Got Mashed Potatoes

It was more than a year ago that my cousin Dan and I took our annual trip to Atomic Records, a neat little music store on Milwaukee's trendy east side. While, yes, it's one of those places in which you are ripe for subjection to a snooty, High Fidelity-music-store-clerk-attitude moment, it's blessed me with countless hours of great, hard-to-find music.

While I was waiting for Dan (whose musical tastes include everything), who was sampling just about anything he had an interest in, I thought I'd go for one of my "chance buys". Ah, yes, the "chance buy". Just like the "Chance" card in Monopoly, the "chance buy" -- as it was based only on the cover art -- could be wonderful or wonderfully disappointing.

It was at this moment I spied the cd in front of the "A" stack. It had a cardboard cover with a glowing quotation from an indie music publication that was stickered to the plastic packaging. "OK, good." It contained a free bonus disc, full of recordings from the obscure label's other undiscovered bands. "All right, free stuff." The band only had two members, one of whom played guitars, drums, keyboards, and "programming". "OK, I've enjoyed some "programmed" music lately. I've enjoyed the two-man band before. Good." And the name -- it seemed rather punchy, rebellious, self-aware, and, dare I say -- post-punk? "OK. Worth a 'chance buy'."

That's how I apologize to myself for purchasing The All-American Rejects' self-titled debut album.

I've been wrestling with this idea of "quality" for a while now. I always will. With the lyrical evidence, courtesy of TA-AR, I hope to illustrate just what I mean when I say something is "poor". I hope this will be clear.

Note: the author wishes the reader NOT to assume the obvious. Namely, do not assume that the author believes what he posts to be "excellent" writing. DO, however, assume that what the author has previously posted and attributed to other writers, to be his opinion of (and evidence presented as) "excellent" writing. Clear?

I turn on the stereo to song 1: "My Paper Heart". Their words, not mine:

My lips, are sealed for her,
My tongue is,
Tied to, a dream of being with you.

Oh boy. I remember telling myself, "Wait! Give it a chance! You gotta give it a chance." So I did:

Summer time, the nights are so long
The leaves fall down, and so do I
into the arms of a friend.
Winter nights,
My bedside is cold, for I am gone,
And spring blossoms you to me.

Oh boy. Aside from the utter sappiness inherent in all this -- it's nonsense. "My bedside is cold" . . . because "I" am gone? Huh?

So things weren't looking too good as song 2 -- "Your Star" -- came on. Again, their words, not mine:

You wish for love,
You pushed me away,
Your love for me was everything I need.
The air I breath.

I think my thoughts at this moment were: "Oh, fuck."

I usually pride myself on being "first" to a band -- you know, "beating" the radio and video programmers to a band. I did that with Pearl Jam, the Toadies, and several other bands that never really did take off. In this instance, to my horror, I beat the crowd to TA-AR. See, I never really thought I would hear them again; I just assumed they would never be discovered, played, listened to, you name it. They would be just a memory buried in my cd stack (under better cds). But it was a mere few weeks later that I heard the third song, "Swing, Swing", on the radio. Maybe you, too, have heard this pop ditty:

Days swiftly come and go.
I'm dreaming of her.
She's seeing other guys.
Emotions they stir.
The sun is gone.
The nights are long.
And I am left while the tears fall.

We're three songs in, and twice the "nights are long"!

Song 4: "Time Stands Still". Not to ruin the suspense, but this song chronicles yet another painful chapter in the tough world of relationships:

He walks, her, home,
Now he walks a-lone,
The days they turn into years.
The eyes they drown in tears.
Can you hear me scream?

Better question: can you hear me scream? Speak these words aloud, if there's no one around. Go ahead, make sure no one's around. There. Now say them aloud. "The eyes they drown in tears." Uh-uh. You gotta say them with feeling, like they sing them. Go ahead, belt them out. Feel like an idiot yet?

Song 5: "One More Sad Song".

What can I do, I cannot breath.
My heart is torn, for all to see.

Let's skip ahead a bit. Song 7: "Don't Leave Me".

You're sweet just like the sun.
But what happens when the sun doesn't stay?
The night reminds me when you went away.
Now my mind was pacing, heart is racing contemplating things that I lack.
Even though you left me by myself, do I want you back?

