There was a parade that day,
and the winds blew the flags
around their poles and into
their bearers' faces. The keys
on my clarinet were cold, and
the mouthpiece made me gag.
The reed was rotting and old,
and my dry lips were careful
not to catch a splinter.
I told myself to stay in the center,
not to drift my frame
into my neigbors. But my bell
bumped a floutist when her steps
stayed in place, and one more moment
I would have been on top of her.
He was in the grandstand, and his eyes
were on me as we halted
our procession.
His hands shivered. They were bare.
They shivered, it seemed,
a tiny absolution,
dozens of rapid crosses
like an erratic priest.
I heard the crowd cheer us,
and the drums marked the silence
when Mr. Maples's hand cut the air.
I kept on playing, hoping
everyone would see
every other pair of eyes
that chose to look at me.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Like white space on a canvas
As it was in the beginning,
At least the start I understand,
A Something made the earth, the sun,
The water, plants to soak it up,
Animals to eat the plants, a man
To keep and kill the creatures, air
For him to breathe. The maker,
Lacking a flair for design, gave the man
Flesh between his legs, just hanging there
Like an inchworm stringing on a branch.
A clone was thrown into the world
To give it use, lacking man’s surplus.
Exterior negation. Subtly beautiful
Like white space on a canvas. We were defined.
Like white space on canvas, we were defined
By what we weren’t: shaded in.
The things around us give us shape;
We worry that an awkward angle
Will draw us wrong, mangle our bodies
Until we’ve lost that human look
In our eyes, and our arms are reaching
Out our ribs. If we only took
The time to straighten and suit our skin
To our shoulders, like an ill-fitting shirt,
You’d be sitting right here where I slap
My palm. This bench has all the power.
My hand, it falls, it’s weak and base.
If you were here, we’d define our space.
If you were here, we’d define our space
With our hands. Condense to water
If we like, mix and separate
Our liquid flesh, splash the grass
With green delight. Or maybe have
A firefight, scorch the innocent dirt
And char the victim-birds who fly too low
To the ground. A dragonfly does not have
A dragon’s breath, but we have proven
Our lungs’ air can flame, explode
Like a sunflare. So maybe we should
Stay apart. I see that you don’t care right now
But Dear, this silence is an episode.
Already there’s so much to fear.
Already there’s so much to fear:
These cigarettes will pop my lungs,
Leave them flat like empty punching bags;
My eyes will break, lead me groping
In light that only my hands can hold;
My dick will shrivel, balls grow cold,
My seed cloud out, dusty and dry
Like a burst sack of flour; Atomic bombs
Will drop like pelleted geese, while we hide
In bunkers underground, the place we thought
We’d never be, or worse, while sitting
On this bench—I’d have to see the lake dissolve,
The fish choke as my body goes rotten;
My life will go unnoticed, forgotten.
My life will go unnoticed, forgotten.
I had to write it twice. It carries weight.
It sits on my shoulders and shushes me
When I speak. It grabs my pen, cracks it
In half when I try to write for help.
Angers me when it squeezes round my waist
To push my blood into my face.
Another fear: I’ll never understand
A woman like I seem to know myself.
Of me, I know enough to just get by,
So with other men I can sympathize,
But women are a different kind.
The birthing of a child seems a pain, but
Menstruation’s something I would like to try.
Menstruation’s something I would never try,
I have to say. I have to be honest.
I force myself to neglect: This is my body.
A liver, a heart, a brain, never mind
The blood that fills my veins, all soupy
And sludgy, like quicksand, like stew.
And clots! One of those breaks free, man,
It’s hitching a ride straight to your ribcage,
Right inside where you put your hand
For the Pledge, the place where it bumps for what
Feels like forever, but of course it can’t.
A clot can stop your heart like a brick wall,
Or your mother’s look while your hand’s in the cookies.
I wish I’d eaten better.
I wish I’d eaten better.
That’s everyone’s lament, as well as
I wish I’d done a few more sit-ups, or
I should have brought more girls to bed.
That last one’s fine-tuned for the men,
But girls, I’m sure, have a similar thought.
For me right now, I’m friends with sex; no waste
From the extra flesh given me in haste
(He must have rushed it. It’s a clear mistake.)
But someday soon, it can happen in a blink,
This silly tool will lose its use. God bless
That day, when thoughts will have more room to move,
When girls are human beings too, and things are
As they were in the beginning.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Stood Up
She had a basket in her lap, red
like the blood that would flow
out her nose(on occasion),
that she filled with apples,
green like the Gremlin
her parents drove
when she was a kid, that took her
to school and CCD. She had a memory
of sitting in the back while it idled,
and when she spoke her voice
was deep and cut up, like talking
into a motorized fan.
But she did not think of this memory.
She wore a white shirt, and on its lapel
was a black and gold button
shaped like a bell, not cracked
like the one in Philadelphia,
but smooth, and flat as a coin,
so it couldn't ring. The bracelets
on her wrists would have jingled
had she moved her hands.
Her black hair
was straight with hooks on the ends,
still warm from the curler upstairs.
In her red skirt
she had a hand-sized pouch
where she kept facial tissue
and cough drops, and a cell phone
that rarely rang. She sat on her couch
until her head began to tick
with the second hand
of the gravestone-shaped clock
that stood next to the TV stand.
