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June 29th, 2010


09:55 pm - Latest poem
Based on a dream:

Death Of A Centerfold

I move my chair closer to her,
her long brown body dolloped across the beach towel
like congealed honey.
I move close enough to see the breeze
flutter the tiny wisps of blonde baby fuzz
that rise and fall on the various orbs, satellites and planetoids
that constitute the galaxy of her.

The man in the other chair seems to be agitated.
His face is slippery, assuming new proportions
every time I glance in his direction.
He's an adolescent wastrel, a junkie gypsy,
emotionally progressed into early adulthood at most.

I move away from the woman and he settles, his motor idling.
His snaky nest of hair goes dormant,
his torn rock-star t-shirt comes to rest;
the one he once wore while running from the police.
His head is a rolodex, a flip-book of faces:
pugnacious, defiant, bewildered, sullen, enraged.

As an experiment, I once again move closer to the lollipop trollope.
As expected, the multi-faced man-boy trembles and sputters
and spins around in his seat,
his hair turbo-morphing in a territorial, peacockian display.
It seems that every time I move towards the voluptuous love-doll,
stretched out tanned and sphinx-like,
with the remote yet very real promise of sex
tucked into the faintly curved corner of her mouth,
druggie-boy over there gets his bowels in an uproar.

The proximity of my chair to his chair
to the babe on the blanket
most likely holds some secret pythagorian significance.
There is the remote possibility that we're in a minimalist play;
three actors, two chairs, one blanket.
Where exactly are we anyway? Are these floorboards?

I lean forward and reach under the woman's breasts,
squished into such pleasing ovoids against her towel,
groping for her spongy nipples
to which I attach small form-fitting cups
of silver studded with precious jewels.

The woman's reaction is as noncommittal as the twitch of a lizard's eye.
Her expression says that she could just as easily have sex with me
as with change-o spastic man in the other chair.
We're faceless to her, interchangeable,
two spermy-boys, carriers of libido-fire,
circling around the giant goddess egg-woman,
illuminating the blackened id-space like two fireflies
hoping to win favor with the moon.
One's strategy is worship; the other's, jealous possession.

In a moment of epiphany, I choose to abdicate, drop out of the race.
I cross to stage right where I see another woman waiting.
Her face is as warm and welcoming as a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
Her shiny dark eyes are oreo cookies
and the cream filling in the middle is reserved only for me.
She is as deep and wide as a mountain,
and as sparkly and small as a ladybug's wing.
Her angels and devils dance minuets on her shoulders.
And when she smiles at me, a whoosh of energy
shoots straight up my spine,
dissolving the dirt-clods in my chest and throat,
and exploding out the top of my head like kundalini fireworks.

I take her hand and as we exit the theatre
I look back over my shoulder
to witness the final orchestrated cum-shot,
the gooey, drippy tapioca
sprayed all over the glossy pages,
splattered against the blinking video screen,
and ancient, crusty, balled-up tissues
blowing across the floorboards
like forgotten tumbleweeds.

David Aronson
April 2010

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09:39 pm - More poetry
My mother's significant other died and this came out of it:

Kaddish For Bob

I'm really angry right now,
and I know it's irrational, blown out of proportion,
and I think I know why.
It's one of those rages whose stump reminds you
how long ago you chopped it down,
and whose backyard-strangling roots
are easily uncovered by a few turns of a shovel.

I went to my mother's apartment
to sit shiva for Bob.
Sitting shiva is the officially proscribed behavior
for jews in mourning.
Being jewish is about as significant to me
as the shape of my fingernails,
or the direction in which my hair grows out of my scalp.
But my mother said she needed me.
There had to be ten jews present
or the rabbi wouldn't show.

My anger sprouted new leaves
as soon as the prayer books were handed out,
and began to bud as the rabbi said,
"Turn to page thirty-eight,"
and a roomful of people, herd-like,
mouthed mumbly words together in bovine unison.
They read in a habitual, listless monotone, distracted,
the droning momentum punctuated
by the rabbi's commands to stand up and sit down
and stand up and sit down and turn to page whatever.