OK, I've titled this "An Examination", so I guess I better "examine", instead of just sitting back and marveling at how utterly crappy this writing is. This is the best I can do, as far as "examining":
• All they sing about is "love".
• They only use large, cliched descriptions, similes, and analogies, such as weather/seasonal patterns and comparing them to emotions.
• They shamelessly repeat these themes and phrasings, leaving the impression that all they do is break up with girls and then cry about it.

So now you're probably wondering: "What does the cd look like?" Glad you asked.

So on the cardboard cover, what I saw as I spied the "A" rack of Atomic, is a close-up picture of a little scooter, or mobile-thing of some kind. Impossible to tell what kind of music it would be, I tell myself. Then on the cover, there they are -- the two responsible for taking my money and hurting my ears. They're all dolled-up, with make-up and big overcoats. One wears a "Kiss" T-shirt underneath his jacket; it's barely exposed, but exposed nonetheless, so that we know they've got some "real rock cred". Yeah.

So now I open up the booklet to find, yes a full book of lyrics. (No, I didn't listen and type.) They're that brazen -- they wanted everyone to read their songs. My God. On page four Cryboy #1 stares into the camera with a pained look that probably came to him after 30 or so takes. Cryboy #2, on the facing page, gazes at his bandmate with all the chic homoerotic curiosity he can muster. On pages six and seven they lost all sense of self-control, as the both pages are an orange blur, save for the "Kiss" slogan on #1's T-shirt which is now in-focus, and prominently displayed . . . . Guess they had to make sure that we knew what he was wearing.

This music, according to Spin magazine, a self-important publication if there have ever been publications, is an "emo" band. Spin loves this "genre" of rock (if there can be such a thing) so much, that it mentions it at least a dozen times each issue. What is "emo-rock"? According to Spin, it's "new" rock with a liberal bent in which the singer openly bares his deepest emotions to all. According to me, you can call dog shit a cheesesteak sandwich, but it's still dog shit.

This cd is so bad, so pathetic, so obvious, it embarrasses me to be a part of the same culture. That's what bad art -- not just stuff that misses the mark, but the really, really terrible stuff -- does to you. It embarrasses you. It shames the whole culture. It's a flaming cross of self-indictment.

Incidentally, my TA-AR cd is for sale if anyone's interested. All offers accepted.

It's instantly familiar. It has a catchy likeability that soon fades, leaving the impression of something dated, prepackaged, and expected. It's had it's share of success . . . but then, it's been a while, hasn't it?

I'm so sick of hearing people complain about new year's resolutions, how their lives don't abide by time, how they're not going to try to change anything anymore, how they're just going to let things roll, flow, evolve on their own.

I hear this all the time now, and it's so hollow each time I hear it, that it's all I can do not to squeeze them by the throat and say, "Just do it. Make the change. Admit that you're miserable and do something about it!"

Or as a guy at the clinic said last week, in his wisest voice as he addressed the waiting room:

"Ain't nobody in this room happy. Not one of you be happy."

"I saw you, you know. I saw you that night," he said, indicting, watchful.

"Where?" she said, looking at the carpeting.

"We passed your car, going out of town. I yelled to you, but you didn't hear. Then I wasn't sure it was you."

"Oh, it probably wasn't," she said, shaking her head, feet moving again, bouncing lightly from ball to heel. "Besides, it doesn't matter. It's all over with. There's nothing to argue about."

The skin on his arms prickled. He felt a drip of sweat slap his hip. "What do you mean, 'It doesn't matter'? Of course it matters! Do you assume I just don't care? That I should just accept this?"

She sighed, but her feet kept tapping, ankle bobbing. "You have to understand that I needed this. I needed to close the door on that part of my life."

"Huh? At the expense of--"

"Don't yell at me. Don't!"

He wanted to spit at her, the way she pointed at him. It reminded him of words like "grammar", "mathematics", "phonics", and "rules".

"You know how hard it was for me to leave Iowa. Last weekend was more about Iowa than--"

"Don't give me that! How would you like it if I just went out to a bar right now and decided to--"

"You are twisting the issue!" She clapped her hands as she said this.

He rolled his eyes.

"This was about moving on with you. How could I possibly have a life with you if my mind was still on Iowa?"

He blinked and gulped the rest of his white Russian. He hated her pink shoes.

"Listen, I can see you're still mad. Why don't we just forget about it and watch a movie? You can just lie down hear and let me take care of you."

