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Poems Against the Machine |
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Mather Schneider
(Tucson, AZ)
I am now dropped out of
school again and driving a taxi. I have a chapbook, “Poormouth” published by
Interior Noise Press available at myfavoritebullet.com. In most journals the
bios tend to upset my stomach: Beverly T. Videkamp—Thumbeater has a BS from U of
A, a BA from UBC, an MA from MU and an MA and PHD from HU and U of H at
Pinkerville, respectively. She was a runner up in the Heartland Pumpkin Suck
poetry competition and has received a grant from the Middleton Cultural Council.
Her poetry has been published in The Snobface Review, Blue-green Iris and
You Stroke Me I’ll Stroke You: a quarterly journal of absolute shit
masquerading as literary excellence and which by the way only comes out once a
year at most.
When people become psychologically supported by a large
enough group, there is nothing to be done. They just
can't see. They don't understand where art comes from.
They don't understand that it simply can't come
from a comfortable, unchallenged existence. It doesn't
come from the herd. Ever. But this herd makes them
feel good, and that's all they really care about:
maintaining their good groove and ignoring all that "Bad
Karma". What is ultimately infuriating about this
behavior is" that it is not confined to literary
circles. It is everywhere and involves every bit of
human interaction at all times. It's disgusting. We
are disgusting. That's why I'm alone.
Pudding As smooth as pudding the fortyish balding poet stands up from his reserved seat slides neatly and with aplomb to the podium
arranges his sheaf of poems with hands calm unshaking as a casino dealer
then looks up at the audience through his wire focals of culture
and without a tremor in his voice or a drop of sweat on his lip he apologizes for perhaps the fifty-sixth reading in a row with all sincerity begging his "kind listeners"
to forgive his "near paralyzing stage fright."
Fuck Mensa If there's one thing I find annoying it's a person who takes pride in his intelligence. He thinks the topic of conversation is what makes it intelligent. Maybe I am a dumb fuck, but I'd rather participate in a spontaneous, funny, accelerating conversation about the dmv than a dull, predictable one about Flannery O'Connor. And he has to particularize all his ancient test scores, and where he went to college, and how he was allowed to skip second grade. He has no real curiosity, is satisfied with himself, his self image, and just keeps repeating himself like an Arizona weatherman. He is as annoying, in my opinion, as the dumbest of the dumb, neither is capable of making fun of himself. A genius he may be but he makes for a bad drinking buddy, he is too busy protecting himself to let go, and in a rush to make everybody else feel inferior. Like the guy at the bar who has drawn diagrams of Faulkner's four greatest novels on a bar napkin, a little girl's hopscotch game, and slides it at me with a soft delicate hand I feel I am supposed to kiss.
Field Trip to the Looks like Howard in reception had a few too many last night. There's Gary the guard with an eye for the ladies and a vendetta against common sense. There's the dean's fundamental Christian secretary, jar of candy on her desk. There's the dean herself with her can of bullshit repellent and a taste for UPS men. There's Mateo the glassy-eyed janitor staring at himself in the toilet. There's Amy in operations who would be pretty if she grew her hair and stood up straighter and there's Ernie who is gay and gives people that windshield wiper wave. There's the gaggle of advisors who always seem to get everything backwards. There are the administration shysters and all the rest of the spawn of the bloated bureaucratic queen. There are the psychos in the testing center who think because they hand out the tests that makes them smart. Notice how the students swarm and are so similar in appearance and how when you walk through they avoid you like pigeons on the road. Yes, there are professors around somewhere. You'll spot one if you wait long enough. Although, I should warn you, it's hardly worth it.
The Guest Poets They may as well be brothers Fortyish and squishy, they each have high water pants and a bicycle helmet at their feet. Between them they have a dozen publishing credits and one cheapo chapbook.
It is a contest: which one can drive us to suicide first.
That they are not embarrassed is the true mystery.
Afterwards they declare themselves open for questions as if they could feed us anything but poison.
Their big advice: get OUT there and MEET your fellow poets. Form alliances.
Apparently this is the best way to reach that last shriveled tit of nowhere.
A Second Pair of Eyes She's a corporate suck up and for some reason today she stops you as you're walking past her office and she asks you inside all smiles and sweetness and you can't really decline so fragile these poor supervisors' egos and you go in and she acts like you're old pals Haven't talked to you for a while and what's new and how's it been but then the real reason emerges: she wants to show you her design for a company T-shirt to be entered into the company T-shirt design competition she just wants an honest opinion a "second pair of eyes" her design on her computer screen is a dove with its wings outspread and above its head in a halo are the words "Give Peace a Try" and the company's name in block letters below that and that's it and you are thinking this is the most juvenile design you have ever seen but of course you say very nice and how much potential it has and you back out of her office carefully leaving her even more pleased with herself than ever and you feel a twinge of pity for her so completely lacking in talent and humor and originality and will never learn to think for herself or even want to until you remember what a cushy job she has up there in her office working on a T-shirt design all day and besides now you're behind on your own labor and another supervisor threatens to write you up if you're late getting back from any more breaks.
The Crowd Men talk as the crowd talks man and crowd have one voice and each man thinks it's his own voice and each man thinks it's his own speech.
Women run with the crowd each thinking she's the first and only thinking she's the chosen princess in a roiling cauldron of chosen princesses.
Women want men of crowds and men want women of crowds and each thinks their union unrivaled and each thinks their love unique.
Winner I received a copy of the book that won the Slipstream chapbook contest I entered last year. I turned to the back cover. There was the picture of the suffering artist: leather jacket, smile on, big oak behind, head tilted wisely, humbly. She has 8 university degrees and all the accoutrements of a useless effete.
I'm sitting in my underwear drinking coffee when I begin to read the first poem. It's about Vietnam, a place she has never been.
I reach the second poem. Apparently the poetess wanted to be an astronaut when she was a little girl, she just wanted to fly, fly away...
The third poem is about the moment the poetess realized she was not as pretty as Barbie. She never quite got over that. She was never any good at basketball either, poor baby, and she was saved, of course, by a "passion" for books.
I turn once again and look at the picture Of the well adjusted totally hip poet-teacher, with 4 kids and a house on a hill.
I drop the book in the trash, stand up and put my pants on one leg at a time.
After Reading a Copy Of the American Literary Review I think of heated quilts cats purring coffee pot bubbling fresh smelling wife murmuring in the laundry room huge clean pillows everywhere sunshine that is just right on grandma's polished wooden sideboard.
All these poets share the same novocaine vocabulary march in perfectly synchronized syntax use the stilted grammar of priggish school marms.
And they all write poems that click shut like jeweled boxes containing the faint remains of a rose-scented fart.
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