The Mailer-Daemon Blitzbomb Lesson

Once upon a Friday, pleasant, I came upon a Blitzmail present,
sent from that familiar presence of the Dartmouth social scene,
While I dawdled, not reviewing for finals as I should be doing,
(which I will be later ruing), came a blitz from Him to me.
'Damned Mailer-Daemon!' I hissed, 'chewing through my time with this,
note I don't wish to receive.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was sunny in December,
And the breeze blew softly, sweetly, flirting through my window screen.
How I yearned to go out with it; - twas vainly, though, that I wished
For I needed to be rid - rid of Finals uncertainty -
Loathed banes of my existence, - hurdles 'tween me and my degree -
Without which I'd be carefree.

And the white tantastic gleaming of the sunlight palely streaming
Struck me - filled me with woe for it was setting just after three;
So that now, to soothe my Dixie-yearning heart, I stood repeating
'Damned Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
The Mailer-Daemon blitzing with something else I'll be missing -
In pursuit of grades that please.'

Presently I waxed curious; I had hope, however spurious,
That it might be something worth my precious time to look and see;
So I opened up the missive, of which I'd been ruthlessly dismissive,
And read it with encroaching glee, read it so ebulliently,
That I loosed a hoop and holler - born of utter mischievy -
Oh! The havoc I could wreak.

'Beloved Mailer-Daemon,' quoth I, 'acquaintance, friend, ally,
With the knowledge you've imparted, now begins a blitzing spree.
Forget studies! Hurrah for war! I'll blitzbomb forevermore!
Let me see then, who I might spam: my friends? The Daemon! Yes, he!'
I saw then who I might spam: the author of this strange decree.
I'd do so with poetry.

'Open New,' I asked the server, then typed away with fervor,
At some, carefully rhymed and metered, lines of reciprocity.
As I typed I grinned and muttered, 'My deluge he'll not foresee.'
I wrote, then followed truly the instructions to BCC -
One hundred? Nay! Two hundred? False! I blitzed out three thirty-three.
To: Mailer-Daemon; Love, Me!.

Epistle to a Night, In the Morning, On It's Migration South

The Night descends upon the world
and perches on my windowsill.
It looks like ink and sounds like spring
but I know it for other things.
The Night has known me all my life,
has stayed around through thin and strife;
Night knows me more intimately
than you, myself, or family.
Like clockwork it comes and goes
carrying my dreams, which grow
upon its back in fertile down
of exotic, wondrous, deep dirt brown.
Tap tap upon my windowpane:
flighty Night has come again.
A dream, a dream, and fluttered eyes
recreates my ceilinged sky.
To love means little 'less one can
know that 'yes' will come again:
The Night has known me all my life,
so you may know me as the wife
as one who's spread one's love around
to every city, shire, and town
without e'er breeding jealousy
in the breasts of them or me.
Although I don't excel at sports
Night's taught me well how to deport
at the most crucial game of all
(in play, in love): I play hardball.
I swing. I miss. I hit and run
and sweet my words, 'Tis all in fun,"
stream down my lips like salty lines
which outline my curves from heels to eyes,
for I know Night won't come again
unless I secure a win
for my team, contrived of one:
The ease of strain, labor for fun.
To dream, to dream, to be held tight
in the vast, unspoken night.
Every eternity or so,
winged dreams may come, the sun may go,
but for now Helios climbs
the stairs to his throned sky.
Alas, but then I knew it, too.
I knew he would, and so did you.

p. 12, etc.

I bet the nun in Chaucer's tale wore exciting undergarments.

The gypsy was wrong: I found no divine inspiration in my tea leaves and the caffeine wore off in a matter of minutes. Despite it all, the page before me remains blank.

"Isn't the world a beautiful place?" she said. "I think the world is the most beautiful place I've ever been."

In fact, I've always found math too sour to share with loved ones, so the Alley Cat writes writes writes recipes on post cards and sends them to my apartment in Tulsa. I don't have an apartment in Tulsa, but the feline won't taste a morsel of my cooking anyway.

"You see," I explained, "everything's connected. If I'd ordered sausage instead of mushroom pizza, it wouldn't've rained. Everything's connected."
"I do see," she purred.
"But," (oh how I jumped at this opportunity), "I don't eat meat, so never could we have avoided getting our feet wet."
"Unless we hadn't gone outside," she offered.
"No, if we hadn't gone outside then surely we would have washed them eventually."

A clock with all its numbers on backwards will still tell time perfectly well, but gives the illusion of things going in reverse when read in a mirror.

My mind is like a spoon.

The View from Room 3324

I sleep in a bed where the infirm have lain.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.

