June 17, 03 Sky City Going cross land to make a case It's as it should be You mean you want me to sell the judge? So, you want me to be dynamic, erudite, confident & concise I've got heavy-duty earplugs in and But all this has nothing to do with me! God bless. And out the window
[Developed from train notes of late April]
Amcrack Navajo red wine morning
I'm having reservations of the native variety
Pretty puffy-eyed Hispanic girl one seat upstream
Reads Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
Oh to be
The carrot in her soup.
Soupy grim reality I'm swimming in
The onboard Indian guide tells how
Spiderwoman gave the Navajo
The weave in their rugs
The dream catcher and
Something else?
Sheet lightening.
A good electrical storm
Would soothe my jangled soul these eighteen daze ahead
Think of it as a vacation
Said sympathetic friends
Ugh.
For this invisible illness
To see and be seen by the judge lady
To speak in defense of my case for SSI
That's the most you ever earned in a calendar year?
That's right, Your Honor, ten thousand dollars
And the longest you've held a job since college?
Six months.
Why?
Bad craziness, Your Honor
Fear and Loathing on a heinous, biblical level.
This tendency
For all of society's most dysfunctional elements
To come tightly wrapped
In powder keg
Jack-in-the-box
Acronym form.
I mean it.
Give me a quick way to identify
Shit I want nothing to do with
A simple sign:
CIA, DEA, ROTC
BLM, GE, NRA
POW, TV, VD
And yeah, sure.. SSI.
And the lawyer said
So why..
You've got several strikes against you.
If SSi is bad..
The judge is a middle aged conservative woman.
Am I traveling a vast distance..
She doesn't understand depression.
Enduring both physical and mental discomfort..
And you're a young, white, college-educated male.
And blowing a lot of money I don't have..
She's going to be hard on you.
In a bid to get it?
Whatever you say to the judge...
Honestly
Don't say..
I don't know.
I don't know.
Only you know what's going on in your head.
People with cancer don't have to sell anybody.
People die from cancer.
Oh, forgive me! Nobody's ever died of depression.
That's different.
I can name ten that I've met personally.
All the strengths of interpersonal communication
That I've lost to years of chronic depression?
That's would help.
You want me to define depression for the judge?
She knows you're educated.
You want me to speak openly about fear and sadness..
You can't be vague.
Things I must daily bury to accomplish the mundane?
You must tell her why you're afraid to go shopping.
I can't do this.
Then you will fail.
It's still too loud here in the cafe car of Train #4
Richard the Indian guide blabbers
His chamber of commerce PR banter
Comes in loud and clear as he reads
Sophomoric and nicely cleansed text
About the "wonderful" Spanish mission some friar built
High atop the sky city of Acoma
Naturally Richard fails to mention
The horrible terror visited upon the native people of Acoma when
After several failed attempts and a lengthy siege
Pissed off Spaniards mounted the 400-foot tall natural rock fortress
Hurled the men and old people off the cliffs
Raped and butchered the women and children and
Then threw them off for good measure.
I guess the Conquistador swine must have saved a few strong Indians
For surely that friar didn't build that mission by himself.
(I limply assure myself)
I'm a citizen of the enlightened NOW
When there's no more killing and
Everybody's happy as pie and
Crazy poets have a fair crack at
Winning the "crazy money" lottery
That whopping four figure income that is
The federal stipend for the hopelessly unemployable
To keep us from offing ourselves
Out of instinctual obligation to genetic well being
To the general health of the tribe
Like old Inuit grandmothers
Lolling out of ice-encrusted canoes on purpose
One
Less
Mouth
To feed.
God bless.
With purple mountain majesty
My country tis of thee
Stands with Ancient Redwood patience
In bent-branch salute
To We the Pilgrim people whose
Manifest destiny made plain our
Divine noble right to rule this place
Roots to sky
Balls to bones
All our own
Amen.
Indian reservation homes crumble
Like old ruined cities
But no camera-toting tourists do I see
To snap and stare with constipated awe.
A haze squats on the horizon
Like some native spirit woman known
For pissing on the proud and the dull
The masses of the Great White Wal-Mart Blight spreading
Ever spreading
Like the oil-soaked feathers of some
Toxic waste dump peacock
Hell-bent
On fucking the family dog
Before offing itself on the
Razorwire fence of the playground.
Write Me!
