Weston - by Craig Turnwall

I stayed up late, drank all the beers,
thought about my old-
man for no particular reason.
Imagine the living room where’d he be
sitting, he’s still awake tonight too,
wondering if anyone’s
wondering if he’s tired, restless of rusting shackles.
That naked
street, outside the small town picture window, the summer air is pensive and lazy,
of memories and unhealed
wounds which don’t escape the deep gravel, or the firehouse.
Where all the engines are cold, alarms
at half mast, all is on fire inside rather than rooftops
or property, he knows his legs don’t work
anymore, there’s nowhere left to run.
Ache, on the canopy, airs twisted and silent
ghosts, glance from a sitting expression
reflection back
against the panes of glass, all the hourglass beats
poured from extinguished wishes, false dreams and patch-work
cigarette burns that no cloth can carry.
This carpet and wood, these walls and patient
stares of my old-man linger, so we both stay up
late, and his
streets are alone and mine are
meant, meant to imagine cured concrete lonesome, but I just can’t
think that hard, that hard
at all – out Weston windows.

The Paradoxical Demise of Calculus; - by Craig Turnwall

helped by fear
across this every-night tonight, day into another, patchwork quilt
work week, of simply making due to weekend, fireflies and candles,
mind you all the simple ideas, all the purest joys we want to crave so it'll all
leave us be, leave us alone, without dark, cold nights bent on
our leaky windows, who only try their best, like we struggle
breath spent and tatter, this race for paychecks and counting pennies,
small apartment walls with burnt out bulbs like exploded star fragments
quivered on antiquity mended into memories of illuminated death's grand schemes,
no reprieve for the universe, our gravity at center pulling forever inward, toward
the paradoxical demise of calculus, this is a whole afterlife of turmoil,

and all the pieces, coursed in belts which hold up work pants
mold to achy bodies, broken souls in broken hours when angels themselves are yet asleep, this every-night there is still redemption in face of meandering stillness,
a little supper for the heart and a little time to forget the morning to come
against will of sleepless dreams spun wildly, if there were collisions of perfection
nearer to these guillotines, we might look up with eyes into infinity, but these time-clocks we punch in shifts parading voices, peopled pleased in well contentment bled indentured hours, these are not the true building blocks of choices, ones made in every-night with star mattered skies,

frail lives we hold dear on thin strings, thinnest sheet of ice which might fracture over fathoms of naked plummet, the air is warming and the water is ebb and flow, some nights we drink, some we sleep, some are hallowed...but an every-night is a passion for a rusty throat; you spoke

The Paradoxical Demise of Calculus; - by Craig Turnwall

for James Dunn



     There is a parade. And everywhere inside of this parade is yellow. All of the floats are yellow; the costumes, flowers, banners, spectators' clothing…all is yellow. Even the sky is yellow, the bells in the church steeple are yellow, the dogs and cats are yellow, the air is yellow…all is yellow within with laughter - the pages in all books, of every language are dried and yellowed. This is passion frostbite - most toes have gone missing. Mr. Parade.
     This is what I heard you say, when you weren't looking toward sun. Away from all the cotton candy, red kettle corn and apple blossoms. I'm also a walrus petti-coat.
     From the avalanche I came crawling out from underneath the tow bridge to wipe a brow with a broken napkin…much to the chagrin of the crowd. Against their will of course. The dock men had a bearing of NNE; the trombone swell taught that canvas fritters were metastasizing in the wakes of store shop windows. Your eyes I would adventure to imagine. Or a complete conspiracy for the sake of scream broom sweeps. How the memories that day! Don't you remember how you forgot to laugh at me?! Again!
     Oh, how it came to be. Yes, I know…it can be difficult to bear - but you'll have that old armchair again, I promise this time. This time you'll see change in rubber mallet incentives.
     Goddamit!

     "One word too many again," I said. Sadly.

     How you swelled with pride…my dandelion catapult.

Where heart meets blood. - by Craig Turnwall

I think a man's heart beats fast
when he thinks about the hour before him,
and the new,
a moment when he feels bent, or lapse,
night crept upon him like a bleeding wound, dream
woke with faded light, night on the creep,
mindless drum, anticipation of not finding a way again,
to make morning,
he wants heliocentric ideas, in a moon phased wanderlust,
all that is dark is long,
battered can be a cool breeze, men think with their souls wide open,
sidewalk is tragic, death is tragic, pain is not a fearless endeavor,
all scars remind of past achievements with regeneration, blood pumped
toward goals coursed during walk and sleep,
what wonderful conquests you entertain, adrenaline,
this palpitation and open window.

This anarchic life is a choice - by Craig Turnwall

Living off of soup for two weeks
a person gets to know themselves a little better
with a package of noodles in the afternoon,
can of lentils in the evening, some whiskey to wash
it all down, every now and again;

gets darker earlier now, the night comes on quicker
so the broth tastes a little better when it can't be seen
or so I'd like to imagine,
this living room gets smaller, sleep never visits
while I sit in this dark room that does not belong

thinking on anarchy.

Earth as child. - by Craig Turnwall

six billion people:

who all have one thing to say:

                    I am human. Who are you?

          "And I'm sorry, I don't know you."

We are we now - by Craig Turnwall

In this congestion of no-shows and idle promises, screams festered from far off lands
this sweet ideal we un-vote for; our very lives unravel
I see tearful paths
of the boom blast generation, pestered with inaction and lies given by
tele-gods and wire tapped songs, listened on by the few...but we are the new many -
hearts pounding with eyes downward, staring at feet that walk bent forward
an awakening of a revived mass, a service to un-act false actions
heads to look into one another's future eyes, feel the flesh
re-taste our dormant humanity; brothers and sisters
who are we now?

This day and aged falsity is reborn within our minds
with hands and fingers removed from hushed lips to speak again of
unity
compassion and honor toward frailty we see; black and white no more
undivided and spiritualized in oneness, humanity
blindness removed from gazing at crumbled short distances, saturated sidewalks tread and re-tread before
touch shoulders to become reborn; look into faces with a silence of patience unmasked the past and alive the times, go now
ahead unscathed by hesitation or inability
relinquish
atuned standards
for we are we now

In this somber aged of poured concrete ways

America as a seminary - by Craig Turnwall

watch you these frail black eyes,
melting toward an oblivion that all but see, wild embers
our mornings as Kilimanjaro, alarm
clocks molten canopies;
bleached wake
shield, our tired minds and loose
afternoon awakenings
botched, scratching toward a mind drone, work
habitat, our channels we search
may not be our lives, none of us know. We cram
to pray for dreams’ salvation, this we propel through no-
coast, rocket past land locked birth, leave us here in the soil and we will grow, water or not, sun or shake, boils of the most rigid earth,

bombastic strange forecast, pipers pipe crazy red canyons;
a blanket sheet of naked
kitchen conversations stretched past empty cupboards
“Prime!”
screamed from porches,
perched against upper window
streetlights,
this with clocks chiming and pillows
grappled, heads
buried
sole reconciliation of prayers absolved by bible
belt, where boundary heritage lies,
ground our inverse selection, emancipating our
constitutions for homologous coitus
knelt three hours on gravel for humanity, rites
which lead to a.m. kisses, night
spent winding tide in inland
oceans, we are here, treading
water, forged roots;

melt us
modern way;
farmers sleep somber nights wrapped
in dreams meant for English kings
looking for Cardinals
scream of purple vestments.
Sub-Western Ideological
Thought, psalms we
plow our fields upon,
bushels of poverty and strain are cried
upon with child eyed
mid-city, lush with vacant streets and ideas
smelt with grasslands for inner wheat;
Souls are born there, fights raged with staunch casualties bored out of streams,
mended sleepless nights we
crave those sour hours and push
forth steam, our
Heartland.

