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Tag: struggle

Red(neck) White and Blue

Published on December 16, 2005

OK, so I’ll admit there’s something dangerous about listening to Jerry Reed, Johnny Paycheck and Hank Williams Jr. while at work on a Thursday afternoon. Follow that up with dinner at a restaurant at the edge of a college town where you’re likely to see obnoxious young punks dining across the room from farmers and truckdrivers, and it’s a recipe for some kind of social commentary. Here goes.

My name is on my shirt, but that don’t mean that I forgot
just who I am and where I learned the lessons I’ve been taught
about this world we’re living in and how it got that way:
some people create garbage, and other folks scrub it away

I pump the gas you waste in your designer SUVs;
It’s my sweat that delivers your brand new widescreen TVs;
I watch as you buy priviledge with handfuls of crisp new cash;
You may buy friends and influence, but that don’t mean you’ve got class.

You say I’m redneck, poor white and blue,
not worth the future you’re entitled to;
but it doesn’t matter much what you might say.
The trash that you talk, folks like me wash away.

If it’s broke, I can fix it and charge you an honest rate
while you laugh underneath your breath and think me an ingrate,
not thankful for the culture you ignore and would let die
without my servant class to keep your asses warm and dry.

I grow your food, construct your homes, and keep your golf course green
My friends and family fight your wars, and build your limousines
My face seems so familiar, but you can’t recall my name
Down that great height you’re looking from, we all look just the same

You say I’m a redneck, poor white and blue
not worth the effort it costs to improve
but it doesn’t matter what you choose to say
The mess that you make, folks like me sweep away

Maybe I’m just redneck, poor white trash and blue
just one more hillbilly with nothing to lose.
one thing’s for certain, and I know it’s true:
except for the grace of God, I’d be like you.

15 DEC 2005

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Sisyphus

Published on January 7, 2005

At each new dawning of the day,
our shackles turned to dust,
we rise from bed and check the door
in case it’s turned to rust;

and finding perhaps a loose hinge
or screws worn down and stripped,
we throw our weight against the seam
where new daylight has slipped.

The door cracks open, and we sprawl
out in the joining hall
that through our window seemed so vast
but really is quite small —

for it is just another cage,
a slightly different cell;
and after a few moments’ rest
it becomes hard to tell

if where we are and where we’ve been
are very much the same,
or if the move we just accomplished
will affect the game.

The light begins to fade, at length,
and we begin to sense
that each room we have passed through
is illusion and pretense,

that the rough walls are paper thin —
in fact, they’re barely there.
We could walk through and out
with just a single breath of air.

But reaching that epiphany
we do not grasp for more,
just sleep, and dream of getting past
tomorrow’s brand new door.

07 JAN 2004

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undertown

Published on July 30, 2004

in the undertown around the middle
earthen jars the senseless struggle:
i shall be released from this
before the current pulls me

undertown, around the rooting rockets way
before the dawn of timing, when
our cultured throats scream out so that
the horse-drawn whispers drawl
their quiet haunting innuendos.

in the undertown beside the river
runs the hiding seeking slumber:
i shall be awakened from this
just before the nightmare finds me

undertown, beneath the covered bridges burnt
before the gods of ego’s altar, when
our cultured pearls slide out so that
the tenderloin potential plays
its game of spattered caulking.

in the undertown below the wasteland
roving scarlet head supporters speak:
i shall not believe in this
until the dream has drowned its dead in

undertown, before subtle shaded sadness swells
its mottled cracking smile, and then
our cultured throats slide slow so that
the sword-clamped teeth can grasp
their severed thoughts’ aboutness.

