mmdccclxvi

Teenage Rebellion: My Version

     You’ve fallen, roof...
                      —John Ashbery

Continuing to be inspired by one
of my heroes most high, the fellow
who wrote yet another epigraph
for me: ...also, perhaps, because
he can no longer explain himself—
his poems—and who needs one,
anyway? Furthermore, I would agon-
ize over the possibility he might come
across one or two of his own lines
used by this unknown whomever-
he-may-be, some wacky poet out
West (maybe he would be Googling
himself?) and from such stance find
it so utterly distasteful he would then
publicly criticize that fact and that
poet, and there, my work (or also
my work). I am being, well, only some-
what tongue-in-cheek here as who
would not welcome seeing in someone
else’s work their own words, and
not of a plagiarized nature, although I
am certain that by some people of the
pen, hopefully a rare few, seeing their
own words in an epigraph which gave the
writer credit might cause some cringes
or occasional downright anger. I can
imagine a circumstance or two, that
is. But I would by all means be flat-
tered, even if it were in the John Riv-
ers/Donald Trump any news is good
news way. And, really, would it worry
me more if he were alive? I have to
admit, I’ve done this for years, and it
never stopped me while he was still
here. Yep, this is the stuff I normally
worry about, even though I personally
epigraph him in sincere homage to
his work and to the creativity I
get from it. He made these ab-
solutely jam-packed absurdities,
and I do take them most often
out of whatever context may have
been intended, stupid of most every
single reference, perhaps, but they
are limitless. And nothing can
erase the way his words and their 

order, architecture, might and do inspire
me, as they apparently do countless others.
...
Ah, it’s sad that money remains the problem,
which is pessimism I don’t like to resort to,
but, alas, is it in my blood (and I’m much more
an optimist than a pessimist; more
on that later, but...)...?: Poetry
is here to divert, please. To take
my mind off the mundanity and yet
necessity of cash. To need $400 for
a job, for example, seems like, what?
And yet that is where I find myself at the
moment. And this is not even a fraud-
ulent job (don’t even ask, or, well, let
me just say that I lost my checking
account of 13 years or so because
of one of these,,,about two weeks ago —
I was grandfathered into the bank, and
now I’m told they are looking more in-
to a “wealth management” client base,
not a niche I fit into. This is such a long
and complicated problem. I feel that I am
obviously the victim here — on the phone it
almost sounds like empathy from the folks
whose job it is to tell me “We’re sorry, but
you’ll never have a checking account at this
institution again.” “We most certainly feel
for you in this horrible time, we really do.”)
Great timing, too. To expand the sad situa-
tion (more for myself than for him), I
attempted to speak with one my close
family members recently, reaching out
to him first. We had not spoken in around
two years, ironically during the time when
I have been without a home (okay, I can
get a bit bitter at times) (again, more
on that later). He is the one member of
my of my immediate family who could
easily help me with a weeklong loan,
the one I need for the new job. Well,
my attempt was a bad idea and
slam went the phone.

I was an odd child. And I did not go through
teenage rebellion until, well, literally until
after I graduated from high school and was
about to leave home for college. I was
young. You cannot even make a state-
ment about your belief system or your
values, or me and mine, without bringing
up those in relation to whatever rebellion
I like to think I was experiencing (as opposed
to those of your folks, I mean hence,
and perhaps we all have gone through
this, it is just that this thing seems to
most often happen, at least on television,
somewhere between the ages of three and
eleven. Am I not correct in this estimation?).
I was so happy to be leaving, and I was also
angry because of something, I don’t even
remember what it was. I think I was a
a little tipsy when I decided to leave.
I got just past Tulsa—having begun
from just over the Arkansas border. I was
on my way to, get this, California, before
I either sobered up or wondered what in the
heck I was going to do in L.A. once I got there
with the money, or lack thereof, that I had in
my pocket. Become a poet, maybe? Needless
to say I turned around, headed back home
to the drama I had created (mostly), and
a month or so later I was in college.
I did go back home for a summer to work,
but not being a fan of the South, and feeling
that there are so many places I want to see
before I die, I don’t go back much. Well,
there’s also the fact that for a lot of my life
I have lived from paycheck to paycheck, so
that is more of an excuse than a reason. In
fact, once settled in San Francisco and mak-
ing ends meet, I would buy my mom
a place ticket to visit me for a week at
a time, around every year and a half or so.
She loves it. These are not new stories.
I have told them in one way or another
before in here, but they are my thoughts
in connection to some other things
this morning. Which, essentially
is the nature of my teenage rebellion,
which I will try to spell out
for you below, in as clear
and straightforward a man-
ner as possible. It is all my
truth, meaning these small
things: I found myself so
out of favor with the ways
of my parents while growing
up (did I ever?), so that I would
take some of their characteristics
along the way, and have adjusted
my life to omit them completely,
and of this I have been mostly
successful, in my humble opinion,
have become practically devoid
of these characteristics which,
as a mere kid, I found so distaste-
ful. I suppose I am happy to have
gone about this process. It
seems natural. And to have
done me ... well? Is that
normal? I imagine it is.
But is it normal to think
about it all in this way?
I do not know. I am a bit
abnormal, I suppose. So I will
leave you with these, what
I would consider my most
prominent means of
rebelling against the
(what I felt) horrid,
unnecessary ted-
ium which I felt ep-
itomized my parents:

1.

