Jot

Child

2011-06-22T23:07:00.001-04:00

I stepped into my son's room tonight, after he had gone to sleep. Light from the bathroom cast odd shadows but lit his little face gently and perfectly. It was raining out, and the gentle patter had that odd calming effect. Like a fuzzy blanket that seems to cut off the outside world in a false sense of isolation.
It's a cliche, to watch a child sleep, and to feel the various emotions that haunt all parents: love, affection, fear, anxiety, curiosity, etc. Tonight I was humbled. Many children can ultimately sleep anywhere, if they are tired enough. But as adults we often need to know we are in a safe environment in order to sleep, and sleep deeply. His stalwart slumber, even as I touched his hand and adjusted his blanket, was still an honor to my sense of being a good parent.

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Splits #1

2011-05-04T13:08:00.001-04:00

I've been slapped in the face with a reality, of late, and it's reached the point I can no longer go without speaking about it.

In the last couple weeks, I have borne witness to at least 2 or 3 instances of what I'll call Kid Swap. It always occurs somewhere neutral and convenient, like a gas station or a CVS. Two parents meet at such a location, one with a child or children in tow, and the other with an empty car seat. The parents exchange custody of the child, there's some awkward conversation, and everyone leaves.
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Death of a Salesman

2011-05-03T00:03:00.002-04:00

I find it both hard to believe, and amazingly predictable, the reaction that has met the news that Bin Laden has been located and killed. Many in our country, unsurprisingly, are a mix of relieved, joyous, or downright delighted.

Have we already forgotten the teachings of Martin Luther King Jr, and Gandhi? That to hate another, no matter how heinous their actions are (or to be completely philosophically neutral, how heinous they may seem), is in itself a mark against us and our humanity? Perhaps the simple teaching of Eleanor Roosevelt, who told us (paraphrasing) that only we can give another person permission to dictate how we feel? This premise was echoed by Stephen Covey in his book, "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People." Only we can decide how we feel and how we act on those feelings. To cede that right to another person, whether we love or hate them, is to admit defeat to that person.
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Art

2009-06-24T21:27:00.004-04:00

Watching SYTYCD (So You Think You Can Dance... if we are friends, you should know that). A judge made the comment that the piece did not create a story, or that it did not have a set story with it. It meant that this particular judge created the story in their mind as they were watching.

This made me think about the art that we all present to our various audiences, readers, viewers, etc etc.
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Featured Work: Mountain and Squirrel

2009-01-17T20:46:00.003-05:00

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter
“Little prig.”
Bun replied,
“You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Peom

2009-01-17T17:40:00.002-05:00

I wrote this poem for an exercise in a writing class (Freshman Comp, not a creative or poetry class). The exercise involved writing a poem about one of many topics (mine was the local drunk who was thrown in jail overnight). We were supposed to include lots of details. All I remember is getting excited about the weird, disjointed rhyme scheme...

I awake a little,
Spittle by my eye.
Sleep, it was so sound,
Found in a bottle of Rye.

Crusty eyes crack a slit,
Wit once fast, is dusty.
My tongue, before, so quick,
Thick now, and quite rusty.

Bed here is none too soft,
Oft found in cells of lead.
This cell I’m in now fills
To gills with fear and dread.

Last night hard to recall,
A fall, then journey fast.
In back of Bob’s cop car,
Far from my felonious cast.

Lurch now to bars from bed,
Head pounding like the surf.
What crime could be more base
To face, than peeing on a Church?!

Featured Work

2009-01-14T18:24:00.001-05:00

I memorized this poem (although I frequently transpose the middle stanzas by accident when reciting it) a long time ago after reading it. I think the moral at the end is worth deep consideration.

The Blind Men and the Elephant
John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

The First approach'd the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, -"Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me 'tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
"What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain," quoth he,
"'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Then, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant
Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So oft in theologic wars,
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

Featured Work

2009-01-08T20:11:00.002-05:00

There is nothing I can say to enhance this piece.

Jabberwocky
By Lewis Carroll

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Very short story

2008-12-30T16:06:00.002-05:00

A gentleman by the name of Mr. Northern posted a challenge on Six Sentences! I took him up on it, and I liked it so much I decided to cross-post it here!!! Look out in the future (mebbe) for an expanded version! Go here for the original version posted on 6S...

