A Moment In My Life

            Sitting on the toilet I briefly realized the beauty of owning a mind. I was reading a bit about Tolstoy’s life, how he broke with Church dogma and rewrote the Bible to exclude any reference to the miraculous nature of his conception and resurrection. Based on my background and the place I was raised, I should have an automatic reaction to reject this as heretical or even lunatic. But instead I wanted to know more. My mind felt like it was a sunny meadow where any ideas could come like bighorn sheep and chew the grass or spend the night.

Breaking News: Shots Fired, I-5 Closed

            The police crouched behind their patrol cars, knees stiff from staring into the college campus for so long. Newsmen anxiously peered around the police perimeter, trying to find any bits of information about the suspect or police activity. Twenty or more shots had been fired around 9:45, probably from a large automatic weapon. Somewhere between the police on the freeway and the unknown area was a notorious homeless camp. Snipers, SWAT trucks, and officers ran in continuously. The men and women on the news channels stammered as they tried to figure out what was going on while they reported it.

Bam

Bam chicka chicka BAM boom boom rat tat tat tat tat ch pa sh pa sh sh sh ch pa sh pa sh sh sh BAM chicka BAM BAM pffffffffffffffffffffffft kitcha kitcha kitchhhh boom boom bam zsssssst
“Well that was impressive.”
“Bam bam BAM. Bam.”
“Are you quite finished?”
Bam chicka chicka BAM boom boom rat tat tat tat tat ch pa sh pa sh sh sh ch pa sh pa sh sh sh BAM chicka BAM BAM pffffffffffffffffffffffft kitcha kitcha kitchhhh boom boom bam zsssssst
“Son, this is great and all, but I need to—“
“Shhhhhhhchicka chicka boom boom BAM.”

OCD With Mind Powers

            Ripping cracks from the pavement isn’t so hard as it seems. See, I want the roots of my feet to be connected to a simple, unbroken expanse, and that starts on the sidewalks. If I can just tread without the pervading sense that I may step on a juncture, a crack in the world below me, at any moment, my movements will glide and swoop freely. So I use my mind to rip the cracks from the pavement, leaving the weedless, formless, undulating expanse that I so love to imagine beneath me. Anything seems possible with my perfectly simple mind.

Bats

For all your philosophizing, you’re just like a bat. When you venture out to fly, you touch nothing but air, and for all you think about things that might be incomprehensible or life-altering, you cannot see them. Your system of thought is nothing but echolocation; you sound out the objects looming around you but never alight on them to explore them with your delicate wings. When you tire of flapping blindly, you return to your cave and the roost you’ve been using your entire life. And the crazy thing is, despite my cynicism, I’m a bat too, just like you.

My favorite kinds of epiphanies are the kinds that aren’t epiphanies at all

My favorite kinds of epiphanies come at a time when you least expect them to, and when it happens they aren’t cathartic. But by definition, epiphanies can’t really be subtle, either. And they aren’t. They hit you like a splash of water on a hot day, the shock--an aftertaste. And it’s funny because you’d been searching to find some sort of light, any light. You’d even turned your back on it, hoping to stumble upon something grand. But it’s the moment after you think you’ve given up that the epiphany trots over to you, wagging it’s tail in welcome.

Some Ideas

Stereo system is short for system of stereotypes

If each word coming out of the radio plastered itself on our faces, we’d be tattooed unnatural black

The latest television shows, like all the ones before, won’t allow us time to think

That’s why television is short for vision without telekinesis

We’re lucky we have food and a skin system to remind us of our corporeality

Though the media marginalizes us, you still exist

What things could we build with our minds if they were unconstrained by ideas injected into us

Carefully pull the programming needles out of your head, soon

Guest Post: David Roxas

Dear Monitor,

I have George Michaels's "Careless Whisper" on my mind. Why? Lara wouldn't stop singing lyrics from the song when I saw her. She would also dance to it, so now, there’s an additional image attached to the song. I say additional because two of my classmates from San Diego apparently love to have sex to this particular song, in which they decide to tell me about it due to the fact that I’m the only one, teacher included, whose ears haven't started to bleed due to their tales of angry depressed, shoes-always-on sex to "Careless Whisper".

