Poetry by John K. Joachim
 

Contents:
 

A Brief Ars Poetics Why your next hour or so in this poetry is intentional, and why I’m grateful for our time together.	Of All the Books in My Froggie Toy Chest If my poetry seems a bit more childish than child-like, here’s why.	Morning Bridge An homage to a new trail I bike on - day after day after day …
Faith is Strong Based on Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter: I have discovered that my accusations and hang-ups toward others are louder than my own shortcomings and religious faith.	Mullato Storm Written after reading Harriet E. Wilson’s Our Nig: or. Sketches from the Life of a Free Black.	A Hundred Days An intertextualization experiment with Dante’s Inferno and Rilke’s Duino Elegies.
Everything I Know I Learned from Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue Or, while Miles Davis wants to kick my ass and never listen to his music ever again.	Idle on Occasion A Villanelle: They’re so pretty, so famous, and so fake; but yeah, we’re still looking and buying …	Salman Rushdie’s Biography as a Literary Device One man’s identity crisis makes for some compelling fiction
Totally Scrumptious !! Why I don’t eat fast food, why I don’t eat out, and why I’m just not hungry anymore.	Emotional Slither: A Cento Based on the particularly awful poetry of British Novelist Graham Greene	Hide Behind This To all those students who’d rather take pride in their ignorance than actually learn something…
Halloween Road, Gambier, OH: October 31, 2003 A journey I took on a warm day, in my head: were it not a dream, I would had never wanted to live it at all.	Wide-Screen November Morning No, we’re not guilty for Michael Jackson; but we are guilty of exploiting children on television by the mere watching of them… and yes, Jackson was once a child who too, was raised on television.	A Few Words About Me:  An "Academic Bibliography" covering all college and post-graduate studies.

A Brief Ars Poetics

The proceeding collection of words-to-verse represents not only my first formal attempt to write poetry, but also my first attempt to codify this said poetry to some resemblance of finality.   While the poems here may not have truly breathed their last, for the time being these works – presented here in no particular order except in the sequence from which they were evaluated by peers – are in some form or another a display of completion.

And while I choose to shy away from the possibility of “kill” or “murder” metaphors, I do not wish to ignore the idea that some of these works’ livelihood or usefulness won’t last as long as others.  Some lines here and there will fall to the wayside, withering and sooting into the ground, carrying with them a few choice allusions or images I might had been particularly proud of, perhaps.  An inflicted season of autumn, one might say, only to germinate – or maybe not – something new.

This collection, then, captures that which occurs between that season of Autumn and whatever proceeds it.  And whatever and whatever.

While all of these works have been revised repeatedly over the last couple of months, nearly all of them have been granted victim-hood status to my penchant for indentation.  I wish I could tell why I like this technique so much, except to say that perhaps the various intensities of indentation in some way reflect the aspect of layering I sense in my own thinking, feeling, processing and articulating of external stimuli.

And by layering I do not mean in the sense of layers of an onion.  Rather, I mean to represent, for lack of a better analogy, a home-to-work commute by city transit: getting from Point A to Point B requires a route contingent upon the tyranny of the clock.  Miss the bus or train, and one may need to walk a few blocks and maybe even backtrack to get an alternate commute destination.  The destination never changes, and for the moment, hardly even matters anymore: what matters now is the new pick-up time of the designated bus or train, which will ultimately lead to the destination.  And perhaps a bit late.  But to eventually arrive, a few extra layers of travel may prove themselves expedient.

Furthermore, my propensity to draw from literary allusions for the basis of these works is probably more inevitable than just merely natural.  So although I would like to think that some foreknowledge of the works of Graham Greene, or Salman Rushdie, or Harriet Wilson is not absolutely necessary to gain an understanding of my poetry, I cannot deny that it helps.

Ultimately, every step of the way in each of these works, and from the start to the end of this collection, is intentional and focused.  And I might only hope the effort pays off.

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I’ve never been one to like to color, or do well –
something about the lines and contours,
not so much the
                          s
                           e
                            n
                             s
                              e
                                  o
                                 f
                                    r
                                     e
                                      s
                                       t
                                        r
                                         i
                                          c
                                           t
                                            i
                                             o
                                               n  .