Ed lived on a hill that was slowly, but surely, sinking into the nearby swamp, and everyone on the hill wanted Ed to stop the sinking, but he told them to "shove off." The Village Wise Man (whose brother was, by a twist of irony, the Village Idiot), gave Ed a pair of Teflon stilts and a crash course on stilt walking, so that Ed could walk safely through the swamp. In the swamp, Ed found a talking frog who told him how to find his way to the cave of the Evil Wombat, whose magic was making the swamp grow up around the hill. At the Cave, Ed and the frog (whose name was William Augusto Montenegro, but who preferred to be called Jim) snuck up on the sleeping Wombat and beat him to death with the stilts. Ed returned to the village, where he found the Evil Wombat's friend, the Evil Badger, who challenged him to a stilt-duel, at which the Evil Badger was an expert. Ed recalled the teachings of the Village Idiot (who was also an expert in the use of stilts, and had given Ed secret training at night while his brother, the Village Wise Man, slept) and defeated the Evil Badger; The Evil Badger repented of his Evil ways and with his dying breath, the Formerly Evil Badger told Ed the location of his stash of teflon-coated stilts, with which Ed could lead the villagers to a safer hill, or maybe somewhere that wasn't surrounded by an evil, enchanted swamp.

Short Story

2008-12-18T11:32:00.005-05:00

I have no idea how my twisted mind came up with this pseudo-parody. I hope that SOMEone reads this and gets what the theme/inspiration for this story is...

---------------------------------------------

Sid's was a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar on Main street. You could always count on it to have tepid beer and a sawdust floor. A lean man with a cane was sitting in the corner, smoking a thin cigar. A man dressed in a dark pea coat and skullcap walked in and sat down without being invited and put down a silver coin that had a chunk cut out of the edge.
Astan glanced at the coin and sniffed slightly.
- You're late.
- You give bad directions.
Astan gave Rudy a sharp look.
- Watch your tone, you have no idea the shit I'm getting for adding you to the mix. You have no paper credentials, no street credentials, and little skill to show for your promotion.
Rudy sat quietly. He wasn't happy about hearing these things, but they were truth, and they both knew it. Everyone knew it. Everyone who mattered, at least.
- This place stinks, where's HQ?
Astan looked at Rudy like he was a moron.
- You'll have to get those movie-clip ideas out of your head. I am HQ; wherever I am, that's HQ.
Rudy brooded silently for a few minutes. Astan really looked at him for the first time. He was a nondescript looking man of middling years, although that was hard to judge on Rudy's face. He had a nasty-looking skin affliction that left a blotchy rash-like red mark that ran across his forehead, and down around his nose.
- The rest of my team doesn't even know about you, yet, but I brought you on board for a very specific reason. I don't need a ninth member, but you have something I need.
Rudy waited.
- One of our most elusive targets invited Gregor Simpish to his upcoming holiday party. The two have never met, but Dr. Simpish is known for a red birthmark on his face. Few know what it looks like. Yours will get you past security and into our target's mansion.
- Why not send one of yours? You must be able to fake the mark.
- It would be detected by security. We cannot afford that kind of exposure.
Astan paused.
- Go ahead, I can handle it.
- Fine. Its highly likely that an assassin inside that house will not make it out. He has top of the line security, and is paranoid as a short-tailed cat in a room full of cat rapists. I'm not willing to jeopardize one of mine, even for this target.
Rudy's face went taught and he finished his drink in one gulp.
- Think of it this way. If you get out, you are a shoe-in to stay in my department. If you don't, you'd probably never make it to the next level, anyway.
With those words, he placed a small manila envelope on the table as he stood then left the bar. Rudy sat for quite a long time before he finally picked up the envelope and left.
It was Christmas Eve, and colder than a witch's tit. Rudy was in a small van, getting a last briefing from Astan.
- You are clear on the objective of today's operation?
Rudy nodded as he clumsily buttoned up a thick fur coat.
- Do you have any remaining questions?
Rudy looked up at Astan with a deadpan look.
- Does this coat bring out my tan?
Astan wasn't amused, but Rudy caught the crew member smirking slightly out of the corner of his eye. He climbed out of the van, into a thick, soupy fog, then stepped into the waiting limousine. Dr. Simpish would be expected to arrive in style.
Five or so miles down the snowy road, they pulled up to a large wrought-iron gate. It bore the family crest of the target. Rudy did not even know the man's name, just his face. He knew the man's face, mannerisms, and personal habits. He knew that a long blade, thrust expertly between the fourth and fifth ribs would meet almost no resistance before penetrating the man's heart, whereas a bullet to the chest would encounter the latest in kevlar technology.
The driver dropped him at the gate and proceeded to the parking area across the street. Guards at the gate checked his identification, and requested permission to test his facial marking. The request was a formality, but Rudy played along. The knife strapped to his back was made of a very advanced form of cermic. It was stronger than steel, but it passed the metal-detector wand unnoticed.
From the gate it was almost two hundred yards to the front door of the mansion. With the fog as thick as it was that night, there was no way to be sure you were still going the right direction except for a flagstone path leading from one to the other.
As he approached the mansion, he could see that the large front door was open. He lifted his hat slightly, so that his red mark would be more visible. The target, amazingly enough, was standing by the door, greeting guests. As Rudy approached the door, he recalled with startling clarity the words of Astan the other day.
- Its highly likely that anyone inside that house will not make it out alive.
Rudy had a stroke of genius. As he opened his mouth to return the man's friendly greeting, he put on a startled expression and the best fake coughing fit he'd ever put on. He stepped a couple feet to the side of the door, and the man followed him. As he bent over, concerned, to ask if Dr. Simpish was alright, Rudy slid his blade home.
Leaving his victim, Rudy walked back towards the front gate. He paused at the gate.
- I have clumsily forgotten a small Chistmas gift in my car. Perhaps I would be allowed to retrieve it and then re-enter?
- Certainly, doctor.
He crossed to the large parking area, where his driver had the limo ready to go. He heard faint screaming and some shouting, muffled and far-off in the fog. He sat comfortably in the limo.