Writer,

Mitch

The Infamous Slightly Disembodied Keyboardist

            Ya know my distended arms stickin out of my sockets reachin to the keyboard and tappin out some monstrous rhythm for the singer to sing on top of. Its life on a stage man. My disembodied body comin up with these ridiculous brilliant pieces of sound all put together in a sequence, its like im traded my completeness for a body that does everything automatic. Come on rhythm come on listeners lets hope the arms know what to do since i cant even say theyre my own fingers any more. Ya lucky for me theyre attached to me somewhere tho.

A Certain Unruly Piglet (Pt. 2)

            I’ll leave some of the story out, my friend, but when we return we find that the straight-tailed, somewhat confused piglet has grown into a pig, and he has escaped the pigsty! A lot has happened, that is sure, for there he is, grazing among the horses with his tail straighter than ever. The old hogs still sometimes poke their noses through the slatted fence and then shake those noses in consternation as they peer into the pastures. But the piglet is happy, and his moral is our moral too: sometimes the only thing to do is to escape!

A Certain Unruly Piglet (Pt. 1)

            You see, my friend, there once lived an unruly piglet with a peculiarly straight tail. The wise, fat hogs all said the same thing to him, to concentrate his tiny tail muscles on the beautiful art of curving and if that didn’t work, use a curling iron. But the more the piglet tried to follow their advice, the more he started thinking maybe he liked his straight tail. In fact, it became very useful for fly-swishing. The piglet wondered and blundered around the pigsty each day with his straight tail while the hogs conjectured solutions from their muddy old minds.

On a field in summer

It had been a year.

Maybe two.

And now ‘twas the afternoon.

Warm sun, patchy grass, a gingham blanket

and territory just newly discovered.

It was like

Taking a first drink after parched throats and--

No, it was like coming up for air

And—it was like falling,

Falling into mouths and noses and smiles

So familiar, but so new and refreshing.

Like coming home again.

Without time or purpose or end.

They laughed.

Smirked, even.

It was right under our noses,

he said.

And it took us this long.

Eyes closed, they smiled in the shadow of their figures.

Plum Perpetuation

            When the space aliens came, they were especially interested in plums. “So you’re telling me,” one said to me as he wiped purple juice off his mouth area and held up a pit, “that this has everything it needs to create a tree that will create hundreds more of these?”
            “Yes,” I replied.
            “It’s astounding and unbelievable! With such an exponential plum growth rate, the whole planet should be plum trees!”
            For hours I tried to explain reproduction.
            Though they still didn’t understand the concept of plum perpetuation when they left, planet earth now has a lively interstellar plum trade.

Red Sun

There were no other words to describe it—that the sun was red. It was red and glowing and big. It stood, hanging by the horizon, waiting to engulf the world with everything in it. To swallow all earthly life in flare and flash. The world was scared, as it should have been, but it was not the apocalypse, nor was it salvation. It was just heat and life and death. And as they drove on into the burning amber sky, they thought, how wonderful it is to be with these people in this space in this moment. To just be.

Ode To Simplicity

Simplicity, you are like a stone.
You exist, and that’s all.
Simplicity, you are the knowledge
That I am the world
And the world is me.
You don’t ask any questions.
You don’t answer any questions.
There are no questions.
Simplicity, you are my daydreams
When existence really means
Simply to exist.
I know the world,
With its systems and diversity and people,
Is really a simple place.
Simplicity, you know it too.
You’re never hiding,
Just floating like oxygen molecules,
Expectant and unchanging,
Leading me through each day.
Simplicity, you are like a stone.
You exist and that’s all.

Declaration

            I’m so surrounded by pure, simple beauty, why would I cloud my life with false beauty? People tell me with their actions that here is something worth chasing, but I’ve chased you and I’ve caught you and now I will release you. You distract me from the simple, ancestral ways of experiencing life. No more, I’m free! Today I can be content alone, walking down the sidewalk as morning sunrays warm the city around me. I need nothing more, for I am impervious to your labyrinthine ways. You may be sex, possessions, fame, power, or status. It does not matter.

