The Little Engine That Shouldn't Have...

I recently revisited one of the bed-time stories that had become idealized by the subconscious distillation process that naturally occurs when childhood experiences are left to fondly ferment in the untended vats of altricial memories. My recollections of "The Little Engine That Could" prior to this reexamination had predominantly consisted of impressionistic abstracts linked to venerable notions such as perseverance, diligence, and optimism. Upon reexamining this tale I found a litany of much less venerable elements of symbolism, implication, and somewhat subliminal messaging lurking beneath the narrative of this story. My reexamination of this children's classic has made it appear as more of a blueprint for some real-life horror-story or modern dystopia than the motivational adventure I'd once believed it to have been.

In the beginning of this tale a red engine chugs up a hill with a payload consisting of all kinds of toy-animals, all kinds of dolls, a toy-clown, and lots of tasty Michelle Obama approved treats. As the soviet-red engine pulls its load of what might be consolidated in terminology to be opiates for the masses it breaks down like the chromatically corresponding crimson tide of communist Russia. All the occupants of the train then try to push the red-engine up the hill, but like the stranded population of Russia following the fall of communism they find themselves too weak to effectively move their stalled government-machine forward.

Following the stagnation of this soviet-machine the anthropomorphized toys appeal to a series of color-coded engines that appear to serve as the symbolic vessels of non-soviet modalities. The first of these symbolic vessels the toys appeal to is a golden engine that arrogantly boasts of having luxuriously transported oligarchical passengers as it refuses to assist these metaphorically-marooned toys. Although this engine has completed its daily duties proudly and these toys have offered no compensation in exchange for this engine's services an implied sense of scorn is assigned to this elitist-train in snide declarations that it is headed to the train roundhouse where trains go when they have nothing to do.

The next color-coded engine to encounter the toys stranded in the middle of their self-important escort-only-journey to go and play with children located at a higher metaphorical/geographical local is... black. Note: Due to this tale's apparently progressive p.o.v. any potentially racist symbolism presented by this chromaticism must be considered incidental rather than intentional as there are of course no racist progressives. This happens-to-be-black engine also refuses to assist the stagnant toys as it states that it is quite tired after a long day of pulling important things, and it too proceeds unloaded to the roundhouse (as it is again noted that trains go to this place when they have nothing to do). Also Note: A less condescending tone is used to shame this train in its refusal to pull the toys as it is painted as an arch-typically overworked and exploited proletariat vessel manipulated by the system into becoming unfeelingly dismissive of those stranded so near to them.

Having been dismissed by two implicitly callous capitalist-vessels marked by strong masculine/patriarchal traits the toys continue to wait for another vessel to come to their aid. At no point is there even an allusion to considerations for them to simply walk the rest of the way to their prescribed destination. It is also unclear as to whether or not another engine might be dispatched for them should the black or gold trains forward the news of their stalled journey at the roundhouse upon their arrival. Note: Perhaps what is most troubling is the solipsistic predisposition of the toys that masquerades in this tale as a protagonist's plight as their quest to please children precludes any consideration for the mere possibility of validity in the omitted backstories or continued plot-lines of the unassisting engines (but I digress...).

Luckily for the stagnant toys a more petite and sympathetic feminine engine painted a democratic-party blue arrives. Note: The symbolic implications of this feminine train's blue color may additionally indicate something of a transgender or rebellious feminist nature given the long-standing associated uses of blue for boys and pink for girls. This little blue engine quickly points out to the toys that it feels small and has never been up the mountain before as if to imply that female trains are not given the same opportunities as other trains. Despite the little-blue engine's disclaimer/missive she none-the-less pleasantly agrees to pull the toys up (capitol?) hill to the elevated childrens' whereabouts.

Then armed only with the power of positive thinking, the moral support of the toys riding on her back, and an author's intent to bring a climatic "you-go-girl" moment into fictional fruition the little blue engine delivers these toys to the predestined empyrean peak of child-mountain. All is implicitly made right in the world, and its happily ever after, &c, &c, &c...