It was then she stood up (a dull ringing
from her wrists, not bright
like an altar boy's bells),
undressed, and went to bed.
like the blood that would flow
out her nose(on occasion),
that she filled with apples,
green like the Gremlin
her parents drove
when she was a kid, that took her
to school and CCD. She had a memory
of sitting in the back while it idled,
and when she spoke her voice
was deep and cut up, like talking
into a motorized fan.
But she did not think of this memory.
She wore a white shirt, and on its lapel
was a black and gold button
shaped like a bell, not cracked
like the one in Philadelphia,
but smooth, and flat as a coin,
so it couldn't ring. The bracelets
on her wrists would have jingled
had she moved her hands.
Her black hair
was straight with hooks on the ends,
still warm from the curler upstairs.
In her red skirt
she had a hand-sized pouch
where she kept facial tissue
and cough drops, and a cell phone
that rarely rang. She sat on her couch
until her head began to tick
with the second hand
of the gravestone-shaped clock
that stood next to the TV stand.
It was then she stood up (a dull ringing
from her wrists, not bright
like an altar boy's bells),
undressed, and went to bed.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Relieved
Eileen was crying in the bathtub again when Patrick came in to urinate. Her sounds were drowned out by the piddling in the toilet and its flush, but then entered a harmony with the post-flush porcelain ringing.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Patrick said, spotting the empty cardboard box, crushed flat on the pink bath mat. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“It’s called hope, Pat.” She sniffled and trembled.
“There’s no hope here, hun.”
“There is, though. I swore I saw it start to change. I got so excited, I peed all over myself.” She looked up at him. The ends of her hair had dipped into the bathwater. “If you don’t have anything to add, I’d like to be alone.”
“Look, Eileen.” He saw his hand out in front of him, as if he were begging for change. Eileen looked down into the water. “Just lock the door next time, all right honey? And don’t catch a cold in there.”
*****
Patrick got dressed, tied a tie around his neck and drove to work. He would be half an hour early, but that was good because he had to move his bowels. Eileen was still in the tub when he left.
The air was cool, so he drove with a window down. He turned up the volume of his radio, trying to distract himself and relieve his hidden pressure, but falling acorns bouncing off his windshield made him drive faster.
The CVS parking lot was empty, typical for pre-noon on a weekday. His shift didn’t start until 12, but still he threw his white coat, his name stitched in cursive above his right breast, over his arm and race-walked through the automatic doors.
The entrance to the backroom stood just next to the pharmacy. It was comprised of two swinging doors and an alarm that had to be coded off before entering. Pat’s fingers fumbled and hit the wrong code twice before finally getting it right. His hand was pushing its way through when he heard a weak shout.
“Mr. Daughton.” He almost ignored it, but turned his head out of duty. “Mr. Daughton?” It was one of his regular customers.
“I’ve told you, Mrs. Mcgee, call me Pat. Or Patrick.”
“Right, right. Of course. Patrick, how are you?”
“Fine. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes actually. I just have a question about which I should take.” Mrs. McGee sniffled and coughed. She pointed to three small boxes in her shopping cart. Patrick’s bowels felt tight, wound in twine like a baseball’s core.
“Take the red one, Mrs. McGee. It’ll clear you right up. Help you sleep too, so don’t take your Ambien with it.”
“Oh. But I don’t want to be drowsy.”
“OK, well you can’t take the Sudafed.”
“Why not?”
Patrick swore his testicles were rising into his stomach. He thought he smelled something. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his customer or mere fantasy, or if Mrs. McGee could smell it too. Maybe it was seeping through his skin? The old woman sniffled.
“Because you can’t. It’s not good for you. Take the green one. That should do you fine. Go ask Max if you have any questions.” He made a sweeping motion towards the pharmacy counter. “I have to run in the back for a minute.”
He heard her protest, something about Max being German, but he just walked through the door. A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears. He was on the toilet when he heard it go silent.
*****
A man sitting on a toilet is relieved of all pride. This is why he locks himself away in small rooms, or smaller cubicles within larger rooms.
Patrick studied his hands as he sat. Hair had crept its way up the back of each hand over the years, sloping up towards his pinkies. His fingers were unadorned. He prided himself on simplicity, on minimalism. When he felt a warmth in his urethra, his right hand aimed his hanging prick towards the waiting water. This led his sight to his thighs, pushed wider than normal from the act of sitting. There were thin red bands across it, stretch marks recording a previous time like rings in the trunk of a tree. Here and there pimples stood like puritan pariahs.
Patrick knew he was a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like Eileen in his life. He wished he could give her the two things she wanted: a child and marriage. But what was one without the other? In his mind, the act of marriage was more a transformation into mother and father than wife and husband. They’d been living like they shared a name for years now; a ceremony wouldn’t change anything. But a baby would.
These thoughts upset Patrick, though they were as regular for him as bowel movements. When he felt composed, he pushed the lever and flushed his waste away without a glance.
*****
Max was at the prescription drop-off window when Pat entered the pharmacy. He half-smiled at Pat under his graying moustache. Pat sat down at the pill counter, put the caps back on some opened bottles. Neither talked to the other. Without customers, there was no reason to talk. Pat stared at the phone, hoping for a ring and a line to light up, when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.
