Author Archives: mw2828

About mw2828

I am a writer currently working out of the New York area. https://mythandmist.wordpress.com/

City-Flower #2: Romeo Soul

Oh! Romeo Soul. I must admit surprise over how little I’ve thought about this song over the years. Much like most of my earlier songs, it retained the air of an experiment in my memory. Fragmented images and sounds: the dark blue wavelengths of Audacity and my voice daring to express.

I was working off strong influences and refining my style. Of course it’s easier to doubt yourself in hindsight: the strange set of decisions leading to your present circumstance always subject to suspicious analysis: But a rebuttal, from the evidence: What do I hear?

Back in high school
You smiled
While listening
To some rapper
Rhyme his way to fame

Now you hear that song
And sadly shake your head
What changed?

These are interesting lines for me to inspect. When I was starting out, my rewriting process barely existed: I basically went with wherever emotion took me. Rode that and filled in the words. There are two people here. One person is growing and able to assess his life realistically: the other person can’t move forward without tearing down an aspect of his personality that has become outmoded. It’s possible that these two people were inside of me. There’s a moment where you can hold onto your old self or completely let go. But when you trash something you used to love, are you trashing that thing, or trashing yourself? And if you are truly secure, is there ever a need to testify to the perfection of your taste? These questions have obvious answers, but the reason for their existence has everything to do with insecurity. That’s one level of considering insecurity, as an expression of hypocrisy… of course that method lacks empathy. But the mainstream world of boys and men always lends credence to the coldness. Things usually are portrayed as black and white. You’ve become this person, so now you are that. You’ve made that decision, now you are this. And if you don’t believe these lies about yourself, you find yourself caught, chilled skin, between worlds. A man without a country, and therein lies the appeal of hating who you used to be.

You loved that girl
And she broke your heart
It was years ago
You wrote her letters
You old school kinda guy
And she never replied
Half-the-time
That’s fucking painful
I know

Now, here’s a part I really love. It excites me. Why? Because you don’t see these lines coming, especially, “you wrote her letters you old school kinda guy…” I was writing from a purely folk approach at this time. The originality of the lines was most important to me. The expression of what I was feeling. Melody was secondary. Instrumentation? Don’t make me laugh! I could barely get through these songs at the start. No, I had to get down what I was feeling.

So what’s the suspect aspect of writing with melody as the basis? It seems so solid, right? So professional! But here’s what happens: the expression of your sentiment must conform to a preexisting structure. The victory of great songwriting is working within the melody to say exactly what you want to say. That’s truly difficult. Because you can lie to yourself and say you got it down, but what you got down does not really belong to you: it belongs to the grand castle of lyrical cliché: an exigent scroll bailing songwriters out of the lie of their own melodies: a melody is hypothetical, it is formless, without the proper words. Period. Which is why I have no regard for la la la’s or handclaps or any other lyrical copout people come up with to carry their song along. But back to these particular lines: I am working with a loose melody here. Was I conscious of this? No. I was only conscious of having an idea for this song called ‘Romeo Soul’ where I’d challenge the hypocrisy of my own opinions and the convenience of a broken heart. But I was going to make the song be whatever it needed to be from moment to moment: if I needed to talk through lines, I’d talk through. If I found a temporary melody in a rhyme scheme, I would use it. I was basically hustling my way through a song, like a back-alley magician swiping your timepiece. I wrote many terrible songs using this method. These songs will not be featured in City-Flower. But occasionally the approach worked. Sometimes it would only work for a verse in a particular song. Sometimes it would all fall into place, which was exceedingly rare. But why does it work so damn well when it does work? Because the form is allowing me to be me! I’m not trying to deliver on the terms of a melody. I’m trying to deliver on the terms of getting myself across. You old school kinda guy! Man, I haven’t written lines that fun in years. I’ll probably never consistently go back to this folkier way of writing. But the results here are definitely worth contemplating. Its eschewing art for a personal expression: the difference between dreaming up dialogue for a novel and transcribing an interview for a journalistic purpose. The truth has no regard for the reaction of an audience. It simply is.