Considering the numerous concerns I have over this tale and the length at which I have already gone in this admittedly snide synopsis I will soon adjourn my dissertations until later or perhaps never. In any case I hope that anyone reading this manages to make their way up whatever proverbial hill they are climbing, and I encourage that you to do so on your own steam as I believe that will offer the most satisfying result. Should you require assistance it is of course perfectly acceptable to ask of others, but you might be well advised to know that they are all on journeys of their own of which you may know nothing. And whatever else there is to say about this or any other story there's always power in affirming those little-engine words "I think I can"....

Misanthropic Principle...

The greater the amount of humanity is viewed,
the greater the aversion to humanity is seen.

The Wind Echoes The Owl...

It's late at night
and I'm running again
Running and thinking
Thinking about the world
that hides somewhere
in all this darkness and
rests reticent somewhere
beneath all the lunar silence
And I'm wishing someone
could wake us all from
our nightmarish slumber
as a breeze brings banter
from a banal barn-owl

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

My mind is filled with flickers
of names, & news, & nonsense
as the wind calm and cool
carries the faintest sounds
from the eons far and wide
to where my ears reside
I'm wondering of the origins
of all these ancient whispers
and I wish this wind knew
a name to cast the blame
for all these diurnal blights
and perpetually placated pains

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

My mind and muscles
in automated-ataxia run along
to the convoluted cadence of an
unsung &/or unsingable song
The song of some syllabic-search
for rhymes and reasons
that can only be feigned as such
and quiesced at the sounds
of this song's own treasons
As essences of words themselves
demand to be declared through
exhalations of some divine
or decent/dignifiable name

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO... 

My mind and muscles
diminished of all might tonight
return to where they first began
this run upon the nocturne-land
And I'm left to question who I am
And who cares
And who knows...
As the world still hides
in all this darkness
and the inquired words
are hushed by starkness

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

Four Eyes (Not Two)...

There are not two but four eyes
that the mind sees through
These are the eyes of
  To Me
  By Me
  Through Me
  & As me

Through the eye of To Me
the world happens to you
and you are at its mercy
Of course the world has
no mercy, and so you'll see
that you are its victim
in its reflections of your view

Through the eye of By Me
blame is cleared from view
and personal responsibility
becomes a magnifying lens
so that all you see is amplified
by your view of what you'd
insist that it all should look like

Through the eye of Through Me
the death-grip need for control
is released from ocular constriction
and the eye is cleansed with a
faith and trust in a larger view
so that what will happen can happen
and you can see it without glaring

Through the eye of As me
the heated friction derived
from seeing self vs environment
is soothed to a cool calm
as the eye relaxes its pupils
so that a larger view of both
the self's soul and the world as a whole
are harmoniously illuminated
by the very same constructing light

These are the eyes
that reveal the I's
behind their view

Here's looking at you...

Adam Ate The Apple...

The sun was shine'n'
over that garden grand
as the old snake came slither'n'
and advertise'n' its brand
Of all the varied fruits
from all their different roots
that apple red delicious
had hardly seemed malicious
despite the prohibition,
the warnings, and apprehension
And as the apple of his eye
urged him to taste the sky
adam ate the apple
but never did say why

...and now, and how
we all walk, and talk, and feast
like men, like women,
-not descendants of some beast
All of us so all consuming
of all we're led to be assuming
We breathe the breaths of adverse ads
and follow the paths of stagnated nomads
while ill-advised appeals replace ideals
as greater thought gives way to feels
and we choke 'cause we refuse to cough
being strangled by bitter scorn and scoff
as if our adam's apple were a snare
to trap us in the sins we share
since adam ate the apple
and still we don't know where

...and now, and how
the headlines turn heads into lines
releasing memes from their confines
while quotes, stats, and evidence skews
until it all supports the narrowed views
as the men and women are all turned to stone
to bear inscriptions of some subscribed throne
All becoming one and the same
as the snake that started-off this game
when adam ate the apple
of what knowledge we proclaim

A Parental-Parable...