And my anger sprouted like jack's magic beanstalk,
and at the top of the beanstalk
sat my father the giant,
surrounded by his magical, ever-expanding library of judaica,
whose books he eternally consumes,
sucking them in at his top end,
like satan eating souls in hell,
and then shitting them back out his bottom,
only to be reconstituted and consumed again.
And at regular intervals, the excess paper pulp
comes spewing out of his mouth and ears and nostrils,
cascading down like sewage from a busted pipe
and contaminating unfortunate passersby.

And I remembered him trying to feed me
this regurgitated pulp when I was a boy,
like a mother animal tending to it's toothless, eyeless young.
But his paper-puke held no nourishment,
and so I starved and my skin turned to parchment,
and the thinner I got, the more he stupidly crammed
his meaningless book-mush down my gullet.

When my daughter was fifteen,
she brought a non-jewish friend
to my parents' passover seder.
I told my daughter's friend that during passover,
jews were required to stand on one leg for an entire hour
while balancing on their heads
a bowl containing a raw turnip.
...and she believed me!

Oh yes--and jews are not allowed to chew gum on the sabbbath.
And if they're caught with gum,
they have to go out on the street
and find someone less fortunate than themselves
and offer them gum.

And if a jew scratches his ass,
he must never sniff his fingers afterwards,
for to do so would be an unclean impurity in the eyes of god.
And why?
Because two thousand years ago,
some jackoff sitting in a desert somewhere
didn't like the smell of his own doodie
and wrote it down in a book.

I'm sorry, Bob.
I'm sorry that these husks, these bleatings,
are all that we still here on the earth plane
have to offer your soul
as it departs for it's next grand adventure.
These expired rituals, these pantomimes,
spastically bouncing up and down in our seats
like wooden jumping-jack toys,
are all you're receiving tonight for a job well done.
It's like giving you a used kleenex
in lieu of a gold watch upon retirement,
and it pisses me off!

If you're going to mourn, fucking mourn!
Howl out your grief! Your love! Your ache!
Speak words from your depths;
choose them carefully.
Orate! Declarate! Enunciate!
So that everyone in the room
can feel what you feel!
I mean really fucking feel!
And the words will leave your mouth like arrows,
and pierce the heads and hearts of all present,
gathering speed and force like a whirlwind,
accumulating love and pain, joy and regret,
bringing release, purgation, purification,
and finally landing at Bob's feet,
sanctified, juicy and overflowing,
like a diploma from the almighty himself,
like a love letter from heaven.

David Aronson
March 2010

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06:56 pm - More poetry. 2009 was not a very good year.
2009 was a bad year for writing--I was completely uninspired. One day on the train I decided to write about being uninspired and this was the result. I'm still not sure how to feel about it. I suspect it might be really stupid, or worse, a total piece of shit. Anyways, I'm risking posting it here for the sake of getting some kind of feedback, as I'm just completely unobjective about it. Be gentle...