“Call me now,” read the text message. It was from Eileen. He called her, but the line just rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. Pat flipped his phone shut before he heard the greeting.
An hour later his phone vibrated again: “Come home!” Max looked over at Pat.
“Urgent business?”
“No. It’s just Eileen. She wants me to come home for some reason.”
“I bet I know what she wants,” Max said. Patrick thought he knew too. In the past she had lured him home from work on her days off for some afternoon fun. Max didn’t know about this, but still strung his joke along. “Can’t have you today, though. No way am I covering for you. Got plans myself tonight.”
Pat felt a primal excitement as he stared at the text message. “What kind of plans?”
“It’s my day with Kate. Her mother’s dropping her off around 5. Probably go shopping with her and spend a paycheck. But that’s how it goes, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Pat was still fantasizing about Eileen, what she would be wearing, how she’d greet him at the door, when a customer called to refill a prescription. Then another called, then there was a line in front of Max and a line at the cashier. Max left at 4 so Patrick had to deal with the afternoon rush alone. There was no time to think about Eileen.
*****
It was dark when Patrick pulled into his driveway, but the lawn was blanketed in light. Every light bulb in the house must have been burning. Patrick peeked in the window and saw Eileen sitting at the counter. Her hands were clasped and held her chin up, while her elbows were pushing on the countertop for support. Patrick looked away and walked to the door. His long shadow bounced across the lawn.
“Hey honey, sorry I couldn’t call you back. Rough day,” he said after the storm-door rattled shut. He bent over to untie his shoes. Eileen didn’t say anything, only looked up. She was wearing jeans and an old gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back. He could see light shining off of her eyes. Her mouth seemed to be slightly trembling, and she was holding something in her fist. “Eileen? What’s the matter?”
Eileen lowered her hands. She started smiling when Patrick walked over to her, and thrust what was in her hand into his face. It was a white stick, and he flinched when it flew so close. It looked wet, and had a rank smell coming off it. On it, there was a thin pink line running across a small plastic window.
“Oh, Eileen. I’m sorry.” He hugged her, but her arms did not close around him. She pulled away.
“Why are you sorry?”
Patrick felt a tingle along his arm-hair when he saw her teary eyes. “Because, the test…the minus.”
“That’s not a minus. That’s what it shows when the test is positive.” “Why would a minus mean positive?”
“It’s not a minus, Patrick. It’s a different symbol altogether. It means I’m pregnant.”
Patrick almost took a step back from her, from the stick and its minus. He balanced on his heels for a second, then repositioned his weight more evenly on his feet.
“How can you be pregnant? Remember what the doctor said?”
“Yes, I remember. He gave us a small chance.”
“Small? His exact words were ‘slim to none.’”
“That’s still a chance. Why aren’t you happy?”
Patrick wondered why he wasn’t happy. In his mind he saw himself ejaculating into a cup; the doctor’s scowling face, like a factory inspector judging him unfit for business. Then he saw the ring he would have to buy; Eileen’s stomach growing round and plump; the fluid that would pour out of her, that might drown him in his bed; the blood on a doctor’s white clothes. Then he saw what he thought was the truth.
“Tell me how this really happened.” He felt as if he was leaning forward slightly. He thought he could fall at any second, and was thankful the windows behind him were not open.
“You know how this happened. I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“Was I?” He saw her eyes glance at his hands, felt them tighten and tense.
“Yes, of course.”
Her eyes were teary again, and Patrick’s hands fell open, loose at his sides. He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her, upstairs to their bedroom.
“I think you should take another test, to be sure.” His voice was weak, and muffled by the growing steps between them. “False positives do happen.”
He didn’t see her sit back down at the counter, because his back was turned, or hear her when she said, “You know, Pat, miracles do happen,” because her voice was scarcely existent. He didn’t see her cry until her cheeks were cramped, or kiss the test stick with her lips slightly parted.
*****
It was ten o’clock when Patrick woke up, alone in his bed. It was Tuesday, and Eileen worked on Tuesdays, so he wasn’t alarmed to reach over and feel cool sheets. He noticed a pain in his sides when he breathed too deep, so he got up and walked to the bathroom in his boxers.
When he turned on the light, he noticed something on the lowered toilet seat cover. He walked in, and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw that it was a pair of Eileen’s underwear. This was another game she had played with him, leaving her panties around for him to find. He reached down to pick them up, and had them in his hand when he saw the small brown blotches blemishing the crotch. He dropped them back on the toilet seat on reflex.
He turned to the sink, still with a pain in his sides, in his kidneys. He grimaced as he brushed his teeth, tried to stretch out the pain by tilting from side to side. He was trying to think about Eileen, what he could say to her tonight. Maybe he would buy her a ring today? Or a vacation somewhere might be nice. He would ask her what she thought of Cleveland.
Patrick’s pain wouldn’t go away. He had no other choice but to piss in the sink.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Patrick said, spotting the empty cardboard box, crushed flat on the pink bath mat. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“It’s called hope, Pat.” She sniffled and trembled.
“There’s no hope here, hun.”