And though connecting the dots lasted less,
the rush of making the walls and finishing the task
reminded me of the fun being a kid.

Yet, no picture is ever complete,
not like that of one brightly-enhanced.
I always preferred looking at others’ pictures and questioning their convention
to making my own  and solving any problem.

Mazes, a word puzzle occassionally,
or even a logic teaser as long as the solution wasn’t too far off.
But no book was ever fully worked:
I guess their answers didn’t penetrate my questions
 … not that they needed to,
or were supposed to,
or do now.
Consider:
I may have preferred the connecting of dots
   and assumed control of my path that will never cross
to the boundaries of the coloring books;
or the nonlinear beauty of the Spiro-Graph to the discipline of the acrostics.

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What separates me from the ride yesterday to today’s?
Slave to my own stock and store.
       But I await, and wait, and press forward
and nothing but the moment of this travel,
       nothing but the leaves that fall and wrinkle;
they crisp to the road at their own pace -

Again, this connection of ritual keeps me human.

And though I rode this path just yesterday
random trees await to be seen for the first time
      and many leaves will fall at last:
the hills keep the horizon a gift --
      this course will change again by nightfall
and my daily sojourn will be prosperous:

this ritual of connection keeps me spiritual.

… and yet …

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Light up in this House of God,
Even in this Strip Mall Cathedral;
Check your taboo at the door,
Just beyond the espresso bar –
Let me ask:
Why must you smoke – “in church” ??

Graham Greene’s stranger creeps in
     Just before Scobie’s death,
          Like smoke under the door,
                And meanders about the room,
- lighter than air –
as on a Mobius Strip …

What taboos strikes us pious?        What great hunger leaves you fixed?
                            What addiction takes your focus?

Smokes.  Smoke.  Smokes.  Smoke.  Smokes.

One Sunday, one smoke later,
And I still want more,
And want to know more;
  Yet,
I sing, “I’m full” –
so neither of us are satisfied.

And know more,
yet,
we know we cannot
fully know,
   even know at all –
Light up in this House of God?
Sure, anything to get me to shut up.

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Sentiment spelunking has never been my forte:
“Thank You” fails to validate your tone,

And “Bless You”
is scarcely better.

Now that your life is in print -
after a few generations of obscurity –
I must tell you:

The “novel” as a form didn’t serve you well.
I was warned about the storm,
                    that it was a weak metaphor:
     Arcane and - what? inapplicable, racist.
      But
            the layers, and layers, and layers …
I gasp to imagine that someone of my kin
    knew someone who
might have known someone else

who knew you
or your parents, who may had

abandoned a dog with more dignity –
              or
     knew the clan of horse thieves who took you in,

and might had offered you something more
                 than an audience prepared to laugh at you:

How does it feel to always wish to be dead?

I can’t offer you a better spin
on my white religion:
let freedom ring in the North

But I confess, I never knew you,
or know you any better

and all that I may gain, save this:

“You were always good for something.”

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Among the many inns,
This world is but one more:
We, nor animals,
Not the angels,
Have yet to come, or find, Home.

What babe may
  shed a tear for
   less than an ocean?
Behold,

You breathe,
I rise;
we are filled,
they tell us;
you smile,
they wander,
secure, for we love.

The breath of the wind,
the storm for the fruitless,
for the many …

Into a sleep,
       the drowse, calm,
   beneathe the terror
   we know by name,
and by scent –
yet, we smile, seldomly.

The elements of your
Waste, your remains,
Your neverending meal:
Behold, your ruins.

Anxiously, you sit,
peering behind the heart’s curtain,
but is disguised;
yet, the surface, pure,
says the angel actor.

Avarice among you,
Facades fail you:
Toils and labor seal your fate,
But of what good?

Ask them of the wanderers,
 and of the blooming, shedding roses;
  ask them of their petty grief,
   of  their racing hearts,
    and of the circle of onlookers.

