Mom is downstairs, I saw her
Go down in her black dress,
Heard her clack the wooden steps,
Carrying her black handbag. She
Left her perfume stalled in the air,
A flower I’ll never name but
It must be violet and dusky and rare,
And I can feel it fall onto my hands
And neck, each sensation
Smaller than a pinprick, softer
Than a sprinkler’s mist. I wonder
when’s the next time I’ll smell
this scent again.
Dad is down there too, I can hear
His fingers tap the counter,
His wedding band a drumstick.
He is in black as well, a suit
That makes his shoulders
Proud. Mine look false
In the mirror, full of air
And set to burst.
I can hear the shower stop
Raining in the next room,
my brother open and slide
Shut the translucent doors.
I’ll have to finish soon,
If I can force my fingers to stop
Their fumbling,
So he can use the mirror
To comb his straight hair
And tie a knot around his neck.
I close the door and leave
The light off. It is dark,
But I can see enough.
The sun is peeking around
My parents’ shades. It is seven o’clock,
And I can’t tie a tie.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
battle ax he-man
Sitting down in a dark corner I begin to ponder. I let my mind wander where it may go, much like a drunk chimpanzee searching for an evenings dinner. The physical has escaped permitting a meditative state to the likes of which has been equaled only on rare occasion. My joints become ductile and relax back into my essence as a slight wind escapes from a man's posterior. The finger is moved to regain temporal balance.
The world has changed. In the future there are no more water fountains. The public is non existent. The cyberourgeoisie have effectively turned the masses into a quite homogeneous monoculture of consumers. This dystopian vision of the future is not unique. I refuse to cite John Carpenter's 'They Live'.
The value that space was given back then seems quite out of place here. The fabric of what we refer to as a neighborhood has been destroyed by self effacing individual citizens who unintentionally manufactured the social, economic, and political institutions of this world. Can this state be attributed to advanced capitalism? Perhaps this is the case. However, when I take the time to examine my serially absent self in a shard of broken glass, I realize I am this. The forces that created such a place have created me. Created in the image of capital, I will always remain in it. I shatter the glass with my Converse sneaker. Emblematic of the day I'm having, I cut my shin on the remanence. Theoretically, survival instincts should have kicked in. There would be no older version of Marty Mcfly to accompany me in my time of need. Maybe Jesus has finally returned and this is a post messianic landscape.
My thought is interrupted by a spectacular fragmented object resembling some semblance of architecture's vast history. Unless the molecular structure of building materials has changed, the design of this structure is far from sound. The angles from which this place constructs it's identities are thrown about like garbage in the mews. The eerie turpentine smell emanating from it draws me closer. As I come near, there's a rise in my Levis. There is a small circular hole in the side of one the many fragmented walls. Upon closer inspection the hole is quite glorious in it's aesthetic qualities....
To be continued....
The world has changed. In the future there are no more water fountains. The public is non existent. The cyberourgeoisie have effectively turned the masses into a quite homogeneous monoculture of consumers. This dystopian vision of the future is not unique. I refuse to cite John Carpenter's 'They Live'.
The value that space was given back then seems quite out of place here. The fabric of what we refer to as a neighborhood has been destroyed by self effacing individual citizens who unintentionally manufactured the social, economic, and political institutions of this world. Can this state be attributed to advanced capitalism? Perhaps this is the case. However, when I take the time to examine my serially absent self in a shard of broken glass, I realize I am this. The forces that created such a place have created me. Created in the image of capital, I will always remain in it. I shatter the glass with my Converse sneaker. Emblematic of the day I'm having, I cut my shin on the remanence. Theoretically, survival instincts should have kicked in. There would be no older version of Marty Mcfly to accompany me in my time of need. Maybe Jesus has finally returned and this is a post messianic landscape.
