If I was a product of the 2080’s
Posted by: Zucker on: February 7, 2010
If I was a product of the 2080’s, I might hear stories about how things were in my parent’s time, or perhaps my grandparents’ time. All the same, there would come a time or two when I heard stories of history and change, long before any time of my they knew of. We, the product of that enduring turmoil across the world.
There was this time before all that, in 1969, when a million people came together in search of peace, love, and music, at a place called Woodstock. People found a way to coexist for three days with little food, a lot of drugs, and an endless supply of parties for the senses. The parties were on stage; the passionate cameos of legendary artists, daytime stillness in the sun and rain, explosive demonstrations of musical talent, candid late-nighters by famous sounds like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, The Band, Santana and more. Nobody would know the names of these musicians except the few and privileged, who listened in school, and saw the grand picture of our creative evolution since our modern renaissance.
If life had to be so different from the world of yesteryear, why are we not as happy as then? What has jaded our minds to think that the world of today is not as satisfying? Innovation and technology have made our world better; a living, breathing entity in the galaxy, flourishing with countless, interactive life forms that coexist and sustain a healthy, natural environment. We are living on the product of collective consciousness, sensible and compassionate and in balance with all things.
Coffee Review – two new comers into my life.
Posted by: jlapre on: February 3, 2010
Routine.
We all have one, and every once and a while it is good to change it up. Well about a month ago I got all crazy and decided to try a new type of coffee in my French Press. Today brought with it yet another change to my coffee line up. The two new coffee are reviewed below, I highly encourage you to try both and leave you impressions here on Artifact.
Rao’s Sicilian roast coffee: Smooth and even at first taste with a consistent strength throughout the tasting. The roast does not overpower the taste buds with flavor, giving the nose subtle sweet aromas reminiscent of dark chocolate. This is a perfect coffee for mornings and should be sipped without anything but the blandest food as it would not stand up to significant flavors.
Boston Common Coffee French roast coffee: A milder blend of the French roast with a clearer taste on the front end of the palate, lending to a surprisingly strong finish. Sweet and rich aroma are less present here but do not make this coffee fall flat by any means, its aromas do overcompensate for a less bold taste however. This coffee is best enjoyed with spicy food as it can stand up to and enhance the more complex spices found in Indian and Mexican cooking.
Ripples of Rain
Posted by: Zucker on: February 3, 2010
Let the ripples dribble on,
And fall on down the long empty windowpane.
A drop will plop itself there sometimes, motionless in the air,
Like an albatross flying against the headwind.
This drop is my life, the uncertain displacement,
Carefully clung to what is really transparent.
I’ll go on down like the rest of them I guess,
Slipping farther from grace, a qualified race.
Let the ripples remain simple,
Unfiltered by the force of the storm.
A thousand more drops will hit the same windowpane,
And the air will always feel a cold kiss from drops like me.
Graduation, 2000
Posted by: Zucker on: January 23, 2010
- In: Art| Poetry| Writing
- 2 Comments
Graduation 2000, a great year indeed; I was
Given at a celebration with many
Awards for excellence (such priceless youth)
In a flash during dinner we all know at school.
Three-hundred more than he clapped away aptly
As he walked to the center to take me away.
The moment it happened was like out of some dream;
A heart-warming conclusion when they
All wore their blazers with collars and ties.
Thousands of fabrics sewn together
Tell the story of youth in a school in the woods.
Graduation 2000, a long time it’s been;
Ten Years later lying under papers in,
And not stitched with pride on the back of a jacket.
Priceless experiences (always known)
Are a gift and reminder of growing up
At a time in his life when the world made no sense at all.
The Victor
Posted by: Zucker on: January 20, 2010
The Victor
He had just won, but three minutes and twenty-one seconds prior, he had not. He was just another competitor. He is no longer a competitor, now, but an Undisputed Champion. He is a Champion that will go down in history as the Victor of this prestigious tournament. It took him seven years to step forward, fully prepared for the trials and tribulations that stood in his way of Victory today.
Five minutes have now gone by since he was crowned Victor. The lights are flashing from every angle of the stadium. The associated press huddles in front of him, microphones listening and recorders taking down every word the Victor had to say.
But the Victor had nothing to say. He watched his fellow competitors walk off the stage in the opposite direction, away from the lights and away from the press. The Victor ran off the podium and approached the group of competitors, their eyes red and dry, as if tears had been there, even if they never feel from their eyes.
“Hey!” the Victor yelled, and in unison the five other competitors turned their heads toward him, lips pursed in straight, no-bullshit frowns.
The Victor knew these men. He watched some of them compete for twenty years or more, on the television, reading their names in the papers, seeing their likeness on the cereal boxes of time. He knew these men, looked up to them, and made idols out of them. He trained with the intent of matching their abilities. It took him seven years.
