The New Millenialist Manifesto

It was the arrogant assumption of modernist poets: that poetry could replace religion, which sowed the seeds for the later movement in art and literature called “post-modernism.”  Modernists, as the self-appointed high priests of their new religion, make the case that religious conviction is outmoded.  They put forth that the gaping hole left by the death of religion will be filled with poetry, thus enabling us to find a spiritual outlet in a non-religious world.

The “Word Net” website of Princeton University defines “postmodernism” as a “genre of art and literature and especially architecture in reaction against principles and practices of established modernism.”

How can a genre be a reaction against another genre that was a reaction against traditionalism, which is yet another genre?  The explanation, I’m sure is as inadequate as are the abundance of competing definitions and chronologies of “modernism” and “post-modernism.” 

In my understanding, modernism evolved as a response to the migration of Americans from rural areas to cities, the influx of an increasingly mechanized society, and, as stated above, the perceived inadequacy of organized religion, particularly Christianity, in the face of Darwinism.  This response manifested itself in the Canonical text of the genre as an abandonment of traditional forms and subject matter, the adoption of a minimalist style and a poetic search for truth in the natural, (as opposed to metaphysical) world.   Preceding “traditionalist” poets had at their disposal existing dogma and time-honored form that provided both structure and subject matter for their creative process, while their modernist counterparts sought to do away with that structure and subject matter, and in some cases (like Gertrude Stein’s) the structure of the English language itself. 

The abandonment of form and subject matter did revitalize poetics, but poetry proved inadequate at replacing religion.  It offered no sense of permanence, and a need for permanence is prominent on Maslow’s Pyramid. The overarching modernist sentiment, described by E.A. Robinson as “there is nothing left to say,” or by Robert Frost as “a diminished thing” does not take into account the great human capacity for hope-a capacity that still exists without the structure of religion.

So, where did we go from there?  One might expect a return to sentimental and structured poetics, but in fact, the revolt against modernism was a subtle one that took quite a different turn.

Postmodernism does share many of the same precepts as modernism; rejecting boundaries implied by earlier movements and favoring celebrations of the uncelebrated.  However, while postmodernism seems much like modernism in these ways, it differs from that genre in its attitude towards these trends.  Many modernist works try to uphold the idea that works of art can provide the meaning that has been lost in modern life; that art will serve people where human institutions, (like the church) fall short.  Postmodernism, fueled by the outfall of 20 or 30 years of industrialization-dirty, corrupt and godless cities, scoffs at the modernists’ trust in rational thinking.  Postmodernist texts portray a grim urban landscape, or a surrealist vision, in which things don’t make sense and the process of trying to make sense of them is the most nonsensical endeavor of all.  Unlike modernism, postmodernism doesn't lament the loss of the small town or religion or permanence, but rather celebrates these. The genre does not pretend that art can make meaning out of chaos, and it is the poetic claims Robinson, Jeffers and Stevens that postmodernists like Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs and Henry Miller refute. 

Postmodernism is also highly skeptical of explanations which claim to be valid for all, including the notion that art might replace religion.   Postmodernism, in rejecting these explanations, instead explains small practices (like Burroughs’ “Junkie” or “Post Office” by Bukowski) and local events, rather than global concepts, stating in effect, that reality is subjective and different for each person. Postmodern literature makes no claims to universal understanding, reason or stability.

So humanity is left with the same question: Who are we?  This is the query that drove the modernists to reject religion and offer poetry as a substitute, and the very same question that spurred post-modernists to reject modernism and offer their own version of an explanation, which is that there is no explanation at all, and the search for one is nothing more than high farce.

When this thing gets figured out, it will be us: writers, who are behind the answer.  In the meantime it is imperative that we maintain an air of mystery.  We must overanalyze poems and act as if it is we, the literati, who hold the secrets of the universe.  This is how we will feed ourselves while we ponder life’s most unanswerable questions.  

Towards that end, I offer “The New Millenialist Manifesto”-the doctrine of the New Millenial Movement, a newly-minted genre that is a reaction to the inadequacies of traditionalism, modernism, and now, sadly, postmodernism.  The manifesto not only names this embryonic movement, it also provides the proverbial road map of how get to New-Millenialism.  

The New Millenialist Manifesto

We will “act as if:” We will expect to be excused shortcomings and provided opportunities by non-geniuses.  We will demand free wine at tony restaurants and often send it back, affronted by the date of vintage.

We will function as the leaders of the academic elite; we scorn the scientists, MBAs, and others of little vision, and write for those future generations who depend on us to tell them why they feel the way they feel, and why they do the things they do.

