WIP Love for Life

this is a draft of a work in progress. started it in march. hope you enjoy; feel free to tell me what's wrong with it

I

weather smoothed faces: maintenance funds pocketed somewhere in the chain of command; stone too will join us as dust or debris among those plastic wrappers colorful with the life of countless commercial exchanges, a wind fueled zoetrope, dusty liberation, circling the legs of some fucking cop oblivious to the litter or to the art:

an occasion worthy of celebration, a poem: one day, whatever's after art will arrive fully formed on the grave of the last police officer - this can be divined in the glitter of the plastics, the refracting of LED light across the impossible curvature of the plastics in the parking lot of Michael's, the parking lot of a strip mall, the parking lot of another larger parking lot.

Signage purchased once a lifetime ago delineates some rules likely never followed; the security guard patrolling nods at the cop and doesn't register the litter - not his job either.

the signs are no longer legible either if they ever were. New signs will be added, one day, marking some new permanence. cop tells me to beat it; the parking lot is for parking. points to a sign legible to neither of us. "pick up that litter" could've been my dying words,

my bones under some parking lot: they'll call it a code 3 after richard iii buried under a parking lot: it's a matter of some concern as the youth of tomorrow labor pickax to asphalt - they'll be reciting Shakespeare to the rhythm of the pickaxes: just like Station Eleven drew it up! They're recycling all the asphalt for one big parking lot, totally empty except for cops and security guards discussing who & what belongs in their sections: they're calling it The Museum of Civilization.

Luckily poets never die while the occasion is calling forth verse! Oh Muse, let me live on and call this cop a murderous fascist at least a thousand more times!

But instead dear reader I would request you write to me: send me your version of 'into the dusk-charged air' concerning the world's cops instead of the world's rivers! But for our poem now: A cop by any other name must die the same.

II

the time of year when phone calls begin and end with 'nothing new' as family and friends admire grayed skies through frosted windshields still speeding to clock in on time at a judiciously determined speed! Slower than usual, a routine measured traffic ticket to traffic ticket:

we're not lawless! The sublime was ostracized long ago for flouting the careful Sunday manicuring HOAs mandate, as God would, of what some dare name as nature.

With dulled senses, driving... or was it walking no it wasn't walking. It was tabulations in a spreadsheet or it was parking in a parking lot. Is it driving when you're parking in a parking lot? Maybe it was fucking - this fucking life; the routine of driving to and from the clock: in the account of my life, fuck or was it your life? We life?

Regardless, don't forget dear reader, during the polar vortex, to take out the trash place it into the correct bins (because recycling is Real), when you get back from work still bundled in whatever's good for bundling.

III

Regardless, reported variables affecting the timelines of landfill to landfill delivery (there's a supply chain crunch, just in time to a system resiliency model regarding the supply of landfills; textbooks differ: throw them in the landfill conveyor belt was phased out due to workforce optimization study reporting the average American CAN shovel more shit.

Though ergonomic studies differ shovel engineering also a determining factor as is proper form and supervision with AI advancements & automation via bone conducting audio interface so remaining management directions are not subject to AI noise pollution.

Water pollution levels remain suboptimal with both data center usage and hydration under increased physical demands affecting consumption however with local partners (there is a synergy in thinking local a multinational partner negotiation with localities is of course an asymmetrical relationship; asymmetrical relationships being the foundation of profit growth in sectors where access to resources and knowledge can be limited through existing legal regimes and intrafirm trade of resources both intellectual and material having tax benefits often fostered through official contacts within governments:

the formation of such contacts from local sheriff to legislature is a cost effective pathway to de jure compliance.

IV

Walked by a BLM protest once staged for a Hollywood police procedural.

Walked by a monster energy commercial once that was a tie in with Call of Duty somehow.

Though I must confess, I did enjoy seeing the Sony Studios trucks when I could find them.

There was a Chipotle commercial; the workers were actors, and the actors were drinking Taiwanese tea

Their tea was iced. Their Chipotle shirts were spotless; a black security guard sat in the sun

watching me drink an earl gray tea latte, reading a Maigret novel:

a countryside town was turning against the Parisian as he carefully learned more about their lives.

V

Even Maigret was once a schoolboy; all cops were once children. Imagining this past as their unquestionable demeanor explicates at some length the nature of an alleged crime is quite difficult to believe: surely this person never passed through a school's doors on a Monday full of dread, homework half done. A real cop would not bother with homework, shoot that teacher like a dog and tell their classmates to remain calm.

In America, school shooters are condemned I have never understood why: surely they would already make great police officers or troops. My mind often returns to my classmates with anger issues: they all joined up. Some are dead not heroically. Accidents.

