A practice session

[Wonderer67]

Straight Eight



Old engine sitting there,
I call you anvil
For that’s the era of technology
That you left behind
Barely
As you evolved
Over-engineered in every way
Except the course that Evolution took
Cro-Magnon killing off Neanderthals
Overbuilt, which is why you’re still here
Depression-era relic
A survivor from
The dim and musty past.
From when my grandfather
Was a young man
You two, virile at the same time
And very relevant.
The world was yours.
Your makers powered machines
Of the last Great War
And he went to subdue the enemies
Of Civilization.
He’s gone, and you’re here.
Having sat idle for 50 years
Stashed in a barn
A part of a project
A dream of a younger man
Now grown too old to pursue it
Past Dream Stage.
The seller floated
A Trial Balloon
To gauge interest.
Will some have you, or are
You fated to be junked?
Hell, I have several of these things
Projects for when Life slows a bit.
I’ll come to get you.
Salvage? Maybe Rescue
Yeah, that’s more like it.
Preservation . . . .
You were to have been
A Street Machine power plant.
I won’t make you that promise
But I will keep you from the scrap metal man
If only to delay
Your conversion into
Half a dozen electric “cars.”

This is really well done wat. As @42BelowsBack mentions, you can smell the smell the oil and grease. I can feel and see the rust. And definitely have the “feel” of old over engineered machinery that was built to last.

(Ironically, cars in those days rarely lasted 100k miles. According to Google at least….)

I think you had to be a backyard mechanic to really get your miles worth out of a car back in those days…

Car Lifespan Over the Years

• 1930s:
  Cars would average about 50,000 to 90,000 miles, and reaching 100,000 miles was considered a significant achievement.
  
  
• 1950s-1970s:
  Cars began to last closer to 100,000 miles, though reaching that milestone was still a notable feat for many vehicles.
  
  
• Today:
  Modern cars can often reach 200,000 miles or more with proper care and maintenance.
  

 

[Wat_Tyler]

This is really well done wat. As @42BelowsBack mentions, you can smell the smell the oil and grease. I can feel and see the rust. And definitely have the “feel” of old over engineered machinery that was built to last.

(Ironically, cars in those days rarely lasted 100k miles. According to Google at least….)

I think you had to be a backyard mechanic to really get your miles worth out of a car back in those days…

Car Lifespan Over the Years

• 1930s:
  Cars would average about 50,000 to 90,000 miles, and reaching 100,000 miles was considered a significant achievement.
  
  
• 1950s-1970s:
  Cars began to last closer to 100,000 miles, though reaching that milestone was still a notable feat for many vehicles.
  
  
• Today:
  Modern cars can often reach 200,000 miles or more with proper care and maintenance.

Anvil engines are good for maybe 80,000 miles or so before a rebuild. Super Fred, the one I collected last fall when we met for lunch, shows 80K on the odometer but the story is, it has been redone. The lack of oily smoke out the rear tells me this is true.


My old (2007) truck has 225000 miles and the landlady's Honda has 222000. They should be good for another 50-100000 with all things being equal.


Metallurgy is gooderer than it used to be.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Dylan Thomas
1914 – 1953


And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Shadows . . . .


I still cast a shadow
And I think you know why
I was in a tough way
And fresh out of ideas
Hell, the last one
Worked so fucking well
It tried to kill me
You spent a Sunday
A springtime afternoon
When I couldn’t focus
And scrambled for something
That looked like a solution
Crazy looking old man
Like psychotic Santa
White mane like a lion
Blind in one eye
Maybe can’t see from the other
They didn’t track together
I still have no idea
Which was the good one
You pointed out
That basic lesson
From Business 101
That to find a solution
One must first
Identify the problem
Oh yeah
Sometimes the simple
Is exceedingly complex
Especially to a
Complicating mind
Such as mine
You “got it” too
You modelled what to do
Haven’t seen you in eons
I still cast a shadow
And if you do not
You are sharing in mine . . . .

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Artists can see the horrors that are taking place in the world perfectly well and some of them are doing what little they can to create more awareness in society at large, but many more are giving way to apathy, treating art as an escape from reality, a comfortable, insulated world…...

