Old Enough To Know Better

Old Enough To Know Better

some say that age

is just a number

you are as old as you feel

not as you act

but if you don’t act your age

you are trying to fool people

 

age may be just a number

but one that tells a story

one that defines you

generalizes 

labels your place in life

 

people don’t even need to meet you

but if they know your age

it has told them everything 

they need to know

like race gender

colour of your hair

each tells others

all about you

even if they never spoken to you

 

if you are that blond

well everyone

already know about blonds

even ones you’ve never met

we know all about that black guy gal

just by looking

everything is revealed by

her over-made eyes

his six-pack

 

six-pack is just a number 

right

a rib-cage

not a personality

an age is a cage

used to lock away

sight unseen

 

how old am I

why ask

it’s just a number

not a death sentence

 

There’s an episode of Designing Women in which a character who dates older men tells the one she’s currently dating to act his age – so he dies. The joke being that at his age most men were already dead. Now, I’m not at that age, or at least I don’t think I am. How old do you have to be to shot in a church? Not that I’d be caught dead in a church, but that’s another story.

 

This piece is as much about aging as it is about how easy it is to slot people into categories based on age, race, gender, job etc. One facet being enough to define them in such a way it becomes difficult to see them beyond that one facet. What team do you like in the play-offs? Saying one isn’t into sports isn’t the right answer. My reply is usually ‘the team that wears the least.’ Ambiguity apparently breeds distrust.

 

This is how ‘image’ sells. Photos of stars without make-up are often rendered unrecognizable. Privacy is obtained by disguising themselves as themselves not as the product sold on screen. But treat the dressed-down version as an ordinary person & beware, right?

In the shallow world of on online gay male dating age is nearly as crucial as dick size. In fact I’ve seen profiles say, to the effect that, ‘if you are over 50 your dick better be over 8 inches.’ One learns that many men aren’t the age this say they are, or that the photos of them are actually 10 years old.

 

 

I’m not keen of being confined by any definition. So when asked, how big is your dick, I’ll say ‘more the enough to satisfy;’ when asked my age I’ll usually say ‘old enough to know better.’ 


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Profiting From Guilt

Profiting From Guilt

you think the guilt

this guilt

this humiliation

is a benefit

that I somehow enjoyed

being reviled

being castigated by the press

by pundits on TV

people who have never met me

but who felt no compunction

in demonizing my actions

 

my alleged actions

which by the way

have never been conclusively been proven

guilt by accusation

not by proof

but once that accusation has been uttered

innocence will never return

a loss that was a benefit

 

oh yes that was the main benefit

I have experienced as a result

my face on every news channel

by name on so many lips

my reputation

in every gutter in the world

 

good thing

I’m not here to be popular

only to be rich

that’s right I’m rich

thanks to your condemnation

rich beyond your wildest accusations

and I will continue to gain

overtime bonuses 

when anyone continues

to defame my name

even though I don’t enjoy the guilt

I sure do enjoy the interest it earns

 

The moral compass of our media culture skews to entertainment – not to justice, or equality. This piece reflects how media & the sacrament of celebrity absolves men (usually caucasians) of responsibility, accountability & repercussions for their actions. In fact it rewards them with attention. As Oscar Wilde said – ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

 

A current celebrity convicted of rape gets more press than his victims. He is a martyr & they are crybaby bitches who should have been grateful for any attentions he may have blessed them with. I’m sure once he’s done his time he’ll end up with a sitcom (set in a prison) or perhaps a talk show.

 

 

Somehow seeking redress for harm turns victims into villains for wanting more than mere acknowledgement of harm done. The apology is now deemed sufficient. To want more is unfair, greedy & cruel. Reparations become court battles in which only the lawyers seem to profit.

 

I enjoy the way this piece moves from ‘you think’ – wherein the pov is showing a tinge of remorse – & ends up with them enjoying the media sacrament of notoriety. Almost saying that any negativity on our part is envy of their ‘fame.’


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Coal Dusters Chapter XLVII – Lillian Goes to Church

Coal Dusters: Book 1 is now available as as PDF – this covers the first 35 chapters – 65540 words – send $1.99 to  paypal.me/TOpoet

Coal Dusters

Chapter XLVII

Lillian Goes to Church 

Lillian stood on the front walk of the the McFadden’s home. The O’Dowell’s had come over to New Waterford for the night on Saturday so they could attend the special service at Mount Carmel. The strike was nearing its fifth week with no sign of ending. The Monseigneur had called for a special service on Sunday to bring the Word of God to the parishioners of the area. Her uncle was one of the priest asked to speak to the men.

