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often i am afraid to write because music is a stronger medium. mere silence i feel is more powerful than any number of words (or absence of words). should i be playing music, which is often, then i will be more than intimidated. my inspiration will generally be blown away by the emotional power of the music; my mind does not rest on letters but on notes. they lift me up, so to speak, higher than the lines of my paper.

but yet i am always compelled to speak in words and not music; my expression comes through characters forming words forming tales. they are written down, paper or screen. each time i cry out soundlessly that no word could ever trump a noise in a rigorous demonstration of pathos; each time i do not cry out soundlessly for that in itself is music which is beyond my ability.

the catharsis of writing is then replaced with that of music. an overwhelming flood replaces a burning pen, and the soothing gushing melody comes through my ears to put out a flaming passion of dictional momentum. time and time again, you will not read of me for i am too busy hearing of you.

nontheless, here am i, the perpetrator of his own words, themselves paradoxical. i am writing to say that i cannot use words for i can hear well enough. for it must be done, as i am capable of no other route; i am a locomotive with motivation and here in this paper is my destination. my pen hangs over the paper through any blows and down always it goes to make ink splotches and run rivers of images where you can drink lots of literal anecdotes, rhymes that float, poems that rhyme, and please excuse me if this is no masterpiece, for everybody has their fair share of mistakes and botches. and now that here i am, please stand back as i prepare to generate a mass of prose that will inundate each line and page; no, i'm not one of the pros, but on it goes, saturating and liberating prisoners of the dictionary, words risen from the pages into fiction, diction coming out now to serve from previous dereliction. but i do not write to bring peace: i am not here to put you at ease; please, this piece will subject you to gees, will charge you to fees, will take out your knees. it's just not feasible to cater to all when there are just haters, but i do something greater because i move in one direction, like an elevator, which is up in perfection. you can dissect this all you like and sooner or later you will find that i am but a traiter, using unjust beats and unowned treats to achieve a feat of musical production which is this.

so i find that regardless, there is music greater than any set of words i can produce. i myself am prone to falling into lyrical production instead of simply writing. but perhaps there is no right and wrong.

The Rain

Who's afraid?
Let my life be spend with a raincoat
in the misty rain.

[A Work in Progress]

The faith on our faces fades,
the pigment draining to reveal true colors.
Undeath enthralls and embraces us all,
as we shamble toward eternal life.

Our sprint for the world
effects little more than a trudge
at the bottom of its seas of good feelings,
leaving us marinating, desiring
a chill to thaw the warmth.

"Weapon of Choice" Chapter 2 (Nickson)

