أحبك In Five Hesitations

I.

Letters are just symbols
combined to shape words.
Words are just symbols
combined to shape ideas.
Ideas can be dangerous;
This is why, in the history of oppression,
illiteracy has been the weapon most
commonly wielded by the oppressor.
I want to write.
I want to share my thoughts
with you.
I want to use words
to show you my thoughts;
Perhaps I may put them in your head as well.
Perhaps I may name thoughts that are already there.
Do I dare?

II.
I want to tell you something.
It's something I've said a thousand times
already, but words can be misleading.
It's something I've shown you a thousand
times, but looks can be misjudged.

III.
Words bind me
Words free me
Words fill me
Words leave me.

IV.
I remember feeling
Light-headed and tripping
over my words
(how they tangled 'round my tongue)
Very foolish, very
Embarrassing, but then again
You did take me by surprise
Outside, I regained my footing:
"Unlikely."

V.
Music in my head:
someone else's music.

Allow me my indulgence:
I love you.

On Sleep

I try not to hear things at night, but
things try much harder to be heard.
The grandfather, the clock,
bellowing every quarter-hour;
his many offspring ticking
praise and condemnation to me,
tocking out their quarrels:
they never can percuss a united front;
the heater, rumbling in the
dungeon like a discontent dragon;
automobiles-
electricity-
all too shy to whisper during the day,
but reliably willing to shout at night.


My refrigerator is an insomniac. At least, a restless sleeper. It rouses and grumbles, stretches and yawns its way through the night. Each time, my grandmother rises and checks on it.

On Cleanliness

I usually shower.
For me, taking a bath is an act of self-indulgence. Of extravagance.
I bathe only when I feel really, really dirty.
I want to see the water cloud with my filth.
I want to feel it flow over every inch of me.

I don't want to turn the water off.
It's not that I want it to keep running and running and growing deeper and hotter and higher.
It isn't, really.
It's that I want it to be loud.
I want its rushing torrents to drown out the silence.
Oh, intolerable silence!
When I'm in the mood for bathing, silence reminds me why.

I put my head under the water,
see how long I can hold my breath.
Warm embrace of the water and beautiful black,
then white and then air.
It reminds me how enjoyable breathing is, after all.

I want to get out as soon as possible,
to watch every last drop spiral down,
dark into the drain.
I dry off:
two towels, sometimes more.
And a blow-dryer for my hair.
I don't want any of my damp past clinging to me.

Labios, dulces labios
que me das en mis sueños
de mis besos tan queridos,
sin titubeo, son los dueños.

SOS

Ok, so. This isn't my usual type of thing. Then again, neither is the topic. The words aren't quite mine, they're as I remember them: tragic and raw. I don't apologize.

I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.

Epistle to a Flower, On Her Leaving Me, In the Autumn

As some shy fledgling, whose sense of life's unrest,
Does move to stretch the wing upon fair Zephyr's crest,
To fall into the sky and then the sun,
To do it all or in her quest be undone;
With many fruitful seeds to sow,
But na'er the time to stay and watch them grow:
Thus away from me did this fair lover slip,
Without the sweetness of a single kiss;
A pleasure never had and oft deferred,
For she was shy of me, and I of her.
Away to nighttime, smoke, and prose at best,
Breathed from another's stale-air breast,
Away from words, and walks, and flowers,
To silent, stagnate, smothering hours;
The which are filled with further discontent,
Through knowing that her time is idly spent,
In waging tongue, curling lips, and feigning gay,
For yet has she known gayer day;
Still, she may keep false hearts aplenty,
And with them dust bland hours four and twenty;
Also with dull tomes, tight shoes, and brackish water,
For such things are equally pleasing one and other.
One such heart yourself may 'specially please;
Whose brain is numb and whose passion a soft breeze,
Who makes you gifts of someone else's rhyme,
Wields prepackaged love and thinks it fine.
Who, when your humors ebb and flow,
Responds not when they come, nor sees them go;
But has a loyalty fast and true,
Albeit to many things above you.
On some dark night mayhaps a vision comes,
Of marvelous moments spent in dazzling sun;
In dreams you shirk Time's authority,
To stand in Africa, with me;
Air hung with sundry thoughts unsaid,
Yet sketched in smiles, by one another to be read;
Sights which when you slumber wax immense,
but with your opening eyes, condense.
Thus away songs of love and days of Thor,
to thrift store romance evermore.
So when I pause to think of you,
(And am graced with company by my Muse)
Lending neither eye nor ear,
to those about me true, and dear:
Seeing shade caress your curves,
and growing bold, I taste your words,
am cut short by my friend, Reality,
I swallow them and watch you flee;
You seek your truth, and thus do roam,
but having mine, I'm always home.


*Thanks to Alexander Pope for the skeleton and the inspiration.

?

If stringing words is to no avail
then why do I pick mind's oysters bare
to fail?
For, in truth, you make up little time
spent by the bankers
of my mind.
I think not of you when breaking fast
though wood and stone weigh
on my wrist.
Nor think of you when passing flowers by
whose kind, for you, once lived
and died.
And truly, oft it slips my mind
that these darkdrab halls you once
lit sublime.
Even when I drift to sleep
you're not by my keen mind's eye
seen.
I know not why I yet choose
to hope to write and
write to lose.


Old sentiments, newly posted.

There's food in my pantry, air in my lungs, and ground under my feet. Things are pretty good, but they could be much better.

The Beowulf That They Don't Teach in Schools

Grendel, suspicious of Beowulf's intentions with Hrothgar, set out to spy on the men. "It is not well," he thought, "when one's enemies receive reinforcement from the sea, nor when men value life so little." His efforts to evict the interlopers from his ancestral land have thus far proven ineffective. They are willing to give more life than he is willing to take. His mother knows little of their presence, and nothing of his campaign against them.

