Airplane Mode
So what if I don’t put the phone on airplane mode?
Will it mess with the cockpit and send us smashing to the ground?
And while cleaning up the crash and collecting our body bits will they find my phone
and trace the disaster to me?
I wonder about these things as I sit in my aisle seat.
I need an aisle seat because I’m claustrophobic
and just plain scared about this whole flying contraption.
Yes, yes, I know, it’s safer than driving the freeways,
or so they tell us, they.
Admittedly, I’ve never been killed in a plane.
Nor in a car, for that matter.
I’m alive and get from place to place.
But still rather frightened.
Not just about transportation.
So if I don’t switch the setting quickly on the phone
have I doomed us all, this young family across from me,
the teenagers behind, so much ahead of them all?
I’m ignorant, and forgetful, and not a seasoned flyer,
and never ever listen to what the attendants say
or read about plane crashes and their causes.
So I just don’t know.
The modern world is a mystery, so many electronics that
might fry our brains that we don’t know about
until the tumor is too big.
So far, though, so good.
I mean, I do know how to switch my phone over,
and, there, I just did, just saved everyone.
But I always speculate before we get up in the air.
Jesus, man, I’ll just take the train from now on.
Though I’ve heard that when cattle get stuck on the tracks
it can be a real mess.
Job
This job, this mind-mashing driving-me-up-the-wall job.
I get 20-minute breaks and it takes me ten to disengage,
decompress, and am still depressed.
Fifteen minutes into my shift I’m suicidal.
Hey, he asks, happy here?
Not ecstatic, no.
Why? Cause it’s my role to ask.
I need the money, get it?
Sure, I do. So quit if you don’t dig it.
The walking dead could do this in their sleep.
The walking dead, I think, don’t sleep.
Well this place would knock ’em out.
You have a great phone voice, that’s why we hired you. Ever
consider books on tape?
Huh? What the…
Just an observation. But we need to sell this stuff, and fast. Can you do it?
Thanks for nothing. I quit.
Cool. Love chatting. See you tomorrow.
After blowing his brains out while lying in bed I slept fine,
and applied to In and Out Burgers.
Goddamn I should have gone to college.
mental-health
Eric D. Goodman
I Hear America Crying
I hear America crying, the muffled cries I hear,
the worried cries of drivers along city streets and country roads,
tension of black hands gripping steering wheels,
the flash of blue lights in the rearview mirror,
the exhausted crying of laborers with calloused hands
that scrub floors, hold mops, grip tools,
hours that grow heavy with the weight of work unending,
the moaning crying of well diggers, oil riggers, miners, blacksmiths,
knuckles worn to the bone as they unearth and create
goods they will never afford,
the grinding, rattling crying of mechanics
beneath hoods, underneath vehicles,
oil-stains lasting longer than paychecks,
the painful crying of fishermen and butchers and farmers,
massive ships and farms and warehouses full
while their families’ cupboards remain bare,
the cries of the weary,
working two jobs, three jobs,
building debt instead of wealth, uncertainty instead of security,
the crying of the mother, of the young wife, of the sweatshop girl,
supplementing paychecks of the rest of the family,
even cries from the wealthy, reaping the benefits of others’ labor
yet watching their portfolios disagree with their intentions,
falling and making them feel poor,
each crying with breath broken
beneath the weight of American dreams deferred,
crying for what they wish could be
a joyful, melodious song.
Blue Collar Orange
I wore blue all my life,
to shield, to serve—
the weight of my badge
an anchor I let dig too deep.
I’ve pinned down criminals before,
voices thinned beneath me,
beneath the law, the rule, the authority.
Sometimes they struggle,
fight the power,
resist the law, the rule, the authority.
Situations escalate, egos inflate,
sometimes theirs, sometimes ours.
It’s my duty to press harder,
to enforce the law, the rule, the authority.
Blue fades to orange,
badge traded for bars,
conviction my new shade.
Me, now raw as the men
I’ve pressed into cold streets,
another victim of the law, the rule, the authority,
locked up
but still breathing.