He looked at them with wide eyes, the gaze of which told them more than the radiance of his composure. No words were said.
One of the competitors, an all-star Victor for the last four tournaments in a row, turned his frown into a smile and made a half-nod towards the Victor, as if to say, “It’s your turn to run the show.” He turned around, followed by the others, synchronized, artistic, and they walked away in a vanguard formation towards the smallest exit in the stadium.
The Victor watched them go until they reached the doorway, the press taking snapshots of him watching the competitors walk away. It was artistic, the lone Victor seeing off those who fought and lost against him.
The hundreds of thousands watching him from the stadiums were chanting for him, praising him, proclaiming him as the new Victor. The chant was earth-shaking in its unison, “Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor! Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor!” Their chant was everlasting, echoing into the heavens above, a dark-blue void covered with twinkling, sparkling, stars. It would not be bold to think that eyes were watching him even now from those stars, watching and applauding the epic tournament that just concluded.
The Victor looks around for his friends and coaches who watched on the side as he competed. They are now in the center of the field, right behind him, in front of the press, actually. They are clapping their hands, arms around each other with smiles and laughter, unbelieving that their friend is the new Victor. This is such a happy occasion for him and his family and friends.
When he goes home today he will be greeted like a great warrior, coming home from a battle in which he single-handedly overcame the opposition. He will ride a convertible motorcade in the streets of Capital City, paper glitter falling from the tallest buildings, blanketing the city streets with colors of white, blue, red, orange, yellow and brown. The kids watching will cup their hands, collecting the glitter only to throw it back into the sky. The citizens of his nation will praise him as he rides off towards his home, his wife, his son and his daughter, his black dog, his farmland, and his quiet land on the outskirts of town. There he will rest, an act he had not done in seven years.
Natural Balance
Posted by: Zucker on: January 17, 2010
We are what is in between the space between all other things,
Light and substance shining in the nothingness of the everyday.
We among the stars and dust and suction holes to nowhere fast,
Between what naturally is and what naturally isn’t.
We are the balance, the focus and flow of the universe.
On the empty canvas of our minds we can change nature,
Science and imagination changing every thing we cannot see.
On the forefront of discovery, years pass like seconds
In the sup-atomic dance hall of galaxies exclusive.
Su-Mar’s Dream
Posted by: Zucker on: January 16, 2010
The life if a child of a mother of a drunken husband
Writes in his journal, listening to the Jazz of 2000
And lyrics of potheads: cym-bop… and bee-baphone…
Sky-balls… and saxa-scrapers…on and on
This fluid motion of floating in some fluid,
Some drink that makes this motion of floating,
This life of a child of a mother of a drunken husband who
Writes in his journal, this journal usually
Makes notes of a good life or a bad day,
A day of “drugs, sex, and rock and roll,”
A day that talks of friends, the glorious word for
People who share a purpose that brings them
Together in a positive way.
Together people join to commemorate
Special days that have a special meaning, like
Birthdays or marriages, certain ones that begin
The life of a child of a mother of a drunken husband who
Writes in his journal. To this child, writing is a fun way of
Floating in a fluid motion, fun like a fair,
Fun like discovering a new thing.
Discovery was the way in which fun could be made by
a child of a mother of a drunken husband.
This child has no end,
Not in his writing, nor in his life.
He has no end to the fun and
The discoveries which make him a star,
A bright, glowing star.
This star will never falter; this child will never falter,
This hero will live on. This hero is a star,
This child of a mother of a drunken husband.
This child, born a star, now a hero,
Lives his life, made of dreams,
Made from dreams.
These dreams will never falter,
This star will never falter,
This child will never falter,
This hero will never falter.
So lives the life of a child of a mother of
A drunken husband who writes in his journal,
Given to him by his father.
He had dreams and lived his life,
Like his son who lived it to the fullest.
He was a hero, born a star,
Made a man by his own dreams,
Dreams that never came true.
Fat Cats and Hair Pieces
Posted by: Zucker on: January 13, 2010
Two fat cats in corporate America plan to meet to discuss matters of personal importance. The lead-up and suspense to what the two talk about is hyper-sensitive, yet when they sit down in one of their plush offices, they discuss…
“So, Chuck, I need your help, as one rug-wearer to another.”
‘Sure, Frank, what can I do for you?’
“Well, I need your advice,” he takes off his hat, his hair hat, and places it on the table in front of him. Chuck does the same. The two men, balding, are sitting across from one another at a giant business meeting table, each with their hairpiece in front of them. One grey, one white.
They discuss matters of continuity, obscurity, and comfort, all relating to hairpieces and appearance. This conversation goes on for several minutes. Eventually, the receptionist knocks on the door as they discuss openly, and before the woman enters, the two men shuffle to get their hair pieces back on their head appropriately. They are flustered and slightly vulnerable at this moment, as the receptionist comes in the deliver some important information to Chuck. She doesn’t notice a thing.