Sigrún

Glad that Grendel was gone _ absent from Grethe
Had wandered into the world _ and would not return
Until the sky-spirit _ began to nod,
Sigrún prepared the palace _ to make proud
Her beloved son _ that bright boy
Her only child _ who she cherished
More dearly than any miser _ more greedily than Midas
Relished in his riches. _ That son of Rasmus
Was the song in her heart _ and spring in her step.
She cleared floors _ and filled rooms
With glowing globes _ glorious fire from her fingertips
Driving out shadows _ that might dare to disturb
The gaieties to come _ with their lengthening
Fingers grasping at guests _ and teasing Time's hands
_ _ To a more fleeting tempo.
She hummed a tune _ as she hammer-headed nails
That sprouted up _ from the ancient floor
Like the thorns _ of a creeping briar
Ready to tear _ at tender feet,
As she honed Hjördís _ to a handsome edge
A singing sharpness _ that was Sigrún's song.
A dance floor cannot _ be dangerous to down-steppers
Nor a dull blade botch _ a beat in a syncopated battle
Even a stone-soled spectator _ and tone deaf friar
Know that so things are _ so they have been
And so they will stay. _ The security in uncertainty
The comfort in conflict _ and the cares of queens
Who keep their castles _ as if entire kingdoms.
Thus she prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and countless _ other creatures of the deep
Would spin about _ the light-soaked space
Boasting bright garb _ and feasting bountifully
On the wild riches _ found in her realm.
Each turret and tower _ teeming with friends
Each wall and window _ echoing with lifejoy
Such as comes _ solely from creatures
Without wickedness _ or sorrow weighty
Upon their hearts. _ Happy in life
And careful not to squander _ that coveted gift.
She prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and that _ shining horde
Would spar with words _ and also weapons
Carefully building their minds _ as well as their bodies
In strength and agility _ in tribute to their wonder
_ _ And in merriment.
She threw wide the windows _ and wove wildflowers
Into awesome arrangements _ their aroma borne
By a current _ which came cool and calm
And danced with the light _ that leapt about
From glistening crystal _ to glittering gold
Of a castle constructed _ of countless treasures:
Looking glass walls _ laced with webs
Of gold speckled _ with spidergems and stardust.
It was an ancient place _ of another age
Of souls long at slumber _ and songs long since sung.
The stars that shone _ upon those spires
When first they rose _ reaching ever upwards
Were not those _ which would throw down their light
On the night anticipated _ by Sigrún, anxious.
She readied her realm _ and rallied guests
To make revelry _ and when the time came
Give praising voices _ to glory-born Grendel
Who had seen _ his seventeenth September sun.


Grendel, aware of Beowulf's arrival and receipt by Hrothgar, goes to Herot to uncover their scheme. Wearing a disguise, he loiters outside the hall's main entrance, carefully collecting intelligence.

The Plot Against Grendel

They awoke with heads _ heavy from mead
And purses light _ from the lavish bacchanal
Of the bygone night. _ Those noble warriors
Those pillars among men _ who muttered of righteousness
During daylight hours _ not daring to offend
The eye of God _ but who gargled of misdeeds
Boasted of brutality _ and bore shame on banners
When that beautiful orb _ blinked, casting
The world into darkness _ and the Danes into sin
And with them the Gaets _ were as glorious by day
And as wicked by night _ as any warped man
_ _ Of Hrothgar's guard, court, or country.
These shamers of mankind _ malady upon the land
And upon the people _ and upon peace
Awoke with heavy heads _ and hearts hoping
To lessen a lord _ of the land that was
Rightfully his, _ yet wanted by Hrothgar.
Their tongues beat _ like booming war-drums
And their eyes glinted _ with dreams of gold
And of bloody scenes, _ shimmered at the thought
Of weeping wounds _ wrapped around the form
Of a majestic youth. _ A monster, said they
Unto the peasants. _ A demon, unto the priests.
Lies carefully concocted _ to crust the minds
Of men who may _ remember and respect
The truth of Grendel _ and his great ancestors.
All this he _ heard, and hated
His vehemence waxing _ with every word,
Spoken or soundless, _ that slithered
From foul tongues _ and fermented minds.
His anger festered _ and his heart feared,
The lord in him _ livid about this scheming
And the mortal _ mightily mindful of death:
A prince of peace _ perceiving war
In all its terror _ for his first time.
"Surely," thought he, _ "something can be said
Words can be woven _ with which we
Can curtail conflict. _ Cruel as they are
Their blood is also red _ their bones also break
They live and love _ and so, life-loving,
Cannot care _ to create death.
Let us talk together _ as men of thought.
Let me join them _ that we may joust
With words rather _ than with weapons."
And so speaking _ he swung wide
The double doors _ upon a drinking hall
Seasoned with sworded enemies _ and suddenly silent.

*This work inspired by characters and events from the Beowulf epic.

My Garden

My garden's full of many things
likely to impress
And my mouth is full of many things
which I wish to profess
But I haven't got the flower and I haven't got the ear
the former the most lovely and the latter them to hear
My garden's full of many things
likely to impress
great stands of fragrant citrus trees beneath which I may rest
and eat their fruits and dream my dreams
there's no question that I'm blessed
For it's eternal spring-time
and the sky is always blue
the breeze is always gentle
and the flowers always bloom
and their beaming faces greet me as I move along my way
amidst the beds of poppies and through shade where violets lay
and 'neath the heads of sunflowers and o'er a sea of white
of clover swaying sweetly in the lazy, hazy light
Yes, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and hasn't a single sickly weed worthy of redress
But it hasn't got the flower that I hold to be most dear
and though I've many listeners
I've words that they can't hear
They come in fragrant phrases, they come at whispered whims
they explode like pyrotechnics, they sing like Seraphim
I try my best to lull them, to keep them held at bay
I chain them down, I bribe and beg
but they won't be locked away!
they fight and twist and pinch and punch 'till I must yield and have them said
They tumble out and give their show
but I haven't got those ears, you know
so neither they nor I win in the long run
Oh, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and my mouth is full of many things
which wish to be professed
But the garden stands for nothing and the words just sound absurd
when the former's something lacking and the latter go unheard