Never let money be

an object of obsession;

decrease materialistic

impulses as much as

possible. Reason: I was

witness to a father who was

relatively poor, in upbringing

and especially thanks to raising

four kids whom he loved, yet

he was the most material-

istic person I have ever

known. The torture it

seemed to cause him,

and his desire to have

things he could not afford,

and also for us to have them,

was to be avoided, I thought.

 

2. 

Racism, bigotry, bullying are 

pathetic. My father was raised 

in a suburb of Detroit in which

he went from being in the

majority (white) when he

was quite young to being

a minority in his neighbor-

hood and school by the

time he graduated. Ap-

parently he was bullied

by some of the mostly

African-American kids. The

chip never left his should-

er. My guess is this played

a big part in his staying

in Arkansas when he met

my mother in what has to

have been one of the

least diverse counties

in exsitence. Enough

said.

3. 

Worry not about your en-

emies (imagined or real),and 

never spend much time dwelling 

on how you have been wronged

(which, in his case, was

most often by one per-

son in particular, and

his constantly verbaliz-

ing that anguish made

it all actually seem like

a scapegoat for his anger

and a showcase for how

impossible it was for him

to ever be right) (or wrong).  

This is something that

I had to pay close att-

ention to, over one part-

icular incident that af-

fected my life drama-

tically. It was tough

to overcome, and at

times I did not suc-

ceed, if but awkwardly.

One thing that helped

was not allowing my-

self to accept the re-

sponsibility for the

harm that was done

and continues to this

day. If blame is mis-

placed, even if you

have to work like hell

to get through it, ex-

amine it closely, and

redirect it to where

it truly belongs, on

yourself, for example,

and move along

forward. It is a pro-

cess, and has helped

me understand my fath-

er’s obsession over this

one person who supposedly

ruined his life, something

I think we have a lot of

control over, almost no

matter how bad we have (or

have not) been sabotaged.

 

4. 

Do your best to consistently

remain optimistic and forward-

thinking. Most always, at least.

thinking. Most always, with how 

I saw both of my parents. I saw 

my father mostly torn apart

and unhappy about, to me,

the most ridiculous things.

And my mother, to this day,

is the most glass-half-

empty person I know. It

is a way of living I knew

from early on I did not

want and, frankly, puz-

zles me to no end. I

may have my sarcastic

or even bitter side,

on occasion, but I am

an optimist to the

core about the fut-

ure and its possibili-

ties. I do like to think

that I am living proof,

despite or thanks to some

recent struggles, of how

optimism’s certain brand

of faith can be an enhanced,

evolved, way of living. Even

if, sometimes, I am admittedly

not the best at it.

5. 

Never raise a fist at any-

one. I am a pacifist. Prob-

ably the biggest reason

for this is that my father

spent hours teaching me

how to fight. By which I

mean to fistfight. And

how to do whatever I

could to survive at all

costs. Yeah, it’s a dad

thing. He felt it some-

thing of a right of pass-

age. I balked, bigtime;

and have made sure never

to get into a fist-fight. The

very notion seemed incred-

ibly foreign to me until re-

cently, while living in a

shelter for the homeless.

“Let’s take this outside”

is one of the common

things that you will hear

from men when you’re living

with a bunch of them every night.

My pacifism is not without

its blind side. As a child,

I know that my brothers and

sister and I wrestled like wild-

cats. And when I was about

three I would talk my

relatives into letting

me in the playpen with

my younger twin bro-

thers. When the rel-

ative would leave I

would then attempt to

beat my younger siblings

up. Pretty well, I am told.

I do not remember this,

but it alone is cause

enough of leaving this

painful remnant of

survival of the fittest

alone at all cost. As anec-

dote, I am proud of my country’s

military: the other three men

in my family are veterans of

war. But if I had had to make

a choice, I would most certainly

have been a conscientious

objector.

6. 

Sexual perversion. As a child I’d

see my dad flirting with waitresses

and whomever.  Incessantly. Also, 

at least once a year for several

years, individually, and

with all four of us, he’d

sit us down and tell us

that good old story about the

birds and the bees. And it

was quite the lesson!

The act of sex was a typ-

ical topic in my family.

He even included....

Wait, who am I kidding.

This is one topic with which,

admittedly, at least in the way

in which it characterizes itself with-

in me, I do not have much of a negative

issue with.  I mean, without being 

derogatory. Sex and sexuality

is a topic around which I feel

more openminded, or all-en-

compassing, in my curiosity,

than my father ever was, and I

suppose that, for that impetus, I

       owe him much gratitude.

P.S. If you realize that these
latest poems are not only
often longer, but in more
draft form (including ugly
typos and grammatical er-
rors), please know that I
am aware and have been
going back to edit them
as time permits. Editing is
something with which I have 

pretended never to spend much
time.  But times change. And

getting it right seems a lot
more necessary, to me, than

it used to.  Anyway, and I 

wanted you to know that I 

know, just, you know, in case 

you happen to notice a few squeaky
wheels; they will inevit-
ably be changed.

P.P.S. Does anyone read
these? I am just
curious. Alexa
says I have the
number 4 poe-
try blog in the
world at the mo-
ment. But I often
get the feeling that
her system of ranking
is entirely random,
a thought I often
have about all such
ranking systems.