Folk has a lot of crossover with journalism. Consider Phil Ochs, just for one. Putting the truth before beauty, as it were, is an unspoken tenant of folk. And as an inexperienced player and songwriter, it fit me perfectly. There are examples of the half-talking/half-melodic/half-truth/half-bullshit/half-contemplative/half-surface level style of songwriting everywhere! Of course I was significantly influenced by Dylan, and probably listening to this song constantly back in 2010, the original, grittier version of ‘Brownsville Girl.’ None of the lines in this song are predictable. They are all original. No stock rhyming whatsoever. Not coincidentally: it has a loose, nearly nonexistent melody. You’ll notice upon the verse ‘Way out under the stars’ Dylan decides to start singing. Right there. It’s all up for grabs. Singing, not singing, rhyming, not rhyming, employing melody, not employing melody… the chorus is always important in songs like this: because you usually need to maintain your grip on the listener with (at least) a chorus that is melodic. Sounds like a song.

Anyway, I’m not a complete champion of this approach. Without a melody, the train can sail off the tracks with staggering ease.

We were kids once, remember?
And you ran ahead of the group
Now you follow a broken heart
And cater to a misled mind
Buddy, you’re delirious

What the hell is that? I don’t know. It is original… and also inescapably bad. And by inescapable, I mean: what can you do with those lines? How can you make them sound like they belong together? My recourse in this performance was to slow them down. Even though songs may describe alienation, they are actually usually never alienated themselves: lyrics rhyme, or seem to fall into place through the singer’s vocal delivery, and/or are melodic (Notice Dylan with the Corpus Christie Tribune line in Danville Girl. Its only his musical vocal delivery that keeps those lines together) These lines here basically are alienated: because they don’t rhyme, have no melody, and also can’t really be song with any alliterative punch. A great example of true musical alienation would be the work of the punk band Suicide. Those songs are jarring to the ear. Probably because they sound truly ‘realistic,’ reflecting our fractured experience. Even songs purporting to be realistic, and which are meaningful, are not actually based in reality. Reality is only occasionally musical. When a musician flops down stomach first on a stage and weeps into a microphone instead of performing, that’s realism! Nobody goes to a concert or listens to an album for a true taste of reality, same for the musicians. We all know the agreement here.

Where does Romeo Soul fit in? It’s a happy accident. There was a place for me as a performer during this time period created by thousands of musicians before me. I could not thank them except to write these songs. But I did have a feeling there was justification for what I was doing, somewhere in the universe, often under my nose, based on my musical interests. Let’s not forget Hip-Hop either. Perhaps no other genre allows a performer to get his or her straight truth across with such conversational flair, and it was all I listened to “back in High School.”

Thank you for reading City-Flower #2: Romeo Soul. Hope you check out the song too.


City-Flower #1: Seashell

– Beginning the chronological cataloging of my songwriting material called ‘City-Flower’ with the first song I ever finished, ‘Seashell.’ My thoughts on the song and a performance below –

Seashell

This was the first song I ever finished writing. I’m fond of this tune not only for those sentimental reasons, but also because it came out pretty well. This was a combination of simple beginner’s luck (letting go into flow) and also having lyrical ideas stored in my unconscious. Never before utilized.
Even after I began taking guitar lessons, it was months before I could form chord changes competently enough to perform a complete song. When I finally reached the level of putting chords together while barely managing to maintain rhythm, Seashell basically fell out of me.

It is interesting to me how the song employs word play, which basically only happened in my process this one particular time. There’s a sense of playfulness to the lyrics owing to an existentialist viewpoint of life. That’s a reflection of myself when I wrote the song: in my early twenties. There are surface critiques on capitalism and consumerism, but they are written from a perspective of someone who has dealt with these forces on a more theoretical, opposed to actual level. But more accurately: I had encountered these barriers in my own life: but was not prepared to write about them in any realistic way.
Being an art believer was one of my positive attributes at this stage, and had inspired me to try guitar in the first place. So it made perfect sense for my first completed creative work as a musician to have an absurd energy. Why not? Why not try? And that remains true, despite everything else that has a way of changing.

