3135

So the door’s gone now and I’m starting to think so is my mind
My thoughts are so loud, wish I could leave them behind
Fleeting, fleeting, faded, meeting after meeting, jaded
It’s always the same story; coldest winters, wasted glory
Can’t appreciate history until it becomes his story
Her story, my story, Canadian pronounced sorry’s

3135, we’re not dead, but we’re not alive, Schrodinger’s cat got the best of me, meta references got the rest of me. Jokes no one applauds, fanmail? No we’re just drowning, adjust the sails. Not to South Asia, that places smells. I’m not North Korean, you can all go to hell. Wait, what audience? We did this for ourselves, what’s diffidence? UTMSU is not a soup, we’re all stuck on infinite loop. We talk the same shit; love lost, shots missed. F Scott ran my world, everyone had that one girl. Or guy, or albatross, or green light. Every single of us stayed late into the night.

Half of us had more faith in weed and booze. No one wants campus news. And you know everything here’s stolen. Even the words that were spoken. Doesn’t matter, pay no mind. Too bad Jack can’t leave the past behind. (It’s okay – neither can I) I’ve moved on and played my part (lie) But you can still microwave my heart (try). Wait, shut it down, won’t even start (bye). Pour some of Belford’s hot sauce, we can drink wine to paradise lost. Too bad there’s no wine to go with the wine glasses in the fridge. That’s like all of our plans though: half-lived. Take creative’s emergency-only gun off the shelf. Cause fuck this I’m out. This thing writes itself.

Was it ever here at all? Or are we all just holes Buck punched into the wall?

That was back in the day, [Honda] days
I was a cold [bitch] I’m getting back to my ways

Ani’s night last night

Also – there are two kinds of students: those who know that South Building’s name is South Building… and those that suck.

Definitive Portraits

LincolnLincoln (2012)

Directed by: Steven Spielberg

Written by: Tony Khusner

Cinematography by: Janusz Kamiński

Starring: Daniel Day-Lewis, Sally Field, Tommy
Lee Jones, Hal Holbrook, David Strathairn

Rating: A-

Political poetry. As an adaptation of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals, Spielberg crafts an extensive and intimate portrayal of not just the President, but everything and everyone that surrounds him. There’s something mythical about watching the Grand Old Party truly live up to its name and potential. The writing is sharp, smart, and never afraid to show it’s teeth; both, when it’s taking a bite out of government, and when it’s smiling upon the process. It’s about as close to a political junkie’s love letter as you can get in 1865.

You cannot help but relish in every word spoken by any actor on this film; and while there is no end to the magnificent performances on display, the first star absolutely must go to Daniel Day-Lewis, who carries this film in its most dense, and perhaps more importantly, in its more quiet moments. There are moments where Lincoln, the man, but also the film itself, just exists, and allows for the audience to just absorb themselves into the proceedings. Day-Lewis nails his performance, from the voice to the mannerisms; so much so, that I wouldn’t even call it a performance. It’s a downright embodiment. A definitive portrayal. Then there’s Tommy Lee Jones, who brings a passion and fire to this film that I haven’t seen in quite some time. Sally Field is never a disappointment, and her portrayal of Mary Todd is effectively restrained, and subtle, even when the character’s feelings are anything but. There’s honestly not a bad actor in the bunch, and that applies to just about anyone who shows up on the screen, from Joseph Gordon Levitt, to David Strathairn, to Hal Holbrook, and even James Spader.

It almost seems like a no-brainer to have Steven Spielberg tackle the 16th President’s journey in figuring out how to both end the Civil War and pass the 13th Amendment, given his amazing ability to present history on screen, starting with Empire of the Sun (1987),and continuing with Schindler’s List (1993), Saving Private Ryan (1998), and Munich (2005). He adds yet another to his repertoire with Lincoln. Political poetry. I could think of nothing else as I watched Spielberg introduce the audience to a time period in which gridlock in Washington did not mean the absolute failure of politics, but more importantly, it did not mean the demise of our nation.

The Master

The Master (2012)

Directed by: Paul Thomas Anderson

Written by: Paul Thomas Anderson

Cinematography by: Mihai Mălaimare, Jr.

Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Phillip Seymour
Hoffman, Amy Adams, Laura Dern

Rating: A-

This is a film that will be tough to pinpoint for many. For some, it’ll seem to cover a vast amount. For others, it’ll sometimes never cover anything at all. For some, it’ll be deeply profound experience. For others, it’ll never truly say anything that reflects so much as a simple thought. For me, the film explores the sheer power of faith; both, in bringing people together, but also, in becoming a driving force that can no longer be contained by not only its members, but its very founders.

I’ve seen this film twice, and I no doubt will continue to gain something from each repeat viewing. What I do know is that it’s absolutely mesmerizing when it wants to be; almost enigmatic, which is perhaps fair given its two leads: Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a self-made man who who creates a philosophy known simply as “the Cause;” and Freddie Quells (Joaquin Pheonix), a deeply damaged (and drunk) former Navy seaman who stumbles into Dodd’s presence and by nature, his Cause. The two men are clearly deserving of their own picture, but put them together, and you never want to leave their sight. These are career defining performances from two actors who have made their careers creating such performances. A nice surprise in the film comes from Amy Adams, portraying Dodd’s wife, who, on the surface, appears to be nothing more than a familial face for the Cause, but reveals herself to be every bit as commanding on the screen as Hoffman, being both supportive and worried about the Cause.

Paul Thomas Anderson has built quite the portfolio of films, and The Master, oddly enough, fits in nicely with the likes of Boogie Nights (1997), Magnolia (1999), Punch-Drunk Love (2002), and There Will Be Blood (2007). He’s a man that deeply understands the sheer power of cinema, and evokes performances that will be talked about for generations; but it’s not just the technical aesthetics he masters, it’s also the thematic. This is a film that is every bit as sporadic, intimate, and mysterious as its characters, but each piece is absolutely necessary in putting together a puzzle that may forever remain broken and never solved; of the human mind, of our faith (or lack thereof), and the continuing struggle to make sense of either.

From the battlefields, lost at sea, we return home to discover we’re at civil war with ourselves; that as the tides changed while we were away, our minds changed while we remained, no longer the masters of our own destiny, beholden to any country.

Driving

The lines blur
as I look forward
faster and faster
I need to get there
to her.

The street lights
light my dashboard
in and out
faster.
I can see the
souvenirs of my
past.
coming
and going.
The fries
the old tickets
papers
napkins
and a half bottle of
whiskey
all across the dash
and the empty
passenger
seat.

I push down the gas
I need to get there
Faster.
I need to see her.
To hold her.
I turn up the radio
it is late
I am tired
But I am still
going.
Pushing.
I need to.
Elton John comes on
“Somebody saved my life tonight”

I crack the window.
The air pours in.
Blowing my face
The engine hums
a sweet lullaby.
I blink.
But still I keep on going.
Faster now.
Every minute away is
an eternity.

The landscape around me
blurs,
as I try to remember
her face.
Spinning now.
I feel her warm hand
on my forehead
as the airbag punches
my nose.

I see her eyes
as mine close.

Peter Buczkowski

books

I live in a house
with more books
then shelves
they lay scattered
on the floor
like memories

I catch myself thinking
why do I have
so many damn books
I haven’t even read half
of these things

I get some old boxes from
when I moved here
and start to pack them up
preparing them for
the storage room
which smells dank like
mildew and mold

these boxes are
too heavy
too deep
to go down into that room
so I take a rest
and grab a coffee from
Tim Horton’s

I sit down and see
through the window
the starbucks next door
and
a kid in a grey trench coat
with broad rimmed glasses
Beats by Dre
vomit coloured shoelaces
reading some novel
on his Ipad

I unpack my books.

Bookmarks

Neurologist said not to eat dairy, and I just ate a bowl of ice cream. I’m not trying to disobey her, but since when has a concussion ever been caused by a brain freeze? But I froze, when she walked in, with her Michelle bangs. She smelled nice, while I hid my face behind the terminal, and never said a word. I haven’t seen her, let alone spoken to her since we broke up. I just misspoke. We never really went out, we were just engaged. Again, that’s just not true. We engaged in conversations, her across her counter, and me across from mine. She was my first brown crush in the great white north located in a tall green building while I wore my bright yellow uniform. I think I was embarrassed, because of the three years between us, and who knows where she had ended up since, and if I had really stayed the same. I don’t think she knew my name, because I never wore my name tag, or if I did, it was usually hidden by my jacket. She must have been older, probably a recent graduate then, though I never asked her, it seemed arbitrary when we had only just met. She still looks the same.