“There is, though. I swore I saw it start to change. I got so excited, I peed all over myself.” She looked up at him. The ends of her hair had dipped into the bathwater. “If you don’t have anything to add, I’d like to be alone.”
“Look, Eileen.” He saw his hand out in front of him, as if he were begging for change. Eileen looked down into the water. “Just lock the door next time, all right honey? And don’t catch a cold in there.”
*****
Patrick got dressed, tied a tie around his neck and drove to work. He would be half an hour early, but that was good because he had to move his bowels. Eileen was still in the tub when he left.
The air was cool, so he drove with a window down. He turned up the volume of his radio, trying to distract himself and relieve his hidden pressure, but falling acorns bouncing off his windshield made him drive faster.
The CVS parking lot was empty, typical for pre-noon on a weekday. His shift didn’t start until 12, but still he threw his white coat, his name stitched in cursive above his right breast, over his arm and race-walked through the automatic doors.
The entrance to the backroom stood just next to the pharmacy. It was comprised of two swinging doors and an alarm that had to be coded off before entering. Pat’s fingers fumbled and hit the wrong code twice before finally getting it right. His hand was pushing its way through when he heard a weak shout.
“Mr. Daughton.” He almost ignored it, but turned his head out of duty. “Mr. Daughton?” It was one of his regular customers.
“I’ve told you, Mrs. Mcgee, call me Pat. Or Patrick.”
“Right, right. Of course. Patrick, how are you?”
“Fine. Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes actually. I just have a question about which I should take.” Mrs. McGee sniffled and coughed. She pointed to three small boxes in her shopping cart. Patrick’s bowels felt tight, wound in twine like a baseball’s core.
“Take the red one, Mrs. McGee. It’ll clear you right up. Help you sleep too, so don’t take your Ambien with it.”
“Oh. But I don’t want to be drowsy.”
“OK, well you can’t take the Sudafed.”
“Why not?”
Patrick swore his testicles were rising into his stomach. He thought he smelled something. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his customer or mere fantasy, or if Mrs. McGee could smell it too. Maybe it was seeping through his skin? The old woman sniffled.
“Because you can’t. It’s not good for you. Take the green one. That should do you fine. Go ask Max if you have any questions.” He made a sweeping motion towards the pharmacy counter. “I have to run in the back for a minute.”
He heard her protest, something about Max being German, but he just walked through the door. A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears. He was on the toilet when he heard it go silent.
*****
A man sitting on a toilet is relieved of all pride. This is why he locks himself away in small rooms, or smaller cubicles within larger rooms.
Patrick studied his hands as he sat. Hair had crept its way up the back of each hand over the years, sloping up towards his pinkies. His fingers were unadorned. He prided himself on simplicity, on minimalism. When he felt a warmth in his urethra, his right hand aimed his hanging prick towards the waiting water. This led his sight to his thighs, pushed wider than normal from the act of sitting. There were thin red bands across it, stretch marks recording a previous time like rings in the trunk of a tree. Here and there pimples stood like puritan pariahs.
Patrick knew he was a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like Eileen in his life. He wished he could give her the two things she wanted: a child and marriage. But what was one without the other? In his mind, the act of marriage was more a transformation into mother and father than wife and husband. They’d been living like they shared a name for years now; a ceremony wouldn’t change anything. But a baby would.
These thoughts upset Patrick, though they were as regular for him as bowel movements. When he felt composed, he pushed the lever and flushed his waste away without a glance.
*****
Max was at the prescription drop-off window when Pat entered the pharmacy. He half-smiled at Pat under his graying moustache. Pat sat down at the pill counter, put the caps back on some opened bottles. Neither talked to the other. Without customers, there was no reason to talk. Pat stared at the phone, hoping for a ring and a line to light up, when his cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.
“Call me now,” read the text message. It was from Eileen. He called her, but the line just rang and rang and eventually went to voice mail. Pat flipped his phone shut before he heard the greeting.
An hour later his phone vibrated again: “Come home!” Max looked over at Pat.
“Urgent business?”
“No. It’s just Eileen. She wants me to come home for some reason.”
“I bet I know what she wants,” Max said. Patrick thought he knew too. In the past she had lured him home from work on her days off for some afternoon fun. Max didn’t know about this, but still strung his joke along. “Can’t have you today, though. No way am I covering for you. Got plans myself tonight.”
Pat felt a primal excitement as he stared at the text message. “What kind of plans?”
“It’s my day with Kate. Her mother’s dropping her off around 5. Probably go shopping with her and spend a paycheck. But that’s how it goes, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Pat was still fantasizing about Eileen, what she would be wearing, how she’d greet him at the door, when a customer called to refill a prescription. Then another called, then there was a line in front of Max and a line at the cashier. Max left at 4 so Patrick had to deal with the afternoon rush alone. There was no time to think about Eileen.
*****
It was dark when Patrick pulled into his driveway, but the lawn was blanketed in light. Every light bulb in the house must have been burning. Patrick peeked in the window and saw Eileen sitting at the counter. Her hands were clasped and held her chin up, while her elbows were pushing on the countertop for support. Patrick looked away and walked to the door. His long shadow bounced across the lawn.
