checkerboard pants and snap-button fly —
time to relax, and I think you know why…
I don’t talk about things that are true
or things that have happened
I don’t mess too much with reality
and I have no patience for hard predictions…
I like the could be, the should be,
and if you prefer, the what if…
see, this whole mess we call life
could just be a fucked-up go-around, a shit-sim
all but discarded on some shit-god’s alien hard drive —
or soft drive, or whatever density of drive
omniscient creatures tend to have when they’re
not bound by three dimensions…
I say low ceilings breed short ideas,
unless you have the capacity to see through them—
so see through them!
even cute cats can walk through walls
and gyros taste great
and let’s not forget this whole slum-dog hiatus
might be somewhat of a well-deserved
prison (vacation) sentence…
just think, the right motivations can cause fallen angels
to regrow their wings
now change!
turn fear into anger
and soar!
Garbage Notes:
Going back and reading this one, the first line that stands out is, “I don’t mess too much with reality.” It feels like there is a bit of resignation to this line. And maybe a little contradiction as well.
Reality is reality. We all have our small corner of it. Within the vast complexities of life, some minor variables are within our control. But even this sense of control tends to fluctuate from one moment to the next.
Reality is elusive. Reality is cold and hard. Reality is something that even with our five senses all functioning at full capacity we still can’t be sure of.
People often ask me if the things I write about are based on real events—if my work is inspired by stuff that’s happened to me. To some extent yes, but to a larger extent, no.
My writing involves capturing the bullshit of the external world—or what little of it I can grab onto—and then shoving it deep down into myself. It’s then processed and filtered, worried over and dreamt about, seethed over and even regretted, and finally accepted, reworked, elaborated upon, and sometimes even outright altered.
The reality I present to you in my poetry and fiction is not the same reality as it hits me. But it’s still real to me. And as I’ve come to understand, probably real to you too.
I wrote this poem in defiance of reality. Calling life a ‘fucked-up go around—a shit simulation on some alien shit-god’s hard drive’. Now that seems kind of messed up, right?
At the time I wrote this I was considering how unfair life is. How cruel and ridiculous people can be in their judgements and perceptions, and in the ways people try to manipulate others. I was feeling as if so many of life’s events tend to resolve themselves in the weirdest and most disappointing ways.
Is there truly no compassionate intelligence putting any thought into this whole universe thing? Like, can it really be just some mindless idiot AI that’s running millions of endlessly shitty simulations? And you just happen to be caught in one of the worst ones…
Of course that possibility is as much a contrivance of my imagination as anything else. My perception of the world as fake or surreal or even hyperreal does not make it so. But I recognize that it can affect my behaviors, attitudes, and reactions to the absurdity around me. And so in this realization, I come to the latter part of the poem.
Reading a line like, ‘low ceilings breed short ideas, unless you have the capacity to see through them,’ I’m recognizing that I have the ability to question my assumptions about the environment, about other people, about my role within reality.
We can and should call bullshit on ourselves. And we should indeed doubt our senses if we have to. Skepticism is healthy. Because the actual way to see what we want to see is not to delude ourselves, but instead to make up our fucking minds and choose to see things differently. This is how we become well-adjusted. This is how we thrive.
It’s through writing that I get the sense that I can re-take control. I can harness the power inside me to alter the external world and bring it closer to what I want.
You see how stupid everything is. But you should also be able to imagine how it should be better. And maybe, in time and by sheer will, you can make it so. You can make it beautiful. You can make it smarter. But it takes that big leap.
So in conclusion, this poem is about the acceptance of what is, and the belief that we can adapt ourselves to it and then eventually rise above it.
That’s how, if you’re a fallen angel, you can regrow your wings.
Franco Amati 2024
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"I don't mess too much with reality." Much has been written on the subject. Many has said this is ALL bullshit, ALL an illusion. The notion of Maya, Dukkha, Christ's "the world." Reality is energy morphing, evolving to i
heights not yet conceived. Quantum Physics' Superstring Theory: reality is an incalulable Unified Field of infinite potential. "This is the stuff that dreams(and nightmares) are made of(sic)."
I love the checkerboard pants and snap button fly - time to relax, and I think I know why. Brilliant. Love it, especially the checkerboard pants. ;)