SEDUCTION

The day was seductive.
Maybe I felt too good.
You’re always second-guessing your mood
When you have bipolar disorder
I don’t think I’m manic
A day like today can make a guy think money doesn’t matter
That a life devoted to liberal arts is a good idea
Make you shrug off for a moment the debt you undertook
And you’re still paying on your education 27 years later,
That 17 years of your life in school, impoverished,
Did something good to your soul, and it is a good idea
To do something good to your soul
That jamming on keys with a blues guitar player all morning
And a walk in the park with a sober friend, talking
On a sunny, 75-degree day
Would make you feel so good you question whether you’re manic,
Forget that you’re years past due for a teeth cleaning
That you can’t get the root canal and a few crowns
And though your home is Canada, you used the remaining balance
On your American credit card to pay for your oil change
That just yesterday I went out for a cup of tea instead of breakfast

PARKING LOT

“FUCK!”  “Come over here and say that, FAGGOT!”
“Are you staring at me?”  He yelled, throwing pieces of furniture
Echoing off the cavernous dumpsters they hit, Hip-Hop music blaring
Out the apartment that let him crash there, so loud my walls vibrate
Wandering around in the parking lot and it’s three o’clock AM
He watched my every move from my car to the Condo Complex door
And I left my 14-year-old Honda Civic—too dented for insurance—
In the parking lot with him, and only two weeks ago we ran up to him
After I photographed him breaking into my friend’s Dakota pick-up truck
My 911 call brought two police cruisers to the parking lot that afternoon
I emailed the station my photographs along with my report, yet here he is
Wandering around the parking lot yelling, “FUCK!” and hollering
Hip-Hop blaring, and it’s three o’clock AM again, like two nights ago
When my 911 call brought a police cruiser to the parking lot
He was inside that night and taunted the police out his sliding glass door
On the second floor, he knew the police couldn’t gain access to him
Last night, my 911 call brought three police cruisers to the parking lot,
The smiling, indifferent condo owner, and two men in military uniform.
It’s quiet, tonight.  Peaceful.  Only the occasional cavernous clang
Of a homeless person digging in the dumpster, or a shopping cart’s rattle
Across the parking lot, as I reflect out my 3rd floor sliding glass door
I wonder about the Asian families with children who live here

THERE’S NO POETRY IN BEING POOR

I thought my poverty to be dignified in an artsy sort of way
Chuckling to myself as my car sways on its worn shocks
As the poet José Julián Marti Pérez fancied,

Con los povres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar

With the poor people of the earth
I want to place my luck

I thought my small condo in a bad part of town charming
My slim earnings noble; I can get by
And a rich aunt and friends of means to bail me out when I need
I smiled at the cursing and hollering in the parking lot at 3AM
Until crime, the bastard child of the impoverished,
That afternoon my friend limped and I ran to his pickup truck
To scatter the men—one attaching a battery charger, the other in the cab
The 911 calls, the police reports, the perpetrator cursing
In the middle of the night, rambling around our parking lot
Staring me down as I walked to my own car next afternoon
Blasting hip-hop out the window of the owner giving him safe harbor
I dim my condo lights inside so he won’t know where I live
No.  There’s no poetry in being poor, when you have to be poor,
Live in fear, in 911 calls, in crime, in poverty
My friend shook for three days straight
And I, two weeks later, might practice my keyboards
With a nightstick within reach, and my phone

GRADUATE STUDENT

I left my idealism somewhere

Back in early manhood, apprenticeship

For getting by only. 

My knees hurt

Not like they did before, to pay the bills

Dragged in rows by a Commercial Walk Behind Mower

All day

Isn’t it ironic that Wordsworth will sing of

Quarry workers singing as he

Wanders in his daffodils

Whitman will praise the common laborer As he loiters in the grass

The privations, the deprivations

The catalogue of things to do without

Logged into my bitterness–

Formerly an occupation–I try not to be bitter.

I read Hemingway to buoy my spirits–

His Catholic poverty in Paris,

His un-Christian feeling of superiority

Over the vague wealthy.  I guess I feel superior

Or try to feel superior to buoy my spirits.

The indignities,

The fear as I lie to a bill-collector,

Slough subordination,

Try to feel above it all.

To dignify the working class

Your sore knees

Must speak more than their pain—

The bills that demand this dignity

The landed idle

Still demand my money

As they loiter

In the end

I will have to forget

The laborious pain

Of achieving a place of less pain.

            Pain where?

Will I be able to forget adulthood?

When eternity speaks its demands.

GRADUATE STUDENT

I left my idealism somewhere

Back in early manhood, apprenticeship

For getting by only.

My knees hurt

Not like they did before, to pay the bills

Walking behind a power-mower

All day

 

Isn’t it ironic that Wordsworth will sing of

Quarry workers singing as he

Wanders in his daffodils

Whitman praises the common laborer

As he loiters in the grass

 

The privations, the deprivations

The catalog of things to do without

Logged into my bitterness–

Formerly an occupation–I try not to be bitter.

 

I read Hemingway to buoy my spirits–

His Catholic poverty in Paris,

His un-Christian feeling of superiority

To the vague wealthy.  I guess I feel superior

 

Or try to feel superior to buoy my spirits.

The indignities,

The fear as I lie to a bill-collector,

Slough subordination,

Try to feel above it all.

