Perpetual Notion

An empty wrapper
from muffin weighs heavily
on a smallish plate.

Three inches further,
my table neighbor’s plate sits
and does so with food.

His looks no better.
Likely it is worse even,
but there it still is.

He would not miss if
a nibble I were to take.
Yes, just a nibble.

While he walks the bass
I just read a few pages
and born is our groove

The concept not young,
but borrowed from Kerouac
and others less known.

Of journal and jazz,
strum, thumb, pluck, and punch the prose.
Watch as we discuss.

There is more to come
So place your ear on the stage
delight in our notes.

And after you have taken your pen out
you will see that everyone is a writer
for good or for bad
everyone is a writer
words creep out of everything
only to end up on everything else
trying to say something new
can best be done by closing your eyes
because if you see anything
you will see whatever you wanted to share
is shared
all that you could muster to say
is said
everyone has a story to tell
and we are running out of ears
your pen is out
wet
and everyone is a writer

dHb 10-29-07

Job hunting season.
And who will make the killing?
Trudging through the snow.

No blaze orange outfit,
but a highlighter in hand.
Circles on paper.

Covering my smell,
with a shower and clean clothes,
will better my odds.

Take aim, give a shot.
For I have to eat somehow.
Will I land a buck?

Michael Jackson is a freak. For the spectacle that is his current life, the media lines up in hopes for a ticket to something, some sideshow. And Michael Jackson does not disappoint. Keep your eyes fixed long enough, and the man is bound to perform. He is after all, an entertainer.

The world is full of newsworthy events, and the media has been quite clear that when he is on the move, Michael Jackson is the front page news. Then we the readers/viewers eat what is fed us, and some acquire an appetite for it. Absent of the initiative taken by the press, people would not be requesting constant updates on a fallen pop icon, but here we are.

Before being an icon, Jackson was a kid. But just barely. Raised in a family where the father’s heart was more consumed in managing than paternal obligation, the spiral began.

The black Partridge Family, though actually talented, were known as the Jackson Five. An R&B group headed up by the youngest member, little Michael Jackson. Adorable, excessively talented, and a heck of a showman, Michael was an early center of attention. When kids grow up they play, and they play with other kids. Michael group up hanging out with his older siblings, and his older siblings’ groupies, and music industry people. No time for childhood in a lucrative business.

As it goes with bottling up emotions, childhood also cannot be repressed, only postponed. Having been the fortunate victim of awesome success, Michael Jackson remained quite busy and in the public eye through the later eighties. It was sometime after the bad album had been released and toured that Michael finally had an opportunity to relax and step out of the public focus.

During his retreat to the Neverland Ranch, Michael Jackson began his more reclusive life. Now that he could do what he wanted/needed and not what the public dictated, his personality began a regression to that of a child’s. This is understandable as his mind and body were just compensating for something that had been previously ignored. Doing as any self-respecting kid would, Michael made a zoo and amusement park of his home. Lacking the ability to relate to those his age, his best friend was a monkey. During these days of isolation, Michael’s appearance began a path of drastic changes. His skin lightened, but that may have been beyond his control. However, the plastic surgery that was within his control, approached a level of excess. Perhaps he was attempting to match his physical being to his mental state. His reasons are his own.

The merits to the companionship of a monkey are limited. The time came when Michael felt the need to acquire playmates of his own age. His mental age. Unfortunately for Michael Jackson, society dictates that a man crawling into middle age may not inhabit the same space as a child unrelated to him. This is America, the land of prosperity, and if you have not yet earned your fortune, then you can sue somebody that has. An eccentric and increasingly recluse man living in a fairytale land and inviting children over for play dates is a fantastic target for accusations. Both sensational for the media, and lucrative for the lawyers.

Guilty or innocent, Michael Jackson has made himself into a target. He has fallen from grace so much that he has become a victim of the world. His life is no longer his to steer. Had a little bird placed a message in his ear nearly two decades ago, so much could have been avoided, and saved. If only Michael received the message that there are far superior methods of handing over the reigns to one’s life.

As many celebrities have eloquently demonstrated over the years, the best way to gain and maintain the public’s favor is to invest your soul in drugs. Smile at a stranger’s kid and face definite scrutiny. Become a recovering heroin addict and bathe in the flow of public sympathy. And should you die of an overdose, remember… your potential potential will far surpass that of your actual potential. The “could have been” is so much better than the “what kinda was.”

Looking at my compact disk of “Bad,” Michael’s last great album, I see that it was released in 1987. Were Michael to die within about a year of that release, he would have made the best career move possible. He would have created a momentum. The world would continue on, and bring his memory with it. Michael Jackson did not (to my knowledge) touch the drugs. He is accused of touching boys. His life has taken on a spiral that no drug can emulate. He is fixed on the media, and no opportunity of overdose.

Michael Jackson could have been historically perfect. Many have found the path to eternal greatness by reaching their peak and jumping off. Michael Jackson has found his peak, he teetered side to side, and has since had a long tumble down. His tumble continues. What he could have been no longer will be.

I biked home tonight
me in my bundles
the street was shared with every degree of readiness
I, ready for cold
the girl in a t shirt
ready for something else
I found warmth
in thoughts of natural selection
let the stupid be stupid
let the stupid die
long live the smart
I felt a chill
me with coffee
going home to write
her with vodka
to do what she will do
I make the words of today
she, the generation of tomorrow
what does nature say to that
does stupid win?