~ John Calder

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Writing​

By: Charles Bukowski​

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman’s love,
no wealth
can
match it.

nothing can save
you
except
writing.

it keeps the walls
from
failing.

the hordes from
closing in.

it blasts the
darkness.

writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.

writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.

and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.

it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.

that’s
what it
is.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

In a word


The world's terms
are,
in a word,
Unacceptable.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?tab=rm&ogbl#inbox/FMfcgzQcpwrjJJgldlzNTVDhFFhlVRpj


The first essay anybody writes is for school. Same here. But the only examples I remember are the ones I wrote at the end, in my A-level exams. One compared Hitler to Stalin. Another, Martin Luther King, Jr., to Malcolm X. I was proudest of the essay that considered whether the poet John Milton—pace William Blake—was “of the devil’s party without knowing it.” I did well on those standardized tests, but even passing was far from a foregone conclusion. I’d screwed up my mocks, the year before, smoking too much weed and studying rarely. Since then, I’d cleaned up my act—a bit—but was still overwhelmed by the task before me. My entire future rested on a few essays written in the school hall under a three-hour time constraint? Really? In the nineties, this was what we called “the meritocracy.” As a system of evaluation, it favored the bold and the brash, laid waste to the rest, and was irrelevant to the rich, whose schools drilled essay technique into the student body from Day One. In a school like mine, exams came as a surprise. Up to that point, we’d basically thought of school as a social event, a sort of mixer for a diverse group of teen-agers, many of whom had only recently arrived in the country—like a mini U.N., but with easier access to psychedelics. Almost half the school was felled at the first hurdle, leaving after G.C.S.E.s, aged just sixteen. (For G.C.S.E.s, you usually studied about nine subjects; for A-levels, only three.) Those of us who survived struggled on, trying to jump through meritocracy’s narrowing hoops. If you couldn’t do maths and had trouble with the hard sciences, each hoop came with an essay topic attached. (I did English, History, and Theatre Studies.) The stakes were presented as not just high but existential. You had to produce a thousand effective words on the rise of the Chartists—or else! What did “else” mean? Never earning more than minimum wage, never getting out of your mum’s flat, never “making something of yourself.” My anxiety about all this was paralyzing me.

Then something happened. An English teacher took me aside and drew a rectangle on a piece of paper, placed a shooting arrow on each corner of the rectangle, plus one halfway along the horizontal top line, and a final arrow, in the same position, down below. “Six points,” this teacher said. “Going clockwise, first arrow is the introduction, last arrow is the conclusion. Got that?” I got that. He continued, “Second arrow is you basically developing whatever you said in the intro. Third arrow is you either developing the point further or playing devil’s advocate. Fourth arrow, you’re starting to see the finish line, so start winding down, start summarizing. Fifth arrow, you’re one step closer to finished, so repeat the earlier stuff but with variations. Sixth arrow, you’re on the home straight: you’ve reached the conclusion. Bob’s your uncle. That’s really all there is to it.” I had the sense I was being let into this overworked teacher’s inner sanctum, that he had drawn this little six-arrowed rectangle himself, upon his own exam papers, long ago. “Oh, and remember to put the title of the essay in that box. That’ll keep you focussed.”

I was seventeen when this priceless piece of advice came my way. I’m now almost fifty, and although I don’t often draw out the rectangle anymore, this charming and simple blueprint is buried deep in my cerebral cortex, lit up like the flux capacitor in “Back to the Future.” I still use it.


~ Zadie Smith

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Walking on No Kings Day



15,000, damned near 16,000 steps
Here in the city
But not in downtown
No idea where
Didn’t ask and don’t care
If it makes you happy, then go.
The sky was perfect,
The light is yellow
This time of year
And I took the time
To go to the old part of town
Being a gorgeous afternoon
All the little gentrification
Residents were out
Doing suburbs shit
In what once was the ‘hood.
Funny how that works.
But I saw signs:
Chinga la migra
Resist
No kings
Democratic candidate yard signs
Some for one of them
And some for all three at once
A fire engine
No ambulances
And no poepoe
Little kids nattering to parents
Doing almost suburbs stuff
In their postage stamp yards
Nicely kept, which is easier
When it’s ten feet by twenty-five.
Over there, where I came up the hill
Is the old park where the wartime hospital was
Funny, there’s no graveyard
The view of the river there
Would make it a developer’s wet dream
Million dollar condos
At least the old houses
Still have their half-a-view.
Meanwhile, what of the kings?
I’d rather see horse shit
And fire up the tractor
It’s on the agenda
Just a few more months
And then I bid you adieu.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