A manifesto of sorts

To you: I believe, and yes, I love. I don't give a damn what those scientists with all their diplomas and test tubes say. I do not believe that anything as beautiful and perfect as this world, as the sky above and earth below and birdsandbeesanddaisiesandcocoatrees and everything else in between could have just HAPPENED. I can't watch the turn of the sun in the sky or feel the embrace of a cool breeze on a hot day or hear the whispered ecstasies of two young lovers and not know that someone is responsible. Someone amazing, and beautiful.
I can't watch the color come to your cheeks when you smile and think that you are an accident. I can't feel life pulsing through my veins and imagine that were it not for a highly specific, highly unlikely set of circumstances I wouldn't be here. I can't. I have someone to thank for you, and for me.
There are no accidents, there are no mistakes. Not when it comes to things as large and lovely as life and limes and leopards. Imagine the artistry, the intellect! Imagine what it took to design one wing of a plain brown moth! Imagine what care and patience it took to design each of the shells in the ocean. Can you? I can just barely grasp at it, like there's something much, much bigger and much, much more important to be seen..
What a master of art, of creation, of compassion and kindness and generosity. To have made all these beautiful things and not kept them horded away? To have been as proud of each and every one of them as it would be impossible not to be (of daisies and of lemons and of you and of me), and to have given it all away. Given us away. To free will. To each other. Given us everything that we need, and more. Not just the skills to survive, the skills to scavenge and hunt and keep safe in bad weather and avoid dangerous animals, but the ability to think! the ability to love!
We are given the ability to love, and as far as I am concerned that's good enough for me. I love and trust this creator much too much to begin questioning intentions. I am a work of this hand, in this image, and I am not so ungrateful as to reject the ability to love as it is given to me.
Some people worry that teaching us about evolution in school will make us question faith. Before that they feared that if we studied anatomy of the human body we would offend God. Before that, it was heresy to suggest that Earth was anything but flat, with Heaven above and Hell below. We now know that the world is a sphere. We have studied and labeled every piece of man's physical form. We are taught evolution. These things do not make me question my faith, rather, they make me believe even more strongly than before. And yet, how exquisite is the brain, the mind, that through its study even our most learned doctors are left with more questions than when they began so many centuries ago, and scarcely many more answers! How perfect that every creature in nature exists as part of a large-scale pattern! How appropriate that with the discovery of Earth's shape there is no longer room for Hell in the layout of our world.
But, oh! there is certainly room for Heaven! All you have to do is look up, and there is your proof. Look inside yourself; it is there, too. With as much care and precision as it took to construct the wing of that little brown moth just so perfectly that the creature can fly, my our aligned and arranged the cosmos to give us a glimpse of the wonderful world that is waiting for us (and in a way so that they don't get all tangled up and keep bumping into each other, besides.)
This is how I see my creator, who you may choose to call God, and this is where I see Him: in nature, in the heavens, in you, in me.
My creator, as I understand it, does not feel hate. Nor wrath. Nor the compulsion to damn any single one of we beautiful, perfect creations to an eternity of suffering. Each of us is loved unconditionally. My creator, as I understand it, would never even allow such a place as Hell to exist. My creator's forgiveness is too great; love, too strong. Such base sentiments as hate and loathing do not belong.
It sickens me to see how over the ages this messages of love, kindness, respect, generosity, and forgiveness have been muddled up and made subject to the whims and grudges of, pardon the term, mere mortals. I loathe to see atrocities carried out in the name of God, of Allah, or Yahweh, etc., against objects of the creator's adoration. Christianity and all other faiths, in essence, are about being the best that you can possibly be. They are about loving unconditionally, respecting uniformly, and forgiving absolutely. It isn't easy. That's the point.
My creator demands nothing, but expects everything. My creator expects me to see this wonderful world around me, and to see you before me, and to love it all, and to love him/her. And I do. My creator expects me to strive to be the best person that I can be, not in fear of eternal torment, but in anticipation of eternal paradise. My creator expects me to ensure that I feel as if I deserve to be there when finally my time comes.
I talk to my creator. I pray. I talk about my problems, I ask for strength to make it through tough times, I offer praise. Praise of those cocoa trees and those leopards and of you. Praise of my mind, thanks that for all the opportunities to use it that I have. Thanks for the glorious ability to love and be loved. Thanks for you.
I consider myself spiritual. I do not go to church. To me, it seems more appropriate to worship in nature, which was created by the hands of my creator, than in any structure made by the hands of men. I do not ridicule or disparage those who do choose to worship in these holy houses. However, I harshly condemn those who go through the motions, go to the services, claim that they're faithful.. but fail to show it. You know the type. They damn the people I love, the people that our creator loves, and praise God/Allah/Yahweh/etc. all in one breath. They beat down the spirits of others and then turn those same hands upward. It is they that I do not want praying for me. So, forgive me that I offended before.
I love my creator. I love the life that I am given. And I love you.
If this is a sin, then I understand neither the nature of right or wrong nor my creator.

To everyone else: I do not expect you to agree with me. I do not expect you to disagree with me. I do not expect you to respond. I would not mind hearing what you think, how you feel, how you react, though. However, if you can not keep it respectful, keep it to yourself. If you can not keep it to yourself, it will be deleted. These are my thoughts and beliefs, and I put them forth simply in order to clear the air of some misconceptions that may have been floating around lately. Finally, if you read all the way through, I commend you.

Love yourself, because

This is a revised and expanded version of the thoughts inspired by Kirstyn M. Harmon, my dear friend and ally. If you would like to see where it all started, the thoughts of hers that ignited thoughts of mine and what I had to say in the beginning before the light was nearly as bright, read her blog "Real versus Fake." Also, thanks to Davis Goodnight for encouraging late night/early morning productive thought and Caroline Schmitt for putting the spark in my head. No less thanks to all you other wonderful, beautiful people that I know.

