talking

slinking shoes
over stairs

hushed conversation
burning ears

asked me to see it your way
but you’re blind

like a paraplegic priest
talking with his hands

we’ve gone over this
and over this

coming over isn’t the same
and I think I’m over.

Obama resoles shoes; Palin spends thousands on clothes

I remember there being a lot of talk about Obama being an elitist (a loaded word for uppity intellectual who isn’t like you and me in reglar ‘murrica).

I was browsing MetaFilter today (as I’m apt to do during a regular work day) and came across this post.

Powerful, quiet photos of Barack Obama

Now, in this set of photos, by the photographer Callie Shell, there is one that really struck a cord with me.
This one
The caption:

Senator Obama was doing press interviews by telephone in a holding room between events. Sometime later as he was getting ready to begin his event, he asked me if I was photographing his shoes. When I said yes, he told me that he had already had them resoled once since he entered the race a year earlier. Providence, R.I., 3/1/2008.

Now, contrast this with the “real-American” candidates. The Republican Party Vice-Presidential nominee, small-town born and bred, Sarah Palin.
A story on Politico shows that the RNC reportedly spent $150,000 on vetting, I mean, clothing the Palins.

This doesn’t sit well with me. Coming from the side that’s been riding on the “small-town, real ‘Murrica, real values, just like you, Joe the Plumber, Hockey Moms and Joe Six-Packs” this doesn’t look very good.

It’s easy for me to make this argument. I’m an Obama supporter and eventual voter. But, if I was part of “Real America,” I would think long and hard about this. I mean, the Presidential Candidate already has 7 houses and multiple cars.

I don’t know too many plumbers who have multiple houses and can take their wives and thousand dollar shopping sprees.

And think of how many six-packs that Joe could have bought?

Bowling Alley

And so right in the middle i think of the bowling alley.

The one back home that smells. Smells like a bowling alley smells; stale shoes, old balls, spilt beer. Just nasty. Rotten quarters and sticky carpet. Bordem. Hatred. Loss. Loneliness.

There’s a lonliness in a bowling alley. No windows; dark at 2 p.m. Quiet, except for an occasional rumble. Thundering toward a crescendo. EXPLOSION! Or sometimes… silence.

The sound of a missed opportunity.

I can’t wait to vote

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to tell my grandchildren that I helped usher in a new direction for America.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to feel the rush of fresh air, the charged ions of new ideas.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to hopefully move from hate to understanding.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
and to never hear from Sarah Palin again.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show the supposed “Real Americans” that more people disagree with them than agree.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to try and heal the wounds created by W.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show the rest of the world that we’ve move beyond the 1860s.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show the world that we have our heads on straight.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show the world that we care about things other than reality shows.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show the world the we give a fuck again.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
to show that we can rise above the dreck of the lowest common denominator.

I can’t wait to vote for the first Black President,
so “That One” can show “Those People” that their hatred is misguided, ill-informed and embarrassing to the rest of America.

Hello

It’s been a while.

A Coffeyville, KS childhood

Right before the street lights come on
when the sun is a deep orange and you still want to play.

When the cicadas are playing the soundtrack of summer.
When the 4th of July is 2 weeks away
and mid August is an eternity.

When every day feels like a blank canvas.
You wake up with no intentions,
no routine,
no responsibility.

When Sycamore Creek is your office
and the traffic on the trails is light.

When the early summer crawdads are jumping
and the tadpoles are sprouting legs.

The rock bridge needs rebuilding from last week’s thunderstorms
and the yard needs mowing.
$5 more in your pocket,
or in the savings account for fireworks.

When downtown feels so far away
and riding your bike down there makes you feel grownup.

Saturday mornings at the pawn shop.
Talking/trading baseball cards with Steve and Fish.
Buying The Punisher and a few Rickey Hendersons.

This was my childhood.
Filled with every small town cliché you can think of:
Grandparents living close
Having some of the same teachers in high school that taught your parents
A creek or forest to escape to
Massive amount of time on bikes
Not worrying about strangers and riding my bike wherever I wanted
Coming back home for lunch or getting a slice of pizza from Casey’s along with some 5¢ gum

And I love those clichés.

Larry Schwarm – Photography

Amazing, simply amazing.