The first time Rudy met the rest of the team, they all clapped his back and told him what a great job he'd done. They called it Operation X-mas.
It was a merry fucking Christmas, after all.

Poem

2008-12-18T11:24:00.001-05:00

Vision

I am tired, exhausted. I stumble over nothing and find where I land to be good enough. I settle and close my eyes, oblivious immediately. I catch a scent of....I open my eyes and I am standing before a door of simple, dark wood. It is closed, but I sense that I am to open it. I step forward and touch the door, pausing a moment. I feel warmth from within, inviting. I open the door, I take one step into the room, and stop. Standing quietly before me now, is a vision. She is magnificent. But her beauty is not what captivates me. Her eyes draw me, call me by a name that no one has ever heard me speak, but that has always been mine. I look deeply for as long as I can stand. I blink hard and when I look again, she is smiling, and I am entranced anew. She tilts her head slightly, hair swaying like a gentle fire, and my enchantment is complete. Her movements inquire; something.

So I tell her.

She smiles a sweet, almost loving smile. She walks towards me, with a slow and patient grace. I marvel openly, enraptured, and she seems amused. When she reaches me, I can feel a radiant aura about her, and it s warmth washes over me. Her hands lift, and touch. It is like electricity as her hands slide along my chest, my arms, and slip slowly around my waist. Her body crashes gently into mine. Her face lands by my neck, and I finally enfold her in my arms. I am perfect for just a moment, the world stops spinning, and nothing matters but one sweet embrace. Again I catch a scent...

My eyes snap open, and I am sitting at home. The screen glows bright against the dark around me. I am alone. But I simply cannot stop thinking about the girl, the woman. My vision. The beauty with fire for hair and allure in her eyes. I know I will always wish, or perhaps hope. But I somehow know, when I need a moment’s peace, I will close my eyes, I will feel gentle hands slide about my body, slow, warm breath on my collar, and love in my heart. For just a brief moment, true inner quiet will reach out from within to wrap itself around me. And that scent, it is love. It is everything I love, wrapped up into perfection, and it is the scent she always carried.

Featured Work

2008-12-15T16:15:00.005-05:00

A wonderful submission by another Six Sentences cohort of mine. Ab*Ka and I have a two to tango back and forth going on over yonder, check it out if you have the time to unwind!

Also, check out Kate's blog if you have the incline; it's listed over yonder ----->

********************************************** ~ by Absolutely*Kate *************

Sex with Frank

"Those fingers in my hair, that sly Come Hither stare that strips my conscience bare ~ it's witchcraft, and I've got no defense for it, the heat is too intense for it ~ what good would commonsense for it do?"