It’s Tim Horton’s “Roll up the Rim.” I once wrote a sketch about it, like Ocean’s Eleven, right down to the placement of “Take my Breath Away” by Berlin. We didn’t have the budget, we just had the laughs, so instead I wrote about mood turbans and religulous shirts to compete with that; or a sketch of world leaders playing “Risk” just to pass the time, that wasn’t really worth it, due to a lack of costume finds. What we lacked in believability, we made it up in creativity, not to mention the audacity of thinking we were comedy, with ample amounts of agony, and no reason for our vanity, which gave way to apathy rather randomly, among faculty not wise to our banditry of furniture or office space. We had a pretty high capacity for insanity, understandably, when turning fantasy into reality, but we were lacking anything financially to hold up our own family, this travesty of profanity, not to mention the sheer banality, of fleeting hospitality. We were a failed pathetic fallacy.

I’m self-centered, a full blown narcissist, who can no longer hear the word country the same again. It’s not a reset, Lord knows it should be. I just don’t know what 2008 Me would think of me. I haven’t really changed, I’ve only gained and lost time. It seems like my only crime was hanging my pen on that one line, and never moving on, or furthering the story. Stuck with writer’s block, I’m getting kind of boring. And repetitive. This meta shit’s derivative. Bank girl wasn’t into it, she’s wasn’t into me. Ellipses. Silence. I’m a stranger to my own dreams, to my love, and to myself I don’t make house calls. Drifting names, gone years, they say all I need is a nice girl. Such horror is the existence of lonely dreams and impossible hearts–of darkness, of vain nightmares, and no memories–capable of invisible pasts and truthful futures stripped of time’s threshold. Time’s fate broke heroic hearts unable to move hell from earth and heaven from minds striving for old days, finding much taken because weak tempers are strong willed, abiding by that which we are.

I’m the words you’ll think tomorrow, the words I wrote yesterday, and the words we never said today. I’m an open book without being an open book. Until we meet again.

— DisJointed BooKend

Logistics

When you think of it logistics and transportation are silly.

Someone takes a box out of a truck
they put it on a conveyor belt
it goes onto a pallet
then someone puts it on a shelf
then someone takes it off the shelf
puts it on a pallet
puts it on a conveyor belt
then puts it on a truck

I take a box out of a truck
and put it on a conveyor belt
and someone picks it up
and puts it on a pallet
and moves it to am aisle
and puts it on the shelf

you come in
pick the box up
put it in your cart
take it home
use it
throw it out

Peter Buczkowski

This Site

So this site has alot of poetry on it. I write more of a constant stream of thought, not because I think it is awesome but because it helps.I use it as a writing exercise  It comes in handy while writing a short or review, to get the wheels rolling. Hell over the last few days I have decided to work on a few projects (work related and personal writing) so you will have to deal with my poetry. Unless you would like to learn about the Customer Inventory Flow Process and the 17/7 plan for small stores. Worst yet you could read tiny excerpts of a short I am writing.

Better yet read this.

The post number says 666

I am not sure

why.

I was going to write about

something

Which ment alot to

me

But instead I will continue to

write

poetry

 

 

Which

no

one

reads

I could write really about

anything right now

And bet that

maybe

four people

have read it

All

four

people

that write poetry

for

this

site

Homesick Catharsis

6AM sketches

Summer ’12, home. (Minus the Greek letters on the house)

Things are pretty rough on my end at Dartmouth, and I’m feeling really homesick lately.
And anyway this is relevant since a lot of the Subtle Water staff have lived here/pretty much lived here too.

6AM sketches, 45 Madison
I’m counting the days again
Before I start my life
Before the need to think twice

Ani 

No Vacancy

They tell me I can’t be a writer, I’m not an alcoholic. Trust me, it’s in my gene pool, and I’m drowning on my own Jack. I write like Louis C.K., for a special, then it’s forgotten some. You were all my HBOs, my heart broken outcomes; where out comes an outlook that’s out of dates, out of time, and love to give. Ladies used to tell my mom that I would be a heartbreaker; they meant heartbroken, because I no longer get chased by girls, unless it’s some weird freeze tag ritual, in which I’m never it, just left out to stand in the cold. I’m the path of least resistance, and I’m standing in my own way.