The most specific lines having to do with social commentary–

You’re ambitious
You’re superstitious
The mask or madness
Choose your clothes

–Probably retain the most meaning for me. Other lines form amusing rhymes amid contradictory meanings: (serendipitous, innocuous) but they don’t have much authorial drive to them. Some lines could float away. (And I think the chord progression always does remind me of things floating away)
I’ve made several adjustments over the years. No idea when these happened particularly:

Adding the closing sentiment: “I could smile and cry at the same damn time.” It affirmed that there’s actually an individual in this song, caught between all the contradictions and expectations of the world. That makes the song more appealing to me, more emotional and less of an experiment in verbiage.
Changing the chorus from ‘Only the Seashells know’ to ‘No One Knows.’ There wasn’t any huge reason for this decision. I just thought the former chorus was too vague while the latter actually expressed a sentiment. I do remember thinking that the original lyric could be saying that natural sound is the only pure truth: a seashell recording the ocean, a singer recording a song. I did like that. But there was something about the words themselves that struck me as overly cutesy. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Anyway, ‘Queens of the Stone Age’ has a song with the title ‘No One Knows,’ and that’s always close to automatic rewrite for me. (I never want to share a title with anyone. Its just unnecessary.


Amore

Time is not a liar. The motion’s forward. Period. Capitalized letter. Hello. Goodbye. See you soon, when the sky changes color and familiar shadows sashay onto the face of the moon. Aloha. Didn’t you feel my body assuming that sacred space. Me, empty, Namaste. Time is not a liar. The dignified and exiled stare inside mystified. The galaxy, flag fabric. Lick wind. Ciao. Time is not a liar. Period. Capitalized letter. Blades of grass against your palm. Cool wind, closed eyelids. Amore.


Irish Code of Silence

Of course the bottle is empty

And the job is steady

You never break promises

Because

You never make promises

It feels like violence, this silence


Comparing Cities in ‘Let the Great World Spin’ and ‘A Man of the People’

Civilizations exist, but they are difficult to build and maintain. Two books demonstrating this statement are ‘A Man of the People,’ by Chinua Achebe, and ‘Let the Great World Spin’ by Colum McCann. The fictionalized city traversed by our main character, Diligent, in the former book, is a tenuous seed capable of growing. Through the narrative, Achebe describes the impossibility of such advancement due to both government failures and citizen indifference:

Max began by accusing the outgoing Government of all kinds of swindling and corruption… many in the audience laughed… the laughter of resignation to misfortune. The ex-policeman put it very well. “We know they are eating,” he said, “but we are eating too.” (Achebe, pp. 125)

The setting of the former book is a reversal from ‘A Man of the People.’ McCann delves into multiple characters inhabiting New York City during 1974. Philippe Peitt’s daredevil tightrope stroll between the twin towers serves as a loose framing device. The alternating reactions of the ensemble cast to this event serves as an exploration of their faith. The Catholic Monk believes it to be sign from God, while the experienced Judge is amused. The performance of Petit is a living representation of Manhattan’s magical undercurrent, the mysterious energy pulsing beneath the architectural achievement and ceaseless commerce. Why are freaks drawn here, to create beauty? And does a small spark of that beauty settle inside the people walking the streets, no matter where they came from?

