Archive for the ‘economic’ Category

Why am I so into post-structuralist theory right now?
In Taipei I read Baudrillard’s “System of Objects”
Now I am reading “The Illusion of the End”
Tonight I takes notes on a Subway napkin
While watching a youtube video by Colt 360

“10 dollars is a piece of paper with a ten on it”
we live as fish swimming in the swarm
of reproduction without an original
suicidal goldfish removed from the gold standard
drinking standard beer labels that look like budweiser

“Now imagine your family sitcom”
you have lost me here
cute college lesbian youtube video poster
you look like the girlfriend of a friend of mine
and I have not seen a family sitcom in decades

“this is a real mug, but I am disconnected from the reality of it”
marxist late-capital production example
mug is to coffee as coffee is to day
a matter of drug and time and effort
something clever to say

“it shapes our reality based on the fake”
I did not once date Justin Bieber
I did once write a poem about his tattoos
“hyperreal becomes more real than the real”
(societal schizophrenia)

I have always thought of post-structuralism
as the poetry of social commentary
yet not as myself as a post-structuralist poet
the closest label I would drape over my persona
would be a sci-fi poet

“question grand narratives”
the enlightenment has led to totalitarianism
“the depressing nature of post-structuralism”
my poem is a micronarrative
(there is a french term for this
which I choose to remain ignorant of)

 

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Owe Any?

Posted: May 22, 2014 in economic, modern life

being strung along by a guy with a phone
while I drag a body bag, my skin holds my bones
my money is spent through my stomach or my nose
I’m smoking my lungs out, stinking up my clothes

my apartments a box where I wait times alone
surrounded by wood and dead solid stones
while I think too hard and can’t even condone
all the things that I do when my mind is a drone

blabbing and finding the tower of Babel has no dome
like a star in the night that the moon has outshone
dull the gods into dumb strangers and crones
switching off the warheads into brooms flown

while I cower like a corpse in my catacomb
reading dead numbers with the data on loan
all my head this encapsulated brain that I’ve grown
same seed over-saturated and regrown

how many dreams will I wake up from
with my heart pounding hard and I moan
if I wrote them all down they’d still be unknown
to the future of myself watcher clone

copied out of comfort like memory foam
like pages facsimile from the old dusty tome
I try to forget all the weakness the world shown
until I get better at feeling at home

Owe any? is a three letter one-
and it still owes me all the things never done-
never done, never won, never none-
none taken, owe any? three letters breaking—-

Is this place a mall or a carnival?
Kids riding unicorn merry-go-rounds
with candy stuck to their faces
laughing hysterically
while sister skips the tile cracks-

It’s a mile track of cheap chinese made clothing
the smell of disenfectant
and time wasted
baby twins in an oversized stroller
and bored security guard
writing poetry eyeing up skateboarders
looking for a drug deal
circle the foodcourt high theft area
and wipe your nose on your finger
Emma Watson is in the new movie called NOAH

Is this a shopping centre
or a high tech playground
for no-brain spender zombies
walking around like Dawn of the Dead extras
its disgusting but what do we expect
capitalism gone rampant
two hundred year empire building crap-shoot
with telecom providers running lottery
survey crack games
and two-year warranties
that don’t cover ethics-

Unscrupulous sales methods
and group psychology black magic
muzak filling the air
as teenagers sigh old men yawn
and silvered haired grandma
is buying three pairs
of gold earrings-

Is this a democratic space
or a spaced out silent debt slave
robot pen herd the sheep in
shave’em and sell the spring line
of halter tops and push-up bras
violent video games stupid
black hats with the word ‘FAMOUS’
all-capped in glitter sequin lettering
a graphic design nightmare-

But a dream we all hold up
like a placard of doom
“the crash is nigh”
close your eyes and hold on
to the metal bar
as the roller-coaster rises
scream your brains out
piss yourself and puke out
your teen burger in
black tile bathroom stall-

Is this a place of business
or a mental institution
every human in a crew cut
resuming a big game of Sims
quick let me in
I wanna redesign my closet
with more money than I’m making
since they made usury not a sin
I’ve signed ten credit cards
and raised the limits-

Raise the fluorescent lighting
but can you contain
my consumer ego
I want product choice
more than regional
I want my greed to go global|
so I can ignore hobos
and ship e-waste to
china or africa so little kids
can get poison by burning
plastic smoke as they play
soccer in a garbage swamp-

