the caffeine poem etc

It has come to my attention that I need to post the caffeine poem on here so everybody can see and hopefully giggle at it. This came about as I was singing a couple of my songs for Pearl and Mom and Greg and Julie just a few minutes ago, Amber and Grandma already having gone sensibly to sleep. Seems Julie actually remembered that there was a caffeine poem, which to me is simply too big of a compliment to ignore.

Wrote this puppy my junior year of high school, I think, after learning the chemical formula for caffeine in chemistry class. Who says you never learn anything useful in school?

-----
Ode to Caffeine
based upon its chemical formula

C8H10N4O2
It tells me what to say and do
Without it, I do not believe
My consciousness could still conceive.

C8H10N4O2
Shows me the beautiful and true
It drives my mind to calculate
And drives my heart to palpitate.

C8H10N4O2
Adds zest to any tasty brew!
My eyes are bloodshot - my hands shake -
I need another coffee break.
-----

And since I've got a couple other good-uns by heart, I might as well put them here.

Less instantly memorable, but still something I recite to myself when in need of a mood booster. More or less inspired by Lois Bujold. It isn't a sonnet--the rhythm starts out totally random, and it's unrhymed. Note in what context it shifts into iambic pentameter (da-DA da-DA da-DA da-DA da-DA), the traditional rhythm for a sonnet, however. I did that kind of on purpose, but unless you're a poetry geek, I have to point it out. Then you're like "ohh, that kinda makes sense."

-----
the needs of modern escapist fiction

You need to write novels that can be read
on the train by bored administrative
assistants like yourself, that they can sink
into like a child in bathwater, nose
not quite breaking the surface. You open
your eyes, as if surprised that eyes still work
to tame that rippling landscape, where the sun
pours in along the curtain like spun gold.
Submerged, you can recall the breathless hope
(puff out your cheeks, let streams of bubbles go)
that light would strike the water with a splash
and come up lions, bursting into life--
Appearing, just as bubbles disappear
when they rejoin their native element.
-----

Now this next one was inspired by my main man, Talcott Parsons. He is the bomb, although I must say I haven't much use for the school of sociological thought that took up his mantle. To my eye, he used the insane level of terminological exactitude in the service of real insight, insight that saw straight through to the core of his science. He simply wanted his ideas to be unmistakable, defined with the greatest possible rigor and examined with all necessary thoroughness. The problem is that everybody seems to take up the rigor and thoroughness, and completely lose sight of the ideas. The quote that heads up the poem is the closest he comes to a casual metaphor, and inspired the poem directly.

The basic idea is that no matter how much you know, how much you define, there is always something vitally important to whatever you're doing that is not covered by your definitions. In this poem I personify that part of truth. A part which (as Talcott points out) can only be described in negatives.

residual categories
Any logically defined system...may be visualized as an illuminated spot surrounded by darkness. ...The logical name for the darkness is residual categories. The only statements that may be made about such truths are negative ones; "it is not so-and-so." But it is not to be inferred that because such statements are negative they are therefore unimportant.
~Talcott Parsons, from The Structure of Social Action vol 1

will the woman who never kicked your dog
open the door
she won't step in the moonlight on the rug
you won't know whether she thinks about flowers
you won't know whether she is

not measuring the circumference of her thumb
she will gather what is not your pride
it billows in the breeze from a window
that faces away from the moon
she will draw it from over your brows
by a process none can verify

or repeat
you will not watch what falls unfolded at your feet

and all unaware
you will nibble her thumbnail
for she will split the peel
of what is not an orange,

Rise, and reel across the room
to what is not a door
to cast your helpless mouth into an empty sky.

the spider song

I was looking for more blues, but this is just a sort of soft jazz thing. Funny and not funny, comfy and creepy at the same time. I think it should be performed with just a bass in the background, but since I don't have a bass, I'll see what I can do with a guitar later.

they may perform a public service
but spiders always make me nervous
eight legs to cling, four fangs to sink in
I have to wonder what they’re thinking

businesslike, not really vicious
spiders think that I’m delicious

when I’m in the shower, wet and naked
they’ll smell my blood and come to take it
just up above and right behind me
oh tell me, love, how do they find me

they used up one of their eight wishes
spiders think that I’m delicious

when I am in my bed and sleeping
across my skin a spider’s creeping
leaves trails of bite marks up my arm
like picture postcards sent back home

a tourist spot, yeah that’s what this is
spiders think that I’m delicious

I look into your eyes and wonder
what new disguise the spider’s under
will I be sorry that I faced you
or will I start to need to taste you

a spider’s kiss, it never misses
spiders think that I’m delicious

safe passage

Rejoice, oh my soul
in me, at a yellow boat
on a green river.
Wind lifts its feet for the wave;
wave spreads its arms for the prow.

where the road don't go

I resisted seeing "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?" for a long time because from what I had heard of it--and other things I'd seen that were written by this Hedges fellow--I expected it to be two hours of extreme emotional discomfort, nails-on-a-chalkboard style. And while there were moments like that, the tone of the relationships between the characters mitigated the painful situations enormously. Dave found the movie incredibly moving; he said for him it went right up there with "The Shawshank Redemption" in his pantheon of movies that refresh the soul and bring hope.