"Yeah, it's easy for you to lie down for someone, isn't it?"

Her eyes narrowed and she snapped up, kicking over his empty drink. She knelt to pick up broken glass. She watched him slowly study her every grasp of finger to glass to basket. She watched his solid eyes.

"I did this for you. I did this for us."

"Bullshit." He felt a nerve tingle in his shoulder. It was like receiving a shot. She slid into the chair and faced him, her ankle bobbing again.

"We needed this. I needed this. We would not have lasted if I hadn't gone to Iowa."

"Don't call it that. Don't act like you visited relatives. You went there and ruined us. And you say you saved us? Well, I'll go out right now. Right now. There's a girl in my physics lab who'd be dying to help me save us."

There was moisture on the windows and a moth pounded against the light above them, its sound an unrelenting rhythmic static.

"I am telling you we needed this."

"As long as you tell me we needed Iowa," he said, pausing to hold her ankle still as he forgot the wetness under his arm, "then I will tell you that it needed us."

"I look at myself in the mirror and I go: 'Who the hell are you?' I used to be so cool. But it's no big deal."

-Neil Young

She walked fast because her legs were short. The black denim pressed and relaxed as she paced. Press. Relax. From where I stood, I could hear the rubber of her thick, short shoes slide against the grit of the street.

She pushed thick, black hair behind an ear, a gesture like thinking while listening. Did she see me?

Slipping her necklace between T-shirts, she moved on. Her wrist shook -- the skin so light -- as she adjusted it. The thick sweater flapped heavily in the wind against her ever-moving hip. Buttoned at just one link, the bottom, it was slight comfort -- a warmth within. The way she tucked her hands into the sleeves of her sweater -- the pull of the fabric, a straightening -- this was . . .

The hard thing about death is not so much the immediate feelings of loss. Unless the person who has just died went through a great deal of pain (then we empathize), the loss we feel at that immediate moment is one of knowing, recognizing.

What is difficult is the permanence of death. That loss that's there on day one can be forgotten amid the return to routine, but months later, maybe it's an anniversary of some kind, you're right back in that state.

I've been trying to delineate the difference between two great friends that leave each other's lives after high school or college, and two great friends who are separated by death. Firstly, it's got to be an important friendship. Although I have a fond memory of meeting two girls at a house party with a friend of mine from the track team in college my sophomore year, that's almost all I have of that friend. If I met him today -- and I'd like to, it'd be cool -- we wouldn't have much to say. It would be uncomfortable. We may as well be dead to each other. I know what he would say if he heard tomorrow that I'd died: "Oh, that guy? That's too bad." I know that because that's what I'd say about him. So it's got to be a great friendship to make any delineation.

But say that's the case: that someone you were great friends with had to leave for college or a job across the country. Maybe there was an initial email, then the person's address changed, and all was lost, years passed, and both lives changed and moved on. Yet because it was a great friendship (a term that I realize probably needs more explanation, but that's a post for another day), there is a fondness there that would last. So when we hear of this death, it's not just "too bad". I think this goes back to the knowing, the recognition: at least before there was an assumption that, although we weren't communicating, this person was doing their piece, happy, and receiving all we knew they deserved. But the knowing, the recognition that this is no longer happening can essentially erase the years.

Then, of course, there's "impact". The knowing includes all that you expected, perhaps thoughtlessly, will not come true: Jill may have no reason to vacation in San Remo anymore; Theresa will have no more conversations about Parisian hats; no one will ask Talb about that summer before high school anymore; no one will call me 'Tex' again. A piece of life is now a piece of history.

The strange thing about it is that although the knowledge, the recognition, is what causes us to feel this -- these capacities are typically what make grieving or coping easier.

It's a shame about Stone Temple Pilots, because they're only known now, for their drug-addled lead singer. Are they even a band anymore? I suppose they're on hiatus, like the Black Crowes. That's convenient -- and true, really, considering all the 60's and 70's bands that have come back for the nostalgia run.

Its a shame because he had it kicked for a while, didn't he? They got back together and put out that record -- 4, I think it was called. Then they made another one. Each got minimal airplay, and at their gigs, setlists were filled with mainly the old tunes. That's a shame. I own 4. Maybe I should put it in and give it a shot. After all, I gave the Toadies's second album a shot after they disappeared, and that's a masterpiece.

