Excerpts from:

THE SECRET TOME

of The Oracle

of The Unseen Hand

of The Marketplace

MEL C. THOMPSON

(The Premier Victim

Of Post-Suburban

Traumatic Stress Disorder)

CHAPTER ONE

The Early Years Of My Delusions

The following are limited selections from Chapter One.

Contact the author for free PDFs and/or free chapbooks of full text.

Excerpt # 0: Prologue to The Secret Tome

In my teens I wrote earnest, exciting work

Inspired by creative writing instructors

Who helped us surf the wave of youth.

In my twenties I wrote vigorous work

Filled with the life and pathos and tragedy

Of love and vocation, fought and died for.

In my thirties I wrote mature work

Mined from a full and complex life

Shot through with cynicism and wit.

In my forties I wrote delicate work

Reflecting the high art and craftsmanship

Of a seasoned self-appointed professional.

Now as I approach the age of fifty,

Like all other poets, I collapse horrifically

Into the chasm of hackneyed political poems.

But this is no cause for self-effacement,

No reason for undue humility and hand-wringing.

Instead, think of it as the path of nature itself.

The Buddha said that all living things,

And all formations whatsoever, must decay,

And so why not talent itself? It’s only natural.

So when you find yourself prattling on,

Losing all sense of rhythm, grace or flair,

Forgive yourself easily. It’s just your turn.

And you critics, take it easy on the old folk,

Who at last can be seen selling their photography

And paintings because they can no longer write at all.

Pleasant Hill, 10-1-2007.

Excerpt # 2: Convention Center Errand Boy

I am a child of the aerospace industry,

A living replica of a dying fantasy

That began with the moon and flew

From there to the depths of outer

And inner space. Tall, futuristic men

With full heads of manly hair

Beckoned to us from black and white

Televisions. We saw the documentaries

With primitive animation of tomorrow’s

Technology that would revolutionize

Travel, communications and — praise God,

War, war, war. Oh, football and boxing.

Did I mention tanks and guns and bombs?

Well, it was all very sexual, you see, and . . .

Back then even welfare was great!

And every morning every boy woke up,

In those hot and bright Southern California

Days, with a limitless hard-on for life.

People were movers and shakers — yes,

Murderers and adulterers and embezzlers.

I mean, we really knew how to live!

People were being busted by the Feds,

And others were fleeing the IRS,

And some just got away with everything!

If you knew what I knew, you would see

The Law of Karma is a total rip-off.

This is my past-life regression therapy?

Pleasant Hill, 9-24-2007.

Excerpt # 4: Freelance Gardener and Landscaper

At the age of eleven I knew

Bad careers can’t begin too early.

I am the face of Attention Deficit Disorder.

Give me a new lawnmower and pray

Your garden survives the onslaught.

I’ll sell my soul for two dollars.

Never trust your power tools

To an obsessive-compulsive poet

Who is on the borderline of puberty.

My rows are rigidly straight.

These edges are razor-sharp.

This covers for a lack of stability.

We are not the stuff of business.

You could find me playing pinball

To the tune of summers vanishing.

Here is a sports-card collection

That is worth a fortune in sweat.

I should have retired at the outset.

Don’t ask me to dig your trenches

Or deal with your pruning sheers.

I can’t even handle condoms.

Chronic fatigue overwhelms me.

Dehydration stalks the suburbs.

We are weary of drinking water.

Somewhere in Uganda they’re selling

The estate of the late Idi Amin.

Don’t call me to pull the weeds.

Pleasant Hill, 6-16-2007.

Excerpt # 7: Jobs I Honestly Can’t Remember

I can’t remember who you were.

I can’t remember why I worked for you.

I can’t remember how I came to love you.

My guess is that it was a kind of sickness.

I imagine it was something requiring

A prescription and years of talk therapy.

If I labored for you or romanced you,

It was no doubt a twisted sexual sublimation,

A pathetic stab at social redemption gone wrong.

It was the suppression of everything precious

To me and the values I might have stood for

Were I not a simple puppet with no human will.

Okay, so I’ve been beating up on myself.

It’s you I should have been critical of. It’s you

I should have shouted at and condemned,

You who were so smug and complacent and

Incapable of empathy that not even Victor Hugo

And Proust combined could capture your narcissism.

But wait! I was just saying that I had forgotten

Who you were and where you came from. I lied.

I remember all too well and only wish I could forget.

Oops! Now I’ve gotten bitter and vengeful

And all those things my Buddhist teachers

Have warned me will lead to a thousand rebirths.

My cell phone is ringing. Your name is displayed.

Can I resist picking up the phone? Can I restrain

Myself from being friendly? You know the answer.

Pleasant Hill, 9-30-2007.

Excerpt # 8: The Der Wienerschnitzel Debacle

I’d like to franchise your sexual energy.

We can reduce it all to software code.

You could get royalties on your sincerity.

We think we know the Lord’s will.

You are to stand at this door and smile

While we’re vacationing in Aspen.

Obsessive-compulsive behavior

Is a tool we’ll harness for humankind.

Please do not weep at your desk.