My thought is interrupted by a spectacular fragmented object resembling some semblance of architecture's vast history. Unless the molecular structure of building materials has changed, the design of this structure is far from sound. The angles from which this place constructs it's identities are thrown about like garbage in the mews. The eerie turpentine smell emanating from it draws me closer. As I come near, there's a rise in my Levis. There is a small circular hole in the side of one the many fragmented walls. Upon closer inspection the hole is quite glorious in it's aesthetic qualities....
To be continued....
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Una Pinche Autobiografia, Pt. I
Naci en el estado de Illinois. Siempre se me hizo muy extraño que no se pronucia la 's' en el nombre de ese estado. De chica conoci muchos lugares cuando vijaba con mi prostituta mama de ciudad por ciudad. Mi papa les vendia drogas a los gueros que eran aficionados de mi mama. De la edad entre siete y trece anos, cuando mis papas trabajaban, yo me la pasaba leyendo articulos en las revistas pronograficas que escondia mi papa entre los colchones de la cama. A si es como frutaron mis amores del viaje y de la literatura. Con la fortuna que ahoraron mis papas en los negocios de prostitucion y el narcotrafico, me dieron la oportunidad de viajar por todo el mundo.
Primero visite a los lugares mas bellos de Mexico, Centro y Sudamerica. Viajaba por la selvas de Chiapas, las calles del Salvador y las montañas de Colombia donde conocia los guerilleros cargando armas de fuego. Era una epoca cargada de tensiones politicas y una buena temporada para aprender sobres las gentes indigenas que me recibian. Ellos siempre daban regalitos para mi papa enredados con papel y pesados por kilos. Se me hacia tan linda la gente, que por donde quiera que iba me deban estos regalos para mi papa.
Mas adelante, mis papas me mandaron a Europa. Y para que no digan que mi papa es tacaño, tambien me encargo que entregara otros regalitos un sus amigos Europanos. La gente Europana tambien era muy amable y aunque les decia que no era necesario, me daban dinero y mas dinero al saber que les traia regalitos de parte de mi papa. Que linda es la gente.
Una vez, me dieron un recado para entregarle a mi mama. Yo creo era parte de un chiste porque no le entendi bien. Me dice el embasador de Peru con una sonrisa, "Dile a tu flaca madre que si el perro no revienta con polvo blanco, la polvorizo a ella." Jajaja. Yo creo tiene que ver el chiste con el tema de un cachorito con el que se encariño mi mama una vez. Que detallista del señor por averse acordado de aquel cachorito que queria tanto mi mama. Fue muy triste, porque ese cachorito despues se murio de un over-dosis de cocaina. Nunca nos enteramos como fue que el cachorito tenia cocaina.
Primero visite a los lugares mas bellos de Mexico, Centro y Sudamerica. Viajaba por la selvas de Chiapas, las calles del Salvador y las montañas de Colombia donde conocia los guerilleros cargando armas de fuego. Era una epoca cargada de tensiones politicas y una buena temporada para aprender sobres las gentes indigenas que me recibian. Ellos siempre daban regalitos para mi papa enredados con papel y pesados por kilos. Se me hacia tan linda la gente, que por donde quiera que iba me deban estos regalos para mi papa.
Mas adelante, mis papas me mandaron a Europa. Y para que no digan que mi papa es tacaño, tambien me encargo que entregara otros regalitos un sus amigos Europanos. La gente Europana tambien era muy amable y aunque les decia que no era necesario, me daban dinero y mas dinero al saber que les traia regalitos de parte de mi papa. Que linda es la gente.
Una vez, me dieron un recado para entregarle a mi mama. Yo creo era parte de un chiste porque no le entendi bien. Me dice el embasador de Peru con una sonrisa, "Dile a tu flaca madre que si el perro no revienta con polvo blanco, la polvorizo a ella." Jajaja. Yo creo tiene que ver el chiste con el tema de un cachorito con el que se encariño mi mama una vez. Que detallista del señor por averse acordado de aquel cachorito que queria tanto mi mama. Fue muy triste, porque ese cachorito despues se murio de un over-dosis de cocaina. Nunca nos enteramos como fue que el cachorito tenia cocaina.