I don't think I'd go that far, myself, but I did write this song immediately after we watched the movie. All the stuff about trains and neighbors and the interstate is true. Also, the thing that's in "our front yard" can be read as referring to the United Center, where many people are able to escape from the toils of life for a time while watching their favorite band or sports team or circus.


we live a whistle from the interstate
but I don't even own a car
where other people go when they escape
is our front yard
the seasons circle all around the place
they try to tell us what they know
I curse the limitations of the interface
wanna tip my toes
where the road don't go
where the road don't go

our neighbors fight about the little things
we hear them screaming in the night
all I can do is sit up here and sing
that it just ain't right
tell you I love you each and every day
but I am frightened and it shows
that I'll be waiting here just turning gray
tryin to point my nose
where the road don't go
where the road don't go

the train it passes every five or ten
taking everybody home
but I don't really wanna ride with them
cause I'd be alone
we make eye contact over the remote
and we can't even hear the show
come take my hand and get your hat and coat
cause I know you know
where the road don't go
where the road don't go

happy Tuesday, everyone

That last post is going to be a hard act to follow.

Thanks to all of you for your kind comments and compliments! Also, go Mom for the job interview!

I am thinking it may have been successful. Here's why. Mom had been thinking of stopping by me and Dave's place yesterday, but decided to change plans and come this evening instead. But there was a phrase she used on the phone that didn't really click in my brain until after we'd hung up. She said "I'll come by tomorrow after work."
After work? That means there is a work for visiting to be after, no? :D

The apartment is once again, I regret to inform, a mess. Neither me nor Dave were ever especially neat housekeepers the other times we've dwelled together, in college or after. Dave for his part has had a long stay at chez Paula (how I refer to his mom's place) to get un-used to having to do all his own cleaning. As for me, living with Dad I had come to share his, let us say, casual attitude regarding a moderate level of grunge, grime and general disorganization. Being the woman of the house, however, means I feel a deep-seated yearning in my bones to make cleaning happen. Eventually. Sometimes I sit around watching cartoons at night thinking to myself, "Y'know, if laziness wasn't gluing me to my chair, it would be really keen to just sweep and mop the kitchen floor for a bit..." But then instead I go make myself some tea and assuage my conscience by just sweeping up the area around the cat food dishes with my hands, or some such thing.

We have been doing some rearranging. Well, mostly it's been my idea, but Dave is mostly happy to help and doesn't mind so much if I sit around and mutter about shelving and boxen and whatnot. Slowly, a few pieces of furniture at a time, or a room at a time, I will make the apartment easier to clean, at least, if not actually swanky. Paula found us a combination shelf set / entertainment center that somebody at her work was throwing away, so we were able to move the TV area onto the south wall of that little nook off the living room. The only downside is it's no longer possible to watch TV while sitting at the computer desk. Now if I can only think of something cool to do with the living room...

I even got some of my own stuff out of boxen and onto shelves, stuff that had been boxed up since before me and Dad moved out of Elgin! In a way it's disappointing to look at my shelves and realize most of the books I now have to put on display are my second or third-string literary preferences. Simply those books I bought on a whim and never bothered to read, that other people loaned or gave to me and I haven't gotten around to reading yet, or that I got for a class and don't expect to want again. I'm sure there is a larger amount of books I really like, or at least used to like, elsewhere around. Maybe I can do some book rotating this week.

In summation, it's an extremely weird feeling to have an apartment I can think of as "my place." It's more than not having a satisfactory collection of books to shelve, though that's part of it. Now I'm thinking of getting my own posters, my own rugs and throw pillows. My own (non-broken) vaccuum cleaner and blender!

Ach, I must stop with the posting and get to work. The pest control guy has been here spraying for fruit flies and I must go sign his work order to prove that yes, he was here and yes, he did spray for fruit flies. And there are many fewer than the last time he was here, so his efforts are not in vain.