The infomercials get louder

And the actors more desperate.

You must buy something . . . NOW!

The quarterly statement waits

Like an executioner for anyone

Who dares challenge its mandate.

I am no ordinary employee.

My Blackberry cuts off heads

And photographs them in color.

Nothing short of a tsunami

Could ruin this holy weekend.

Work hard. Play hard. Die rich.

Oh, sure, it’s not too creative.

But I am a simple person at heart.

I simply want exactly what I want.

Only the deprived have complications.

Chronic illness cannot be outsourced.

Your call has been transferred to India.

Pleasant Hill, 7-16-2007.

Excerpt # 9: The Pioneer Chicken Fiasco

I worked in the vortex of heart disease.

I swirled in maelstroms of cholesterol.

I was The King of Saturated Fats and Oils.

My mission was labeled in no uncertain terms,

A divine cause which would prove my soul

Worthy of the highest Capitalist heaven.

The proof of the sanctity of our agenda

Was simply that Socialists disliked it.

Our stupidity was all but canonized.

Were not our liberal enemies as sickening

As our alcoholic, dope-infested minds were,

We might have been worthy of condemnation.

Instead we were locked in an eternal grip.

It was a kind of cosmic sumo wrestling,

The winner being entitled to glib complacency.

This smugness ended in ordinary disgrace,

Each of us paraded, before our internal arena,

Like prisoners of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.

It’s as if we were on the beach at Phuket

One fine day mocking our underlings and bragging

About how utterly sheltered we forever would be,

When suddenly our entire party was plunged

Into the suffocating darkness of a wall of water

Which no portfolio on earth could negotiate with.

And so we now stand before our god, absurd,

Wearing the wigs of expelled English Lords,

Approaching the chopping block like Charles the First.

Pleasant Hill, 10-2-2007.

Excerpt # 11: The Mira Loma Inn

“I can make this location work,”

So thinks the doomed entrepreneur,

Till the “For Lease” sign puts and end

To further speculation. Then he fills

His thoughts with, “I can make this

Relationship work.” And so he opens

A home with a marriage. Enterprises

Are dangerous things in the hands

Of under-funded dreamers. We find,

Years later, our ex-lovers and former-

Employers, serving us from liquor store

Counters and the drab desks of motels

In rough neighborhoods. Even then,

As we order our cigarettes, we notice

Their customer service ethic stunted

By the constant ring of the cell phone.

Still, they juggle children, new spouses

And multilevel marketing schemes.

They are seen at seminars in suits too

Expensive for their income bracket,

Pumping themselves up with affirmations:

“I claim my divine right to prosperity.”

They drive off in smog-belching lemons

Blasting audiotapes of psychic channelers.

Computers never interest them.

Accounting was never their thing. Poor

Folks. They’d have made great poets.

Pleasant Hill, 10-4-2007.

Excerpt # 12: Marie Callender's

When I was losing my mind, I would ride

My big beachcomber through the back trails

Of Walnut Creek and Pleasant Hill until

I arrived at a perfect replica of the old

Marie Callendars I went to as a child.

My blood was boiling and I felt alone.

This little bit of Seventies Americana

Soothed my restless, anxious soul.

I went into the exact booths I sat in

When I was a born again Christian,

A teenager out to save the world and

Get stoned on Hot Chocolates and,

My favorite, banana cream pie. It’s

Still in stock and tastes as good as ever.

Now I go hardcore and order two black

Coffees, which my high metabolism

Turns into a kind of Methamphetamine

And makes me manic and intoxicated.

There’s a slender, platinum, fifty-year-old

Waitress who smirks as she takes my order.

She knows I’m simply starved for affection.

She’s married and has a sugar daddy, but

Still finds it in her heart to get the order

Slightly wrong each time, as an excuse

To give me free beverages or extra slices

Of the overpriced, sweet pie. She knows

I have a crush on her, and it makes her smile.

Pleasant Hill, 10-6-2007.

Excerpt # 13: Not A Lineman For The County

There’s a few trillion miles of cable out there

And not an inch of it mystifies me in the least.

There is no graphical interface in my world.

Everything is managed in the language beneath

The language you think is controlling things.

Actually, the language we speak in would be

Abolished if we found out you knew even a

Single word of it. We’re funny that way. It’s

An absolute control thing. It can be cured

Through therapy. But certain illnesses have

A way of being more productive than general

Health could ever hope to be. Hope itself

Is the imagination’s way of confessing a lack

Of Mastery of the fundamentals of all bits and

Bytes and quarks. We’re horny for math, and

Physics gets us off in a way sex could only

Half dream of. It’s all about communication,

All about the endless stretches from here

To the chaotic and polluted streets of Bombay

And Beijing and every inch of satellite-inspected

Ground in between. We are nothing if not

Thorough, dangerously thorough, terrifyingly

Thorough. Stalin and Hitler made mistakes.

We won’t. We promise. We’re less emotional.

And all that mess with tanks and missiles and

Cheering crowds? We trust you will excuse us

For skipping both the election and the revolution.

Pleasant Hill, 10-16-2007.