Saturday, December 29, 2012

Sensation



There was something that you could call a “YouTube Sensation” the other day: 
a video of a golden eagle, one of the largest birds of prey, swooping down and grabbing a child in a puffy winter jacket who was playing in the park. The parent (filming) runs toward the child (who’s already been let go)—he was just too heavy.

I was at the office. I walked to the kitchen to get some coffee and a coworker was standing with his back to the beige wall, waiting for the bathroom. I started to say—and hardly were those words out of my mouth, when he said he’d already seen it— "Yeah that kid got ten feet off the ground." Later, when I returned for lunch, a few tables were discussing the video—at different points of the narrative, but the same story: the eagle and the child. By 5 p.m., the clip had 125,000 views.

I sat on the corner on a bench next to a bus stop
 after workI headed home. The bus was nearly empty. The sun had fallen. An aged black man rose from his seat, folded a newspaper into perfect sextants, lowered himself to a street with many dilapidated and abandoned homes, and walked off toward a grove of trees with the newspaper tucked neatly under his arm. I stepped into my apartment near 7 p.m., sat down on the sofa, and  then turned on the TV. And there it was again: a screenshot of the eagle next to the fleshy cheeks of a news anchor, the rosy countenance that says This is this, and that is that. Fake was the eagle, she says. The eagle was fake. It was a hoax.

It turns out a group of graphic design students from Canada had made the video. So then the pretty little anchor’s presuming-to-summarize-and-so encourage-a-flippant-disregard-for-this-type-of-unreal-threat head shaking empties out into a smile. For we too had been released. 

After all, eagles don't steal babies. That sort of thing doesn't happen—especially to children.

These Canadians had also made a video of a funny looking penguin that just kind of walked around a zoo parking lot—it wasn’t afraid of people, just kind of curious, and that was the joke. Then an angry zookeeper walks into frame, babbles something in French, and carries the bird back through the gates. But that clip had garnered only a few hundred views. And the special effects (which had surely been looped, probed, and examined by all walks of nerdery in order to find its faults and imperfections [in order to reclaim it as something human]) used in the penguin video were undoubtedly more complicated to achieveKids have access to this sort of technology. The eighth-grader next door could do this, and we'd all watch and believe. 

Admittedly, the video does feel authentic. It seems to me that recent special effects-driven films (specifically those that lack a coherent narrative) have become a little too "special" with their effects. One cannot replace a strong narrative with a succession of tinkered-with images. But one also cannot tell until afterwards because of all the flashing lights. Enter Eagle Clip. It appeared to be shot from a shoulder-mounted camcorder, the type from my childhood. The type that created my home movies and those of my parents. It begins, and the man or woman holding the camera is apparently distracted, for in the frame is a blue-grey sky and the tops of some winter trees. Nothing is happening. But sometimes a camera sees without a cameraman. A man can forget to be a cameraman, but a camera is a camera, always meant to shoot. So a subject emerges. The trees. All the shivering leaves waving in the cold. Then the eagle tracks past, up and on into the thin blue, high and deliberate. It is now at the peak of ascent—now above that tree. It flaps, bends in an arcing about-face, and pulls in its wings. It descends fully into frame in seconds, sinking its tendons into the child's jacket, flapping, looking skyward. But the wings do not work. Then the cameraholder runs. 

Cars backing up in grocery store parking lots, power outlets on the fritz, frayed wires, kidnappers, unattended pools, Drain-O, undertow—these are parents' nightmares—but not eagles. Can a human being prepare for the threat of threat and remain rational? High beams combing the trees' canopy preemptively. Looking for big birds. 

Then eagles are arrested and charged with sadism and conspiracy to murder en masse. If sentenced to death. No last meal. "What an opportunist!" the bird's lawyer would say.
"An enterprising individual, your Honor, who acted in self-defense." Southern man sweating up the courtEach word delightfully weighed. "We know the laws of past practice, your Honor...Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. And they must go both ways. The child sitting now in this court—and every child in this glorious nationdoes little but graduate from innocence to corruption—from the prey of all to the predator of all. If we are here today to weigh guiltand I'll remind you, we are—then let us also add to the scales of justice the potential for guilt. My client has done only what this society has asked of him. He is wholly American, and he has been treated his entire life like a bird. Thank you, your Honor. That is all." 

"You may step down counselor. Does the defendant wish to address this court?"

"Chirpity-chirpity-chirpity.    Chiiiiiiirp    chirp-chirp    squee-squee   squeeeeee."

“Oh.” (Plead the fifth. And then move for insanity. Best shot.)

