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Wednesday, January 5th, 2005
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4:26 pm - [she kissed another boy while he crept in the closet]
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Revenge had never
more sweet
been felt than on the
eve of April’s ides.
[Resting atop the
beautiful corpse, a
dandelion, a
calling card culled
from memories
left behind.]
“April showers bring
May flowers,” the avenged
wrote in his journal the
day prior. “In like a
lion out like a
lamb.”
[Confusion and
rage and a teaspoon of
strychnine
and it was
done.]
“I loved you,”
he whispered
as she lie on the
ground. “But then
you changed and
now you are
dead.”
Becoming ever more
detached, he laughed,
“Haha!”
and then
recited a poem:
“You were a
weed
that poisoned my
garden.
Lips pressed
hard
against lips not
mine.”
[The sirens were
silent
in his unbalanced state.
He did not struggle
when taken away.]
Rain splashed on
windshields
red
blue
redblue.
-----------------------
by leonard crist - 2005
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(10 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, January 4th, 2005
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4:35 pm - The day my grandfather’s veins rusted shut.
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When the steel mills
died,
so did my
grandfather.
I was born into a
New Depression;
his name, my only
inheritance:
Leonard. The lion. The king.
The king of toxic
cast iron
graveyards;
the cause of
cancer
in my grandfather’s
chest.
A weak and
feeble last few
years—tubes and sores and
surgeries and
death—I remember these
images from
photographs I never saw.
[They lived a middle class non-existence—one step
down from becoming the oppressors, one step
up from becoming the oppressed—in truth just poor people working in
tandem to keep themselves poor and make others rich.]
This is not just
my life. This is
your life. Our
histories are the
same.
My grandfather
worked hard his entire
life and never made it
ahead. My
grandmother too, and also
my mother, and now
I will work hard my
entire life and
never make it
ahead but I will
try.
When the steel mills
died,
so did my
grandfather.
Leonard. The king. The lion.
-----------------------------
[revised for concision 1/5/05]
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 22nd, 2004
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10:48 pm - a cure for writer’s block
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Suffocating
under the weight of her own pretentiousness
and dreadfully envious of her
home library,
Allison plotted a
book burning party.
She invited no friends.
Her unsteady fingers
fumbled for
matchsticks —a Sylvia Plath with
lithe little limbs striking— and
suddenly
all was aflame.
The sour stench of
burnt literature and melodrama
filled the air as Allison
danced and cackled, shouting,
“I shall find inspiration yet again!”
But, as words and poems
faded to ash, Allison was left with an
overriding sense of
guilt,
as if she had murdered her
favorite poets in a fit of
lover’s jealousy.
Her sadness was short-lived.
A smile cracked her
rose bloom lips,
replacing regret with the
realization that books,
unlike the dead,
can be replaced and be reread.
And with that, her writer’s block ceased.
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, December 20th, 2004
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7:02 pm
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| Sunday, December 19th, 2004
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8:46 pm - more than you know
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“So what’s bugging you?” she asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
“Tell me. You said you were sad earlier. Why?”
“I just am.”
“But why?”
I let out a sigh that sounds more like an uggh. “If I tell you, I’m just going to come off as needy, jealous, and/or pathetic.”
“You can tell me.”
I pause. Take a deep breath. Exhale. “Ok. It seems that every time I talk to you or see you anymore you let me down. I get this huge knot in my stomach and I can’t stop worrying. I don’t even know what I’m worrying about – I’m just worrying. And I don’t want to say it’s your fault, but it’s definitely because of you. I know you’ve been busy lately, but it seems that you’ve had time for other people and not for me. I feel like I’m being irrational, but I can’t stop feeling this way. I love you more than you understand. Maybe more than you can ever understand.”
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, December 18th, 2004
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8:22 pm - Fashionably Late
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In 1815,
Andrew Jackson won a
decisive victory in the
war of 1812,
six months after the
war had already ended.
They had no cell phones back then
or precision guided satellite missiles.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, December 17th, 2004
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2:41 pm - crickets and cobwebs
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I would like you to be my bride
We could move to the countryside
I’d build a garden in the yard, for you
The crickets make their buzz
It’s a quiet numbing hum
And I realize you are the one for me
In a perfect world
We would be in love
And in a perfect world
We would be as one
But you don’t feel that strong for me
So I will have to let things be
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, December 16th, 2004
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8:55 pm - Why i hate the modern age.
