Aerated banana cohabitation!
Dystopian egregy flocculation!
Gestaltesque hurrumphs iterate joshingly,
knotting liturgical mandates noshingly.
Oxymoronic pretenses quixotic
(For context, see Oct. 29, twent'leven)
relinquish semblance for tacit uknowits.
Vanguard withholding xenagogues yearningly.
Zetetic zitella zenithing, el fin.

Epistle I: To DDS, Of Endive

Nothing so foul as what Tonight you serve,
This vile Vegetable, horrid Hor D'oeuvre,
Palatable when neither hot nor cold,
Ne'er by my Words nor Deeds to be extoll'd.

How many Students pass it up each day,
How many more lack Sense to stay away?
Alongside Fruitstuffs, here, tender and sweet,
Of vibrant Colours, of Nutr'ents replete.
Here Yogurts, with Texture smoothe and creamy,
And there Broccoli, fresh and steamy.
Let them eat Cake, and Steak, and greas'd 'Taters,
Pizza, Burgers, Hot Dogs, Fries, Tomaters.
Or Herbavores may choose such lighter Fare,
As MaPo Tofu, Peas, and roasted Pear,
With sim'ring Sauces and deft Hand prepar'd;
Whether the Student's veg- or Carnivore,
'Longside these Options Endive is abhorr'd.

Why then the Time, Space, and Energy waste,
To present this Plant so awry of Taste,
That it pleases nei'er Masses nor Tongue,
With its Flavor not unlike old horse Dung.

Carrots, better endow'd with Vit'min A,
More often are consum'd, less thrown away,
Agree as Sides to Entrees a-plenty,
As stir-fried Slices and in Salads minty,
Even when smothered with a greasy Paste,
Sugared, buttered, spic'd they're not a Waste:
Because it's so that if the Base is good,
Culinary Abuse may be withstood.
But "good" does not these endive Leaves describe,
Thus cannot Sugar, Butter, Spice ascribe,
Any of their sundry Qual'ties pleasing;
Endive is, in short, a waste of Seas'ning.

How soft the the Flavor! fresh Leaves of Spinach,
The tender Tufts of foliate Plummage:
To me, Callista, prove their own fine Worth,
By extracting such Iron from the Earth,
As can richen Blood with Hemoglobin,
Without which I would wain weak and mopin'.
All Eyes may see the Change within me rise,
With Blood that's rich, my Laughter soars---it flies.
Sure, Endive boasts large amounts of Fiber,
Vitamins E, C, K and other dire
Nutr'ents which would help to sustain its Host,
But that matters little, for it's so gross.

Loath'd Endive, that odious Bane of the salad Bar,
Offends my palate---Aye, it goes too far!
Worse still when served up sickly-yellow, hot,
All limp, and wet, and surely soon to rot.

Students, of sound and stable Judgement, know,
'Tis not worth eating, and so they forego;
Unhappy those who accident'ly take,
Even the smallest Serving on their Plates,
For a Bite once taken in, once chew'ed,
Cannot in polite Company be spew'ed,
Their Tongues may curl, their Lips may well go numb,
But to the Urge to wretch they can't succumb:
For Grace mandates, Decorum straight commands,
That those refin'd, Unpleasantness withstand;
And those refin'd know there's naught else more crude,
Than to at a Table expel one's Food.

Then there are poor Souls taught to clean their Plates,
Who eat all their food, no matter how base;
For these poor Souls I offer up a Pray'r,
And distract myself so as not to stare,
At their Misfortune, at their painful Plight,
As they gulp down each and eve'ry Bite.
Why then Surprise when they loudly declare,
That foco Food they shall henceforth foreswear?

Why pique our Buds with Food that Pleasure brings?
If only to then to dish out Food that stings:
Now deep in our bowels Complaints are mounting,
Which we won't (politely) be recounting.
Conscience should grip you, you should feel Remorse;
But you do not---you're DDS of course.
You value feedback from student Patrons,
Only when receiv'd in a Form that burns.
Or, rather, recycles (#green Init'tive),
Well, here's my Feedback: --insert expletive--,
Endive disgusts, it is not fit to serve,
Whoever does so has a lot of Nerve;
Endive revolts, so bitter and so foul,
Prolong'd Exposure leads to perm'nant Scowl.
We all reject this unfit edible,
And demand Meals more wholesome, credible.
The Tribe has spoken, our Edict is clear:
Besmirched Endive is not welcome here!

Untitled II

Not long like standing three paused-steps outside of your door or long like the catch between breaths that could cascade speech-ways or sigh-ways or impishly my-ways or long like the decades (I swear) we've been lip-locked while civilizations bloomed and burned with rivelets and rust and not even the Romans ruled breadths and depths like those wrapped in our embrace because we sweat for that which we can't touch and touch anyways with hands like oil on skin that is more beautiful than any marble broken into idea(l?)s and write our own religion with strokes of trust and flourishes of why the hell not look like fools and make mistakes and enjoy creating and cleaning up our own messes with these hands cleansed holy by heart to hip to hunger-shudders of shared dominion of bodies we'll only have for a moment and not long like that moment no not long at all.

Untitled I

I would like to whisper to you how you take my breath and fuel my pulse with something more elemental than O2 that flushes my cheeks and tingles my toes and sends my head swimming around and around and around in an amaranthine-ethereal-nonlingual slow-mo samba like cheeks brushing and words touching me where I've never even touched myself and I wear them like garments because at your hands I feel beautiful and at your thought I could flush aching winter with one thousand summers laid end to end like the sun wouldn't set unless we wanted and the stars are things that we can toss into one another's hair like smiles that we bounce from lip to lip and maybe if I hiss my whisper sweetly enough I can tickle your ear and ring your laugh.

Speaking of my bio paper...

I was born in the Hospital Garrahan in Buenos Aires on December 19, 1990. I was a complete breech birth and the woman who delivered me, a Buddhist from South Korea, told my mother that it meant I was a bodhisattva- a wisdom being. My parents chose the Korean word 'rae' as my middle name in her honor (although neither can remember what it means) and from time to time they still call me 'little lotus-eater.'

My parents met near Port San Carlos in the Falkland Islands. My mom was there on U-Chicago's photography foreign study program and my dad was stranded. He'd gone as a Baptist missionary intent on converting indigenous peoples through rudimentary hand gestures and drawings. Upon arrival he was surprised to find that the majority of the population not only spoke English, but also already practiced some form of Christianity. Rather than rebound by converting them all to his kind of Christianity, he promptly converted to Sikhism. Upon learning of his transgression the First United Baptist Church withdrew sponsorship and refused to finance his return to the United States. Recently-graduated English major that he was, he couldn't afford the trip himself and so settled down to studying Punjabi and doing freelance landscaping work.
One morning in mid-March my mom rose early and left her host family's home with the Nikon F4 on loan from her local paper. After a few hours of photographing sheep and Magellanic Penguins she wandered towards the seaside to eat her picnic breakfast. As she neared the coast her surroundings became more distinctly boggy and an eerie chanting floated on the cool-ish autumn air.
"Ik oankar sat nam karta..."
Seated on a protruding rock in the middle of a pool of bog water was my dad, now donning a long beard. My mom wondered at how he'd managed to reach his perch without wetting his clothing and determined to wait for him to finish his recitation in order to introduce herself. A full hour passed before my dad opened his eyes to the blond college student seated on the bank across from him.
Did she ever find out how he made it across without wetting his clothes? Well.. I happened about nine months later.

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.