We will remain aware of our responsibility to artistic history.  We will hold up our end of a conversation that has gone on before us and will continue to go on after us.

We will “edify the upline:” We will ceremoniously exalt writers of meek talent and limited achievement-heralding them publicly as geniuses and incumbent scribes of the New Age.

We will write about things that we say are important, with words that others are afraid to speak. 

Finally, we will burn the Norton Anthology of American Literature in a sunset bonfire, along with the Chicago Manual of Style, the Imagist Manifesto and some driftwood.

It is preposterous to think that literature will provide an answer to life’s unanswerable questions, but it is also extremely important that this quest for answers is pursued.  There may actually be answers; we won’t know unless we continue the search, and it is through the explorations of great writers that this expedition has, and will be, carried out.  As we “New Millenialists” keep this tradition, we may be no closer to acceptable and sustainable answers than were Frost, Jeffers, or Stevens, but it is through the search for those answers that literature is created, and a new and perhaps better search begins.  

Farewell Switzerland of America!

Your summer migration of city-dwelling geese

Come north to take the waters

Has sailed away in the Pomo spirit dawn

And in December

31 methamphetamine daybreaks

For soldiers of misfortune in motorized wheelchairs

Fortunes not won or lost but never even wagered for

By crippled players with Rancheria rope burn

Racing towards a Saturday night demolition derby ending

Farewell Town and Country, Field and Stream!

Your town cat has collided with a four-door, two-ton monster truck

Lying tangled on a two-lane blacktop

His face locked in the grim rictus of death

And heartsick triumph

Over skeleton trees and Clear Lake Januarys

His epitaph read by Miss Lake County 2005

And heard only by seagulls a long way from the sea

And the ghosts of John Kelsey

And the residents of Bloody Island

And a school of belly-up bass

And pioneer queers

And meth lab-rats

All of them eating pear/walnut salad

With ephedrine cough syrup for dressing

Running fast

     Always faster

          Towards oblivion

Development Coordinator
Rural Communities Housing Development Corporation
499 Leslie St.
Ukiah, CA 95482
(707) 463-1975

      In the poem, “Gay Lit” I wanted to capture a moment in time that changed the way I look at the world.  I’ve had several life-altering moments like this over the years.  You experience something that affects you in such a way that nothing is ever the same again, and you see the universe differently that point forward. 

      My mother and I moved to San Francisco from New York City in 1963, right after the Kennedy assassination.  Art and music were everywhere, and I knew early on that I wanted a career in the arts.  I started out as a writer, but got derailed at age 10 when I started taking children’s parts in plays for the American Conservatory Theater.  I also learned to play the guitar, and by the time I graduated high school I had joined the musician’s union and was playing five nights a week in nightclubs that I wasn’t old enough to be in without my cabaret card.

      My father died in the Air Force so I was eligible for VA benefits. I studied creative writing and music at City College of San Francisco on the GI Bill and got an apartment in Chinatown.  I picked up some bad habits along the way, and 15 years later, at age 38, I was in the county jail facing three-to-five for possession of heroin.  In court they would decide if I could do eighteen months of residential substance abuse treatment in lieu of my prison time. 

       I had distinguished myself by getting caught bringing dope into the jail, so I was placed in this “gladiator school” cellblock with people who were much more dangerous than I was.  Except for me, everyone in this corner of the jail was waiting for a bus: the “immigration bus” that took people to Tijuana; “the grey goose” that took people to the state penitentiary; and for some, “the happy bus,” which took people to Atascadero, the California state prison for the mentally ill.

      These buses would come in the middle of the night and everyone on the line would wake up.  Those who were leaving were taken out of their cells, and for a few transitory minutes they could walk around the dayroom that was in the center of the cellblock.  They would walk up to different cells to say their goodbyes, bequeath their candy bars and other jailhouse treasures to their homeboys, and maybe ask a good friend to call their loved ones.  

      On my second night on the floor, the grey goose came and I got up at 3am to watch the ritual.  Virtually everybody was standing up near one of the cells that lined the dayroom, saying goodbye.  But one individual was sitting in the dayroom alone.  This guy had the typical prison-issue insignias, but instead of “White Pride” down the backs of his biceps, he had “Gay Pride.”

      I had one of these moments that I was telling you about.  I had a crystal-clear revelation that everything that I believed to be true was in fact not true; that reality was only perception, and different for everyone.  I changed in that instant into a wiser, but weaker, man.    I also felt a deep sadness for this guy going to the joint with “Gay Pride” tattooed on his arms and no one to say goodbye to, no place to call home, and no one to love.  Maybe you’ve never done time, but I’m sure that you know enough to understand why I considered this tattoo to be an incredible act of courage.  Still, I saw in that moment that this man was as frightened and vulnerable as a baby. 