“Hey honey, sorry I couldn’t call you back. Rough day,” he said after the storm-door rattled shut. He bent over to untie his shoes. Eileen didn’t say anything, only looked up. She was wearing jeans and an old gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back. He could see light shining off of her eyes. Her mouth seemed to be slightly trembling, and she was holding something in her fist. “Eileen? What’s the matter?”
Eileen lowered her hands. She started smiling when Patrick walked over to her, and thrust what was in her hand into his face. It was a white stick, and he flinched when it flew so close. It looked wet, and had a rank smell coming off it. On it, there was a thin pink line running across a small plastic window.
“Oh, Eileen. I’m sorry.” He hugged her, but her arms did not close around him. She pulled away.
“Why are you sorry?”
Patrick felt a tingle along his arm-hair when he saw her teary eyes. “Because, the test…the minus.”
“That’s not a minus. That’s what it shows when the test is positive.” “Why would a minus mean positive?”
“It’s not a minus, Patrick. It’s a different symbol altogether. It means I’m pregnant.”
Patrick almost took a step back from her, from the stick and its minus. He balanced on his heels for a second, then repositioned his weight more evenly on his feet.
“How can you be pregnant? Remember what the doctor said?”
“Yes, I remember. He gave us a small chance.”
“Small? His exact words were ‘slim to none.’”
“That’s still a chance. Why aren’t you happy?”
Patrick wondered why he wasn’t happy. In his mind he saw himself ejaculating into a cup; the doctor’s scowling face, like a factory inspector judging him unfit for business. Then he saw the ring he would have to buy; Eileen’s stomach growing round and plump; the fluid that would pour out of her, that might drown him in his bed; the blood on a doctor’s white clothes. Then he saw what he thought was the truth.
“Tell me how this really happened.” He felt as if he was leaning forward slightly. He thought he could fall at any second, and was thankful the windows behind him were not open.
“You know how this happened. I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“Was I?” He saw her eyes glance at his hands, felt them tighten and tense.
“Yes, of course.”
Her eyes were teary again, and Patrick’s hands fell open, loose at his sides. He kissed her on the cheek and walked past her, upstairs to their bedroom.
“I think you should take another test, to be sure.” His voice was weak, and muffled by the growing steps between them. “False positives do happen.”
He didn’t see her sit back down at the counter, because his back was turned, or hear her when she said, “You know, Pat, miracles do happen,” because her voice was scarcely existent. He didn’t see her cry until her cheeks were cramped, or kiss the test stick with her lips slightly parted.
*****
It was ten o’clock when Patrick woke up, alone in his bed. It was Tuesday, and Eileen worked on Tuesdays, so he wasn’t alarmed to reach over and feel cool sheets. He noticed a pain in his sides when he breathed too deep, so he got up and walked to the bathroom in his boxers.
When he turned on the light, he noticed something on the lowered toilet seat cover. He walked in, and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw that it was a pair of Eileen’s underwear. This was another game she had played with him, leaving her panties around for him to find. He reached down to pick them up, and had them in his hand when he saw the small brown blotches blemishing the crotch. He dropped them back on the toilet seat on reflex.
He turned to the sink, still with a pain in his sides, in his kidneys. He grimaced as he brushed his teeth, tried to stretch out the pain by tilting from side to side. He was trying to think about Eileen, what he could say to her tonight. Maybe he would buy her a ring today? Or a vacation somewhere might be nice. He would ask her what she thought of Cleveland.
Patrick’s pain wouldn’t go away. He had no other choice but to piss in the sink.
Monday, October 30, 2006
I'M KURT THOMAS BITCH
Suns.com: You seem to really be enjoying yourself up here, walking around watching some kids play in their championship games before camp closes out. How has the experience been for you?
Suns center Kurt Thomas: It’s great, it’s my first time up here and I’m really enjoying seeing these kids competing, going against one another and having fun. Looks like we’ve got a great turnout, the kids are excited and the parents are real happy; I’m just glad to be here.
Suns.com: Have you had the opportunity to participate in camps like this in the past?
Thomas: I’ve done some camp before but this is my first time in Arizona. I’ve done some in Dallas and all over the New York area.
Suns.com: Watching all these younger guys playing the game of basketball must make you even more anxious to return to the hardwood yourself. How’s the rehab coming along?
Thomas: Rehab's been great. My foot’s feeling fine, I’ve had a good summer working out and I’m looking forward to training camp.
Suns.com: Last offseason the Suns made a big offseason splash when they acquired you in a deal on draft night. This year the buzz seems to be surrounding newcomer Marcus Banks. What do you feel the former Timberwolves guard will bring to the table here in Phoenix?
Thomas: He’s a solid point guard who can really push the ball up and down the floor to help make our team even more exciting than what it is already.
Suns.com: The team goal for next season is obviously bringing Phoenix its first NBA Championship. What goals have you set for yourself personally?
Thomas: I just want to finish off the season. I want to have a full season under my belt in a Phoenix Suns uniform being injury free.
Later on that evening....
But right now, Thomas is the starting center. And after hitting nine of 12 shots from the field against the Sonics, his recovery from a stress fracture that ended his season last February appears complete.
“I’ve felt good from the beginning,” he said. “I had a good offseason. I rested my body, got my weight down (to about 235), and I came here prepared. It took me time to adjust, but now I love this system, love playing with these guys and I know my way around the city.”