Things We See In The Clouds

Herd of buffalo
Charging rhinoceros
Trumpeting elephant
T-rex/Fire-breathing dragon
Piglet with a long snout
Pac Man
Tidal wave rolling over the hill
Stegosaurus with a mouse head/Snail looking at us
Pinocchio laying on his stomach
Kangaroo giving us the stinkeye
A marshmallow invasion
Man throwing invisible javelin
Two T-rex’s in a row
Octopus/Tent
Jackrabbit
Cuba
Running Mexican with a sombrero and long white beard
A train with its smoke flowing behind
Cinderella’s carriage/Crab
Calvin and a Venus flytrap/Evolution drawing
Turkey/Sneezing snail/Flying brontosaurus
Ripples/Genie lamp
Stampede of mustangs
Gorilla holding a laser gun

The Tunnel Poet

            Maybe music is the key to life, she sprayed onto the tunnel wall. Maybe children. Maybe love. Too-bright headlights suddenly invaded the tunnel, and she turned so that it looked like she was smoking.

            The car had stopped. She peeked over her shoulder, and the policeman was reading the wet paint, shaking his head. “Did you write this?”

            “Yes officer.”

            “Unfortunately, this is illegal. Have you finished?”

            “Not yet, officer.”

            The stood in silence for a long time.

            “This tunnel needs a poet, sir.” And she sprayed as he watched, Or maybe we should all forget about keys to life.

A Children's Story (Please Imagine The Illustrations)

Louise found a string lying on the sidewalk.

She picked up the waiting end. It was wispy and purple.

It was a long string and it led her down the sidewalk.

She followed the string into a park.

Around an old statue.

And up into a tree with a round tire swing.

Suddenly the string was yellow.

It led Louise through a crowded city square.

Without the thin string, she would have gotten lost.

Today Louise is still following the string.

Hand over hand.

It has changed colors many times.

And led her into more fabulous places than she can remember.

On the run--an 800 (approximately) word preview of a short story I am writing

Sorry I haven't been posting 100 words. I've been writing a short story though, and here's a bit of it:

Fiona Wiffenberg was the daughter of Elisabeth Wiffenberg, who was the daughter of Priscilla Wiffenberg, renowned haute couture designer of Wiff. For generations, the Wiffenbergs had lived in Los Angeles, California, for they disliked volatile weather conditions, especially wind. Wind was the worst element. Because of their fortune, Priscilla—and subsequently Elisabeth, had brought up their daughters in the most protected conditions. This was not to say they were sheltered, oh no. Fiona had traveled all over the United States by the time she was ten-years-old and to Paris, France and London, England where they had summer homes.

Currently, it was nine o’clock in the morning on the 25^th of May. The weather was sunny and hot, a perfect 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Fiona was bleach blond this month, a ripe age of twenty-six-years-old, and freshly showered from her morning yoga class. She practiced yoga every morning at the same studio that Elle S., the famous popstar practiced at.

Elle S., born as Lisa Kristin Smith, was originally a mousy-looking girl with streaky hair from Lodi, California—one of the more hick places on the Western coast of the United States. Five years back, she had won a weeklong trip to Morocco on a radio show contest. When she came back, she died her hair a luscious chocolate brown, refused to wear anything but what she called “harem pants” or the traditional belly dancer garb. She started practicing yoga, having weekly appointments with an acupuncturist, and giving talks around the world about her new found mysticism. The fad caught on and she became the spirit and mystic of botox bimbettes and nouveau riche everywhere. Not to mention the giant deal she just landed with Stopper Records, owned by none other than Fiona Wiffenberg’s fiancé.

Fiona decided to stop at her apartment before going to work (she was busy making a new lingerie line for their dear family friend Coco Chanel), perhaps to have a wheatgrass shot with Eric—Eric Stopper, that is. They were due to be married in the three months. It was about time, too, thought Fiona, as “Moroccan Goddess” blared on her car stereo. They had been dating for two years already, and she couldn’t bear to think of still being single at thirty.

She loved him enough. He did things for her no other boyfriend had done, things that made her little diamond-encrusted, 24-karat gold heart melt a little. He would buy her something the instant after she expressed any interest for it and have it delivered to her office with roses, always yellow for forever. She also found that no other man had really been able to satisfy her sexual thirst. Fiona had been sexually realized from a very young age. Ever since she could remember actually.