From the theological standpoint: God made man in his image, right? So altering your appearance in any way would be worse than "touching up" the Mona Lisa. Worse, because we're divine self-portraits. I'm not advocating such extreem measures as never cutting one's hair or fingernails, there's hygeine involved, but cosmetic proceedures such as liposuction and collagen injections should never be undertaken. Not only do they involve health risks, but they're unneccesary. You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a humanist view: It really depends on who you want to be. If you want to be just another Barbie or Ken with no feature to distinguish you from the next overdone, underfed Joe or Jane in line at the gasoline pump, then by all means skip that meal! buy that blush! work those abs! get that surgery! But if you want a face and figure that won't blur into the margins of any lineup of your peers, then embrace every inch of your natural self from your complexion to your thighs. If you have self-respect, others will see it and in turn respect you. You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a materialistic assessment: Coin collectors. You probably know at least one. Ask him or her if a flaw in the minting process doesn't make currency more valuable. Don't fanatics worldwide scamper to gain possession of the nickel with the buffalo that has only three legs? The penny with the double-impression of Lincoln's profile? Why, then, should you settle for some pillar of perfection that is so over-scaled that achieving its summit is virtually meaningless? Ask your collector whether a coin with indelible grime and grit is worth as much in mint condition. You know that answer already. Why, then, devaluate yourself with proceedures like permanent makeup and laser hair removal? You're beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From a moralist's take: Each day we add 265,000 babies, lose 75,000 acres of rainforest, add 46,000 acres of desert, lose 71 million topns of topsoil, add 15 million tons of carbon, and lose about 70 species. Every three seconds a child dies of poverty. Every six seconds tobacco use causes someone's death. Every fifteen seconds a woman is beaten. Every thirty seconds someone is hit by a drunk driver. And you want to spend $3,500 on a forehead lift? $5,000 on an eyelid tuck? $10,000 on liposuction? I suppose that if you want to be the master of your own appearance in a world otherwise filled with chaos, then your priorities are perfectly in order, otherwise... You are beautiful the way you are, and this is why.

From an artistic angle: Look at the statue Venus di Milo. Michelangelo's David. Peci's Reclining Male Nude. Manet's Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe or Femme nue se coiffant. Any of the works of Vermeer. Of Lisa Yuskavage. Hell, look at most of the people you pass on the street! Are human beings not beautiful enough on their own, without plastic, ink, powder, and pills? The masters thought so. I think so. Don't you?

I love myself, and you, and everyone, for who we are without the makeup and pretense. Please try to do the same.

People are dirty

And they insist on dirtying this beautiful planet with their existence. Myself included. I wouldn't be at all offended is some superior extraterrestrial race did decide to swoop down upon this pitiful planet and annihilate our entire species in order to preserve what decent spans of nature remain, just like those people from that convention are convinced will happen any moment now. I think we deserve it.
Let me explain:
I went for a walk today. I carried a couple plastic grocery bags with me. I figured I'd pick up a little trach here and there and maybe gather some recyclables besides. That was my neat little plan. Well! People quickly got in the way of that, they and their nasty, dirty habits did. I returned after eighty minutes with four grocery bags overflowing with refuse: only one contained recyclable materials. And I only picked up along one side of the road.
Care to guess how many cigarette butts I picked up? Go on, guess. Frankly, I have no clue, and I have no intention of counting them. Rest assured that I probably have a representative from every major brand sold in the United States, not to mention an empty packet to match! I appreciate the sentiment of whoever tossed the half-smoked pack. I do not appreciate that of whoever tossed the ziplock bag with the used condom. Styrofoam cups. Plastic cups. Fast food bags. Coke cans. Beer cans. Beer bottles. Milk jugs. (Milk jugs?!?) Cigar wrappers. Gum wrappers. Candy wrappers. Ambiguous rubber tubes. The tops of those cute little "Doggy Do-do" bag sets- y'know, it's all well and good to clean up your animal's excrement, but get real: it's biodegradable, the plastic bags are not. I found five of these. Maybe more. Stopped counting.
Plastic water bottles. Do you know how much oil it takes to retrieve, refine, shape and ship those bottles? How much it takes to retrieve, purify, filter, ionize, florize and whatever else they feel the need to do to the water? To combine the two? To transport the workers who carry out the process? To transport the finished product to 'convenient' locations nationwide? Worldwide? Dump all but about three quarters of that water (it's probably just tap water at best, laced with carcinogens at worst). That's how much oil. Per bottle.
I was passed by cars, trucks, vans, buses, delivery vehicles, and a single motorcycle. All chugging along, burning fossile fuels, filling what would otherwise be clean, healthful air with ozone-depleting, foul-smelling, physically harmful fumes. Few slowed down. Several honked. Whether out of encouragement or derision I care not to know. A couple informed me that I have a 'nice ass.' At least none were so indecent as to throw any half-full slushies from the 7/11 at me. At least.
These are the creatures that think themselves greatest of all the beasts- man has brain! man can think! These are the ways in which they demonstrate their superiority. Forgive me if I point out the inconsistency that it isn't exactly, um, intelligent to destroy one's habitat. If we observed such behavior in any other species we would be appalled. Well, start worrying! The end is near! They are coming! But, in the mean time, I'm going to keep picking up your litter. And if you've any desire to retain the right to inhabit a planet as bountiful and diverse as this, you better start, too. Those people from the convention have some pretty compelling proof.