Alan Catlin
Mister Lucky
When he was in Nam
got transferred
from Danang to some
dinky dao airport down South
in east jesus on the coast
of nowhere.
He was short, but, pissed,
thinking they needed an
air ground controller there,
like Custer needed more Indians,
and he was stuck all by his
lonesome with a bunch of strange
hand jobs he didn't know from shit.
Two weeks later,
he was sucking in the smoke
of many dreams,
trying hard not to cry, or
be as paranoid as he felt,
trying hard to feel lucky,
being the only guy in his
former unit left alive after
that base at Danang got overrun,
and some serious shit hit the fan,
"Jesus, fuck, Man, shit……"
was all he could think to say since
he heard the news, and he felt as if
he'd been fucked royal up the ass
in the jungle by Sir Charles himself.
Hadn't slept in four days,
'cause every time he shut his eyes
the screams of the dying men he knew
at that base, woke him up into this
place that was so much worse than
bad dreams.
Guys who saw how he was sd.,
"He was a walking Section 8
waiting to happen. As good as dead
as far as the army was concerned."
"He was better off dead.
At least then it would all be over
and he wouldn't have to think about it
anymore.”
Unknown Soldier
He was born on the Fourth of July
beaten at student demonstrations
in Madison
Chicago
Columbia
He was shot at by national guard
troops at Kent State
arrested and confined in solitary
after Jackson State
Bitten by police dogs at civil rights
marches in Alabama
Mississippi
Georgia
He was Vietnam Veteran for Peace
at anti-war marches
well into the 70’s
Was tear gassed
billy clubbed
pepper sprayed
But he never gave up
and he came back
and you can see him marching now
He is your father,
brother
uncle
cousin
on crutches
with prosthetic limbs
riding in a wheelchair
Follow him and
shake his hand
if he has one
Flashback
"I beat the bottle but
I can't beat the war"
after an acrylic on canvas
by Ron Mann
30 years after
the fact a lawnmower
two yards over
backfires and just
like that I'm back
in-country sucking
in lawn chemicals
instead of air,
all that fertilizer
for a mind on a
perpetual edge
recalling an agent
orange dawn that
colors all the jungle
a dark unnatural
light like the hand
of death pressing down
the sharp, bladed
grass next to a
recently roto-tilled
garden plot, that
graveyard for lost
crops, plowed under
plants, dead soldiers
composted a dark, rich
loam thick with earth
worms fattened on
the rotting skins
of the dead
Reagan Shin
Kintsugi: Gilded Clay
Crash. Smash. Flash.
The shatter of poetry splinters like my life,
fragments spilling across the floor.
What I have lost,
I’ve learned to gain.
The damage within me,
liquid gold poured into my bones
to fuse the cracks
that have formed.
It is my job to rise,
repair my own damages,
to make myself beautiful,
and forget the brokenness within.
Why am I so prone to shatter?
Why must I be both the potter and the pottery?
Kintsugi repairs,
but how many times
can I be fixed,
before I am nothing but dust?
I can be repaired,
but why should I?
Is it my responsibility,
or that of my creator who destroyed me?
Although kintsugi is art,
pretty, shiny, and lovely,
the pottery will never
be fully whole again.
There is beauty in brokenness,
but at what cost?
If you wanted gold,
then why would you
sculpt me
out of clay?
The shine is pretty,
beautiful yes,
but it is unnatural,
nonetheless.
I used to believe
that if I repaired myself,
I would become
more perfect than before.
You wanted a vase made of gold,
and I could never be that.
No matter how hard I try,
there is no way to turn
clay to complete gold,
despite the fusion attempts.
Sink or Swim
The ocean is calm tonight.
It’s always the calmest before the storm.
People see the sea
and look at the ripples of water,
assuming that it must be peaceful
because calm is comfortable.
But I have learned
that water is fickle and serenity
is nothing more than a warning:
brace for impact.
Being born in a hurricane
teaches you a language
spoken only to those
tempest-tossed through waves.
