The Graced Land

The Graced Land;

Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide!
Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves!

– Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

i. Preface

i’ve been graced by pond life,
traced onto the splendor of lilypads and cattails
from the splendid wings of a dragonfly.

& it’s always been just me, myself and bry,
never knowing what festivity lies ahead,
finding myself floating, instead, in my ubiquitous, narcissistic dreams --
without ever taking control of the oars.
(I’ve felt, I suppose, like the intellectual
whores drifting by shorelines of epi/academic seas).

on land, bent over my knees, my skin dries out in vapor,
amused, I scribble text & thoughts to paper
in hopes of one day making sense.

I climb over the fence to question what I’ve been told,
yet I also feel sold & pimped to the institutional hold
of all this mindlessness & meandering movement.

tonight, rejoicing my short prayers,
& becoming complicated by the layers of generations who are now dust,
I recognize how much i must flow with the current as i do.
streaming away in manic motion, brittle as bamboo,
trying to renew my spirit,
in the wetland potion of my mind
hoping to, once again, find tranquil water.


ii. I stand before you as a poetic ape (Poe, 1917)

i stand before you as a poetic ape,
gentleman, ladies, i’m here to announce
there’s no escape from my cage --
and no matter how many journals let the writers rage
in published paranoia, we’re still on this cave-like stage
strutting and fretting our hours until we’re heard no more.

Another score for the wind
designed for correctly training the disciplined and punished.
It will never be finished nor diminished,
in our coats of unblemished fur.

This is the art form.
The examination making us normal, because they’re looking,
and they must see us without ever being seen (Foucault, 1984).

Such surveillance is the eye dance of a bureaucratic gaze,
and I doubt there’ll be a phase when it goes blind.
predators who are hunted
are as awake as those most shunted in every cavern of fear.
it’s just that, in their watch, an oppressed tear
trickles downstream unnoticed
even we, who are powerless, celebrate our might in the mechanical hierarchy of being.

i’ve seen my fellow apes succumbing to fleas,
dropping to their knees by such force.
& I know, too,
a horse, of course, only shows remorse when stung by a busy bee.

not even we apes are free, you see, as I shall explain.

maintain & train. maintain & train. maintain & train (Foucault, 1995)
the rain in spain stays mainly on the plane.

in this linguistic soup that
caters to imperial skyscrapers in a discourse of excellence
and middle class morality.
The impasse of such radicalism is cynical despair (Readings, 1996):

“Postmodernism has become another alibi
in the name
of which
intellectuals
denounce
the world for failing to live
up to their expectations” (Readings, 1996).

This historical baboon’s past hysterical,
post-historically he’s becoming quite lyrical
“with Bloom & London’s raving harpies” (Readings, 1996)
screaming mad with felt-tip Sharpies
writing “market-driven madmen” (Readings, 1996) upon SU bricks,
where, even now, we hicks can pay a price
to learn an education’s quite nice
if we’re willing to be shot from the political canon (Readings, 1996)
and broken down by the culturally elite.

and at some point even the rich student
must admit defeat to the man who is
behind the curtain, offering a simulacra (Zizek, 2007) of Oz --
everything is culturally determined.
we’re all hunted on tenured-tracks
where transnational corporations (Readings, 1996)
allow post-high school explorations
of the mind to those who find they care:

“Universities are parasitic institutions,”
writes Chomsky, “It doesn’t matter
what you read, what matters is how you read it” (2003).

King Kong, Ding Dong, I may be wrong,
but aren’t people automata (Chomsky, 2003), pea, yeah,
willing to pay, huh, for the opportunity
to move up in the world?

We educated simpletons get too
swirled in the privilege of academic whining
but few are willing to conform
with the storm of knowledge as a base of liquid games.
Teachers can be like adolescents
always looking for someone else to blame.

we’ve all been trained.
we’ve all been explained.
we’re all enchained, detained, & stained
because once again it rained and water will
find a way to flow.

this ape is letting go, free,
to the pedagogical struggle of doublets,
in recognition that “statistical predictions have no bearing on individuals” (Popkewitz, 1998).

this ape is on a role,
trying to save his soul (Popkewitz, 1998)
as the waters ebb & flow
pushing towards the confluence
of even more unknowing.

his ideas are growing,
monkeys seeing, monkeys doing
through the soil for
tomorrow’s gardens,
we keep the waters flowing

with ideas.

iii. Inside higher dread

we cling to life.

and some of us prefer Tori over Margaret (Spellings, 2006)
when s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g out our Beverly Hills
9021 uh-oh, spaghetti ohs
What is the future of higher ed…
when, for 371 years, we’ve all been spoon-fed
the idea that brains are better than brawn?

yawn.