My Great American Novel Project


When I write The Great American Novel
I will explain where it all went wrong
I will say it eloquently
As though lyrics of a sad song
I’m not sure what to do about it
But I’m sure what’s been done so far
Is just a giant cluster fuck
We are being led to the abattoir
These are the times that try our souls
As was said once upon a time
There must be something to do about it
More effective than finding words that rhyme
I can go home and clean my rifle
And ensure that I top off every magazine
But I’m not sure anyone would help me
Or that they even understand what my words mean
I go to work and pay my taxes
Toiling beneath the boot heel of the man
I think great thoughts which ought to make sense
I put them to paper every chance I can
This to create my great American novel
My version of the fact of life
I follow attempt to bring some hope today
To attempt to relieve the burden of the strife
My friend and I greet one another
By simply asking, what’s wrong now?
What answer may be to trade the city
For country land with horses and a cow
I’m up too early to be going to work
Pounding pavement going down the road
To perform yet another function for the ungrateful
My job vacancy will be posted before I’m cold
One reason the church had an easy time selling salvation
Was that there was no hope here where we dwell
Trading our minds and aspiration for material
Nearby making life nothing short of hell
Dear readers, small children, please don’t mistake me
Through my words, I’m glad we got a chance to meet
Please, dear people, trust me when I tell you
I refuse to die on my knees rather than my feet
And I believe this to be the spirit of the great American novel
I must get busy and write my masterpiece
I must not leave you with no direction
But even dead men know the living need release

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Life


Seems annoying sometimes.
It’s what we do
But then a moment arrives
When it’s like looking at it
From Somewhere Else
As in, who is this?
But moreso, what is this?
Like, What The Fuck is This, really?
It takes the Caring right out
It’s not like a tummyful of thistles
Or rusty razor blades
Maybe more of whence and whither
We have made it all
Too goddamned complex

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Pain as Inspiration


Passion seems elusive
While pain seems very real
Anger, hurt, distress,
Perhaps even disgust
These are the things
That reveal the edges of
The broken glass
Caught in the soul
Below the surface
Constantly cutting
Sensitive to the touch
Poetry is the method
To begin to dig this out
But is it enough?
Is it real?
Or is it simply drama
Or is the poet
Simply being fussy
About being annoyed?

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Burdensome Blues


My finger does not go on this
And I am not sure why
I find this task to be
More burdensome than its right
I’m fixing floors and pulling nails
Spackling holes in walls
All parts of my former trades
Which I haven’t done in years
Because I sold out to be
Something they call a manager
Big fucking deal that.
Your house is quiet now
No one is there
And stuff is leaving
What once was home
Is reduced to storage
And a series of chores
Preparation for sale
To go to market
Like so much drywall
And metal stud livestock.
Perhaps it will be loved again
If it were ever loved before
It is a house
No longer home
But could be home again
Now, just a burden
I wish it no ill
I just wish this whole episode
Would get off my plate.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Eighth floor balcony door


Sliding doors
A well respected brand
Glass needs cleaning
Downtown is over there
Building tops visible
In the grey winter haze
That makes up this noon time
That town was once burned
Not that you would know it
By looking today
But hazy nevertheless
Enough pines in the tree line
To add some green to the view
And perhaps, just maybe
Those tiny buds
That arrive in spring
Festoon the branch tips
Of the deciduous trees
Yes, spring comes
But winter never hurries
Her departure
Small strip shopping center
Across the street has patrons
Visiting the thrift stores
And stopping to eat
People enjoying their weekends
Time away from the jobs
From stress and deadlines
A chance to breathe
A chance to look up
To see circling vultures
Always present, always circling
Like it is their only business

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Seeing things


I doubt I ever
Have a vision
That seems the realm
Of other people
Not my kind of thing
I am not saying
It cannot happen
I might also hit the lottery -
If I ever bought a ticket
I guess that makes the vision
A more likely thing to happen
Spiritual growth
Has never seemed
An ethereal thing
My growth never
Comes that way
No transcendent leaps
No chariots of fire
Mine is much more like
Digging a fucking ditch
Mucking out some stables
Shovelling mountains of shit
Like some Herculean task
Plodding, pushing forward
One foot in front of the other
Remembering
Always remembering
What seems to be
The very most important part:
It ain’t all about me

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Believing in God


When the shit hits the fan
Things going badly awry
Not getting what we want
The world won’t behave
Our terms are not met
Conditions do not suit
People do not obey
In fact, they should be suspected
Of sabotage and undermining
God needs to haul them into line
Before things become unbearable
God gets very popular
In times like these….

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Why me? Why not me?


What are you doing here?
Coming into my dream
I don’t dream
Oh, the occasional snapshot
A picture, a frame or three
Perhaps a statement
Rarely a conversation
And never a film
There hasn’t been a film
Not that I remember
In a couple of decades
Yet there you were
Wandering into some work scenario
Like you naturally belonged
It’s been over a year
Since last we swapped ideas
Observations, musings
Or a joke
Yet there you were
I was annoyed at something
Your face was pleasant
And you suggested lunch
Which was a damned fine idea
It usually is that time of day
You agreed to wait
And then the damned alarm went off
Not sure why I said it
No particular place to go
But then I wondered
Had Charon arrived?
Damn, I hoped not
It hasn’t, but still no word
These things like this
They happen to others
But not to me
Perhaps for the best