Rage not,
    Unless you must – then
rage amongst
yourselves, and the sullen.

They, who never wake,
but leave early –
they, who resemble the youthful dead,
pondering the ruckus, silently,

Ponder your words carefully,
And truly, for they will
Not last many more breaths.

The heightening silence
peers among the Summer’s dawn,
and the evening deepens:
    “O to be dead and to know them endlessly.”

But those are not your horses,
Carrying you to battle:
Their orders, brief, are to stand watch
Against you.

Behold, the Open
and close unto demise:
  crave not, and marvel so.
The animal, free, sees death no longer.

But fear those
who create new ways to do evil:
seducers, flatterers, hypocrites, and alchemists.

Our most fleeting moment
Compells us to our need
To be human, and the
Hard labor of living –
Here is the utterable, the Home.

They wander on
to do no more but sustain the greed:
fear them not, but pray
you do not become them.

You cherish this night,
to the City:
jump,
quiver,
fall, and
                                      rejoice –
Rejoice in the curious taste of
this Life of Love !

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Sh-boo,  Sh-bahhh,
         Sh-boo, Sh-bahhh.

              Sh-boo,  Sh-ba-

Why,
in 1985,
     did he remark that if given only one day to live,
     he would kill me, a white man with blue eyes?
He showed me how to love and hate music,
       and love and hate;
 every performer I can dig, I owe to him.
All that I know about jazz, Jazz, JAZZ
I learned from him.
He showed me how to make the band sweat and play real
hot, you see?
And then finish the tune playing smooth, and cool, and real
slow
like on “Freddie Freeloader” -
    I bet they hated that; but hey, he’s Miles.
 He say Jazz ain’t ‘bout playing the notes, and
working the angles
  but about playing a song;
    he taught me all about
boundaries
and refrain
and walking on egg shells
 and readin’ the page and
getting to the end of the piece –
Sh-boo, sh-bahhh …

       But leave it to my race, and my Age,
       this Age of Post-Fullness of Time
         to make sense – no –
           absurdify this music and dig it, the
jazz in the ears and on their faces:
                   to worship J.C.
      (no, that’s “Jim Crow” you honkie)
and love the Lady that Sings
and then pay her for tricks out back
between sets
                                and introduced me to Daryl Jones
                          (who plays bass now for the Stones)
      and taught me the chords to all the tunes
   (based on “I Got Rhythm,” by a white man)
      and taught me blue from green
          the Flamencan sketches and
            all [dem] blues
              and so what, you say?  Yeah, dat’s right – so what, Jack -
          I’m not afraid, no, to be white;
               But the shame, it consumes me.
Do I regret being white?

No, but if I weren’t ...   sh-boo, sh-bahhh.

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I act so intuitive but they still get my cash.
The video jukebox has a new flavor:
she wears red, white, and blue – “I, McPepsi !! ,” she laughs.

What is so daring ‘bout wearing no substance?
But hey, what curves !!  I’m still male, and still breathing –
if given the moment, yeah, given the chance…

Let ’em go, Mouse, release ‘em, they’re sluts -
hidden endorsements abound, did you count?
Her posters, kids’ knapsacks, this poem, - this nuts?

She’s gone in a few, like the smoke that she drags -
- I act so intuitive but they still get my cash -
The headline reads: “Snaggletooth Princess Reneges.”

This is all nothing if not a good joke, yet,
thoughtful chatter in high, shallow places bet:
“He’ll speak so intuitively and we’ll still get his cash…”

“Like ‘em bad?  Filthy? Meet me in shop class “ –
Revolt me, girl, drive me: she says, “buy me…
suck on plastic ?  I’m your fetish…”
I act so intuitive, but she still gets my cash.