Nickson was the sort of man that every man wished to be, a great man who stood in a position of absolute power and commanded terror from all those who were in his general area. He was superintendent.
Dodson got a call from Nickson the night of rag day, while watching Dumb and Dumber on TV.
“Hello.”
“Dodson, you bat, is that you?”
“Why yes it is. You must be administrator Nickson.”
“Of course you dumbbell, who else could it be?”
“Well I thought that it might be my wife since–”
“Dodson, I heard that you sent every kid who came to school home today.”
“Yes I did.”
“Why the hell would you do something like that?”
“Well, they all came to school in these ripped up shirts. It went against the dress code. Must be a new fashion or something.”
“If it’s fashionable, how can it be against the dress code?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask the person who wrote the dress code?”
“That person must be a damn idiot. How the hell do you write something that stupid? Who is that fool?”
“The one that wrote the dress code?”
“Yes, the nincompoop that wrote it.”
“Well, uh, that would be you.”
Nickson paused briefly, like a bull that had run into a wall instead of a person.
“I’m pretty damn sure that that dress code must be one fine piece of work then.”
“But you just said that it was stupid.”
“Are you saying that I’m a liar?”
“No, of course not. I just pointed out that you already said that your fine piece of work was stupid.”
“Now why would I say something like that?”
“Because it goes against fashion sense.”
“Who said anything about fashion sense?”
“I did, bu–”
“Then you’re just a complete idiot.”
“Wait just a sec–“
“You even sent all those kids today! Now why the hell would you do something like that?”
“I already told you, they all came to school in ripped up shirts.”
“So what?”
“It goes against the dress code.”
“Well it damn well should. We can’t let those kids show an inch of bared skin anywhere on their disgusting bodies.”
“So then why shouldn’t I have sent those kids home?”
“You sure as hell should have. Why didn’t you?”
“Um, I did send them home.”
“Good for you Dodson. Keep up the fine work. Good night.” Click.
Dodson hung up with a sense of wonder and turned back to Dumb and Dumber. He found that he could no longer watch after his conversation with Nickson, and turned it off to read a magazine, only to find an article on popular fashion, in which a slim model was posed wearing a ripped shirt with half a mouse on it. The phone rang again, and this time it was his wife, Mary.
“Sorry honey, I’m running a bit late today, I got hung up at the office because my boss insisted that I go out and get him coffee and donuts since he’s putting in overtime today.”
“Sure. See you later then.”
Dodson hung up and wondered vaguely if Mary was cheating on him. Feeling bored, he turned the TV back on to find Desperate Housewives. The phone rang yet again.
“Dodson? You are an imbecile.”
“What?”
“Did you know that ripped shirts are all the rage now? It’s called fashion, you nimrod. Those kids were being fashionable.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“No, I said that. Are you dumb or something?”
“No, I’m not. I just said that I already said that those kids were being fashionable.”
“And I just said that you are a nimrod.”
“Yea, well– Huh? Is this Nickson?”
“Of course, you nimrod. See? I just called you a nimrod again. If you let yourself get pushed around like that all the time how are you ever going to advance in life?”
“Are you saying that you want me to stand up for myself?”
“Yes. What are you, a buffoon?”
“No, I’m not but I’m pretty sure that you are.”
Dodson sat waiting in his own sweat for Nickson to reply, which he did after a good two seconds.
“Dodson, where the hell did you come up with that sort of freshness?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who told you that you could be so fresh with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re supposed to say that nobody did so I can rub your nose on my sleeve again.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The question is why wouldn’t you want to say nobody?”
“I didn’t.”
“And that was the problem! See, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Where are we trying to go?”
“Nowhere, you monkey. Now who told you to be so fresh?”
“Nobody?”
“Then why the hell are you being so fresh then?”
“Because you told me to.”
Nickson’s voice quavered like a sick cow when he continued.
“I did most definitely not tell you to be fresh.”
“But you told me to stick up for myself.”
“Now why would I do something supportive like that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It seems like you aren’t sure of anything at all. Are you sure your wife isn’t cheating on you?”
“Of cour– Hey, how did you know about that?”
“Know about what? Are you saying I’m not supportive?”
“Yes, I mean no.”
“You’re a pretty wishy-washy man aren’t you? You should stand up for yourself more.”
Nickson was the sort of man that every man wished to be, a great man who stood in a position of absolute power and commanded terror from all those who were in his general area. He was superintendent.

My encounter with the Devil

I've decided to quote this story from the middle of what I wrote:

I then realized that I had night-vision on the scope. I could flick it on, but my courage seemed to fail me. It was a good three hundred meters away from me, but I could sense its power, its ferocity, its wildness. My hands moved without telling my brain. Click. The safety’s off. Click. And a there’s a high-pitched whine as the night-vision turns on. I freeze.
I pray and pray. I listen for the rustle. All I can seem to hear is the inaudible whining of the night vision as it gives me away. I hear no rustling. I concentrate all my control to my right eye, and it opens. I bring it up to the scope and look through. I can’t comprehend what I see; a creature, standing on its hind legs, walking with a slight forward lean. There are massive horns atop its head, and a tail that sways back and forth as it walks. Diablo. Its eyes were two bright green spots on my scope, scanning back and forth as I followed it. I couldn’t see the face, but I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I was already losing control of myself, my body wanting to fly from where I was, my mind trying to shut itself off and pass out. My eyes, wanting to fade-to-black and be rid of such a horrid sight… but I couldn’t.
Without consciously thinking about it, my sight went down to its back. Muscles spewed from every angle. I locked on to where the heart should be. I noticed my hand on the trigger. It would be a clean shot. I could get a nice hit. Perfect angle, no wind, no twigs, nothing. Maybe this was divine. A perfect lined shot to take out this unholy creature. It was facing away from me.
I have five bullets in the magazine. I would have to manually load the bullets after each shot, but I could get off all five shots theoretically, before it could get me… if it ran like a bear. I started to hear voices inside my head. They told me to take the shot. Shoot it. Rid the world of such an abomination. The devil, with his back turned to you, unaware. You have a shot. Take the shot. The voices never got above a whisper. They did not consume me. They were merely suggestive, and I still had control of my own actions. It would not be long before it would be out of range.
I watched its muscles move as it walked. Flex and unflex, flex and unflex.
But I couldn’t do it. I felt my hand loosen up and switch on the safety. I followed its figure until it was out of sight, turning off the night vision. I couldn’t feel anything, my entire body was numb. I struggled for breath. I felt hot tears steaming down my face as I closed in my eyes in prayer. I was muttering gibberish, but I needed to be in prayer. That was the only thing that could save me.
I felt myself repeat the words, “How can you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss?”