Don't Cry For Me Technologia
I cannot think of any business machine more useless and annoying then a fax machine. In this day and age of email and scanners is there still a reason to transmit documents via phone lines. Regardless, everyday I am witness to my fellow coworkers involved in a never ending battle with this waste of space. All day long I hear them loading the sheets in, dialing the numbers (please note that and audible verification that a key has been pressed is unnecessary) and then the machine's response of "Beep, Beep, Beep". This sequence will repeat, with the occasionally echoes of the paper tray opening then slamming into the body of the beast, until one member of the struggle gives in. It really doesn't affect me until I hear the battle cries of that glorified telephone.
"Beep"
"Beep"
"Beep"
What is it trying to convey? Is it sending out some type of distress signal? Using Mr. Morse's alphabet that he created for horses and/or Helen Keller, I attempt to decipher it.
The Options:
"S"
-Could it be calling an army of snakes?
"E" "E" "E"
-On a phone that is 333- convert that to other letters you get "Ef'd" meaning we're fucked.
"E" "I"
-Perhaps that fax's alphebet only consists of two vowels.
"I" "E"
-I e- what? I eat? I envy? I e- what?
After a thorough examination of the evidence before me I concluded that it is not attempting to hold a coversation but rather it is an exclamation of pain. The machine appears to be hurt (paper cut?) and it is screaming out in agony. So this machine that I have come to despise is asking to be put out of it's misery and a feeling of helplessness falls over me.
As I stumbled upon this revelation, I sank lower into my ergonomic chair. I was horrified that I now have to sit and listen to death cries of a machine that is not scheduled to be replaced anytime in the near future. During the quiet times I glance over at it just to check if it's still there.
I have to wipe away the tears before anyone notices....
"Beep"
"Beep"
"Beep"
What is it trying to convey? Is it sending out some type of distress signal? Using Mr. Morse's alphabet that he created for horses and/or Helen Keller, I attempt to decipher it.
The Options:
"S"
-Could it be calling an army of snakes?
"E" "E" "E"
-On a phone that is 333- convert that to other letters you get "Ef'd" meaning we're fucked.
"E" "I"
-Perhaps that fax's alphebet only consists of two vowels.
"I" "E"
-I e- what? I eat? I envy? I e- what?
After a thorough examination of the evidence before me I concluded that it is not attempting to hold a coversation but rather it is an exclamation of pain. The machine appears to be hurt (paper cut?) and it is screaming out in agony. So this machine that I have come to despise is asking to be put out of it's misery and a feeling of helplessness falls over me.
As I stumbled upon this revelation, I sank lower into my ergonomic chair. I was horrified that I now have to sit and listen to death cries of a machine that is not scheduled to be replaced anytime in the near future. During the quiet times I glance over at it just to check if it's still there.
I have to wipe away the tears before anyone notices....
Paperclips, paperclips, paperclips
One of my life goals is to be featured in the Guiness World Book of Records. I've searched and searched for a record to break and by gosh - I've found it. I will create the world's longest paperclip chain.
The category
It's a tough one. The goal is to create the world's longest paperclip chain by an individual in 24 hours using 1.2 inch long paperclips.
The competition
Dan Mayer of California has gone unchallenged since February of 2004. He is a short, stocky man that likes to wear paperclips as cufflinks and has a slight b.o. problem. His love of paperclips began as a child when he used paperclip chains as garland for the family Christmas tree in sunny California. He is a devout paperclip aficionado. As you can see - the competition is formidable.
The strategy
It requires skill, speed and concentration. Nimble fingers are required for the interlocking of paperclips. This is the action that creates the 'chain'. In order to stay competitive I must interlock the links [paperclips] with haste. It's going to take steadfast concentration and mathematical calculations to stay on edge. History indicates, that 53,400 paperclips were used for the current world record of 5,340 feet. Let's break it down. That's 2,235 paperclips an hour, and 37.083 paperclips a minute. In laymen's terms - that's a lot of paperclips.