It seems silly to say, but there's no such thing as 
monsters. Truly, there isn't. But there is this small metallic instrument that's more familiar in size and shape than a toaster. Most people know next to nothing about them, but some know a lot. Certain people actually live with them, and they die just like they live. All of the sudden. They know something about people that they can never tell back. Because once it’s all been figured, the flash is gone and so are they. Isn't that the way? bang and an echo. But not another bang.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Early Birds



Machino sleeps with Machina. Machina sleeps with Machino. Machino sleeps with change in his pockets. Machina sleeps in a threadbare gown.

The parceled conversation of sleep forecasts the impossible—the unknown—until a bird twitters through. No dream, no projection, just the sound of a humble bird. Far before the rising sun, just one—it’s a wonder we don’t dream of more of them.

Anyhow, it’s Machino’s big day.

The triage begins: birds sitting on a wire: two, three. In settled darkness. Now four. Holy six flaps in a crashing triangle above high love. Five, now shooting for the sterns—the frowny jobs get into their cars, park, walk. Seven cuts mindless over domains, kingdoms, phylums, classes, orders, families, species, like light. Machino and Machina still sleeping. 

The alarm goes off near eight.

Machino swivels from the mattress. Stands in the shower. Machina orders herself to sleep, but decides she won’t; it’s Machino’s big day. She tilts the faux-venetian blinds and parts the curtains. Brick building. Pulls a T-shirt over her breasts. Puts out the café. Machino stamps down the stairs. Yesterday's change rattles in his pocket. Leaves tumble toward the street. Machino hustles around the corner as Machina watches.

Machino will get the job today for showing up first—then windex the windows, mop the floors, sanitize, dust, and take out the garbage. Sanitize again. Over lunch, Machina will look at pictures in a magazine. She goes to bed listening to her tapes and wakes up frozen—a chain rattles beside her. It’s almost midnight. She closes her eyes. A song sings from the center. Machino fitfully dreaming beside her.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Inclement Weather


For Ele:

Just three letters--
I wouldn’t throw your father
Into it even if I could:
You’re more balanced without him,
And anyways first names are fine.

Tuck those three perfect letters in your hand
And step out into the changed world
Intent to change and change with it.
Don’t be afraid of all the downed power lines and scattered signs,
As this is how they should be.

(If I’d remembered, I would have told you not to obey them
Even when they stood rigid in the ground like metal roots.)

I’d tell you to enjoy this freedom while it lasts--
To do anything (turn left when they say go right)--
But suddenly I’m not so sure.
It is dangerous out there.

If a morning comes when the birds stop chirping,
Don’t call your father,

Go find a man,
But don’t go looking;
It’s garbage men that come
To any tune.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Talking to Earth

Hey there. Yes you.

You are growing up big aren’t you?
All pregnant with us—or that’s the premise
We’ve decided on top to keep from going insane.
Where have all our friends been going anyways?

I see your games in gravid piles
And I got news for you:
Today it was decided that people would no longer be buried,
But launched into space.

So you know that moment when I was to be lowered
Like a blinking lamp into your tummy?
And the wind was to tousle  
Your clothing in the trees. And the storm
Was to roll right off me like a sheet
Of neatly folded water? A gutterless shed.

Forget about it. The dead deserve a better place.
You are far too navigable and far too weak a conductor
To hold souls.

No more parlors.
No more funeral gags.
The first shovel of derivative goes on and
We imagine heaven.

I know you; I’m wise to your tricks:
You suck up all the juice.
You make the rain fall dryly so we drink
And drink to reconcile with a heave
That you have no policy
With hereafter.

And this means that
I have no music
None
That you can understand.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Isaac


The black cat that lives under my stairs was out in the open, taking a shit next to a banana leaf shaking behind a fern. I should have known. If I had been religious then, I’d say the oval shroud looked like Mary, but the Mothers' time had yet to come. Isaac loomed.

At around eight p.m. the dogs started barking. The TV was absolute, full of dire prediction. Cats and dogs, they said. I was on the porch, and the fantastic cruelty of that hovering  was as of yet unknown.

Deciding I needed supplies, I walked over to Walgreens and bought a few lighters, a candle, some cigarettes and two Gatorades. As I waited in the checkout line, I caught a blurb from a TV reporter on CNN: “Widespread devastation possible in New Orleans.”

I better get home fast, I thought, and took a shortcut—through the hood, to see the deserted shotguns. To my surprise, people were everywhere. I passed a large black woman sitting on her porch and nodded solemnly, but she just looked at me—sort of confused. And I walked away
into the yellowing night with that unsettled countenance on my back. Then a man who was leaning against the wall called me a faggot, but I'd seen him around. He was an alcoholic. I realized, anyways, what they were saying to me was: “Be. Strong.”

Noticing the gusts of wind beginning to ruffle the trees, but emboldened by the suicidal bravery I saw in the children running around me, I hustled home, got on my computer, and turned on the TV. Then my heart sank. Apparently what was happening in the media world was far more important than what was actually happening outside.