‘Nancy, you’ve really got to buzz me or something before coming in.’
~ Sorry, Mr. Bampton. Here are those monthly revenue reports you asked for.
‘Thanks Nancy. You’ve met Frank Gimlen, have you?’
“Hi, Nancy, it’s nice to meet you.” Not as sincere as you would expect.
~ Hi, Mr. Gimlen. Can I get you anything?
“No thanks.”
~ Chuck?
‘No, this will do fine Nancy, thank you. Can you set up a phone conference for me with the Fidelity branch manager for 1:30pm? I want to go over these reports with him for a few minutes if he has the time.’
~ Of course.
“You’re a busy guy, Chuck.”
‘Eh, it comes with the job.’ And they both laugh as Nancy exits the room. They laugh to mask the underlying point they originally met for. Nancy doesn’t suspect a thing, but continues about her life assuming that Chuck is just a really quirky executive, and Frank is just another corporate fat cat.
EBS Patrol
Posted by: Zucker on: January 12, 2010
- In: Art| Poetry
- Leave a Comment
There’s a cap that I wear
When it’s snowing outside;
It reminds me of heat when it is cold.
It’s a hat from my youth
And my days on a mountain;
A story too great to get old.
To patrol and to rescue
My friends at our school –
A place for learning in nature’s fold –
remember this cap for security and trust,
a symbol for heat when it’s cold.
No Respect for the Red Sox Cap
Posted by: Zucker on: January 12, 2010
The Boston Red Sox cap watches me write a story about my ski patrol snow cap, and a ping of jealousy burns its soul as I unfold my heart to this snow cap and it’s heritage. It stares straight at me with puppy-dog eyes while I write my discomforts on the table I took from the girls upstairs.
It will only sit and stare at me for a moment more; once I jot down this thought I will get up to place it elsewhere, out of sight and of mind.
1.2.10
4:45pm
Forgotten T-Shirts
Posted by: Zucker on: January 12, 2010
And then the Moleskine notebook came into contact with a t-shirt. Its name was Jamaica. The Moleskine was on an ottoman. The shirt was the first of many to be stacked on top of it, and given away to goodwill. Jamaica did not want to go. It cried and it cried as it was folded and placed on the ottoman, and the Moleskine felt its cries. It asked why it cried, and the shirt told it of love.
A shirt is the closest (save the underwear) thing to the skin and the essence of mankind, said the shirt. There is a relationship in the experience we wear. When we slide over someone’s head, they breathe our smell like a bee smells a flower. Each shirt has a unique life to share, the Moleskine concluded. Jamaica was unique, and realized its sorrow. Jamaica was a soccer shirt paying tribute to its local futbol association. Jamaica smelt of sand and wood and sweat. It smelt like the beach and the waters of the Caribbean.
“I didn’t want it to end this way,” begged Jamaica. It was getting squished closer and closer to the Moleskine notebook as Zucker continued placing shirt after shirt on top of them. The Moleskine could not help the poor, forgotten shirt, but listened to its story. Eventually, the stacking stopped, and Zucker started to pick up the shirts and place them in a plastic bag. The bag eventually seemed full, and the Jamaica shirt was still on the ottoman with another, softer shirt from Cape Cod. They felt each other’s presence and knew what was going to happen. For a fleeting moment they assumed mercy was given. Only for a moment, because a moment later, they were both swiped up and squished on top of the other shirts.
Cries of agony came from the swallowing plastic, and when Zucker tied the knot, sealing them in, their cries became muffled and disappeared as he took them away to the storage closet. They would rest in that closet for several months, until one day brought to the Salvation Army.
Rock Thunder
Posted by: Zucker on: January 10, 2010
His lips were covered with frothy mescaline. His lips bled, punctured by his teeth. “Why do you see me as a savage?” There were several thousand in the newly arrived crowd, yet none of the faces revealed the slightest expression. They all wished him wrong.
This was Little Johnny’s first fourth grade play. “Frankenstein.” I’m not longer sure if it’s Frankenstein. I should be down the alley between 47th and Lexington behind the jazz club, Reggie’s, with a pipe in my mouth. What the fuck am I doing in front of these people? Why am I the monster? Why do they see me as a savage?”
30 years later…
Johnny listened to jazz records in his body-length cardboard box that existed in a local homeless community called “rock thunder,” where everyone plays it cool and the homeless community thrives in its collective cooperation. The homeless legislature was comprised of two chambers, the homeless House and the homeless Senate. Silly Bobby had been a senator for the last 15 booze binges. He advocated the free distribution of used syringes to all addicts.