Summer Thoughts

As the ocean caresses the land,
so I wish to caress you.
As the sky embraces the earth,
so I wish to embrace you.
As the Sun shines for the Moon,
so I wish to shine for you.
As the Nightingale praises the dawn,
so I shall sing for you.
In this crazy, spinning world
of crazy, spinning things
and hordes of confused people,
oh! what joy it brings
to know that of the billions
of us that come to be,
I happened to you!
And you happened to me!
So forgive my enthusiasm
if you think I'm in excess
but I can't believe you're real
'less I feel your soft caress
And I can't believe you're mortal
with your ethereal charms
'less I feel your heart's life-rhythm
when I hold you in my arms.
And I'm sorry that there's hatred
in this world that we both face
but I'm trying to improve it,
to fill it with love and grace.
For that's my greatest tribute,
the best that I can do:
to recreate the world
and deliver it to you.

Why do we have this word?

garrote n. a cord, thong, or length of wire for strangling a robbery victim, enemy sentry, etc. in a surprise attack

Not just an attack, a surprise attack. Gadzooks.

Furthermore:
urolith n. same as URINARY CALCULUS (not to be confused with DIFFERENTIAL CALCULUS or INTEGRAL CALCULUS)
urinary calculus a calculus in the urinary tract

Words don't always suffice, but

Let's talk about love
Not that shit that gets sold as cheap cheap cards
and diamond bracelets
I mean, let's talk about love
Let's talk about the things that noone has time for anymore
a handwritten letter
a walk in the park
a rootbeer float, two straws
About the things they've been replaced with
chocolate and flowers on the "right days"
second-hand poetry
a big house
About how little we know, how
little we've seen, how
much we want
About how your smiles are especially charming at twilight
About how I forget myself around you
How I promise not to give you a house
or flowers or chocolate on the "right days",
but a home, no matter the where? or how large?
and daisies on Thursdays, just because
And how I will always, always write my own poetry
Let's talk
About you
About me
About us
Yes, let's talk about us

They're a cinch in the kitch

I promise!
Experimentations that happened to turn out well.. enjoy!

Pear Somethingorothers
You'll need:
vegetable oil
1 can halved pears
1/4 cup flour
2 tbsp. sugar
1 tbsp. salt
cinnamon
cheddar cheese
a bowl
a spoon
a knife
a pan
a spatula
a stove
an appetite

You'll:
Combine flour, sugar, and salt in the bowl and blend together with the spoon. Set aside. Place pan upon a hot, stove-like surface with oil covering the bottom. Slice the pear halves longways into pieces about half an inch thick. Dredge the pear slices in the dry mixture. Make sure that they are completely covered. Seriously. : )
Fry pear slices one by one or many at a time, your preference, until golden-brown, or black (also your preference). Use the spatula to flip them. (Duh.) After flipping from the first side to the second, sprinkle the cooked side with cinnamon. Right before removing the pear from the pan, place a slice of cheddar cheese on top to melt. Ok. Now remove it.. them.. whatever. Let cool. Consume. Yum.

- ~ - ~ - ~ -

This is Not Your Grandmother's Pineapple Upside-Down Cake
Trust me, mine had a fit. Almost wouldn't eat it.

You'll need:
one box of yellow cake mix
one box of lime gelatin
one pack of hot cocoa mix
one can of crushed pineapple
whipped topping
measuring spoons
runcible spoon
a couple bowls
nonstick spray
two oven-safe pans
can opener
an oven
oven mits
a sense of adventure

You'll:
Preheat oven to 325. Spray pans with the nonstick spray. Prepare yellow cake mix as directed on the box. Mix three tablespoons of lime gelatin into the cake mix. Looks yummy, right? Now, pour the batter into your two pans. (Size and shape don't matter at all. I used a large rectangular pan and a small square one for a neat stacked effect. Plus, they're all I could find.) Sprinkle the hot cocoa mix over the batter, go ahead and use the whole pack. Use the runcible spoon to stir the mix down into the batter, not too well, though. This creates a nice choclately swireled effect. Bake for 30 minutes or until the top(s) bouncy back all springy-like when you poke them. In the mean time, open the can of crushed pineapple and drain off the juice. Now, mix the remaining geltain powder with the pineapple.
Wait for the cakes to be done.
Ding!
Ready?
Good.
Now let them cool. Completely.
This requires more waiting, sorry.
Cool?
Excellent.
Place the first layer on whatever dish you have handy. Slather a layer of whipped topping on, thick as you like. I chose not to cover the sides to show off the cake a little, but if you want the green confection to be a surprise then by all means go ahead and cover them. Next, layer that icky looking pineapple concoction. Continue this process with as many layers as you have.
Now, dare to try it. Convince people you know to try it. Convine people you don't know to try it.
On second thought.. don't. That could be horrendously misconsrued.
In any case, it's delicious.

Maybe?

"The time will come," the old one crooned,
"when you'll know what you want-
that voice, those eyes, those tender
lips will be your only thoughts."
I heard her words and knew her faith
that sometime in my life
my knight would come and steal my
heart and take me for his wife.
I watched and waited patiently
for that fabled day to come
when some beauty would appear to me
and make me fall in love.
Much time has passed and I have known
many a loveless kiss,
but oh! those eyes! those lips! that voice!
I've found my happiness.
It blossomed forth so naturally,
just as the old one promised,
but neither she nor I foresaw
a lover quite like this.

About them

A veces demaciado ruidosamento
pero dulce y amable tambien
Caleb, mi companero adorado

Adds sugar to soda
adds spice to my life
Chaos, who won't dance

Tastes as good as she looks
my bedroom bombshell
meet Cristian, the luscious

Like Al Gore on speed
my tormentor, my TiPlink
Davis, the unbearable

A god among men
my late-night chat-up
Fat Tony Giovanni. Enough said.