When I was a kid, I could only eat BK chicken sandwiches by cutting them in half; now I binge eat, and depressed is not a vegetable, and I am not in that state, physically, but mentally, home is where that heart is. Closed down video stores, jumbo to west coast, secret spots discovered amid rollerblades and friendships lost. East meets city, took a bus across the train track, where recess seemed dull, so I used to talk to a tree planted in the memory of a teacher that I never had.

I write speeches, kind of like Ziegler, except no one reads them, says them, or feels them. Morose code rejections waiting in the mailbox, with rhetoric that’s useless. They tell me I can do this? Watched site stats form a high-rise, and a phobia of my lines. Isolated scores decide trajectories without melodies, an orchestra of my bitter discontent, cemented with half finished answers of lightly colored and/or not entirely erased, beautiful ovals. It’s over? Hardly, it’s just the tip of this iceberg.

I found a white hair in my beard, and I don’t feel distinguished. You ever hear praise, and know better? Do you ever wish people still wrote letters? There’s something about discovering hand writing on pages, that makes memories feel like they actually existed, instead of being negated. Vague ideas wrapped in a complex puzzle, in the top right corner of a notebook, or below the fold of a week (now months) old newspaper. The letter o scribbled quickly looks like the number 6, turning a rushed apology into a headlined joke. You don’t dot i’s, and I dote over eyes.

Just tell me how you do it. Just tell me your resolve. Tell me if it’s all worth it, and how it’s all my fault. Tell me the secret to your smile, and the truth to your pain. Tell me if this lasts forever, or if it’ll happen again. You were the gift that kept on giving, and made life worth living, but it’s no longer the beginning, so just tell me how you did it. Just tell me how you coped. Please tell me time be damned, the young never get old, at heart or in spirit, or when your love story’s finally told.

I’m shipwrecked, think reverse message in a bottle. I can’t sleep, I hear violins, and see prophecies get lost in dreams. My eyes are wide open, but the night’s not, and the days seem heartless; now that’s just mean. Now that’s just me. Head aches of truthful lies, disbelief, and shattered conformity. Phone vibrates, there’s no answer, I am the worst telethon, not even worth a cheap tote bag. Superman curl with plaid pajamas, dressed to impress my own bed, a dresser, and a closet full of unread books, as a stolen pillow from a hotel wishes me sweet dreams.

It’s time for a reality check, I was always more of a hybrid. The camera’s not on, in the morning, Troy and Abed. I’m still pretty childish, I’ve got juice box swag. I’m still pretty childish, I refuse to wave the white flag. I’m still pretty childish, suffering withdrawal from one strapping book bags. I wish I wasn’t childish, a jackass, or any such tag. If nothing else survives past this, past us, or past me, just know you turned good-hearted Jay [Singh] into The Great Gatsby.

I like the drama on The Office, sue me. Even with all the cameras, it’s finally starting to feel lonely. If only real life were more like Jim and Pam? It’s more a dependency, I’m Rihanna to your Chris Brown. That’s blasphemy. That’s fantasy, about as real as us at a party, haven’t seen you in a few years, you look gorgeous, and all of a sudden you’re kissing me? Even in my vivid dreams, I cant do more than pull away, because it feels untrue, and I feel unworthy.

My new cell phone matches my work pants; that’s not a compliment, that’s just kinda sad. I don’t wear a name tag anymore; that sounds personal, but I stand behind a counter, take your money, and perform stand up jokes. I used to write about a house of cards, and now I stream it via Netflix. In the last few months, I’ve been sleepless, because I know you’re not sleepless. So to anyone reading this, pretend as if I don’t exist, except for on this website, your handheld device, and in my own mind. To no one in particular, I’m with no one in particular. I like being the laughingstock, and love being the afterthought. No vacancy. No Valentine. Insert anthem: Paradox Lost, will you be mine?

Jump before you looK down

Experts

Some things are best left for the experts
Those of us who can specialize and expect
the outcome of all situations
Those who can analyze every aspect
of every motion and emotion.
Those who give us warning and
cautionary tales.

But for those of us who aren’t
experts
We are the ones allowed to live
Allowed to screw up
allowed to make misstakes
allowed to succeed.
We can feel.
We are the ones allowed to hate
But most of all we are the ones allowed to love.

Sometimes those of us who are not
experts
are the ones who end up
working better then any
plans can ever foresee.

Peter Buczkowski