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| Wednesday, December 15th, 2004
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5:52 pm - 1981
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louisiana was his first home. born on the bayou. mosquitoes and gators, cajuns and jazz, red beans and rice, racists and hypocrites, humidity and poverty. later in life, his dad and louisiana would be permanently linked together in his mind as both very foreign and very mythical concepts that he didn't quite grasp. on his first birthday, his sister was born. very soon after, his mom went home to her mom, leaving the south and his father behind.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, December 14th, 2004
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4:25 pm - 1980
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he was only alive for a few weeks in 1980, born just as john lennon was dying. his mother, young and careless, only 18 years old, was not prepared. his father was still around then, balding and high on drugs. his dad didnt stick around very long, at least not long enough for him to form any real memories. his mental pictures came courtesy of photographs.
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, December 13th, 2004
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1:30 pm - The Fake News
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“We must disenfranchise ourselves from the fast food lives we lead! These meat markets will kill you!” bellowed the guest speaker at the anarchist collective I was visiting. He was shouting catchphrases with a charisma that Hitler would envy. The rapt faces of the misguided suburban punk rockers sitting Indian-style on the floor confirmed this by saying “Lead us…we will follow!” He was young, not older than 22. His hair was died spotted black and orange like a leopard. His eyes were deep blue. I’d heard it all before.
He pounded his fist on the podium. “Over 30 million cows are slaughtered each year to sate the American appetite for quick and easy, greasy fast food!” I rolled my eyes. I knew at any moment he was liable to pull out the secret weapon of any animal rights activist: the undercover slaughterhouse tapes.
“Meat is murder!” he continued like a robot programmed by PETA who had just finished reading Fast Food Nation for the seventh time. He kept on propagandizing and at some point I stopped listening.
I used to be a vegetarian. I didn’t eat meat for almost three years. I did it more to lose weight than to push an animal rights agenda, but after a few months I was none-the-less virulently anti-meat. I bought a “Murder King” shirt at a punk festival, I hung up PETA posters on my bedroom walls, and had “Meat is Murder” pins on my backpack next to my Che Guevera patch. But tasty vegetarian food is expensive and I had lost my job, so I couldn’t really afford it. As the anarchist speaker might put it, the inhumane capitalistic interests that keep meat prices low and healthy vegetarian food high oppressed and coerced me into re-entering carnivorous life. And if my militantly vegan friend had made such a statement, I wouldn’t entirely disagree with him. But really, what could I do? If these meat eating economic interests are as strong as vegan-boy might claim, then I really didn’t have much of a choice, now did I? I was merely a pawn being sacrificed by a consortium of carnivorism.
He was still talking, and I was zoning out. I started staring at my shoes, counting the floor tiles, trying to remember if I set my VCR to tape The Daily Show…until he pulled out a guitar and started singing a song about how killing animals is bad. I stood up, made sure he saw me, looked him in the eye, and then walked out mid-song.
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, December 12th, 2004
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1:34 pm - you are the war that i want
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I’m going to take this fight to the streets
Cause you are the war that I want
And I am not going to sleep
Until I get what I want
And that’s you
I’m going to take this fight to the streets
Cause you are the war that I want
I will not be complete
Until I get what I want
And that’s you
I won’t take no for an answer
I hope you know this means war
What more could I ask for
Than you
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(8 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, December 10th, 2004
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6:07 am - a bad day for brides
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Another thousand soldiers dead who
signed up for a chance to get an
education and a check, but
balances did not protect them.
Oligarchs with shopping carts and
semi-automatic guns are running
roughshod on our rights to
pick and choose as we see fit.
It’s obvious he’s been
paid off cause he is
talentless and we are
worse off than we’ve
ever been in history.
A lesson for all brides to be:
avoid divorce, avoid affairs, cause
you will not be free to
leave if they have their
way with you.
Coat hangers will be the rule so
close your legs and shut your
mouth cause they don’t want you to
speak out.
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(10 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 1st, 2004
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4:33 am - The Hobo Life
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I am a ramblin’ man of the countryside
I ain’t attached to anywhere or any when
I’m a solitary man who rides the rails
I ain’t tied down by any wife or any kin
I travel round the country with my best friend
An old retriever by the name of Tennessee
We sit around a campfire with our dinner
A flask of whisky and a can of baked beans
You like to sleep under all the stars when you’re a hobo, when you’re a hobo
You like to hang in old boxcars when you’re a hobo, when you’re a hobo
I’ve seen my fair share of the hard times
I’ve seen the hungry huddled masses in the cold
But I know that they will get through this depression
As for me, I’m doing fine out on my own
Ya see I don’t need no house to make me happy
Not one of brick and mortars, wood, or even stone
And I don’t need no boss man shoutin’ at me
I live the freest life a hobo’s ever known
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(26 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, November 27th, 2004
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9:47 pm
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| Tuesday, November 23rd, 2004
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1:10 pm - Fruit of the Loom
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Adam felt a strong urge to escape Pittsburgh.
His girlfriend Eve had just broken up with him. She took with her one of his ribs, at least five apples, and his copy of the Violent Femmes Add It Up. He didn’t give a shit about the rib or the apples, but he really wanted the album back. It was one of his favorites.