Clara had insisted on her and Lillian spending the night so they wouldn’t be rushed in the morning to get across the bay to New Waterer in time for the service. She plucked a stray thread off of her dark coat. She was pleased at the opportunity to wear some of her Boston clothes. Even more pleased to have her lace gloves to cover her hands. Her eyes kept going down to her pumps. How dainty her feet looked in the dark blue shoes. Probably two years out of style by now, she thought, but still looking better than anything she had seen anyone wearing here.

“Ah Lillian, there you are.” Clara came out of the house followed by the McFadden’s and their two daughters. “You are looking quite well turned out today.”

“Thank You Clara. I haven’t gotten much opportunity to dress my best.”

They walked the few blocks to the church.

As she with Clara, Lillian noticed a large number men in uniform along the street. They were smoking and laughing. Some appeared to have been drinking.

“Who are they going to protect.” Mr. McFadden said. “The choir?”

The extra militia had been brought in to New Waterford at the demand of the coal company. The management had pressured the local police to beef up security around the mines after many of the company stores had been ransacked. It was as if they had been hoping the miners would take that more militant action after the ambush hadn’t succeeded. Any action so the company could escalate things in their own way.

Lillian and Clara passed through the main part of of the town. Off to one side street were more men on horseback. There was also some artillery on a wheeled cart. Colonel Strickland stood there with his hands behind his back watching the men inspect the artillery. 

“What do they expect the miner’s to do?” Lillian asked Clara.

“They are sure there are agitators working to undermine the company’s influence.”

“Agitators?”

“Men whose only intent to disrupt lawful business under the guise of making things better for the workers. Communists.” Clara waved to her brother. “Steven, any word from BritCanada Coal?”

He crossed the street to join them. “Good morning.” He kissed his sister on the cheek and shook Lillian’s hand. They had decided to keep their engagement a secret for the time being. The assembly is in full agreement with Wolvin’s statement that the men can end all this simply by returning to work. They are willing to open the mines so the men can start earning their keep. As general manager he has no ability to negotiate. He’s only a messenger but the men feel he’s the one keeping the company from giving in.”

“Their keep!” Mr. McFadden said. “They were being paid barely enough to keep house and family together under the old contract and now they have to settle for less?”

“Mr. McFadden, in order for the company to remain competitive in the market they have to have the coal for less, that means paying the men less. The alternative is to close down more of the mines. Is that what you think the miners want?”

“You know as well as I do that the miners want an end to this starvation. BritCanada Coal is letting the miners’ children pay the price of their profits.”

“BritCanada Coal can’t be held accountable for the ….” Steven glanced apologetically to Lillian and the other ladies, “… the propagation habits of the miners. If you can’t afford children don’t bring more into the world.”

“Steven!” Clara snapped. “What a thing to say!”

They were at the church steps. In the foyer the Monseigneur was greeting parishioners as they arrived. Father Patrick was at his side. She hadn’t seen him since he had ‘cast her forth into the wilderness’ as it was reported to her by Aileen. She didn’t offer her hand to him but merely nodded as his glance went quickly to Mrs. McFadden beside her. 

Seeing him again made her bruises throb. She had kept Clara from seeing how severe they actually were. She had made Dr. Drummond swear not to mention the severity of them to anyone. The few long hot soaking baths which she had over the past week had eased the pain considerably. Aileen had insisted she try a poultice of comfrey and mustard which reduced the swelling and discolouration.

She followed Clara to the pew they were to use for the service. On the way she was stopped by Hanna Seldon.

“Miss Lillian, it’s good to see you looking well.”

“You too Hanna. How’s the baby.”

“Poorly miss. He has that flu so many of the children have had the past few months. Least we have been able feed him to keep his strength up. The doctor says there’s a good chance he’ll pull through.”

Lillian shook her head in dismay. As the strike progressed and food became scarce many families had less and less to eat. Gardens had helped stave of some of the hunger but many of the children were weak from lack of proper nutrition. This weakness made them more vulnerable to colds and recently a flu. There were funerals daily.

“I wish there was more I could do.” Lillian said.

“Knowing your prayers are with us is more than enough. At least we have a roof over our heads. There’s now many that doesn’t. When they closed the Lingan mine those families were forced out of the company houses. No mine no home. Where is a person to go?”

