To His Coy Mistress

(Sue me, dead white poet, I like the title)

The only real version of romance
that I've gotten to enjoy
are the women I've had
the pleasure to dance with,

oh, not real dancing,
but the metaphorical kind,
where the only movement
is a game of mental chess,
which I suppose I must
thank them for, because
I do enjoy that sort of thing,
and this is the only real way
I get to do that.

Such interested parties
seem to come rather
plentifully, because,
rather secretly, I think
that's the kind of everyday
magic that romantics
are looking for, maybe
not the sweeping off
of feet that people seem
to believe in, but
the kind that can be
practiced to no significant
harm, so long as it's
amusing. Now,

I may be wrong about that,
and maybe that explains
a lot of things, but for now,
I will continue to indulge
this delusion.

Samaritan Snare

I sorry, but there's really
nothing more idiotic
than trying to do
the right thing without
actually thinking it
all the way through.

I much prefer an
analytical approach,
one that calculates
the actual benefits
to all involved, rather
than the one that
merely appears
to be good.

I'm a walker, and yes,
I understand among
many other things
it's easy to find people
who can't do that
very intelligently,
but to give credit
where it's valuable,
how about stopping
to wonder if whether
it's really worth anyone's
time to try and give me
the right of way, when
if you just went, we
would both benefit
exactly as it should
have played out.

David Foster Wallace,
to go back to him,
believes it's inevitable
to depend on some sort
of domineering leadership,
and that's another thing
I vehemently disagree
with him on.

To my philosophy,
that kind of reasoning
is the same as
the samaritan snare,
the belief that assinine
thinking actually
making its own
kind of sense.

Leaders only exist
to help guide us -
I would more properly
call anyone who aspires
to such a position
a guardian, but then
where would be
the glory?

It wouldn't be as
prestigious, just
as doing the unnecessary
good deed would
not make you feel
good about your own
supposed charity.

Well, we don't need
charity, and we don't
need greedy leaders,
all we need
is a little common sense.

12 Marks

These are some of the superstitious marks
I try to remember along one of the final
stretches on my hour+ walk to work:

I. the metal wheel rims someone
used as part of a fence, and recently
covered with wire gating, thanks
to new puppies, on S. Hancock

II. 1135 Rockwood, where the Mr. Roboto/
Tin Man/Woodsman/Nick (as I've variably
called him, in part thanks to my new
renewed enthusiasm for Oz) hangs
from the top of the porch

III. the phallic crack that seems
to have weathered noticeably
over the past few months

IV. 1125 Rockwood, where the terriers
guard the inside of the picture window

V. Chamberlin Academy on Slater,
where the events board must be observed

VI. the sneakers hanging
from the power lines on the same avenue;
there had briefly been a second pair

VII. 1106 Florence, where
there's a green ramp, which I
only noticed recently
(green being my favorite color)

VIII. 1101 Florence, the brick house
with its guardian ladybug

IX. 1065 Florence, right next
to te brick house, ith guardian ants

X. 1059 Florence, the infamous
"Not For Sale" car rotting
into the dirt driveway

XI. 1057 Florence, with its collection
of aging cars, right next to "Not For Sale"

XII. 1037 Florence, which is
indicative of how ephermal
all these landmarks are, because
it's a house that was for sale,
at least when I started taking
this route, seemingly for
the longest time, but has now
been occupied for so long,
I started confusing it with
a similar house a little earlier
on the avenue

Sleeping Dogs

There's nothing more peaceful
about a dog than the sleeping state.

Sometimes, when I'm looking
at a sleeping dog, I think
that dogs are best when
they're sleeping.

I know that's not very kind,
and really, dogs are very charming,
but they never look better
than when they're asleep.

They seem to reach
their most noble state.

It's also cute
to hear them snore,
or to see them squirm,
and to speculate
as to the cause.

Is it some happy dream,
so lovely treat,
or perhaps a fitful hunting?

I don't like the barking,
but as to the running,
I think that's second best.

I don't care to think of dogs
as our guardians - why the hell
make them our best friend
and bodyguard at the same time?

No, they're too friendly,
and far too kindly,
in a sweet and restful
repose.

Rich People

The problem with rich people is they
mistakenly believe everyone wants
to live like them.

***

The pseudo riche
are drunk on their
class model, crumbling
like a house of cards
with no real support
at its base and
the stock market
as its bored game.

Living the New Fade

Here’s how to define the New Fade:
it’s the Age of Mouldwarp,
in which everything new is
being worn into old very quickly,
so that it’s very hard to keep up.

That’s it, really,
that’s your whole
explanation right there.
Everything else is
in the details.