While the town keeps me down.

 

To dignify the working class—

Which I am now and a grad student

And the town keeps me down—

Your sore knees

Must speak more than their pain—

The bills that demand their “dignity”

The landed idle

Still demand my money

As they loiter

SEMI-FULFILLED POTENTIALS

Pretty much my whole adult life

I’ve been more or less semi-retired

A full-time undergraduate and grad

Student and the poverty and the freedom

Writing and performing music

Writing and researching papers and theses

Bipolar disorder’s attenuated capacities

Avolition and crippled will to persevere

Those week-ends asleep in bed—

The weekend through: Friday till Monday morning

Those lost weekends

A post-doctoral funk and bad jobs

Part-time teaching and poverty

Writing and publishing a book and journal articles

Music and poetry and bad jobs

A good job preaching, a calling, and full-time pay

Recording a CD of my originals and poetry and newspaper bylines

Volunteer positions and committees and seminar presentations

All for joy and no pay

Pretty much semi-retired and all of it

Reflections about Money

For 3/4 of my adult life I’ve lived in poverty.  My impoverished life, though, was of my own making.  I was chasing a goal–education–and that was why I ended up poor.

I resented my poverty quite a bit, when I was in school.  I didn’t see why poverty was a necessary condition for education.  The English department at my university had a motto, “Going for broke!”  Back then, I spoke with a young woman once, and asked her if she were considering Ph.D. studies.  She said that she wasn’t.  When I asked her why, she replied, “I don’t want to spend the next 8 years of my life in poverty.”  However, pursuing the goal of higher education made my poverty bearable.  I had a higher purpose; it transcended the pecuniary world.  I tried to make myself feel better by thinking about Hemingway, and his poverty in Paris while he was learning to write.  Nobody likes poverty; but when one likes a calling more than money, one accepts one’s condition.

Now I have a comfortable income.  That has been for 12 years out of my 40 adult years.  I am still getting used to the feeling of having enough money, in fact more than I need.  But I am still pursuing a higher purpose, though, with my money.  I am recording a disk of my original music.  And that is draining a considerable amount of my income.  Some might consider this an extravagance, in that I’m not a professional musician and I’m not in a band.  But even as higher education is not always a money-making endeavor, but a meaningful pursuit, so music is not always a money-making endeavor, but art is a meaningful pursuit.  And without the CD project, I don’t know what I would do with the several thousands I am investing in this enterprise.  And for me, the purpose of money is to be used–not just possessed.

Most people secure gainful employment at a young age and spend most of their lives financially set.  I think self-image for many depends on money.  Sociologists have given us status labels.  They made up the categories, “upper-class; middle-class; lower-class.”  In doing so, they told us how we were to think of ourselves.  I try not to measure my self-worth by money.  But when I was an impoverished student, always riding in the back-seat of someone else’s car, not being able to buy “nice things,” not being able to take a girl out on a date, I felt worthless.  This, despite my higher calling, higher education.  My brother, a rich engineer, told me, “It’s only money.”  That didn’t help.  Now that I’m in a good financial place, I don’t think about money at all, don’t measure myself by money.

Growing up, my generation disdained money.  The rock music of my time sung songs against materialism and money (Pink Floyd wrote a song with that for a title).  We talked about love and peace; looked to get back to Nature.  Perhaps that’s why I didn’t pursue money in my life, but went for more spiritual acquisitions.  I made my bed and I’m happy to sleep in it.  Everybody makes their own bed.  They must sleep in it, and hopefully they are happy to, as I am.

Getting and Spending

I think that western society finds its amusement primarily in spending money.  I know that I do.  It’s a real kick buying something new.  Almost more fun than enjoying the new thing that I buy.  William Wordsworth wrote this in his poem, THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.  “The world is too much with us; late and soon,/Getting and spending, we lay waste to our powers.”  I wanted to entitle this blog simply, “Spending.”  But we also enjoy getting–just not as much as spending, I think.

We hear about how much poverty there is in the world, largely in developing nations.  But what we don’t hear about is community.  I’ve been impoverished and completely contented and happy.  This was in a small, rural town.  I spent many an evening sitting on back porches with friends, talking as the sun went down.  Or visiting with an elder family I knew.  Or basking in the sunlight on a summer afternoon with friends.  I read more philosophy then, drank but little.  Friends mattered more to me than they do now.

Now I’m more comfortable financially and it seems there’s always something I want.  I walked away from the casino today, which is all about getting and spending and only about it, with modest gains.  And I wrangled mentally about what I should have bet to make even more.  The stock market is the same–all based on getting and spending.  I just bought a new wool coat, but it’s too formal to wear to the blues club.  I’m thinking about buying a new leather bomber jacket.  Getting and spending.

I met only one person who said, “I have enough money.”  And that’s the only time I heard it in my life.  This person bought pots and pans for a women’s shelter with the extra money he had.  When I hear about poverty in the world, I wonder if the society in question has a sense of community that might their emotional wants more than spending would.  As was the case with me in my days of poverty in the small town.  In a society that derives its enjoyment from spending, as is ours, poverty is most certainly a curse.  But maybe poor societies are richer than ours.  (I most certainly am not talking about world hunger, which is a decidedly different issue.)  I’m not sure we can measure happiness by a culture’s ability to spend.  The cures may well be that we do measure our happiness by our capacity to spend.