      I considered calling him over to my cell and asking him if there was someone that I could call for him.  And I’d like to tell you that I’m that kind of hero, but I was scared, man….

     I have always regretted not talking him that night-maybe that’s why I wrote the poem. 

      I got out my prison sentence and went to the drug program.  While I was in there I started writing again-success stories for the agency newsletter.  The people running the place asked me if I thought I could write a grant proposal; I said I thought I could. 

      For the last nine years, I’ve worked in some of San Francisco’s largest human service organizations as a grantwriter.  In the last place, all the people that worked with me had master’s degrees and I started getting an inferiority complex.  Then my mother went back to school (at age 73) and got a master’s in gerontology and the carnage was complete-I enrolled in San Francisco State’s creative writing program.  By the time you read this in December, I will have graduated. 

      I wrote “Gay Lit” for a workshop.  Our class went out and sat on the grass near the Humanities Building on an exquisite April day and I received critiques of my poem from a group of intelligent and extremely attractive women who were half my age.  They liked “Gay Lit” but they wanted me to change some things, which I did.   Then one of these elegant young women read a poem about masturbation.  I lay back in the grass and asked myself, “When did I become a king?”  

On the Big Yard
Art is everywhere
Etched into the skins 
Of former foster care kids
Turned convict

One man walks the yard alone
He wears a shirt that he cannot take off
The ink of a thousand ballpoint pens 
Pushed under his skin by the tips of old guitar strings and sewing needles 
In group home midnights
Or D Block lockdowns

Across his shoulders; the letters "S O C A L"
And below this
A pictorial history of Los Angeles
The Pachuco Riots, the movie industry, and surf culture
Underneath the left arm 
A lifelike rendering of Adolph Hitler 
Underneath the right arm
A shamrock with the numbers "666" in the center 
Four teardrops from his left eye
A Sistine chapel of convict art
And down the back of two gigantic biceps are the words:
            P
G           R
A           I
Y           D
            E
He is called "Silent"
Because he speaks to no one
And no one speaks to him
No one even speaks of him
Except for an old man who once said in chow line
 "There go Ol'  Silent...  He don't talk to nobody" 

I wanted to speak to him
And when he ran past the Woodpile
Where the peckerwoods sat 
I said "Good Morning" 

Silent kept running 
But the Woods, playing Pinochle with their White Pride tattoos, 
Had heard what I said
And one of them said to me: "Don't fuck with Silent" 

I decided this was good advice
But when we lined up to be searched after our day on the Yard
Silent stood next to me
He knew that I was the one who had spoken to him

You could see it on his arms!
How lonely he was & 
I spoke to him, again
"You've got some really amazing tattoos, man"

The room had been a maelstrom of convict clatter and clanging doors 
Now it was quiet, as Silent regarded me with a blank stare
too late now 
I looked back at him
Silent reached up and lowered the elastic band of his orange convict pants 
No one could look away
We saw his tattoos
Black flames reaching down the shaft of an erect penis
A small "happy face" at the very tip

The guard turned
He addressed Silent by his real name
"Miller!  What the fuck is you doin?"
"Man, git yo'  hands up against that wall!"
Silent covered himself slowly
He put his hands on the wall 
They shook him down for weapons and other contraband
Then we moved back into the cellblocks
When they called for "Yard" at 11 AM the next day
I stayed in my cell 

I left Old Silent 
On the Big Yard
But I thought you should know 
He was there

Gay Pride, motherfucker..... 

     First, take the newspaper and cut it into strips the size of dollar bills. When there are about one hundred of these strips, dip them into tea and wait until they dry. The tea stains the edges of the strips of newspaper and makes them turn a light green, like the edges of dollar bills. Wrap a twenty-dollar bill around the outside of the wad of tea-soaked newspaper. This is the Tosser’s roll. With the twenty on the outside, it looks like he’s holding a lot of cash.

     The Tosser? Oh, I forgot to tell you, it takes three guys to run the game. There is a Shill, a Watcher and a Tosser. The Tosser has three cards, one of which is a red queen. These cards are shown to the crowd or “tip” and then simultaneously thrown face-down on a playing area in front of the Tosser. The object of the game is to “find the red queen” which is wherever the Tosser wants it to be, probably in his hand. The Shill makes bets and the Watcher keeps an eye open for the law, and also steps in if there is trouble with a Mark.

     You’ll start as a Shill.

     Here’s how it works: the Tosser gives you two code phrases, let’s say “walk right in” and “cop center broad.” When he says, “walk right in,” you place a bet and pick up the card closest to you. If he says, “cop center broad” you pick up the card in the center of the three.