Silly Bobby was homeless. He was also domeless. He hadn’t gotten dome in approximately 1.3 eons. He found ways to turn his shame into his fame, becoming one of the most respected senators to show up for meetings. Little Johnny looked up to him like an uncle, or some kind of nice social services worker.
They first met at the new year’s bash. Since they had no desire to kiss, they realized the mistletoe hanging above was not essential. Silly Bob removed it and fed it to Moe, the kid with the hangover. They originally discussed only politics, issues regarding the Homeless House and Homeless Senate’s incapacity to adequately represent the interests of the broader bum community. There were Dem Bums, Republican Bums, Bums for Peace In Darfur, and Beach Bums. So many constituencies the senators had to represent!
Their second meeting occurred while they were both surfing. Little Johnny had make-shifted a surf board out of a long cabinet door he had kicked down from the old abandoned syringe factory.
“I like the way you handle that board, Johnny!” Bobby murmured over his left shoulder as they float through the lukewarm river water. He wanted to kill Johnny because of a recent guffaw among the two chambers about women that have been visiting the township conjugally. Johnny, being that pride and joy of the Dem Bums, had many affairs on the premises, and Silly Bobby, being homeless, had absolutely shit but the Beach Bums and Bums for Peace in Darfur. But they never truly enjoyed his company, as he was homeless, and ragged, and had nothing to show for it. What a stud. What a bachelor. What a man without restraint.
Johnny was concerned. His was in danger of being drowned by his arch nemesis, Silly Bobby. What a fucking bitch! His long cabinet door was no match for Silly Bobby’s hefty chunk of urine stained Styrofoam.
Silly Bobby’s political affiliations lay with the Republican Bums, a better funded, and more slickly oiled political machine. They had recently garnered support from BADD, Bums Against Drunk Driving, and BETRA , Bums for the Ethical Treatment of Rock Algae. With the combined financial support of those two fundraising behemoths, Silly Bobby would surely achieve his goals and ambitions.
The last time he felt this sensation was when he was wearing tinted sunglasses on a very long, and very intense acid trip. Boris Ergnine, the investment concierge of his soul, had taken him to Tax Village, where they discussed the meaning of life and the meaning of money, and the meaninglessness of money in life. Johnny was walking among the space candy in Central Park with a strut and a slow pace.
It was at that moment that Silly Bobby opportunistically shoved him into the river with a jolt, sending Johnny into a million different kinds of pain, a million different kinds of woe, and an infinite gradient of colors flashed through his mind in waves of unspeakable beauty and horror.
There were never any bubbles… there was a door under Johnny’s right arm, and under his left arm was a branch he nabbed from the undertow. Silly Bobby’s urine stained Styrofoam surf contraption was in the lead as they approached a massive waterfall. This is what they needed to do. The Homeless Congress outlawed voting in favor of seeing the two candidates try to survive nearly suicidal stunts. The winner of the death mission would earn the seat, and rule the Bum community in an authoritarian fashion. Little Johnny hoped to be that one!
“You chose a really bad fucking time to fuck with me, Silly!” Johnny yelled.
“I don’t choose to make things right this way, you damn fucking scallywag!” There was no reasoning with Silly Bobby. The Bobby showed the same mescal ferocity as Johnny had on that lonely day in fourth grade. The exploitation. The burning message to do the right thing for the greater good. ‘Don’t fuck up,’ was the mantra of that uber-embarassing display of shit acting. The fire of this memory burning strong inside of him, Johnny takes the stick out of the water and jabs Bobby in the eye, sending Silly Bobby into a Silly fit of agony, making Silly motions in the water as he clawed as his eyeball, to free the stick from his own head.
However, Little Johnny realizes his victory is short lived as they both plummet to their deaths down the waterfall onto cold jagged rocks, splitting their skulls.
The End.
Zucker/Slez
August, 2008
The story of a man.1
Posted by: Zucker on: January 10, 2010
The story of a man.
A man walks into a bathroom late one night.
Entering as he does, the story unfolds before us…
Washing hands with warm water,
Washing face with the imperial leather, the gem of the land,
taking a piss, brushing the teeth, and
Shaving!
Shaving!
He filled the well below, and filled his hands in lather
So white… so white…
So, fluffy. So warm.
It cooled to the face though! Hot water softens the blow.
I rubbed it on me, and cut away the trees on my face.
Fast and hard, brutal and merciless, but
Nobody sees it but you. The pain, the honesty, the loss.
12/5/07
How Many Times – Making Choices
Posted by: Zucker on: January 10, 2010
How many times do we need to reenact the same actions that render us the same errors?
When will the lessons be learned and our patience restored to its optimal confidence?
Learn your way out of misfortune by preventing the need for trial, and the embarrassment of error.
Take the time you have and assess your options, always give acknowledgment to the choices in front of you, and never question the comfort of your gut instinct.
3.25.09