Aided by the self-assurance of nearly 200,000 likes on Facebook and guided by the cyclic nature of national news coverage, Isaac was no longer a just a soon-to-be Category 1 hurricane packing high winds and a 10-foot storm surge—Isaac was now viral. “Possible widespread devastation” was now a communicable disease.

I was fucked.

I closed my laptop, turned off the TV, and sat on the couch to listen to the building wind and weigh my options. Evacuation would be pointless, I realized; I was already a willing participant, having posted “#Hurrication! J” on my wall that morning. How could I have been so god damned foolish, I wondered. Everyone was doing it though. 

So I sat there and thought. Smoked a pack of cigarettes and gathered by roommates mattresses to prop against the downstairs windows. And all else was silent. The power would likely be going out soon, so I retrieved my laptop and turned on the TV for some word from the outside world. It was bad: 215,000 “likes” at Isaac's back and a more defined center. The wind roared and receded, pulling and pushing the glass. A beam of dusty yellow light slipped past the edge of the mattress, extending through the hallway and sitting on the dirty kitchen floor. And there, a few cockroaches who had decided to ‘hunker down’ with me were belly-up on the floor. Suicide. Had it really come to that? Definitely.

Fated for disaster like the city I had come to love, if for only a while, and with the hopes of having my own children dashed, I threw the mattresses off the windows and embraced the storm. It was still pretty sunny out—but still, so eerie.

I took a moment to ‘like’ Isaac on Facebook (all of my friends and mom had) and started digging a small hole in the backyard to hold my remains. Which brings us to this moment.

5 p.m., Tuesday, August 28th. It’s raining. I am making final preparations for death. The bland, sordid atmosphere around me is fittingly divorced from that lonely wisp of air in the Gulf. Isaac churning toward me. Isaac—who I’d gladly shared with multiple friends—would now cover my bones.

I extend a grim wave to a neighbor—he’s new to the block, nice guy—sitting on his back porch. He watches sadly as I climb into my hole, fold my hands over my chest and shut my eyes. Then it occurs to me: I have no relationship with God—or my mother—and I might as well extend a hand. Now or never, as they say. After a quick prayer and a glance to the rotating clouds, I walk back inside and return with my laptop, lowering it with me into the shallow earth. Then bang out one last status, something encompassing, something that will remain after everything has been swept away:

“Hurrication!”

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Emergency Room



I shook my knee, dipped my waist,
And convulsed down to the waiting room floor.


My love, I’m so glad I’m back; I almost died today—
In the worst kind of way. It was so dark.
I shook my knee, dipped my waist,
And convulsed down to the waiting room floor.
I was moaning, really chumping at my bones.
Ready to go.


So they sent me back to nurse Pork Chops—the last stop
At the biggest pinkest thing I’d ever, ever—I’m sure
You and I woulda had a couple,
But I was my feeling my lightheadedest, shivering.
You should have seen; I could have hardly joked if I wanted,
I was so dumbfounded. If you'd been there, you’d see.


Then Nurse Chops asks if I’d like, like, to sit down—
And would I? I cocked back to the gristly old sass.
“Like?" I said. "Like to sit down? Are you mad?”
Her blank face drew over the notebook papers
Fanning about the gravity of her waist.
“I’m dying of a heart...” I continued. “It’s obvious—
And put that stethoscope away. What
Do they teach you over there these days? What a shame,
What a shame, what a shame."


But by her face she wasn’t
A bit concerned,
And instead quite a bit glad to have me talking.
For I noticed at that moment that my tunnel’s flame
Had regained its wick—to her credit—for in that dire moment
She had me a bit distracted from all the hands
Of outstretched ancestral limbs, you know.
And I surely expressed by the look on my face
That if I were to collapse, it would be the last time,
The last moment, the last single breath I’d utter on this planet!


And so I sat and made a mental note to donate
A dollar, or some other meaningfully small amount,
To science—point made to Pork Chop and all the other white coats.
May I have a seat?
Yes, you fat oaf. You’d ask the blind if it was raining.


She smiled as
I settled into the seat.


“Don’t be a bad mutt now!” I squawked.
“Just write that on down. This is dying we’re doing here.
No need to gawk
With everyone else around.”
“There’s no one,” she replied,
And apart from some bored seniors, she was right.


And I knew you weren’t with me, because, of course, you couldn’t be,
But that didn’t explain—


“I’m dying!” I squealed


“Relax,” she said
In a soapy soothing kind of way,
“You’re a little excited, but you're going to be
One hundred percent.”


“So," I said,
"There was nothing
You could do for my daddy,
And now there's nothing
You can do for me.”


Then she was looking sad,
And I was feeling much better.


I saw her at a bar one night, dressed in normal pink clothes
And she told me
I was one hundred percent.


I rolled her home, and
She told me 
I was one hundred percent.