“There’ll be help I’m sure.” Lillian kissed Hanna on the cheek and joined Clara. She was more grateful that ever for having been given a haven when she needed one, but how long could even the O’Dowell’s  manage with things getting worse for everyone around her.

The service washed over her without her paying attention to it. She heard bits and pieces of the various rituals and the sermon. Other parishes were sending money. The Monseigneur had spoken to the Premier to no avail. The Bishop had spoken to the some cabinet misters but was told this was a provincial not a federal matter and so they would do nothing. The conclusion appeared to be that God helps those who help themselves, which in this case only the BritCanada Coal Company had pockets deep enough to help themsevels.

“What does helping themselves mean?” Lillian asked Mr McFadden as they made their way out after the mass.

“Pray and listen to the guidance one gets from the Lord.” 

“What if the Lord tells some helping themselves is to strike for better working conditions and tells others that accepting any working condition is better than not working at all?”

“Miss McTavish your words are dangerously similar to those of the Communists.”

“They … they are?” Her face flushed. “Perhaps I’ve been listening too much what Steven has to say about all this.”

“Miss McTavish you are in many ways still an outsider here. This isn’t Boston.”
“I comprehend that but …”

“The folks here don’t think logically. They have no idea of a future only of their stomachs in the now.”

They were in the foyer once again. The crowd was stopped at the doors.

Screams and shouts came from outside.

“Father,” one of the parishioners shouted. “They are charging with horses as we leave the church.”

The Monseigneur and her uncle pushed through the crowd.

The parishioners pushed back and she fell against the wall. An elderly women stumbled back into the church helping her husband. He was bleeding from a blow to the head.

“They rode up as we were walking down the street. Swinging their batons and hitting anyone they could reach.” The woman gasped. “Anyone! We’re not miners!”

Over the shouting she could hear the horses. Then gun shots. There was brief silence.

The miners who were still in the church rushed out. Some pulling up the picket fencing around the church lawn to give them something to use in self-defence.

Lillian cautiously went to one of the side exit doors to peer out. She saw a mass of men with wooden pickets flailing at the militia on horses wielding thick black clubs. Both sides were shouting accusations at each other.

“BritCan doesn’t even want us to go to church in peace. They have no respect for the God.”

“Commie rabble. Papist scum. Pray to your God now.”

“I knows you father Billy Davis.”

“Get off the streets now or …”

“These are our streets, ya goddamned company bastard.”

Another shot rang out. The fighting stopped a moment. The miners fell back to the church grounds. The militia pulled back a few yards to regroup.

A runner dashed up to one of the horsemen with a message.

“A man is dead because of you.” The lead horseman said. “How many more have to die before you learn your place.”

“Who?” several men shouted at once.

“Daniel Jenkis!” the horseman shouted back. “You ready to leave peacefully.”

“We was till you charged as us with no cause.” someone yelled back.

The horseman nodded and all the troops stepped forward. “If that’s how you want it we’ll trample the lot of you.”

“Kill a child. Is that what you want?”

“Not us. You behave and there’ll be no trouble.”

Lilian’s uncle pushed through the men and stood alone in front of them. “How can we disperse with you blocking the streets and sidewalk?” he asked quietly. He puts hands out palms up.

One of the horses reared and the front hooves hit her uncle. He fell forward under the horse. Lilian darted out to drag her uncle out of the horse’s way.

“Get out of the way you Catholic biddy.” One of the other horsemen laughed and Lilian glanced at him as he swung his baton at her.

“That’s it!” a male voice from the other side of that horseman shouted as the horseman was yanked backwards off the horse. She caught a glimpse of Steven O’Dowell wresting that rider to the ground.

The rider of the rearing horse had it under control and had pulled it away from the prone body of her uncle.

She knelt beside him. He was on his stomach and she wasn’t sure if she should turn him over.

“Uncle Pat can you hear me.” she said squeezing his hand.

“Yes child.” He turned his head toward her.

She saw that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. He pushed himself up painfully with his right arm. She struggled with his weight to help him stand. Two miners came over to take his weight from her.

“Thank you. I’m a bit winded. When I saw the beast rear before me it was the horsemen of the Apocalypse come to life to warn me. But this one was only an animal, not a messenger.”

“Lillian …” Steven came quickly to her brushing dust off his coat. “You haven’t been harmed in any way have you?”

“No, Steven I haven’t. Father Pat has been injured sorely. We must get him some medical attention.”