The acceptance speech
If and when I am announced the new record holder-I will have to thank God, my publisist, Jackie Chan - because he inspires me - and my mom. But, maybe not in that order.
The category
It's a tough one. The goal is to create the world's longest paperclip chain by an individual in 24 hours using 1.2 inch long paperclips.
The competition
Dan Mayer of California has gone unchallenged since February of 2004. He is a short, stocky man that likes to wear paperclips as cufflinks and has a slight b.o. problem. His love of paperclips began as a child when he used paperclip chains as garland for the family Christmas tree in sunny California. He is a devout paperclip aficionado. As you can see - the competition is formidable.
The strategy
It requires skill, speed and concentration. Nimble fingers are required for the interlocking of paperclips. This is the action that creates the 'chain'. In order to stay competitive I must interlock the links [paperclips] with haste. It's going to take steadfast concentration and mathematical calculations to stay on edge. History indicates, that 53,400 paperclips were used for the current world record of 5,340 feet. Let's break it down. That's 2,235 paperclips an hour, and 37.083 paperclips a minute. In laymen's terms - that's a lot of paperclips.
The acceptance speech
If and when I am announced the new record holder-I will have to thank God, my publisist, Jackie Chan - because he inspires me - and my mom. But, maybe not in that order.
Brainstorming
I have had writer's block for several months now. Juices aren't flowing, wheels aren't turing, lights aren't turning on.... So, I'm going to experiment.
1. I need you guys to leave potential post titles as comments.
2. I will attempt to write about said titles.
3. Life will go on.
1. I need you guys to leave potential post titles as comments.
2. I will attempt to write about said titles.
3. Life will go on.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Blow Me Where the Pampers Is
Going through old posts, I read one I wrote called Jobs I Want in which loud-video-game-hater Angelatee commented:
This got me thinking: Who would be the right person to sleep with? Depends on your goals, you might say. To put it as simply as it can be put, my goal is to be a writer. It would follow, then, that I should start sleeping with editors and owners of publishing companies. But, after more analysis, I found that things were a little more complicated. Editors are nice and all, but there's a conflict of interest there. What if we had an argument, and my editor/lover just decided to strike-through all of my proper nouns? I had to redefine my goal. To put it as exact as it can be put, my goal is to not have to work a 9-5 job, and to be able to sit around and think and write as much as I want without having to worry about financial matters. Therefore, I should start sleeping with disgustingly rich, elderly women.
This presents new questions, however: Where does one meet rich old women? Is there a club they frequent to drink soup and share denture stock tips? How does one begin a relationship with a rich old woman? Do they appreciate flowers? Do I have to learn how to play bridge? Also, there's the whole physical aspect, which at this moment is unthinkable to me. But, as a wise man once said, "To achieve the unthinkable - the unbelievable - it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought." Wait, did I just say 'wise man'? I meant 'fucking moron.'
Also, I hate Charles Lindburgh.
Actually, it might not be that bad. I never really had a grandma, so I wouldn't really have crazy issues. Plus, it would be a new experience, thus giving me tons more stuff to write about. Maybe a Harry Potter-type epic series, but where the young hero has to have lots of sex with a geriatric witch. Wild, magical, vomit-inducing sex. I'd read that, and I'm sure you would, too.
My final problem is more psychological: Will I be able to just jump into a relationship with an old lady? I figure she would have to be 70-80ish if I'm going to really profit from this without wasting too much of my life. I just need to get in, do my thing, live it up, get in the will, and nature will take care of the rest, as long as science doesn't fuck it up for me. So, I'm thinking I should take my time. The only solution I can find to this is to slowly immerse myself into older woman culture. So, if there are any rich 30ish year-old women out there who want to help me out, maybe show me how to crochet, or how to take advantage of a clothing sale, please let me know. And you 40-somethings out there, don't be discouraged. I'll get to you sometime in August.