"Weapon of Choice" Chapter 1 (Rag Day)

The next couple bits I post will be chapters from the incomplete book that I wrote in high school. I'm in a writing slump, but I've still got stuff to share. (Mike, sorry for posting right after you...)

Rag Day

Matt A. had been a member of the football team for at least the three years he had been in high school, but he was no idiot. He could run, jump, tackle, throw, dive, dodge, recover and spike, along with the occasional end zone dance simulating what he had seen on Monday night football yesterday. Matt A. was an adequate football player. He was so adequate that Coach Smith put him in every game, and he started every game as running back, and he was adequate at that too. In fact, if Coach Smith had given out an award of adequateness, and the amount of adequativity on the team was vast, then Matt A. surely would have won it. Matt A. himself felt that being adequate was adequate to his own needs, and so he never ventured beyond the adequate edges of his adequate domain. Actually, Matt A. really hoped to be so extremely adequate as to be able to play in the NFL, but he wasn’t sure if he could be that adequate.

Coach Smith liked adequate players, and so he enjoyed putting his most adequate player, Matt A., in his starting lineup whenever his team played a game. As a matter of fact, Coach Smith happened to be too dumb to know adequate from avocado, and as a result he liked to think in terms of enough. Matt A. was good enough to be put on the starting lineup every time, and so Coach Smith put him on every game, and every game, the starting lineup was good enough to fumble the first pass they got off and lose. Coach Smith always felt that the games they lost had been a good enough showing of effort, which he liked to talk about, and always took his players out for ice cream after every game that he lost, which was quite often. The ice cream joint that the team always went to was just big enough to fit the many adequate players that were on the team and also fit the not-so-adequate players as well. Coach Smith always liked to talk about effort after the team lost, and usually he would congratulate them on a job well done enough.

“That was a job well done. We scored a touchdown today, and I think that a touchdown scored is a good sign of your effort coming through. Ben, good thinking on that play switch to a handoff to Matt A.”

“Coach, I’m a lineman. You mean Matt C. when you talk about the QB”, Ben said.

Ben was always being confused with Matt C., who was the QB, short for quarterback. Matt C. was tall, sturdy, and adequate, while Ben was normal, normal, and a lineman. There was really nothing in common between the two besides the fact that they both very much like quadruple orange chocolate frozen melt ice cream, and so Coach Smith always got the two mixed up, even though a good coach always knows his QB, short for quarterback, very well. Coach Smith thought that the word quarterback, abbreviated QB, was a very interesting word and had always hoped to look up the word in a dictionary so that he would be able to tell everybody he knew the origin of the word to look intelligent, but he was really dumb so he never remembered to look it up, and even if he had, Coach Smith was dumb enough to forget what the origin was only a minute after reading it.

Coach Smith slurped on his avocado flavored cone, which he happened to think was extremely good enough, and thought about what Ben had said for a brief moment in which he actually thought about getting another cone, and replied, “Good observation, Ben. I’ll look into that idea later. But what you did today was a sure sign of good effort, and I always say that if you put in enough effort, then you’re bound to get back a reward.”

“But Coach, I didn’t come up with an idea. I was just telling you that I’m not the QB.”

“Sure thing, boy, you’re a very good QB. I just told you so, that I’d be looking into that idea later. But what you did today was a sure sign of good eff–”

“But Coach, I didn’t give you any idea, I j–”

“Quiet boy, don’t you see that I’m already saying that you put in lots of effort?”

