Scratch my Bitch...35,344 "restaraunts" in 98 countries, Haarlemtown too.

People of Haarlemtown it almost as if we live in heaven on earth. I mean all one has to do here in Haarlemtown to feel th wealth is to roll out of bed and stroll into town. There the bling bling of what humanity has to trade and sell in the common market is served to us all microwaved and packaged in paper. We are lucky people.
Opening soon here in H'town, a brand new Subway franchise, the McDonalds of sandwiches back in town. Smack dab right in the middle of town, one of the first things you will see (if you peddle with your eyes open) along the Kruisstraat, across from the Hema, when coming in to town. A fucking Subway. Come on H'town, we can do better than this. Or can we? I remember reading in the Haarlems Dagblad a number of months ago (yes, i read the paper everyday, i got my finger on the pulse) an article/interview with the previous business owner at the same location. Maybe some other people remember what used to be there as well, a belegde broodjes shop, a sort of delicatessean, an independent meat man, selling cold cuts, tuna salad, roast chickens, all that sort of stuff. He had to close up shop because the rent of the location became to high, and I guess the want for homemade sandwiches was not too highly in demand. So he is gone and in its place we get a Subway franchise, a place for pimpled faced teenagers to work and serve up standardized,commercialized food. Another chain store in the noose that is slowly strangling the independent business situation in Haarlem. Though to be honest, there are a number of independent shop owners who sell over priced bullshit all over town. Rents in the commericial district of this city are staggering and the "good will" to take over another business is obscene. Haarlem is becoming, has become just like all other city centers in the Netherlands. The same shops, the same shit everywhere. So it is easy when "travelling" in Holland, everything is familiar, no need to take a chance. So when tourists stroll into town from the station, stoned and hungry from their day in Amsterdam, the Subway will be there all neon and microwave ready to feed them their meal deal. Unless the fake stank of grilled meat from the Burger King in the station triggers their Pavlovian need to eat shit, first. It usually does mine.

Scratch my Bitch...New Shoes.

I hate buying new shoes.

Well actually I don't really ever wear shoes. I think since I was 16 or 17 all I wear are some sort of combat/motorcycle/cowboy boot. Sometimes I might wear sneakers, but they seem like something that are meant only for the gym or for kicking a ball with. Unless you are some indie shoegaze rocker. Converse and Vans got co-opted by the mass hipsters long ago. Plus the pair of black velvet Pumas I bought last year still don't fit right and suffcate my feet everytime I try them on.
Shit kicking black leather boots are where it's at. Shoes are for office work. If you work in a job wear you have to wear shoes, it is probaly boring work that entails wearing a suit and tie to. I used to wear shoes and a tie when I waited tables. Fuck waiting tables. At least when I worked in the kitchen as a cook you get to wear rubber clogs. I do dig Crocs.
Buying new boots sucks. I wear my boots to the bitter end. Till the rubber soul is cracked and pealing off the bottom of the leather boot. Till my big toe can kiss pavement as I walk down the street. Once boots are broken in, they can carry your strut everywhere. But the process of breaking in the new boots is a painful one. I mean just going shopping for new ones is a pain in the ass. Do I get the same style, just like the ones I have been wearing for the last three years? Or should I get something new? I search for simple, but only find kick ass boots I can't afford or ugly ass cheap imitations that are embarassing even to look at. Plus the dude standing in the corner, he who followed me upstairs into the men section, readjusting every boot I pick up to look at when I put them back. I pick up as many as possible to give him something to do, then say thanks and walk out of the store. Stepping in a puddle, the water seeps through the cracks in the rubber soul of my left boot and soaks through to my sock. I laugh and hope to get down to Waterlooplein sometime next week.

Scratch my bitch

Life as an expat can be an exciting adventure for those who choose to live abroad and delve into a foriegn culture. It creates an oppurtunity for one to broaden their own horizon when it comes to the understanding of another culture. As an expat myself, i truly believe that the expierence I am living through now has helped me to understand other persons from diverse backgrounds in a very deep and dynamic way. But sometimes, I just don't fucing get it. It...what...people, life...this fucking world.

Ok, Here is my bitch. All over the world, countries are more focused then ever to force new residents to attend courses where the new immigrants/expats learn about the history, the culture, the customs, the proper response to seeing two men kissing, in their new land of residence. What is most stressed upon by naturalized citizens of these countries is the fact that the new immigrants have to learn to speak the mother tongue of that land. New citizens have to learn to speak the language to get on in a new society. I agree to with this point, to a certain extent. But that is not what I am getting at here.

What I am trying to get my head around here is, why is that on one of the Netherlands most viewed television shows, "The Voice of Holland" do almost all the contestants sing in fucking English? Ok, I know the immediate response is, "well English is an international language and if you want your music to be heard....blah blah blah bleh." I know something like 95% of Dutch musicians/singers perform in English. Ok so what, I don't care unless their english sucks and their lyrics sound like they were written by junior high school prepubescent jerk offs. All I am saying is why call the a show "The Voice of Holland" when your contestants don't sing in Dutch? Huh? I mean how many times a week do I have to deal with someone saying to me, "oh, I should speak Dutch to you." No shit, and say that in Dutch too! And then I start speaking in Dutch, and halfway through the conversation I am butchering the Dutch language and the Dutch person is talking in some fake British accent and I am yawning.