The problem with STP's last two albums not catching on could be related or imply two not necessarily mutually exclusive things:
• Our culture does not reward comebacks, therefore these two albums were destined to fail.
• The band relied on the drugs that fueled Scott Weiland. Once the drugs were gone, so was the spark, the talent, the good music.

Like I said, a shame. The other thing that bothers me -- and this isn't really related to their fall from the spotlight, but their having been pidgeonholed as a "grunge" band -- is the radio play they do receive. If you turn on the radio, of all the STP songs you could possibly hear, you are most likely to hear "Plush" or "Interstate Love Song". I didn't like "ILS" when it was big. And "Plush"? It's so Goddamned long. The acoustic version's OK, but the electric goes on forever and ever. Just when you think it's over . . . it keeps going . . . kind of like Weiland's addiction. Radio programmers ignore the rest of their catalog, just as they stick only with the hits from Pearl Jam's first three albums.

So now we're forever locked into those two songs, those two moments, as if all that band ever created were two moments.

I had a friend once say to me:

"I work with a guy who was a philosophy major, like you. You're pretty good . . . but I think he could take you in an argument."

As if the "love" of "wisdom" -- the study of what is real, what is correct, and what can be known -- is just a debate that had better conclude before lunch ends! Or as Socrates put it:

"It seems that when he says 'Socrates', he makes use of my name, merely taking me as an example -- as if to say, 'The wisest amongst you, human beings, is anyone like Socrates who has recognized that with respect to wisdom he is truly worthless."

Sometimes I hit up weblogs.com so that I can see what other people do. Sometimes I'm impressed. Other times I read stuff like this:

"My face is burning. My hands are shaky. My eyes are red. I think I'm coming down with something. I need to be at peace for one day. I'm not sad or upset. I'm just constantly in a state of flux. Here, there, here, there...I am always moving. But you know, I like that somehow. Another thought for the day. A thought for you. Life is a river. Life is a spiral. Life has texture.Is it overwhelming? Will it be ordinary? Will it become tired? Will it fade away, ignored and unneeded? I know the feeling, the rising like a cloud. And the falling like a waterfall. I know the coming up for air and the drowning below. I know the blindness and the hoping. This still has meaning."

I can handle the beginning physical description. Fine. But after "a thought for you" . . . . I was gagging. I've edited it here -- it actually got worse. Stuff like this should be quality control for me -- seriously, someone cut off my fingers if I ever write like that.

I know what you're saying -- "What a jerk, everybody deserves to be able to say what they want, blah, blah, blah, blah." And that's right -- which is why I need to constantly find what I like and what I can't stand.

And I'm not such a jerk. For a real jerk, try: I'm a Jerk.

Brian from TruGreen, why did you call me today?

Brian from TruGreen, did you buy my phone number as part of a list, or was my last name simply the next line in the white pages? Did you practice how commanding, authoritative, yet friendly you would greet me with your booming, "William!" after my simple "Hello"? Because I thought you were a friend, or my temp agency, or a job interview, or something very much more exciting than grass.

Brian from TruGreen, did you practice your sales pitch? Are you a savvy sales man who can put on a perfect south-side voice like a favorite pair of shoes? Or are you the real Nowitski, who just studied sales back in college, in between beer kegs and breasts?

Brian from TruGreen, why do you care so much for my lawn? Why is my negligence of "dandylions" so horrifying to you? How will your chemicals make my lawn "Tru"?

Brian from TruGreen, why didn't you listen to me when I told you unemployed people shouldn't be paying for green lawns? You seemed so concerned about "not takin' da bacon from my plate," and understanding that my wife and I would have to discuss this decision because you said you didn't want me "sleepin' on da couch tonight".

Brian from TruGreen, I didn't want to sleep on the couch tonight. So why, why, Brian from TruGreen, didn't you ever shut up and let me get a word in? Didn't they teach you to listen to the customer? I know you had a script in front of you. I know you abandoned it after you ran out of things to say. But then why, why, Brian from TruGreen, did you keep speaking, blathering on like a drunk about green grass and crab grass and permalayers and ants and airborne whatevers?

Brian from TruGreen, I was not saddened or impressed by your claim that you slept in the office. I am not ashamed to write that I laughed as I hung up the phone. Because you. Were. Still. Talking.

Brian from TruGreen, I was still laughing when you called back a minute later, thinking that we had just been disconnected.

