Songs of the Journey by François Pointeau
SONGS OF THE JOURNEY
I never want to work again.
I do not want to hold a job.
to be immersed in breathing
to the point where explosion and implosion
are possibilities as real as a firefly
flying alone at night looking for love.
What I want
is to never feel stuck
in a life I do not want to live.
What if my rig breaks down?
Inevitably, it will. And
what if everything breaks down?
Everything always falls apart
eventually, and what then?
How do I replenish
what needs replenishing?
Like my inexhaustibly hungry belly?
Which I like to fill with delicious things
the thought of filling one belly
with another belly—smoked
cured and crisp, though not too crisp—
is perverted and exciting—I like the fat
to be soft and sizzling, almost elastic
with a tiny bit of crunch and grit
on the edges
and I like so many other things
and they don’t all have to be ironic,
the seas and the oceans
what lives in all that water,
its grime and its slime.
Oh how I love the idea
of having the oceans
in my belly
to be pregnant with the flesh
of the sea.
All of it has a price
and the price is my head.
The price is my soul.
The price is my heart.
whatever it might be
is too damn expensive.
I do not have it.
My pockets are empty.
The confession booth
is overstuffed with soft tissue
stacked to the ceiling.
And you can call me lazy
if it makes you feel better
I know I am not lazy.
I love work even,
the sweat, the kitchen, the groveling,
the shoveling all day
moving the manure from the pigpen
to the chicken coop
in the sun, in the rain, I don’t mind,
yet, here’s the deal:
I do not want to be stuck
in a place
doing one thing,
living one thing,
being one man.
To live it all is to live
non of it at all,
to not live one thing to its fullest,
traveling with barely a cent
to my name
from one coast to the other
and what will I find there?
More life. More work.
The process starts over
wherever and whenever
it is all so fucking boring
like no matter how far I go
I am attached
to my bank account
to my landlord
it is all an addiction,
a god damned angry squirrel
hiding nuts all winter long
just to get run over by a car
on the first day of spring.
When I was a young man,
I dreamt that some day
I would live in a trailer on the beach
somewhere, anywhere really,
where I could daydream
all day long and love life and sing
songs to myself and be happy.
That one-dimensional dream
of a life by myself
is like a breeze of sea salt
in the sun
with oysters for breakfast.
I know now, of course, that
that is not possible.
Poetry cannot be written
in a vacuum, and by vacuum
I mean what I do not mean
and it is the Goddess
of which I speak, she,
goddess that she is,
leaves me alone for she has better things to do
with her time.
And I don’t blame her.
My muse in my case, is a man.
A man in working boots
steel-toed and falling apart.
My muse is a man
with callused hands
and a manly beard
and he does manly things
with his time. These songs
are not for sissies
man or woman alike
you must rise above your humanity
when you perceive the words
which you feel the need to speak or sing
and somehow come back
to your humanity
to write them down.
And by vacuum I mean
simply what I mean
in that poetry cannot be created
in the midst of nothing
because the muse
is really the world around you
the world inside of you
as it reacts
to the world outside of you—
the ego masturbating in public
on a public stage
man or woman alike
whilst being doused in wine
and fresh wet shit at the same time.
There needs to be audience.
There needs to be a lover.
There needs to be another.
And by poetry
I mean life,
the life that is truly yours
and rightfully yours to live.
NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU DON’T
One of the first proponent
of what is often referred to as Socialism
was a loud mouth Jewish son of a carpenter
in a small Roman province on the Mediterranean Sea
where he was executed by the authority
for the crime of sedition;
then a few hundreds years later
he was promoted to the role of divinity
for the same crime
by different authoritative figures
who were really just the same
for his message had gone out of hand
and the time had come to take charge of his fables,
twist them just so,
so that the words might serve the few and control the masses.
The First Officer warned
the Captain of a storm to come.
The Rollin’ Chateau churned
up the mountain
precipice on one side
and threatening boulders
on the other
and sure enough
he hadn’t even swallowed his breath
that a million angry
minuscule polar bears flying in the air
at incredible speed
smashed in the windshield
nonstop for several hours
bleeding out icy strings of crystals
clear as could be
and cotton white all the same.
The crew took it as best they could
and kept on up and down the mountain
until the blue skies opened up
and new troubles lay ahead
but for now,
the songs of peace were singing
a blues number
something from somebody’s rusty trunk
about a love gone wrong
and another gone right
and that someday,
the road will end.
THE WHEEL OF PROGRESS
The leaders of the movement
of the oppressed
once they fight and win the battle against
more often than not
become the new oppressors.
That is why it is better for democracy
to be a slow grinding machine
a great big giant wheel
moving along the right path slowly
and often time, dreadfully,
allowing for plenty of debate and opinions
This way the oppressors
and the leaders of the movement
of the oppressed
can get grinded up together happily
into the same giant wheel of progress.
When faced with a multitude of angry pitchforks
the amount of money in your bank account
doesn’t matter anymore, the money
belongs to somebody else and it’s just you
and the pitchforks,
and well, the pitchforks usually win this particular battle.
So the elite decided amongst themselves
whilst drinking fancy cocktails
and inventing new names for their secret societies
delighting themselves with secret handshakes
as well as hazing ceremonies involving candle wax
and a bit of cherry liquor,
that having a large settled middle class
with plenty to eat, plenty of time to fuck,
with access to national parks, affordable health care
and cheap juicy hamburgers,
was a splendid idea.
Unfortunately the elite eventually die
leaving behind children
who become the new elite, who themselves
in turn becoming the new elite
having more elite children and so forth.
At some point the elite almost always forgets why
in the world would we share with all those damn
pesky middle class folks
all of our hard earned bounty!?
And they get rid of the middle class.
And the pitchforks come.
And eventually go away.
And there is a lot of bloodshed.
And the new elite, usually the few who lead
the middle class with the pitchforks
newly promoted to elites themselves
decide that a middle class is a damn fine idea,
and so the cycle starts over again
Delve into more poetry and powerful prose in SN6: Mayday – available on Amazon now!
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