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Author: Jason Crane

POEM: More than this

More than this

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.
—J. Krishnatmurti

Every time you say “but everybody has to—”
or “that’s just the way it—”
I know you don’t understand the point
I’m trying to make.
It’s OK. You’re not alone. Nobody else
does either. I’ve explained it
so many times to so many people.
As simply as I can put it, the idea is this:
Almost nobody would be doing
what they’re doing with their lives
if it weren’t for capitalism.
If we didn’t all have to work to survive,
to put food on the table,
to keep a roof over our heads,
to put gas in our cars to take us to work,
so we can work to survive, etc.
If we didn’t have to do all that,
we’d do other things.
We’d hike or read or paint or
make music or play touch football or
learn to knit or to cook or to juggle or
we’d spend time with our kids or
our parents or our lovers or our friends.
We’d make little communities where
folks watch out for one another.
We’d pool our resources. Stop driving
the planet & all life on it
over a cliff. We wouldn’t launch missiles or
make armies or have borders or
watch people starve or die of exposure
while food rots in the fields &
cities have thousands of empty houses.
People would still do bad things sometimes,
because that seems to be human nature or
the outcome of occasional bad wiring.
But in a world without so much scarcity;
without so many people living grinding lives;
a world without billionaires and millionaires
or aires of any kind; fewer people would feel
so trapped that their only choice is to steal or kill
or shoot up or put the barrel of gun in their mouth.
You can’t look at me with a straight face
& say this world is how it’s supposed to be.
You can’t look me in the eye
& tell me we couldn’t do better.
Every time you say “but everybody has to—”
or “that’s just the way it—”
you are explicitly accepting the boot on your neck,
the chain around your ankle,
the darkness on a limited horizon.
So that’s my point. I just don’t want to do it
anymore. It’s killing me. It’s killing all of us.
After 45 years I want off this hamster wheel.
I’m going to do everything in my power
to escape. To live the next 45 years (or 4 years or
4 months or whatever is coming to me) as freely
as I can. There is more to life than this. Because
“this” isn’t life at all.

/ / /

Jason Crane
2 June 2019
State College PA

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Book Review: Uppity by Bill White

Uppity: My Untold Story About The Games People PlayUppity: My Untold Story About The Games People Play by Bill White
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A real page turner that highlights some of the lesser-covered parts of the game of baseball. While the racism that has plagued the game is certainly no secret, White’s first-hand account as a player, broadcaster and president of the National League puts a personal, human face on the changes baseball has made, and the distance it has yet to travel. This book was written by someone who is very confident, and who certainly seems to feel he rarely if ever made a mistake, but at the same time he made it through a four-decade career in a tough business as a black man, so some protective ego isn’t surprising. All in all, well worth reading.

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POEM: Eat At Joe’s

Eat At Joe’s

we slept in the back of our
        Honda Fit across the road
        from a swanky bed & breakfast

a ridge across the middle of the car
        kept either of us from sleeping soundly
        while birds with laser guns warred in the trees

I don’t wear underwear & I’m too overweight
        to change in the car so at one point
        I was naked on the gravel at Parsons Marsh

we started on the road trip with -$100
        in the bank and $100 in my pocket
        enough for gas, one meal at the Heritage

& then some bread, cheese & pepperoni
        to eat on a blanket in the car
        faces lit from time to time by passing headlights

in the morning we ate omelets at Joe’s Diner
        the one from the Rockwell painting with the cop
        & the kid who should have been allowed to escape

there was a signed photo of John Williams on the wall
        which reminded me that I first saw Star Wars
        at a drive-in not too far from here

now: a coffee shop eavesdropping on the locals
        picking out the ones we want to befriend
        when we finally escape PA & move here

///

Jason Crane
10 May 2019
Lenox, MA

Note: It turns out I wrote a poem with this same title back in 2012.

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POEM: regrets

regrets

while breathing in & breathing out
I picture myself on my deathbed
tearful family surrounding me
*
it’s just a few years from now
which is so disappointing
I waited & waited until I was free
but I was never free
*
I treated my life like a prison sentence
waiting for a red parole stamp
to mark the beginning of the happy phase
*
I thought my argument to the board
was convincing but I never quite got over
always ending the day with a slow march
back to my cell
*
what does it mean to be unhappy
from the moment you’re born till the very end?
*
back in the present I return to the breath
again and again back to the breath
I feel it deep in my gut
but the anchor slips and I’m adrift again
*
in four-and-one-half years I’ll be 50

///

Jason Crane
29 April 2019
State Motherfucking College PA

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POEM: Le Fay

Le Fay

she feels the sparks on her fingers
when she presses them into her palm
electronica in her headphones
sun on her pale face
picking out the freckles

she walks among the regulars
as if she were no different
as if she had no magic
but the mystery runs in her blood
mixing with the cells and platelets
it fills her mouth with a metallic taste
makes her see dancing lights in the air

one of these days she’ll show them
she’ll make them stare open-mouthed
she’ll let the electricity dance
like Daft Punk, cruise like Kraftwerk
she’ll part the sea of faces
to let her stride through, untouched

///

Jason Crane
26 April 2019
State College PA

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VIDEO: “Swamp Thing”

A 90-second video essay made of clips from a recent trip to DC with my son John. All video and audio by Jason Crane.