Vanderbilt, seems to me you need to start sleeping with the right people.
This got me thinking: Who would be the right person to sleep with? Depends on your goals, you might say. To put it as simply as it can be put, my goal is to be a writer. It would follow, then, that I should start sleeping with editors and owners of publishing companies. But, after more analysis, I found that things were a little more complicated. Editors are nice and all, but there's a conflict of interest there. What if we had an argument, and my editor/lover just decided to strike-through all of my proper nouns? I had to redefine my goal. To put it as exact as it can be put, my goal is to not have to work a 9-5 job, and to be able to sit around and think and write as much as I want without having to worry about financial matters. Therefore, I should start sleeping with disgustingly rich, elderly women.
This presents new questions, however: Where does one meet rich old women? Is there a club they frequent to drink soup and share denture stock tips? How does one begin a relationship with a rich old woman? Do they appreciate flowers? Do I have to learn how to play bridge? Also, there's the whole physical aspect, which at this moment is unthinkable to me. But, as a wise man once said, "To achieve the unthinkable - the unbelievable - it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought." Wait, did I just say 'wise man'? I meant 'fucking moron.'
Also, I hate Charles Lindburgh.
Actually, it might not be that bad. I never really had a grandma, so I wouldn't really have crazy issues. Plus, it would be a new experience, thus giving me tons more stuff to write about. Maybe a Harry Potter-type epic series, but where the young hero has to have lots of sex with a geriatric witch. Wild, magical, vomit-inducing sex. I'd read that, and I'm sure you would, too.
My final problem is more psychological: Will I be able to just jump into a relationship with an old lady? I figure she would have to be 70-80ish if I'm going to really profit from this without wasting too much of my life. I just need to get in, do my thing, live it up, get in the will, and nature will take care of the rest, as long as science doesn't fuck it up for me. So, I'm thinking I should take my time. The only solution I can find to this is to slowly immerse myself into older woman culture. So, if there are any rich 30ish year-old women out there who want to help me out, maybe show me how to crochet, or how to take advantage of a clothing sale, please let me know. And you 40-somethings out there, don't be discouraged. I'll get to you sometime in August.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Questions for the Ultimate Warrior
You used to be Ultimate, you used to be my hero. The way you would run into the ring full speed and furiously shake your multi colored tassels in such varieties as hot pink and electric purple. You shook the ropes like they were nothing. I took the rubberband in my hand and tried to emulate your style. You were unstoppable, clotheslining everyone in sight. You survived the atomic leg drop, how? I didn't think it was possible. You inspired me to wonderful things in my life.
Why? Why did you have to change your official name to "Ulitmate Warrior". Your kids now have warrior as a last name. You wife has to be referred to as Ms. Warrior. You have lived out my fantasy. To refer to you properly people must call you Ultimate. I got called a brick wall yesterday while playing basketball and I thought of you.
Your selfishness made me cry. Why couldn't you master kayfabe, as I had sought to do? Bobby Heenan hates you, why? He is a likeable guy, always joking around. Did you shit in his dressing room, or disrespect him in some way? You had your own dressing room. Why? Were you above ethnic stereotypes and mythological characters like Hercules.
They said you're a horrible technical wrestler. I don't believe them, Ultimate. They are jealous of your strength and your poise.
I heard Andre the Giant punched you in the face. That was fucked up. I like Andre, but he should not have done that.
Why are you a conservative? Why have you taken that path in life? It made me cry when I heard. Hulk Hogan became a joke to me, my hero, (while at least Vanderbilt's anyway), when he tarnished his image with self accounts of being human. Hulkmania was human, but the warrior no!, He was a god! or according to his own accounts he spent a lot of time with the gods above. Your speeches exhilarated me, and added to my surrealist conceptualizations of writing, talking and literature. On Monday I found out you were human.