Usually it's not so bad. But there are some days while donating plasma, that I sit down and I can sense it -- I gotta go. See, this all stems from that day when I came dehydrated, so now I drink a glass of OJ and a big ol' cup of water before leaving in the morning. Then I get there, I get through the usual tests, relieve myself before entering the waiting room outside the donation room.

But those days where I've sat down . . . not completely drained, over-hydrated . . . sheesh. Donation takes about 70 - 75 minutes, so I sit there for the first 15 gauging if I can make it. One time I couldn't. And I knew it right away. Today, I made it. After the first 20 minutes, I thought I was screwed, and then I'd have to ask someone to unstick me, everybody'd get a good laugh at me, but all would be well. But I blanked it out, thanks to the poetry of Theodore Roethke.

So after I collected my cash from the machine, I hurried to the restroom, enjoyed that cool, emptying pleasure we all feel after holding it for too long, and went to wash my hands. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw a sweat stain on my jacket arm. Of course it wasn't sweat.

I didn't want to make a scene, so I drove home, my arm now unmistakably wet . . . but sticky-wet. For whatever reason, I hadn't clotted yet. I pulled off my shirt to see the bandage lying open, and the thick, rhythmic pump of blood drool down my arm, matching the beat in my chest.

It was so innocuous, to watch oneself drain out, like a leak in a gutter, but I could not stop watching, even after I held my arm under a warm faucet, the water washing away the blood, exposing the needle hole, mixing with the pulse still exiting, sliding down my arm.

I've got to get a job.

"Do you really keep a list of people you hate?"

It's a spreadsheet, really. With all sorts of columns and intricate formulas. For readers like this one, I feel I have to add the annoying "sarcasm begins here" tag. Not many people like the concept of hate. When they're forced to address it, they usually bring up the Nazis, as if extermination was the only horror one could visit upon another. As if hatred were such a small emotion, really. As if it were not worth anything slightly more banal. So no, no one runs around screaming how they hate Mr. X or Ms. Y. But face it. Face it. Face it. There are people you hate. Face it. I know you don't want to, but I know you can. Go ahead. Think about it. There. See? I knew you could do it. You've just created a list. Maybe it's a short one, maybe it's not written out. Maybe you don't think about it as much as, say, I do. Maybe you should.

"Why don't you have pictures?"

You assume I'm technically proficient enough to post pictures? Thanks. You think I'd pay the monthly fee that would allow me to do that? Ha! Besides, there's a beauty to something completely nonvisual. That's not to say that I think I'm a decent writer. But if you've come here on any sort of basis, it's either curiosity or something non-visual that's drawn you here. So thanks.

"Why do you post drafts of poems?"

In the case of a first draft, to let you know that it's a work in progress that I'm not sure or confident about. In the case of a later draft, to let you know that something's changed or progressed in the poem. I usually won't post the same poem twice unless major changes have occurred.

"Why do you sometimes post so often . . . and then so rarely?"

Sometimes I sit down at the keyboard, and I have a lot to say. Some days I have nothing. Other days I don't make it to the keyboard.

"Why do you go to a women's college?"

Because I (mistakenly) thought that entering their licensure program (to teach secondary English) would get me a teaching license faster. This program is open to men. Otherwise, it's a women's college.

"Why is some of your writing so angry/profanity-laced?"

It's not that easy to write when things are going great. And I think I've been pretty restrained on the profanity front lately. I haven't even posted on my job woes yet. Ho! Just you wait. No -- just you fuckin' wait!

"Why don't you talk like this?"

Written communication is so much more different than verbal. I just retyped that sentence (and this one) twice. Speech is faster, less thoughtful, and I frequently find myself just trying to keep up.

"So how do I know what is true and what is not?"

Shit. Well, everyone's gonna say I'm "getting all philosophical" on them now, but what is truth? Everything here is from my perspective, and one perspective -- as much as I know what I saw/experience happened -- isn't necessarily truth. I'm probably beating around the bush. Here it is: most of it happened, most of the names have been changed (for reasons I've discussed), any alteration is for better prose. Here's the key: my point is more important to me. Any writer will indict me on this, as I'm supposed to believe character to be the ultimate creation. And that's right. But for me, I have a point and the characters -- while still needing depth -- come along right afterward. I guess, the best way is to ask me.