On Dry Erase Theorem - by Craig Turnwall

Essayic Canto I
     I must say this morning I felt different
though there was nothing new
about me or my eyes. By nothing new I mean there appeared
nothing new other than
the usual glaze and puffy eyelids and a very tiny
feeling that I wanted to make
coffee, which of course I knew was preposterous
considering I don’t even like coffee nor do I know how to
execute the process
which makes it come
alive. I’ve always imagined
that coffee for me would be a
Frankenstein.
     What I am trying to tell you deals
with myself and
coffee, or at least it might - and to a
certain lesser
extent, people who drink coffee. I am not what is commonly
referred to as “a morning person,” and though I truly
detest using clichés this enables me to get a very
broad point
across which also allows a
very shallow and discreet
method for kick
starting
your imagination. I do, however know someone who is (a morning
person) and let me reassure you
we are nothing of the same when it
comes to coherence, emotional
stability, motor skills and overall pleasantness when stumbled upon between
three to four
hours of rising. One small variance which I feel
I should mention trickles from the
fact that for the last twenty
two
days I have held sleep as a hostage in my attic, allowing
it neither food nor water, perpetually questioning its silence and involvement
within the lives of normal red blooded
Americans and why it
feels that I have become some type of terrorist
threat to it. It’s pensiveness as of
late has led me to believe that I am beginning to get through, that sleep is beginning to crack. The dangerous and frustrating
part to my whole plan lies in unassuming
facts that it can remain
excruciating calm through interrogation and although base
physical torture has never really been a true and legitimate
choice as a course of
action, it seems to scoff and smile whenever I push on it with negative reinforcement. This in turn leads me to
wonder
who
is
really
being
hurt.
     With sleep
chained to a chair, refusing to rot
into submission
inside the attic, I have recessed to other means and
methods for passing the long January
evenings and late nights, though sleep
is constantly revealing its
unwillingness
for bondage by cooing muffled siren songs through the ceiling
and scratching its fingernails on the pull down
ladder door
which conveniently enough for it, lies directly
above my
bathroom toilet. Sleep
is smart.
      But getting back to
morning people. I’ve come to believe
morning people
belong to a different mold of humanity than others
such as myself. Not to
insinuate in any case a nature of defect on one spectrum
or improvement on the other, only
to set a measure of
comparison as to allow you, yourself as the
reader, an opening with which
to choose
and compare your own slumber
peccadilloes.
For most of my childhood life I, along
with what I now perceive to be
many, tried to walk in harmony with the people of the morning
only to find that the strange
and intense ability
to stay tired while still maintaining a permanent
routine of sleeping atypically late
gravitationally
affected my
REM away
from the conventional
patterns of repose and led it into a state of consciousness and mental
cognition I like to call
Bio-Nocturnal Awareness Frustration which I would like
to imagine can be
formulated as;
[((Dissent ≥ (A) Non-Conformity) (Perceived Questions of Motive))] ≥ Irrational Process – Intention +/- Results (Harmony)² ≥ Realized Thought ≤ √Prime.
     Now let it be said
however, that I am not in any form
or function a mathematician of any
kind, only that I believe it to be true and somewhat proportionality
idealistic to my own sub-
culture - though nine nights
with a dry erase board will lead most
people to find beliefs and convictions they did not know previously
existed. This is not a point however. What I would like focus
on is the square
root of
Prime. Though let us
go back to coffee
first.
     The idea of coffee
has always seemed irrational
to my
psyche. Not in that I simply do not understand the process
of coffee; roasted beans
to grounds
to measurement
to filter to hot water through
filter to coffee pot
to cup etc.. The idea of coffee
which does not coagulate for me and others like
myself is the gathering. The gathering and to
a smaller
extent, the coffee
hybrids.
     Coffee
hybrids for the non-believer
range in perceived complexity from simple
espressos, cappuccinos and mochas to chaos
theory proportion when dealing with ritualistic
and odd substitutions of soy
milk, rice milk, cinnamon
flavoring or bizarre phrasing such as a cup of something “skinny.” How
do true coffee non-believers
even know
these items and mystifying substitutions to classically
trained cream and/or sugar
exist you may
ask? Easy. We have been on
reconnaissance, keeping hidden tabs and silently
gathering a militia.
     Coffee hybrids are not the focus though, as I have said - the
gathering is.
I have always found the
gathering curious, somewhat troubling…I would like
to imagine Aristotle
might have
called
it
an
“idiosynkrasis” if he had observed something similar in his
own time (though I’d really like to imagine him drinking wine from giant pitchers
instead
of coffee
from mugs
in the
morning). Others like myself (again I would like
to imagine) might someday dare to call the gathering something along those
lines, though we rarely
use such words when speaking
of things we do not
philosophically
understand. What Aristotle could not
have
known – and what the gathering does have however, are numbers.
     Dissenters
from the gathering such as myself don’t
tend to toil over too many of
the small details which pair us on the other side, nor
do we even try to
inspire an “other side” or a more confrontational “us vs.
them” mentality when speaking
to brethren
engaged in
struggle…though for some this works. For others it is insomnia
induced side-effects such
as Bio-Nocturnal Awareness Frustration which shed
small insights into
the gathering. I am fairly confident I am
not the only sufferer, though our numbers
may be small in comparison to the armada of coffee
conquistadors.
     But what IS
the gathering you are still probably
asking? It should now be said that the gathering
is not one simple event, gatherings have learned to
multiply. Whomever
sparked this flame of coffee related asexual
reproduction
both I and the remaining dissenters
do not know, but they are happening all around us in
shops and storefronts. I
once heard sleep tap down in Morse code from the
attic, “They are strong in
numbers and
caffeinated
intent…” but it had not repeated the transmission. I imagine it was simply sitting with a sly smile. This begins the idea of the square root of prime.
     Now, Bio-
Nocturnal Awareness Frustration counts
on the square root of prime as the
constant in its equation for existence. That is not to say however, that another factor cannot
become
an
unchangeable as well based upon certain
complicated governing
rules of methodology which I will dare to get into here - only that prime is always a
constant…never a variable. Think of the square
root of prime as
more of a device. One used for transport. Morning
people, who tend to not only to be drawn
stronger to the gathering but also account for a large majority
of its elders, rarely engage the
square
root of prime as they are less likely to identify with
symptoms of BNAF. While this has never been
proven in
clinical study, I find it to be more of an acute
observation concerning
what I
and the dissenters know of the gathering and its peculiar
hybrid elements. Sleep, by
maintaining its silence through attrition locked
securely away
over my head, has let the key slip
from its lips without
saying a single word. He too knows
of the gathering, of the
dissenters. Sleep knows
the square
root of prime is
choice. It will
not drink coffee either. Sleep refuses.


Essayic Canto II
Sleep knows
it has made the
choice. To not drink
coffee and to dissent. That in essence, is why I believe
sleep maintains the uncanny ability
to remain silent. Will power,
I venture
to guess, is not part its vocabulary. Only the square
root of prime. Though power may be, I am still uncertain, it does
on occasion ooze with non
-verbal charm and charisma. Its eyes
are that of softness enchained. Sleep ultimately harbors
the patience of
gravity.
     Will power
remains an absent mathematical property
within
the
confines of BNAF
because both it, and the square
root of prime, cannot co-exist
equally. I have tried to imagine matter and anti-
matter…served “skinny.”
Repetition has led me to believe “that within, there
can be no sub-atomic peace.” I,
along with
the other dissenters
use this
idea in our literature. We
somehow like it. It works
well with various styles. Sleep taps “no sub-atomic peace”
with its feet
incessantly
on
Sunday mornings. Despite my accusations
and
violent
broom tapping of the
ceiling in my bathroom it will
not confess to
using it
as a
meditational mantra. Sleep
does not meditate.
It has no need. Sleep
is always keen
and
focused.
     When I
say that myself
and the other dissenters have literature I
am only telling
a half truth. Our literature is not of the written word. Nor is it of the spoken
word. We
are unable to use these mediums as the gathering
makes large and prosperous
uses of both
forms much to
our, and sleep’s chagrin. Dissenters
of the gathering - in alliance
with sufferers of Bio-
Nocturnal Awareness Frustration such as myself - use what is uncommonly
referred
to as “the unspoken word,” which
I would like to imagine is represented
as [((Dissent ≥ (A) Non-Conformity) (Perceived Questions of Motive))] in
the equational
rendering of BNAF. I, along with the other
dissenters
have learned this to
be the exact
opposite
of Will Power by formulating Sleep’s timed rhythmical
patterns of foot
tapping. Sleep is
cunning. It also keeps a good beat. It knows that Will Power
is equal
to Matter and that Choice equals Anti-Matter. It
also knows
Spoken Word is also equal to Matter and that
Unspoken Word in relationship, equals Anti-Matter. Sleep is not a physicist
however, it
is
a
code talker …
but it knows annihilation
when it
sees it.
Sleep is very methodical;
Will Power = Matter Choice = Anti-Matter
Spoken Word = Matter Unspoken Word = Anti-Matter
It taps…
taps…
taps…especially early
on Sundays, when
it senses that the
gatherings
are
soon
to
begin.


      Intricacies
aside, I do not find my affliction of BNAF
to be
an impairment,
though some members
of the gathering
might allude to my current course of
reasoning as “nonsensical” or even “grossly unintelligible.” There
is
no need
for fear. Ill-will does not
exist among the dissenters for the members of the gathering. Members
of the gathering have
automatic
weapons. The dissenters have stone tools. Most times we even forego
our tools to use our
bare hands. We
like
to
feel
our way.
     Dissenters are however, quick
and nimble. I
am not
a gifted dissenter in comparison
to some. I am only fairly quick and averagely mobile. Sufferers of BNAF are rarely
quick
and/or
nimble. It
is one of the side effects linked to over usage of erasable
items. Which
is why we stay indoors. This is why I can only reasonably assume
I
am not
the lone Bio-Nocturnal Awareness Frustration
convalescent instead of stating
it as
a fact. Dissenters
don’t use facts in unspoken word
literature. I imagine it has to do with the utilization of Irrational Process
in the
equation, though I am
only partially
sure.
      Sleep may know
the answer
but as of yet, it has still not
spoken a single
word to
me. I think I may reduce Sleep’s disturbance-free time in an attempt to tire out its code-
foot. Then again, I feel certain
Sleep
has already
prepared for such a measure. Perhaps
I must try and achieve function by coercing
events
outside
of the box. Sleep does not like leaving
the box. It
somehow finds serenity in angles.
     Sleep does not normally indulge itself with civil
disobedience.
I
think
sleep is somehow stating the obvious
by stating nothing
at all. Sleep
is exact. It invented
the unspoken
word. It knows how to use it well. Dissenters
relish
this fact and respect its implications, though it is rarely openly disclosed. I have spotted “gathering”
propaganda and would
like to
imagine that Sleep and the dissenters see the gathering
as a
type
of
civil obedience, though
again…this is
only
a
hypothesis. Suffers of BNAF like myself do not easily spot
such grandiose
ideas, they usually skip us by. We
tend to keep to
ourselves and mind our own affairs. Dissenters
have called and left
voice messages. They have
heard rumors I maintain an ace
card to the
struggle chained to a chair in my attic. It is a
monumental event…what Sleep and I have going on that is. I
believe
it
may
be
harmony.
Sleep is not so sure.
 