Hips swayed splendiferously beneath the diaphonous swirl a good gossamer blue can do, when a Rat Pack tune is crooning the room. Attuned and in tune, she sang seductively along, parting moist soft lips into the achingly sly sultry smile Frank always liked to decipher, then practiced her craft ~ ~ ~

*POP*SNAP*SHAZAAAAM* and Francis Albert was off the album cover that had been propped on the cane back chair and was propping this babe into positions fast forwarding back and all around again to familiar arousals of heated needs which said, "Yes indeed" and proceeded past intake of breath and gulps of flesh to all they were leading to. Skin became skin and sense was touch and hot was only yesterday when heat is new and devouring today is what being found in lost is all about. Samantha arched her brows, her back, her torso, her deepest delve of being and his name ravished the room ~ "Deeeeean - Deeeeean!" .

Cold old blue eyes stared back the way ice begins a non-thrill chill, from the album cover propped back on the cane back chair ... as Samantha came up for air, smiling as she heard his low bruised mutter, "I hate when Martin gets top billing!." while readjusting her pentangle necklace, knowing that name was taboo.

Tags: arousals, deanmartin, rat-pack, sinatra, taboo, witchcraft

********************************************

Featured Work

2008-12-14T17:43:00.004-05:00

A beautifully crafted piece that was sent to me by a fellow contributor at the Six Sentences social network. I really enjoy the truth in this piece; human nature changes in the way that mountain ranges do. Would you, or would I, remember the day or time that we became, "so serious"?

WHY SO SERIOUS?

Slowly, gradually, she came to be the opposite of what everyone expected, of what everyone knew.
Her dad used to be able to joke with her and then she became so serious, too mature for her own damn good - it became easier for her to frown down on people than just crack a smile. Sometimes, at the end of the tunnel, you come out a better person, a happier person, someone who has learnt from their mistakes and is willing to share with those around them.
Or sometimes, even if it isn't for the good OR the bad, you just change.

She can't remember the actual day, date and time of the moment when she just decided that she would be how she is, how she was, how she will be.

But if you knew, maybe you would be a little more serious too.

Scarlett Rose, 13/12/08

More Six Sentences

2008-12-11T11:52:00.001-05:00

http://sixsentences.ning.com/profiles/blogs/skyline-1

Rockin' the Six Sentences

2008-12-10T23:34:00.002-05:00

Got a post on display at Six Sentences social network...

http://sixsentences.ning.com/profiles/blogs/stormy-weather

Consider this my endorsement of this blog, too. Great site!

Poem

2008-12-10T11:29:00.002-05:00

I had forgotten about this poem. I found it when perusing the many word documents on my computer. The fortunate part is that I managed to recover it from a very old file type. There's not much more to be said about it, as I'm not sure when I wrote it, or to whom (I don't think it was to anyone, actually), etc.

From behind a Bitter Black
Raw emotion plays a symphony
Not of music
But of Me
And of You
You, who boils my blood
And makes a moment into a storm within my mind

From behind a Bitter Black
Fearful Thoughts linger
A Doubt
Which begets ten
And a hundred
Swallows Hope, Ambition, whole
And leaves in its wake only Regret

From behind this Bitter Black
Burns a hot Desire
Consuming me
Yet fueling me
This vile circle weaves a crafty web
And I am snared without recourse

From behind the Bitter Black
Creeps a whisper of a Need
The Faceless Need
Corruptible
Behind us all
A hollow filled only by the love
By the meaning only another can provide

From behind Bitter Black
A hundred memories swim
Will Now
Be as Then
Or can I triumph, finally,
And shine a light from behind a Bitter Black

Featured Work

2008-12-09T21:57:00.003-05:00

I've heard this song... rap? ... a few times, now. Today it struck me that the lyrics of this song are really something worth noting, especially as it is somewhat out-of-format for a rap song. How many of us are "unhappy with our riches, cause you're piss poor morally"?
There is a message in here that is worth close consideration.
Maybe I'm just being overly romantic.