“But-”

“Of course your idea was great, I’ll think about it later.” Coach Smith began telling the team again between slurps of his avocado flavored cone how he thought they put in effort enough to receive a reward, but by then Ben was so confused that he wasn’t listening, but trying hard to remember exactly what that great idea was that he had come up with. Ben was trying so hard to remember what he hadn’t thought of that he went home like a zombie and tried harder to remember what he hadn’t thought of. He tried very hard all evening and through the night while he was really dreaming about the skinny girl who sat in front of him in US history class until the next day during US history class when he looked up and saw that the skinny girl who sat in front of him was gone.

“Hey Matt P., where’s that girl that sits there?” Ben asked to Matt P. who sat next to him, pointing to the seat in front. Matt P. shrugged, because he never knew anything that was going on, but it was okay because he never needed to know what was going on because his father was rich from inventing the mouse pad. Matt P. always went around with shirts advertising his father’s invention, even though every mouse came with a mouse pad and you could hardly buy mouse pads separately save for novelty and customized options. Everybody knew that Matt P. didn’t know left from wrong but nobody made fun of him because of his father, who had invented the mouse pad and sold the patent.

“How much in royalties does your dad get?” Matt P. was asked one day.

“Not much,” he responded. “I’ve never met the queen of England, the shah of Iran, the emperor of Japan, or the president of the USA.”

But it didn’t matter because Matt P.’s father felt that he owed a debt to society, and so he donated a couple hundred mouse pads that were part of his royalty to the school, even though the school was in such a budget deficit that they had only three computers, and none of them had any mice at all. The rest of the school had plenty of mice, however, and Matt P.’s father made sure to donate enough mouse pads for all the mice, because he didn’t know left from wrong either.

That day that the skinny girl was missing from Ben’s US History class, Matt P. happened to be wearing a white shirt with a mouse next to a real mouse on the front. The back of the shirt said “Can’t you tell the difference?” Many people felt the shirt to be clever, so several went out that day and bought the same shirt or just printed pictures at home of mice and glued them to white shirts and wore them the next day. Matt P. thought it was great that everybody wanted to be like him, so he gave a dollar to everyone who wore that shirt and two to everybody who had made their own, because he figured that they were too poor to buy their own. The next day, many people came in with shirts that had disfigured pictures of mice on them and dirtied backs that could hardly read the message, and Matt P. gave everybody who wore the bad quality shirts three dollars. The day after, everybody came to school in rags, and were sent home by Principal Dodson for improper attire, and Matt P. tried to start a fan club where everybody had to pay a dollar to join, and nobody joined because they were all at home putting on normal shirts.

The day that Dodson sent everybody home who tried to walk into the school with rags on, the new kid Xavier snuck in through the kitchen entrance because he had heard that everybody coming through the front entrance was being sent home due to some new regulation. Xavier just a little too tall to be considered normal height, and just a little too smart to be cool, and worst of all, he wanted to go to school, unlike the other kids who knew exactly why Dodson was sending them home and were busy ripping their shirts to shreds before trying to get into school. Since nobody was in school except Xavier and Matt P., Dodson decided that the lights and air conditioning did not need to be turned on so that the school could save money on energy costs, despite the fact that the school didn’t pay for energy costs and the state paid for it in tax dollars. Dodson issued both Xavier and Matt P. flashlights so they could find their way to classes, since the school was so dark. Xavier had only been to school for four days previous to rag day, as it would later be known, a day every year where everybody came to school in rags and were sent home by Dodson, a tradition that lasted until Dodson retired from a heart attack at the old age of forty two.

Xavier had heard that the school was full of mice, and he proceeded to scan the halls after learning that Dodson had decided to turn off all the lights to save energy, which Xavier thought was reasonable enough. He didn’t find any mice, however, despite all the reports that he heard that said that the school was full of them, and so he turned to Matt P., who was in his math class, and asked him where all the mice were.

“Where are all the mice? I can’t find any of them,” Xavier said.

“What? Look, there are two here on my shirt.” Matt P. pointed to his shirt. “Do you want to join my fan club? It costs a dollar.”

