American Kitsch

Commencement

In the scimitared halls of the Masons and Shriners,
I took my degree, hands all whiskey-shaking,
shook hands with all the proper authorities
of higher education, the shapers
of bullshitters, weavers of liars.
Our flag bearer led the procession,
leapt forth on feet taught not to fumble,
knuckles white, fingers clutching shafts
of flags woven to bear our denomination.
I, still all whiskey-drunk, was told to follow first;
I did, fumbling on feet not taught to care.
The undertaker or whatever the fuck he was
directed our procession, through thin lisping lips
whispering instructions of where and when
we were to wait;
meanwhile, commencement proceeded,
processed fresh molders and crooks,
liars and thieves, society’s new order,
proceedings as insincere
as the fools being molded.
Audience applause!
Neither bow nor curtsy were taken,
arrogant bastards.
Through eyes bleary with disbelief,
I, whiskey-enfeebled, fidgeted in theatre seats
not suited to comfortably seat any reasonable occupant,
wondered how mad she’d be,
morning tantrums still fresh in restless minds.
(I wondered how she’d look in a cap and gown.)
In the sworded halls of the Masons and Shriners,
I fulfilled my duty to society, completed
the construction of my mind’s wall,
every last brick laid with Masonic precision.
Bells chimed and I was made a monster,
an imposter no longer in society’s eyes.
In those sordid halls, I joined the American Kings
of Instant Gratification.

Dylan Anderson
May 6, 2012

Backdrop Red Tower Black

Here’s how it goes, dude:

He was on the tower again
watching over France and its citizenry,
some Jews, some Turks, all kinds.

Backdrop red.  Tower black.

(For a moment,
my mouth was a chute for chocolate to pass through.)

Something stirred on the sepia horizon.
He twitched, like animals are taught,
and pulled his trigger,
like patriots are taught.

Below, children, in flames, screaming,
scattered, sown evenly throughout the maize,
ran, burned with Hershey’s chocolate bars
stuffed down innocent throats.

Above, fighter jets screamed in technical precision,
all ablaze with Korean love, hatred, bitterness,
dropping care packages from unknown gods,
deliverances from the maniacal mechanisms
of modern humanity into something heathen.

(Those gods knew not modern man’s woes.
Even so, I digress.)

At the shore, burned and war-torn,
ships of patchwork metal docked from nights of pillage
and general modern debauchery,
digesting their hard-earned diet of gore,
all hungry and waiting for further pillage.

They were soon to be devoured by Chinese efficiency
and Indian effectiveness.

In his eyes—all ablaze with backdrop red,
crimson from skies worn blood red
from seeing too many bodies torn, burning—
the world was separated into three things:

the innocent white of eyes in awe;
the black of shells flying, of shading on cartoon-drawn war goggles;
and crimson backdrop red.

The dream dissipated
and he dreamt no more.

Dylan Anderson
April 15, 2012

Writing, writing, writing… So much harder in the absence of substance.

The Ballad of Cowboy Joe

Here come Cowboy Joe
all high on marijuana and shit,
talking about Jesus and Love and the Midwest.
They his homeland, them Midwests.

Here come Cowboy Joe,
he don’t know where he go.

Here come Cowboy Joe all praising Jesus,
says he don’t want no war but keeps his guns,
says theys the best thing that come along
since Jesus, Love, and America.

Here come Cowboy Joe,
he knows not where he go.

Here come Cowboy Joe all high on life and shit,
says he’s a zealot, a soldier for Jesus,
says he’s going to war,
don’t like it, but he doin’ it.

Here come Cowboy Joe,
Lord, watch him where he go.

Cowboy Joe don’t smoke no dope no more,
Cowboy Joe just shoot his gun now,
shoot it where people move,
says theys tryin’ to take over America.

Here went Cowboy Joe,
Lord, take him, let him go.

Cowboy Joe done shot his gun,
done lost his sight in sun
too bright, a sun too low,
now Cowboy Joe don’t shoot no more.

There went Cowboy Joe,
smoking cigarettes and a little bit of dope.

Praise America.

Dylan Anderson
February 26, 2011

To Nick Drake

He looked mournfully, almost,
out a window flooded with autumn sunlight,
eyes cast down on trees, fledglings, sprouting
from soil tough, firm, but fertile.

Sun baked whiter his starch-collared shirt,
glinted from belt buckles worn brassy,
up-cast sunrays shone upright on a face
contemplative, equally lost, complacent.

Cellos resonated with his voice as he spoke
of things he’d had and lost.
In country oak,
the walls listened equally engaged.

Everything listened in this country,
everything more intimate.

He sang of Mary Jane and her goings-out
in rain, who he’d been seeing
on his journey to the stars.

Forgive me my trespasses, citation violations.

The striped-shirt, sweatered kid,
shag-haired, long faced
going on journeys to stars.

We’d all been them, him, right?

Husks rustled under summer suns,
strums of keys hummed, strings sung,
bristled brilliant under tender fingertips,
voices glossing smooth over unheard slurs,
walls shuddered, listened, heard.

With an ushered, hushed, and hurried lead
to appointed theatre seats,
we were shown the way to the cellos
that hummed like the almighty Om
of Jesus, God, and Buddha.

Trees swelled from fertile soil, and,
under his gaze, they grew into something beautiful,
wearied, half-forgotten unsung fruit trees
grown beautiful under autumn suns.

Neither his gaze nor mine
grew any wearier, any deeper
in despair or worry;
we, with the trees ushered in by vernal suns,
simply grew and shed our fruit,
again and again and again.

Dylan Anderson
February 21, 2012

This is really the poem that I titled, ‘All You Need is Love’

I was as suave as vampires
the night that I murdered her
with my message of love.

It really wasn’t mine, though.
It was the tired Lennon and McCartney one.

She writhed in disheveled blankets
laid upon lonely beds
full of no one but her angry self,
listening to the messages of Lennon and McCartney.
All of their messages.

She banged against my glass door.
She was really that serious.

She was going into war,
all disgruntled lesbian anger and disappointment
thrashing recklessly against my apartment door.
I wondered,
“What the fuck is wrong with her?”

Escape to the hall.
No signs of human life.
They all sang, McCartney, Lennon, Harrison, all of them.
Just pure hatred flung carelessly against private doors,
doors that had held secrets dear, sweet, intimate,
passionate of kids loving each other,
all high on weed, drunk on life…
This anger hurled against these doors…

I could not empathize.

Earlier, war pipes had been played.
I shit you not.
This was her war against my cause,
my message that echoed that of Lennon and McCartney’s,
that all you need is…
Well, shit, really?

Piled in insurmountable walls of Mike and Ikes,
I was in a fortress of all sorts of allied forces,
all weed tingle, sugar tingle, and beer urmpgh.

He played the best solo of his life to a basso ostinato
of angry lesbian thumps.

He wouldn’t have cared and, really, neither did I.

“Christ, you know it ain’t easy…”

Dylan Anderson
February 18, 2012

O! Lord

Oh, my God, oh, O! my Lord!
He who I am is He who I’ve served!
O, my Lord, my Jesus Christ!
He’s all that I’d been waiting for!

He gave me wine and daily bread,
He said He’d tell them all I’d said,
and into a sermon, He said He’d turn,
all that He gave, all that He’d burn.

My life He stole in parody
on a cross and crown of holy thorns,
He said He’d hang for all my sins,
He said He’d hang for an eternity.

And here I hang, in crowns of thorns,
on crosses that I’d never borne
for those who’ve suffered, those who’ve sworn,
they’d be like His, like second-born.

Dylan Anderson
February 11, 2011