The apparent indeterminable classification of counterculture: - by Craig Turnwall

It has come to my attention, in the collection of many months that have formed the more recent years of societal, intrapersonal and musical influence, that an obese and determinable schism has chiseled itself into the American consciousness, a rift between what is deemed mainstream and underground art, particularly and most noticeably in the youth and adult counterculture of Punk Rock Music, a channel heralded for its vibrant, iconoclastic, original feelings of individual expression, inherent unity, non-materialistic civility and an unyielding desire to explore temperaments and creative avenues that are, more often than not, left unchallenged, labeled as too idealistic or cast aside as fleeting phases of maturation. This fracture, which has grown with Punk’s assimilation into popular culture has lead to a type of identity crisis within the framework of our ideology, especially evident with new youth entering the movement without a sense of true inner direction, candor…and overtly most important, passion to mold the future.

Let me begin by saying that this short essay is not negatively charged. It is, quite the contrary. It is simply an exploration into the principles and ideology that has driven and fueled a concrete foundation, an entity thousands upon thousands of souls strong, not simply spanning oceans, language barriers, oppressive and repressive governments, but decades of time which has lead us to our current position and our current need for action, to lead by example and declaration with heart, creativity, fervor, power, adrenaline, experience…and love.

Craig O’Hara states in The Philosophy of Punk “Anarchist Punks appear to hold many beliefs that agree with what can be termed the radical liberal or far left wings of democracy. Beliefs in defending women’s rights, racial equality, and gay rights are involved in the platforms of both the liberal and the anarchist.” To begin, I access this and take it one step further to include political awareness, spontaneous generosity, imagination and conviction. Anarchy, which by definition within the same text is elaborated on as, “The principles of having no official government or rulers, and valuing individual freedom and responsibility,” enlightens on the term often held synonymous with chaos, turmoil and discord, becoming more clear as he goes onto say, “anarchy does not simply mean no laws; it means no need for laws. Anarchy requires individuals to behave responsibly. When individuals can live in peace without authorities to compel or punish them, when people have enough courage and sense to speak honestly and equally with each other, then and only then will anarchy be possible.” The concept of anarchy is neither base nor malevolent. It is the personal exploration through the questioning of one’s expanding identity, motivations, desires; their feelings and attitudes toward friendship, humanity, justice, peace, activation which leads to still greater ponderances concerning the introverted nature of the answers to these questions. These are the seeds for individuality, for anarchic faith, for inspiration…for Punk. But what is the mode for expression for these answers? How does one come to relate and release these tantric feelings of nonconformity? “…when the mind is no longer compelled…to exercise its vital powers on the questions which its belief presents to it, there is a progressive tendency to forget all of the belief except the formularies, or to give it a dull and torpid assent, as if accepting it on trust dispensed with the necessity of realizing it in consciousness, or testing it by personal experience; until it almost ceases to connect itself at all with the inner life of the human being.” (John Stuart Mill, On Liberty) This inner life of humanity, the once dormant catalyst swelling from within to declare unrest, the ability to say something or to scream it, without the voice saying anything at all…with words…this is poetry. Poetry (i.e. lyrical verse, lyrical prose, spontaneous free form thought) is the pure medium for anarchic art…for unchecked expression through the soul. Poetry as expression is the determining factor separating Punk from all musical genres currently inundating mainstream culture. This is why Punk has become popular in outward appearances but not accepted as a mature, respected and blaringly innovative force in the music and art world, not only creatively cognizant, but as an ideology that harbors life, love, unity, consideration coupled with strength, conviction, passion and honor…not simply breaking boundaries while creating ravenously for political and social goals, but escaping them completely. I believe this may stand true only for now…not for the future.

These deterrent “formularies” which run, seemingly rampant, through popular culture, the media, fashion, music, books, magazines have become increasingly popular as the appearance of nonconformity has become the accepted tool used by young (and I will use “mainstream” here without naming names, i.e. all things MTV, VH1) artists under the guise of separation and rebellion. The Punk look has, in its own right, become chic, mass produced, stripped of its integrity, materialized and exploited, marketed by corporate identities not in tune with, nor aware of the foundations of the genre. Pop Punk, in its perception to the mass audience, has become the new neologism for Punk Rock. This trend, which most notably sprung from its roots in the early to mid nineties, has enigmatically, yet understandably flowered into a inverted shadow of the strength and solidarity it mimics, affecting while simultaneously being affected by other musical genres which drink from the same collective source. The importance placed on physical accumulation, objectification, separation of social and economic classes, adolescent gloatation of financial standing has lead to a perverse and most often, distorted (yet openly accepted) view of success and happiness. Does this not seem more in line with the definition of chaos often linked with anarchy? It would stand to maintain it as all Punk appearance, no true punk ideology, therefore…no true creation…no poetry. As stated prior, any persons (or bands for our sake) placed within the same system, within the same conventional mold will take on characteristics of persona and attitude through the shear act of conforming under an articulated agenda. The lure of money, record contract, fantastical lifestyle is an incredibly potent temptation, but consideration must be made concerning the true beneficiaries of the choice, how selfless (therefore Punk) can the decision be? “Protection, therefore, against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough; there needs protection also against the tyranny of the prevailing opinion and feeling; against the tendency of society to impose, by other means than civil penalties, its own ideas and practices as rules of conduct on those who dissent from them; to fetter the development, and, if possible, prevent the formation, of any individuality not in harmony with its ways, and compel all characters to fashion themselves upon the model of its own.” (Ibid)


True Punk ideology not only gains its validity and strength from its participants, but exercises its influence exponentially as the once covert, now noticeably vocal underground scene (which I will label due its non-commercialized ethics, lyrically poignant message and incalculable drive to be heard) pushes forward with a renewed vitality that continues to well up, pouring its message with vivacity into venues in cities all across America. “The real advantage which truth has, consists in this, that when an opinion is true, it may be extinguished once, twice, or many times, but in the course of ages there will generally be found persons to rediscover it, until some of its reappearances falls on a time when from favorable circumstances it escapes persecution until it has made such head as to withstand all subsequent attempts to suppress it.” (Ibid) The poetry of individuality, open expression, protest, life, love, responsibility and unity feels as if on the threshold, teetering in the minds of young adults who have become discouraged and unfulfilled as the current modem for the exchange of ideas has left them well dressed, but empty in their hearts. While I regret it to be true, the mass media, along with the music industry plays an enormous role in this debacle, but I believe the consciousness has only been misdirected, not obliterated…labeled and placed out of open awareness, shunned and condemned as too idealistic, too calamitous for impressionable minds, too dangerous…all the negative attributes associated with the classical persona of Punk Rock Music. Yet, do the same classic objections apply? Does the real danger lay as it’s portrayed? “A person who has been seduced by the consumer value system, whose identity is dissolved in an amalgam of the accoutrements of mass civilization, and who has no roots in the order of being, no sense of responsibility for anything higher than his or her own personal survival, is a demoralized person. The system depends on this demoralization, deepens it, is in fact a projection of it into society. Living within the truth, as humanity’s revolt against an enforced position, is, on the contrary, an attempt to regain control over one’s own sense of responsibility. In other words, it is clearly a moral act, not only because one must pay so dearly for it, but principally because it is not self-serving…” (Vaclav Havel, Living in Truth) This demoralization has led to an accepted belief of the inner substance of Punk, its façade versus its actualization, its nihilism versus its rationale…its ignorance versus its poetry, thus Punk cannot be categorized within its classical skin with no outward consideration paid to its spontaneity, adaptability and current course of evolution. Social change and Punk spontaneity are not only coagulative, they are synonymous…beginning with its rebellious inception and continuing forward with its creative, passionate, humanistic artistry. “But the evil is, that individual spontaneity is hardly recognized by the common modes of thinking, as having any intrinsic worth, or deserving any regard on its own account. The majority, being satisfied with the ways of mankind as they now are (for it is they who make them what they are), cannot comprehend why those ways should not be good enough for everybody; and what is more, spontaneity forms no part of the ideal of the majority of moral and social reformers, but is rather looked on with jealousy, as a troublesome and perhaps rebellious obstruction to the general acceptance of what these reformers, in their own judgment, think would be best for mankind.” (John Stuart Mill, On Liberty) Recognition of the individual, albeit, is often overshadowed by the mass appeal, but Punk is not a mere individual, it is thousands upon thousands of voices strong, hearts strong, and our ideology and poetry will surely come to have an ever present influence and ubiquity not only in music, but in the schematic of life, death, love and individual growth we call the world…as fleeting and spontaneous as it may seem.