I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH!
FEAR ME
KNOW THAT ANYTHING I DROP IS GOD
MY REBOUNDING IS BETTER THAN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS
EAT A CHEESE SANDWICH AND CALL IT DAY
CUZ YOU STEP TO ME, I'LL LEAVE YOU DEAD LIKE MARVIN GAYE
PULL DOWN YOUR PANTS ON THE JUMP BALL
I CRACKED A REF'S NECK CAUSE I DIDNT LIKE HIS CALL
MY EYES ARE CROSSED LIKE RUPAUL'S GENDER
I BARBECUED KEVIN MCHALES CROTCH AND DRANK IT FROM A BLENDER
DEATH TO THE WESTERN CONFERENCE, I AM THE REBOUND KING
STEP INTO MY RING ILL GIVE YOU SCORPION DEATHLOCK LIKE STING
I AM THE UNSTOPPABLE, OMNIPRESENT, OMINIPOTENT, ALL-POWERFUL, OMEGA, SUPREME, KILLED YOUR DADDY'S DADDY, PUSSY WRECKING, STRETCHER OF ASSHOLES, HUMILIATOR, TERMINATOR FROM THE FUTURE, MACK DADDY EXTRAORDINAIRE, LEAVE YOU WITH SHIT ON YOUR FACE, FUCKED YOUR SISTER IN THE CUNT ASS AND MOUTH, YOU ARE REALLY GETTTING ON MY TITS
I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH
I WENT GORILLA STYLE ON YOUR GIRL AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAH
Suns center Kurt Thomas: It’s great, it’s my first time up here and I’m really enjoying seeing these kids competing, going against one another and having fun. Looks like we’ve got a great turnout, the kids are excited and the parents are real happy; I’m just glad to be here.
Suns.com: Have you had the opportunity to participate in camps like this in the past?
Thomas: I’ve done some camp before but this is my first time in Arizona. I’ve done some in Dallas and all over the New York area.
Suns.com: Watching all these younger guys playing the game of basketball must make you even more anxious to return to the hardwood yourself. How’s the rehab coming along?
Thomas: Rehab's been great. My foot’s feeling fine, I’ve had a good summer working out and I’m looking forward to training camp.
Suns.com: Last offseason the Suns made a big offseason splash when they acquired you in a deal on draft night. This year the buzz seems to be surrounding newcomer Marcus Banks. What do you feel the former Timberwolves guard will bring to the table here in Phoenix?
Thomas: He’s a solid point guard who can really push the ball up and down the floor to help make our team even more exciting than what it is already.
Suns.com: The team goal for next season is obviously bringing Phoenix its first NBA Championship. What goals have you set for yourself personally?
Thomas: I just want to finish off the season. I want to have a full season under my belt in a Phoenix Suns uniform being injury free.
Later on that evening....
But right now, Thomas is the starting center. And after hitting nine of 12 shots from the field against the Sonics, his recovery from a stress fracture that ended his season last February appears complete.
“I’ve felt good from the beginning,” he said. “I had a good offseason. I rested my body, got my weight down (to about 235), and I came here prepared. It took me time to adjust, but now I love this system, love playing with these guys and I know my way around the city.”
I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH!
FEAR ME
KNOW THAT ANYTHING I DROP IS GOD
MY REBOUNDING IS BETTER THAN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS
EAT A CHEESE SANDWICH AND CALL IT DAY
CUZ YOU STEP TO ME, I'LL LEAVE YOU DEAD LIKE MARVIN GAYE
PULL DOWN YOUR PANTS ON THE JUMP BALL
I CRACKED A REF'S NECK CAUSE I DIDNT LIKE HIS CALL
MY EYES ARE CROSSED LIKE RUPAUL'S GENDER
I BARBECUED KEVIN MCHALES CROTCH AND DRANK IT FROM A BLENDER
DEATH TO THE WESTERN CONFERENCE, I AM THE REBOUND KING
STEP INTO MY RING ILL GIVE YOU SCORPION DEATHLOCK LIKE STING
I AM THE UNSTOPPABLE, OMNIPRESENT, OMINIPOTENT, ALL-POWERFUL, OMEGA, SUPREME, KILLED YOUR DADDY'S DADDY, PUSSY WRECKING, STRETCHER OF ASSHOLES, HUMILIATOR, TERMINATOR FROM THE FUTURE, MACK DADDY EXTRAORDINAIRE, LEAVE YOU WITH SHIT ON YOUR FACE, FUCKED YOUR SISTER IN THE CUNT ASS AND MOUTH, YOU ARE REALLY GETTTING ON MY TITS
I AM KURT THOMAS BITCH
I WENT GORILLA STYLE ON YOUR GIRL AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAH
Monday, October 23, 2006
Poem for Angelatee's Lickworthy Blog
Cold drafts don't make you sick...
germs do, in fact,
and also certain thoughts
that wedge themselves
in the folds of your brain,
sometimes subtle like
a new rock in a riverbed,
other times dangerous
like a stone through a lightbulb.
Do not blame the germs,
because they lack
perspective, will never know
that you are sick,
or what sick is. Those thoughts,
however, can hold guilt
like air in a tire.
germs do, in fact,
and also certain thoughts
that wedge themselves
in the folds of your brain,
sometimes subtle like
a new rock in a riverbed,
other times dangerous
like a stone through a lightbulb.