Part Two

Twelve years ago I sowed a seed
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.

A Bit of Narcissism

Dan Routh Photography: High School Graduation Congratulations

Pre-Graduation Preoccupation

Below is a column that I wrote for The Courier-Tribune of Asheboro, North Carolina. It will run on the opinions page on Wednesday, June 3rd.

Commencement is a ceremony steeped in tradition. Graduates enter and exit to the march commonly known as “Pomp and Circumstance” that became de rigueur shortly after Yale University included it in the graduation proceedings of 1905. Graduates wear academic regalia that dates back to standards set by ancient universities. Graduates receive diplomas of a style reminiscent of days when they were hand-scribed on thinly stretched animal skin. Academic institutions go to great lengths to ensure that the integrity of commencement is not marred by any disruptive deviations from precedent. As a senior graduating with the Gray Stone Day School class of 2009, I learned to what extent some individuals wish to uphold precedent.
A less famed, but omnipresent, aspect of graduation convention is the dress code for attire worn beneath academicals. Most institutions require formal attire and many institutions issue gender-specific guidelines. According to standard procedure, men are expected to wear slacks and women are expected to wear skirts or dresses with hem lines not below that of the graduation robe. I suspect that not many people are aware of this distinction; I certainly was not until several weeks ago.
While it may seem a petty detail, consider the deeper implications of imposing such restrictions on females: in the history of social oppression, skirts and dresses are the compulsory garb of disenfranchised women; in terms of functionality, the only benefit of such a requirement is displaying a woman’s bare legs for the viewing pleasure of all attendees; and, in regards to logical progression, the next level of dress specifications would not unreasonably be to require that all Arabs wear red cords.
The issue of a female’s right to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire has been a source of debate at Gray Stone for several years. When I first began attending the charter school in 2005, females were disallowed from wearing slacks to school dances. Along with a fellow sophomore, I approached the school administration and successfully saw the policy altered to allow students equal opportunity of attire. The conflict reemerged in the late summer of last year when I chose to wear a tuxedo rather than the traditional feminine drape in my senior portrait. Before I was able to leave, I was obliged to have my portrait taken in a drape for inclusion in the yearbook. Several meetings between my parents and Gray Stone’s chief administrative officer, Mrs. Helen Nance, and a school board meeting later, it was firmly decided that the picture of me in the tuxedo would not permitted in the annual. Disinclined to acquiesce to what I perceive as a groundless restriction, I opted to have no picture at all rather than the portrait in which I am wearing a drape (and, appropriately, looking miserable).
When I approached Mrs. Nance about allowing my female peers to wear pants to graduation, if such is their preference, she cited the need for conformity as an important factor in why we would not be able to do so. For what purpose, I ask? If men and women are as equal in society as we are led to believe, then why must the genders be distinguished by such base means as attire? If education is truly meant to prepare pupils for the future, then why would the ceremony celebrating the culmination of twelve years of diligent study adhere to such antiquated expectations?
Because I have faith in my peers, I put these questions to the student body. For three days I spent mornings, afternoons, lunch periods, and every other moment of spare time circulating a petition stating that female graduates should be permitted to wear formal slacks beneath their graduation robes. Over the course of those three days, I approached approximately ninety percent of Gray Stone’s students; over the course of those three days, I gathered the signatures of nearly eighty-five percent of the student body. Many of my classmates unaware that the policy even existed.
On May 11, my family and I drove to the campus of Pfeiffer University, where Gray Stone is located, to attend the monthly meeting of the school’s board of directors. My father and I addressed the board in support of allowing female graduates the option of wearing slacks and presented the petition with the echoing voices of my classmates. Though they did not make a decision while we were present, I learned the following morning that the board voted to allow women the right to wear pants this year while deferring the establishment of an official policy until a later meeting.
Over the course of this conflict, many well-meaning individuals encouraged me to “go with the flow;” they advised me wear a skirt and leave the battle for someone else. Their intentions were good, but good intentions do not guarantee sound conclusions. One cannot go through life perceiving but ignoring injustices and expect for the world to become any more just. One cannot assume that someone else who cares will come along, or even that anyone else will come along at all.
For me, there was no thrill in challenging the status quo. There was no desire to undermine the formality of graduation. There was not even pleasure in “stickin’ it to the man.” I prefer to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire because I feel that such garb appears more professional; that I or any other woman would be denied that option simply because of gender is well worth confronting simply on the basis of equal opportunity. Hopefully, the board of directors will recognize this and solidify their equalization of the graduation dress code in official school policy.
With a nod to that future, I will march into graduation on June 5th to the drone of “Pomp and Circumstance.” I will don robes in the tradition of generations of scholars before me. I will receive a diploma adorned with commendations and calligraphy. I will observe all the formalities of commencement, but I will do so in pants.

