Lost in Translation Version 3: Let’s Table This Discussion

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Lost In Translation Version 2: Monoglot Remix

On that Summer day,
with scabby knees, shirtless and tanned brown.
I pitched the wiffle ball.
Close as I was,
close enough that my not yet ten coordination could find the strike zone,

It bulleted back at me,
wiffling, Jabberwocky-like
through the suburban street
too fast. It dropped me. Like a rock.

Translated into French and back again:
In summer day
with scabby knees, brown and tanned naked torso.
I launched the wiffle ball.
Close as I was,
close enough that my coordination was not yet ten find the strike zone,

He chips to me,
wiffling, Jabberwocky-like
   through the suburban street
too fast. He dropped me. As a rock.

My words:
Some years later.
The camp counselor instigated a game
of telephone.

I think she wanted us to learn about the power of words.
The malicious destruction of gossip.
The way that words come with a radioactivity, a half-life.
They are dying, like us, the moment that they are born.

Transated into French, back to English, then to Latin and back into English again:
After a few years.
Camp counselor incited a game
Phone.

I think we must learn it.
Malicious rumors destruction.
Radioactivity pitches when liberated middle of life.
Die, so that we, in the time they were born.

My words:
Going on grown, now.
It takes me a while.
To get past the idea that the professor
Has the most enormous eyebrows that I have ever seen.

When I get past thinking about Edward Scissorhands.
Weed whackers.
I hear his words.
At least, I think I do.

Socrates, he wasn’t talking about virtues.
Like eating all of your vegetables.
It would have been better.
He says.
If we had translated that word as excellence.

Translated into French, back into English, into Latin, back into English, and then into Greek and back again:
Now grown up and done.
I need some time.
La, a doctor has a reason
A great eyebrows 1’ve ever.

For when you think of the expenses of the one’ve Edward Scissorhands.
Whackers weeds.
1 heard.
At least one can imagine.

But Socrates is not speaking of the virtue.
Like to eat all the vegetables.
How much better it would have been.
Said.
If the word translated as excellence.

My words:
An adult. Now. Or atleast, that’s the rumor.
I keep thinking somebody is going to figure me out.
I stand in front of the photocopy machine.

I am copying a copy of a copy of a copy.
I notice how it picks up these imperfections.
As time goes by. It does not lose them.

I think about how this generation.
It will not know so much about imperfect copies.
I used to make tapes of tapes of audio tapes.
It would pick up these squawk garble hisses
across the generations. Like me.

Translated into French, back into English, into Latin, back into English, into Greek, back into English, into Khmer and back again:
An adult. Now. Or atleast, that’s the rumor.
I keep thinking somebody is going to figure me out.
I stand in front of the photocopy machine.

I am copying a copy of a copy of a copy.
I notice how it picks up these imperfections.
As time goes by. It does not lose them.

I think about how this generation.
It will not know so much about imperfect copies.
I used to make tapes of tapes of audio tapes.
It would pick up these squawk garble hisses
across the generations. Like me.

My words:
enjambment, as it happens.
Is not the state of strawberry slathered toast.
And Sting,
he sang about the aesthetics of chance.

I bring a meaning to these things here.
It is not what I wanted to say.
The final translations:
The scope of what happened.
With artificial strawberry is salvation.
and antibiotics
And the blood is the aesthetics of luck.

This will bring about the location: it is here.
This is not what it means.

After a busy day

Adam named them all.

that done, he lounged.

Naked and unashamed.

In the Garden.

He contemplated his help-mate.

Considered locating her.

He realized that she was nowhere to be seen.

He realized there were these rules.

He’d never told her of.

By the time

he worked up the enthusiasm

to go find her.

She

was already mid-conversation

with a thing

he’d recently named serpent.

(He was especially proud of that one, serpent.

It starts soft and ends hard.)

One wedge had been chewed out of the fruit in her hand.

Its juices ran down her chin.

Adam took it from her with a shrug.

But also a feeling of wonder and horror.

He contemplated that he’d mastered all the nouns on that warm afternoon.

He reckoned that he was ready

for the knowledge of good

and the knowledge of evil.

Found and Lost Again at My Local Library

I stroll these aisles in almost-silence.

and forgive the guy at the keyboard

for his unlibrary-like cell phone jabbering.

My flip flops thwack thwack thwack

a metronome beat between my bare soles and the floor.

The air isn’t heavy in this place, but almost.

I was looking for something

when I got up and began this stroll

But now? Now I am hypnotized.

I am hypnotized by the samenesses and regular differences

row upon row upon of shelf after shelf after shelf.