Do not blame the germs,
because they lack
perspective, will never know
that you are sick,
or what sick is. Those thoughts,
however, can hold guilt
like air in a tire.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Carl Winslow
There's a hole in the floor,
Carl Winslow, a hole
right into the bedroom
you've worked so hard for.
Don't look down, big guy.
Let Harriet take care
of this mess. Just stay
in bed and sleep. Don't ask why
a television set just flew
up through your carpet,
tore through it like a hymen.
Just sleep for a few
more hours. But don't dream
handyman fantasies.
Remember the bathroom, Carl.
It's not as easy as it seems.
Just stay warm, old friend.
Wrap that comforter
around your pot belly
and pretend this nightmare will end.
Don't go to the door,
Carl Winslow. There's a draft
up the stairs, and now through the floor.
You'll catch a cold for sure.
Carl Winslow, a hole
right into the bedroom
you've worked so hard for.
Don't look down, big guy.
Let Harriet take care
of this mess. Just stay
in bed and sleep. Don't ask why
a television set just flew
up through your carpet,
tore through it like a hymen.
Just sleep for a few
more hours. But don't dream
handyman fantasies.
Remember the bathroom, Carl.
It's not as easy as it seems.
Just stay warm, old friend.
Wrap that comforter
around your pot belly
and pretend this nightmare will end.
Don't go to the door,
Carl Winslow. There's a draft
up the stairs, and now through the floor.
You'll catch a cold for sure.
Bronson
Charles Bronson... Wait, what did you say? You like Charles Bronson? How could you like him? Okay, instead of going into a Mike Dodes-inspired monlogue(fuck, shit, fuckn, waiting for the bus, a Vietnam vet, Vanderbilt will have to elaborate) (Editor Elaboration: He was some kid in college who did a strange monologue about a Vietnam Vet where he just cursed a lot and ran his fingers through his hair and pantomimed smoking a cigarette. He also plays MMORPG's. I think he's a wizard), but yeah Bronson, the characters he's played, are quite ludicrous. He spent a lifetime portraying men who are teflon not only on the outside, but on the inside as well. He challenged the way we view the elderly... Wait not really.
Unfortunately, I must make a departure from the pro-Bronson propaganda I have been spitting. Whether a rural cowboy or a western cowboy, the distinctions are interesting. He made a career of slugging it to the other. Whether it be Native American (westerns), the urban poor (Death Wish), or deranged Mormons (Messenger of Death), Bronson was always socking it to someone not white and anglo-saxon. The course of Bronsons career is emblematic of Hollywood's construction of nature, the socially constructed natural, and second nature in the form of urbanity. There is a dialectic here constantly in tension (conceptions of space in the form of rural-urban, tribal-modernized, town-countryside). Bronsons movies are a perfect way of displaying this abstract concept of space tension into actual practice.
The West as we know it was wild at one time. It was untamed, or as I would say not homogenized into the capitalist mode of production as of yet. It was up to toughs such as Bronson to go out there and establish law, or annihilate space (previous modes of production) with their iron guns and iron attitudes. Please don't believe that manifest destiny was a uniquely American phenomenon, or connected to some religious great awakening. It was a phenomenon induced by capitals insatiable appetite for new markets, resources, and labor. It was necessary to subjugate and destroy Native American populations. It wasn't just the production of an Andrew Jackson style Indian massacare that fueled the center driven domination of the periphery, but rather it was the carrying out of these plans that ultimately produced this abstract space(the space of capitalism via Lefebrve).
Like artistic gentrifiers that would follow, men like the ones Bronson portrayed put a foothold into this untamed environment for capitalist production. It was wild out there, just like fires can actually be wild. Doesn't this say something about our view of nature. The western starter town is very much isolated. Nature is truly external here. It is also dangerous and unforgiving. Native Americans, who are conceptualized as part of this external Nature, are also part of the hazard. In this context Nature is viewed as something primordial. Presently, nature has now left the wild(beautiful and valued) and the city has now become the vacant space of lawlessness with Indians being replaced by street thugs. The savage on the horse, has been replaced by the Duke of New York's caddy(Escape from New York).
Similarly, in Death Wish 3, and Kinjite, Bronson is now facing a new harsh environment. One in which his wife and daughter are either killed, or molested by hordes of similarly looking Japanese business men. Bronson now comes back as vigilante outlaw (Death Wish), or sheriff who isn't afraid to work outside the system (Kinjite), to enact some kind of Hammurabian notion of justice. In fact, the last lines in Kinjite, are by Lt. Kroll, Bronsons character. He confidently exclaims, "That's justice(!)". Now, instead of going to the the space known as high noon and fighting a villain to the death in a duel, Bronson makes 'that shitbag Duke' eat a watch. He also blows up his expensive car, and eventually facilitates him getting raped by faceless homosexual prisoners.
Bronson is justified in anything he does in this context. He is protected by this seemingly transparent notion of what is right and wrong. He is now bringing order to Kool Moe Dee's Wild Wild West(Los Angeles) by any means possible.