Is this a tourist attraction
or a classic saturday afternoon
satisfaction for
planned obsolescence addicts
its headless manikins versus
soulless photo models who
in five years will resort to porn
as their sex appeal wavers
its oversized coffee
screens everywhere
teens with green hair-

People addicted to phones
texting images flickering
sex sells overwhelms
over-stimulated rats in a maze
eyes a glaze a caffeine and sugar
haze the tower of babel
sprawling wider everyday BOGO
BOHO no going slow your
living in the fast lane the
so called space info age-

Is this a timeless place or
is time laced with suspended
animation did we kill our gods
with mouse toxin shot the dogs
and lost the last bit of dignity
to a pimp in a santa claus suit
tossed salad and stone soup
try out the D-box seats
and watch the Junos-

Who knows how long the spell
will last the caster is laughing
to the bank with a fat roll of
queens the american dream
out of control it seems the gleam
of the electron election machine
has only one button labelled
“Buy Me” Alice- “Try Me”
“Eat Me” “Drink Me”-

Is this a corporate think tank
or the shards of a broken
Winnie the Pooh piggy bank
they killed the wise old owl
and showered the shamans with
gamma rays grandmas playing
Malificient at the ice capades
and I’ve run out of nice things
to say-

So I finish my shift
put my phone back on
and shackle on
plug in my ear phones and
ignore the kids cracked out
on a sugar buzz running onto
the bus screaming
“I’m so hyper!” while my eyes
burn cause I only slept three
hours after a four hour shift
under mall lighting…

Spilled Milk or Rain

Posted: January 13, 2014 in economic, modern life, poverty

I never feel the tension
People mention their pension plan
For the future like some Jetsons

Life in the sky
With some wife and a pie
Robot maid with red eyes
And a dog than can smile

Ask you how your day was
With the boss tossing sockets
In a box while the wife dries your socks

Kids in the games TV
All the same at least
You got you got the bank money
For your last days

Never had to worry
Never have scurry lines
Of the working life get blurry
Those people slicing up their turkeys

I try not to shove
Feeling like a bug
Pulling a plug
Sipping the mug
It won’t ever say world’s best dad

I try not to care
Doing my share
Pulling out my hair
Making things fair
Looking after other people’s brats

Always riding on the bus
Four o’ clock rush
Single mothers in the front
Nodding and chatting up a storm

Such and such while waiting for my stop
Last drop of the coffee stomach rot
Salivating like Pavlov’s robotic dogs

Write another sonnet
Try to keep it honest
But it’s this love twisted consciousness
Killing white powder tonic

So I try to think
Scrawling out the ink
Letter to my shrink
Everything’s got me standing on the brink

I might never marry
What do I care she’s
A god damn harpie
Better off without me
Drive each other mad

The minute I complain
I know it’s all the same
There ain’t no one to blame
For spilled milk or rain
So take what you get
And give what you got
And when it all stops
Try to laugh

Here I hope that I can say
When I’m all grey
Walking mall hallways
That I lived it up everyday

Didn’t waste no time
Pantomiming nickel and dime shining
Trying to find every single one that was mine

Rather give it up for free
Living loving Huckabees
Hugging trees
And doing artistic deeds of charity

 

Craig Bednar Ink.

Posted: October 14, 2013 in economic, politics, self-aggrandisement

I think people need to start fighting for their rights as
corporations
because people are
corporations too
We deserve are the rights, privileges and freedoms
that are afforded to our more affluent cousins

I have shareholders who also have a stake
in my continued survival
I demand protection
against the forces that diminish my
operating efficiency
My mind is private property
I will begin to persecute its perpetrators

My attention is an asset
and I demand compensation for its theft
I want my value insured-
insurance against
corruption, manipulation and false creation
of my values
by foreign agents
I demand the freedom to shape my own values

Where is the assurance of increased return
of my happiness
in this day and age?
no law protecting my right to
spiritual development…
We have a mandatory system
perpetuating a faith in money
the economy
protection of government
and their uniformed officers of the peace
and what of the PEACE sought by my corporation?