Endless variations of differing proportions of rectangles and squares make up the shelves’ occupants.

Here, the volumes of a series on home improvement:

obediently lined up like a family for a potrait.

Identically sized and fonted as it is.

And now the art section,

burdening the nondescript shelves.

Some stretching up, some reaching out, and drawing my eyeball with dignified arrangements of colors.

I am surprised that I could not take more than a few steps

with out finding Oprah Winfrey in this place:

Diet books, fiction backed by her, biographies pros and cons.

I am only slightly more surprised

by the sheer vastness of this place.

How many volumes times how many pages times how many words on a single page?

There must be an answer to this place.

I thrill at the thought

If there is an Answer there must be one in this place!

But I am pulled from my reverie, and I look around.

An answer? Most certainly…

But how am I ever going to find it?

A young radical on the evils of blueberry muffins

It is so easy and sanitized in that kitchen.

A trail of misery, a web of terror.

The baker’s disconnection does not absolve him.

It does not change the fact that he is the arachnid at the center of it all.

Consider the blueberry muffins he is making this morning.

The sun is not yet up, and yet…

Already the brutality, the brutality.

The powder clings to him like blood on Macbeth.

The smell, can’t you smell death beneath that sweetness?

The ingredients come together

and lose their independence,

that last measure of dignity.

Somewhere, in the wilds of Maine.

Stand blueberry bushes stripped of their fruit and their dignity.

The fruits that they were once so proud of…

They are now in a glass container on a stainless steel shelf.

Waiting.

And there are fields somewhere that are now barren.

It was not enough, that reaper-like

We scythed them all down.

We crushed them up next.

Boxed them up.  Called it flour…

A homonoym to a symbol of living beauty.

We robbed the cows children of their mothers milk.

With uncaring machines.

Can’t you hear that haunting, pained, longing

“MOOOooooo.”  Trailing off into nothing,

because it is pointless to resist.

It is all so pointless.

When they come and take your milk away.

And the eggs, oh the eggs.

They could have been somebody.

They could have been some chicken.

If only they’d been fertilized.

They would not sit in that styrofoam container,

terrible in their simalarities.

And the sugar…

We did indeed raise Cane.

Only that it might be chopped down, down, down.

It is speciesism only

that prevents us from calling it what it is

Vegetable Genocide

How could something so sweet come from this.

Do not hide

behind the fact

that it was all made for this and raised for this.

Does that make it better

or worse?

Your blueberry muffins.

They are a symbol of your decadence.

They are the epitome of your arrogance.

They

will

be

your

undoing.

We must stand with our muffiny brothers.

We must rise up with our confectionary sisters.

Join me!

The revolution is now.

Sometimes

Sometimes, I feel like those trees:

Naked, exposed, stripped of those leaves,

rooted to the dawning Spring’s thawing soil,

my arms,

like branches,

held up toward the blue and blue and blue sky.

held up so long

that the tips have been bleached by the elements.

 

And sometimes this waiting is all that I can do.

Sometimes knowing that Winter is over,

it’s hard to really believe

Sometimes knowing that Winter is over

is all that keeps me going.

Sometimes, despite this doubt.

The truth is also undeniable.

untitled

I would be reassured

Almost

If you took

Some sort of metaphorical

Sledge hammer

To that little part of who you were.

 

I am no great lover of violence

But I do know that passion is our only hope.

And if, at least there was passion…

 

If at least there was passion

you might rebuild after you tore it down.

what is coming might be better than what was…

 

It is too easy.

It is too easy and that is our doom.

I want you to smash the place.

I want you to burn it up.

I want you to be a dervish,

A force of nature,

The epicenter of something tremendous.

 

There are no metaphorical sledge hammers,

No symbolic tornadoes, here.

 

It is like you are turning off the flueroescent lights.

Perhaps unscrewing a bulb.  Latching the door. 

The click is a quiet click.

It will fall into disuse and disrepair.

 

There are things that you can not see anymore.

They will take up residence in this place.

They will fornicate with each other.

They will become this inbred thing.

They will not leave because you will never let them.

 

Where did all your dreams go?

Where are your passions?

There was this adventure once.  It called to you.

But you closed the door.

And I’m supposed to tell you that it’s not to late.

I’m supposed to cry that it’s never to late.

 

And I hope that is right.

But when you open the door its eyes will be burned by the sun

It will be a thing that color of internal organs.

We won’t want to recognize it anymore.

 

If you’d only knocked it all down

Way back then.

It would’ve run free.

And I think maybe

Once it grew strong.

It would’ve come back.