New York City, as an idea, is the completed crown jewel of western civilization, the answer to a mathematical equation adding together wealth, location, freedom, endless death and constant birth. But the free market’s child had been abandoned during the era in which ‘Let the Great World Spin’ unwinds. Citywide debt and rising crime engendered a sense of helplessness among citizens, the hopelessness unique to this specific moment, when both the national and local government seemed unable to implement solutions. The character of Solomon Soderberg, the father of a son killed in Viet Nam, and a weathered judge in the New York judicial system, finds himself taking an existential viewpoint, identifying the city as an entity unable to pause:

New York had a way of doing that… It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief… it happened, and it re-happened, because it was a city uninterested in history. Strange things occurred because there was no necessary regard for the past… no, the city couldn’t care less where it stood. New York kept going forward because it didn’t give a good goddamn about what it left behind. It was like a city that Lot left, and it would dissolve if it ever began looking backward over its own shoulder. (McCann, pp. 247)

Even the bloody late eighties saw embattled Mayor David Dinkins enacting new tactics for the police force, aiding a decline in crime during his final months in office, and providing Rudolph Giuliani with enough momentum to corporatize Times Square. The continuing collapse of the murder rate, along with the nineties’ boom economy, allowed Giuliani to preside over the city’s renewal:

“Dinkins faced a very sharp economic downturn, and he was in the very difficult position of coming in with high expectations from many constituencies,” said John H. Mollenkopf, a political science professor at the City University Graduate Center. “Yet he expanded the police force and rebuilt neighborhoods; he deserves more credit than he gets for managing that time…” Mr. Dinkins’s most lasting achievement might have been in the very area where he now fares worst in popular memory. He obtained the State Legislature’s permission to dedicate a tax to hire thousands of police officers, and he fought to preserve a portion of that anticrime money to keep schools open into the evening, an award-winning initiative that kept tens of thousands of teenagers off the street. (Powell, Michael. Another Look at the Dinkins Administration, and not by Giuliani. New York Times. 25 October 2009. Online)

‘Let the Great World Spin’ takes place in the New York City of 1974, where the horizon held few such glimmers of hope. Considering the blackout riot in ’77, and the tumultuous eighties, one could argue the worst only got worse. An understandable desire to escape strengthened the developing suburbs, and also rustic upstate. The great fleeing is excellently represented in the book’s narrative through Blaine and his wife Lara, two burnt Greenwich Village veterans of the late night shadow show, who seek refuge in a cabin:

In 1973 Blaine and I had swapped our lives in the Village for another life altogether, and we went to live in a cabin in upstate New York. We had been almost a year off the drugs, even a few months off the booze, until the night before the accident… we were returning to the old grandma notion of sitting on the porch swing and watching the poison disappear from our bodies… Had lived without electricity, read books from another era, finished our paintings in the style of the time, hid ourselves away, saw ourselves as reclusive, cutting edge, academic. (McCann pp. 118, 120)

Lara ultimately finds happiness by delving deeper into the troubled city she has abandoned, unable to wash her hands of a crime committed by Blaine. Her conscious decision to get involved with the life of a stranger, Carian, the brother of a man accidentally killed by her husband in a car accident – is made more poignant by the signification that she is no longer denying her place in time. McCann delivers this message clearly by invoking time during the conversation where Lara and Blaine fallout over the accident:

-What happens if we make a series of paintings and leave them out in the weather? We allow the present to work on the past. We could do something radical here. Do the formal paintings in the style of the past and have the present destroy them….

-The girl died, Blaine. (McCann, pp. 134)

The novel’s structure, which extended from the seventies into the contemporary time period, displayed the unpredictable effects of complicated decisions, rippling through decades. Cities change, and at the same time, they do not change, and the same could be true for people. Instead of searching the surface for altered behaviors that could be traced to the past, ‘Let the Great World Spin’ seems to argue for a better gauge, reflected through relationships. How did one person touch the life of another? And where does it lead? The dream of civilization is an imperfect monster, crushing thousands incidentally, helping a few intentionally, and housing all the others like science experiment creatures, witnessing their world through the eyes they own.

