Friday, March 19, 2010

spontaneous prose

I mentioned that when Chicken man Ken and I were barred from entering The Press Room we held a mini protest and read a poem on the street. The bouncer was not amused or entertained.
"We're with the band." I moaned.
"The band is already playing."
"I don't hear anything. Let me in."
"I'm going to have your job!"
blah blah blah...

But now two days later I'm wondering, what did I read? Because my Portsmouth Poem II for Ken's enjoyment and pianistic talent was still in my apartment...I never took it with me though I printed it out intending to practice our performance. So...what was I reading? This was in the back of my mind for two days and I seriously thought I was loosing it. Maybe I recited the Portsmouth Poem from memory. Or maybe I improvised something...that's possible. or maybe...wait...what is this crumpled piece of paper stuffed into my leather jacket? It's a street map of Laconia, NH and...on the back...oh, my. Is this what I read? Yes, it is. Written by two different hands I see this ragged poem was composed on the street or in a truck with a bottle between our legs, or maybe at a bar where we would be soon evicted from. I'll scan it in one day so you can see what we produced...but since that won't help you read it I will now translate.

First, you must imagine the scene of Daniel Street, me and Ken holding each other up as the bouncer bars our way, revelers in green walking by, pushing past into the bar ("Why are you letting them in?" "They aren't plastered." "Bullshit!) and so we read this out loud, yelling, stumbling over words, asking to get arrested. Have I painted the picture? I will remind everyone that I have had far more days that were nothing like this one so don't get all Woodrow Wilson on me.
Now for the text by me and Ken:

Here I sit in the hands of company that may
have or not destroyed the next job I am scheduled to paint.
"Do you have an acoustic piano?" he asked (With a camcorder in the client's face) as we took the check from the bloated bloke.
We anxiously sped off to the bank in which the check was drawn.

We reached the cashier + made the trade and broke the system of red headed sluts and cunts and the other jailed men we forgot in our time. The check was not canceled and so we are now obligated to do the work. And so we will, in torn jeans and on borrowed time. We walk the brick sidewalk and take down the wall-eyed common man. Flags wave but the station house is empty except for forced laughter and tears.

But yet for the grace of my lack of better judgment my ego swells with the thought of bringing down the press room as I pulled out my verbal shank and stab your ears with my beckoning voice that will tatter your broken soul, rendering it useless. Forgone opportunities has me not for my own good.

The bridge is up and the water is high. The lions are in town.

Painting by numbers

Number of times my boss looked at what I was doing and threw up his hands and said, "Whoa, whoa, wait...": 5
Number of goofs: countless.
Rude remarks to client: 0
Rude remarks while client wasn't listening: 43
Times I painted the wrong color on the wall: 2
Times I tried to pour one color of paint into a bucket full of another paint: 1
Times I felt like I was getting in the way: 10
Years of experience I have painting: 5+
Years of experience my boss would estimate I have: 0
Number of times I thought, "What does it matter, a bookshelf is going in front of this wall anyway." 15
Times I used the word "sabotage": 2

I am a useless painter. I don't know why I don't get it but I end up using too much paint or too little paint. It's frustrating because I know I'm actually messing up the job. It's simple, you put the paint where there is no paint. But there are all these lines and when I go over the lines I start to see new lines and so on. It never ends. And soon the paint is so thin I see the paint underneath...and what was the name of that song I was listening to the other day, was it Footsteps or Horizontal or...
"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?"
"Oggy, you're painting the curtain."
"But you said the whole wall."
"But that's the curtain."
"It's connected to the wall."
"Just...go stand over careful the paint tray...ok quick go get a the wet brush!"
I'm hopeless. When it comes to painting I am illiterate. A menace.

Fort Stark

Moments after I took this I fell into the ocean...

We're all familiar with that Rose Lane military establishment, that Gettysburg of my youth, Fort Stark. Well, this is what happens if you try to go home. The best thing to do is let it be subducted into the pages of history. Let someone else find the Titanic. Because although you will keep these places on cerebral life support, they will eventually drag you down also and all that will comfort you are the sharp rays of light from the banks of the other world, blinding you, forcing you to your knees.

OR you can stand tall against the elements and pray the wind is at your back when the waves breach the bulwarks. The light you see may be another ship burning, or it may be the direction home. Either way you must be bold.

Here's the monster's cave...

The weight of the world is on Ken's shoulders. He looks like a plumber checking out the diameter of the pipe he needs to pick up to put Fort Stark back together. But really he is saying a prayer for those who went before us. By the way, those tiles are pure asbestos.
Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.