Forced Poem Due To Lack Of Inspiration

Train to center city and the airport!
(clang thud clang)
Crestmont! Anybody need Crestmont?!
(rucka rucka rucka rucka)
(eeeeeeeeeeeeee)
(sssssssss)
...she called you a bitch...?
...no, she said...
(hooooooooooooooot)
Crestmont!
(slam slam thud)
Thank you, ma'am.
(unintelligible gibberish)
[Ok--I need material.
What's this woman's story?
She's scratching her crotch...
maybe she has crabs.]
(chuck chuck chuck chuck chuck chuck chuck)
[She's cute... in a trailer park sort of way.
I guess I'd do her under the right circumstances.]
Roslyn this stop--Roslyn!
(slam slam clank)
Ugh! Ugh! Unnnnnngh!!!
[Jesus! Sounds like this guy is giving himself a hernia.]
...she's ten dollars and you're twelve...
...round trip and receipt...
[What are these women behind me speaking?
Spanish? Russian? Hebrew?]
Ardsley!
(clang)
(sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh)
[Wow! This woman looks happy!
Why the fuck are you smiling like that?
You look like the Joker!
Did you eat some acid,
or did someone just lick your clitoris?
Maybe she's found the Lord.]
(rumble rumble rumble)
...if they would just get it through their heads...
(swish swish swish swish)
(eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
[You know what? Now I'm wondering
if this whole concrete poem idea
is really just fucking lame.
I wish something interesting would happen.
This is boring.]
(clatter clatter clatter)
Glenside this stop--Glenside!
[Goddamnit! Every time I ride this train
I overhear some weird conversation.
Today, nobody's saying dick!]
(chigga chigga chigga chigga)
(ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)
...every six months he gets his hair piece re-woven...
[Now that's interesting!
I wish they would talk louder--
I'm missing every other word.]
...she doesn't understand...
...oh wow...
...a year after they were married he lost his hair...
...she loves him but it's hard...
[Ok--who are they talking about?
Damn--they're getting off!]
Jenkintown!
(slam clang)
Watch your step.
(shicka shicka shicka shicka shicka)
[Wait a minute! Didn't I hear someone
read a poem just like this recently,
with all the transit noises and random dialogue?
Fuck--I think I'm stealing someone else's idea!]
(whhhiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr)
(incoherent babbling)
[Maybe I could just make something up.
Terrorists? Nah!]
(static)
(irritating vibrating noise)
[Let's see... what would be believable?
A woman giving birth in the aisle?
Someone shitting all over the seat?
Orange-robed Hari Krishnas
dancing and playing tambourines?]
(hoot hoot)
(eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
(whirrrr whirrrr)
...I'd rather get up at seven than have to...
[What can I pretend happened?
Hmmm... that bald guy's head
with the little wisps of hair is weird.
It kind of looks like a plate of chopped liver
or a sloppy joe.]
Elkins Park this stop--Elkins Park!
Go ahead...
(chuckle)
Thank you.
(slam clang thud)
...the insurance will cover it...
[Omigod! I hate riding the train on saturdays!
It's always full of old people and little kids
from the suburbs, squawking and shrieking!]
(ricka ricka ricka ricka)
(whoooooosssshhhhh)
(clank clank clank)
[This guy with the high-tech gym bag looks shady.
What's he got in there? Heroin?
No, it's got to be something more imaginative.
I know--toads! Illegal toads--the psychedelic kind
that you lick to get high.
Or black market organs packed in ice--
pineal glands--harvested from Central American
teenage peasant boys by CIA-funded death squads.]
(raucous laughter)
(rumble rumble rumble)
(chigga chigga chigga chigga)
(squeeeeeeeeeeeeeee)
...and my daughter-in-law
ordered the broccoli with cheese on top...
[Why do old women insist on
poofing up their hair into puffballs?
This woman's hair looks like
one of those spongy toilet cleaning brushes.
You could just turn her upside down
and clean a toilet with her head.]
Melrose Park this stop!
(clatter clatter clatter clatter)
[Maybe I could make up some conversation. Let's see...
'...and then my daughter-in-law puked...
no--an old lady wouldn't say puked...
Vomited! My daughter-in-law vomited
all over her broccoli with cheese