With silence ringing in my ears,
My words, like shirtless cavaliers,
Leap from my lips for all to hear
of your wit, your strength, your sheer
way of being ever-near;
How you're bright, and rare, and dear,
more so even than the most clear
diamonds, more so than a year.
They declare you, simply, my peer.

I dreamt a dream of a dozen leagues
And a meter 'long was he
When I sent it there, where in his care
I oft fly to be free
A week, a month, a minute long
Did it flash before I knew
That I had been where I belong
Since my sweet life was new

POV I: The Girl

"She looks like a mannequin. / As if by law of nature, a stripped woman's body / looks like a mannequin..."

-Aural Heather

I count calories blown and calories spurned.
I run each day and count calories burned.
Each calorie lost is a calorie earned.
To enjoy the hunger- this I have learned.
I keep notes and journals, tallies and logs
about losses and gains, crunches and jogs.
My ass and my arms, my stomach, my thighs:
A few of the parts of me that I despise.
I may eat Mom's cooking, but I purge it away
even if it's all I've tasted today.
Every hour I check to see how much I weigh-
I restrict for a week for each ounce that I gain.
My hip bones are showing, but the fat still hangs on;
it sags from my sides where it doesn't belong.
My obsession is measuring how much is gone.
I starve and I struggle, but always stay strong.

Apathetic apes amassing an amazing amount of Asian apricots aren't allowed annulment allowances.

Bloated bovines bleating beneath burning banners breathlessly breached the border.

Crippled crocodiles carelessly caressing curiously curvaceous candles can't comprehend compassion.

Dawdling dancers dare to drink dirty droughts distilled during democratic demonstrations.

Errant earwigs eavesdrop everywhere, easily evading egomaniacal executioners.

Fugitive fruit flies frequently forgo formal functions.

Gawking gorillas generally glorify gastronomically grandiose garrisons guarding gurus' gardens.

On Being Tired of Scholarship Applications

My graces are sundry, my praises are many
oh, but alas! I'm given a word limit!
For that, I'll be brief: I study my notes,
I'm respectful of teachers, I try not to boast,
I tutor my peers, I do my own work,
of my responsibilities ne'er do I shirk
even the smallest, I listen in lecture,
I think outside the box, I ask "why?" and conjecture,
but my greatest, most glorious grace of them all
is that I find education so enjoyable.

There are things I would the world did know
But, alas, realize it can't be so
For the things I wish to sing and shout
Would do more ill if free without
Than good if loosed from my within
So I stay mum and we stay friends

V

Blonde in a low-cut, mustard-colored suit reading cue cards about the economy. Petition circulating to keep Ginsberg from speaking. Cut to commercial. Brunette in a low-cut dress lauding some bank. Luxury sedan. Beer. Don Juan Smith beat a toddler to death. Senator Bill Purcell of Scotland county wants to make salvia a Schedule I drug. Cut to video of kids on hallucinogen. Back to the economy- Dow Jones, NASDAQ, S&P 500, all down.
Sex. Torture. Sex. Avarice. Death. Drugs. More bad news.
Three minutes of News 14 Carolina.
Not exactly PG-13.

Pregnant woman and a toddler sleeping in front of the laundry mat. Dog on a chain. Teens necking down the alley, waiting for the bus. Hummer filling up at the Texaco. Dog strewn across the highway (blood guts lolling tongue crooked limbs and stench). Driver ahead of me flicks a butt out the window. Homeless man picking up cans.
Sex. Torture. Sex. Avarice. Death. Drugs. More bad news.
Three minutes driving down NC Highway 49.
Not exactly PG-13.

Condom wrapper. Razor blade. Motor running, seats down. Gucci, on the feet waist arm. Hunting fatigues. Cigarettes. (Smoke instead of breakfast.)
Sex. Torture. Sex. Avarice. Death. Drugs. More bad news.
Three minutes walking into school.
Not exactly PG-13.

There's something sinister about a
wind that slides in after nightfall,
particularly if it's also the sort
whose whisper grows to a groan
by supper, groan grows to
a moan by bed-time, and
moan mounts to a shriek by
midnight.

Some things just taste like poetry:
their flavors caress the tongue and
mingle with the breath. They race
through my veins and make every
sense perceive art.
For me, one of these things is
mozzarella cheese.

Part One

Twelve days ago I sowed a seed
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?

On Chicken

There was an old man from Kentucky
who fancied himself rather lucky
so he jumped from a bridge
to prove that he'd live;
afterward he didn't feel quite as plucky.