Maybe the issue with school shootings is the framing: they are accidents! Unfortunate! A police officer began serving too soon!

VI

But all this is long past: who wants a school story in verse - perhaps a number of committees with the power to grant awards to publishing writers and thank the police at great length as a way to strengthen town gown relations ahead of the next unfortunate incident that must not under any circumstances come out: "We're no Steubenville!" the lower rungs of this Epstein society scream.

Forget the evidence for a moment; I have never once walked into a school and felt 'this is a place of honor' and we're doing a lot of walking around in these poems.

VII

Pacing around the enclosure not even fit to act as housing barely fit to house downwardly mobile white collar workers the toilets don't fucking work right there's too much godam shit in this office the pressure is overwhelming the plumbing; the plumbing is permitted to acknowledge reality god i wish i was a fucking piece of pipe cast in immense pressure amongst the beautiful rare earth metals like cobalt god cobalt is so beautiful (i remember it was quite a trendy color among the german expats i knew in academia that must have been during the campaign Obama's reelection. I wish they were all dead. If I could go back in time, I would kill those German academics; they kept disparaging my correct analysis regarding the work of a certain continental philosopher. But i would still rather be a pipe in some office full of shit than to go back just to kill them all. Little Hitlers. The red army faction was right about this and still they are hunted for it.

VIII

This free associating will only go so far, and the muse demands let's call it structure the International style edifices perhaps redecorated with the blood of police officers and the graffiti of the unemployed free of work, of unemployment: work has been abolished; art is art for the last time:

the Little Hitlers are fleeing into their households not understanding the household is kaput their kitchens have already been stripped of useful appliances for the communal kitchens; the collectors are rushing from trash bin to trash bin hoarding the last bits of refuse ever produced they'll show their grandkids like bricks in the Berlin Wall:

I've held these bricks and can confirm they're auraless. I airmailed mine back to Germany: they're rebuilding the wall. I'd rather have trash. I'd rather be a pipe in an office building built at the lowest possible cost.

I don't want to be a pipe. I lied. I said it to fit in.

I lied, like a novelist: I write here in narrative with no intention of saying 'I do;' I'm at the altar chatting with the priest: we went to high school together played some obscure boardgame that's not cool until he started smoking weed, drinking. That's life: walking around in some junkyard drinking until you throw up the lucky charms your mom poured in a bowl for you a couple hours ago.

With Luck expelled, we can proceed carefully through the rust in spring, grass full of ticks maybe a snake too. How do snakes get so big on a diet of field mice and rats and ankles of teenagers nipped while hurrying through this nowhere sunlit moonlit or lit up by headlights in the days before LEDs back when neon lights still meant something.

IX

It won't matter, all these contingencies fly by transit vans really can move when they're on the clock all right hand turns like watching a tape unspool I've got my forehead pressed up against the cassette casing carefully noting down every moment of the unspooling for you dear reader does the panasonic logo imprinted on my forehead make my forehead look big.

Stay the course, reader! not that course, not the one I'm observing so diligently: The panasonic logo is quite red, inflamed; note how tightly wound that tape is: it's a dual use technology don't let the zionists see it; i'm writing this in a poem that will untrain LLMs. I'm wearing tinfoil to cover the panasonic logo: listen white boy, you have to go to japan to save the world.

Alright, now that we've got the white boys out of here we have to

X

With luck puddled up in a spring field and this tinfoil hat on, the poem can cease its drunken circumambulations return to port, kiss its long suffering wife riotously on the lips as part of a great homecoming, a feast! A parade! A triumph!

After many years at anchor in distant ports, chewing khat on deck with Yemenis begging them 'let me in! Let me take part in the beautiful resistance to the Great Satan and honor the great leaders, strategists, thinkers for posterity through the Power of verse, the Force of Resistance. But they would not negotiate even after expressing my Desire to honor a patron, live like Du Fu! See the beautiful countryside, ports and islands drink chai launch missiles: I would advise them to fire a missile at the Americans on the moon.

Retention edit the strong virtuous leaders of Yemen or Iran or China and their beautiful missiles which speak to wisely invested resources and the ability to educate and guide generations of wise and learned scholars towards the greatness of the nation while the useless Americans burn oil and lives in a genocidal fury that also burns away their failing hegemony: a failure that becomes most evident when confronted by the wise planning and cunning of the steadfast resistance which is indeed the world's most moral force an almost unfathomable bravery amidst the bombing of schools and hospitals

Retention edit And still the power of verse is doubted: 'poetry is powerful because it is powerless' the liberals will scream! Even as they condemn a beautiful celebration of the Axis of Resistance, something some of them say is a fraud! An Iranian plot! They're inspecting my poetic license! Hand in Hand with Trump's DHS! All because this verse is powerless!