Lives in palindromes
my humanoid encyclopedia
Heather, la competetiva

A vision of flamboyance
my suspected kin
Katie, the not-so-chaste

Always into some(onethingwhere) new
my "hey, let's try this" girl
That spells Kirstyn

Slept through stats (and passed)
abuser of my tickle spots
Nathan, the nerd

Sounds like the 60s
the voice in my head
Owen, who won't grow up

Emo only in writing
my anti-civics, anti-Smith co-conspirator
Paige, a budding Progressive

Speaks of love, sounds like Africa
my quiet riot
Rose, die mooi engel

All ears and smiles
my mistletoe harvesting buddy
Shanna, the possesive

Destined for assassination
my improbability factor
Thad, with the hair

Likes to play Switzerland
my verbal punching bag
Tyler, the creepy

I have a problem

I like order. There's a comfort about a well-aligned shelf of books and an evely spaced place setting that simply can't be found anywhere else. Conversely, there's an unmatchable abrasiveness about a crooked picture frame, an uneven layer of icing. I can't explain it, but I'm much happier when things are as I think they should be- without this I am irritable, distractable, and generally bad-off.
This is not my problem.
My problem is female, does not share my love of organization, and works with me. I like to run a neat hostess station- keep the silverware tightly rolled, stack the menus evenly- it isn't difficult, but some part of her rebels against this system. She lays place settings pell-mell, flings the menus into utter disarray, but worst of all (the absolute of the Hostessing Cardinal Sins) she draws silverware from the decorative chest rather than the wrought baskets specified for that purpose. It's appalling. Even worse, she had the gall to tell me that that's how we're going to do it. Point blank. Undermining both the well-worn system and my seniorative authority. I abhor confrontations, possibly with more gusto than I resent disorder, but her ways must be mended. She's not fit to work with the public. I only hope Sinan has the good sense to put her back making salads, where she belongs.

If you were to crack my head open, these would spill out

Forgetmenots, judgemenots,
call them what you may,
my linguistic buds

Bloody mannequins
on a mock battlefield
in remembrance

Fruit fly flitting
and living and loving for
two weeks, max

The sun's affections
lost on scholars-
exam week

Outside my window the bird
drags morning out of bed
three hours early

The warm spring breeze
whispers through the curtains
in a thousand languages

The Problem

It's not that I'm trying to be different, it's that everyone else is trying to be the same.

He bought her salad

"How many, ma'am?"
"We're just one."
"Alright, right this way please."

Among other things, I'm going to tell you about that woman and how she's changed me.

Of the hundreds of people that I have seated in my past month at Something Differerent, the number of couples that have opted to sit side-by-side rather than across from one another I can count on one hand. Only four couples have done so. Which begs the question, for me at least, why? I asked my boss: he admitted he'd never wondered and deferred my wondering mind to a waitress. She suggested that people prefer to look at one another, that only the really touchy-feely types (the kind that are likely to do bedroom things with their hands and ankles under the shade of the burgundy tablecloths) that only they want to sit so near. What she said, essentially, is that the more emotionally and intellectually near a couple is, the less they feel the need to be physically near, to be at one another's fingertips- a breath away.
I do not understand.
Why is this?
I don't see why a deterioration of the desire to be near physically should be required in order for two people to grow closer in other, less tangible (or is it more tangible?), ways, but that's just me. I already hold my truth to be self-evident. As for others, I guess I'll just have to start setting menus side-by-side and see how many more loves are like to stay where I put them, or shy away.

But that's not what you expected to read. Oh dear. Disappointment. Do I dare appologize? No, I do not. I haven't lied to you. There was indeed a man who bought a woman a salad, which constituted the entirity of her meal, and I will tell you about them- just not today. I have pressing matters to attend to.

Britney Spears

Most creepy crawly things prefer life in the muck to life in a test tube, but every so often one slithers out and becomes a national pop star.

Not how the Magi intended it to be..

I gave a precious gift
as candid as a child
Although I wanted it for myself
I gave it with a smile
But oh! The shock and sadness-
I thought my gift was good-
I bid you, sweetly "Take it"
You said you never would

He who shoots at nothing is sure of never missing.

Yesterday

A bread and milk day.
You know, like when the stock that your meteorologist has in Food Lion falls, so he says that there is a minute chance of snow and everyone goes out and buys five loaves of bread and three gallons of milk.
The kind of day that empties the kerosene pumps and drenches the masses in panic.
In other words, it was sunny.

The hypochondriac

My nose is dry, my eyes are wet
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night

Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.

You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?

When I settle,

I'm building my house of cards solely from hearts. There'll be no room for war or diamonds in my home.

Damn hippie is at it again

The neighbors are putting up a new fence: all stone and mortar, very big, very expensive. Mom erected a fence of evergreens between their yard and ours years ago, but I guess they want something a bit more solid. Something a bit more true and timeless than life. Something like stones and mortar.
It seems that life consists primarily of building barriers and tearing them down, whether they be between ages or races or genders or cliques. Why are we so obsessed with keeping others out? Why do we not build pathways instead of walls?
I, for one, intend to seek out the weaknesses in your walls and drag them down. Brick. By. Brick.

An Eye for an Eye, Love

Chewing on a Sunday afternoon
with you sitting heavy on my brain
If we're not careful we'll be insincere-
and we're not really fond of mirrors
No wonder it's so easy to believe your words
and ignore your hands
No, wait, that's backwards.
It's not the smoke, but the fire that gets in my veins
and ties knots 'til I'm at her mercy again (and her voice is so low)
Before you know it you're belly up in bed
feeling like the fly that's buzzing at my window pane
The lady spider let you in and was polite as she sucked us dry
You scream 'cause (plucking flowers from your mouth) nobody wants to listen,
but don't you know that every flower has its time
and that every bouquet one day must die?
Put the shards in my eyes, make me see from your side

Speak!

Trying to capture ideas with words
makes about as much sense as
trying to capture the air used to
breathe them with a butterfly net.