Live Your Life (abridged) by TI

Hey, never mind what haters say, ignore them 'til they fade away
Amazing they ungrateful after all the game I gave away
Safe to say I paved the way, for you cats to get paid today
You still be wasting days away, now had I never saved the day
Consider them my protegè, homage I think they should pay
Instead of being gracious, they violate in a major way
I never been a hater still I love them, in a crazy way
Some say they sold the yay and know they couldn't get work on Labor day
It ain't that black and white, it has an area that's shaded gray
I'm west side anyway, even if I left the game and stayed away
Some move away to make a way, not move away cause they afraid
I brought back to the hood and all you ever did was take away
I pray for patience but they make me want to melt they face away
Like I once made them spray, now I could make put the taze away
Been thuggin' all my life, can't say I don't deserve to take a break
You rather see me catch a case, and watch my future fade away

I'm the opposite of moderate, immaculately polished with
The spirit of a hustler and the swagger of a college kid
Allergic to the counterfeit, impartial to the politics
Articulate but still would grab a nigga by the collar quick.
Whoever having problems wit they record sales just holla TIP
If that don't work and all else fails, then turn around and follow TIP
I got love for the game but ay, I'm not in love with all of it
Could do without the fame, the rappers nowadays are comedy
The hootin' and the hollerin', back and forth with the arguin'
Where you from, who you know, what you make and what kind of car you in
Seems as though you lost sight of what's important with the positive
And checks into your bank account, and you up out of poverty
Your values is a disarray, prioritizin' horribly
Unhappy with your riches 'cause you piss poor morally
Ignoring all prior advice and forewarnin'
And we mighty full of ourselves all of a sudden, aren't we?

And Oldie but... well, old

2008-12-08T22:52:00.003-05:00

I'm really not even sure when this one was written, but I know I was fairly young (and in a phase of writing a LOT of love poetry. Realllly cheezy stuff, too). But I like this one:

Cool Autumn breezes,
Soft Summer rain,
Bright stars at midnight,
All ease my pain.

Mistletoe kisses,
Christmas time fire,
Laughter with loved ones,
All ne'er tire.

The days go by.
The nights go too.
I think always
Of being with you.

Of sharing the beautiful
Things that I know
And finding new ones
That are ours alone.

Featured Poem

2008-12-06T13:12:00.002-05:00

Any good writer, or for that matter, any bad, mediocre, average, decent, great, amazing, or absent writer will tell you that to write you must read. I suppose that I am remiss in this, in that I do not read nearly as much or as often as I would like to.
Since I do not have any great recent readings to post, I am going to keep putting up poems and such that I have loved for a long time. This one usually puts my young son to sleep:

The Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

-Edward Lear

Featured Poem

2008-12-05T20:38:00.001-05:00

One of my very favorite poems (one of three that I have memorized, although there used to be more of those). It speaks of true friendship, the things that last the test of time, and what is important to the poet.

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

One more from Creative Writing

2008-11-18T19:16:00.001-05:00

The Assignment: Write a poem “we don’t understand,” a poem beyond the rational; yet, for all of that, let there be some semblance of theme. The purpose of this assignment is to let loose, to free your conscious self from being too self-conscious.

Slander

speaking sparks in a darkened room
eye daggers and twisting hands
faces and faces
never the same
alliance of flesh
alliance of blood
alliance of gold
a melting river and a crumbling palace built on sand

What is poetry?

2008-11-16T10:56:00.000-05:00

More importantly, how does one write poetry. Every poet, author, etc. seems to have a different answer for this. It occurred to me recently that I am constantly/always writing poetry. It is like there is a part of my brain that stores up these little snippets of thought, or phrases, or whatever; elements of poetry; and then all at once it comes together. Something, maybe a subject or another instigating factor makes some number of these snippets... coalesce... into a poem, or part of a poem. Often I have to do the typical work/revision part after this has occurred, to make the poem something I am ready to share.

"Coalescence"
Words
trip from my tongue
drip from my mind
sieve through my hand. my pencil.
Explode like fireworks
Flash
Fade
and Die.
A million
sights,sounds,textures,shapes,colors,feelings,moments
Coalesce, a word
It fills my mind like too much food;
Riddles I don't have answers for;
That breath you cannot gasp;
I go over the edge, pour my heart my soul
my me, onto that mocking blank page
the canvas on which I paint my words
when the moment of clarity arrives.
when the container no longer
contains
Flash, Fade, and Die.

Some Old Stuff #2

2008-11-16T10:50:00.000-05:00

This one deserves its own post, because it really needs an explanation. I almost hesitate to write this one down at all, as it has more effect when spoken. This poem is all about rhythm and syncopation. Without saying it right, it makes very little sense, I think. Anyway...