and had to be rushed to the hospital,
and Bill was so upset
he punched the waiter in the face
and broke his jaw.']
(chickit chickit)
(ssssshhhhhhhhhhhh)
(rucka rucka rucka rucka)
[Ok--yeah--I should just make everything up.
People who think everyday life is interesting
are stupid! Thank god I don't have to
ride this train every single day.]
How far ya going?
Market East please.
(click-click click-click)
[...so there were these teenagers throwing rocks at the train
really hard, and the old man in the seat in front of me,
who looks like the landlord from Three's Company,
was sleeping with his head resting against the window,
and a rock smacked the window BAM!
and it must have given him a concussion
because five minutes later
he was asking the middle-aged asian woman sitting next to him
if she was the receptionist
and he had an important meeting with Mr. Pfeiffer
and how dare they keep him waiting blah de blah de blah...]
Fern Rock!
Train to center city and the airport!
Watch coming up!
(huuuuummmmmmmmmm)
...say what?
...ok, take care now...
(click clank)
(ssssshhhhhhhhhh)
(click-click click-click-click rrrrrriiippp)
[...now the Norman Fell-looking old man
is grabbing the asian woman's tits
and apparently she doesn't speak English
because she's yelling at him in Japanese or Korean or whatever,
and now she's slapping him really hard in the face. Yikes!
And now he's crying and saying he's sorry
and he really loves his wife and please forgive him
and she doesn't know what the hell he's talking about
but I guess she understands his body language
and she's patting his hand and making "there there" sounds...]
(rik rik rik rik rik rik rik)
(kabump kabump kabump kabump)
...no, Norristown is the R6--you want the R6...
[How am I going to end this?
Obviously it will have to stop
after I get off at market East.]
(chunka chunk-chunk chunka chunk-chunk)
(wif wif wif wif wif wif wif)
Wayne Junction this stop!
(squeeeeee squeeeeee)
(sssshhhhhhhhhhh)
[I always hear little snippets of conversation
as people board the train; maybe I could make some of them up.
'...blow me, punk...
...I can't feel my neck...
...this cheese smells like your ass...
...my gym teacher has a tumor...
...last year I sold twelve chickens to a Mormon family...
...stop picking your nose--it'll make your septum deviate...
...dude, I'm not a girl...']
Temple University next--Temple!
[Shit! We're almost there!
I have to think of an ending.]
(wucka wucka wucka wucka wucka wucka)
[It needs to be dramatic...
The train explodes?
It get sucked into a black hole
and comes out in another world
where all sentient life forms
are purple, gelatinous and unisex?]
Temple University!
(wub wub wub wub wuuuuuuuuuub)
(clank clang clank)
(click click)
[Maybe I realize that we're all ghosts
on the train of the dead,
riding through purgatory for all eternity.
Maybe it's a magical flying train
taking us to the mountain top
for an audience with the guru.]
(melange of twittering in foreign languages)
(someone wearing headphones singing horribly out of tune)
[There has to be some kind of climax
to justify the rest of the poem.
Maybe it's all a dream, and I wake up at the end
and it's too late to catch the train.
Yeah--and if it's all a dream
I can have anything happen.
All the passengers' heads melt
and they turn into giant caterpillars
and an enormous fat man in a butcher's apron
lumbers through the train,
chopping up the caterpillars with a huge cleaver,
and the caterpillars' bodies spew out this hot pink goo
that melts holes in the train wherever it lands
like sulphuric acid,
and little cupids fly in through the holes
and sprinkle lime green glitter all over everything,
and the heaps of dead chopped up caterpillars begin to speak,
and they utter prophecies like ancient seers,
and they speak of the end of the world
and the transition to the fifth sun
when all matter will vibrate at a higher density
and women will grow a third breast just above the navel,
and human beings will live in giant towers
made out of recycled manure,
which will become the primary energy source...]
Market East!
Train to the airport!
Let 'em off! Let 'em off first!
Watch your step.
Train to the airport! Let 'em off!