Turn the Radio Up

On the way home from work today I passed a man headed in the opposite direction. He appeared to be in his forties. Probably around 350 pounds. And driving one of those power wheel chairs. You know, the kind advertised on TV by two elderly women who ride their chairs all the way to the edge of the Grand Canyon and sing out "HoverRound-!" (echo echo echo) I guess they'll take you anywhere so long as you've got the time.
It's a shame that this fellow doesn't have anywhere better to be than Podunk, USA. Then again, maybe he was headed off on some great adventure and I just happened to catch him at an awkward moment. He had his headlights on and an American flag flying from a pole, like the triangular flag that your all-American boy of the 50s had on the back of his bike.
Perhaps he is on his way up North. I mean way up North, to the land of igloos and dog sled teams and Northern Lights. It has been his life-long dream to participate in a dog sled race, and now with his new power chair he can do all that and more. He will not only participate in the race, he will win with record-breaking speed, all the time his little flag waving- a proud indicator of his heritage, a beacon to all American youngsters who dare to dream big: Go ahead, kids, supersize your meals!
Then again, maybe he was just heading towards the little diner on Main Street to shoot the breeze and chew his cud and engage in various other aspects of friendly country society over a big, home-cooked supper. Chair, flag, biscuits'n'gravy. Welcome to the South.

Ode to E.R.

I wrote this ages ago, before I had the good sense to change venue.

I hate the rednecks that clog up the halls,
and the childish ramblings upon bathroom stall walls,
and the preppy people that think they're the stuff,
and the wanna-be thugs that think they're so tough,
and the cheap-ass computers in the media center,
and the freezing cold classrooms in the winter,
and the mice in the theatre, and cracked cement floors,
and the plants in the gutters, and rust on the doors,
and that the girls' locker room doesn't have lights,
and that so many people are packed together so tight,
and that so many students don't care to learn,
and that the teachers are jaded and show no concern,
and that the teachers that care can't get anything done
because most of their students just want to have fun,
and that the teachers that don't care let everyone pass
whether or not they learned from the class,
and that there aren't enough scissors, or rulers, or glue,
and that the football team gets the only supplies that are new,
and that you can't be yourself, or the least bit unique,
without being shunned and labeled a freak,
and that the "honors" classes are worse than a joke,
and that the cafeteria food makes most humans choke,
and that the bus' breaks squeal, and the roof clatters
if there's a faint breath of wind or a little rain splatters,
and that the coaches encourage their athletes to cheat,
and whatever is clogging the art room sink,
and that the teachers punish everyone instead of a few,
and that the SROs haven't a clue,
and that in the theatre the curtains are torn
the house seats are broken, and the carpet is worn,
and that students aren't given chances to show their potential,
so the loss of their talents is exponential,
and that the desks are bent and the tables are shaky,
and that on G hall several toilets are leaking,
and the classes in trailers, that often smell funky,
and the constant fund raisers 'cause the school doesn't have enough money,
and that "good kids" are pardoned while "bad ones" are screwed,
and for many more reasons I wish to eschew
this place in East Randolph that is hardly a school.

How I lie with statistics

Based upon a convenience sample conducted by Calluna der Partitionoutsmallwoodedvalley (name changed for anonymity) and myself on the breezy afternoon of Tuesday, April 15, 2008, it has been observed that two out of three male road workers in Copper Atoll (also changed) are not registered to vote. A study by Edward Packard reported a total of 5,367,838 registered North Carolina voters in 2006¹ out of a population of 8,857,000².

H_O: There is no statistically significant difference between the proportion of male road workers in Copper Atoll who are registered to vote and the proportion of N.C. citizens at large who are registered to vote.

H_A: There is a statistically significant difference between the proportion of male road workers in Copper Atoll who are registered to vote and the proportion of N.C. citizens at large who are registered to vote.


Rejection criteria: alpha .05, Zsc 1.96

p = 0.6061
q = 0.3939
n = 3

S_p = √((0.6061x0.3939)/3) = 0.2821

Zsc = (0.6666-0.6061)/0.2821 = 0.2145

Since the test statistic of 0.2145 does not meet or exceed the critical value of 1.96, there is insufficient evidence to conclude there is a statistically significant difference between the proportion of male road workers in Copper Atoll who are registered to vote and the proportion of N.C. citizens at large who are registered to vote. Based upon these sample data I fail to reject the null hypothesis.

¹ http://www.cs.duke.edu/~justin/voting/upload/Precinct_size_report.doc
² http://www.newsobserver.com/news/growth/census/story/840401.html


I am aware that the ridiculously small, exclusively male sample of road workers fails to meet two of the three assumptions necessary for a legitimate one sample z-test and that the small sample size was an influential factor in the rejection of H_O. This is all in good fun. Statistically I must admit that there does not appear to be sufficient evidence to support the hypothesis that there is a statistically significant difference between the proportion of male road workers in Copper Atoll who are registered to vote and the proportion of N.C. citizens at large who are registered to vote, but in my heart I fully accept H_A in all its truth and splendor.

Ashes, ashes, sheesh

You never know when some owl is going to fly into your car and run you off the road.

Humpty Dumpty felt very small.
Humpty Dumpty climbed up a wall.
None of his family, not one of his friends
got to tell Humpty they loved him again.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet
wishing her life away.
She grew very old
and then she got cold,
now she's utterly rotted away.

Pipe UP

Imagine how much more interesting the logging industry would be if trees could pull up their roots and move about as they pleased.
People could make a sport of tracking down and killing oaks and redbuds and hollies just as they do bears and foxes and deer.
"Forget that fifty pound bass that you hooked, you shoulda seen the size of the maple that I felled last month!"
Paper would take on a much more sinister identity, like leather or fur.
Coalitions would form to stop the brutal slaughter of these majestic creatures. People would organize, rally, riot. Clear cutting would be viewed as equal to the massacre of the American Buffalo during early frontier days.
But as things are, trees stand still and silent. Climbing away from Earth towards Heaven with dauntless perseverance. Waiting, perhaps even willing (like the apple tree of fable), to be cleared in the name of progress. They go silently, and so there is no great glory in their deaths. They go silently, and so there is no mass decry. They go silently.
Don't ever go in silence.

