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Remote Observations

Remote Observations


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Published by Jesse Andersen
A collection of illustrated poems.
A collection of illustrated poems.

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Published by: Jesse Andersen on Apr 18, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Remote Observations

A book of poems

Written by Jesse Andersen

Illustrated by Theresa Andersen

Rare moments of clarity Reveal myself to myself. I understand, briefly, that I am small. Then, my eyes close. Months or years pass before I awake again And see what I have become. My friends tell me that time feels faster As we get older. Maybe we just remember less. Stop motion lives with growing gaps between stills. Gaps that grow until we become anonymous. Gaps that are only revealed by Rare moments of clarity. 

Yo La Tengo
My thoughts are like a Picasso painting Because I’ve been drinking Way, Way too much. I’m apologizing profusely For my abusive behavior. I’m actually quite nice When I haven’t had twice As much as I should. I can’t help myself. I order from the top shelf And laugh it off Until the tears flow. I don’t want to go But I know that trouble lurks near And I fear what I might do To you. I sulk home And pretend to drink my microphone. I sing a song to no one And wish my life were more fun. I write to tell you, But I fail to, Tell you that I’ve failed too. 

Where in the world is Carmen Sanfrancisco?
The girl with the pink hair Told me no one had ever written a poem about her. My mind raced for some words to write But ultimately came up blank. The morning of the show, I panicked. What was I going to say? What would they think? Why did I tell them I write poetry? Why did I offer to read? Then, I found myself before the audience. Expectant eyes focused directly on me, Waiting for my lips to move. I waved and the only words that came to mind were: “Hi. Please like me?”

I decided to walk to the Ocean On a Friday night, While drunk and sad. “I’m sorry for what happened to you” A woman slurred As I stumbled past Her and her friends. I guess she thought I was a crazy, Drunk, Homeless man. But, I had a home.  The entire journey was uphill And I eventually stumbled Into Alamo Square. Alamo Square’s view, at night, Is breathtaking. Below me, San Francisco danced seductively In the twinkling glow of city lights. When I had seen enough, It was time to go home. 

Learning to Unicycle
You will hurt yourself, Guaranteed. Pain. Failure. Pain. Failure. Lovely, lovely, pain and failure. But, with every attempt You become imperceptibly better. Bruised legs and torn jeans Teach that animal part Of your brain What not to do. Your body will reject it. You will think it impossible. When it clicks, It is beautiful. 

San Francisco
What is it like, living in the city? Instead of squirrels digging for nuts, We have lunatics digging through trash. I wake up at 6am To the sound of crashing bottles As a drug addict tries to make Today’s paycheck. I love my walk to work, Because I come from a place Where walking is an extracurricular activity.  The people I meet on the street Are forever strangers, But we share the fact that We are both alive and in the city. I love my life Because getting to work Is a challenge. Grocery store trips Have to be planned. I don’t know how anything works And each day is a mystery.

I can link two moments in time By recreating a feeling. On one spot of the Earth, I laid on the grass And looked up at the blue sky.  It filled my vision completely  And for a moment was my whole world.  Some time passed And much later,  In a different spot,  I once again laid down and looked up.  As my eyes filled with blue,  I became a time traveler.

As soon as I arrive home, I realize How easy it would be To lay in bed forever And be happy. As soon as I leave, It’s obvious Just how boring Easy would be.

Throw Away Your Television
The man at the self-help conference Told the crowd to set some goals. The people in the audience Nodded enthusiastically And each and every one of them Set a goal to set some goals. Most of the people Failed this first task. Of those that didn’t, Most failed the next.

Truth Hurts
I thought I would know French by now But I don’t I thought I would be rich by now But I’m not I thought I’d have left Omaha But I’m still here I thought things would just… happen It turns out, I was wrong It turns out, I’m supposed to work For everything I want I hope I realize this Before it’s too late It’s not too late. 

Copyright This
The thing about words is Once you say them, You can’t take them back. All information is like that, Really. Like a breath of air Leaving your lungs, When a thought leaves your mind, It is no longer yours. Anyone who tells you otherwise Is a fucking liar.

Hunting in the 21st Century
‘Come join us!’ their banner reads. I’d like to, I really would. What are the words That I should write To make you like me? It seems quite unlikely That I’ll hear from you, But I check my mail Despite the Lack of Any Human Response. Sweet nothings Written on cover letters Mailed into black holes Signed with the sincerest of Sincerely’s Meant nothing Against their Ivy League degrees And fancy internships. What can a boy do But wake up  And try again Tomorrow? 

Our Conversations are like One Sided Pirate Ship Battles
From your mouth you launch Spittle Cannon. Sights set directly on my face. No time to react, I watch. The me-seeking missile lands directly on target; You don’t even notice. I know it was unintentional. I know that you are oblivious. But because of this one innocent act, I like you slightly less.

How the Hell Did I Get Home?
Brain packaged loosely In a present of booze, which I gave to myself An accidental overdose Of five dollar beer And a wish to stay longer Trip, stumble, skip past the bar And out the door My car would take me home faster If I could find it Brief search leads to familiar seat Old friend, ol’ reliable Take me home just one more time I promise I’ll be better Enemies are out there With flashing lights Hiding in the dark Waiting for me to make a mistake Not tonight, you bastards

The Searchers
We search long and hard for meaning in our lives. We search by buying. We search by eating. We search by writing and fucking and listening and feeling. We search for meaning in the faces of strangers. We search our own faces in the reflections of mirrors. We search the sky for definitive signs. We shout to our gods and ask them ‘WHY?’ The answer is written on a blank piece of paper Discarded in a sea of trash Destined to rot for eternity Until one day the piece of paper is no longer a piece of paper, But something else Entirely

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