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Not even a year has passed since
 I’ve attended his public reading
  and in many a way this was a life-changing event for me:
   among the topics he spoke about that night, he told of
    the uncertainty of his place in this word.
     He was born in India, and spent little time in Pakistan;
      but he was born a few days after Pakistan declared independence from India,
        although this was not official for three more weeks, on the next new moon.
         For Rushdie, every boundary is an identity to be crossed,
          and every crossing is a life-defying, freedom-threatening moment.
           So when daring to step out and find my nature, and
           when crossing between existenses, I find myself asking,
          what moon out there declares and seals my freedom, my identity, my boundary?
         So even though he – and his home – is free from India, he’s still Indian.
       Reflecting on his Pakistanian citizenship even though he is Indian reminded me of
      the uncertainty of my place in the world – and that is why I read, to find myself.
    He answered a few questions, but mostly he read and spoke of himself,
   and in many a way this was a life-changing event for him:
 Step Across This Line, says the title of his most recent book
And though mindful when reminded, already I have – like he has – forgotten the depth
      of his words.

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  Stinking car in front, smoking,
  bagged is this drive-thru morsel, masked as food that
  even the counter bugs won’t touch:
  Carne-flavored featured-something,
  served up with pinto spread from
  shipped ziplock, heated with love
  by your sleep-deprived, nose-rubbing Varsity tackle,
  daydreaming of the big game
  who may just someday think up the
  next Happy Vittles toy -
  so be nice, he’s your kid’s best friend. Elsewhere,
  bison mutant, now masked, seems to mind much less,
  as young amigo with worn legs, runs off, in disgust and shame -
  not all die of exhaustion, or, as the coroner’s report reads:
  “total fragmentation injury” -
  some are scarred, or carry “trigger thumbs” from the
  repeated stabbing of the blindfolded cattle,
  and Juan’s little sis’ don’t mind as much
  her boss’ groping for a sixth time in return
  for a less un-dignified job in the food plant.
  “Let’s eat out to someplace nice,” you heard Sir Calvin
  Trillon say? Sit-down feasts - escape from what? -
  expensive !! Whoa !! Expensive !!
  the dim, draped garden décor masks
  the yelling, screaming, head line cook, announcement:
  “86 both eggplant and ziti” …
  were you short with Ashton, your waiter, pal? -
  not always did you reply, or answer him softly,
  and kindly, did you? How’s the chef’s salad ? -
  remember this: he’s running around
  the table now, isn’t he? And all night
  he’s been a ‘go fer’ to a hundred or so folks
  like you; and don’t forget, in fact, he’s
  not expecting a big tip from anyone tonight -
  think he’s in any mood to kiss ass ? -
  and to think there’s someone else
  who will grant you better rapport -
  you think they’re here for small talk ? -
  oh, think again. Also,
  purge your head tonight
  to your friendly grocier’s freezer:
  cocoa processed with alkali,
  carra …carra …carrageenam ?? …
  dextrose, corn syrup, stabilizer -
  and dry food, dust mites live to forage -
  oh, that B.L.T. you crave? -
  don’t be thinking pesticides weren’t used, or
  open-highway truckers
  on cross-country all-nighters - diesel fuel,
  perhaps, seeping into lettuce leaves:
  the fault is not the driver,
  produce guy, manager there, or even the accountant;
  but all because, they say, we refuse to pay high prices for our food in this nation,
            home
                      of
                     the
                    comparatively
                   and
                  terminally
                 free.

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Bright at night and empty
like a small station on the underground
and the lightship dropping behind,
things abandoned with the sea gently lifting
and felt desire for
things one has feared and admired –

The Godly distance.
It seems huge, and exciting, and intimidating.

At first,
I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it on the outside at all.
The world seems to have gotten awfully spendthrift since I was in the slammer.
The raw speed people move at.  They even talk faster.  And louder.
I began to think about stealing something,
anything,
just to get back in where it’s quiet
and you knew everything.
My boss, I sort of disgusted him.
The way a cringing, sterile dog that crawls up to you on its belly will disgust a man.

One way or another, you’re out.
I will be hoping this letter finds you,
and finds you well.

I was in terror of being apprehended.

I was so excited I could hardly hold the pencil in my trembling hand.
I hoped the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.
I hope.

Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.
 

*Compiled from the very bad poetry of Graham Greene, England Made Me, and excerpts from
Stephen King’s novella, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.

