New Age Bookstores of the 1990s

Though much of it was speculative and/or bullshit - that wasn't the point; what they offered was a sense verticality to counter the flat plane (also bullshit) materialism of post-Enlightenment consciousness, of modernity. Sketches of aliens, incense holders, prophecy, apocrypha, sacred geometric forms, echoing vocalizations over percussion draped in reverb, books with fern green covers, the meaning of numbers, inexplicable monoliths, sacred syllables to chant, lucid dreaming - the great paradox, the meaning of canyons – terrestrial and marine, books with poorly printed off-white covers - something sparking in the eyes of the guru in the black & white photo, drab looking photos of postures to release trapped energy, tarot decks in crimson felt pouches, tasseled bookmarks, crystals, coins, geodes. These all said that what you see is not the limit of what there is. There is a door behind each object that shimmers into view and vanishes. But you may glimpse it. You may even step through it.

(photo: from the cassette section at Cafe Mustache (not a New Age bookstore))

Robbing Peter to Pay Poetry

 

Days spent working for money

The artist is a thief of time

Who plots to capture

Moments needed

To hear the UFO podcast

Robbing Peter to pay poetry

Fake bathroom breaks

At the copy shop

To read Kenneth Patchen

And Ferlinghetti

No time to conjure the para-poetic

From the UFO podcast

Just write it down

Exactly as it plays:

"It's hard to get your head around

The amount of money and man hours

That went into driving Paul Bennewitz insane."

Product & Services, 2024

A (low) energy drink.

A degree in Uncreative Writing.

An AI program that outsources its work to humans.

A leaf blower that just loudly blows leaves

from one spot to the next.

(Wait, that one already exists).

An app that melts your phone when you open it.

A reverse zoo where lions and giraffes and hippopotamuses

walk by humans living in replications of their native habitat,

eating caramel corn and watching Netflix

preparing grilled cheeses.

A presidential candidate who campaigns using

the transcripts of Trump speeches,

but every time there is a lie or a manipulation,

the text is changed

into a lyric of a song by Meat Loaf,

which the candidate sings.

Sex Work where the "sex" is playing

Tom Jones records for the client.

A clothing store where if you don't steal something,

you receive a fine.

A prison featuring food prepared by on-site Michelin star chefs

& overall spa-like conditions - hot stone massage,

walks with Afghan hounds and beagles

around the enchanting grounds,

which feature striking topiary sculptures

and telescopes for stargazing at night.

Sonnet (The Lynx)

 

The lynx upon the ledge looks on the lot

And smells the tar rise up on the slow wind

A car appears and pulls into a spot

A man gets out who looks as if he's sinned

Rundown worn out he walks across the tar

Six stars fade out above the line of trees

The building's lights, the beeps, the rising bar

The man walks through although he wants to flee

The lynx descends and lopes up to the gate

He leaps and lands and springs into the plant

The ringing tin as cans go into crates

The hands that lift the boxes to be scanned

The man looks up and swears he sees a lynx

Just nine more hours left today he thinks

Celebrities Freedom Pigeons

Celebrity actors, musicians & athletes are revered as gods of Mount Olympus because they do labor sufficient to earn a living that is creative and that they do not dislike. Meanwhile the average person must do labor they do not like or labor that they might like, but that is under oppressive/ exploitative/coercive conditions. Celebrities, it appears, may work, but they do not toil.

To live in a society in which only a minute group of people do work that is creative, involves autonomy and is not highly exploitive is quite bizarre. A study of the anthropological record and the ability to be in touch with one's deep self allows one to understand how such a set of living arrangements goes entirely against our DNA as human beings and how we evolved.

As one gazes upon urban and suburban wildlife, one does not get the idea that other species exist under such an extraordinary arrangement. Walking down 18th St. in Pilsen, I do not observe a tiny group of pigeons engaging in free and independent flying, perching, strutting and scavenging, while the other 99% of pigeons do rote, coerced labor grudgingly, resentfully, against their will. It appears that all pigeons engage in cooing, feather flapping, pecking, nest building & popcorn eating. As a result, we do not see pigeons tumbling into depression, needing to take medication for it or self-medicating with peach scnapps and Hamms beer.

Richard Alle Allen Reese is finishing writing a book called Wild, Happy & Free. The title is a descriptor of how humans and most (all?) other species are designed to live. Certainly for humans, living any other way is the way of misery. 

