In movies, adolescent boys are always portrayed as surly, distant, self-posessed. They are dark fools. A shared joke, asinine ingrates drunk on grandiose malaise.

And I see this and I learn that that part of me is a dark fool, a joke, asinine. It is not something I am allowed to be. I am robbed by art.

My favorite poets, too, are drunk on grandiose malaise. Kerouac, Bukowski, Patchen. They turn over the rocks of the soul and examine the squirming, brainless things beneath. Robert Bly talks about draining deep waters, one bucket at a time, to find the long-haired wild creature below.

But this process is made impossible, because I am male and I am young. If I stare into the void; if I say things like "stare into the void," I am a target for ridicule, a landing zone for stereotypes.

This art kills growth. Farce smothers dialogue.

Dark is damned important sometimes; turn over a rock.

Our First Story

It was quiet after entrances
into white light,
hello's and tears.
We will take you all home
now where you will
grow sated and unknowing.

They smothered all the wolves
and closed the doors.
It was warm inside,
we walked barefoot
in the streets.

It came one day after
we forgot how to play emperor
and had begun
to notice all the blood.

He was shoved into the back
of a police car with a hand on the top
of his head,
roll cameras.

They knew, to look at
our pale faces.
They knew the betrayal
and their eyelids held a steady line.
Their mouths could
form no apology.

Welcome again,
we know you are frightened
but so are we.
Gather what you can
from curfews and parades
and then set out.
Do not come back.
The doors
will close
behind you.

I expected to make some sprawling, pseudo-poetic blog opus about the end of high school, moving out, the beginning of college, all of that. But it's too much to try to fit into my inadequate little words.

I think it would all summarize into something like "be nice to each other and be nice to yourselves."

Ultimately, all I feel when I look back is "well shit, it is what it is." Time to make something new.

Bonnie

Her underwear comes from
a communal pile
now.

She is told to face the
wall and her sandals
are aligned perfectly
outside of her cell
now.

She cries when she
reads letters
now.

She was kind
and filled with a
quiet kind of goodness
then.

All she wanted
was to be included
then.

We were too important
to be gentle
then.

And now she is
pleased when she
is allowed to clean
the toilets.

Now she is stripped
when her parents come
to cry.

And I would give her
a piece of my soul,
now,
if it would fill
one empty smile.

Where the hush is,
I am laying down.
I am sleeping
and then not.

Somewhere
under my back
a wheel
turns in
the darkness.

Ants have
found the
bird.

I am feeling
my heart,

it is calm
and alone.

Rabbits do not notice.
They chew warily
in their holes.

The world births itself
again,

a new pair of eyes
blinks against
the wind.

I'm doing research for the Primary tomorrow, weeding through tidal waves of rhetoric and empty promises, and I come across this site, the homepage for a Democratic contender for Insurance Comissioner named John Kraft. This website is totally delightful, it looks like either he himself made the entire thing or hired a high school multimedia class to do it for him. Be sure to find one of the "Go to Hispanic music" buttons, it's inspiring. Also watch the totally confounding video in the "Video" section.

If there is one thing I have learned in my recent life it is the importance of loving the people who surround you, and I want you all to know that you are my friends and you deserve the full spectrum of my affections, beyond end-of-high school sentimentality, beyond late-night confessionals, with the sacred part of my being I love and I wish there was a less awkward word but there is not and I love everyone and I will gladly bear the embarassment of saying so because right now I feel this is the most important thing I have said in years.

Sorry for all the heavy-handed ardor recently, my life has developed this odd habit of disintegrating, perhaps for the better.

I am left with the feeling that something is very wrong about the way people here live. After I've scolded myself for being arrogant, after I've extended the benefit of the doubt fully, seen, begun to understand and forgiven, I am continually disappointed. But the creative responsibility is ours, is mine, and it has been my fault always, dwelling, chewing over the same general malaise that's been swimming in my gut since I forgot I am a child.

I conclude that we are all equally responsible for the souldeath that cripples the human animal (and when has it been different?) if we allow it to set up camp in our own heads.

I can't do it anymore, ruminating always, scowly, whiny bullshit.

I've been watching birds lately, learning more about the world in the past two weeks than I have at any time I can remember. There IS beauty here.

Today I found a tiny hatchling, about two inches long, on the ground, struggling and panting. The nurturing instinct returns, a driving urge to protect vulnerable life. It is powerful. In a rush to identify its parents, I found that Orange-crowned Warblers build their nests on the ground. I watched one of the parents feed spiders and grubs to the infant. I would later discover a second hatchling. The cat stays inside.

There is a cycle, unyielding, a vaguely knowing consciousness in the inquisitive quickness of a bird's eyes. There is a web, and I am part of it. I put out seed and the birds come and more birds come to eat what falls from the feeder and their scratching feet plant the seeds and rabbits come to eat the sprouts. Mourning Doves, pensive and cantankerous, fight with one another. The crows, indifferent, watch.

There are no guns here, no politicians and politician language and politician thinking. There is no feeling awkward, mistrusted or unwanted. There is no dull, thudding heartbeat of a culture forgotten what happiness is. There is only the cycle, the buzz of cicadas, the shuffling of wings.

I think I'll miss it here.

Stillness and quiet
write softer their song
after stillness and quiet
pass on.

The smiles of friends
burn endlessly strong
when the faces of friends
are gone.

My life has struck a vein of coolness. Another of my poems was accepted for publication, this time by poetry.com.

Here's the poem:


Revelation

Soon,
you will be late
for waking.