She was quite surprised to see Elle S.’s periwinkle blue hummer in the driveway. Don’t worry though; it was the smaller, more “environment” model. Elle S. had recently made a public statement against cars that looked like boxes. Bad feng shui.

“Eric, honey, I’m home! Want a wheatgrass shot? I just thought I’d stop by before work,” Fiona shouted as she stepped into the very modern and very white foyer of their luxurious flat. Their two chow chows, Dolce and Gabby, swarmed around her feet, barking hysterically.

“Hello munchkins, please don’t step on mommy’s toes, they’re freshly pedicured.”

Hm. No answer. Maybe he was in the recording studio. She went downstairs to check, noting the picture frames by the stairs, perfectly portraying their love for each other. They had just had a black and white photo shoot the week before as an engagement present from Annie Leibovitz.

Before Fiona opened the door, she knew. Eric was in the recording studio indeed. As was Elle S. Both going at it like their perfectly groomed chow chows on the velvet covered floor. She had to admire how high the bitch could arch her back—must be the years of yoga and meditation, but oh god, is that was Eric looked like when he was screwing her? It was like watching a crippled dog miscalculating a piss on a tree. She almost chuckled at this, but was immediately brought back into the moment as the two loveshits (Fiona loved birds, but hated their byproducts) finally noticed an intruder into their steamy activity.

“Oh God. Fiona, it’s not what it looks--”

But unfortunately Fiona was also PMSing quite badly, so there wasn’t really enough time to even talk about what she thought he looked like. Instead, she took the closest blunt object (a lamp, in this case) and bashed her fiancé over the head. Eric got knocked unconscious, Elle S. screamed and ran upstairs.

Fiona was slightly aghast at what she had done. Would she go to jail for this? Surely her mother and the rest of the civil world would judge her for eternity. It was then she decided to flee. But to where?

Ruins

As I walk around the ancient marble with intricate carvings and the delicate paint on plaster, I have to wonder to myself, will the people 3000 years from now—if mankind still exists—be walking around in my ruins? Will they criticize the crude workmanship of our houses, wonder how we lived this way? Will they marvel at our traditions? Or will the memories of our time eclipse tangible objects, instead opting to highlight us as the digital era? Shall Blogs and Facebook become the fossils and stone tablets? Will digital archaeologists decipher html and code instead? Who knows, who knows.

Getting The Hint

Welcome to the ghettos
A hundred and four square people
Cracking like donut boxes inside
Come along for the ride
Or maybe the concrete leaves figments
Like the steam from smokestacks
And leaves you hovering
Abandoned in a corn field
Wondering where the people and rooms
Have melted under the ground
Stand up! Look around!
Kids are scribbling their names
Until ink drips from the rusted gutters
The easels sing sad syncopated rhythms
To the top floors of buildings
Where windows wait wide open
Ready to crash to the ground
And swallow you like breath mints
You getting the hint?

Swing Set

            I remember the swing set where I fell and cut open both of my knees. Funny thing is, I don’t remember the pain, just a kind of fascination and terror at the dirty blood that seeped out. Same way I don’t really associate the emotion of happiness with my memories of you, but instead the little feelings that happened one time or another, like the time I got chills from the spray of a fountain though the day was hot. Of course I can recite the facts of what happened, but in my mind memories perpetuate themselves strangely and incompletely.

Affirmation

Lovely lovely lovely you look lovely
Intelligent intelligent intelligent you sound intelligent
Smoothly smoothly smoothly you walk smoothly
Sense sense sense you exude sense
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
Parties parties parties you ignite parties
Inspiration inspiration inspiration you are inspiration
Vivaciously vivaciously vivaciously you live vivaciously
Limits limits limits you exceed limits
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
Recklessly recklessly recklessly you cavort recklessly
Simply simply simply you smile simply
Brightly brightly brightly you work brightly
Spunk spunk spunk you evoke spunk
You you yeah you, you you yeah you
You! You! Yeah! You!