I Am Not John Kirby

I am not John Kirby

I am not Richard Branson

I am not Gary Oldman

I am not Bill Clinton

I'm the wind within the canyon

beneath the moon

I am not Newt Gingrich

I am not Bill Gates

I am not Nancy Pelosi

I am not Elon Musk

I'm the fish that swims the waters

of the river cave

I am not Hillary Clinton

I am not Warren Buffett

I am not Ted Nugent

I am not Kid Rock

I'm the snow that adorns the horn

of the antelope on the hill

Sugar & Coffee

the empire held together

by sugar and coffee

like frayed bunting

in the setting sun

veins and arteries

send signals

across spaces

blinking lines of light

that circle the brain

like the banners that

braid through

the states of empire

time zones and synapses

across the great divide

ships of dried berries

cross meridians

stall in waters

choked by ancient kelp

the stars still spell out

sigils to be discerned

by those caught dreaming

on deck alone

chewing on the berries

measuring days in

horizon lines and

moonbeam miles

traversing latitudes

approaching the empire's

final wry smile

Bad Girlfriend/Boyfriend

She was a bad girlfriend For me at least

(And I'm pretty sure

I was a bad boyfriend for her)

We didn't even like each other

That much but decided

To push through that

For some reason

And some type of dependence

Formed between us

Probably geographic in origin

Our apartments were on the same

Logan Square courtyard

I would be at the L stop

Talking to Mick the panpipes player

About a pulp novel he was reading

And she would walk by

It was hard to avoid each other

Then something engaged

Or we passed through some kind

Of a scrim or mist

And on the other side

Was conflict and arguments

And these became the thing

That drew us together

Also the idea that

We should be a good couple

Because she was a painter

And I was a poet

And I liked her canvases

Of thundering elephants

This all became spires of misery

Collapsing into pools of grey ash

Who I was Dan

Was receding from me

Some detached consciousness

Could even observe him

Walking away from me

Wobbling down a tunnel

"There he goes" I thought

"This isn't good" I thought,

After breaking up a few times

We finally got it right

Six months lost

To the Chicago fall/winter

Except that I retain

Certain things she told me

We were walking down Spaulding

Unhappy together per usual

And I said I wished

I was somebody else

She said that if there

Is anything

That is a sin

That would be it

Wishing to be

Somebody else

North Avenue

 

Banh Mi shop

with Gurdjieff books

& pretty good

drum n' bass

"throughout history

great men & women

have found ways

to stay awake"

(the green wagon wheel

jalapeño slice

falls out

of my sandwich)

in the painting

over my table

an angel exits

a night garden

to whisper to Mary

on the veranda

phrases in Latin

seen in golden letters

hung in the air

like tapestry

the scene faces

a wide blue gray

painted face of Buddha

his eyes are shut

yet he looks

awake

Billionaires

 

I don't know

anybody

who

wants to be

a billionaire.

It looks like

a lonely

& irreal

vocation

practiced by

the lost.

Joe Walsh

Not the guy from the Eagles whose

Life's been good to him so far

Joe Walsh from Boston

Who played in the majors

Got eight at-bats

Got injured

Went to work for the city

Started to drink

Lost the job

Stumbled through the years

In a black suit coat

In an Atlantic Ocean haze

Who met my grandma

At the laundromat the store the bus stop

While he still had that Boston charm

But was a brokedown cigar smoke mess

When I met him in Brookline in '78

You could look him up

In the Baseball Encyclopedia, he said

I did and it was true

I walked down the street

To a tropical fish store

It was dark inside

And cold from the AC

The only light

The blue glowing

Above the tanks

Of the silent swimming

Coral pink

Electric violet

Deep black fish

With fierce fan tales

Likes the assassin's silk scarves

That float and dazzle

Before the dagger is drawn

The two-chord piano vamp

From "Cold as Ice"

Came over the speakers

And the notes felt in my body

Like dayglo fish

Fluttering beside

A ceramic sea chest

Joe Walsh played third base

At Fenway Park

The Green Monster looming

Behind him

The giant Citgo sign

Hovering above

That could not be

I thought

Not knowing then

I would injure my arms

That played guitar

When I was just 23

The other Joe Walsh

Flamed through the years

Driving 185

And taking drugs

That illuminated

The capillaries of his mind

Like fluorescent blue lamps over

Bubbling tanks of circling fish

Pearl colored and gliding

The size of guitar pics