They helped her uncle back into the church. Inside on the benches were several others who had been assaulted by the militia. 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License

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Headlights

samprules2

Working through the  227 Rules For Monks.

Who knew the simple life could be so complex.

Headlights

the elevator door opened

there was a woman

alone

 

after a startled stare

she stepped back

to let me enter

 

I didn’t get on

I let the door shut

so she could continue

her ride alone

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Shelf Life

Shelf Life

moldy tub 

back of the fridge shelf

saved to save money

now lost to decay

so much food

we can’t eat it fast enough

bought in bulk

to save money

money is lost

when we can’t eat fast enough

when we eat fast enough

the time we save

is spent shopping for more

 

nothing that lasts

and when it does last

it can’t be used anyway

dispose don’t save

all those empty containers

take up more space

than we have to store what we need

they’ll come in handy

 

well if it hasn’t come in handy in a year

it’ll never come in handy

the surplus is comforting

but not profitable

share don’t save

the money you save

only pays off someone else’s bills

 

we reduce reuse

never have enough in the long run

while those that produce

what we have to reduce reuse

get fat bonuses 

and the prices keep going up

to cost us more than we save

 

when we run out

the planet gives its last gasp

don’t blame me

save your breath

even if there’s no profit 

in saving it

that is

if anyone can still breathe

on the back shelf

A neighbour recently cleaned out his garage and offered me two large boxes for jars & lids. All types of jars, glass, plastic. jars that had held jams, peanut butter, mayo and the like. He had kept them expecting to use them one day. When he ran out space in his basement he moved them to the garage. One box had 1995 written on the side, the other said 2010. He just hated to see them go to waste. I hated to think of what else he was still keeping for that someday when it would come in handy.

I identified with him though. I do have a drawer full of elastic bands mixed with bread bag clips – stopped buy bread in 1999. So this piece is about packaging and the hold ‘stuff’ can have on us.It also touches on  the fear of not having enough in a consumer culture in which having too much is seen as prosperity, while have enough is a compromise.

In Toronto we sort our garbage for recycling but I just don’t how much gets recycled – I’ve never seen a program that shows what happens to all those newspapers, tin cans, jars that we put in the right bins. Though I did see a news item a few years ago about how the cost of warehousing the city’s pick up of recycling is greater than is recouped by selling it so they were giving it away to some company and paying the shipping costs. I’m sure some executive got a nice bonus for facilitating that solution.

Toronto Hydro has a push for us wasteful consumers to reduce our power usage. More efficient lightbulbs, refrigerators and best times to lower the strain on the network. What about the strain die to sleep loss doing my laundry at midnight to save money? I wonder how energy efficient the Hydro offices are? solar powered computers? 


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Then Things Changed

Then Things Changed 

yes

that was me

then

those were my words

then

I believed what I said

things change

I change

stop trying to pour me of today

into the image of me

then

 

people tell me I’ve lost weight

when I was never aware

that they were aware

of what I weighed

that what I look liked mattered

then

I didn’t know or care

yet now that I’ve changed

physically in their eyes

they still see me

as the same person

but not so fat

they never said I was fat

then

mind you

but that I’ve lost weight since

then

 

I don’t say what I once said

my world view has changed

become broader

& more refined at the same time

my body gets narrow

my vision get clearer

in ways people notice

people I hadn’t set out

to be noticed by

then

now knowing

they’ve been looking

that they are capable of comparing

the old me

then

with the new me

 

I still don’t give a shit

but

thanks for noticing

One of the things that ‘bugs’ me about the the way media spins our reality has been demonstrated in the recent press about sexual predators. The press will report on a event that took place, say 20 years ago with pictures of the victim as they were 20 years ago but of the perpetrator as they appear today – creating the impression that this, say, 60 year old molested this 20 year old – when in fact the perpetrator was 30 at the time.

I know that at 20 I said things that I admit where foolish, stupid, racist, sexist – spouting things I I would disagree with today. I’ve learned better & recognize that thinking can change. So when he press digs up some foolish thing a 20 year old did to smear them at 50 I think, of the ‘digger’ – where you a saint all your life? Give people credit for growing up & changing.

In this piece I use weight as an example of how we change, of how people remember us & perceive us based on that memory. It’s also about the back-handed compliment – too have never thought of oneself of being over-weight & then being told you look better after losing weight clearly mean that some once thought you were fat fat fat.

There’s also sense of how, in my case at any rate, one loses appearance/body consciousness – how others actual see us as opposed to what we see in the mirror – how it easy to think no one actually notices us at all or that they care how we look enough to compare today with the past.

