|Wire Recording circa 1951 (non fiction)
Found in an abandoned house,
I restored the recorder
and played the wire reels.
On one spool, old times,
an audio letter to send home.
Hi Mom, I want to tell you a story.
We were at a gas station today when
this car full of niggers pulls in.
There's another car there ahead of them
and the jockey is gonna pump the guy some gas.
He tells the driver to put out his cigarette.
So that guy throws his butt from his car window
and the wind is rolling the cigarette under his car.
The niggers are seeing all this from their car.
So I think fast and yell
Run for your lives, she's gonna blow!
Mom, those stupid niggers piled out,
splitting off, all directions, ha ha!
27 Jul 08
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yeh and i'd still be running if it wasn't for...
save yourself a whole lotta nonlove and change niggers to hippies, or even better, fags
Hi, unk. Thing is, this is a document from reality and not a figment of imagination.
It's a reminder of how open it was at one time. The same disregard and cruelty exists today, of course, all PC corrected in public, just not here.
It's not pretty, is it?
This reminds me of the 60's, where even in Maryland where I lived, there was unspoken segregation after school. This is a sad reminder but it's also good to know how far we've come. Well, how far some have come.
I wonder if this was tough to write. You'd have to go against some strong societal blocks. Not fond of the message of the past hate but you did a good job getting it down.
banality in a box.
if you want to write short stories, learn how to keep your paragraphs on the same line.
Gosh a golly, Mr. J.,
it ain't no story I wrote.
I only transcribed for that nice fellow.
I'm his amanuensis. Some words should never be forgot,
not in the land where old bones and cotton rot.
Hi Isabelle, no it was not easy to decide to transcribe/preserve this rot.
What else forced me to do it: that it is not imaginary, not even today,
not scripted, it happened, and some mother presumably chuckled.
thought the ending was gonna be more exciting.
it's a story, mr. snorry. just because you got it from the horse's mouth doesn't mean it eats oats. you understand that it was only you who heard and understood this in the way you heard it, and you yourself, as you, are the one writing this here. "historia" is the same word as story, and it's simply and accounting of some linear chain of events. this is a story, but not a poem. if you'd really worked hard at this you would have found that there is no nigger in the world, and you didn't know what the word meant, and even the wire recording machine was a metaphor for something called consciousness. the squeeking of the voice -- yes, i'm old enough to remember when these machines meant something -- carried a replica of voice which could be interpreted as the voice of whom-ever sent it. in fact, what you'd heard was secret nazi propaganda wire recordings created in the german consulate in argentina during world war two for demoralization and creating racial disharmony. other titles include, "this fairy approached me in the men's room", and "franklin roosevelt's dairy farms chalk their milk".
you have been a tool in the hands of dr. goebbels.
Yes, I am a tool in your hands. Let's put it back in my pants, though and zip up, ha ha!
Right about one thing: it is hardly a poem, more like prose lined as poetry
for the Moby Dick effect, exactly as he said it: "run for you lives, she's gonna blow!"
and then that unforgettable laughter. I make lampshades from racists but they don't pass much light.
"this fairy approached me in the men's room", and "franklin roosevelt's dairy farms chalk their milk".
I could make a two-fer from that suggestion. True: my lover, much older than myself,
was on plane, about 1959, I'd guess it was (I'd have to ask him but he's asleep).
One the plane was Congressman John F. Kennedy. Jackie too. At departure,
Ern needed to take a leak too. He followed JFK to the mens room and they took a nearly mutual leak, but not right next to each other of course. I only leak this story because it makes me laugh because it's merely
a fairy tale that's true, as told by another.
get rid of the past tense before the recording, as we already are told that this takes place in the past.
so, if it's not a poem, why are you posting it in poetry critical? did you mistake the door sign? it's good to have examples of mass-produced art, but only as a caution and example of how hard it is to write a poem.
Poem or semi-prose or whatever, how is it "mass produced", joey?
Is it derivative from other works? What would those things be? Flypapers?
"template" -- the template here is how you're expecting us to read this, and yet you didn't invent the work yourself, didn't control how we'd read it. then, putting us down for not thinking it's brilliant of you to have posted this -- that's not really a critical attitude.
Of course I did not "invent" the work other than the introduction, which, really, is a plain introduction to a transcription. The format does control how we read it. Lastly, I never said it was brilliant-this, or any such thing. It's ugly and upsetting. It is to be preserved and shared for its horrible reality, and that reality is not really past, is it? There are unknown, large numbers of racists today who would commit the same sort of nasty joke if they thought they wouldn't get shot for it. In 1950, a hater could do just about anything to blacks in any southern state. Never again.
I do not like this poem. Stop projecting your fantasy thoughts about "art" on something as documentary as this bit of crap?
i didn't say you did, but i was implying that you thought you were somehow "special" in posting this. everything you post is mostly about you -- i don't know why -- maybe you're sick and on meds, maybe you're just not cut out to be a poet -- i don't know much at all when it comes to marginally word-creative people. you just don't seem to care at all about the person behind the facade, and it's boring after awhile to simply be the dish for your wedding cake.
we know what race is, but we don't know why. something like this, in isolation, begs the question of whether it really means anything. when i worked in the south, the guiding principle was that integration was enough -- that you didn't have to like me, as long as i could live where i wanted and work where i wanted. what you're doing, posting this, is fine as folklore, and the wording of it is quaint, but using it as a pulpit is a little recherche' here, since you represent the church of sin, for most people here, and simply being the clown doesn't mean they won't let the gestapo take you when it comes time, even if you're their beloved pet.