My point here...my question...my statement...my bitch...If you are going to single someone out as the voice of wherever they are from, shouldn't they be performing in that countries mother tongue. Otherwise back off all the fucking immigrants for not learning the language and let them jabber away in what ever jawah taal they want. And you Dutch folk, I know you like to practice your english, your little love/hate relationship with everything not Dutch and American. Your Miami wet dreams and Hollywood wannabe boners, Well if you want to singing in english, go ahead and do it. Just don't suck at it. I mean we already have plenty of Americans back in the States singing in english and they can't even speak the language either.

whatever.

Haarlemtown 2011.

Haarlemtown, my town, our town, glorious mind snumbing beautiful frustrating and heartwarming Haarlemtown
023 in the mutherfuckin Leidsebuurt callin out to ya’ll, Haarlemtown
Haarlemtown, who saved me from the existential American consumer horror
Watching the world unfurl from haarlemtown, watching you all Haarlemtown
The ontwinkelening twinkling eyes of haarlemtown,
The godverdamenr sai eyes of haarlemtown, open your eyes plenty to do in haarlemtown
The ghost of the Fietsznfabriek still resonates in the chaos of the phoenix 13, Haarlemtown
The rock steady dub roll of Laag Sounds and lekkah band Haarlemtown
The Patronaat all concrete and glass, with a Blij guy at the helm and in control
The Storing, fired my ass and I can only be grateful to not work at Bruxelles on Zee
Who said its boring here in haarlemtown, was it you was it me?
From the Toneel and Film schuur to the schauwburg and the philharmonie, Haarlemtown culture city,
Haarlemtown let us not forget the under appreciated always free and amazingly programmed Patronaat Café, damn we are lucky here in haarlemtown.
Haarlemtown are we a
a culturstad
A winkel stad
A jazz stad
A stad als podium
A hooftstad
A Bloemstaad
a schizophrenic whore of a stad, Haarlemtown
From the Pitcher to the Briljant, the Melkwoud to the Jeltes, the Vijfhoek, the Stalker the Botermarkt, the Stiels, there are plenty ways to waste your days pay getting wasted in Haarlemtown
Haarlemtown, all the greedy maakelaars and tired coffee bars, how many all you can eat sushi places do we need to feed haarlemtown
Born to consume in Haarlemtown with over 125 café, bars and restaurants I always eat in the same damn places in Haarlemtown
Haarlemtown, lunch by the overkant, pizza by pappies, garronies ice cream and Frans the kapper for keeping my beard in control here in Haarlemtown
Haarlemtown in memorial the Cinema palace – what a waste to tear away, we don’t need anymore overpriced ultrahip clothing stores in haarlemtown, this our town.
Fuck Heemstede, Aardenhout and Bloemedal- haarlemtown is not your shopping mall
Haarlemtown, conflicted by its concrete present and its beloved rough house past.
Haarlemtown – Horizontil vertical, klein haarlem, 37PK, the Piet and Jan museum and all the upstart art intitiatiefs in haarlemtown
Haarlemtown DIY, do it yourself Haarlemtown– Geertruida, Haarlems atllernaief, metal night haarlemtown the begijnszaal as a headbangers hangout, all Haarlemtown needs is some Minor Operations for its punk rock soul Haarlemtown.
Haarlemtown mediate with Generation Y in haarlemtown cause haarlems is where it is at.
Haarlemtown fuck the cultural bezunning take the art to streets haarlemtown
Haarlemtown ultimate respect to Tony and Willeke from the Daisy Bell, all the musicians from Haarlemtown salute you.
Haarlemtown fuck the vastgoed mafia that kicking out the better projects in haarlemtown
Haarlemtown Kraaken gaat door Haarlemtown, the weggave winkel the only way not to spend a dime in haarlemtown
Haanes Kuiper still rocking in the free world in Haarlemtown
Holy shit haarlemtown PP fischer finally made a baby in boy in Haarmlemtown
Haarlemtown when will we see an alternative Bevrijdingspop in Haarlemtown, if you ask me no one is free between fences, shit beer, over priced food and pin automats in Haarlemtown
Haarlemtown at least our burgermeester is somewhat of a rock and roller
Will some one please tell me where I can get a godamn good hamburger in Haarlemtown.
And finally,
Thank you Haarlemtown for giving me and the Irrational Library a home, here in Haarlemtown