1994

for Memphis

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The Dust That Settles Between Sculptures

Published on August 28, 2003

When you think of all the time spent constructing a life,
each scene cast in its fragile plaster mold
and then carefully chiselled and sanded away
so the finished piece can find its own path in the world

out there beyond the workshop’s doors, where it
will age with elements outside your control,
sometimes you dwell on the dust that settles
on your tools and sticks between the floorboards

like a heavy mist. But you cannot stay in that malaise
and have your work succumb to shadows;
The record of this day you must too erase,
where those two sets of footprints,

yours and your life’s work
smudged there in the pale grit at the door,
lead out, and only one set, yours,
returns. If not erase, then at least sweep clean

the way; else the memory of those last moments,
when the art must leave the artist’s hands
to seek its own workshop, build its own
reputation, will lose its deeper meaning,

and leave only a marred and ruined foundation
upon which the work of the future is lain.
This great work of art, so lovingly made,
is ready to be shown.

The sorrow would be greater if it were not so.
These tears will wipe the dust away,
and cleanse the heart anew.
And your work will come back, and will say

for all your effort, thank you.
So find no sadness in the plaster,
no remorse, no great disaster.
The piece is finished, and is good.

But it is not the only art inside you.
Build on that great store — you can, and should.

28 AUG 2003

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Sisyphus

Published on August 24, 2003

La lutte elle-même vers les sommets suffit à remplir un coeur d’homme. Il faut imaginer Sisyphe heureux.

“The struggle to the top alone will make a human heart swell. Sisyphus must be regarded as happy.” — Albert Camus

Each has their Sisyphean task;
There is no lack of boulders
Blocking the upward climber’s path
That any attempts to move are
In vain. But that’s perhaps the point,
To build your strength on thoughtless rocks,
pitting your will against dull foes
that feel no pain and cannot bleed.

In that pointless struggle, you learn
the sad uselessness of brute force;
discovering an inner peace
by repeating, like a mantra,
trudging up and down the same hill.

24 AUG 2003

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The class struggle …

Published on October 24, 2002

This week is “Spirit Week” at our daughter’s high school, and of course, as one of the beautiful people, she is anxious to participate in as many of the events, as enthusiastically as possible. I think it’s all well and good to have “school spirit”, to be proud of the environment in which you have been (usually somewhat abitrarily, but in this case, via testing in and living in the right parish) placed in order to further your education that you might have life, abundantly, with more than a minimum wage job. However, I am reminded of the somewhat harsh attitude that the “beautiful people” have towards those not quite so blessed, physically, socially or gracefully. And as I remember back to my own high school days, I am offended by the “Dress Like a Nerd Day” and other such high points. To make it fair, I think they should also have “Dress Like an Ignorant Project Dweller” … that way, those nerds (and oh, I remember being one oh so well) will have less to write in their grudge books against the day when they run Microsoft and can refuse the ex-cheerleaders and footballers a job. But that would be too close to home, IPD day. They would have to walk through neighborhoods where some of those people live, with their straighened hair, vinyl clothes, prison-quality tattoos, gold teeth, hair nets, bad weaves, and so on. And the beautiful people might not be so beautiful after that experience. At least with the nerds, they are safely betting that no one is going to challenge or offer to beat them up.

The problem, of course, with Dress Like a Nerd Day is that the people that they are making fun of don’t lack fashion sense because they have an excess of brains. Their concern is not with appearance first, which of course is a direct and harsh affront to the beautiful people who favor substance over style. They dress for comfort, and dress more cheaply, because their parents (bless ’em every one) decided that their children would be better off having $200 worth of books rather than $200 sneakers.

But the beautiful people will have their way, of course. And the terrible thing is that the only people who are interested in “dorking” themselves out and dressing “nerdy” are those people who could wear potato sacks and still look good. They aren’t sacrificing anything by dressing down (except, as earlier noted, the potential for a second interview with the Bill Gates of the future). They are not dressing up as geeks to proclaim unity of the intelligent masses. They are being, as of course, teenagers will be except when it directly affects their own, personal sense of well-being, mean-spirited, cruel and ugly. The geeks know it. And most of the teachers do to – because most of them have been there on the receiving end.

So what’s my point? Who the fuck knows. It just irritates me that some things never change. Oh, yeah, I forgot. Some things do. Beauty fades. Styles change. Substance remains.

Life is good, after all 🙂

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