Ballistics proved nothing more than innocence, forgetting the occupation of the shooter - by Craig Turnwall

It’s raining nails
Toothpick missiles outside with night an only casualty
Against bulletproof glass and thick naked clothes lines
Dance miracle-less in perfect super model frames dripped
Crimson in water blood
Mortar shells and chipped wood panes
Rattle blast notes aside a single treble clef deep throat furnace
City alleys
Cracked grass
Pound shingles a
Little more tired than four drifting ice cubes knocked
Vaguely in tired mockery to paratrooper lexicon in random brass fog.

When you travel (a continued version of looking at broken windows) - by Craig Turnwall

The spiral universe of architecture
Kneads silently grasp and a foreign patrons’ kiss
Missal
Blind ambition spent on sweated comforters and knitted sheets
Barreling down toward Amarillo Texas in a Nissan Truck with
No gas and a charged phone making calls to Midwest Region
Hunger Strikes
You and I
Watch desert stars idle blindly,
Dark incumbents and tapes upon tapes for the player
Though it works only when not watched
Like caffeine
Sovereign trumpet blare balance and a clutch slip
Toward Pisces in skies
Umbrella…pretty when said
A god
You, minds drenched melting corner stones
A melt twist
Beautiful glass and dreams worth cast aside
Only accelerator mansions bred light forms pedaled straight blind light
In needles bent over bucket willow trees

On thinking of great depths; - by Craig Turnwall

Perhaps a lake is wild with an ocean’s imagination,
and suppose this could be true.

These January Nights of Ours - by Craig Turnwall

soft whimpers change the blinds of our windows
pull them slowly down
on the sill where Bodhisattva rests on a single nail
head; perched ache of our night fence

lamped with eerie glows of heatron idols, knelt toward
chair back splattered dusty like a mere naked wraith
is where the cup still sits
your lips wrapped around glass, outer storms and visions

On Dry Erase Theorem - by Craig Turnwall

Essayic Canto I
       I must say this morning I felt different
though there was nothing new
about me or my eyes. By nothing new I mean there appeared
nothing new other than
the usual glaze and puffy eyelids and a very tiny
feeling that I wanted to make
coffee, which of course I knew was preposterous
considering I don’t even like coffee nor do I know how to
execute the process
which makes it come
alive. I’ve always imagined
that coffee for me would be a failed
Frankenstein.
       What I am trying to tell you deals
with myself and
coffee, or at least it might - and to a
certain lesser
extent, people who drink coffee. I am not what is commonly
referred to as “a morning person,” and though I truly
detest using clichés this enables me to get a very
broad point
across which also allows a
very shallow and discreet
method for kick
starting
your imagination. I do, however know someone who is (a morning
person) and let me reassure you
we are nothing of the same when it
comes to coherence, emotional
stability, motor skills and overall pleasantness when stumbled upon between
three to four
hours of rising. One small variance which I feel
I should mention trickles from the
fact that for the last twenty
two
days I have held sleep as a hostage in my attic, allowing
it neither food nor water, perpetually questioning its silence and involvement
within the lives of normal red blooded
Americans and why it
feels that I have become some type of terrorist
threat to it. It’s pensiveness as of
late has led me to believe that I am beginning to get through, that sleep is beginning to crack. The dangerous and frustrating
part to my whole plan lies in unassuming
facts that it can remain
excruciating calm through interrogation and although base
physical torture has never really been a true and legitimate
choice as a course of
action, it seems to scoff and smile whenever I push on it with negative reinforcement. This in turn leads me to
wonder
who
is
really
being
hurt.
       With sleep
chained to a chair, refusing to rot
into submission
inside the attic, I have recessed to other means and
methods for passing the long January
evenings and late nights, though sleep
is constantly revealing its
unwillingness
for bondage by cooing muffled siren songs through the ceiling
and scratching its fingernails on the pull down
ladder door
which conveniently enough for it, lies directly
above my
bathroom toilet. Sleep
is smart.
       But getting back to
morning people. I’ve come to believe
morning people
belong to a different mold of humanity than others
such as myself. Not to
insinuate in any case a nature of defect on one spectrum
or improvement on the other, only
to set a measure of
comparison as to allow you, yourself as the
reader, an opening with which
to choose
and compare your own slumber
peccadilloes.
For most of my childhood life I, along
with what I now perceive to be
many, tried to walk in harmony with the people of the morning
only to find that the strange
and intense ability
to stay tired while still maintaining a permanent
routine of sleeping atypically late
gravitationally
affected my
REM away
from the conventional
patterns of repose and led it into a state of consciousness and mental
cognition I like to call
Bio-Nocturnal Awareness Frustration which I would like
to imagine can be
formulated as;
[((Dissent ≥ (A) Non-Conformity) (Perceived Questions of Motive))] ≥ Irrational Process – Intention +/- Results (Harmony)² ≥ Realized Thought ≤ √Prime.
       Now let it be said
however, that I am not in any form
or function a mathematician of any
kind, only that I believe it to be true and somewhat proportionality
idealistic to my own sub-
culture - though nine nights
with a dry erase board will lead most
people to find beliefs and convictions they did not know previously
existed. This is not a point however. What I would like focus
on is the square
root of
Prime. Though let us
go back to coffee
first.
       The idea of coffee
has always seemed irrational
to my
psyche. Not in that I simply do not understand the process
of coffee; roasted beans
to grounds
to measurement
to filter to hot water through
filter to coffee pot
to cup etc.. The idea of coffee
which does not coagulate for me and others like
myself is the gathering. The gathering and to
a smaller
extent, the coffee
hybrids.
       Coffee
hybrids for the non-believer
range in perceived complexity from simple
espressos, cappuccinos and mochas to chaos
theory proportion when dealing with ritualistic
and odd substitutions of soy
milk, rice milk, cinnamon
flavoring or bizarre phrasing such as a cup of something “skinny.” How
do true coffee non-believers
even know
these items and mystifying substitutions to classically
trained cream and/or sugar
exist you may
ask? Easy. We have been on
reconnaissance, keeping hidden tabs and silently
gathering a militia.
       Coffee hybrids are not the focus though, as I have said - the
gathering is.
I have always found the
gathering curious, somewhat troubling…I would like
to imagine Aristotle
might have
called
it
an
“idiosynkrasis” if he had observed something similar in his
own time (though I’d really like to imagine him drinking wine from giant pitchers
instead
of coffee
from mugs
in the
morning). Others like myself (again I would like
to imagine) might someday dare to call the gathering something along those
lines, though we rarely
use such words when speaking
of things we do not
philosophically
understand. What Aristotle could not
have
known – and what the gathering does have however, are numbers.
       Dissenters
from the gathering such as myself don’t
tend to toil over too many of
the small details which pair us on the other side, nor
do we even try to
inspire an “other side” or a more confrontational “us vs.
them” mentality when speaking
to brethren
engaged in
struggle…though for some this works. For others it is insomnia
induced side-effects such
as Bio-Nocturnal Awareness Frustration which shed
small insights into
the gathering. I am fairly confident I am
not the only sufferer, though our numbers
may be small in comparison to the armada of coffee
conquistadors.
       But what IS
the gathering you are still probably
asking? It should now be said that the gathering
is not one simple event, gatherings have learned to
multiply. Whomever
sparked this flame of coffee related asexual
reproduction
both I and the remaining dissenters
do not know, but they are happening all around us in
shops and storefronts. I
once heard sleep tap down in Morse code from the
attic, “They are strong in
numbers and
caffeinated
intent…” but it had not repeated the transmission. I imagine it was simply sitting with a sly smile. This begins the idea of the square root of prime.
       Now, Bio-
Nocturnal Awareness Frustration counts
on the square root of prime as the
constant in its equation for existence. That is not to say however, that another factor cannot
become
an
unchangeable as well based upon certain
complicated governing
rules of methodology which I will dare to get into here - only that prime is always a
constant…never a variable. Think of the square
root of prime as
more of a device. One used for transport. Morning
people, who tend to not only to be drawn
stronger to the gathering but also account for a large majority
of its elders, rarely engage the
square
root of prime as they are less likely to identify with
symptoms of BNAF. While this has never been
proven in
clinical study, I find it to be more of an acute
observation concerning
what I
and the dissenters know of the gathering and its peculiar
hybrid elements. Sleep, by
maintaining its silence through attrition locked
securely away
over my head, has let the key slip
from its lips without
saying a single word. He too knows
of the gathering, of the
dissenters. Sleep knows
the square
root of prime is
choice. It will
not drink coffee either. Sleep refuses.


