The End of History

The End of History

Let us remove all history.
Let us erase all tradition.
Let us purge ourselves of every story
until we arrive at this moment…
Adrift, but free of ancient ties.

Let us round all edges.
Let us soften the contrast between us.
Let us muddle all hues.
Let us blend in, fit in and slide in.
Let’s let everything go until
each and everything about us is
going, going…gone.

Nameless Historically Ambiguous Art

Historically Ambiguous Art

 

Let us forget the names of every bridge.
Let us forget the names of every street.
Let us forget the names of every building.
Let us forget the names of every river, stream and creek.
Let’s not rename but un-name everything.

Let us void anything referencing any moment
from any past anywhere at any time.
Then we’ll meld together and hum.

Let us make music into a single note…
A buzzing droning sound without words.
It’s what we’ll hear in our heads
after we’ve freed ourselves from history.

Let’s unburden ourselves of words by severing their roots.
Let’s excuse ourselves from all languages.
Let’s build another tower of babble and hum.
But then, what is that?

Aldkfji ierjddl adlfkd oeirue
oeiruei sldkfjv aodif, alsdkf.
Eoridk lsdfkjdk aldkfdk irkrp,
oeik oaidfd ldkfdjdk.

111000111000111000
00011100110011001100
110011001100110011001100
000011110000111100011100

Gregory Zeorlin 5/11/2017 @ 7:33am

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Christmas Circus

Christmas Circus

There’s quite a show happening
on our Advent Wreath.
An Advent Wreath arranged on a white oval plate
with a cushion of evergreen leaves
and twigs with red-orange berries.
An Advent Wreath sitting
in the middle of the kitchen table.

There are two black specks rappelling
down the candle sticks!
And another speck of spider stringing
tiny silky lines from the pink one
to the three purple ones.
Three trapeze artists rehearsing,
with the greatest of ease,
for the annual Christmas circus.

Gregory Zeorlin 12/5/2016 @3:28pm

(SHARE this odd poem if you wish).

 

Starting With the 38 Bus

(This layout is not what I want but I don’t know how to correct it. But, this post is so long that only imaginary readers and me, myself and I will read the entire thing anyway. So…I’ll not sweat the invisible stuff).

This post recalls a day well spent drifting around San Francisco using public transportation. I take notes as I ride and sometimes they turn into buzz hacking songs. (I’ll post a link to a song at some point for my imaginary listeners out there in digi-world).

 

Starting With the 38 Bus

On the Number 38 rapid bus route going towards the Pacific Ocean, I watch mad men on Geary Street scream at pedestrians or themselves, depending on the moment. No one makes eye contact with these unpredictable souls. No one else talks on this bus heading west. Everyone messes with cell phones. So I sit and stare or scribble hurriedly about what I see, hear and smell. I’ll tell mostly the truth, but fiction, or at least my imagination, rides with me, too.

To my right, a mother reads aloud to her daughter as horns on the street blare “Watch out!”
She hears nothing except her daughter’s voice. I wonder what choices got them here on this commuter bus right now?

“Never Mind” was quickly written with black spray paint on a concrete retaining wall at Geary and Presidio Street.
But the recorded voice on this bus I’m riding says, “Please hold on.” Now I’m not sure what I should do. So I continue to ride towards the ocean blue. Or at least that’s what I hope it will be.

Lily’s Magic Alterations and Tailoring at Geary and Stanyon Street is across the street from a Cross Fit training gym where fit men
jump rope looking out the door on Geary Street. This bus ride is my temporary alteration. “Please hold on” says the bus voice as the bus doors close and people find seats.

At 6th Street and Geary on old woman wearing a men’s gray felt jacket picks white cat hair off the sleeves one by one. She gently flicks each hair towards the bus and never looks up. If you didn’t realize what she was doing, you’d just think she’s crazy. Not everyone is crazy out there or in here on the bus.

At 29th Street and Geary, a man with hair in a tight bun drags on a cigarette while nursing a to-go cup, but I’m not sure it’s coffee he’s sipping. I’ll keep riding on to 48th Street, but at 44th Street, Geary slopes down quickly. I finally see where the ocean meets the ground.

At Lands End the coffee is good, dark and includes refills. I shall quake with caffeine before I touch the ocean with my fingers. My coffee buzz counters the slow methodical moves of tai chi practitioners. I watch them as the surf crashes on the beach behind me.

There was a man at Lands End who screamed at the land, sky and ocean. His rage is directed everywhere at everything and everyone.
He took our attention and for a moment, became bigger than the ocean.