Diligent, real name Odili, belongs to the first generation of post-colonial Africa. Colonialism was not only terrible for human rights abuses, but also from a practical, state building standpoint. The tyrannical interference set the entire region backward. Just as a single human being would be developmentally blocked by a controlling, outside influence, so too was an entire country:

Just the assumption that the previous patterns of political development would continue is sufficient to argue that these countries would be more developed today. Colonialism not only blocked further political development, but indirect rule made local elites less accountable to their citizens. After independence, even if these states had a coherence others lacked, they had far more predatory rulers. These polities also suffered from the uniform colonial legacies of racism, stereotypes and misconceptions that Africans may not have had and which have since caused immense problems, most notably in Burundi and Rwanda. (Heldring, Lester. Robinson, James, A. Colonialism and Development in Africa. VOX. 10 January 2013. Online)

Of course, the complicated question emerging from freedom: who deserves to create the new world? The militaristic rule emerging from colonialism forced citizens to accept a compromised, and ultimately ineffective governance:

The history of police and military formations in several parts of the world can be traced to the need to protect citizens and ensure territorial integrity. Conversely, in the case of Africa, the police and military were established primarily to crush civilian opposition to colonial rule. Police engagement with the populace was founded on the need to enforce hateful and debilitating colonial laws, including forced taxation, segregation, and quelling of anti-colonial uprisings. At the end of colonialism, the newly independent African government inherited institutions that had internalized a culture of citizen oppression and extortion. The immediate post-colonial police and military were designed to inflict terror on innocent citizens, and citizens had internalized the art of buying their way off unwarranted harassment. (Origin of Corrupton in Africa and the Way Forward. Anonymous. ChikaforAfrica.com. 21 August 2012)

Odili intellectually understands the corruption of the new government, but initially has the discipline not to be swayed emotionally. The novel portrays him as a reasonable person, seemingly only enflamed by the politics of women, a trait that both serves the narrative and makes him an empathetic figure for males attracted to girls. Diligent’s quick witted, humorous, and generally clarion disposition in the opening pages are quite effective at distancing the western reader from the potentially dangerous setting. One comes to understand the setting is less dangerous for people behaving like Diligent. His early behavioral stability is not only a likable character trait, but a self-protection mechanism, too. Diligent begins as an entrenched teacher more concerned with the obnoxious flattery of his superior, the school principal and proprietor Mr. Nwege, attempting to impress the visiting local minister Chief Nanga, than any political ideals. He’d been involved with a student’s branch of a reformist minded political organization while attending college, but became discouraged by both corruption and the people’s inability to discern the truth about their constantly lying leaders:

Chief Nanga was a born politician: he could get away with almost anything he said or did. And as long as men are swayed by their hearts and stomachs and not their heads the Chief Nangas of this world will continue to get away with anything… he had that rare gift of making people feel – even when he was saying harsh things to them – that there was not a drop of ill will in his entire frame. (Achebe, pp. 66)

Unstable societies such as the one described in ‘A Man of the People’ will challenge their citizens in a different way than New York City. The phrase that serves as the title for Achebe’s book could apply to politicians across all regions. Americans running for political office will wear masks carefully pieced together by public relations firms, designed to connect with voters on surface levels. However, the brilliance in Achebe’s exploration of this phrase, within the context of a post-colonial Africa, could be found in the immediate pages of the novel. The reader observes Odili while he observes Chief Nanga, his former teacher treated like a returning king. Achebe does not break into a long explanation that summarizes why the two will eventually be personal and political rivals. The reader is only made to understand that a fragile system creates turbulent social, political, and personal identities. Nanga has gone from being a teacher to wielding power. The equivalent of Odili, in a place like America, most likely would not rationally see himself assuming the power of Nanga, without a fortuitous break or the decision to pursue politics as a career. But in post-colonial Africa, the lines are thinner. Herein resides the realistic and literary value of the Nanga character being a former teacher, the current job for Odili. The phrase ‘the student becomes the teacher,’ is universally understandable, and effectively conveys, even to western readers without any knowledge of the region, the close proximity between Diligent and his old teacher, despite them leading incredibly different lives.