"Why do you write in a web log? Who cares what you think? And why don't you call it a 'blog'?"

Who does care what I think? I just care about how I write differently for an audience. Blog? Do we really have to go into this? No.

"Can I tell other people about your site?"

Actually, Blogger has sent me a warning about all the potentially dangerous activity wrfarah.blogspot.com has drawn to the site, so . . . . It's a website! You don't need my permission! All blame lies with me!

There's a kid I went to high school with who's one of the few people I can still say that I have hated. There are plenty of people I've disliked, and even quite a few that I've remained "in dislike" with for an extended period of time. But the list of the hated is pretty short.

I think the hated list, for me, includes only those people who directly and clearly symbolize evil. Maybe not even all things evil -- just a certain evil. But evil nonetheless.

I think the lists should be small. Sure, people say they love those cute curtains. I love TOTS. But meaningful love ought to go beyond frozen potatoes and curtains. Same thing with hate.

For example, I truly disliked the girl who dumped me after I cooked a huge dinner for her in October of '99. But is rudeness a sole indicator of evil? Nah. Some would argue she should be awarded for spending the five weeks she did with me.

How about the Vikings? I consistently say (aloud) how I hate the Vikings, their fans, their stadium, etc, etc. But football can't be important enough to warrant hatred.

Then there was the time my friend and I got on a trolley for some church festival, and this girl (who, at the time, could only have been unconsciously attracted to yours truly) started yelling to everyone on the trolley how big my butt was. My friend had to restrain me from throwing her off of a moving vehicle. If given the opportunity, I would have stomped on her face (then sat on it to prove her point). Ah, but hindsight tells me this was just an insecure, immature girl. Hatred should not be steeped in mere pubescent process.

But time, contrary to the saying, doesn't erase everything. Just knowing someone else's motivations -- mere understanding, the base level of knowledge -- does not always allay past wrongs. That's why a certain women's track coach and this guy from high school remain on the list.

A few months ago I heard that this guy, I'll call him Marko, was dating some girl who was a girlfriend of another guy I went to school with -- this guy who I'll call Kemp was a year or two younger than me and Marko. The story/rumor went that Kemp, who I never really knew very well, found Marko in bed with his girlfriend, and beat the hell out of him. Apparently it was bad enough that Marko ended up in the hospital and Kemp ended up in prison.

I remember hearing this, and feeling suddenly happy, justified -- elated. Now calm down, everyone, this doesn't mean I'm a sadist. Although I prefer horror films, my feelings on personal violence run much closer to an STFL character of mine called Jake Tanner, who wishes to become a boxer, yet cannot stomach the sight of blood. Watching it up close can be a terrible thing. That stated, it must take something as strong as hatred for me to feel elation upon hearing such a story.

I guess I should clear the air by saying I wasn't some nerdy, picked-on kid in high school. I did OK. A bit of a loner, but that's how I liked it. This makes me wonder, then, what memories some people must have. How tense those moments must be at reunions -- the Beautiful Girls moments. When the nerdy, picked-on kid approaches Lauren Holly and tells her how beautiful she was in school, but that she was "mean as a snake".

Now the funny thing about it is -- the reason there's this site and all -- is that I remember a conversation I had with Marko. And it wasn't one of our usual conversations. It was the week before Christmas, my junior or senior year, and I think it was a Tuesday. I was really down: in one of those periods of utter boredom and disaffection that naturally hits high school students. I explained to Marko how much I didn't want to be in school, or something to that effect, and he responded differently, saying how there were only two days left because it was a short week because of the holiday, and how I had to think of it as looking toward Thursday rather than Friday.

What I couldn't understand then, and don't understand now, nearly ten years later, is how he sounded concerned, and answered with some level of understanding and compassion. And I took his words with a little more weight because there was now this second side, complicating everything, even though it was probably slight.

As Neil Young put it, "Even Richard Nixon has got soul."

you caught me in the library
without a reply
at the end of all things

i was reading about Roland
and green night
long ago

you spoke of salads
and summertime,
celebrations for strangers

and all the time you talked
i made variations of your
last name,

when it will be bequeathed,
relegating me a lost book
on the shelves of your memory,

the kind of thing you page through,
find some interesting pictures,
but replace next to another,

just as familiar,
the phrasings
bringing back

all you know about
this dead town of
broken men and blank gazes.