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Little bits of woodwork

Working little
Bits of wood
Fixing floors
Poorly done
Long ago
Leftover scraps
Just enough
To fill in
Missing pieces
Wider molding
Covers cracks
They left undone
Pieces, overlooked
By amateurs
Or incompetents
So I fill
And I cover
All the parts
So they appear
Better than new
Better than was left
Little splinters
In my fingers
On my nerves
I had forgotten
Out of practice
Like riding bikes
It comes back quickly
Along with splinters
And little cuts
And pinched fingers
Nonetheless
Skills once learned
Can stay with us
Wood is easy
Humans, not so much

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Whence and whither


How long it’s been
Quite a while
No man ever missed you
When you walked in a room
You are the woman
Every man sees
And every woman, too
As they become jealous
Not sure why we talked
But we did, with regularity
With some depth
Sometimes
One summer
On a day as hot
As the hinges on the gates of Hell
You had to talk
Bursting
Exploding
We went to a park
The one with the old house
The estate left to the city
The trees
The plantings
The animals
You tried to share your pain
You were hurting
Blue eye storm clouds
Confusion bordering
On turmoil
Then worst of all
You asked me what to do
I did not have a clue
Had I a magic wand
I would have waved it
To see the action
Bring you relief
That did not happen
You left
It’s been 20 years
We have not seen you since
And petty as it seems
I can see your face
But cannot recall your name

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Brain whirring - again


When I was young
I wanted to write
But I was young
Who would take me seriously?
I was a bit older
I wanted to write
I felt I knew too little
And no one would take me seriously
A bit older still
Too busy with bullshit
inundated with self
I wanted to write
I knew that I knew a little
But still,
Afraid I would not be taken seriously
Now I am older
And I want to write
So I write
I know, damn good and well
That I have plenty to say
You don’t have to take it seriously
That’s your fucking problem
I’m going to write it
I refuse to explain it to you.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Someone's child named Sebastian


Interesting fellow
Short but not slight
Not absent skill
Not short of drive
Deft with Color
Good with words
Formally schooled
Continued to read
Yet not fitting in
Feeling unappreciated
Subject to abuse
Went back for more
Problem drinking
Washing down sedatives
Antidepressants
Yet still depressed
Still unhappy
Liked, but not accepted
Settled for, not chosen
Understanding that you are
Misunderstood
Not understood at all
The pills quit working
The legal ones
Street corner product
Always worked
And continued to
Until it worked too well

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Cold snap


Some call them bums
It seems we have
More street people now
Perhaps than before
Perhaps I merely
Am more tuned to see them
It turned cold two nights ago
The wind is up
Thermometer down
It’s still winter
And it is reminding us
Of that frosty fact
The pain of cold
Nowhere to go
Ratty old clothes
Cardboard in short supply
More plastic now
And the price of wine
Higher than ever
What do you do?
Once saw a man
Who told me
That he walked all night
So he would not freeze
So he would not die
At the hands of the elements
He told me how it made him thirsty
He asked for a dollar
Earnestly
Apologetically
Sincerely
He needed to drink
A dollar?
I gave him two
Most would say
There, but for the grace of God go I
I claim horse shit
I am no more worthy
Than you tonight
Or that man back then
I hear what you don’t
The furnace just turned on
I would be an ass
To take it for granted

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Fulfillment of a sort


She was first told
That if she kept on
She would die early
Die in a ditch
Or in a jail cell
Or on the indigent ward
In a second rate hospital
They asked her
Is this what your mother
brought you up to be?
Facing the truth
For once in her life
She tried it their way
She thought it limiting
She did it, resisting
But she did it
And she came to do it
Not because she had to
Because she wanted to
Discovering in time
That what had seemed limiting
Was here to fulfil her

 

[Wat_Tyler]

March 25th


On this the feast
Of the annunciation
Notice that it’s nine months
But who’s counting?
We think of a girl
Visited by the angel of God
She was told she would bear
To the world, the son of man
A newborn bastard
Promised to lead
Promised a kingdom
She had to wonder how
For she could not know
Of what in hell?
This apparition spoke
A more worldly cynic
With more experience
More battered hands
And weary eyes
More exhaustion
And poor in spirit
Would likely assume
Well, here it comes
God is fucking me again

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Lights


Ceiling fixture
Hanging there
By its wires
Incorrectly installed
Or poorly so
Uncaring workers
Poorly trained
And worse managed
Unmotivated
And badly paid
Skipped a step
Hurried up
On a rush job
Paid by the piece
They just don’t care
They don’t aspire
To be better
Or to be more
Than they are right now
Hopeless seeming
Quite undreaming
Never scheming
Are not reaching
Past 5:30
Much less for stars