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POEM: Golden Record

Golden Record

Little pieces of Bach and Beethoven;
Indonesian folk music;
love songs from Peru;
millions of miles from its parent planet,
alone in the dark,
waiting.

///

Jason Crane
Earth Day 2019
Planet Earth

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SONG POEM: I Wanna Be A Regular

This is my first attempt at a rudimentary multi-track recording. I played all the instruments (diddley-bow, pandeiro, cajon) and wrote the poem. I recorded it using a Blue Snowball microphone and Audacity, neither of which is really designed for this purpose. But what the hell, I dig it and I’m learning. Enjoy!

The text of the poem is here.

Photo of the Hagyard Building in Lenox, MA, courtesy of Sally Gustavson.

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POEM: Five Black Men Crossing The Street In Washington DC

Five Black Men Crossing The Street In Washington DC

on the corner of New York & North Capitol
I make the usual (white) observations:
scuffed sneakers, plastic bags in hand
casual walk in the middle of the afternoon

my brain does all the math before I can stop it
with my next breath I erase the equations
but I still can see the faint outlines
on the (black)board, smell chalk dust in the air

of course I’m also available this afternoon
my sneakers are dirty
I’ve carried in my weight in snacks out of
convenience stores in plastic bags

once in the mid-70s as I tried to sleep
I heard my grandpa say “colored people”
out in the living room
it was the only time in all the years I knew him

before the light changes a black
Jeep with tinted windows pulls up beside me
I turn my head to look for the bro
but it’s two women in hijab

///

Jason Crane
16 April 2019
Washington DC and State College PA

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POEM: I Wanna Be A Regular

I Wanna Be A Regular

I wanna be / a regular / a guy who walks in and hears / the bartender say his name / who gets his root beer / before he’s sat all the way down / a guy who gossips / chews the fat with the other 3 pm hangers on / all of us gray at the temples / I wanna eat a French dip / with curly fries / that I didn’t have to order / because Becky knows / what I like // when I leave the bar / I’ll walk down the street nodding sagely / and sneer at the goddamn New Yorkers / driving their goddamn Benzes / too fast down Housatonic // I’ll stop in at The Bookstore / talk about Bernadette Mayer with the curly- / headed owner while / the tourists look at the postcards // later as the sun dips below the Berkshires / I’ll climb the creaky stairs to the second floor / sit in the kitchen where I sat / all those years before / hold my love’s hand / and feel the roots dig a little deeper / into the soil

///

Jason Crane
31 March 2019
Canandaigua, NY

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POEM: Dial Tone

Dial Tone

My son hands me a phone / says he thinks it’s broken / it’s making a weird noise / I listen / it’s a dial tone / he’s never heard one before / and in that moment I realize / he’ll never know my Great-Uncle Bill or my Great-Uncle Jack / he barely remembers his great-grandparents / he’s never met most of his cousins / most of whom I haven’t seen in years either / in that moment I realize / he doesn’t care about Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole / he doesn’t listen to big band music / he doesn’t watch old movies / and by old I mean the movies I watched growing up / that were new to me then / as I listen to the dial tone I realize / this too shall pass / my grandchildren if they ever exist / will never hear a dial tone directly / perhaps someday they’ll encounter one in a museum / or an old movie / and by old I mean the ones my son won’t watch.

///

Jason Crane
25 Mar 2019
State College PA

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POEM: the world’s breath

the world’s breath

I’m in some
bastardized
Burmese posture
as the wind
tries its many hands
against the walls.
Are we ever so
comfortable
as when
whatever shelter
we’ve conjured
proves able
to withstand
nature’s
not-so-gentle
reminders?

///

Jason Crane
29 December 2018
Cheshire, NY

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POEM: 300

300

300 times on the cushion
or the couch or the bed
or the seiza bench.
300 trips into the carwash
of my brain, brushes
spinning, thoughts
spraying this way and that.
300 dances with the monkey,
banging on the typewriter keys
with no paper in the machine.
Light the incense, light the candle,
sit, breathe, rinse, repeat.
Three bells to start, three bells
to finish. I guess that’s
eighteen hundred bells.
Seems like a lot.

///

Jason Crane
3 December 2018
State College PA

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POEM: What We Recognize

What We Recognize

There’s a red-tailed hawk on the wires above the Monro Muffler. Or maybe it’s a falcon. I don’t know for sure. I like to think I can identify more birds than I can. Like most people here in the land of asphalt and promises, I know more corporate logos than I do birds or trees. Show me the Golden Arches or the Swoosh and I’m your man. Ask me to identify the leaves that gather like asylum seekers against our door and I’ll have to admit I know as little about them as I do the people I used in this metaphor. I believe in building small communities, but I don’t even know the names of most of my neighbors. I’ve hugged the guy who brings our Chinese food but his name escapes me. Same for all those dear friends I had on Facebook. Now I see them on the street and they’re like pop songs whose lyrics I never quite understood. Hum a few bars, but quietly. The hawk is skittish.

///

Jason Crane
25 November 2018
State College PA

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