Working as a security guard in a small cigarette warehouse, I was treated one morning, to the graceful dance of the forklift operators as they unloaded a semi trailer full of pallets.
Each pallet has about thirty boxes.
Each box has 50 cartons of eight packs of cigarettes.
If cigarettes average $15 a pack, this means that if these forklift operators even slightly damage a box, they are risking up to a $6000 dollar value of product.
Yet these seasoned operators swing their electric forklifts about, three of them, beeping and yelling at each other as they unload with the utmost efficiency and speed.
The years of training that has resulted in this electric, mechanical line dance.
Into the semi, lift the pallet up, just high enough to clear the doorway, zip out into the warehouse, lift the pallet on top of another pallet and carefully lower the forklift to release the pallet but not to crush any of the boxes of the pallet underneath.
Amazing.
And I think about all the other seasoned workers who made the whole operation possible.
Where were the cigarettes produced, the materials?
All the chemicals refined and products constructed, cardboard boxes, labels, etc.
I’m sure in facilities that would also fill me with awe at the might of the capitalist machine.
This beast that works men and women till their backs ache and their eyes sting with sweat.
And then I think of the millions of inhalations of poisonous smoke these seasoned operators are helping bring into the world.
All the panhandlers who will beg for it, teenagers making deals to get older peers to buy it for them, poverty stricken lost souls desperately scanning the concrete for all the butts, the discarded, foul smelling end life of this product, so gracefully zipping past me.
The mindboggling effort that is put into killing people and making them pay you for it, and I am reminded of a quote- “The world as it is is the sum result of every human beings utility, of all time. Which implies- the highest morality consists in being useless.”
Is this why I stand idle, in my blue security uniform, as these men and women work so hard to poison themselves?
Do I seek the ultimate uselessness?
And yet I serve my own purpose, or more accurately, I serve their purpose, the purveyors of this deadly drug.
My very presence deters criminals, I keep vigil over sixteen camera images, five controlled access points, a spiked gate that truck drivers need a code to allow me the authority to open.
This place has no signs advertising what it does or holds within its walls.
It is in fact a block away from the cities largest high-school.
Its concentration of poison and addiction so powerful, so desirable, it requires 12 fully directional closed circuit cameras and 26 other cameras locked into position, all those lens, those eyes, all that scrutiny.
Five temperature sensitive alarms line the ceilings.
There are 14 card access required control points.
Three long, unmarked white vans, with tinted windows, are used to relay smaller deliveries.
All this secrecy, all this paranoia, all this insurance, and I am just another piece of the capitalist protection game.
I am a clause in an insurance policy.
I am a footnote at a boardroom meeting.
My lively-hood, as meager as it is, is a number on a ledger.
I do not enjoy my job, in fact I despise my employment here, and this may be my final shift.
All the details of this facility included in this poem is indeed enough sensitive information to insure my termination and could very well insure I never work for a security company again.
And that’s fine.
I’m done with the business of scarecrows.
The dollar-cop protection of property racket.
The manager of the warehouse is only a few meters away from me in his office as I write this, I’m sure if he saw me counting cameras and alarms on the security map and then writing in my little notebook, his paranoid capitalist mind would assume I was planning out how to rob the place.
And indeed if I possessed a slightly more devious mindset I would plan to rob this den of poison and addiction.
Perhaps this poem, which is really degrading into a rant, perhaps this rant is a plan to rob this place!
Perhaps the sum of all my poetry, all my musings, all my rants and rages- could they all be an elaborate plot to take down the whole system?
The system that produced this- men and women spending their whole lives in synchronicity with a forklift so they can optimize the sorting and delivering of what is arguably the worlds worst drug.
These merchants of cancer and death!
How can I stand being under their employment for even another second?
For even I know first hand the struggles of nicotine addiction.
And yet I sit here, writing, pretending this job is justifiable based on the amount of poems it has inspired in me.
And all the idle time it allows me to create these works.
My true calling.
Or perhaps the irony keeps me here.
The irony that, being a substitute teacher as well, I could very well be given a call to sub at the high-school a block from here and be told to teach the kids not to use the product I am being paid to protect today.
Capitalism, you have truly driven me to schizophrenic madness.

Deluded

Posted: August 27, 2013 in economic, self-aggrandisement
Tags:

Building up delusions.

Then slowly being dissolved by your delusions,

as they melt from your head,

like the slow dripping of acid rain from the tip of a rusty spire.

You stew in your acidic delusional soup.

Poison to yourself.

Building up delusions,

like a house of cards made up of thousand dollar bills.

All those imaginary thousand dollar bills,

fly so fast,

like a paper cut tornado,

a dirty ink monsoon,

a sticky money rainstorm…