not much to report. worked a ton of overtime in August, but survived somehow with only a very sore knee and a major strain on the brain. The past week of vacation helped a lot. Made it up to Dee Wright Obveratory in the Cascades (more of a site to observe the highest peaks in the Oregon Cascades than anything else). Been 20 or more years since we've been there.
Work continues to be a farce. Let it suffice at that. The great IP is trying to buy Temple Inland paper company. We have no idea how/if/when it will affect our mill and of course all the managers are acting as perfect robots saying it should have little if any affect on our future - which could mean anything, really. So we shall see how things unfold .... just what we all need, a little drama. It really will have little effect on my future, as i hope to be able to retire within 3 years, and these purchase, consolidation, government approval things usually take a couple of years to complete.
Summer should be winding down, thankfully. It hasn't been the hottest summer but, i can feel a bit of fall in the early morning air. Now if there were just a few sprinkles with the mild chill .....
today's poem is from 1:98, and it's another montage poem. (if you hadn't gathered, montage was probably my favorite type of poem.)
THE LANGUAGE OF LIES
1
the language of lies
it is not the wind over bare trees
promising summer
as it is not the dirty river
promising clean drinking water
2
buy from me the rain.
the air that i breathe.
lilies of the valley.
flowers on the wall.
3
dreams, like Achilles, flaunt their potential,
but the funeral is always
what is remembered.
i tell you, we live for something other than simple dreams -
fear or necessity, each day a hejira,
faith not as spectacular as sainthood
but profound, i mean, it's epic stuff
to face co-workers with their daily psychosis,
to ward off the black cough of despair,
the burnt pages of promises forgotten.
4
O, to be the black dog in the rain
dancing with the ghosts
of a better time.
O, to be the whisper
that sparkles
the eyes of children.
5
her hair smelled of tangerines
lips contained more magic
than i would ever comprehend.
the ocean in her fingers -
then i scrapped my knees
& splashed into the tide pools.
storms from the distorted waters
never to subside.
6
god made demands upon stone
before he made promises.
some insist they survive.
the rain. even fire
merely mask the events, the facts.
even if the legends are not historical
hope remains, at least, there could be
peace on earth, in the individual,
by design or accident.
7
soldiers here - so many masks
so many uniforms, i am never certain
whose side i am on
or what i have chosen to fight for.
but, hurrah, for our side,
& damn the bastards that resist.
i, myself, burn the documents -
in hopes nothing survives,
not even records of their insanity.
i hope, only dust, ash, to greet
the next generation of explorers.
8
ice-storms -
the highway will reveal nothing.
you will learn the dialog of patience.
darkness will be the sound of your voice.
9
mother, may i have a future. may i dream.
one step at a time.
no giant steps allowed.
simon says go to the back of class.
you forgot to say the magic word.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