Or so the WWE wants us to think. I don't listen to them. You are still important to me. It was shameful how you died, and they tried to bring you back to life with that imposter. I know you died, I know you did, because the ultimate warrior that I hear about, the one who demanded money for the match in hell, the one who is a conservative speaker, the one who called Droz a cripple, he is not the Ultimate Warrior. This I know.
My image of you is not tarnished. You will always be my hero, Mr. Warrior.
Why? Why did you have to change your official name to "Ulitmate Warrior". Your kids now have warrior as a last name. You wife has to be referred to as Ms. Warrior. You have lived out my fantasy. To refer to you properly people must call you Ultimate. I got called a brick wall yesterday while playing basketball and I thought of you.
Your selfishness made me cry. Why couldn't you master kayfabe, as I had sought to do? Bobby Heenan hates you, why? He is a likeable guy, always joking around. Did you shit in his dressing room, or disrespect him in some way? You had your own dressing room. Why? Were you above ethnic stereotypes and mythological characters like Hercules.
They said you're a horrible technical wrestler. I don't believe them, Ultimate. They are jealous of your strength and your poise.
I heard Andre the Giant punched you in the face. That was fucked up. I like Andre, but he should not have done that.
Why are you a conservative? Why have you taken that path in life? It made me cry when I heard. Hulk Hogan became a joke to me, my hero, (while at least Vanderbilt's anyway), when he tarnished his image with self accounts of being human. Hulkmania was human, but the warrior no!, He was a god! or according to his own accounts he spent a lot of time with the gods above. Your speeches exhilarated me, and added to my surrealist conceptualizations of writing, talking and literature. On Monday I found out you were human.
Or so the WWE wants us to think. I don't listen to them. You are still important to me. It was shameful how you died, and they tried to bring you back to life with that imposter. I know you died, I know you did, because the ultimate warrior that I hear about, the one who demanded money for the match in hell, the one who is a conservative speaker, the one who called Droz a cripple, he is not the Ultimate Warrior. This I know.
My image of you is not tarnished. You will always be my hero, Mr. Warrior.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Weekend Hopes
This is where I turn
the corner, find myself
in a random alley
with a desk and a comfortable
chair to sit in, a pad
and pen, a prostitute
and a night’s supply of alcohol,
and maybe God or a meteor
will shake the ground up,
and I and ink and whore
and empty cans will
tumble like Yahtzee dice
to spell out significance.
I’ll be writing blind,
stockings tied around my eyes,
muzzled,
her fist in my mouth,
so no visitors, no calls,
unless my pen
or prostitute run dry.
Whichever comes first.
the corner, find myself
in a random alley
with a desk and a comfortable
chair to sit in, a pad
and pen, a prostitute
and a night’s supply of alcohol,
and maybe God or a meteor
will shake the ground up,
and I and ink and whore
and empty cans will
tumble like Yahtzee dice
to spell out significance.
I’ll be writing blind,
stockings tied around my eyes,
muzzled,
her fist in my mouth,
so no visitors, no calls,
unless my pen
or prostitute run dry.
Whichever comes first.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Heart-stopper
Yes, I saw a child,
up ahead, over to the right,
but the leaves were
just so beautiful really,
and the sky was
a towering pasture,
and the sun was so bright,
its light softly magnified
as if the cloudless sky was a lens,
its light cushioning those leaves,
cultivating their colors,
the browns and reds
and yellows brightly dancing above me,
for me, and some of them falling
and splashing my windshield,
it was just so, just so,
just so beautiful,
heart-stopping really,
so yes, I saw a child,
and no, I didn’t see him.
up ahead, over to the right,
but the leaves were
just so beautiful really,
and the sky was
a towering pasture,
and the sun was so bright,
its light softly magnified
as if the cloudless sky was a lens,
its light cushioning those leaves,
cultivating their colors,
the browns and reds
and yellows brightly dancing above me,
for me, and some of them falling
and splashing my windshield,
it was just so, just so,
just so beautiful,
heart-stopping really,
so yes, I saw a child,
and no, I didn’t see him.
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