Inside the hurricane
is the eye of the storm.
That peace can only mean one thing.
This isn’t over; it’s just begun.
Oceans are unforgiving,
even in its kindest calm.
It will drag you down,
and suck you in forever.
A tourist may think
that the sea is gentle,
but a sailor like myself
knows better than to trust the waves.
Sink or swim
but never drown,
in the hidden waves
or the cruel tides.
In the water is where
I have learned to survive.
Judge Santiago Burdon
Ride My Seesaw
Psychedelic drugs were a fundamental part of my life in the late 60s through the 70s. I started when I was 15 experimenting with a variety of Psychedelic drugs.
I used Hallucinogens, recreationally at first, enjoying the body rushes along with the hallucinations. At times testing my resolve to not succumb to the drugs unpredictable effects. I can honestly attest to the fact that after numerous psychedelic experiences, I have never had a bad trip. Although there were some unpleasant events that occurred while tripping, but I never freaked out.
I didn't adapt to Timothy Leary's philosophy of: 'Turn on Tune In And Drop Out. His statement seemed to me to be political instead of describing psychedelic drugs as an experience of heightening consciousness and cognitive enhancement. Also ignoring medicinal qualities of LSD.
During my lifetime I've experimented with Mescaline, LSD, Mushrooms, Peyote, Psilocybin, Oxytropis better known as Locoweed ( don't ever do Locoweed ) and went as far as to lick the Colorado River Toad at the Church of the Toad of Light for Bufo. Later, when I was much older although not so much wiser, I took part in a couple of Ayahuasca ceremonies deep inside the Colombian Amazon Rainforest. The adventurous mayhem of one Yage experience is documented in my third book ' Quicksand Highway'.
My introduction to psychedelics began on a warm autumn morning. After ditching my high school classes with two friends I was inaugurated into the psychedelic experience with a tab of Psilocybin. We planned the location for the event in Dan Ryan Woods Forest Preserve at 87th and Western Avenue South Chicago. We had named the spot Walden Pond after Henry David Thoreau's novel. It is where we usually went to smoke marijuana during our lunch hour. The area had a thin creek flowing which emptied into a small pool of water. Actually it wasn't as romantic as I'm making it sound. The pool of water was a breeding ground for mosquitoes and flies. It also gave off a metallic type of smell but it was the best South Chicago had to offer at the time. The Oak, Elm and Maple leaves were starting to change color. And the best part was that there was not another soul around.
I was accompanied by two trusted friends, J.D. and Lester. They had both tripped before and assured me they would be there to help if it became too much for me to handle. I was somewhat apprehensive not knowing what was going to happen. When I inquired as to the effects of the tiny pill, my buddies were unable to come up with a plausible explanation. However, I wasn't afraid to partake in the experience. All I'm able to remember is that I left my earthly reality and returned as a different person. I brought back with me an insightful awareness I never realized existed within my mind. I enjoyed the experience which led me to take many more trips with my cohorts during those high school days. We went to movies, concerts, and amusement while under the influence of LSD. Later as so often happens we drifted apart and never made contact again. However I've never forgotten the unique comradery we once shared.
During my college years I was introduced to Doctor John Lily Author and Counterculture Scientist who created the Sensory Deprivation Tanks. He also authored a great number of books;"Altered States" "Day Of The Dolphin" "Center Of The Cyclone" "The Human Biocomputer" as well as many others. He experimented with LSD defining its medicinal values. Doctor Lily also worked extensively with Bottlenose Dolphins and through his research, created a language to communicate.
I learned and believed there was more to all of it than just getting high. I floated in Sensory Deprivation Tanks while on LSD quite a few times. In doing so, I discovered all the answers to all the questions pertaining to life on this planet. Unfortunately, I forgot them as soon as the trip was over.
I do reminisce on those memories of my psychedelic experiences. Still referring to them as vacations in my mind. Hoping someday to visit a psychedelic playground in my future where I can once again ride my seesaw.
The Beatnik Cowboy 