Remarkable John Tischer, Mexico/USA

 

Samurai

I’d like to die like a samurai in battle,

fighting for a worthy cause.

I’d like to live like one in the certain awareness

that death could come at any time.

The longer I live, the closer I come, the more

I beat my own hopeless drum.

The Charge of the Light Brigade immortalized

in poetry, futility on a pedestal, a prelude to

World War, industrialized hopelessness.

There was the Lost Generation after WW one,

the Beats after WW two…it was something

that they knew.

Paradise on earth avoids us except for the few

that found it by accident or trained their minds,

saw through the illusion of existence, what the

samurai knew.

Is that why they were determined enough to cut

their stomachs open in final sacrifice, or was it a

cultural thing to do?

I wonder if any/many ran away instead…I bet

there were a few.

It hurts to die, which is probably good to keep

survival going, humanity on track.

Canada makes it easy to die: one hundred thousand

euthanized so far, government sanctified, but what

do Canadians really have to live for, a wag might say…

it’s cold up there and the fishing isn’t that good anymore.

On the other hand, the Inuit survive…I doubt they ask

“What for?”

“Death is real, comes without warning, this body will

be a corpse.” might have come from the samurai, but

it’s actually a Buddhist reminder…so the samurai didn’t

have a corner on that market.

People here notice me but don’t bother me, like motorists

passing a bad accident slowly, looking for a glimpse of gore.

A mystery, a tragedy, entertainment in misfortune, I find it

curious that the “special forces” in movies get so quickly

taken down by the heroes, cannon fodder as was coined before.

Today we’re entertained by death even more,

which inures us to its reality.

Don’t shoot the messenger.

John Tischer

Message From Inside The Box

By John Tischer

You'd think I could write a poem,

since that's what I do, or, should

I say, that's what happens.

Where do they come from?

Haven't been many lately.

Sometimes they come in bunches,

like grapes...what a delight to see

ripe fruit on the vine!

Maybe they come from another 

dimension...maybe they're stored

for lifetimes 'til the right trigger 

is pulled.

I always wrote, I never knew why,

and I was always surprised to see,

like when you're amazed a the

sight in the toilet; to think that that

had just been inside you, that ones

darkest workings are hidden from

sight, function secretly, automatically,

as if part of some cosmic plan.

I've got a question. Did we shop for

these bodies, these particular lives?

Did some look for the new Escalade,

while others wanted an old jalopy they

could refurbish and soup up? Smooth

sailing or a project? Hard to know.

So, yes, I can write, writing happens,

but I wouldn't particularly call this a

poem...this is just words, my friends,

just words I would say to anyone...part

of a conversation I'll never have.

I'm spoiled by words...I make them up,

or combine them in new ways, like

fusion cooking.

People like reading novels, stories...I

can't write them, whether because of 

A.D.D., or, just because my dogma is if

you can't express yourself in a page,

you really have nothing to say.

I wrote for over forty years before I 

thought of myself as a "writer", even,

albeit, (love that word) a mediocre one.

I'm a poet by default because I can't do

the other things I used to any more. Like

all writers, I guess, I enjoy that some 

people like to read me.

Watching Herbert Huncke and Gregory

Corso reminisce about their beat lives, 

lives before they became known and 

admired as significant, their cheerful 

faces and twinkling knowing nods, they

seem to enjoy adoration of young people

that realize they wrote important truths.

They sang at the right time, when America

was fruitful, not fruitless, when the intellect 

still had elbow room to navigate, when joy

seemed like a possible outcome of a new

wave breaking on the shore.

Will I be remembered? Will they is more

pertinent. Will the geniuses of literature

survive the pollution of Orwellian fabricated

minds, survive past an era of moments of

seeming surety?

Even if humanity goes the way of the Dodo,

as long as intelligence is born somewhere,

whether on this world or another, the truth,

the gleaming diamond of inevitable conclusion,

is certain to arise.