A short imagined statement while not being able to wake up during a recent dream in which our fore fathers waged conversation while appearing on Monday night television and James Madison, John Jay and Alexander Hamilton with a young Clint Eastwood guest hosting as the moderator on Inside The Actor’s Studio felt that being a little bit too pissed off might free up new sort of modern day 18th century independence… - by Craig Turnwall

If our dreams are typical red
are they not atypical blood spackles and you and I a Monday ware?
Which none of this I see, I speak to thee and find wavers tempered toward
dawns or a daily penance for I myself do not believe such acts can be foretold.
No thing lies into fate that easily. If I bare this to arms or police now, I place no grace upon what may be done with forces unleashed.
I do not beseech thee to allow them gains. Nor do I declare beyond points of misrepresentation of my fellows, we sit beside you as nights tremble upon your weeks, we watch as you crash and follow and look upon eyes, like we search crags on hope for wider openings, free us.
Are such items now unreachable by discussion? Do we not follow in footsteps laid before by sacrifice and blood? Can we not unite and simplify our objectives as passionately and irrevocably as to a mighty resolve once more? To whom shall we listen? Are we not privy to our own uncontained hearts? I will not answer these questions, for they are not mine to query. Though, if allowed I might engage you with this; dreams are not always colorful in sight, we make them our own when items and personals lead us clearly to textures and vivid palettes, but once brought forth to vision, could persons ever feel content with black and white images again, would color not be a evolution for tired eyes? Do not fear inner workings. Do not refrain from casting doubts toward all you find base. These are new times smelt with new revolutions.

Untitled - Craig Turnwall




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Description - Photography

••• In a city of millions it's not so easy to find yourself alone. These photos are meant to represent the power and beauty of solitude, the separation of becoming whole, the unity of feeling undivided within the masses. Where we are is not always where we want to be within ourselves... which is why we search... through our cities, through our towns, through our eyes and through our hearts. The key, I believe, has always been to look hard... and to feel harder.


 

17. - by Craig Turnwall

“We went swimming in the duck pond.”

“You did what?”

We went swimming in the duck pond, it’s right over there.”

“Why did you go swimming in the duck pond?”

“Ducks do it.”

“You’re not a duck. You’re going to get the car seat all wet.”

“I’ll sit on my hands.”

“Your hands?”

“Ya, my hands.”

“If you shoes are wet, don’t you think your hands are?”

“Possibly. It doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not matter?”

“It’s just details, look at those people, they don’t care.”

“They’re bronze statues.”

“See, they’ve got it figured out.”

“Are you serious?”

“Are you?”

“Yes I’m serious.”

“Then so am I.”



“How sober are you?”

“Very.”

“I am exactly inversely proportional to your sobriety.”

“So you are drunk.”

“Did I say that?”

“You almost did.”

“Almost what?”

“Said you were drunk.”

“Who’s drunk?”

“You are god dam it!”

“I am?”

“Yes you are…don’t you remember swimming in the duck pond?”

“Who was swimming in the duck pond?”

“You were!”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“My clothes are all wet.”

“Why in the fuck do you think they’re that way.”

“I must have walked through some rain.”

“Some rain?....you can see the stars!”

“You can?”

“Fucking look up there1”

“I don’t want to get rain in my eye.”

“It’s NOT FUCKING RAINING!”

“Why are you shouting?”

“Because you’re all wet. You were swimming in the duck pond.”

“The duck pond?”

“Yes…the duck pond.”

“Did you know I’m all wet?”

“Are you coming, or am I leaving you here.”

“Leaving me where?”

“Wet and drunk and stupid.”

“Who’s wet and drunk?”

“Look..you’re drunk and you’ve been swimming in duck shit for the last fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not the only one.”

“The only one what?”

“The only one who’s staring.”

“Who’s staring?”

“Those people.”

“Those aren’t people, they’re trashcans.”

“I think they like you.”

“What?”

“They’re not moving.”

“They’re not moving because they’re short and round and made of metal.”

“I smell like duck shit.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Those people. Those people must be duck people.”

“Duck people?”

“Duck people?”

“I don’t know, you said it.”

“Said what?”

“That those trashcans are duck people.”

“Did you know I’m wet?”

“We ARE GOING TO THE CAR NOW!”

“The car?”

“Yes, the car.”

“But I’ll get the seat wet.”

A Klimt Painting Depicting One Dozen
Case IH Tractors As A Bouquet - by Craig Turnwall

Poets die young in
General principle though they teach resilience as
Water laughing at wetness.

-ct 1-4-05

America As A Nursery - by Craig Turnwall

America as a nursery:

Roots, all roots, we are driven soil air bash eyes

Fox breed orchestrate our own belongings in maple tongue, hot red dawn hours wield iron grasp, too much dire time, wrangle how minds reek, violet perils ye minds, our sovereign trunks ember down, down ages, saplings, America

Wired ready happing jobs flow of deposit try, anarchy ridicule blow job vent sidewalk with slight angle sheets, toes press, Sam and his lips a mountain harp, sanctuary melted water picture, do not smell straight captain displace creep in volley banquet, there lies a white concrete tomb below the feet of small business and retched bliss, how ye clarifies, sproutlings, America.

Wage, persevere beyond contempt tis time to angle upright, project and ascertain competence, we are bound by taxes, let us be bound by objective, ye America, deal straight so that we may play, breathe fiercely so that we may feel heat, ye early planting of growth, effortless trend, dish vile into havens left for holes, ye passion, ye wanderlust.

Blackened oceans down soft hook jab, raining oil dots, mouth open, caught in a strange luck,

ye America; drowned in pure ultimatum pressed breast, hard swallow art

ye America; peace starved for iron gates, smiles blind foes, weeping tear ache

ye America; wild in income glory, dinner, fine tempts, honorable tip

ye America; bleed for fingers pointed outward casual

ye America; Ohio steel workers penance

ye America; a blast riddled off wild souls, forever screaming forward

ye America; strangle home to talk with sons and daughters

ye America; harpsichord violence not met to rival

ye America; find a way to walk,

ye America; anger swept solid form, apprehension at supermarket, hoods and deep blinks, animosity a staple gun

ye America; blind we may be,

ye America;

ye America; to go, to go, to go, to go, to go

Mild manners blast corner stones streets of Midwest, where hours mine blue vacancy, taking all welded to bed time, live more than part, who; ride slingshot to oxygen condense hyper lodge, direct manifesto,

Feed insomnia vacant Sutras of long found glory, knelt pious care, vexation of night; oh how drooping eyes see condensation, blabber fins, wild buckets, scorch hybrid etch stares loudly, there is no time to wan, vibrant necessity of elegance migrant honor, whole continent exorcism child, our baby rail,

Wrap vagrancy like a blanket, bottle lame, television as karma, knife cotton carbon soul bullet hide, grow stalks, flower bank, accumulate a scene, dare to dispose, rabid heart full throttle forbearance picked away on a zephyr,

Hollow sidewalk, no eyes met continue, meditate on indifference wise souls, gay arm rest, moon squalor satellite, pitch harm swimming lessons, follow through with a wrist snapped nebula scratch across the street, there’s a way to look at a slow crossing, consummate violently, watch a hefty curb, validate mantra, scream,

ye America; flash bright strong within pupil sight

ye America; vile oh…vile the collar day

ye America; carry spirit of farmers, feed them

ye America; effervescence tangle, a new knot

ye America; lush tire tracks neighbor mailbox flag

ye America; umpire insight rash judgment

ye America; might blister holy ground

ye America; knight with conduct

ye America; carry the blue, carry the blue up on earth’s arms

ye America; listen to thine own voice

ye America; unity birth, sow thy seed

Low not hesitate, strive, become example rabbit burrow, green moss bed plow house walls vacant, stare oblong mat Atlantic, ghost faced navy lute, thousand red coats string a vase flower, tongue dance perilous hops, father colony, blind dove fly your essence to honor , smelt tire swing, star trance babble feel vision not commerce, love heat, wagon wheel dipstick grind titillated fever, bask in the dusk of lilac summer with smell of lawn grass, run naked without shame a thousand baths ago Magna Carta lightening bugs,

Dollars in sense and pockets, cents with pockets, deep, cry all you dead sailors in windmill ephedrine sun’s up, vibrant to poverty who are up starting day, ten buck revolutions, there’s no start we’re all watering, seeping, fertilized, transplant irony, rows, rows, rows, rows,

ye America; break through ghost thought

ye America; grow

ye America; grapple yards green tenure without trunks

ye America; become humble for liberty children

ye America; light up

ye America; snow to a gathering

ye America; draw yourself into entity, become a mannequin

ye America; hallow immigrants

ye America; need not fear terror

ye America; fear terror within thine furry eyed minds

ye America; bleach covenant

ye America; steady

Steady thy ears and souls
Steady thy vibrance
Steady thy poverty
Steady thy prosperity
Steady thy love
Steady thy hate
Steady thy time due all nations
Steady life without reserve
Steady ourselves
Steady thy patriotism
Steady thy Heaven
Steady thy Hell
Steady thy Valhalla
Steady thy River Stix
Steady thy limbo
Steady thy tax
Steady thy gods
Steady thy minds
Steady thy hope
Steady thy blindness
Steady thy ignorance
Steady thy disbelief
Steady thy intolerance
Steady thy queers
Steady thy straights
Steady thy hearth
Steady thy compassion
Steady thy necessity
Steady thy might
Steady thy generosity
Steady thy goals
Steady thy course
Steady mankind,
Mankind bleed death
Mankind keel high
Mankind kneel low
Mankind peel away
Mankind feel life
Mankind reel anchor
Mankind seal no fate

Arise from ashes, our flesh made whole returned to burial, let us join follow share casket planet, oh ye seedlings, ye America.