Lands End

 

If I could surf, would I be free? What if I don’t surf until I’m seventy? Would the fish laugh as a shark made a meal of me? “Please hold on” I imagine the bus voice saying now. I could sit all day at Lands End. I could pretend I’m a local obscure poet. But the 28 bus route waits to cart me to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s not a sacrilege to say God hangs ten at the ocean of nature devotion. So I will imaginary surf on the 38 bus to Park Presidio Boulevard and switch to the 28 bus. But I can’t be late because I’m just drifting, looking and listening to whatever comes along. Yes, I’m a well-kept man on vacation. But, “Please hold on” says the magic voice from the bus. Oh, that magic lady voice does so care for all of us.

 

Surf beach near Cliff House

At the bus stop for the 28 bus, a shirtless tattooed man’s back carries, I suppose, an image of Jesus. As if anyone knows what Jesus might look like? He prances on the tips of his shoes at the stoplight while others step aside adding distance from this mad man. He sips bright red liquid from a clear plastic bottle and returns it to a side pocket in his backpack. Maybe this is a modern-day Last supper, but I didn’t see any bread or apostles. “Please hold on” said the magic voice as the bus rolled on. Perhaps God is testing us. God, he, she…a street bum and maker of a cathedral from a wave at Lands End. “Oh behave!” my Queen Anne might say if she rode this bus with me. I’d better be careful or I might hear heavenly voices no one sees.

I exit the 28 bus where everyone flees to see the Golden Gate Bridge equipped with selfi-sticks opened and ready. I attempt two hand-held pictures of myself with bridge and delete both. I’ve run across the bridge before, maybe twice or even four times. But this time only my eyes will cross the Golden Gate Bridge. Am I lazy at sixty? If I was on the bus a voice would now cut in and say, “Please hold on.” So see? Now I am hearing the magic lady voice without riding the bus, be it route 38 bus or 28 bus. But I feel great on this day of riding and walking. It’s a day of retreat.

I’m back on the 28 bus heading to the 1 bus. “No Stops or Turns” a sign says near the Golden Gate Bridge. “Please hold on.” We do until we can’t hold on. Then we let go. On I go to California Street where I’ll exit and take the 1 bus. All this effort made just to head towards the Powell Street cable car. It’s OK, I’m a tourist.

Once off the 1 bus a short walk is made to the cable car. The car’s empty and the conductor sits on a bench smoking an electronic cigarette. “Get on if you want. Sit or stand, whatever you want” he tells me as vapor leaves his mouth. I ride the cable car to enjoy the sounds of the antique machinery. This turn of the century technology could have gone electric by now. But the clattering operating levers and smoking wooden breaks makes the ride more than transportation.

The now on duty conductor says to a co-worker, who hops on to ride but is off duty, “He (referring to another employee not present) came on like a rock star.” “But they won’t keep him. He can’t handle the pressure” he says while ringing the bell on the cable car like a jazz percussionist.

The end of the cable car line is one block away. The next riders wait at the turn around point. I exit early and walk back to the Hotel Nikko where doormen smile at each customer passing through the door. I ride a polished elevator to the 19th floor where I get a bird’s eye view of a magic crazy city. “Please hold on” down there. But it’s obvious many people have lost their grip.

Gregory Zeorlin 10/13/2016 (A day in San Francisco, CA)

Beyond the Comfort Zone

 

Beyond the Comfort Zone

 

Try to avoid going beyond the comfort zone.
Don’t ever trip or take a tumble.
Do what we know over and over again,
for a while we’ll even avoid some troubles.

 

Shun all those questions we cannot answer.
Let’s just know what’s already well-known.
Limit our quest and be the very best,
at spinning on our own point of center.

 

Don’t enter a room full of strangers
lest we lose our sense of importance and control.
The world is big, even bigger than us,
such realization is a blow to our fragile egos.

 

We’re creatures of habit, me and you,
we avoid what seems foreign or nearly new.
But I’m going to trip and tumble, just you watch.
Or join me just beyond the lines of the comfort zone.

 

Do you want to try something new?
Step out of a rut we’ve made so long and way too deep?
Over and over we form neat lines and rows
before going complacently to prepaid graves with tombstones.

 

Let’s be brave for once or even twice.
Why not be set free while we’re still living?
Sing a song, do a dance, write a poem, take a chance
of stepping beyond what’s already known.

 

Life’s troubles will eventually find us, ready or not.
And deepest dreams will fail to appease us.
We’ll toss and we’ll turn or try to run away,
from many things we’ve trapped too long inside us.

 

What does it take to jump beyond the comfort zone?
Tomorrow’s too far away and yesterday’s long gone.
If you wait till things seem perfect you’ll miss another chance
and get buried head to toe, in the comfort zone.