“Quiet.” The substitute teacher who was in for Mrs. Green stood at the front of the class, which was pitch dark save for the glow of Xavier and Matt P.’s flashlights. She was standing there because Mrs. Green along with all the other teachers except Mr. R’seb had heard from Dodson that he was sending all the kids home that showed up in rags and went back home because Mrs. Green had figured that there would be no kids in class, and the rest of the teachers had unanimously agreed with the exception of Mr. R’seb who didn’t. They had felt such a need to make haste and be home with their stacks and stacks of ungraded tests and such that none of them had left plans for substitute teachers. The only sub that showed up had to sub for all the classes that Xavier and Matt P. had that day, and she had no plans from the teachers so she simply stood in the front of the pitch-dark classroom and told the kids to shut up like a good sub would.

The room was pitch-dark because there happened to be law in the state that said that every district had to accept the most energy saving contract offered when building a school. One designer had realized that heat loss in buildings was the most significant source of energy loss, and the most heat was lost through doors, but especially when they opened. But of course, that plan didn’t work out structurally when he tried to make the rest of the school out of play-dough. So as a result the district accepted a plan to build a school that minimized energy loss by minimizing window space, since glass was such a good insulator. To make a long story short, there were no windows at all. In fact, there was no glass at all in the entire building, because the builders were afraid that putting in anything that could potentially lose heat would cause them to lose the contract.

Xavier and Matt P. spent an uneventful day inside the classroom without light and air conditioning, and were glad to go home after they grew tired of sitting quietly and checked the time by going to the fast food place across the street. On the way out, Matt P. tripped over something in the dark, and broke his toe while kicking the object. Xavier discovered that it was already five o’clock, two hours after normal dismissal.

The other kids had gotten home after ripping their shirts by any way they could. The seniors and half the juniors drove home, while a fourth of the underclassmen hitched rides. The rest scattered, to whatever far ends of the earth were available to lower the temperature in, or “chill”. The punks walked a mile to the library to study while the nerds threw rocks at passing cars. One kid hunkered down in a ditch to hide from bullies, but caught Lyme’s disease from ticks. His parents did the logical thing and sued the school to cover medical costs and received fourfold the bill due to a brilliant lawyer with an Elvis curl. The school sold their air conditioning unit and ventilation unit to a meatpacking plant to cover costs, and the cooling system was replaced with huge sponges soaked in water, which made the school smell like mildew. The board of education inspected the school the day after the new heavy duty sponge system was installed, and deemed it unsafe, so the school was closed for a month for detoxification, a process that consisted of trying to hire a cleaning company to clean an entire school with no windows and no working ventilation system for under a thousand dollars, which was the last of the school budget plus what Dodson had made selling large sponges on the black market, which was then known as Ebay. The janitors donned neon pink isolation suits and sprayed Windex on every surface of the inside of the school, because Windex was the only cleaning supply that the school had in large quantities since the school received a standardized maintenance set from the state board of education containing all manner of wall cleaners, board cleaners, ceiling cleaners, bathroom cleaners, kitchen cleaners, hallway cleaners, locker cleaners, vending machines known as pocket cleaners, table cleaners, chair cleaners, door cleaners, and most of all, window cleaners.

Most of the school board was fired about when the janitors showed up in pink suits with huge toxic waste barrels labeled Windex in front of the school.

Two monks were walking along the road, meditating on the vitality that last night's rain had brought upon the foliage. They came upon a crosswalk, and found a woman in distress. She had on a long white dress and the crosswalk was covered in muddy puddles the rain had left behind. The woman looked at the monks helplessly, and so one of them offered to carry her over. She smiled.
She jumped on his back, and he piggybacked her over to the other side, accepted her thanks, and walked back to the other monk, who was in deep thought. The rest of the walk was quiet, with one admiring the foliage and another with a troubled look on his face. Finally, the monk stopped and turned to the other monk.
"We are monks. We shouldn't be doing things such as carrying ladies on our backs. Though I understand your good intentions, it is just not a proper thing for a monk to do."
After a moment's surprise, the other monk replied, "I left the lady at the crosswalk, why are you still carrying her?"