Imagine, as David Foster Wallace does,
this phenomenon as what
you can view on your
television, but take away
what I perceive to be
his cynicism, because
as a citizen of this Age,
of Mouldwarp and Entertainments,
I view it as opportunity,
not like the American Dream,
but rather the chance to step
beyond that, to wake the
sandman and explore
the Metaphysics of Value,
to shatter all the old
expectations and forge
an Age of Possibility.

I don’t know what Peter Ackroyd
was thinking, but when
he first coined the term
Mouldwarp (or at least
as far as I can tell),
he seemed to grasp
exactly what the New Fade was;
he let the Glass Walls Be
and he watched as Smiley
toiled in the field, because
that’s what needs to be done,
theoretically the last time
anyone will really be able
to tell the difference
between reality and
what the Great Bird of the Galaxy
saw when he hitched the wagon train
to the stars.

I’ve been struck, recently,
by how Rowling and Clarke
produced a new age of magic
(which Ackroyd sees
as the successor to Mouldwarp,
some three hundred years hence,
right before all our present
knowledge becomes a jumble,
a sphinx, guarding the knowledgeable
from the ignorant, as all
good stories do, where the
idea of imagination
comes from) where no
males have bothered,
conjuring Potter and
Norrell and Strange,
masters all of the art
of rediscovering lost things
almost by accident
(if careful study
may be called that),
are all themselves
male. What that says,
I don’t know.

The New Fade is an age
that seeks to eliminate
and illuminate,
cross-pollinate,
create a new state
that does not
recognize the ability
to ignore new things
simply to mollify the old.

It is not meant simply to howl
against perceived injustices,
but it spins like a widening gyre,
and it sings of itself,
and in the valley of Elah,
where the mad god Ellah waits,
forever perched between
a constant battle of good and evil,
which can be overlooked
but never underestimated.

In the New Fade,
it’s possible to
walk in grey lines,
which are the blurs
between black and white,
yin and yang,
to everyone become
a bodhisattva,
because there are
no longer limitations,
only invisible
barriers meant to be
pushed aside,
dream states
to waken from,
games of chance
to play, whether
you understand the rules
or not; you can be mad
if you lose, because
there are always
other pursuits.

In the New Fade,
you can watch as
others cling to
their old rules,
the ones quickly becoming
irrelevant.

In the New Fade,
there are no classes,
only those struggling
to maintain them.

In the New Fade,
there are First Worlds
and Second Worlds
and Third Worlds,
but there is a far better
fight now to abolish
them than ever before.

Instead of exploiting
everyone, there is war
to try and set it right;
is the price so high
to condemn those
going about this
selfishly?

What would be the point in that?

It’s the New Fade;
this too shall pass.

Life’s not perfect
in the New Fade;
I never meant to
suggest that,
but where would
you rather live,
where there is
possibility and hope
or where it’s
interesting to talk about,
where it might make an
interesting story,
but a misery to
actually be?

The New Fade is like
a challenging story,
which few might
actually appreciate,
but is far better
and more likely to
be remembered
than the most popular and
bestselling material.

The New Fade is
memory, that aspect
in all of us that
sees death as something
that brings an end,
rather than as a challenge,
and memory is our
effort to meet it,
in whatever way we can.

The New Fade is the culmination
of every doomsday prophecy.

The New Fade is the End Times.

The New Fade is 2012;
writing this in 2010,
yes I repeat, the New Fade
is 2012 -

It is a cycle,
and in that sense,
I do agree that
Tolkien was a genius,
that all he spent his time
on, when he labored
on everything that
wasn’t The Hobbit
or The Lord of the Rings,
it was fruitful scholarship.

The New Fade will be,
in hindsight, an Index,
just another page of history,
something to glance over
and probably forget all about,
how important it was,
how quick, how fleeting;
indeed, every bit the
quickened pace its
name is meant
to suggest.

It is every bit
ephemeral.

It can be blown out
like a candle,
it is as fragile
as an alliance
of musicians,
like the Beatles,
or the lease on life
of Mozart, why
so many of the greatest minds
live fast and die young,
scrambling to complete
themselves.

Maybe baby;
no, for sure!

It’s why so many
great talents are
overlooked; yes,
observed, but passed by
as the search continues,
because the New Fade
is hungry, far hungrier
than can be sated.

Is it any wonder
that we live in such
a robust time
for waistlines?

You will find the great girth of Henry VIII here!

The New Fade comes with clews,
which tie the masts of the pirate ship,
and we’re all playing the game of larceny,
as we dance to the beat
of whatever we’re listening to now.

It’s simple economics.

The only conceivable
problem is trying to
maintain the Self in the New Fade,
because that’s both the risk
and reward to be had.

Common Sense IV.

It's hard to have Alex Karev tact
in a tactless world.

It's hard not to be Gregory House,
who has all the respect and still
thought too forthright.

It's hard to live in a world
with no tact, because
Alex Karev is the devil.