"Jive"
Ever electric, never static
Dramatic purple, blue, Mellow yellow and green
Whirling and twirling, flowing and going on
And on
spilling and feeling, filling and dealing
In my mind, all the damn time
Won't quit, can't commit
Mobile and fertile
Stopping, starting, moving
Grooving and yearning
Ever discerning
Fantasy and reality
Love and emotion, thought and devotion
Haunting my brain like a train wreck
Gotta keep driving
Keep striving and conniving
Keeping finding a way to keep you coming back
For keeps, for more
Of what I can provide
You got inside my head
My heart, from the start
And I don't even want you out.

Some Old Stuff #1

2008-11-16T10:43:00.000-05:00

Here's an old poem or two of mine. No special history, other than junk I wrote a while ago for the fun of it...

"The Pious Man"
Back to toil and tire,
Away from the hearth's warm fire.
His wife in the kitchen stays,
His youngest in the bedroom plays.
He takes a moment to contemplate,
Tries to be grateful for this fate.
Work before dawn; rest after dusk,
Plant the crop; harvest and husk.
Day in day out, seasons repeat,
Until the life-after, eternity sweet,
A reward for only the pious man
Living a hard life best as he can.

"Time"
Time so fleeting one
Hardly sees it passing by.
Until a moment, taking hold,
Seizes back the senses high.
All the dreams and words unsaid,
Worse could be no evil lie
In time so fleeting one
Hardly sees a friend pass by.

"To a Vagabond"
The blue sky greets the Vagabond
Though sometimes, instead, the clouds;
Thunder and crackle a greeting
As the Wanderer treads o'er the ground.

A dewey mist or howling breeze
Are naught but the chiding of friends.
A starry sky in a prairie wide
Has all the trappings of bed.

A track amongst the thickest wood
Holds wonders still yet untold
Yet to the one who follows no path,
To him do Her mysteries unfold.

So walk the land, surrounded by fiends
O ye keeper of Worlds Unseen;
And as night falls, lay down your head,
Amongst your comrades of green.

Poet's Dream

2008-11-10T23:00:00.000-05:00

When I first saw this painting, I immediately wanted to write a poem about it. For years, I looked for a print. Before he died, Jaime gave me a print of it, framed. Unfortunately, I have since lost it in a move, which is ridiculous, because it was a treasured possession. Anyway, an assignment in Creative Writing class gave me the opportunity to finally write this poem...

Poet's Dream (by Maxfield Parrish)

The sky of blue
A Mountain of gold
The forest green,
All of a Poet's dream

The cliffside castle
Home of Kings
Kings of time and space
All of a Poet's dream

Silent, gentle River
A princeling
In a moment of reflection
All of a Poet's dream

A million Words
Blue, gold and green
Noble and tranquil
Reflections of a Poet's dream.

Variation

2008-11-03T14:06:00.000-05:00

A little history: This comes from an assignment in a Creative Writing class. "Write a Prose Poem." I chose this because I had once written a free-form (yet non-prose) poem about essentially the same thing. It is inspired from watching a dancer perform a solo in the studio, during rehearsal. Truly powerful dancers captivate and enthrall, and when a small, tight-knit company is watching a fellow dancer rehearse, there is often a palpable shift in the air as the variation (a term for a solo dance) begins. It is an aura of support, teamwork, and something hard to define. Everyone in the room dances with the performer.
The irony is that this is a variation of the original piece. I took a couple of the same phrases and similes from the first version, but re-worked the pace, rhythm, and of course changed from free-form to prose type of poem.
For the record, it is inspired by one particular dancer who was especially "elastic iron."

Variation

She takes her place and the silence becomes complete. The stillness of the room sits over us like thick wool. There is always that moment, a breath drawn in and held, before the music. With the music, she explodes in movement. She is elastic iron, molten metal. At once stronger than steel and more supple than a willow. The music and the movement ebb and flow, peak and fall together. The music stops, movement fades. She is human again, slick of sweat and breathing ragged. A few words, and she takes her place again. Again, better, faster, stronger. All in a days work.

Posts from Creative Writing class

2008-10-24T22:13:00.000-04:00

These are all in response to specific writing exercises, which may cause them to seem random, or less sensible. Since no one reads this blog, I see no harm in posting them anyway.
:D

========================================================

"Night"

Where were you last night? I envy your ability to answer that question without the stirrings of self-doubt and fear. After work I had a drink with a friend. I went home and got into bed early, as exhaustion is my constant companion these days. The usual dreams came to me. I slept the night in my bed, and have no evidence to the contrary. But tell me; how often have you woken from such a night with a cracked rib?