"Innocence and Experience" or "Me, Myself, and My Illness"

"Doctor, doctor, I have an illness."
"What is it, son? What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure."
"What?"
"I'm not sure what's wrong."
"Son, are you really sick?"
"Yes, sir."
"What exactly makes you say that you're sick?"
"It's this illness. I don't know what's going on."
"Can you please describe it? I can't tell you what it is if you don't let me know what it is."
"I don't how to describe it myself. It's like, I'm perfectly healthy, even psychologically. But I'm just not happy."
"Son, not many people are happy these days. That's not an illness."
"But what's wrong with me, then?"
"Come over here. Yes, out here. Look out that window, boy. You see that?"
"What?"
"All that."
"It's just people walking by."
"Yea. Those are people. That's what's wrong. We're all wrong. People are all sick the way you are. Nobody's happy in this world."
"Doctor, are you saying that everybody out there has the same problem as I do?"
"Not all of them know about it, but yes, I'd say so."
"Oh."
"Yea."
"I see. What should I do then? Is there no cure?"
"Son, maybe you don't understand. It's not an illness. It's not a disease. It's part of being a person. You think you can be happy because of this thing or that thing. You think that you can be happy because you get married, or because you win the lottery, or because you star in a movie. No.
No."
"But somebody somewhere must have been really happy at some point. Otherwise, how do know that we can be happy?"
"I don't know. Maybe we were made to be happy, but something just didn't go right. Maybe there's something missing inside."
"Dogs can be happy."
"Maybe. Have you ever been a dog?"
"...Well, no. But they sure seem that way."
"Well, don't people seem happy at times?"
"...Well, yes. So are you saying they're not?"
"Son, I'm just trying to tell you that I can't do anything for you. I'm just a doctor."
"I see. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, then."
"No. I'm sorry to have wasted yours. Good luck, boy."
"Er. Thanks."

Thoughtful quotes

"The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense."
- Tom Clancy

"If everything is under control, you are going too slow."
- Mario Andretti

"Men have become the tools of their tools."
- Henry David Thoreau

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, prepare to die."

Looking at a Dead Father on a Bookshelf

To drive through this casual dementia
is a fragile dizziness at 3am posed like a manikin before you.
Only the limbs grow cold and itchy in the air conditioning.
Oblique are both the whims and wants
of half-ambitions doused in sleep.

When you have exhausted the metaphors,
and everything sounds like an exhaust pipe,
there he is, high up on silent pinewood –
A framed face that cares little of the poor lighting,
(why frame his face and not his trousers?)
and that never looks you in the eye.

Could you have said that the light
slants no more than you do?
It is what it is,
and perhaps you are now
only what you are not.

Is Hell exothermic or Endothermic?

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington engineering mid-term. The answer was so "profound" that the Professor shared it with colleagues, and the sharing obviously hasn't ceased...

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or Endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote Proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law, (gas cools off when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

"First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate that souls are moving into Hell and the rate they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let us look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.

Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand as souls are added. This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. Of course, if Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa Banyan during my Freshman year, "...that it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you.", and take into account the fact that I still have not succeeded in having sexual relations with her, then, #2 cannot be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and will not freeze."

This student received the only A.

Summer Nights/ Oh - Alcohol

Bruises color limbs in the heat.
I’m ok Mama says,
She says it’s nothing.
Everything is tidy. Everything is tidy.

Barefoot and battered,
She wobbles to pick up broken dishes.
Oh, Alcohol – Oh, Alcohol
A hymn to bottled idols.

Her face is a southern peach
Ballooned and blemished.
You can’t pick the rotten ones
She would say at the supermarket.

Daddy’s friends are over –
I can smell their laughter,
Oh, Alcohol – Oh, Alcohol
Timeless friends and television.

Love is unpredictable Love is uncontainable
Love is reliable Love is infallible

Love is right Love is wrong
Love is weak Love is strong

Love is good Love is pure
Love is real Love is sure

Love is jealous Love is pain
Love is lost Love is gained

Love is naked Love is raw
Love is everything Love is all

Love is here Love is there
Love is beautiful Love is fair

Love is great Love is shit
Love is demanding Love is it....

Two eyes across a crowded room,
A spark, electric, in the gloom,
A fleeting glimpse of one with whom,
You could feel truly free.
For one long beat, the contact held,
A time in which you are enspelled,
A time in which two souls could meld,
If only this could be.