And in that endless moment,
the song of all your gunshots
will deafen you
in the blackness.


(Click here to see my poem on the site) It's also a semi-finalist in the monthly contest with an $1,000 prize.

A truly wonderful idea.

I found out yesterday that one of my poems was selected for publication by the League of American Poets in their annual anthology. Here is the poem, I've posted it before:


Their Guns Are Not Toys

Sometimes I forget
that it's not silent here all the time,
then at 10:20, an hour after I was supposed to be asleep,
I hear the sound of gunshots from where the soldiers are training.

They must be out on late maneuvers,
roused gritty-throated from their beds.
"When yer in the shit,
Killing Or Being Killed
will not wait for you to drink yer got-dammed morning coffee!"

Soldiers would say things like "In the shit."

I picture them,
ropes and bars
bright in the halogen darkness,
weaving and dodging,
preparing for Killing Or Being Killed.

This is actually not a joke.

I got my Selective Services registration confirmation card in the mail yesterday. All the literature I've read suggests compiling a Conscientious Objector profile early, so I'm starting now. I hope all of you do this too. If anyone wants information, I'd be more than happy to share.

First things first, either send them a letter stating your intention to register as a CO or write it somewhere on the card. Photocopy this, mail it both to them and to yourself, to get the time stamp. Don't open the envelope.

How wonderful that playground bullies have the power to send the rest of us to die for their causes. Too many angry words for blog.

Aaaaaaaaaaah DAMMIT, that lasted, like, a day.

"Boy, I sure do enjoy the lo-tech egalitarianism of the internet, kept alive by sites like YTMND," I thought to myself as I loaded the homepage of aforementioned website. Clicking on the first animation I saw, I was greeted with this garbage: Bilbo wants it.

Good job, soulless, soulless coolfinders, you found the cool. Your prize? The knowledge that you wipe your asses with culture and cheapen everything you touch. The fact that this animation was in the "Top Five Rated YTMNDs" section doesn't make sense, because it's neither funny nor original, benchmarks of most super-popular YTMND's. That is, it doesn't make sense until you realize the admin may have been paid to display the ad prominently on their site.


THERE'S
NOWHERE
LEFT
TO GO.

It's time for a mid-year's resolution.

I've had my fill of Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter, President Poopyshorts and the proud nation that follows them around like a horde of lost ducklings. It's no longer about politics, it's about not being an idiot.

I am going to do my best to leave it as their problem. I'm tired of being worn down by ignorance, of feeling embarassed for my country and freaking out every time I see an H2.

I've come to the realization that there is balance to be found. For every Insane Clown Posse zealot, there's a thoughtful, insightful and informed citizen who can engage in intelligent discourse without screaming about "titty huntin' " and waving their middle finger around. For every overgrown gym class bully who watches Hannity and Colmes, there's someone who actually reads the newspaper and makes decisions only after close scrutiny of the information available to them. And maybe soon there'll be a hybrid car to match all the giant trucks and East/West/Orange County Choppers (side note: I hate "choppers." A lot.) clogging the streets.

My head needs a vacation.

Our childhoods will all be gone soon, in matter if not in heart and mind. Surveying the remaining artifacts, I can see only transience.

This morning I found that my rope swing is gone. I say my rope swing because it was mine. It belonged to me in the same way that it belonged to everyone else who enjoyed it when there was nothing else to do. In this suburb, where the best use of space that thousands upon thousands of people can find is to fill it with houses, manicured trees, concrete, emptiness, that swing was something special. It was my own. It was somewhere to go. Somewhere without straight lines. Now it's gone, because someone thought it was dangerous for children.

At home, I composed half of "An Open Letter to Scripps Ranch." I want people to see how lifeless they are making this place, how flawed is their manufactured perfection, how alienating. I want them to know there is a better way, to live together, to trust, to cherish, to grow and build and collaborate. I want to take them all to the rope swing, where there was some small bit of freedom, awkward and spontaneous intimacy, the simplicity of holding on to a stick thirty feet in the air.

But I know how easy comfort is. I know that people want the alienation, the appearance of community, the substancelessness. I didn't finish the letter.

I have always tempered this thought with the idea that what appears as empty to me is rewarding and stimulating to others. I have often thought that people may find real comfort, real community in Blockbuster, McDonalds, Safeway, endless streets and sidewalks, curfews, God Bless America, "Country Living," the Chargers, shaved mountaintops, stucco and stucco and stucco, but I am beginning to doubt.

And I see it all perpetuated. I see it in little acts of thoughtlessness. Like cutting down the rope swing. Like alcohol, cigarettes, Marijuana, Cocaine, Ecstasy. Like not caring. Like squirming at words like "love," "empowerment," "kindness." Like giving up.

I'll be leaving soon. I am thankful for my home, my life and the people who share it. I just hope people will remember that freedom is as simple as a rope and a ladder.


The Rope Swing
By Matthew Louv (3rd grade)

grab hold of the rope
run like the wind down the hill
hold on very tight
hope to god that you don't fall
and swing like never before
swing as high as trees
fly as high as high as a red-tail
don't ever look down
twist and turn and glide and fly
and land with grace and beauty
and then look around
the teenagers stand in awe
and then the applause
stand there, bask in your glory
hope you can come back again

The results of your analysis say:

You fill every waking moment with activity.
You are a social person who likes to talk and meet others.
You are negative, fearful, resistant, doubtful, and/or selfish.
You are not very reserved, impatient, self-confident and fond of action.
You enjoy life in your own way and do not depend on the opinions of others.