===============================================
Celebration

I know the incomparable thrill of a fit-in-your-hand
Kind of reliability, joy of a touchable screen,
responsive and approachable, inviting,
reacts like a woman to her lover, to my finger,
surprise ecstasy of letters hidden
behind a trap-door hinge,
security and freedom of your life in your pocket
days, images, and my smiling baby
sudden bliss of a message from a loved one,
words for my heart, whispers of love on a screen.

---------------------------------------

Ramshackle

It was the worst thing I'd had to do up until that point. I hated being the executor on his will, but that is what I get for being one of two people who cared about him. The house was sparing in every regard. Sorting possessions was almost a joke. Almost nothing of worth. A ratty couch, rattier armchair, threadbare rug. Then a kitchen full of used, second- third-, and fourth-hand utensils and appliances. I wanted to set a match to the whole place.
I stepped into the tiny room off of the master bedroom. For all its smallness, there was more... stuff, here, than in the rest of the house combined. Brushes, jars of color, and various sizes and textures of paper were strewn about like a ticker-tape parade. Even the drug paraphenalia was in evidence, sitting on any available surface. Cruel reminder of why I was here in the first place.
Jim got melancholy about the whole thing. I suppose I wasn't much better. He spotted one canvas titled "Brothers" and paused to dig it out of the stack.
"Can I have this one?"
"Do you have seventeen thousand dollars?"
"Seventeen... I thought he never sold anything!"
"He didn't. Since he died a few collectors started a bidding war for his whole collection. They think I'm silent because they aren't bidding enough... The truth is, I just don't give a shit."
We were silent after that, but Jim put down the painting of the three of us and never brought it up again.

======================================================

Test

We couldn't stop laughing. Apparently it was a side-effect of the drug. I suppose there are worse things to do compulsively for three straight hours, but after a while it just isn't funny, anymore. Tim had it rough. After the laughing, he started screaming. Not like he was crazy, he just couldn't say anything without screaming it. That lasted two days. Ryan was the only one they had to take into another room. I heard them say something about an "uncontrollable erection" and possible brain damage. I hope he's OK. I suppose my family is right; I should find a real job. But where else can you get $6,250 for laughing uncontrollably until your piss yourself?

--------------------------------------------

Geekery!

2008-10-05T22:38:00.001-04:00

I Am A: Neutral Good Human Bard (4th Level)

Ability Scores:

Strength-14

Dexterity-14

Constitution-15

Intelligence-16

Wisdom-14

Charisma-15

Alignment:
Neutral Good A neutral good character does the best that a good person can do. He is devoted to helping others. He works with kings and magistrates but does not feel beholden to them. Neutral good is the best alignment you can be because it means doing what is good without bias for or against order. However, neutral good can be a dangerous alignment because it advances mediocrity by limiting the actions of the truly capable.

Race:
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.

Class:
Bards often serve as negotiators, messengers, scouts, and spies. They love to accompany heroes (and villains) to witness heroic (or villainous) deeds firsthand, since a bard who can tell a story from personal experience earns renown among his fellows. A bard casts arcane spells without any advance preparation, much like a sorcerer. Bards also share some specialized skills with rogues, and their knowledge of item lore is nearly unmatched. A high Charisma score allows a bard to cast high-level spells.

Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)

A peom

2008-09-29T20:50:00.001-04:00

Voyager

I know the incomparable thrill of a fit-in-your-hand

Kind of reliability, joy of a touchable screen,

responsive and approachable, inviting,

reacts like a woman to her lover, to my finger,

surprise ecstasy of letters hidden

behind a trap-door hinge,

security and freedom of your life in your pocket

days, images, and my smiling baby

sudden bliss of a message from a loved one,

words for my heart, whispers of love on a screen.

Trump'd Ties

2008-05-07T19:02:00.000-04:00

So, I have decided that I'm awesome enough, now, to endorse products. Of course, no one will pay me for this, so I can actually endorse products I like, not just whoever will pay me...

This week's pick (don't worry, this won't be weekly or regular or anything) is the line of Neckties from Donald Trump's Signature line. These ties are amazing! They have nice thick, quality material that resists wear 'n' tear, and ties into awesome knots. You don't really even have to try to get that perfect, ever-elusive, perfectly centered Dimple right under the knot; the dimple all but forms itself when you tie it.

On top off all of this, the choice of colors and patterns is stellar. I have found a huge number of fashionable color/pattern combinations that are not only current, but have the kind of inherent style that they will be useable and stylish for years to come.