The Subway Ride

            Everyman tucked a worn copy of Chuang Tse’s writings into his bookbag as an onslaught of people crammed into the subway. A man with plastic bag hair and bare calves full of Botox pressed up next to him. Disgusted, Everyman turned away and fumbled his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, only to have it snatched away by the man’s taco-stained fingers. “Secondhand smoke,” the man snarled. “You should know better.” At each stop they were pressed tighter together, the air was becoming clogged with plastic. At his stop Everyman could not even force his way off the subway.

Unemployed And Homeless Someday

Oh what are you majoring in?

Critical studies of people like you. It’s very interesting.

Each summer she burned certain sets of notes and flipped through others, mostly for the doodles and ideas in the margins.

And, um, what would you plan on doing with that?

Looking at butterflies all day every day. AKA unemployed and homeless.

She often got restless. Undoubtedly she loved her life, but in the weeks when one season changed into the next, all kinds of yearnings and half-thought-out plans rose in her. She couldn’t resist it.

Well that sounds incredible. That’s great to hear.

To Listen More Closely

            Why can I not draw the same meaning, the same humanity, from artificial things as I can from those produced and sculpted by nature? It is natural for me to become Neruda, to write lines such as “fleshy heart of hazelnuts” that ponder the mysticism of objects around me. But on a plane, in a hotel’s lobby, all of the objects that are manufactured for specific purposes fail to converse with me as dreamers in that way. Though certainly they exist, they seem dead, inert.

            But my heart refuses to believe it! If only I could listen more closely, or...

Angry Outburst

            After a vexing day, it was the last straw. She kicked off her sandals and immediately slammed her toe into the doorjamb. Screeching, she hopped into her bedroom in a whirl of anger, pain, and exhaustion.

            He looked up from his computer and, seeing such a wrathful visage, tried to catch her in his arms. Instead, she punched him in the chest and flopped onto the bed, berating him for things he couldn’t remember doing. Soon it got personal. His rage grew until he couldn’t contain it, but when he finally retorted, she had trailed off into tired, broken sobs.

Biking

            That day I passed through several towns, but preferred to spend most of my time on the tree-lined roads that stretched through wheat fields. I would get off my bike every hour or so to walk around in the fields, trying to stir up mice or grasshoppers. I was far in the European countryside, and only rarely did little old cars zoom past. The sky was a patchwork of clouds, and I was perfectly content to abandon all thoughts of my writings. When darkness finally fell, I found a strip of trees under which I could pitch my tiny tent.

Risen From The Sea

            The jellyfish are dancing on the world’s currents as storm clouds rise from the sea. Lightning could strike the cabins lining the shore or the trees on the hills beyond, and when the dark gray air becomes embroiled with the smog wafting out of our cities, the mixture in the sky forms spirals and shapes never seen on earth. Little boys run madly with sticks thrust upwards like spears. All sparks are invisible. For long moments even the grass forgets its desire to grow and wonders at the power of the air. A lonely radio sounds like incessant, curving waves.

Ode To A Cup Of Tea

            Should I write an ode to the cup of tea steaming on my desk? A soliloquy for the things it represents and the ways I’m jealous of its existence? Or should I write that as it steams its level drops and the tea becomes more concentrated? Would that hurt its feelings, cheapen its outlook on life? How can I fit syllables to the chipped blue porcelain and tranquil liquid within? If it could write, what would it say? Has it ever dreamed or wondered at something or been angry or fallen in love?

            Maybe I’ll just enjoy sipping it instead.

A Familiar Scene

            The scene was just as he had remembered, though he had so fervently expected something to be different. Janson was holding court over the pool table, guffawing and gesticulating as he shot. Robbins smoked at the bar and harangued the government.

            He sat at the end of the bar and the truth was, it was comforting to be back in a place so unchanging. None of the men and women he had chattered with so often would recognize him now, but as he gazed around it struck him that though he had changed, it was nice that others had not.

Our Argument

            I argue with you not for your benefit, but for mine. I’m more trying to convince myself that I’m right than convince you. The ideas in my head are forever shooting over and around each other so that it takes a lot of effort to present them. That is why I am not articulate. I am content to let you live your life as long as you’re not hurting anyone, but I’m not content to let my own thinking stagnate. Thank you for our argument. I only wish I could completely make you understand the way I grasp these things.