On the title on this poem:
Stand for hard light, clear edges an instant of time [to avoid] emotional slither [of bad verse]
- Ezra Pound

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-

This is not a lesson for me.
On my own journey,
there’s always a CD playing, or
a certain food stain on the seat, or
perhaps even a certain inafared indicator
flashing on the dashboard
that would make others stop and pull over,
to re-examine and re-evaluate.
But not me,
for now,
and I haven’t yet ceased exploring.

-

I guess you think,
because
I don’t talk
more,
   that
     I hide behind
   your ignorance
 and fear,
   putting up
a wall
 so not to
bother you
  and
perhaps even
    focus on my
self.

But
I
 wish to confront and disturb you greatly,
     as I regularly confront and disturb
myself.
Your wall
  is not at all a distraction from my own issues.
What you’re really showing me
is
you’re quite content to not change or learn or grow one bit.
 

-

Now: take aim and
shoot, and
don’t worry about
the cracked lens: that only matters if you think it should.

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I went nowhere, you might say, on this unexpectedly,
unseasonably warm
        say-dream;
    nowhere,
       but to my own fantasy:
        a past that heals me
                                                                                   or of
       any thing of my life;
but a past that I never lived,

and that is why I dream:
               for I am further from my dream than
my dream finds me from my home,
   and I find my dream is my dream.
      For it wouldn’t be if I have lived it -

a dip in the road
between the rail behind me and the horizon before
reminds me of what brings me to this past:
That I hope to live again now.

In all my travels
I either drive fast in my pursuit
or fall in fast in my brokenness
and abandonment;
    whichever,
the danger and the prize are great.

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News network, and another, and another,
       covering history, when not making news;
Our future leaders, our children,
       and another, and another,
Captured on film and voiceover:
       kings, princesses, child stars, hold-up artists,
some wearing tattoos, body piercings, smoking cigarettes,
    but the music hardly matters, anymore.
We can change the channel to another, and another, but we’re still there for you –
- we promise …

The Big Story today, and today, and today,
     is not his music, or even his greatest hits,
or a ‘Dallas Day in Camelot’ Homage,
but the bail bond of a former child, still in our child’s world, but no not a child.

You’re out of your own life, now.

      Your imaged complexion assures us that,
if nothing else,
we’ve created you at every glance and angle.

      Our childs’ world is your playground,
performing at every stage
     and limousine ride:
Release your white glove from your
fantasy land, your
arraignment hearings, your
interstate entourage …

Peer out your car window, and let your fans touch the hand that violates.

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Funny how after all I've been through so far, I'm now writing poetry.  Even a year ago I would had never considered that possibility, mostly because I've never had a flair for poetry - writing or reading it.  And yet, that's exactly how I got to this point, and why I write poetry now.

In August of 1988, I began studies in Music at Mount Vernon Nazarene College (Mount Vernon, OH).  By the following Spring, I was all but ready to change my major to Chemistry.  But in the Summer of '89, I opted one final "go" at it, by enrolling in two consecutive "Analysis of Music" Summer Courses at the University of Cincinnati (OH).  I probbaly learned more from those two classes about music than anything or anywhere else since.  And most imporantly, I discovered that a career in music was quite unlikely, much less my calling (whatever that means).

So returning to Mount Vernon my second year, I made my major-change official.  But by the following Spring, I had decided, after purusing my options, to take advantage of declaring a second major in Psychology.  And by the Spring of 1992, I had also added a minor in Humanities Religion to my credentials.  By the end of that Summer, I had convinced myself that whatever post-graduate work I pursue, it would need to be preceeded by further religious education at Nazarene Theological Seminary.

Two things worth mentioning happened while attending Kenyon College ...

In October of 1994, I found myself in the Registar's Office at the Science Department at the nearby University of Missouri - Kansas City.  I was allowed to enroll in two Graduate Chemistry classes, although I chose to take only one.  By that Spring I was officially accepted into their Physical Chemistry program.

MBA Program (IT Concentration)

Computer Technology

Graduate Computer Science

IUPUI Jazz Band

Graduate English

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