This is the last of the 48 laws. Hurrah! I certainly enjoyed the challenge of using them as prompts. I did find them more manipulative than anything else – how to give the right image, how to use people for one’s benefit as opposed to how to be a better person. In the new year I’ll collect all of them &n my comments together for a possible eBook.

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Sleeping With Losers

Sleeping With Losers

no I do not want

to sleep with your sons

or your daughters

for that matter

at least I don’t want to sleep with them

as a result winning this battle

in fact

if we hadn’t engaged in this conflict

I might well have desired them

but that was not the object

I don’t want to burn your crops

destroy your cities

I only want to win

I want you to acknowledge my superiority

in battle

that’s it

my superiority in bed

is another matter

one that I don’t need to prove to anyone one

my tanks are the biggest

the best

what I am in bed

isn’t relevant

I won’t want your wives

your homes

won’t loot

your ancient treasures

I’m not going to change

your government

that’s up to you

because clearly

you were capable

of taking care of yourselves

you are conquered

not rescued

you have to save yourselves

so instead of offering me

sexual solace

in hopes that I’ll do

what you have to do for yourselves

get busy

but

if your sons

are so sexually attracted

by the power of my determination

I might be willing to give them a tumble

The Laws prompts forced me to look at things I don’t ordinary think about & to think about them in a different way. I’ve written more politically charged material than ever before & also some anti-war pieces. But to say war is bad or war greases the wheels of the economy with the blood of the disenfranchised seems simplistic.

One of the tools of cultural genocide is sexual morality – when the Spanish discovered South America they were indignant that natives lived unmarried & didn’t mate for life. So they proceeded to force Christianity on them while using the female population for their sexual pleasures. Mass insemination of conquered women still continues.

Even things like greed have causes – i.e. the need for wealth to bolster a sense of worth. The need to win to prove who has the biggest … tank. Power for the sake of power not for the sake of improving anyone’s lot but for proving one has power. Most political or religious war has some petty emotional underlying cause. It’s a matter of principle.

Another ‘thing’ about war is that it is portrayed as a cismale heterosexual field of combat. Trump’s attempt to force trans people out of the US services was, in part, his attempt to maintain that macho, tough US facade. Never mind the fact that the US medical system is so skewed the only way for many trans can afford to get the medical attention they need is to enlist. You don’t have to bake wedding cakes for queers etc.

The title is new. It was called ‘Your Sons’ but as I was re-reading it this now one came to me. Much groovier. It was fun to create this narrative voice – so reasonable a victor who presents this ambiguous, almost passive-aggressive, stance. All he wants is to win. And emasculate your nation by having sex with your sons.

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AutoCorrected Perfection

AutoCorrected Perfection

there’s always something

my eyes don’t catch everything

words lose there meaning

thanks to auto spell

I often don’t know what I’ve just said

or if what you’ve written

is what you’ve written

so I don’t feel so responsible

for those little typos

that change love to leave

that change emotionally comithtemnt

I mean commitment

to being committed for emotionally disfunction

there’s always something

that’s why I count on your eyes

to pick up what mine miss

trust me no matter how right it appears

it needs you to make more better right

I couldn’t do it without

those sharp insightful comments of yours

you find what slips between the lines

while I’m so busy

making sure those lines are straight

to your perfect heart

Has this every happened to you – you type quiet & come back to edit & see that it is quite or even quit – that somewhere between your thinking, your fingers, the page & the push to get it out something is replaced in transmission. Concern become concerto thanks to auto spell – that algorithm that takes over your thinking to fill in what it thinks you have started or if you’ve, as I often do, switch two letters as you type jumps to concussions I mean conclusions.

There have been times I’ve let either the typo or the auto spell word stay – ‘head in the coulds’ is much more poetic than ‘head in the clouds’. I let it stand because by the time I come to edit a piece months may have passed & I no longer remember what it was I set out say anyway. So I jump on the coulds easily & gratefully. Right now autocorrect wants to change coulds either to singular or to colds.

This piece also plays on the notion of Freudian slip of accidentally saying what you don’t mean to say. Those verbal slips when one says “sure I want to leave you” when intending to say ‘sure I love you’. Or our frequent habit of saying one thing when we mean another ‘I’m busy that day’ when you mean ‘I don’t want to be there.’

