My Name is Paul Kersey

I keep a photograph of my daughter
in a silver frame, on my bedside
table, next to the ceramic
painted pony I bought her the day
she was raped again, the day
that turned into the night
she died. She jumped out a warehouse
window, landed on a metal fence,
and I wonder if her too-long mute
throat made any noise at all.
I wish I could have heard her say
my name just once more.
She's made me fill these wrinkled hands
with steel, and my mind
with wishes of a different kind.

When I hear a speechless creep gasp
and watch his eyes solicit reprieve,
I know that every empty chamber
leaves room for air; every pull
of the trigger's a separate prayer.

Weekend Requests

If my hands become soiled,
as they tend to do in
crowded spaces, please
point me towards a sink and soap.
And don't wait outside the door.
I'll be a while.

If my eyes become wicked, if a storm
takes shape, please
don't back away. That would only
kill the hope that sleeps behind
my lightning irises.

If my jacket gets caught,
on a doorknob, a wayward chair,
a toothy grin, please don't wander
far. A standard indent will keep
me comforted. A paragraph or more
and I'm lost for good.

And whatever words my tongue writes,
please white them out.

The Party

The party began with a whimper,
but soon enough I couldn't move,
trapped in a corner by a blimp, or
should I say man, with a beer in his hand.
I had to crawl away, on my hands and knees
at a sub-party level, foam and spittle
rapping my skull like a snare drum.

When I emerged in a clearing, when I
stood back on my feet, my knees were damp
stains, my hands covered in lovers' muck.
I turned around and saw two tongues touching,
four hands holding, five golden earrings,
and a familiar face in unfamiliar fingers.
I wished I had stayed with the blimp. Maybe
he could have floated me over this to a safer
place. I turned for the door, homeward
to dry my slacks and drink to forgetting, for
I knew this party would end
with a different whimper.

Need Answer. Please!

This question has been bothering me, and I can't find the answer on IMDB: On Saved by the Bell, who played Jessie's step-brother, Eric? In my mind, I keep seeing BJ Novak, the intern from The Office, but it's not listed in his profile, nor is the character listed in the SBTB information. God, it's lunchtime already, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to eat again until I know the answer. Help...me....

half man half machine

Im robocop yo
you can't stop me yo, I got a gat that fires three shots at a time. Honestly man, I got a targeting system that will straight fuck you up. I once took on a whole narcotics factory by myself. I threw the dad from that 70's show through mad walls. I also am pretty slow. I take an approach similar to the juggernaut. You can't stop me. They chopped me up into pieces one time. Shit was ass. Also, motherfuckas reprogrammed my memory unsecessfully. I was supposed to be a machine, but I remembered my family. I ate apple sauce one time to. It wasn't that good.

OCP owns me though, I hate those motherfuckers. Everytime I think about sex thay make me watch reruns of punky brewster.

SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST
PROTECT THE INNOCENT
UPHOLD THE LAW

Morality?

I posit a question? What is morality? Not so much what is it, but what makes one morally just or evil? Hitler was evil, right? That point can belabored forever, however when we talk about figures in history, or in the media, we are quick to judge them by our own moral standards. To describe these persons some use phrases such as 'that man or woman has small character'. I use the word scumbag. Scumbag has become a positive way to describe myself, however. Am I proud of being a scumbag? On my birthday I got a call from a colleague. He wished a happy birthday to me and chose to celebrate the twenty third anniversary of the biggest scumbag alive being born. I took this as a compliment.

Does this morality prevent us from doing what really feels good. Morality is a spatial-temporal phenomenon. It is specific to the space that is created. In the end it seems as if old testament morality has spread to most of the human species. Moral constraint is a fine word in my opinion. Persons such as myself gain great pleasure in loosening or in some cases breaking these constraints. Though most of society ultimately looks down on these actions, on a personal level they are most enjoyable.

I struggle with this question as a result of recent events that have even plagued the immortal Shitface McStevens. If something feels so right, if it makes so much sense, why deny it? Is it enough to deny yourself happiness, just because it's wrong by other peoples standards, and society as a whole? The circles you run in dictate your concepts of loyalty and friendship.

I am not a rule breaker. I don't like asking people for directions, nor do I purposely disrespect people most of time. If I don't know you, I'll probably listen to you for a while even if I hate you. For years I have done what teachers, professors, colleagues, and others have told me. Though I may feel anguish about it, I'll carry on and do it. When it comes to situations in which there seems to be no real consequences for my actions, let's say in the domain of Binghamton, or shitting on my friend Brian and his girlfriend, I can transform into this rule breaker who intends on doing things that would make the biggest scumbags cringe.

The scary situation is the one in which you do not consciously break the rule, but in a way you confidently saunter through it like you are a ghost caring little for who you hurt. Love or a perceived sense of worth or happiness can lead us in some strange directions. In a matter of hours, days, or weeks, priorities can change. The multiple identities we all have are constantly in conflict. The most clever have either learned to balance them with cunning (gizer), or chose to completely ignore them. Unfortunately, some situations even unnerve the most relaxed among us. I want to be here. I was for a while, but like most strong feelings that I have had, I eventually master and conquer them. War metaphors and emotions usually don't mix well, but my case they have to.