David Aronson
October, 2009

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06:49 pm - Bipolar
Illustration for Minneapolis City Pages for a review of the book "Madness: A Bipolar Life"


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06:47 pm - Dr. Suess Visits A Brothel

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06:46 pm - American Gothic

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06:45 pm - More art from 2008
Another mock CD cover


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06:42 pm - Art from 2008
Ok--now to catch up on the art. This was done as a mock CD cover.


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06:38 pm - More from 2008
Not the best thing I've ever written, but it shows where I was at. I was very sick; suffering from intense, crippling anxiety and depression which, in the end, was found to have been caused by toxic black mold in my home. I briefly went to an outpatient group therapy thing at a local mental health clinic and wrote this there:

The Centaur's Gift

Once again, my eyeballs are sinking in shit,
as if someone has thrust their arm down my throat,
grabbed ahold of my small intestine,
and turned me inside out,
spewing years of coagulated hatred,
sticky deposits of despair,
and toxic infestations of guilt.
The tide of bile rises until I'm gagging
and gasping for air.

I want this poem to open my eyes.
Not a zen epiphany by a cool mountain stream;
not a lightbulb illuminating my cartoon head;
but eyes zapped open wide
and sucking in great gulps of life
like a drowning man hauled up on a beach.

This is a poem for those
who wrestle sweaty sheets each night,
tortured by the storm behind their eyes
as the rising sun burns through
the cracks in the blinds.

This is a poem for those
whose yammering brains talk and talk and won't shut up,
whispering malice and destruction in their ears
like medieval incubi and succubi.

This is a poem for those
whose terror is contained by lines in a spiral notebook,
their frenzied scribbling restraining evil
like a necromancer's magick circle.

This is a poem for those
whose brains belch fire
and peel their eyeballs back like hard-boiled eggs;
who can't work for fear they'll blacken the world
with their cerebral thunderbolts.

This is a poem for those
who want to die
because the sun has been snuffed out, never to return;
for those encased in ice, shivering alone and forgotten
in the middle of a moonless ocean.

This poem is a poem of love.
Because the love that keeps the universe glued together
is the love that keeps your bones
from falling into the dustbin,
and keeps your brain from slopping out of your ear
like a wayward jellyfish.

It's the love that says what is
and the love that says "I am."

And maybe if we eat that love
--pour it on our cereal in the morning like milk--
maybe that love can re-arrange us.

Maybe that love can change lions to lambs,
water to wine, fear to joy;
take you from your dunce cap corner
and put you in the middle of a noisy, laughing,
bouncing off the walls party;
crack open your head
and let the imps and hobgoblins vacate the premises,
and then plant a garden with flowers and herbs
to cure all the ailments in the world.

Maybe that love can give your heart a complete overhaul,
replace the rusty parts, clean away the grease and grime,
and restore it to it's shiny pinkness,
like when you were a kid.

And what about all those ghosts?
Those monsters that live inside of you?
The victimizers, oppressors, tyrants,
traitors, abandoners and abusers?
Maybe love can give them new lines to recite?

I want this poem to open my eyes
so that I can see what the giant actor sees;
the procession through the wheel,
each character putting on it's new life,
stepping out onto the stage of space and time.
The curtain rises, the curtain falls,
the bad guy takes off his black hat and mustache
and puts on the white suit and shiny teeth;
the rich man takes off his top hat
and picks up his begging bowl;
the lumberjack puts down his axe
and suckles a baby at his breast.

And those phantoms inside of you
are revealed to be musty old costumes
flapping around the barn
with pigs and chickens trapped inside of them,
just like on Scooby Doo.

And love is the only reward
those meddling kids will accept.

David Aronson
June 2008

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06:34 pm - Another poem from 2008
This is a valentine's day love poem for the woman I was seeing at the time. Yes, she was half-Japanese and a leo...

In'intaru Raion

Will you run with me? Let's run.
I know you know how.

Your fur tickles me--I like it.
Your tongue is wet on my skin--I like it.

Your heart beats in your chest as if
you were the one being hunted.

But it's okay--you're the queen,
the animaru kisaki,
and nothing can REALLY harm you.

Your breath is hot against my ear--I like it.
Your voice twinkles and trills
like a baby waterfall--I like it.

Will you lie with me here in the hot sun?
We can stretch our bodies and roll on our backs.

Here on the cho-ku savannah there is no past,
and there is no future,
and we're free of buzzing, biting, stinging things.

Nuzzle me and nibble gently at my neck--I like it.
Tease me and stir up trouble,
my little aizou onnanoko--I like it.

Maybe you'd like to sit up in that tree
and watch the movements of the herds
while I go and find us good things to eat
and fun things to play with.

And if you're not real careful,
I'll eat you up too,
my sweet chocolate okashi.

And then we can run and run
and run some more.

We'll run so fast
we'll leave the past
spinning in our dust,

and we'll run so fast
the future won't have time
to catch us in it's claws.

And samsara and maya
will get knocked on their butts.

And then what will we do
with all of that space to roam in?
All of that fearlessness?

Come on--let's run.

For Kumi
David Aronson
February 2008

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