I was standing behind someone in line. They spoke loudly into their cellphone, and I couldn't avoid overhearing what was being said. Essentially it sounded like a parable of elementary-aged twins with an impending birthday and a set of circumstantial concerns related to this approaching event.

One of the twins was interested in models. From the discussion the supposed parental figure was divulging into the open air and cellphone network I deduced that the progeny was predominantly enthused by the kind of models that require diagrams, specialty glues, and assembly rather than wardrobes, professional lighting, and lavish levels of narcissistic supply. It sounded as if this doppelganger had been in good standing with his teachers and parents, and that there was only the lingering question as to what particular modeling-kit would be purchased and bestowed upon him for his annual commemorative celebration day.

The other duple had demanded a kitten as a token of admiration for his demonstrated prowess in surviving yet another year of elementary existence and educational tribulations. This duple had been recently reprimanded for refusals to share with his constituents at the educational institute where he was still presently deployed. I heard the voice in front of me imply that given this circumstance and the fact that one of the parental-entities possessed feline-allergies perhaps some other token should be considered for this impending occasion.

I found myself almost annoyed by the dissemination of these audible insights as I waited in line, but then I noticed something. My eyes had instinctively been scanning over all the last-chance items that had been arranged like beggars under the command of a military drill-instructor with OCD, and one of these pleading packages drew my attention. Perhaps the advertisers for this particular product had succeeded, or maybe my mind was showing early signs of some cognitive-collapse, but my hands reached over as if possessed by some imbued spirit's ataxia, and requisitioned two of these individually wrapped products.

Just then the voice had ended its cellphone transmission. I requested the attention of the beguiled parental-person before mentioning that I had inadvertently overheard their preceding conversation. Then I passively posited that I might have had a solution to this parental-parable. With a look of favorable inquisitiveness I was asked pleasantly to divulge my advice.

I handed the parental patron two KitKats®. The first one I explained, was for the twins. This would serve as a model for sharing thus allowing the model-enthusiast a gift fitting his interests, and providing the stingy duple with educational reinforcement while still granting him the gift of a Kat in accordance with his wishes.

The parental person appeared to have become perplexed and perturbed by my humble suggestion. Then holding the second KitKat® in front of us the beguiled guardian asked me why I'd handed-over this duple-delicacy. I calmly pointed to the advertised slogan printed upon the front face of the wrapper and mentioned that I thought given what I'd heard perhaps it wouldn't hurt for a parent to give themselves a break too. (Even if such a break required paying full retail-price).

Before the perplexed parent could thank or condemn me another register opened-up, and I cordially excused them to take advantage of the reduced wait. I didn't see if the parent ended-up purchasing the treats or putting them back on the shelf. Perhaps I'll never know if I was of any help in this parental-parable. As much as I'd like to have thought that my recommendations had been useful, by the time I was actually ready to check-out I'd added a Snickers® to my cart.

Note: I do not have any children of my own. You are all welcome.

Colloquial Prognosis (This Goes On)...

The door-to-door salesman
has gone peer-to-peer
as mailmen are replaced
by another kind of drone
and all the people go postal
posting pitches and pantomimes
as mankind mimics mockery
in a meta-maniacal mundane mania
growing cynical of all but cynicism
declaring everything catastrophic
except for the existential catastrophe
they decry of every attempted apostrophe
for the possession of only dispositions
has dispossessed the sovereign soul
from every so-called sentiment professed
as fear and loathing become dearly blessed
while the social-senate sanctifies sedition
and sedates the sanctimonious until sinister is best
as the market crashes and crashes are marketed
in the downward spiral of spin-doctor-sales-pitches
advising spaniels submit to be spade & segregated
so as to spare other bitches
from slumbering unto their eternal sleep
while everything without a remote controller
is gradually turned down or off
as it all goes on and on
going on and on like this