Life shows that the actions of people are often driven by both their perceived opportunities and boundaries. In ‘Let the Great World Spin,’ all the major players have either been molded by the city, or are being changed, the permanence of both processes beyond their conception. Despite all the dysfunction, the city remains a container, not a blank space. Corrigan, arguably the most important character in the novel, his daily presence in the Bronx influencing events far past his death, came to New York from Ireland on a priestly mission. The city is somewhere to go, a complicated, sometimes dangerous, sometimes beautiful, sometimes unbearable reality, but a reality above anything. When a city and state can barely function on a daily basis, controlled by soldiers disconnected from the citizens they are supposed to serve, without any semblance of a local economy beyond dependence on foreign product, while also lacking the infrastructure to support such dependence, this setting could be labeled as more of an existential problem than a real place. Human beings delineate the real and unreal through the methods that constitute routine. When the roads aren’t being built, when the schools aren’t being funded, when the generals sleep in mansions and feel poisoned after drinking a different brand of coffee, certain dissidents will step forward and want to change the situation. In this respect, for all the flaws of New York City, the character of Judge Soderberg, in ‘Let the Great World Spin,’ seems to demonstrate the human ability to move forward within the chaotic system. He is a Judge, and in a certain sense, he is everyday in New York City. He is the exhausted force continually pushing back against chaos, the shaky hand flipping the calendar. But what would a man like Solomon Soderberg do, if he were in Diligent’s situation? A man like Soderberg would attempt to create a place over which he could preside. Diligent eventually believes he must oppose Chief Nanga. Similar to Lara, he realizes that different surroundings (in his case, Nanga’s mansion, where he is an invited guest) have caused him to deny the reality of his setting (the unnamed state). And also similar to Lara, his awakening occurs due to a personal incident. Chief Nanga seduces his girlfriend, Elsie. At last, Odili registers what has been stirring within him throughout the entire novel, to that point. Chief Nanga, and his brethren, cannot build the new world. He must. In life and fiction, setting is often destiny, and different people can be surmised to come from different places.


To Aurora, from the Protector

Let me protect you from the bastards

I think I’m serious

I’m never shy about disgracing myself

Someone has to vomit on the hip messiah

While mumbling Aurora

Then the lines

Aurora’s a half awaken angel

Drunk on the salty dust of the morning

Those lines, again and again

From my masterpiece unwritten

Because I get distracted by the emanation

Arising from the antiseptic disinfectant towelettes

My more patient, graceful custodial self

Utilized to sparkle the floors

Of my aggressive monkey mind

After the vomit

Burst from my lips

Like erupting lava

…………….

So don’t waste your time in these bars

That the bored liberals romanticize

Because the neighborhood’s not gentrified

And they can annihilate their inhibition

In the bathroom stall

Then inform some unwashed Internet contemporary

That Time is the new God

And love died inside their broken

Dreams of Christmas

…………………..