To Make Something

            The sculptor felt his clay getting into the creases of his hands as he kneaded it. He thrilled at the feeling. To make something! It was almost as if the clay were rubbing back against his hands, massaging and preparing them for the delicate work ahead. When both hands and clay were ready, he began.

            The workshop was simple and ready early in the morning, the shelves filled with the creations of mornings past like dreams recorded and set on museum pedestals. The air was bright and filled with dust particles as the sculptor explored and dreamed with his hands.

Future Sporcle Quizzes

Name the First Ladies’ middle names
Name the numbers used in binary
Name the top ten hot dog eating individuals in New York State (per year)
Name every ingredient in the Twinkie
Name the top-ten pickup lines of all time (as compiled by some random dude in some random bar)
Name the 6+ billion inhabitants of the world
Identify the minor Herman Melville characters
Complete the lyrics to “Lowrider”
Name the stars
Name the words that begin and end with ‘Q’
Name the major stars in our solar system
Name the more productive things you could be doing right now

Life As A Mushroom

            Life is nice as a mushroom. The forest is peaceful all day and at night you can lean over onto a soft bed of fallen leaves. When it rains the branches high above you soften the fall of the drops. Yes, there is little to worry you when you are a mushroom in a forest. The animals may gaze on you as they walk by, and you can’t believe it when you learn that the massive trees are alive, just like you. The sight of a line of ants makes you happier than just about anything else you know exists.

A Meal

            “I would like ten cranberries,” he said wistfully.

            The cashier marched him to the fruit aisle, put ten shivering cranberries in his withered hand, and marched him back to the checkout.

            “And,” he added with a careful twist of his moustache, “four cucumbers.”

            She glared from under her visor.

            He began didactically and grew animated. “The cranberries for the juice, the cucumbers for the salad, eggs and ham and bread and cheese for my meal!” He finished triumphantly.

            The cashier groaned piteously. “Sir, if you’ll collect the items yourself – ”

            He fingered the cranberries and bellowed, “Well what about my meal?!”

Longing

            The cobblestones were lifeless, impenetrable beneath the bench on which he sat. The city’s feeling of rising sounds and evening lights blended with his own small aura of longing. He knew he was small, and though he missed her, his longing would be solitary. For who would share it with him? A planet paved in cobblestones separated her from him, and in the endless atmosphere his longing dissipated. People walked by in pairs or alone, treading with foreign thoughts and movements. His head slowly sunk to his chest, no longer thinking of her, and he entered into a contented sleep.

Trilobites

            “Ah yes,” said the curator as he rubbed his thumb over the fossil the amateur paleontologist had handed him. “A fine trilobite, we’ll have it. Come.”
            They walked through the museum’s main hall, down a narrow staircase, and into the catacomb-like storerooms. These were dark, vaulting rooms with mazes of filing units with long thin drawers.
            “Here is our trilobite room,” said the curator. “We have over one thousand fossils, only a fraction of which are ever displayed.”
            The amateur paleontologist looked around in awe, creaking open drawers. “Why take mine?”
            “We are capturing the world in one place. Isn’t it amazing?”

Flowing To The Same Rhythm

            The orator lingered on the last few syllables, shouted his refrain one last time, and walked resolutely off the podium. The crowd transformed from rapturous attention to frenzy in an instant, forming a wall of sound built of claps, shouts, then thudding feet as a flailing mass moved forward through the narrow street. Each voice carried its own gravity. They stepped deliberately up to the heavy doors of the capital and hammered them with their thick fists, each with blood flowing to the same rhythm, blood from a myriad of ancestors. High in the building, a lonely man listened impassively.

The Evergreens

            A tree had fallen in the forest and in the space it left a young maple was growing. Winter was approaching and like every year, it wished its leaves would not crinkle and fall. For each broad leaf that fell, a shiver ran through the smooth trunk and into the roots. The other trees noticed and tried to console the maple, but nothing they said helped. Throughout winter it got a hollow look and heaved long sighs; the songbirds avoided its lonely limbs. To be an evergreen. Finally spring came, the snow melted and the maple lifted its head again.