Then comes a smile to match those eyes
A gentle voice invites your sighs
A touch as soft as butterflies
That brush you tenderly
A voice that flows like liquid gold
That warms your senses in its folds,
And gives you in your heart to hold
The hope that this could be.

You feel the pulsing of your heart
And then your breathing, and you start
To notice thoughts and pictures dart
That only you can see
All sights and sounds just fade away,
For you, a single voice holds sway,
A single face, as clear as day
Is all your world can be.

As but a child these feelings grew
Inside, as even then you knew
You'd meet one day with someone who
You'd love so tenderly.
A thousand years might come and pass
You'll feel these feelings to the last
And still remember that day past
Those feelings came to be

But then disaster! Has she heard
A careless thought? A thoughtless word?
Can no-one tell you what occurred
To bring such misery?
Those eyes, that voice, their absence rends
A void that nothing else can mend
Oh Lord, how grim! How bleak the end
If this should never be!

And yet if this should be the one,
That perfect loving companion
To love you through those years to come,
You always knew could be.
Those glory years still yet to come
Are surely not to be undone
So simply, not if you be strong
Then you can be make it be.

You feel once more that fire within,
As boldness forges steel therein
Which whispers that you still may win
That love 'twas meant to be.
That fire within you grows and feeds,
And spreading through you, burning, needs
Some consummation in your deeds,
And you can make it be.

If gods and angels could assign
A Perfect Love, let this be thine
The heights of passion to define
Oh Lord, oh let it be!
Hearts and Spirits Intertwined,
A love that glows like Autumn Wine,
A bond that trancends Space and Time,
And you can make it be.

And you can make it be.

Midnight at St. Thomas’ Orphanage

(As published in Allegheny Review and Blue Earth Review, Spring 2007)

Children fall asleep,
But you shift, eyes
Open and thoughts form thumping:

A woman’s hand nudges the back
Of your head. You walk gracelessly,
Bumping her leavened-bread bosom.

You stroll into a field of ferns
And hay-shapes. The tall grass leans confidently
Like town flags. You hear the word cover.

The flies float full of gravy.
We lick and leisure, they say
You never need to swat them off.

A man picks you up higher
Than a church cross.
You smell the woody intensity of
His tacit nearness,
The sturdiness of his oxcart arms.

You ache for what you do not
Know, miss what you
Have not had.

Dinner is done and
This is this.

silence

i reach for the pen which slips out and it is only next to my knuckle but i can reach it and i reach out and have it in my hand and then my arm is so lonely i am so lonely my arm has nothing to write. but what is there to say for if there is nothing to say then why say nothing for there is nothing to say so i should say nothing which is not saying at all but rather just not the action of saying which is silence, yes there is silence when i am alone like this and i can write down things to fill that silence but there will still be silence even though i fill it in with my thoughts over and over but you are the one who needs to fill my head with thoughts so i can fill the silence yes you but you are not can not be the one to fill my head with thoughts so that i can fill the silence which is never filled until my head is always being filled by you

what was it was doing again i don't remember what it was i was doing was i going to do something with my hand holding this pen was it drawing or maybe writing yes it was speaking to fill this silence

this silence

this silence

this silence


foolishness! because my head is empty so i cannot ever fill this silence despite my longing my desire my yearning to fill it because this silence what is it i can hear the sounds and i can see the sights but my soul wanders it wonders where is anything this is not an oasis my soul needs to drink from something it leaves me thirsty and i wish i had that bottle of water but it is late too late yes too late to get it but i will go and get it anyway because i am thirsty but it is too late but i will get it



water drink never satisfies though my tongue and throat were parched and i knew they wanted water when i give it to them they are not happy and want more but it is never enough no never enough for that thirst is like a silence to them is like the silence to me to my soul but if you were here i would fill that silence with thoughts instead of speaking this way but if my tongue and my throat are never satisfied with that water that they crave and i crave i take a sip and it is cool but not enough then how will my soul be satisfied with you can you even satisfy my soul with what you can give is it enough for my soul for my thirst for my silence for my mind for my thoughts for my soul for my soul for my soul for my soul

