Celebrate your Deathday!

For those of you who hate birthday(I'm ambivalent myself) here is a thought: instead of birthdays, which are so egocentric and self-important, we should celebrate our death day. Now it sounds morbid on the face of it but listen: we pick a day of OUR choosing and celebrate our eventual death.

When you are born you have no choice as to when where and to whom you are born. But our death day, we get to choose. We choose not as dependent infantile human beings but as autonomous and free and beautiful people.

And on this day we reflect joyfully and with a good deal of sarcasm on our eventual death. Instead of a birthday where you go "one more year closer to death" on your deathday you reflect back on the year you had and say "fuck, I am alive and i had a pretty decent time of it, I wonder what this year will be like? I hope it doesn't suck..." And then you take another shot of tequila.

You see, a celebration of death is more of a celebration of life then a celebration of birth. But its not supposed be all that serious. Someone's death day is a day for morbid jokes, and laughter, and irony. Looking at how fucked life is and laughing at it with friends and drinking too much, laughing too much, talking too much, life in excess on the day your eventual death. And the whole idea of having a "deathday" on the face of it is morbid and hilarious and ridiculous and flies directly in the face of this stupid institution called the "birthday". Oh, and no gifts on deathday! On your death day you give gifts to your friends; gifts low in monetary value but high in sentimental or intoxicating value. (ie handwritten letters, framed pictures, shots of tequila ect)

The B Sides

Ah shit... now I have two blogs. The new blog, Overextended Meta4 is strictly devoted to poetry. I have a feed on this blog linking to material on the new blog. So when I post a poem it should automatically update this blog with a link to the new poem. So...instead of keeping track of two blogs you only need to track one. Pretty slick I think, if it works...

Oh and you can now just go to www.meta44.com to get to this blog. Yeah, I'm a nerd, I got my own domain, but hell ,it was $7.00 for a year. Why the hell not?

September 11, 2007

I sit in one of the cafes
On positively fourth street
Too certain with no fear
Reading Machiavelli
Like this Sunday’s editorial
“the state will collapse”
When god dies and fear revolts

God is grasping for breath and we have nothing to fear
Our parents have felt the seams of society come loose
So they dare not ask us for a sacrifice
With their wealth they don’t need our bodies
But we will need the bodies of our unborn children

We have no memory of the altar
Never had to make the choice
To burn, to run, or to fight and die
With anxious but spotless minds
We ask our lambs to sacrifice
But they will not fear a dead god
They must fear us
If they refuse to ascend the steps
they will at knife point
but fear will revolt and the knives
will be at our throats
and with our blood a new god will rise.

...

inspired by W.H. Auden's September 1, 1939

Knots know

No knot, not knows
nothing. Sum things
know things nautical,
some not articles.
Knot art tickles
cots caught
gnarled cuticles,
tickles cut.

Raccoons in His Eyes

Raccoons in his eyes
Squirrels in his heart and
Bees in his blood
And folds of skin
like warm wax

He opens his mouth to laugh
The squirrels pierce the ears.

Another drink, and another.

“How long have you been…”
Raccoons dance
and dart,
rolling folds find their proper pose

Another joke, more squirrels, another drink

And the bees begin to infect my blood
And the skin on my face disconnects from my soul

Temptation Divided by Torpidity

Temptation divided by torpidity,
split asunder by academy's devior.
tepid rivulets carving time's soil
to conjugate 'nief the light of a city

Telephone Poem

Sitting here at work
bored.
Time's death,
held off by ten short lines.


Her
blue words, are a cure for

beige.

The Solipsist

The solipsist reads her words
and “cringes at the sight”.
Not to be discouraged
He diggs into the verses’ blue soil.
Stained with ink and confusion,
He comes back up for air.
And covered in words not his
he looks into the mirror
and recognizes himself.

Escape

Dust pumps slowly
through the narrow veins
in the crux of my arm.

Dry air leaks
from a dozen small holes
in my chest,

and beige thoughts crawl
around the florescent lit knots
on either side of my head.

My yellows eyes rest
on the pithy quote that adorns
my cloth lined cage

“Bureaucracy is a circle
from which one
cannot escape”

And I smile.

Comments: So yeah this the first poem I have written that I am not completely embarrassed to put out there. Not sure how comfortable I am about writing about work. I mean, shit, I already have to be here, not sure if i should be spending time writing about it. Unless of course...i write about work while i am at work. Yeah i guess I am ok with that. Oh, quote by Karl Marx.