Baseball Gloves

On a desk lie thirteen baseball gloves,
Each is leather and all are worn.
How many hands have been thrust into each?
How many questing hands?
What did the hands dream of inside the mitts?
Baseball in sun, baseball in rain.
Calloused hands with bones and dreams
That flew or broke in floating streams.
In each glove their memory might linger.
In each scuff, each fingerhole, were ideas.
Questing fingers and dreaming bones of calloused palms.
Sun or rain fingers different or the same.
Leather is skin that feels each break;
The worn gloves now give the desk their weight.

Lyrics

I can tap the rhythm into our faces
Move our veins to all different places
Trace with the ink dripping out of my mind
Cookies and smiles and mirrors left behind
 
We’ll spin our spectacles
Into trash receptacles
Paddle our canoes
With empty shoes
 
The beaches are waiting with coconuts dropping
The mountains are waving without ever stopping
Though hard wooden floors need a good mopping
The fish in their scales come in the boat flopping
 
Though we look quite different
I must admit
You with your carpets
Me with my mints
 
Life’s not so boring without anything at all

Destroy The Seed?

            Johnny sat and thought. It was a hot day; a breeze moved the clouds across the clear sky. He wanted to replay each word the reverend had said that morning so that he could agree or disagree in his mind with each facet of the sermon, but the rustling of the grass and the birds’ chirpings produced such a strong effect on his mind that none of his thoughts went very far. Finally he abandoned his attempts to make sense of what he had heard and embraced the air’s simple, caressing movements. Still, a seed-like guilt shaded his mind.

Wedding Bazaar

            I was twenty-one when my parents took me to the wedding bazaar. They brought our grizzled reverend and wove through the trampled grass paths until we reached the appropriate amphitheater for my family’s status.
            Uncertain girls would appear on the platform between beaming parents.
            “Starting dowry 2000! Fluent in French! Great heritage!”
            The reverend whispered in my father’s ear as hours passed and marriage after marriage was purchased.
            He pointed, our bidding card was raised, a restrained applause rippled out, and that was that.
            The next time I saw her was at my wedding. Finally, that night, we felt relieved.

The Contest

He whinnied at her, rearing into the air with clenched fists for hooves. She cackled, a witch’s mean, mocking cackle. He whistled, sweet and low. She rat-tat-tatted like a bebe gun on the loose. He sighed, audibly and pitifully enough to turn even the cranky barista’s head. She giggled like a little girl divulging the latest gossip by the lockers. He scoffed at her with his nose turned so high up that she could see the bogies clinging to his brown nose hair. She snorted. He snorted back. She kissed his nose, twizzling and tickling. He laughed. She smiled. Touché.

The Disco Age

Robert was an old man. He was losing his hearing, his memory, and all control of his bowels. His kids and grandkids often visited to tell him stories, but after awhile he would forget to put his hearing aids in, and after awhile he’d stop asking them to repeat words and just nodded. His one remaining passion was disco music. Alone in his tiny house, he’d blast the stuff, feeling passionate as he once did, his tired joints crackling to the beat. And he’d take his glasses off—his sight was going, too, and suddenly the whole world was a disco ball.

Ode to the Fat Man

O Fat Man

I see you wiping perspiration from your gullet,

large as a frog’s and as bulbous, too.

Take a break, O Fat Man

For these marble steps are slippery and fierce

Waiting for a chance to bounce you on your cushy bottom

The sun’s beating down, O Fat Man

And your fat wife seems parched and famished

So stop awhile to gobble and glug

Chew, chew, O Fat Man

For swallowing chunks whole does no one good

And no one wants to see digestive pyrotechnics

Now drown that grease down with some caloric beverage

And go, go again

I love you this much

I love you like a fat man loves his dollar value meals.

I love you as much as a menopausal woman sticks her head in the fridge every day.

I love you like a CEO loves his blackberry.

I love you as much as fish remember after two seconds.

I love you like a person with OCD loves that 56^th handwashing.

I love you as much as Easy Mac needs paprika.

I love you like a preppy white chick loves her Uggs.

I love you like emo kids love bangs.

I love you as much as a crackwhore loves crack…and sex.