I will post again soon! Hugs!

don't forget

My attempt to condense a lifetime's worth of good fatherly advice into song form. (Bad fatherly advice, like flatulence, I consider returned to dust along with the body.) The meter's pretty sketchy, though if I actually sang it I think the pace of the music would let me get away with the over-long and off-meter lines. The images are clunkier than they would have been if I hadn't been struggling to pack every verse with references to patented "Daddy lectures" about life, the universe, and everything. There are a ton I had to leave out for considerations of space, like "the most important quality in someone you want to date is that they think you're wonderful" and "always have backups" and "in a fight that involves physical violence, there are no winners, only people who lost less." And the ones in here are of course stripped of their accompanying anecdotes.

Still, I think, it'll pass muster, even with all the swears. (All two of 'em.) Yes, the four verses reference the four suits in a deck of cards. Dunno why that was the one of Dad's many hobbies that ended up providing structure to the song. Probably the limits of my own knowledge; maybe if I were more familiar with all the parts of a pistol and their functions I would have made literary play off that instead.

Dad started saying "don't forget" back during the divorce, when "I love you" would have been uncomfortable or situationally problematic to say, for example, on the phone. The phrase stuck around, and it was how he and we would usually end conversations or visits.
"P.S. - Don't forget..." were also the last words of his suicide note.

Hence the title.


don't forget

the diamond shows its face to you
and turned around it still shines true
c'mon, try one and two and three
first you see you, then you'll see me
can't see can't fight can't breathe can't fight can't walk can't fight
damn straight that's right
every level has its rules
the only ones who learn are fools

who know every gun's always loaded
they're careful their target is sure
never touch the trigger till their sights are on target
for what must no longer endure

don't forget that some rules change
and others always stay the same
no one can tell the difference but you
don't forget what's true

some clubs will batter down the door
and some you like to dress up for
step back before you hit the joint
breathe deep and say, "what is the point?"
think twice before you raise your hand
and when you ride, ride for the brand
you signed up for it--see it through
even if no one knows but you

you're only as strong as you're loyal
your fists answer both to your mind
a heart poured out like burning oil
is power no stranger can bind

don't forget the worst defeats
come from the ones you thought were sweet
they always try to tell you how you should
don't forget what's good

a golden cup can hide a drink
more bitter than you'd like to think
fill yourself up and do be clear
whether you hold love, rage or fear
learn to play to your weaknesses
what kind of game d'you think this is?
the power to heal and to forgive
is in your heart, long as you live

and after your living is done with
you'll bear your love into the dark
and hope what you learned to have fun with
will answer that you made your mark

don't forget the world's alive
no fathom is too deep to dive
the chalice of God's mercy it is always full
don't forget what's beautiful

they'll say your father was a sword
whose last years were dismayed and bored
a wheel-and-dealer just gone south
gone postal living hand to mouth
that's bullshit, kid--I stayed for you
past when my days should have been through
so let them whisper on the phone
"died in a bathtub, all alone--"

it's in the cards for everyone that someday
we'll move into the ground
forgive me, Love--I only know the one way
to lay this burden down

don't forget, don't forget, don't forget, don't forget
don't forget I love you
don't forget I love you
don't forget I love you

instead of the song I was working on, here's this one

I was crossing Kinzie street yesterday afternoon when the first lines of this song came to me. Now, this is a blues tune, that I've written comic or satiric words to on many an occasion. Either it's a really easy tune to write for, or it's so firmly grooved into my unconscious mind that it's just one of my songmaker's 'default' settings. Let's say this here one is in honor of NeoCon, since that's the crowd it refers to.

I sat down on a stoop a few blocks later after I got the third verse--they came in in a different order than I ended up putting them, and at that point I knew it had to be written down right then or I'd lose something of it. A bum (more well-off than a homeless guy, not as sharply calculating as the beggars who have regular street corners) came up and asked me for a cigarette. I gave him one, but without stopping my scribbles because I really wanted to get the song written down while it was fresh. He said something like "well, maybe we'll meet again one day" before wandering off. And I realized he'd wanted a longer conversation, which I had neatly avoided through song. Yay song!


"convention in town" 6-9-08

oh, if I were a pickpocket
I'd love to work this crowd
they're innocent and indolent
from out of town and loud
take cash and credit cards
and brown bag lunches - I'm not proud
oh, if I were a pickpocket
I'd love to work this crowd

oh, if I were a murderer
I couldn't stand the smell
cologne and sweat and confidence
that I'm bound straight to hell
with every pair of eyes I see
I'd wonder, can they tell
oh, if I were a murderer
I couldn't stand the smell

oh, if I were a rapist
then these dames would turn me on
their hair and clothes and faces
all just look spray-painted on
they take a half-step back
and look relieved when I am gone
oh, if I were a rapist
then these dames would turn me on

but I work right across the street
where all these people come to eat
it makes the business bittersweet
I punched out - I'm already beat
I've got to fight my way through them
to get back home again.