Overall, I give the Trump Signature line of neckties an A+!

Tax Trickery

2008-05-06T21:02:00.000-04:00

OK. Let's try to take this in the proper order.

Disclaimer: I have little to no credentials. I have exactly one semester of Macro-Economics under my belt. I have worked at a bank for just about a year, but only as a customer service rep. I sell loans, open accounts, and fix the occasional statement problem. I am not an economist, an expert in finance, or any such thing.

now for the real part

1. Raise your hand if you know that you drive 10 or more MPH over the speed limit on the highway.

Now, raise your hand if you know that no matter what you did (besides things like changing your job, or moving where you live) you absolutely could not cut out 50% of your automotive gas usage.

For most of us (including me), both of those questions are big ole hand-raisers. Our jobs require us to use the gas we are shelling out more and more money for. We have lives, kids, hobbies, classes, activities. We go 95 MPH in a 35 zone. When someone drives only 15 over the speed limit in the middle lane, we slam down the accelerator and pass them at Mach 7.

News flash here, folks. We are addicted to gas!

2. Here is a slightly distasteful example of my main point. Let us close our eyes, breathe deeply, and exercise that under-valued tool of the American mind: our imaginations. Picture that I am a heroin dealer. Now, imagine that I have a pusher, whose name is John (I use my own name because I don't want to offend anyone, most especially armed heroin pushers). John gives me a bunch of heroin. I sell this drug for $100 per unit, which we will call "hits." So, I take my hits and sell them, then I have to give John $50 out of each hit I sell.

3. OK, stay with me. So John is real pleased with my performance. I'm selling tons of hits and raking in the dough. I buy him a nice pimp bling or something. He decides to give me a three month reprieve. For three months, for each hit that I sell, I only have to give him $25.

Now, we have to ask the ultimate question: What do I do? Do I lower my prices by $25 so that I can sell more heroin? This might happen if heroin is way over-plentiful, and I need to get every advantage I can. Since heroin is the most addictive drug around (to my knowledge; I pride myself on not being up on this crap), it's more likely that I don't need more customers.

Next alternative: I will lower my prices by $12.50 and split the difference with my customers. This would be a good way to compromise, if I had a hot product that had alternatives available but was still in good demand. Not really the case, here.

Last alternative: I keep prices the same, and try to decide what to do with all my extra profits. Probably use it to branch out, maybe start a franchise. Why is it I would be able to do this? The answer is, because I have a product that is addictive. I have a product that people cannot live without. They will sell their leg to buy more heroin.

4. Let us tie this into a nice knot. This part of the analogy is a bit of a stretch. Say that John is not the top layer of the structure. Imagine that John has a boss, Big John, that he gets his heroin from. And his boss has not given him the three month reprieve. If we follow the pattern, I give 50% of my income to John, so probably he has to pass on 50% of his income to Big John. This would be $25 per hit.

Now, recalling that I have been only passing $25 per hit to John, what is John's problem when he meets with Big John? His problem is that he's now passing on 100% of his income (from me; this discounts any other dealers that John manages). So, now John has a deficit (sorry to use an economics word, I'll try to avoid them going forward) that he has to make up somehow. He either has to charge his other dealers more, or he has to charge me more after giving me the reprieve.

5. Finally, the point. This "Tax Moratorium Holiday" concept is a gimmick. Every time someone asks Hillary or McCain or anyone else associated with them about the economics of the idea, they dodge the question. This is because even someone with a rudimentary understanding of economics (i.e. me) can understand why this plan is a dangerous one. People say things like, "it's not about economics," or "we don't care about the long run, we want relief in the short run." What they seem not to realize is that the long run danger isn't even relevant. We will not see even a short term benefit from the tax holiday. Our prices will not change, because a hold on taxes gives companies zero incentive to reduce their price to consumers. Even if they lose some business, the gain in profits from those of us who will not, or cannot abandon the pump will very likely more than make up for the lost customers.

Let me also throw in that this is not really a political statement on my part. I don't really like to get into politics because I hate election tactics (such as offering pointless tax rebates that are almost guaranteed to not pass anyway), and political double-talk is so confusing that we could argue for weeks about the tax holiday and both be right about what the candidates have said. I just want to say that we cannot claim that the issue is one of short-term gain, or of saving the "average guy" money, because the plan will not provide either.