You know Her

Her teeth were yellowed
Her hair was like straw
Her fingers were bitten and torn
Her jumper was dirty
Her features were blunt and
She was also far too short.
She worked in the kitchen
She made marvelous tarts
She looked out the window and sighed
She longed for the spotlight
She dreamt of the stage
One day in that kitchen, she died.

this is relevant*

"Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky. It was good walking weather, and a relief to be free from the still steamy sidewalks of the city."
The coffee was bitter. The subway was late. This book was obviously trash. Not a good way to start a morning. Sharon Combes. Jack imagined her as low and lonely, probably with cats. But then again, that's how he imagined anyone he felt particularly sorry for. She'd obviously never been out of the city. He discarded the book, his coffee, and his sorrow beneath the bench. Perhaps someone would come along who needed them more than he.
7:08. Seven oh eight. Why was six afraid of seven? Because seven ate nine!
Had he fed the cat? Of course he had. Careless he was not. There are few people you can really count on. None actually, once you consider what they expect in return. Take take take. That's all they do. Even the cat has expectations. People are lousy.
"Fuck you," said the wall. "Beck loves Anna (but you're alone), Jesus loves you (but you're a sinner), Call 555-867-5482 for a GOOD time (but you don't have the time)". Jack didn't feel like listening. That's another problem with people. They never really listen. They nod and smile and make response- synthetic, all of it. Social sounds. More expectations. (Conform, will you?!)
And so everyone gets caught up in who can speak the loudest and longest and most precisely and raise the most capital and make the most profit and have the most connections and the nicest flat and brag, whine, noses to the grindstone work work work to make it big and finally be happy and tell everyone how happy they are but no one is really listening to a word that is said and everyone is drinking bitter coffee and smiling and-

7:09. Seven oh nine. The number 26. Jack gathered up his book and coffee and got on board.


*This inspired by an earlier work by an acquaintance titled "there was more to jack, but nothing worth discussing too much.."

PS-

They aren't butterflies
They're mini pterodactyls.
And they're not in my stomach
They are in my throat.
Breeding, and eating
my words.
Before I can give them to you.

Jack D. Schmiege*

Jack was low-down and tired, all he wanted was dinner and another pack of cigarettes. The cigarettes were cheap, and dinner was a handful of shrink-wrapped, miniature pound cakes. You know, the kind that are so loaded with preservatives that the wrapper proudly proclaims that they have a shelf life of five years, and that they'll withstand nuclear warfare and the Rapture, too! Jack didn't care about their shelf life, though. He was neither internationally aware nor religiously inclined. To him, it seemed merely appropriate that they shared the fate of his grandmother, the baker of his childhood: both she and the pound cakes were preserved against rot and decay, sealed within their respective wrappings for eventual consumption.
Pound cake and cigarettes for dinner, coffee and cigarettes for breakfast, cigarette or two on his coffee break (forget the coffee), and the cafeteria's dinner special, taken in the smoking section of course. Jack had his first smoke when he was 13, but didn't pick up the habit of two packs a day until the summer that he turned 18. They shared cigarettes and kisses while they talked about what it must be like to die and to be God and other things much larger than they were. But he went off to college and she went off to find her answers, so they never got to keep all those plans that they made. She did not hesitate in her goodbye, but he never felt quite whole again without a cigarette between his lips, and even then not entirely.
Todd, on the other hand, never had trouble finding himself. He joined up with the army straight out of high school, and they were glad to have him. He was everyone's all-American boy, and he knew it. "I hope you earn enough to buy yourself a new life when you finally realize what a shit hole you're in," he told Jack on the day he shipped out. Jack had realized it almost immediately, but never thought of getting out. Todd had good sense, he often thought, to get killed before his tour was up. Todd had his chest ripped open by a missile while he shoveled a latrine.
Jack often felt as if his chest were being ripped open. He assumed that his cigarettes were to blame, and hoped that it was fatal. That's lucky for him, because he got shot, twice in the chest, by some kid that got $47 out of the register.

Schmiege, Jack D., 26, of New York City, NY, died on March 3, 2008 at Lenox Hill
Hospital. He is survived by mother, Petunia, of Vienna, Austria, and father, Owen
Schmiege, of El Cepo, Mexico.


*Inspired by an earlier work by an acquaintance, titled "Attention Whore."

The Break-Up

Little Jack Horner sat in a corner eyeing the pumpkin pie.
He swallowed his thumb and spit up a plum and said, "What a good boy am I."

An eating disorder is not some horrible beast which flings itself upon innocent little girls and boys, although many people would have you think that. An eating disorder is a recital, a publication, a diploma. It is Ithaca and it is the odyssey. It is a lover. You dote upon it, you dedicate yourself to it, and (oh yes) you love it.
I saw a movie on Lifetime about a good little country girl who moved to the city when she graduated from senior high. Within six months she was working a street in the upscale part of town. Boy, she made good money, too. All the rich, horney pricks drove to that street to pick up some wild fare between banging their secretaries and their wives. She confided to her best friend that it made her feel powerful, beautiful to have all those powerful, handsome men coming to her, paying to use her body. She had never had high self-esteem, that girl.
Eating disorders are like that. They make you feel powerful, in control, and sometimes they make you feel very, very beautiful. You are beautiful when you weigh as much today with your clothes on as you did yesterday with them off. You are powerful when you toss your lunch on the way to school (even though your mom's cookies are fresh and delicious.)
Why, then, is your mom sitting, crying, saying over and over, "It's all my fault, it's all my fault, it's all my fault," until you feel uglier than you've ever felt. Uglier than a dozen of her cookies. Uglier than a missed step, a misspelled work, a bad grade. Where is your lover now? Where is your power, your beauty? You bite down on your tongue, hard, but all you can feel is an emptiness in the pit of your stomach that you know has nothing to do with hunger.