Bar, bars

The barriers trapping the prisoner

A word

An object preventing freedom

Also the place where we’re supposed to be drunk

Happy believers in the flag

That the stone statue died for

That you should want to fuck on

Because we’re the best dressed meat

Bobbing our heads to the bass line

No, damn it no

Don’t think there’s uniqueness

Some old time touch and feel experience

Tongues of deliverance

I’m just sitting in the bar waiting to protect someone

In the bar, behind our bars


Endy Chavez in the World Series

I was feeling low

In front of the machine

That’s smarter than me

Watching an old baseball game

In an attempt to subvert

A detailed personal thesis

On all the reasons to panic

Including fears of inexplicably

Eating pen caps, AA batteries

And more generalized madness

Already covered by certain episodes

Of The Twilight Zone

Meanwhile, the game is rolling

And Endy Chavez stepped to the plate

Seeing Endy Chavez in the World Series made me think a lot of things

He made that stupefying catch that time

Defying Sir Isaac Newton and keeping the glove open

To deny that should have been Scott Rolen home run

But that was not the World Series

And the Mets lost, and that kind of mattered

I also thought

Endy Chavez is fun

Graceful, fast, full of effort

He’s a hitter like I’m a person

Good for a line drive once in awhile

Mostly trying to leg them out

The rollers and choppers and quails

That can be stretched for doubles

It reminded me of us

The way we’re fighting to fight

Denying our luck by entertaining the pressure

The pressure I picture as the spike pit from that arcade game

We played in the pizzeria back in ‘95

With our garlic fingertips

Kaleidoscopic child minds cycling candy pixels and floating gold rings

You get older and your head gets filled with other things

The desire for a soul quelled by the rationalization

That nobody has a face in the comments section

That everybody has a personal identification number

And explaining what makes us special

Would make them suspicious

We have appointments to uphold

And a diligent sadness to impart

Through all the love we reserve

And all the words of love unsaid

Hey Endy, do you ever feel the wall with your fingertips

After nabbing one at the warning track?

Ever feel the padding meant to preserve your ribcage?

The warmth from the summer sun absorbed on the wall

Like the tinfoil trapping the heat from the hot dog unwrapped

In the upper-deck

A wall clarifies

This is where the game exists

This is where the game is observed

Outfielders collaborate with the barrier

Their foot spikes leveraging a leap

Against the hot padding

Their bodies rising

Up

Arms extending into the audience

For a moment of helpless waiting

Humans have always made walls into art

Endy and his brethren

Working with the object

Like the kids in the skate park

It’s only supposed to be a railing

It’s only supposed to be a ramp

It’s only supposed to be a wall

And Endy, ever stop and say

I am Endy Chavez, I am a part of it all?

But oneness is elusive

And everyone’s obsessed with protection

I’m supposed to be me, like a shield

I’m supposed to be me

But who appreciates Endy Chavez taking a low and outside fastball

Flipping his wrist to produce fortuitous backspin and whistle a line drive straight above the cap of the third baseman that was ready but unable to counteract serendipitous placement with his own precise muscle memory

While Endy cruises into second base like an assured surgeon

Parking her Lamborghini in the reserved space

Before saving someone’s life in the morning

The mind perceiving the double

Belongs to me

Yet I can’t answer

What that means

Except that maybe an individual

Can be better known

By the specificity

Of what they believe to be

Beauty

So, that’s what I thought when I saw Endy Chavez in the World Series

Texas lost the game

They lost and they could have won

With a little more fortuitous backspin

But hey, they could have not been there to begin with

The Texas Rangers could have been sucked into a state of

Nonexistence due to a reversal of time linearity

Caused by an unexpected miscommunication

Between the offices of the fifth and sixth dimension

About where the meeting was supposed to take place

On May 16th, 2011 when the Rangers Professional baseball club received a complete game from Colby Lewis, who honed his craft in Hiroshima

To bump their record to 22-19

Endy Chavez had three hits, including a double

And compared to a serious mishap

Cosmic or otherwise

Losing the World Series doesn’t really mean anything

Like, isn’t crowning a Champion just an arbitrary demarcation

Separating one season from the next

Partially camouflaging the fact that sport is absurd

And the true pleasure is in a moment of forgetfulness

Instead of everything we want anything to be about?

Control, domination, the victor and vanquished

The disgraced and satisfied

The separation we knife into existence

So I should relate to a shark

With a weeping, bleeding seal between its teeth

Joe DiMaggio played for the San Francisco Seals

Nobody ate him and he had a glorious career

Well good for the Champions, anyway

Good for them and their lucky tongues tasting the champagne

There’s supposed to be a winner and loser

There’s supposed to be Endy Chavez

He’s supposed to do everything Endy Chavez does

And we’re supposed to breathing

We’re supposed to be feeling, too

We’re supposed to be in love, aren’t we?

We’re supposed to appreciate this moment


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