Ode to a State of Granite

Let us move to New Hampshire
And get back to nature
In a pre-fab McMansion
built on a clear-cut postage stamp.

Let us move to New Hampshire
Where vanity plates are cheap.
HOTMILF bolted to the bumper of your Ford Galaxy
and RONPAUL1 on my Escalade EXT.

Let us move to New Hampshire,
We will claim to be "independent,"
Make fun of Democrats,
and vote Republican.

Let us move to New Hampshire
Where the finer things can be found
Like fireworks, gun shops,
And cheap crystal meth.

Let us move to New Hampshire.
I will buy a Harley, go to Laconia
and play outlaw biker
instead of graying middle manager.

Let us move to New Hampshire
and be done with Taxachusetts
except for the two hour commute
to our jobs in Boston.

Let us move to New Hampshire.
If the gas prices should beggar us
If the I-95 gridlock devours our daylight hours
We can take comfort in not paying a sales tax.

The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu - It's Grim Up North (Radio Edit) (from a 1991 single) - A different Manchester and an entirely different breed of grimness await those brave enough to tread across the Bay State's northeastern border.

The radio edit lacks the full radiant and terrifying glory of the the full "Part 1" version of the techno/industrial masterpiece, but it still gets the job done rather nicely. The transition into Hubert Parry's hymn "Jerusalem" (based on William Blake's preface to Milton: A Poem) never fails to knock me on my ass with its sheer power. It's one of those instances of brilliance that elevates a good piece into something trancendentally awe-inspiring.

It also doesn't hurt that Blake, loony mystic that he was, has long been a favorite poet of mine....

I shall not cease from casual spite,
Nor shall my ire sleep in my hand,
Till we have built a saner world,
In New England's mean and bitter land.

nothing I would change

During the Spring 1993 semester, I composed a series of "morning poems" which took the form of doggerel glosses scribbled in the margins of my class notes. Only fourteen of the original set of nineteen poems have survived the passing of time; the other five have been lost to various purges, though it is possible that a revised complete set still dwells in the documents folder of my wife's old Packard Bell 386. (Not that I'm in a hurry to find out, as I think the incompleteness adds a certain air of mystery, a la lost silent films and classical texts.)

Of all the things I've written, the morning poems are the things I am proudest of, or rather "least embarrassed by" -- not because they're even remotely good, but because they lack the usual self-consciousness that marks my other written work.

Here's the first entry in the sequence:

Morning Poem #1

Again, my friend?
What could you possibly be thinking
In bringing such a crime against pastry
To the desk next to mine?

A danish, you say?
Nay, it is a coiled turd of dough
Scraped off the sidewalk
And glazed in sugar.

I was present
When the carcass pits were peeled open
And the skies over North Woburn turned ochre
With death's heady perfume.

That charnel house tang
Is balsam and lavender
To the smell of your so-called "danish."
Does your nose not function?

You laugh loudly
In response to a joke by your overpainted doll.
A constellation of soggy crumbs
Sprays from your lips.

My head is hurting.
Your gut must be hurting.
Do us both a favor next time.
Buy a donut instead.

I can't remember the context behind most of scribblings (though I know that the "FROM WHAT I HEARD SHE SHOWED UP LATE AND WAS SHITFACED" scrawled on one of my notebook pages refers to an ex-girlfriend), but still vividly recall my inspiration for the above poem.

It's about a fellow that used to sit next to me in my Intro to Symbolic Logic class. He looked like Huey Lewis with a shag haircut, and was fond of chewing foul-smelling danishes with his mouth open and whispering loudly to his girlfriend, who looked like she fell off the back of some meth dealer's Harley. I have no idea why I chose to vent my spleen though bad verse, but it started a trend of poesy that lasted right up until the end of finals.

Johnny Tillotson - Poetry in Motion (from All His Early Hits - And More, 1990) - "I was hoping for Elizabeth Bishop, but what I got was Sylvia Plath..."

size doesn’t matter

Brevity is the soul of wit. – William Shakespeare, dead white guy

Who has short songs? We have short songs. Here are five succinct tracks with a total runtime of two minutes and forty-seven seconds.

Before anyone asks: Yes, I am aware of the Dead Kennedys’ “Short Songs” and Napalm Death’s record-setting “You Suffer” (under three seconds in length).

Bikini Kill – In Accordance to Natural Law (from The Singles, 1998) – Kathleen is angry.

Descendents – Weinerschnitzel (from the Fat EP, 1981) – Punk rock guys are hungry.

Phil Hundley – 30 Second Affair (from the Red Snerts compilation, 1981) – Punkabilly heartbreak.

The Raunchettes – What? Scuze Me! (from The Secret Team compilation, 1988) – She’s found out that you are a fake.

Wire – Brazil (from Pink Flag, 1977) – Great art punk did these fellows make.