*students aren’t graduating high school
*the price of college is outrageous
*remediation is a waste of academic time
*literacy among college students is declining
how am I supposed to make that rhyme
as a principle for upward mobility? (Spellings, 2006)

oh, say can you see

*that 90% of new jobs will require post-secondary education (Spellings, 2006)
even with the expectation gap from one school to the next?

perplexed?

*44% of faculty members say students aren’t prepared in
contrast to the 90% of high school teachers who think they are (Spellings, 2006).

There’s a lot of wishing on the educational star from
the S.S. Department of Ed, hoping the academic ship stays full course ahead
and doesn’t sink in another titanic bust of dread.

Just call me Mr. Potatohead.
Maggot of a 12th grade wasteland.
in pursuit of a graced land
from which I can jump on a turtle’s back
to ride the more buoyant waves.

Whose paying attention to what an artist craves? (Jackson, 1990)


iv. Eye do not want what eye don’t already have
(& other white lies of the practice)

upon the turtle shell lies a book of words,
keywords (Nelson, 1999), freewords, specialized in glee words
written by the adjunct and the defunct.

ph.ds are drowing in degrees. The grad student gets punked
in the land of student bodies, where the consumer is always right.
Academic McEmployees ask would you like lies with that?
cuz the budget’s always tight with tuition nearly out of sight.

activity fees, oh please, a student is charged when they sneeze,
and given a tissue of encouraging cheese that
excellence, tradition and honor matter most
(this, and a host of other Dead Poet banners of societal yesterdays).

Foucault takes his gaze (1984), sees through the haze,
into the maze

“where bloods and crips have nothing on these departments
when it comes to the animosity required to reign supreme in
one’s hood” (Nelson & Watt, 1999).

There they stood, they stand,
with publications that no one else but them shall read,
reenacting speech codes and multi modes of understanding,
while branding others into their cult.

It’s not their fault.

Everything that’s needed to be said has already been said,
so everything else is a footnote.

This is the price of prestige and celebrity,
intellectual plumage with the reality that there’s no room at top (Rhode, 2006)
of ivory towers, so the rain showers that feed tomorrow’s
tsunamis are set up for frustration,
academic masturbation of knowing more and more a
about less and less (Rhode, 2006). Did someone just say spooge-like stickiness? (Kunkel, 2007)

and we wonder why our planet is such a mess?

WE ARE bodies meant to be controlled (Foucault, 1975)
like historical mind-fields SOLD to an unknown future.

v. This Stanza Available: 1-315-638-9855 (low-paid poet seeking corporate sponsorship)

I’m striking a pose,
but not in a great pair of hose, and it shows,
Madonna, you’re not the only one who knows
life is a mystery
everyone must stand alone

but I don’t hear anyone calling my name
because my individuality has been “reduced
to the endless pursuit of mass-mediated (Giroux, 2002)
interests,” status, and a neo-liberal mess

that i call a blessing in disguise
(i welcome corporations to stare me in my eyes)
and have no problem receiving their economic prize
to help me sustain my future.

But a celebrity death match i’d like to see
is H.A. Giroux against Castiglionni.

Citzenship is portrayed as an utterly privatized affair whose
aim is to produce competitive self-interested individuals
vying for their own material and ideological gain (Giroux, 2002)

vs.

….nothing is more naturally desired by men or more proper to them
than knowledge, and it is great folly to say that knowledge is not always a
good thing (Castiglione, 16th Century).

Now that would be a main event,

like watching public intellectuals
teaching high school
with 150 students a day,
instead of the thirty
they complain are already a class-load too much (Williams, 2001).

such is such.
bush & mcgraw-hill dine over t.v. dinners, (Leistyna, 2007)
& in the end, they are the winners.

Dear Faust, i’d offer my soul for a billboard (Basinger, 1998).

vi. Sports complex-ities & blisters

Two, four, six, eight, ten, eighteen
all you sports babes get up & lean.
a leana leana leana leana leana leana wo!
a leana leana leana leana leana leana wo!

ya know, i ain’t that athletic,
could be considered quite pathetic
if it wasn’t for my ambitious drive.
i learned young, to be alive, and in order to survive
i needed competition --
an arena for pseudo-Olympic exhibition
so there’s been little room for my inhibition
whether at school, at work or at play.