In editing it’s always wise to have another set of eyes read before final product is published. In going back over Lazarus Kiss the number typos that even auto spell missed is amazing to me. I never said I was a copy editor. I don’t write a lot of directly romantic poetry so I pushed this one into what I hope is an unexpectedly cornball direction. I enjoy taking cliches and bending them into new shapes, in this case the shape of a heart.

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Preach Baby Preach

Preach Baby Preach

you know

if more people practiced safe sex

we wouldn’t need

all these precautions

it’s the fault of all them damn

fuck happy sluts

spreading disease

making babies no one can afford

wrecking lives

not caring as they go around

merrily fucking

away without a care in the world

with out a worry

for the medical system

for hospitals

that can’t afford a glass of water

unless someone’s insurance covers it

and my taxes go up

every time some horny idiot decided

to fuck without protection

just to suit their momentary pleasure

if you can’t keep it up

because of some barrier

you don’t deserve to fuck

you hear what I’m saying

unless you’re in the right financial bracket

you shouldn’t be fucking at all

taking risks

bringing babies into a world

where you expected others to care for them

to support you

while you stay off work

to bring them up

so use the brain between your shoulders

not the one between your legs

make some sensible choices

that won’t cost me anything

get that baby carriage out of my way

stop blocking the sidewalks

the grocery aisles with it

if you’d used protection

I could go shopping without

having to shove you

and your screaming brats out of the way

my children are well behaved

This piece is both a rant & an analogy. It plays on the paradox of what is being ranted about & the true  nature of the ranter – how we use shame as means of controlling the behaviour of others while wanting our own to be uncontrolled. When I first wrote this I had read things about men controlling women’s health & reproductive services – part of which was the notion that if they can’t afford to have children why should the state  have to become responsible for their irresponsible actions.

Refusing to fund methods to avoid getting knocked up for ethical religious reasons while at the same time condemning them for not using those methods or by merely keeping their legs close – yet denouncing women for emasculating men by refusing men the right to control when those legs are to be opened or closed. Its all about control not ethics or deeply religious convictions.

As the song says ‘the rich get richer the poor get babies.’ I read a specfic novel in which only those who could afford children could have them. A device was implanted that kept men & women from getting aroused – thus controlling reproduction. It created more problems than it solved. The TV series Handmaiden’s Tale is another take the religious control of women.

There’s also a sense that our preacher does exactly what is being preached against. As my piece progresses the narrator becomes less reliable when its clear its the fact of baby carriages, of his convince that is the issue. It ends with a nod to the blindness of many parents, even pet owners, that their precious one is perfect while others are the problem. My dog would never bite you, less you deserved it.

 

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The Original of The Species

The Original of The Species

I did not

copy your runway walk

paint in your style

well

maybe I did take a little

you can’t blame me though

consider it flattery

I didn’t do it as well as you did

at least

I don’t think I did

no matter what others say

I didn’t try to do you

better than you do yourself

I never claimed to be the originator

just because I didn’t credit you

with being my inspiration

merely means

I knew everyone would see through me

would see you

not me

the fact that they didn’t

isn’t my fault

I’m not using your name

to get ahead

I’m not denying your influence

to suppress you

I’m denying it because

I have the power to do so

which was one of the best things

you taught me

how to use what power I have

to minimize the obvious influence

of others so my reflection of you

has now becomes the real deal

This starts with a moment from America’s Next Top Model in which one of the models accused another of stealing her runway walk. As the show is edited for drama, & the women encouraged to be nasty when the cameras are on them I didn’t take it all too seriously – though on the show this lead to verbal assault, name calling & lots of bleeping bleeps.

I played with the flow of power in this piece with my narrator admitting to the copying but without remorse. I think of All About Eve or even Ripley’s Game in which one character takes over the life of another to create a new one of their own. In those cases the taker-over denies what they are doing while continuing to do it. There is also an echo of the ‘he stole my music/play/writing & claimed it was his’ that shows up in films as well. Of course no one believes the poor artists who then seeks revenge.

 

But what is original? We all have influences, sometimes that influence is very clear. Sometimes in fact the clear that influence the greater the respect. Who doesn’t want to described as out Hemingway Hemingway? or taking Ginsberg to the next level. Can you really tell the difference between Lady Gaga and Madonna?

 

I love the way this piece ends with my narrator baldly admitting the theft & that they used the power gained to further suppress their influencer because they know their influencer would do the same if they could. Just because there isn’t anything new under the sun doesn’t mean I won’t take credit for it if I can 🙂

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2018’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

Like my pictures? I post lots on Tumblr

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/topoet