An essay on achieving - by Craig Turnwall

I don′t find myself being privy to much as I write this. Perhaps it′s the lack of not being impervious to my own nature, perhaps it′s that I′ve let myself grow too long, perhaps I can′t put reason to will, or am I just talking...am I.

A solid foundation of do′s and don′t have lead to some unaltered ideas which I will call ′know′. These ′knows′ are certain ideals and nuances which I, among other things such as hygiene, rational thought, provoked violence...have let scape to the outside of mornings, noons and nights of my days, these retro spectacles of hindrance, only because I have let them dangle in front of me as thus, appear to me now as strung up like trapped pelts, minks, muskrats, lesser game of which I once hoped to conspire in the company of... my brothers, for we remain the hunted.

I have wished, for such an extended time, to ponder on issues which I find not only troubling, (for that label will never cease to be true) but the items which confront me in my daily life, issues and language, verbatim phrases of action which range far beyond semantics and vernacular, in contrast most characterized by the motion of your arms, the will in hearts, kisses which you place softly upon foreheads of brothers and sisters you wake for in midst of night due to their own sorrows.

How have we become? Most importantly, how have we begun to become...this a redundancy on itself much the same way we justify our own actions in getting up for our employment′s schedule, our job, for us? For them? Formica? For longing? Foresight? They′re all ritualistic actions and I toil with consequences, as do all heart strong bodies day dreaming of not being in attendance to the relentlessness of wishing the windows screaming cantations of lust freedom.

I scream: TAKE HOLD! Let it become not only how you choose places and reasons outside of getting up in the morning of alarm clocks I do not wish to become myself as I have led it forward! There are heavens greater than the worst nightmares of our dreams if only we wake for them. If only they wake for us! I cannot pursue schematics which do not hold some amount of heart, pulses of blood why do I toil myself within flames of wanderlust escape? How hard is it for me to go. How hard is it?

Metallic enough to leave me blistered. Rash enough to not fathom consequences for repercussions for actions... I imagine to be involuntary as blinking. I can make myself stare however... I can stop eye lid action... I can withhold my food... I can stop breathing...for minutes and hours at a time...I know.

-Wall
9-13-05

Ballistics proved nothing more than innocence,
forgetting the occupation of the shooter - by Craig Turnwall

It's raining nails
Toothpick missiles outside with night an only casualty
Against bulletproof glass and thick naked clothes lines
Dance miracle-less in perfect super model frames dripped
Crimson in water blood
Mortar shells and chipped wood panes
Rattle blast notes aside a single treble clef deep throat furnace
City alleys
Cracked grass
Pound shingles a
Little more tired than four drifting ice cubes knocked
Vaguely in tired mockery to paratrooper lexicon in random brass fog

How love.

CT 1-3-05

Character Map - by Craig Turnwall

Character Map:

Picture: leaves on cold white sidewalk as continents

°∞So I dropped off seven pounds.°±

°∞Seven pounds?°±

°∞Yeah, seven pounds, two little bags about this high,°± hand two feet above the ground.

°∞Seven pounds, nineteen dollars, I couldn°Øt believe it so I ask, °∞°±Is there a mistake? I just dropped off these two little bags and it°Øs nineteen dollars, wait a minute.°±°± But they just look at me. I have one pair of underwear in the whole load and it°Øs missing and they°Øre trying to tell me it°Øs nineteen dollars!°±

°∞So what did you tell them? I mean, did they say anything?°±

°∞Yeah, they kept telling me it was nineteen dollars for five pounds or something like that and there weren°Øt any guarantees about certain pieces,°± left arm up to wipe off nose, right hand nestled on hip, elbow up and out. °∞I tell this little guy, wearing glasses and trying to speak English but he doesn°Øt fucking have it°≠°±°±Don°Øt tell me I DON°ØT know what I had in my bags, I know what I had in my bags, there was one pair of underwear, white panties and they°Øre gone. Now, I don°Øt have the ten dollars to go out and buy another pair when you screwed up°≠PLUS, you°Øre charging me nineteen dollars for eight dollars worth of laundry? Are you watching my lips move?°±°±

°∞They°Øll getcha, sure as shit they°Øll getcha. My friend Shelly, same thing happened to her. They told her it was fourteen pounds, eighty cents a pound, it should have come out to°≠ocho, nine, ten, eleven°≠just under twelve dollars right? Sixteen dollars! Claimed there was some extra charge due to heavy linens and folding°≠.Shelly never asked them to fold, they just did it! So what°Ød you do?°±

°∞I told them, I mean, after I talk to them on the phone°≠that I wasn°Øt going to pay for all that shit, the sign said seventy cents and I want seventy cents.°±

°∞Where°Øs the remote? Was that Crazy Patty that just walked by? Was it Jim?°±

°∞I told them, °∞°±You ruined the only pair of underwear that was in the entire load, you pay me for the underwear and I°Øll pay you the nineteen dollars°≠plus you°Øre ripping me off so you°Øre lucky I°Øm not reporting you, or something.°±°±

°∞You should have been tougher. They°Øll only listen if you got something in your back pocket, they°Øre smarter than you think.°±Å6¶5
°∞Yeah, well, I gave them a twenty dollar bill and told them I wanted five back.°±

°∞Good for you! Damn right you should have done that! What°Ød they say?°±

°∞They told me I couldn°Øt do that°≠the bill was nineteen dollars, they couldn°Øt change it from what it was on the ticket. They didn°Øt write it up, whoever took my clothes wrote it up°≠that°Øs what they have to go off of.°±

°∞Did you ask who wrote up your ticket?°±

°∞No. They had my fucking clothes, what was I going to do, sit there and try and reason with them°≠by the time they have them it°Øs already too late and they know they have you°≠they know it, they guy just stood at the register staring, he didn°Øt care, just stood there all bug eyed°≠waiting for me to answer.°±

°∞So what°Ød you do?°±

°∞Shhhh°≠..here comes Crazy Patty, don°Øt let her see John in here°≠did you see what happened last time? She and Roger got into it and the he threw her into the dartboard before Val got her arm in...°±

°∞Did you get your clothes you poor thing?°±

°∞Eighteen dollars later.°±

- - by Craig Turnwall

1) Why don’t you feel good sometimes?

I don’t feel good because it seems too easy…and too overlooked…like malnutrition.

2) If the reciprocal of 2/4 is 4/2..than why does the government feel inclined to dictate federal legislation concerning permanent tax cuts to the upper class while the Endowment for the Arts has its budget cut by two million dollars every year we stand idle?

I don’t like to talk numbers…give me semantics any day.

3) How is health care reform helping you to budget for your future?

I don’t have health care…I can’t afford health care…if I get sick…than my only hope is that the conservative compassion with take care of me…please and thank you Senate…

4) Does not the potential for terrorism in America find you in a compromising position?

Compromise? I’d like to see a Texan walk beans in Nebraska as small town budgets shrivel, grade schools close and inadequate funding leads to over saturation within the “special needs” classrooms of America’s high schools.

5) Is it easier to find a job now that the recession seems to be receding according to recent Republican polls?

How do you find an up swing with welfare checks spent on lottery tickets?

6) Does the Patriot Act give sufficient right as to allow the archive of records concerning personal identity, credit cards, and past travel itineraries to government agencies who evaluate them and suggest action based on their “threat” to national security?

It’s like George Orwell has cummed on my face.

7) Does justification concerning modes of action and application of ethics have anything to do with foreign policy or the reasoning to seek council amongst intelligent, non-English speaking peers?

Listening is the key proverb related to understanding….without it…there’s nothing left but personal agenda and August spent harboring mistakes in serene statuettes of limitation at Martha’s Vineyard or Texas Tea fountain yards.

8) Will America ever recover from the blatant neglect and dissociation of the blue collar class and ideals that forged the constitution out of split blood and aspiration?

Yes. We are here. This is us. We are coming…fast.


9) What are the prime attributes for the staging of the American dollar verses the Euro?

If you dig a hole too deep…China’s just an outsourced core away (according to the Boston Globe, New York Times and the Grand Island Islander)

10) Where does the FCC come into play with means and regulations concerning what our children are watching during Prime Time Television?

When I grew up the FCC came into effect at nine o’clock bed time… after Air Wolf…although I’ll fucking rue the day that THEY rue the day without the consent of consensual adults ruing the days of their children.

11) Is it easier to harbor anger or guilt?

Guilt…it goes with every color…even light grey and sky blue

12) Cheese or Pepperoni?

The Bouncing Souls

13) How do you mandate a specific clause into the objective of state law without actually passing a bill through the Massachusetts House of Representatives in the midst of a non election year?

It’s like I’ve always said, “A Straight may be a Straight…but a Full House with purpose will beat straight edge cards every single time.”

14) Is the war in Iraq the worst scenario of pre-emptive informational misrepresentation resulting in military action that has every occurred in the history of The United States of America?

Unless you count that one time we talked about doing that one thing…

15) Do you believe in an after life?

I believe in my friends…and in their after lives…and in God

16) Do steroids in professional baseball turn the sport from the national past time into the national “juice” time”

Never, ever, use the work juice in a sentence when talking to me…unless the word “orange” is a huge part of it…or….”juice” is your dying request.

17) Religious fanaticism? Real?