for the silence

where was i i must have been here in this darkness it is night so late should i sleep it does not matter i can enjoy this time to fill the silence because i hate this silence i hate it I HATE IT but i am still thirsty still for you who can never satisfy my thirst just like that water can not satisfy my thirst but it does make me need to urinate the collection of that water in my abdomen there is a distraction yes i do need distractions they distract from my distractions from the silence

what is enough for my soul what is enough for this silence is it not you am i looking for the wrong things am i only distracting myself is this water only but not wine and do i even know what wine is this analogy is not enough is not enough for the silence it is not just silence i am lonely i need you i need you are you enough i need you



yes, but maybe i need you because you need me and my head is not empty i have thoughts they are for you but also they are for us and i can give you thoughts and you can give me thoughts but then we need thoughts from a place that has more thoughts and a lot of thoughts and a flood of thoughts more thoughts than i can think than i can know because that is where my thoughts lie and that is where your thoughts lie and that is where we will lie when there is no more silence.

Faces

At O’Hare International airport, Leo stands alone next to walls and walls of glass, his hands in front of him, his eyes at his feet. He is not thinking about Kim, his girlfriend who he has not seen in a year, nor the questions that he would like to ask her while they are in his beige Ford (How was it? Were the people there different? Is business competitive in France?), or even her arrival time.

Leo is thinking about yesterday night, a night spent alone in front of a computer. It was not unlike most other nights that year: he came back to his tin can apartment from his office, made dinner (he was far too sophisticated for TV dinners or anything out of a paper container), and walked straight to the computer, watching pornography until he fell asleep. Here, his memory fades, as Leo never liked to remember the particulars of those previous nights behind closed doors and vertical blinds – those fuzzy scenes of skin pigment and movement. Originally, he could not even look at their faces. They were too animated or too expressive, his hand always covering a portion of his 15 inch screen from that horrible beacon of cheap delight, contrived intimacy or giddy small-talk. It was all too much. Too human. It’s fake, anyways, he’d say. It was safer this way.

Yet, every once in a while, he’d come across a face or an expression that would make him think of Kim. Immediately, he would stop watching, getting up from the computer and wandering aimlessly into the kitchen, telling himself he was thirsty and that he needed water or juice, his face flushed with some unknown heat. Yet, an hour later, he’d always come back to that face, his eyes peering at the screen from the darkness around him, again thinking of Kim. Sheepishly, he would look at those faces, contorted with unknowable amounts of pleasure and pain, one by one coming back to her. He hated to make that comparison. But surely, could he deny that the certain expression with slanted lips would always evoke the time when she wanted to go to the beach merely because he couldn’t swim? Or did not that jerky movement of the hips remind him of her shivery walk, and the fact that it was this unabashedly awkward grace that drew him to her to begin with? He remembers thinking that she wasn’t like the other business school students. She was sophisticated, yet simple. She’d flip straight to the sports section in The Times on Saturday mornings. She never gushed, but was straightforward to the point of risking being nondescript, even in her writing: it’s great, I love it here. Only enough information to let him know that she was alive and distantly happy.

Soon, Leo’s thoughts will think of which gate she will arrive at and inevitably, back to himself – his hands, his feet, his figure in the glass. Had those nights in front of the computer changed him? Would he look different to Kim? Leo’s hands will immediately rise to his face, feeling around for that trickle of hair that originated from under his nose down to the bulge of his chin. He had intentionally grown it out to anticipate Kim’s arrival. He will think of Kim and her new clothes, her new taste for Alsace or Cabernet Sauvignon and he will think he needs a similar change. After all, he had matured too. He had started to play the guitar she shipped over to him from Florence for his birthday. He had redecorated his apartment with colorful arrays of kitchenware and rugs. He had shopped at IKEA.

Soon, Leo will be thinking of engagement rings. Soon, they will be moving into a quaint house of floral colors in the middle of Naperville, Chicago because she insists on living a “slower pace of life.” Soon, they will be together in the middle of the night, bundled in the quiet heat of bedroom tradition, her arm and face on his chest, rising up and down to his slow breathing. Yet, Leo does not sleep. He will look at her – her mouth bent slightly upwards and open like a cat’s – counting the seconds between her breaths (Is she really sleeping?). He will look for a sign or signal. He will look for permission to sleep. He will look for that gesture of good faith that said it’s great, I love it here.