So? i’d give myself a “B” (Lapchick & Brenden, 2006).
maybe even a “C” when it comes to machismo.
Yet, i’m always on the go,
running laps as the rivers flow
in such a network of aquatic maps.

And, sure, i get high-fives and daps for trying.
i’m the nice guy who finishes last,
and it’s a blast to hear, “but no cigar.”

hardy har har.

yeah, i’ve learned to be Bryan pushing a boulder,
with his shoulder, uphill….uphill….uphill.

Chill. Kill. I don’t know, but there’s a thrill
in such complexity
and i’m just another fanatic,
acting erratic in the playground of such sport (Shear, 2007)

And as for the corporate cohort
in their sky box heaven, (Golden, 2006)
let me count to seven,
before i say tax the rich
writing them off and on again
in a superbowl of privilege.

On the edge of every shore,
cattails and zebra muscles must score
trying to filter the humanity,
cleaning up the complexity
of another entitled generation.

inhalation. exhalation.
fluidity needs an explanation

buy more. consume more.
throw away more.

reduce. recycle. reuse.

This earth is the bomb
with a very short fuse.


viii. Hey, Zeus. Christ! (adapted from reflection)

There is a black artist* in Louisville, Kentucky, who paints fascinating landscapes of corporations and billboards: McDonald’s, Sunoco’s, Starbuck’s and huge panoptic buildings. Every Christmas, he walks the streets of Louisville dressed as Santa Claus and sings carols to anyone who will listen – sort of a walking example of evolution versus divine intervention. He migrates between homeless shelters and psychiatric wards, but his paintings are beautiful and purchased by the rich and ridiculous of Kentucky’s horse plantations in his artistic battle-cry. Many of the cinematic choices made by Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grading in “Jesus Camp” reminded me of his paintings. The cornfields, suburban track housing and blue skies in every state are beginning to make sense with the commercial strips, neon lights, sale signs and gas prices. It’s art.

“We all believe in something, even if it’s nothing” (Rosenblith, 2004)

To this Louisville painter, commercialism is an indication of God.

Douglas Coupland needs to believe in God, too….

as do i.

as do

i love/
to believe/
in hope (Kennally, 2001).
* Mark Anthony Mulligan

ix. The Unacalmer Acclamation

o.m.g.
b.t.w.
f.w.i.w.
I m
l.o.o.
proud of generation cyberspace
putting pace back in our face
in this culture so graced with
w.t.f. economic entitlements.

j/k or am i?

skidding my way through a culture of “ceaseless babbling” (Kunkel, 2007)
bubbling today in such creeks along internet highways,
on thruways of “outsourcing ethos” (Kunkel, 2007) and porn machine
displays of “avante guard lit bloggers” (Kunkel, 2007)
and other my space joggers.

kewl? : ) :-) : ( ; ) >: ( : - /

o.w.

mind is a reflection of machines
in virtual simulacra (Zizek, 2007) of digital democracy,
and such hypocrisy is a matter of 2nd Life (Lamont, 2007) .
cuz “In the guise of a fiction, the truth about
one’s self is articulated” (Zizek, 2007).

Ted Kazinski’s ideas (Kunkel, 1995) are matriculated with,
“In order to get our thoughts to the public with some
chance of making a lasting impression, we’ve had to kill people.” (F.C.)

this is the church, this is the steeple
open it up, a technological fable
of anti-depressant cures for humans
at the crossroads –

“all social arrangements are transitory” (F.C., 1995)
and email is only obligatory to
the intellectual situation.

M.Y.O.B., you voyeuristic vulture,
i’m proud of my wikipedia culture (Read, 2007)

and am ready to pay the trolls,
with their fees, polls and tolls,
in order to flow under the bridges
of anonymous communal thoughts.

N.T.I.M
I M A
P.I.T.A.

In
R.L.
all life is a
S.N.A.F.U.

ha-choo. God Bless me.

You Tube celebrity:
Hollywood writers are
S.O.L.