Nero was real…Tiberius was real…Caesar was real….after that…my coin purse is empty

18) Will the prices of barrels of crude oil directly affect the refined gasoline prices I pay within the current market of mid-eastern driven import as opposed to the Alaskan nature reserves the President has signed over to private interests?

The pipe line. A modern marvel? Alaskan Salmon. 3 billion years worth of evolution. Does the necessity for automobiles dictate evasive perverse aggression towards a virgin ecosystem? Like I said…I’m into semantics…and oil….but COME ON!

19) Can 9/11 ever be downplayed as to how it affected life for Americans and their
children…or their children’s children?

I morn for tragedy…I watched it happen along with…and beside my country men…but the only chance to move forward lies within the relinquishing (not the forgetting) of the past…and the ability to lead it solidly into the future…without harboring prejudices towards religions, groups, congregations…or those who do not feel the same. Impact is a careful word…very easy to receive…excruciatingly hard to give.

20) Does the Democratic party stand any chance against the multi-million dollar GOP machine?

Three statements for perseverance: Terminator 1. Terminator 2. Terminator 3.


21) There are acts in Congress at present to eliminate programs for the legally blind and legislative bills in committee to slash geriatric care in a nation wide sweep; as a plan to cover the amount of cost each taxpayer is contributing to these programs.

I’m sorry…I don’t believe in Euthanasia.

22) If you could go on vacation to any place in the world, where would that be?

James Dunn’s cerebral cortex.


23) If you could talk to any person in your past…who would it be?

I still love my older brother…and for another chance with Jimmy Z

24) Favorite Meal

I’m a sucka for a Gyro…and Ramen Noodles.

25) Current book I’m reading…

“And I quote…“Print is dead.” Harold Ramis, Ghostbusters””
26) Do labor unions contradict the principal foundations of free enterprise, market trade or the ability for corporations to mass produce goods cheaply and easily?

Have you ever been to Christmas day with an eleven year old, an eight year old, a six year old and a four year old who haven’t seen the dentist in a year due to the belief in Santa Claus?

30) Where do the concrete implications of capital punishment lie in the wake of Enron oil executives waving their rights to a federal court of corporately appointed judges within their own ranks of hierarchy in perceived notion of receiving a “just and speedy” trial?

Kill one…you will be killed. Murder a family and their life investments leading to the security of their children…”I’m sorry….I’m so, so sorry. Better luck next time…I sorry I can’t do more….it wasn’t your fault…it wasn’t our fault…sometimes things just happen…what can I say?”

31) A Florida recount vote?

I used to count my gummy bears in first grade…they never won fare and square.

32) 750,000 jobs lost in the state of Massachusetts in 2003, 3 million total

I’m sure you forgot about Idaho.

33) The Democrats are now accused of stealing top secret GOP files containing party outlines and mandates concerning evasive maneuvers encompassing recent allegations to their party.

Good way to win the trust of doubting voters GOP…classy move.

34) McDonald’s is under-sizing value meals….and Americans spent 1.3 Trillion Dollars on credit cards this past year, a 10.5% increase from 2002, where do you see tax cuts and spending money ending up in the pockets of Joe Taxpayer?

I was born into debt…I live in debt….I’m sure I’ll probably die in debt…the only legacy I have is knowing I owe $30,000 as my part to the national debt.

35) Is the glass half full or half empty?

It’s in he dishwasher…soaking

36) Where do you want to be five years from now?

Sure.

37) Where the fuck is Adam Pomajzl?

(Blinking Cursor)

- - by Craig Turnwall

Hi
We’
Ve
Been
Expectn
You
For
A
Long time.

Dnt’ fret,
‘you’ve seen nothin’ yet,


I’m
Filed
With a
Piece
Of an imagination
You
Can’t
Expect
With
Shiney teeth.

-adam pomajzl, craig turnwall.
09.11.03
boston, ma.

Dear The Match Factory; - by Craig Turnwall

                  If you’re wondering if I’ve seen it…”well I have” and it’s a monster breathing
down all the necks of cliché thoughts and usage of the words “poetry,” “literature,”
“artistic,” “design,” and “positive influence.”
                  And this is not a counter strike
                  I hold no harbor to place anyone into their ships
                  “…well I have…” is a massage
                  not a command
                  nor a prerequisite
                  nile a holy host

Being tired of conventional;
A blue mind dream and a son or daughter
We’ve come to this in wiled round beats of Midwestern blood
                  Our own through our Grandparents
                  And the East Coast through their own
                  And the West Coast through their own
                  And Oklahoma through their own
                  And Idaho through their own
                  San Francisco
                  Austin
                  Pierre
                  Lancing
                  Iowa City
                  Columbus
                  Cody
                  Manchester
                  Albany, the old capital
                  Bozeman
                  Gilford
                  Naples
                  St. Augustine
                  Kleine
                  Wahoo
                  Holy Ground
                  Tri-City weather and the calves down by Old Miers’ way
                  Live for truth or fire a gun
                  Hunt thou us hunt, where be the trigger finger of us peoples
“Name off all the capitals if you will. Doesn’t mean you not how the people see their
states. I’ve seen it all, can’t pretend to not be part of the people…can’t pretend….you’ve
seen the faces…oh how might may be, in loss bares all, and I can see you necklace eyes…”
                  Vile, not in context or if in judge…rebound…fifty three more till making it onto
a basketball card…

                  File this away with the following words;

                  Crush
                  Daytime
                  Epilepsy
                  Disaster
                  Crying
                  Faith
                  Hearth
                  Dan Spider
                  Red, Green or Blue
                  Ignition
                  The letter “U”
                  Statements such as:
                  “follow the keys”
                  “make yourself correct”
                  “don’t hide behind your own eyes”
                  “test the waters and make them your own”
                  “drive until all possibilities do not exist…and you have one more mile to explore”
                  “live your soul throughout all turmoil, and not be sick, eyes and mind through
                  heart equal one.”
                  So I listened and I thought, “How can this not be me?”
                  “Oh Clark!....This where Clark lives…!

                  A poem to Jarrod Pomajzl.

Declare yourself an independence - by Craig Turnwall

If I want to be drunk and regret it in the morning
Then ‘goddam I’ll do just that and live it up and sleep half dream
Rolling in sweated covers, a comforter I didn’t commandeer, pillow cases
I’ll stain yellow with sweat and face juice, watch me seep…watch it I dare
you…
A teleprompter with green lettering and a sentence which starts:
“We drive and drive and drive and I see no stop signs…they’re red
right..someone told me they were red with white bordering and I can’t
explain why I’m driving…you’re driving right now? Right? It’s white on the
outside right? White with red in the middle. That means stop. Stop? Red?
Right? We’re gonna be okay? Right? Stop when red?

Blow and blow and hiccups and blow and watch the seat covers ripple and I
don’t have
Sight to talk
Site to conjure
Myself a waterfall
Us.
2:45am.
We.

We’re all dead. We’ve died. Us. We’ve died. We. Us.

“Fasten your seat belt motherfucker! Fasten! This is only a game if we
were in Detroit…and we both know there is no pistons firing…you and I…no
pistons…look me in the eye! Look me in the eye goddam-it! Watch it…the
fucking Tigers are tearing it up…we have it this year….Royals? Don’t
fucking talk to me about the Royals…Tigers…Tigers….Tigers!

 

I’m tired.


 


 

Go through the motions and I may not sleep anymore…not tonight…this night
Our night.
Find it in storm panes and wild red eyes.


 

Find it and find it…

Red.

We. Us.

I’m drunk and finding time…time for what?

Time. And we’re here…and I’m drunk…and us….and we…here.

Piston. Firing. Piston.

I’m drunk and I can’t see straight on till tomorrow….and I miss you…and I
believe…

…and I am….save souls…save us. Save we. Be here. Like a magnet.

CT 4-22-05

Do not stop - by Craig Turnwall

Do not stop

Yield only if you must…but
Do not stop
Take courage and drink its blood
Do not stop
Live
Do not stop
Love
Do not stop
Learn
Do not stop
Hope
Do not stop
Believe
Do not stop
Run
Do not stop
Value
Do not stop
Night reign
Do not stop
Struggle
Do not stop
Watch
Do not stop
Bow to grace
Do not stop
Feel
Do not stop
Cringe
Do not stop
Walk
Do not stop
Scream
Do not stop
Tell
Do not stop
Erase
Do not stop
Conjure
Do not stop
Listen
Do not stop
Plow
Do not stop
Solidify
Do not stop
Lead
Do not stop
Replace
Do not stop
Target
Do not stop
Recognize
Do not stop
Ocean
Do not stop
Day
Do not stop
Pile
Do not stop
Spring
Do not stop
Silence
Do not stop
Blackness
Do not stop
Vibrate
Do not stop
Query
Do not stop
Help
Do not stop
Access
Do not stop
Intrinsic good
Do not stop
Cry
Do not stop
Laugh
Do not stop
Whistle
Do not stop
Hum
Do not stop
Hunger
Do not stop
Pledge
Do not stop
IOU
Do not stop
‘Ole
Do not stop
Knuckles
Do not stop
Pen
Do not stop
Eyes
Do not stop
Ears
Do not stop
Fingers
Do not stop
Kick drum
Life
Do not stop
Honesty
Do not stop
Quiet
Do not stop
Forgiveness
Do not stop
Intensity
Do not stop
Music
Do not stop
Beauty
Do not stop
Tradition
Do not stop
Pride
Do not stop
Honor
Do not stop
Today
Do no stop
Tomorrow
Do not stop
They
Do not stop
We
Do not stop
You
Do not stop
I
Do not stop

Until

Forever.