Waiting time

Your words lose meaning as you type them. Figures take to shape and dissipate as you describe them. Loose fingers type vague meanings, expression is a gimp in a cheap suit sitting at a bus stop waiting on a bus that may never come. Little girls run screaming by their blonde hair in pigtails, geared up in soccer uniforms. They are infernos of prepubescent longings. Their screams shrill against the static sidewalk scene. A pigeon lands and picks at a piece of liter in the gutter. A larger pigeon lands next to the first and begins to pick out the eye of the first pigeon. The pecking order in plain sight. The bus arrives out of nowhere and runs over both pigeons. The gimp remains seated on the bench. He ain’t got no money no ticket no rhyme, he ain’t going anywhere. The bus rides by, trailing pigeon feathers in its exhaust. The little girls scream again and the gimp in the cheap suit stands up to salute the dead scavengers. Across the street in the McDonalds parking lot an American Flag the size of a small Eastern European country sways in the breeze. The line for the drive through stretches back into the street. A serepentine line of mini-vans and SUVs gleam freshly cleaned in the early evening sun. There is handgun in the glove compartment of more than one of the mini-vans and SUV’s, it’s a suburban Russian roulette waiting to be played. God is in the ketchup and mustard stains smeared upon soccer uniforms. Happy meals sedate screaming children better than Prozac. Jesus supports more than one of the families dining alfresco. These are people who allow bumper stickers to speak for them. Too wealthy or too fat for t-shirt slogans, some may suppose. The gimp across the street smiles into the setting sun and sits back down upon the bus stop bench; as Minivans and SUVs screech out of fast food parking lots and carry microwaved nuclear familys home to the soft glow of Glee.
Waiting ain’t a waste of time when you ain’t got no where to go, says the gimp. Neither is writing about nothing, when writing about nothing is better than waiting on inspiration to show, says the writer.

The show must go on even as the ghetto rages in flame.

Last week the founder of the Jenin Freedom Theater, Mer Khamis was murdered outside the theater. Another sad day in an ever saddening situation between Israel and Palestine. This poem is in memorial to him.

The show must go on even as the ghetto rages in flame.

A cold blooded murder
in the heated sand strewn streets of
Jenin
An execution in front of the affirming doors
of the Freedom Theater.

God was a blind eyed nonpaying
Member of the audience that day,
Seemingly a critic of his own creation,
It was said that he left after the first
and only act,
Which portrayed the slaying of
a proud man
who had breathed
and now bled,
struggling through a divided life
with only one want
one artistic vision
to produce peace upon a ghetto stage.

By pursuing freedom,
through
the release of creation,
the liberation of performance
the safety and sanity of the theater
as a relief from the chaos
and out of control insanity
of the daily drama portrayed
beyond the theater doors.

Bullet holes lashed his body
Like misplaced dialogue that
Had lost control its tongue.
His body heaved and sighed
a last bow
a creators struggled final breath
as violence conducted
its very own curtain call.

And like so many biblical images
of rivers,
The murderer ran away, red
Through raped streets filled with chaos and shame
Through scarred slums where creation cries
Itself to sleep each night
and where passion is seen as a pariah
by the political fanatics
And the occupying state.

The artist’s body ruined sagged
and slumped over in the auto, dead.
A man finally free from dogma,
slain at the footsteps
of the foundation
of his very own hopes and dreams.

What was once a place established
for a frustrated forgotten people
to pursue peace through portrayal
was now where mayhem
had become the main attraction
on the marquee
standing dead center stage
a theater of pain,
where the creators heart will always be present
but the houselights will never
shine so bright again.


thanks to Poetry 24 blogsite for first publishing this poem. http://poetry-24.blogspot.com/

Cryptic Carnival

Cryptic Carnival

Is it any wonder
That in this world of twisted perception
Admittance to the carnival is
Non optional
You don’t even get asked if
You want to buy the ticket or not
It just is.
Cotton Candy pushed into one hand
Popcorn into the other
Kicked in the ass
Out of the uterus
and pushed through the opening
in the circus tent flaps of the
vagina door.

Welcome to the world.

Shit, the bearded lady or a two headed dog
Pales to what you may come across
In your day
in day
out life.
Is it really any wonder
that people don’t dare to say hello
to a stranger passing on a deserted street.
.
How can one
describe what one
can hardly fathom.
The newspapers deliver headlines
Oozing like diarrhea
Spraying out what the advertisers pay
them to say
in as few constipated words as possible.

Syllables stutter off my tongue
As I read this poem,
Not really knowing where it is attempting to go,
What I am trying to say.
Just a weave of ideas, rants and subtle rhyme
To break the cold silence of time.

I am relieved that devastation is momentarily another
Mans problem.
I know that all this can change
In less time than it would take for a butterfly
To fart in the ear of a priest in Bejing
a killer bee to sting an illegal south American immigrant in San Diego
or a B’boy to put a B’bullet in another B’boyz brain
in the outskirts of another busted up inner city scenario.

Living separated, cardboard walls of muffled shouts
Riding in metro cars over crowded with self delusion.
At a certain time today we will all do something that
we are unaware
that we always do,
And will continue to always do so
To the annoyance of someone close to us.

Offer the world another way to look at itself,
And you may be accused of being too dramatic,
Maybe even labeled a socialist
A linkse hobbiest.

Shoulders hunch when asked vague questions,
Like what is the meaning of it all.
Questions like,
Why didn’t you say anything when
You saw the hummingbirds pick out the eyes
Of the underfed and overly bloated

Why? Because we, like everyone
You and me included.
thought that it was all
Part of the show
The freakshow of our days
The twisted wonder of our minds
What lies inside the circus tent flap
The price of admission to the Carnival
That is our lives.