In Adam’s mind, Pittsburgh had grown stale. The gray, rainy days of March were becoming too depressing for him. Bad memories floated atop the rivers – all three of them. Adam couldn’t remember the last time he had fun in Pittsburgh.
Actually, he could remember. When he was a teenager, he would play in abandoned steel mills and have lengthy discussions with Roberto Clemente about the socio-economic impacts of the IMF debt repayment program in Venezuela. But, some time around 1997, Roberto stopped talking to him. Adam figured it was because Roberto’s batting average was slipping, but he couldn’t be sure.
Adam popped in a tape of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood and packed his bags while it played in the background. Into his tiny suitcase he shoved two pairs of jeans, three ironically hip t-shirts, one white dress shirt, one pair of slacks, one tie, four pairs of socks, five pairs of underwear (Fruit of the Loom), one extra pair of tennis shoes, one copy each of The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss, Ride the Lightning by Metallica, Slanted and Enchanted by Pavement, Weekend at Bernie’s on DVD starring Jonathan Silverman, and The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast of Johnny Carson on videocassette. There were many things he did not pack. They would have to stay behind.
Adam left the apartment with all the lights on, the sink running, and the television volume at full blast. He locked the door and put up a sign on the outside over the peephole that read:
DO NOT DISTURB!!!?!
He had no intentions of returning.
He stopped at a payphone outside of his apartment and called Eve. A guy answered the phone.
“Hello,” said the guy.
“May I speak with Eve please,” Adam said. “This is her brother.”
“EEEEEEVE!” the man yelled. “YOUR BROTHER IS ON THE PHONE!”
“I DON’T HAVE A BROTHER!” Eve shouted back from another room.
“She says she doesn’t have a brother,” the man said to Adam.
“Yes she does,” Adam said. “How could I be her brother is she doesn’t have a brother? Let me talk to her.”
“HE’S INSISTING THAT YOU DO, IN FACT, HAVE A BROTHER AND THAT HE IS HIM!” the man shouted to Eve in the other room. “HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!”
“OH FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” Eve yelled back. “HOLD ON!” A minute later she picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“I want my Violent Femmes CD back.” Adam demanded.
“Fuck off. Don’t ever call here again or I’ll have Ted, MY NEW BOYFRIEND, kick your ass. I’m hanging up now.” And she hung up.
Adam left the payphone, walked to the Greyhound Bus Station, bought a ticket to Hollywood, boarded the bus, endured the Eddie Murphy and Robin Williams family comedies that played on the televisions, and eventually made it to California where he, at first, got a job as a roofer, then worked at a marina scrubbing barnacles off boats, then, sometime later, found employment at a book store, before finally landing a job as a personal assistant to Steven Seagal. Once Steven Seagal fired him, he decided to move back to Pittsburgh. He flew this time, on Southwest Airlines, and made it back to Pittsburgh in four hours.
Exactly three years had passed since he left. Pittsburgh was the same, except there were fewer stores and less people. He went back to his apartment. Though he hadn’t paid rent in three years and the light bulbs had burned out (making the apartment quite dark) the sign was still on the door, the television was still on, and the sink was still running. He put his suitcase on the floor and went in search of Eve.
Adam called her number, but a nice lady with a monotone voice told him that the number had been disconnected and to recheck the number and dial again. He dialed again but the same woman answered and wouldn’t respond to his queries.
All Adam really wanted was his Violent Femmes CD.
Admitting defeat, he went to a record store and bought a new copy of Add It Up. The cashier added it up and it totaled $18.99. Adam charged it to his credit card. Upon leaving the store, he tucked the receipt into his wallet. Just in case he saw Eve again, Adam wanted the option of returning this necessary but unnecessary duplicate back to the store from whence it came.
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, November 17th, 2004
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7:04 am - america is handicapped
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america is handicapped
by an inhumane competitive spirit
where vast underground heated swimming pools
and the allure of gated mansions
drive men to kill.
america is handicapped
by increasingly colorful dollar bills
that blind traders in global markets
to the impact of their
monetary maneuverings.
america is handicapped
by a lust for giant oil rigs in sand filled nations
where religious fervor and oppression
walk hand in hand with
gas station attendants and suv owners.
america is handicapped
by an utter disregard for the well being
of the world she inhabits,
destroying ecosystems and promoting extinctions
with dollar signs in her eyes.
america is handicapped
by nay-sayers and cynics
corrupted by ideals never realized,
no longer willing to accept
that america might one day be well again.
from sea to shining sea
america will lie to me
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, November 13th, 2004
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6:26 pm - consequences
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6:00 pm - common sense
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5:15 pm - cuban hipsters
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