-CT 2003

The first 45 minutes of Goonies - by Craig Turnwall

I
Remember seeing your Pizza Hut cup with red hat
And soggy Coke laced in between the hangover hidden
It’s like you never stirred Brian…and I hoped you loved me
With arm draped over the twin comforter next to
Mine with all the shit crammed beneath the mattress for safe keeping
And Ina knew what I didn’t know…
I’ve seen it in your eyes and the way you swallow when asked questions
Feel dangerous and quiet…it keeps things away
Far away…because it has to be that way…
And so do you
Which so am I
And if we weren’t such Mother Fuckers
I could tell you how I spent early nights in silence waiting for the door
Creak light and footsteps allow for rustle of covers
Top bureau dangling with change as it opened
With thoughts of restitution paid through you…in you…by your pain…
You’ve lived your own penance…you’ve paid a price for me…and us…
But it cut too deep
Til you cried so hard tears make no mark
Live it everyday alone…for you are my brother…and I yours
Jet black with purple blue god
Kansas City Royals cup placed perfectly
Little boy in pin cushion…

-CT  2004

guinness at 4:00 in the afternoon - by Craig Turnwall

Tastes better warmly lit







B

L




                                                                        A




                                    C









                                                                         Kened




foam



                                                    Heat

HEDDER HUNTS - by Craig Turnwall

I had this interview for a job today. I happen to miss this district manager’s message yesterday afternoon while I saucing it up with my buddies at the bar so I wake up extra early this morning to give him a call and to try and show him that I’m the early riser, wake up and get ‘em type. I crawl out of bed at 8:30, mouth full of cotton and coughing something fierce, having been wicked fucking drunk when I got home, capping it off with writing a couple of delirious emails to some friends and having some stumble fumble rough sex before passing out with my pants and shoes on. I clear my throat, dial the phone, and listen patiently, quietly repeating my name over and over again, trying to get the morning out of my voice and I hear him pick up, “This is Dan.” “Hi Dan, this is Pete….Pete Nashaw, I missed your call yesterday afternoon when I was in the city and I was just giving you a call to see if you had some time to maybe meet with me.” I could tell this really caught him off guard. He wasn’t ready to be asked to meet, he was anticipating on doing the inquiring, but in my haste and slow temperament I had jumped the gun and thrown those formalities aside. There was a pause. “Yeah, sure, that’d work…….what time is good for you?” “I tell you what Dan, I’m pretty free today…..I’ll let you tell me when it’d work best.” There was another pause. This one made me nervous. I could not tell if I had frightened him or if he was simply doing a mental chain of events for his day, trying to decided when he could squeeze me in. “10:30 be all right?” It was 9:00 now, that would be give me an hour to shower and what not, without too much haste. “10:30 be fine.” He took a deep breath as he cleared his throat, poised and ready to continue. “Do you know where Stoughton is?” “I do……it’s south of me, by Canton….right?” “Yep. Route 138 off of 93, there’s a stand alone Papa Gino’s, with a Wendy’s and a Jiffy Lube right next door. You can’t miss it. I see you there at 10:30.” “All right Dan, see you then…..bye.”
I had not planned on meeting him so soon. I was not a morning person. I enjoyed getting up, having a cup of coffee, laying around, maybe watching some tv. Essentially, taking it easy. It usually took me a few hours to wake up without a hang over and most of the morning if I had one. I felt like ass and what was worse, I had committed myself to looking and feeling presentable in less than two hours. It was definitely going to be close.
This was the second interview for a store manager position at this chain pizza joint called Papa Zapa’s. I hated food service, but I had spent the last year and a half running this mall little ice cream store that had done fairly well so when I became desperate for a job, I pulled out all the stops and went back to the industry where anyone can become employed. I did not want to do this, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed the cash bad and exhausted all my other resources. I had trapped myself, something I swore I was never going to do.
I shaved, hopped in the shower, got dressed, put on my best shoes and realized I still had twenty-five minutes to spare. I grabbed my coat and walked around my house to the corner where I could get a soda from the machine so I wouldn’t have to stop anywhere on my way.
The morning was cold for April, overcast with the inevitable smell of rain and muck in the air. I hurried along, got my soda, and walked back to the house quickly, staring down at the sidewalk, trying to count the lines and cracks as they passed under my feet.
I got back inside, sat down, and drank half my soda before I had even realized that it was time to go. I got in my truck, started it up and turned onto the road with traffic filling in around me like rabid dogs on a racetrack.
I did not live too far from the interstate, keeping in mind that distance is relative to road capacity and traffic quantity, but things were moving good.

I'll live this Saturday too. - by Craig Turnwall

The clock is flashing 1:48am
My alarm says it’s 5:03
Gave up blinking ‘cause they don’t match
All asleep and dreamy , listening to Anne whisper to her pillow
Wood of the door naked, faucet dripping, it’s 5:03 and I can’t tell
Whether I’m here or not, whether I’m tired or taught
Wound with fingers draped to these chords,
I’d like to see some light knead itself into blind sight
Electricity went out three days ago, might be a year
Since I heard you rest like this, blasted gray with night embers
I just want to be your cushion
Watching words grow into rings of trees, ballets of scream
Grow, grow toward something above, something real
It’s 5:05 and I can’t steer right, I’ll just watch your hand
Melt into mine, push my fingers upward
Tower drip toward,
It’s 5:06 and I can’t sleep, please wear me thin
I hear you gamble each breath in a
Exhale of sudden chance with perfect night light
Iron cross bars by
Engines, trials, autos, throttles and sounds of your soul pound metal molds
It’s time to leave the window
Time to sleep.

Importance on mind explosion and the consequences: - by Craig Turnwall

Asleep to no sleep and tired wired eyes poke straight blue narrow beams.

C.T. 1-11-05 Chicago, IL

Looking at pictures of water doing wet things: - by Craig Turnwall

We've started to take ourselves in God hibernate far too seriously Mind as an alligator she said walking Puritan navigation course across the short little courtyard mixed with juniper blinds and lilac bushes bursting in violet flowers, a holy ground thought caught up in lawn grass shavings, a magnificent dress caressed downward, well below the ankle dream and white powder, tossed in Victorian Whig, a prime candidate to all the silver and black eye shadow, thrushed in blue satin, picnic table red beyond ant's legged eye, course lumps of weeded grass mound like sand ruts bladed from heel run kisses on the beach, or sand next to a lake here in Nebraska, a wrist fan bend, dresses and coats left three unbuttoned hot white stockings and single buckled shoes privy toward left arm bent ninety degree angle behind the small of the back and rose blushes marked on high cheek bone notch, a small, delicate ride for brass and silverware clouded off a back balcony, bay window over veranda tapestry, gazebo to no white wash, we're all painting now, I've lost it somewhere within the darkness, in the manifest of late night days, speak none of which, none, Mandy Allen and a snow day away in dream, white and all white with pink skin...

Oh! Allen! - by Craig Turnwall

You’re so far under the earth!
Shards of timber earth have bent brittle heart long at fast
Eyes sunk deep within your skull like aloe plants out grown their pots
If only you had seen debacle of reality television, or television as whole
Entity masking America with Anteater face masks and horned black hoods
There’d have been a screamed Kaddish at the funeral of its entanglement
Loneness of masquerade reeling behind your glasses!
Oh! Allen!
Cause for America cause gone so far to 0 way side!
Benevolent archetypes cast spell on spell bound participants
Hours spent escaped into narcissist pools cast with flange of teenage envision
Of beauty through funds of mainstream government money
MTV! Oh! Allen!
Laymen would not stand for it! Perverse men would not stand for it!
Progression towards means and not an end would not stand for it!
Catapult of abstract and how the men and women dress dance material
Martyred in they holy blood of reason!
Oh! Allen! In a book!
Just one that has fed the mass to feed it again to read an idea more than thirty seconds
Worth of the weight on your chest
Oh! Allen! Buried with you
In the cremation of Bodhisattva you wept with a thousand drums knelt at your make
Ceremoniously driven long fingered punch of fitful rage
Tiger bred
Coarse agitation against court room drama and investigation as means of subduement
Prints are real! Course is real! “They will find you” as real! Jurisdiction hell bent
Intentional oppression of rights caked beneath your muddied sockets
Oh! Allen! Pennace seems so far long far too put and off!
Headstone quiver octet beneath the melt feldspar of Arabian sand
Crush on velvet cashing erupting surge
America has become minced aggression of suggestion to media Oh! Allen!
No mean with which to weigh a mean into a way
Die your last pressed suit and sit up straight in essay!
Time is dire!
Sing to fire of ebony and satire of Metasophicles for fevered tongues
Range strong seats of fossiled fuels to you they dig deep Oh! Allen!
Paleness and shadow of eye feel your spirit within the tantle condemnation of
Zen bled for warrior hate stand up the c