What the hell?
the Farmer and the dell

the postmodern get away with the cheese,
and Ellen Degeneres runs away with the wife.

such is life.

g.t.g.
t.t.f.n.

the cow jumps over the moon
the knife forks over the spoon

and on the lake
another loon.

b.b.s.

glossary:
o.m.g. – oh my god
b.t.w. – by the way
f.w.i.w. – for what it’s worth
I m - I am
l.o.o. – laughing out loud
w.t.f. – what the fuck
j/k - just kidding
kewl - cool
o.w. – oh well
M.Y.O.B – mind your own business
N.T.I.M – Not That It Matters
I M A – I am a
P.I.T.A. – pain in the ass
R.L. – real life.
S.N.A.F.U. – situation normal, all fucked up
S.O.L. – shit out of luck
g.t.g. – got to go
t.t.f.n. – ta ta for now.
b.b.s. – be back soon

x. September 12th

“Every debate about education is trivial compared to a single ideal: never again Auschwitz” (Adorno, 2003)

we’re on a forgotten
television set,
where gray scale
is faded --
like pre-programmed
pocket lint,
without a red-coated child
to bring us into meaning.

“Everyone feels too little loved, because every individual loves too little” (Adorno, 2003)

the parade is marching on, the water flows,
and you are there,
and you are there,
and you are there,
in this crowd, in this flood, a sliding scale of signifiers (Apple, 2002)
where one arm salutes another flaming bush
o u t s t r e t c h e d
in political games of monkey see
and george monkey do...
and did
and does,
in that buzz buzz, Hail! Hitler way,
and even if the maggot’s eyes
have islamic glitter,
too many are too weak to fight back
because somehow, we humans lack
the passion to work harder than we do.

democratically, i am blue.
as the ocean
that we ration,
and we love, too,

wearing golden, magazine stars,
brought to us by CNBC,
oh, say, how we
see
this dawn’s early light,
that there’s another fright within
these days
where painful memories
form ghetto’d ghouls and ghosts,
and oppression hosts yet another
history
which is blistery
like sand in the wind...

the march parades on, this sin,
and digs graves upon oil fields,
by shielding us in democracy
of double-edged hypocrisy
hip hop, you see,
with guns
aimed at our neck.

“Public schools are under attack precisely because they have the potential to become democratic public spheres instilling in students skills, knowledge and values necessary for them to be critical citizens capable of making power accountable and knowledge an intense object of dialogue and engagement” (Giroux, 2005)

you are strong.
and i envy your power.
me? i sit and cower, naked,
in another gaseous shower
because your tears
selected me
intellected me,
heckled me
into believing in this hope.

such a dope. i’ve become hard in the universal cold.

skin and bones starve
so we can look well fed,
pretending to be happy,
while others live life dead...

me and my brothers play tag
in a grass land of a jewish valley
and i was it
until he was it
until i was it
until he was it
until i was it
until he was placed in an oven to fly.

he left me, just bry, to cry and sigh
in words that read, poetically
.
pathetic,
in the grand scheme
of the American Dream
which brings nightmares
into islamic dawns
pawning scud missles into the night.

i can’t concentrate
nor match these like-like pictures
in a classic game of
concentration
cuz there’s too much pulp
squeezed into my citrus
concentrate, &
i’m losing focus,
going blurry,
in a sand slurry of
those ancestors
and decrepid walls.

Madame Schachter, (Wiesel, 1958)
she calls.
she calls
me on the train,
where father prayed for rain
and sister grabbed his forearm
and mother felt our pain.
this,
in old rage,
aging to be the eldery.

i am human.
man am i-
am i man?
are you?
evil?
alive?
an eye for an eye?
a lie for your truth.

bang bang you’re dead,
fifty bullets in my head.

i’m being led away
beyond the broken window
into burned-blind, krystalnacht faith,
like a wringraithe of emotion
breaking
d
o
w
n
into yellow marked rejection....
passing the inspection to the right,
i’m too weak, now,

dear lord, good night.

arbeiten zu mach frei
arbeiten zu mach frei

but in my prayer, i don’t want to die
in another holocaust of hatred and fear
(with a tear that’s not factored in
on NBC,
not free for
Survival,
nor celebrity
yet, the child is ripped from star-
struck arms,
and tantalized to eat dirt
to flirt with hollywood ratings).

and i heard him make music,
only to be bashed by it
against his head
instrumentally abused,
this violin plays dead

but if only one more could be saved.

i could have saved one more.

why can’t i save another?

God, where were you, brother?
Where are you
in this black and white world?

Humanity whirling too far
to be lost,
once again,

without seeing
your yellow flicker
in the fire-lit flame

Who’s wearing
the red coat now?

