I'm going to show you,
here's what you're capable of,
here's the Theatre,
here's the magic,
here you go.
Here you go.
Here you go.
And you're gonna looooooovvvvvveeeee
Meh-Ah-Eeee-Yeah-Ow-Yeow-Ow-Ow-Ow-Yeaow-Ow-Huh!
Meeeeeeeeeee!
Why don't I know that about writing?
Why am I not killing that?
That's something to talk about.
Or at least meditate on.
Twenty minutes a day.
Like I keep telling myself I will.
But instead I find a bag of chips.
Or something on Porn Hub.
Or an entire series on HBO Go.
Or I'm too hot.
Or I'm too tired.
Or I'm too scared.
Or I need to send an email to someone apologizing.
Or I get wrapped up in my own bullshit.
Which takes up a lot of the day.
Hence...
Me not killing it.
The writing.
Kill it. You've got this.
You may not have the Six Syllabi of the Apolcalypse.
But you've got vivid dreams that make sense.
Full fledged stories.
You're courageous in telling these stories in your dreams.
Clear intention and thought and motivation and action.
Wants.
Goals.
You've got this.
You've got it.
Just Do It.
I've been to the Mothership of Just Do It.
I've sucked from the tit of that mother.
I know it.
Just Kill It.
Crush it.
Suck from the Fathership (more my style).
You've got as much right to that
endless tap of Testosterone
as anyone else does.
Even though you like playing with the same equipment.
Kill this.
You own it.
It's yours.
It's not "I want", remember?
(You watched Super Soul Sunday last weekend, so seriously...
You OWN it.
Oprah
Winfrey
Network
that
shit
up)
It's "I Am..."
I Am Success.
I Am Strength.
I Am Abundance.
I Am Ready.
I Am Here.
Mediate on that for twenty minutes.
Or at least sleep on it.
Those are good dreams.
Just remember to wake up
and
Keep dreaming wide awake
Eyes Akimbo, even the Third One.
You Are...
(everything)
(fill in the blank)
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, July 12, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Things We Do in Korean Spas to Pass Time
That list doesn't begin with
stroke
suck
lick
We watch old men.
We listen to the sounds of children running around, like this is a playground.
Sometimes it seems like a pedophile's playground.
But I try not to think about that.
The cute Persian guy's penis distracts me.
You know, the one that flops back and forth.
The one attached to the body with the tattoo that runs the entire right side of his body.
Over his lats.
I didn't see that when he had his laptop open and seemed to be engrossed in
some sort of interesting email exchange or porn or personal anecdote
that looking at someone pass by reminded him of that had nothing to do
with what was on the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like the bank of laptops that flanked the window of the Starbucks on
16th and Eighth
years ago in the New York of my Twenties.
But these guys were in khaki shorts and t-shirts that allows them
a reprieve upstairs in the co-ed room.
These seriously minded adult men seemed to be using the Korean Spa
as their mobile office.
I suppose it's just as expensive as Starbucks after
three coffees
and a sandwich.
Maybe even cheaper.
I can still hear the children.
Aren't their parents around?
I saw a white father and his white children--
maybe European, maybe Not--
giving them the benefit of the doubt. And they
were all marching around the men's area:
the father or father figure
and his two sons or wards and their sister or young female friend.
They went through the showers in soaked bathrobes
that were meant to protect them from the gaze of
the naked men who all of a sudden felt like they needed to
cover themselves up in the bathroom
or in the grooming area
or the wet area and the steam room
because now they were aware something was inappropriate
because a young girl was in their presence. In the men's area.
The men's area for men.
This normal foreigner or clueless American
paraded these young children around for
at least ten minutes
through the bathroom and the grooming area,
the wet area and the steam room.
Innocent maybe and maybe not. Men should be allowed to
enjoy themselves and not censor themselves
even if it means enjoying the company of other men for
lascivious and platonic purposes.
I come here to be in the company of men,
alone in my thoughts, as I contemplate what it means to be in the company
of men. Of myself. This man who I have grown to be.
Just me and my laptop and them and their laptops
and all of us with what lies beneath our robes
and towels or shorts,
what's behind the partition,
behind the candelabra,
behind the flip screen covering our genitals
and our true intentions.
As I sit here and tip tap--
clip clap--
the keys, I find myself
writing again to the soundtrack of a language
I don't understand.
stroke
suck
lick
We watch old men.
We listen to the sounds of children running around, like this is a playground.
Sometimes it seems like a pedophile's playground.
But I try not to think about that.
The cute Persian guy's penis distracts me.
You know, the one that flops back and forth.
The one attached to the body with the tattoo that runs the entire right side of his body.
Over his lats.
I didn't see that when he had his laptop open and seemed to be engrossed in
some sort of interesting email exchange or porn or personal anecdote
that looking at someone pass by reminded him of that had nothing to do
with what was on the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like the bank of laptops that flanked the window of the Starbucks on
16th and Eighth
years ago in the New York of my Twenties.
But these guys were in khaki shorts and t-shirts that allows them
a reprieve upstairs in the co-ed room.
These seriously minded adult men seemed to be using the Korean Spa
as their mobile office.
I suppose it's just as expensive as Starbucks after
three coffees
and a sandwich.
Maybe even cheaper.
I can still hear the children.
Aren't their parents around?
I saw a white father and his white children--
maybe European, maybe Not--
giving them the benefit of the doubt. And they
were all marching around the men's area:
the father or father figure
and his two sons or wards and their sister or young female friend.
They went through the showers in soaked bathrobes
that were meant to protect them from the gaze of
the naked men who all of a sudden felt like they needed to
cover themselves up in the bathroom
or in the grooming area
or the wet area and the steam room
because now they were aware something was inappropriate
because a young girl was in their presence. In the men's area.
The men's area for men.
This normal foreigner or clueless American
paraded these young children around for
at least ten minutes
through the bathroom and the grooming area,
the wet area and the steam room.
Innocent maybe and maybe not. Men should be allowed to
enjoy themselves and not censor themselves
even if it means enjoying the company of other men for
lascivious and platonic purposes.
I come here to be in the company of men,
alone in my thoughts, as I contemplate what it means to be in the company
of men. Of myself. This man who I have grown to be.
Just me and my laptop and them and their laptops
and all of us with what lies beneath our robes
and towels or shorts,
what's behind the partition,
behind the candelabra,
behind the flip screen covering our genitals
and our true intentions.
As I sit here and tip tap--
clip clap--
the keys, I find myself
writing again to the soundtrack of a language
I don't understand.
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