(poem i wrote for class but won't submit)

You remind me of a blade of grass
In a field,
Growing tall and green
Amidst your sisters,
Swaying like you got religion,
Shaking like you’ve been saved.

I wish I could say I was the sun
You reach for, or the soil
Beneath you, feeding you,
but I am just the child
Who runs through you,
Whose foot hides the light
From you, whose weight arches you
Groundward. I could stand there for days,
I could water you to drowning,
In miniscule rivers,
But still you’d stand up,
If a little bent, if a little
Curved; but still you’d play in the wind
And sleep beneath the snow.

The Death of a Clown

I recently attended services for a clown, and let me tell you, a clown's funeral is no laughing matter. Death is a sobering experience, especially for those whose profession is to be light-hearted; there is no humor. Except at the wake, when colleague after colleague sprayed the deceased's cold face with water from the fake flowers on their lapels. And when the procession arrived, the party of 80 all travelling in the one hearse. How do they do that? And when, after the eulogy, a clown shook the priest's hand, giving him a shocking thanks. That was all kind of funny. But when they lowered poor Rizzo into the earth, the only thing you could see was streaked makeup, the only thing you could hear were tears for a clown. And some sporadic fart noises. That was pretty funny too.

My First Cigarette

There was a butcher at the grocery store
when I was sixteen
who would tell me about his
carnal relations with a canary,
and the culminating
snapping of its neck.
He had needlemarks on his arms,
in between a tiger's claw
and oxidized barb wire.
I noticed this as he handed me
my first cigarette,
a cigarette I requested,
and I saw his wide shoulders
on his squat frame,
his greying beard,
his decayed teeth in a friendly smile,
and the anonymous blood
on his company apron.
His nails were long as talons.
Sometimes, now, when I light
up a Marlboro,
I can't help wondering
if birds have vaginas.

The Game of Life

So the other night I was staring intently into my closet. I wasn't in search of what shirt and tie I would wear tomorrow but instead I was looking at my bored games.

Please note that I refer to them as "bored" not "board" for reasons that:

1. Most of them do not consist of a few plastic pieces and a board anymore, rather an elaborate construction of plastic and diecast metal characters that when putting back into the "easy storage box" would make a professional map folder suicidal.
2. The only reason you are playing these games is because your Playstation or Gamecube isn’t working.

I digress.

I gazed from spine to spine evaluating the probability that if I even voice my opinion to my would be adversary would it be a waste of breath. I quickly dismissed “The Simpsons Jeopardy”, a thoughtful Christmas gift from my parents that I had received a year previous. In fact I have never played this game because the only person I could think of that I could actually play it with and have a worthy opponent would be Madison Sinclair, and that would only be if prohibition was resurrected and our speakeasy got busted up. So by default “The Simpsons Clue” and “The Simpsons Chess” were eliminated as well.

Once again, I digress.

Finally I saw it, Milton Bradley’s “The Game of Life” (unfortunately I do not own The Simpsons version). I reflected back on all the good times I had playing this game and the better times I had playing it on my computer (less setup time and funny cartoons result in an increase of enjoyability). This reflection spurred an inner dialogue between my current self and a past self.
When I was younger this game of ups and downs gave such an optimistic look at life. Think about it, in about 2 spins you have received all of your education and you are making a decent paycheck (although I do think the game which was created in 1860, needs to be adjusted for inflation every 5 years). In almost 3 more spins you are married to some woman named “Peg” (that’s game piece humor) and you have a house.

It happens that quick. We’re not even 30 spaces into our “Life” and the most important part of real life is done and over with, and there is still another 3/4 of the game to go. Personally, I’m not even past the education part but I have a career, a child, and I’ll be getting married (not to Peg) in less than a year. To push the point even more, I will not be climbing Mount Everest, flying a plane, or curing some rare disease and even if I did cure some rare disease I would certainly be paid more than $2000.

I concluded that this game is not even a close representation of “Life”, and I began my search for a game that more closely resembles it. I left my closet space and ventured to my son’s closet.
Try as I might but I could not draw any parallels involving “Hungry, Hungry Hippos”, “Trouble”, “Sorry”, or even “Star Wars Monopoly” (I really tried on this one). Then it hit me, really it hit me, I was pushing boxes to the side and then it slid off the shelf and whacked me in the head; “Chutes and Ladders”. Whether you are playing with chutes or snakes, this game is truly “The Game of Life”.

There are no ridiculous spaces claiming that your house has burned down, or that you have won some “contest”. Instead you trudge through the 100 grid squares moving, at most, 6 spaces at a time. If you are lucky you might land on a ladder and you move ahead quickly. But just as I have experienced, for as quick as you move through your life you can always hit those damn chutes and it brings you down and you have to start moving up either by ladders or space by space.

Nobody is certain what life holds, it’s about as predictable as a 20-sided die. All you can be sure of is that there will be ladders to climb, slides to go down and someone will always make it to 100 then the game of “life” is over and you only made it to 73.