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When I was a kid, I enjoyed painting pictures with words as much as drawing my own comic books. I learned to focus the eye of the viewer inside me and surprised myself with the mystery of creativity. One millennium later, on my way home from the library, I found ancient Kodachrome negatives next to a church that was built in the 1930s on Prospect Avenue in The South Bronx. To illustrate vision on the future of history, I scanned the items from the 1960s into Win98. I used Adobe to make art out of garbage.

At least, the way I see it.

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I dedicate this work to Ms. Flan, my art teacher at P.S 161 and to the mysterious Ms Lewandoski who painted in her studio machines and microchips that talked to me until they reactivated my Wonder Years. Thank you for the art insight.

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I remember being potty trained on a little seat in front of a giant eye in the living room.

This is welcome home to CBS, welcome to the first TV channel of my childhood.

Decades later, I sat on a log in front of a majestic sunset over the quiet beauty of the land. This is the forest where aliens landed on the airwaves of the 1930s that caused some folks to lose control of their bowels courtesy of Orson Wells’ Mercury Theater on NBC Radio.

There is no mass media on rolling hills and blue skies of tranquility.

Media was all in a mind that tried to recover memories after head injuries. Life was like a bad transporter accident in the 1950s film The Fly starring Vincent Price and the 1980s remake with Jeff Goldbaum. My brain wanted to separate real experiences from media implanted ones like the movie Blade Runner. I didn’t want click heels to Kansas.

I wanted freedom to be real like Pinocchio. I’m nobody’s media puppet.

I remember being the first one on line for the grand opening of The Museum of Broadcasting on 51 Street and Lexington Avenue. Because of a new technology called VCR, I was able to see the first episode of a social engineering TV series called Star Trek. It was called Where No Man Has Gone Before. I also requested the first episode of The Twilight Zone, the brainchild of the great American TV writer, Rod Sterling. I saw an old lady in her farmhouse terrorized by tiny aliens that came from a strange little planet called Earth, home to a serpent in the Garden State called poison ivy. The log I had sat on was covered with it. That night, I cried out like a newborn with awful diaper rash.

Humor happens.

The woods are lovely but I have miles to go before I sleep, wrote the poet Robert Frost

In other words, to be continued…

Garbagelogy, The Art of Going Green, A Memoir On Media by Danny Aponte

Chapter One: Adventures In Nation Building In America

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Warning: This Is A Laugh Track Free Blog.

Bring your own chuckles.

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Earth Needs You,Captain Planet

Earth Needs You,Captain Planet

Second Acts

The Time: 24 hours before The Puerto Rican Day Parade in Manhattan.

I was a few minutes away from a symbol of freedom across the Hudson when I saw a taste of the good life inside the gutted belly of a garbage bag. It was filled with green and gray long boxes of sliver topped aluminum thimble shaped packages of espresso.

Finding art in trash delighted me to no end like a kid on Christmas Day.

In contrast, the garbage truck driver I worked with exploded in a near psychotic fit of rage. “Do you have an espresso machine,” he yelled point blank range. It was less a question and more intimidation most likely generated from envy over a free lancer being genuinely happy with the little discoveries in life. In his unreasonable and violent eyes, I saw my mother’s adulterous husband about to lash me with his belt across my face and back. I saw myself at the age of 14 about to cut my wrist in the bathroom with a Blue Gem razor to end humiliation and physical torment by him and other bullies.

Before I could forever fall asleep, I caught my eyes in the mirror become curious with a thought: If I kill myself I’ll never know how the story ends. I labor to pick up sharp words like a surgeon uses a laser to remove brain tumors or prevent heart attacks.

This is a medical report after the autopsy.

O, Danny Boy, ye hardly knew your abilities. Yes, the patient died but the operation was a success. I can’t regain his lost life. I can’t recover years stolen by prisoners of mental or spiritual poverty in a universe that wastes nothing like Albert Einstein believed.

Ashes to ashes, dust-to-dust…

The truck driver threw the garbage bag into the chopper that crushes like depression.

What I saved gave me a chance to smell the coffee.

I saw sun come up Freedom Tower.

It’s morning in America…

End of Act 1

The Big Dipper By Daniel Angel Aponte

HP Scanner Work using Adobe 5.0 installed in Win98

Cosmic Clay

Thomas Doubted by D.Angel Aponte

A Journal Of Finding Poetry In The Garbage

Garbagelogy Origins

The world moves under me. In minutes, I’m in Amsterdam, China, Italy, Ireland, Puerto Rico, The Ukraine, and The Middle East and on and on. The night is beginning its eternal run. With a mere thought, I crush everything in a universe that Albert Einstein believed wastes nothing. I waved my hand and an iron container is lifted into the air. It dumps garbage as hydraulics hiss like serpents in heat. In the bright lights of limo cars, I hurl dozens of heavy black bags non-stop into the seemingly bottomless hole of a waste disposal truck. “I admire your work ethic,” said a retired police officer working security at Spice Market where attractive waitresses dream of becoming stars in The City of Angels. I pull back my hood and smile at the evening over the Hudson River. After all this time, it’s good to be back on Earth. There’s so much work to be done. I look at the cop and realized we have something in common. “What’s that?” he asked.

We both take out the trash.

eXchange

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