Is it me?

xi. I’ve always lived in the Real World

i’ve lived in the real world since 1972,
but it became more real in 1992
when it was brought to me by MTV
(before i Loved New York).

i remember cable coming to my home,
as if delivered by some stork
to wire my family in remote control artistry
of hypnotics and finger-felt aerobics of
channel-changing art.
scratch, scratch, burp, fart,
whose getting the microwave popcorn?

We became the army, trained soldiers
to the screen, commercialized by any means possible.
The mission, to be fissioned and confusioned
into nuclear family robots.

Just a working class ass trying to put shelter over my head.
in the great chain of being
conditioned to the Wandervogel German Youth Movement.

the first time i watched the Simple Life i couldn’t move,
because Paris made my universe more complex.
Drugs. Fame. Sex.
How could I avoid being perplexed by
Lifestyles of the rich and ridiculous.

Let me smoke. Let me cuss. Let me rebel with
an adolescent fuss, but don’t change the channel –
i’ll always be comfortable in flannel upon my couch.
(ouch, did i just admit that?)

i’m honest in over-mediated combat
where i choose to poetically scat
about America’s Next Top Model,
and where i can honestly yodel
i’m America’s Biggest Loser-boy
gone wild…

so where are my beads and Emmys?


xii. Lactose intolerant; milking education for what it’s worth

i didn’t discover my nipples until i was thirty-three years old.

i was at the chalkboard when it occurred to me that my chest pepperonis
were useless, and i will confess, i did what i always do when i
want to find an answer – i contacted my librarian friend
at the check out counter.

i now know why i have nipples,
but i don’t understand the pay scale
that comes with them.

i had a student once who dated a lactating nipple boy who could squirt milk on command, but he didn’t earn much. He delivered pizzas.

chandler, on Friends, has a third nipple,
and i’m glad he’s not Mr. Whipple,
too afraid to squeeze the Charmin
of Monica, because it takes two
for the harmonica of love.

all of this is nothing but multi-media biblio-farming

and isn’t life in such classrooms alarming (Jackson, 1990)
where rat-race routines begin harming
youth being trained to live in a crowd --
where questions and voice is seldom allowed --
and choice and suggestions become the next rain cloud
floating above our horizons –
slurping moisture from dry-rotting brains
where educational policies are design to sustain
measurements & figures, statistical pains
in the global song of circumcision (Grumet, 1988)
where state-mandated provisions
leave no child behind.

i teach because i do –
and not because i’m man enough to drink bitter milk— (Grumet, 1988),
i much prefer a good beer – cold British silk on my tongue.

Oh dear, i’ve just become a bit too Bry,
that young XY asking why in the sky, not meaning to pry,
while renaming the womyn did they opt for a y
is there too much XX in the educational stir-fry?
i’m beginning to get indigestion.

so, i’ll finish with this lil’ suggestion:

human beings are quite trainable,
and we need this, to make us sustainable:
environmentally economical,
we need to be economically environmental

because teachers are wetlands --

graced lands, not wastelands,
prepositionally-phrased lands,
of institutional systems of amazed lands,

needing to filter the future
from the rushing hush of the past.

Eco-linguistically,
how much longer will we last?

We need women.
We need men.

We need to reproduce
again and again,
whether it’s Ellen and Rosie,
or Dumbledore with Ted. (as in Haggard)

the show must go on.

onward goes the show.

ya know?

yo.

pimp. ho.

daddy-o.

xiii. post-face

i’ve been graced by pond life,
traced onto lily pads and cattails
from the wings of a dragonfly.

it’s always been just me, myself and bry,
never knowing what lies ahead,
as i find myself floating in ubiquitous, narcissistic dreams --
seldom in control of the oar.

i’m just intellectual
whore navigating the shoreline of my epi/aca/demic streets.

and this is where my skin has met a dried out vapor,
where i scribbled these thoughts to paper
in hopes of one day make sense.

and off the fence i question what I’ve been told,
feeling sold & pimped to this institutional hold
of my mindless movement and moving mindlessness.

i am drifting with short prayers,
complicated by my layers of ancestors who are now dust,
recognizing that, drift i must, as i do.
streaming away in motion, brittle as bamboo,
renewing this spirit in the watershed of my mind
i long to find still waters again.

a frog in search of a bog, a marsh….a fen,
transcending the damage of women and men,

graced to have life while i have it.

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