 

Gregory Zeorlin 8/8/2016 @ 11am
The adult world is a place of people set in our ways who become skeptics and cynics. We avoid change out of the fear making mistakes and not looking perfect. We focus on our public image at the cost of neglecting our human spirit. We miss out on doing things that could enrich our lives even if we must trip sometimes to do them.

Imaginary People of April

 

Imaginary People of April*

An imaginary person,
once said to me, or someone,
“Hey! Don’t send me
any more of your poetry!
Cause’ I don’t need any poetry.
All I need is television!
Can’t you see? Good god man!
Why can’t you see?”

 

So a name was dropped from the list
of imaginary people needing poetry
because another imaginary person
had lost their imagination to television.
And who can blame them?
It’s so pretty inside there.

 

Then another imaginary person
said to me, or someone, “Hey!
Hey don’t send me any poetry!
Dammit no!
Cause’ all I need is a telephone.
Yeah, a telephone
with a screen that glows!”

 

So that imaginary person
was dropped from the list
of those needing poetry.
Cause’ with a cell phone
you rattle words and text them too.
And what would an imaginary person
do with poetry,
I ask you?

 

Yet another imaginary person yelled
right at me, or someone,
“Don’t send me any of that poetry!
Oh no! What I need is
small batch fried chicken from KFC
and hand rolled taquitos, too.
Skip them hand written poems I’m telling you!
I can’t eat words and neither can you!”

 
So I, or someone, deleted that imaginary person
off the list of those needing poetry.
Fat had gained another mind.
And maybe cheese is more pleasing, than poetry.

 

Unfortunately another imaginary person
texted me, or someone,
“What the hell! More poetry?
What I need is more football, basketball,
baseball and wrestling too!
I don’t need any poetry you wimpy fool!”

 

So I, or someone else,
deleted and deleted
and deleted some more
until every person needing poetry,
was off the list.
But not a single person
removed from the list realized
poetry was gone.
Every person needing poetry
became part of a poem.
And these imaginary people slowly faded
into the unread poem until they were
forever and ever, forgotten.
Like this poem.

 

Gregory Zeorlin 4/3/2016 11:30pm

*April is National Poetry Month. Who reads poetry? Perhaps writers of poetry work for imaginary readers who should be allowed to fade away.  But if you do read poetry, you can read my new digital book titled “TEN CENT POETRY.

Slow Leak

 

Another semi-sarcastic ramble…(aka, a poem)…written at some point to poke fun at the ego and aging.

 

Slow Leak

 

Three quarters through

the first day of being 60.

On entering a decade of sixes,

not much has changed.

 

I had imagined some commencement,

an inauguration was going to happen.

A retrospective of my genius

would pop-up like a pop-up store.

 

Nothing less or nothing more,

this day rolls towards nightfall.

I am falling towards the

reality of some unknown end.

 

Visions of grandeur linger

in my now shrinking head,

now shrinking body,

loss of muscle mass.

 

But I’m a feisty one,

as all newly 60’d say.

I will change the game,

slow the leak.

 

Oh such nerve, what gumption.

I write an epitaph

of my glorious assumption,

one pompous word at rhyme.

Short So Longing

Short So Longing

Due to increasing lack of attention
we must compress ourselves.
Contemplation is now limited.
Please wait for each cell phone prompt…

(Prompt 1.0238)
Chant now into a telephone,
“Sigh, moan and long for something more.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something less.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something… more or less.”

(Prompt 2.7952)
Text now into a telephone,
“Sigh, moan and long for something more.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something less.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something… more or less.”

(Prompt 3.9248)
Tweet now into a telephone,
“Sigh, moan and long for something more.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something less.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something… more or less.”

(Prompt 4.5297)
Gaze now into a telephone,
“Sigh, moan and long for something more.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something less.”
“Sigh, moan and long for something… more or less.”

(Prompt 5.6279)
Thank you. Now please evaluate your response.
Thank you. Now please assess your state of mind.
Thank you. Your data has been collected.
Time’s up. This is your short so long.

Gregory Zeorlin 1/26/2015 11:15pm + 1/27/15 5:15am + 12/8/15 10:35am
Copyright 2015 by Gregory Zeorlin.

ZeorlinArt.com
Poet’s Comments

This poem has a touch of angst. We spend enormous amounts of time texting and updating our on-line social media status. Once the day ends, what was accomplished? Not really sure. What are we looking for? Maybe we want to be manipulated by our own electronic devices? But here I am…a blogging, texting social media accessing artist/poet. What am I trying to connect?