     You have to listen closely, because the Tosser will say this as part of the oration he gives while running the game; “Find the lucky lady; five will get you ten, walk right in….”

     Start the game with the Shill, Watcher and Tosser all hunkered around the cards like they are playing. The public thinks that the Tosser is an independent operator, and that you are just another citizen. The Watcher usually looks like some homeless guy who is observing this game because he has nothing else to do.

     You, as Shill, will bet only when you hear “cop center broad” or “walk right in.” The Tosser uses you to get the game going; you win a few hands, people start to gather, and then they start to play. The Tosser will let himself win some small bets. After each win, he will quickly lay out the three cards again and work the “walk right in” signal into his rap. You bet on the card he tells you to and the cash he just received gets funneled to you. As soon as a Mark loses a bet, the Shill wins. You hold the actual bankroll, while the Tosser continues to work the tea-soaked bogus roll.

     It is important to get the game going and keep it going. Remember, you are looking for a big score, not a bunch of little ones; and you can’t find it unless the game is active and a lot of people are watching and playing.

     Sometimes you let a mark win. If the Tosser wins all the time, people will stop playing. You have to let them see other people win. They might walk away after they win. Those are the smart ones. The greedy will try to take you for more.

     When those greedy ones start talking loud-showing off to their girlfriends or their beer-drunk buddies, you know you got a fish on the line and it’s time to work the Gypsy Twist.

     To work the Twist, the Tosser puts a small crease in the corner of the winning card, the red queen. Everybody around the game will see this crease, but nobody will say anything. The Tosser will act like he doesn’t know about the crease, even though he put it there.

     You, the Shill, will bet on the card with the crease in it and win. The Mark will see this and he’ll be chomping at the bit to get a bet down, afraid that the Tosser will notice the crease in the winning red card before he can make his move.

     None of the bystanders will speak up and tell the Tosser that there is a crease in the winning card. If they don’t lay down bets themselves, they will stick around to see the Mark take advantage of this cheap sharpie tossing cards on a street corner. (Oh, I should have told you, in addition to being greedy; people are cruel. That’s how we make our money…)

     Then the Tosser throws the Gypsy Twist. The card with the crease in it will be lying there right in the center, plain as day. The Mark will point to it and try to drop a big bet-hopefully everything he has. The Tosser will then look worried, and turn around to check his bogus tea bankroll. The people around the game will think he’s counting real money to make sure he can cover the Mark’s bet.

     The Mark will then reach down with a triumphant look on his face and turn over the card with the crease in the corner; but when he does he finds the Queen of Spades.

     The Tosser will probably say, “The Black Molly…” and shake his head, as if he too had once lost this same way. Then he turns over the remaining two cards, one of which is the winning red queen; then he scoops up all the money and cards.

     Then you gotta break up the game.

     There’s different ways to do this. Usually people start to look at the Mark and laugh. Like I said, they’re cruel; they like to see a man look stupid. They like to act like they all know better. Most of the time, the Mark will stand there looking confused. You simply get up and walk back to the car. Remember to walk in different direction than the Tosser and the Watcher.

     Sometimes the Mark is suspicious. He may reveal his own dishonesty and say, “Hey, I saw the corner of the red card was creased” or he may ask for his money back. If this happens, then you, the Shill, will say some white-boy thing like “Hey man, don’t be a sore loser…” or, “I lost forty dollars, too, bro.”

     If the Mark tries to put his hands on the Tosser, then the Watcher will have to earn his money. The Watcher might have something in his pocket.

     But this hardly ever happens; not if you do it right.

     Then, we go in three separate directions and meet up back here. The Tosser gets half; the Watcher and the Shill split the other half.

     That’s all you got to know, except for two things. First, you can’t be soft on the Mark. The last white boy was soft on the Mark. These marks beat themselves. They ask to make the big bet; but only when they’re sure they will win. You’re doing them a favor, taking their money. Don’t ever be afraid to take a mark for everything he’s got. He might learn you can’t get something for nothing. They usually don’t though.

     The second thing is: don’t ever tell anybody what I told you here tonight… That’s part of showing respect for the game.

     So that’s it. Just remember “walk right in” is for the card closest to you; “cop center broad” is for the center card.

     Now, we got a newspaper already cut up and dipped. Do you have the $25 we need to get the game going? Good. Give me twenty and keep five. Put it down when you hear the signal.

     We’re gonna start down there by Fisherman’s Wharf. There’s a lot of foot traffic. I think we’ll make some money tonight…

     Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to be a pimp.