Bronson is a truly Reagan-era style hero. Bronson's characters are situated in a world where persons are inherently evil. Their station in life, their poverty, their propensity to commit crimes, is not bourne out of the inadequacies of the market system, but because they are socially deviant people. Their absence of middle class values is not attributed to poverty. What is portrayed is quite the opposite. One of the primary themes that underpins these movies is a justification for rolling back Keynesian economic policies. Something that Reagan, Bush, and Clinton were quite good at.
This relational space of the inner city is of primary interest to me. These films are produced to buttress the ideology of people who already believe that the inner city has turned into a wilderness. They took an integral part in the disinvestment of neighborhoods, yet they are somehow surpised the city has turned into a 'bad' place. Of course this isn't only a class issue. This problem of conceptualization is deeply connected with race.
In one of Bronson's diatribes pertaining to the Japanese yellow horde he complains that immigrants are taking what he and his partner have worked so hard for. Yes, very amusing. These movies, like 90 percent of the media, including shows like Mind of Mencia and Chappelle's Show, consciously or unconsciously seek to further rupture the proletariat.
I personally believe that the reserve army of the ghetto has lost significance. The new reserve army is the population of Mexico.
Anyway, these are some random thoughts, no research, just off dome. Plus I really didn't expound this shift from the West to the urban frontier through Bronson like I planned. Perhaps in the future...
Unfortunately, I must make a departure from the pro-Bronson propaganda I have been spitting. Whether a rural cowboy or a western cowboy, the distinctions are interesting. He made a career of slugging it to the other. Whether it be Native American (westerns), the urban poor (Death Wish), or deranged Mormons (Messenger of Death), Bronson was always socking it to someone not white and anglo-saxon. The course of Bronsons career is emblematic of Hollywood's construction of nature, the socially constructed natural, and second nature in the form of urbanity. There is a dialectic here constantly in tension (conceptions of space in the form of rural-urban, tribal-modernized, town-countryside). Bronsons movies are a perfect way of displaying this abstract concept of space tension into actual practice.
The West as we know it was wild at one time. It was untamed, or as I would say not homogenized into the capitalist mode of production as of yet. It was up to toughs such as Bronson to go out there and establish law, or annihilate space (previous modes of production) with their iron guns and iron attitudes. Please don't believe that manifest destiny was a uniquely American phenomenon, or connected to some religious great awakening. It was a phenomenon induced by capitals insatiable appetite for new markets, resources, and labor. It was necessary to subjugate and destroy Native American populations. It wasn't just the production of an Andrew Jackson style Indian massacare that fueled the center driven domination of the periphery, but rather it was the carrying out of these plans that ultimately produced this abstract space(the space of capitalism via Lefebrve).
Like artistic gentrifiers that would follow, men like the ones Bronson portrayed put a foothold into this untamed environment for capitalist production. It was wild out there, just like fires can actually be wild. Doesn't this say something about our view of nature. The western starter town is very much isolated. Nature is truly external here. It is also dangerous and unforgiving. Native Americans, who are conceptualized as part of this external Nature, are also part of the hazard. In this context Nature is viewed as something primordial. Presently, nature has now left the wild(beautiful and valued) and the city has now become the vacant space of lawlessness with Indians being replaced by street thugs. The savage on the horse, has been replaced by the Duke of New York's caddy(Escape from New York).
Similarly, in Death Wish 3, and Kinjite, Bronson is now facing a new harsh environment. One in which his wife and daughter are either killed, or molested by hordes of similarly looking Japanese business men. Bronson now comes back as vigilante outlaw (Death Wish), or sheriff who isn't afraid to work outside the system (Kinjite), to enact some kind of Hammurabian notion of justice. In fact, the last lines in Kinjite, are by Lt. Kroll, Bronsons character. He confidently exclaims, "That's justice(!)". Now, instead of going to the the space known as high noon and fighting a villain to the death in a duel, Bronson makes 'that shitbag Duke' eat a watch. He also blows up his expensive car, and eventually facilitates him getting raped by faceless homosexual prisoners.
Bronson is justified in anything he does in this context. He is protected by this seemingly transparent notion of what is right and wrong. He is now bringing order to Kool Moe Dee's Wild Wild West(Los Angeles) by any means possible.
Bronson is a truly Reagan-era style hero. Bronson's characters are situated in a world where persons are inherently evil. Their station in life, their poverty, their propensity to commit crimes, is not bourne out of the inadequacies of the market system, but because they are socially deviant people. Their absence of middle class values is not attributed to poverty. What is portrayed is quite the opposite. One of the primary themes that underpins these movies is a justification for rolling back Keynesian economic policies. Something that Reagan, Bush, and Clinton were quite good at.
This relational space of the inner city is of primary interest to me. These films are produced to buttress the ideology of people who already believe that the inner city has turned into a wilderness. They took an integral part in the disinvestment of neighborhoods, yet they are somehow surpised the city has turned into a 'bad' place. Of course this isn't only a class issue. This problem of conceptualization is deeply connected with race.
In one of Bronson's diatribes pertaining to the Japanese yellow horde he complains that immigrants are taking what he and his partner have worked so hard for. Yes, very amusing. These movies, like 90 percent of the media, including shows like Mind of Mencia and Chappelle's Show, consciously or unconsciously seek to further rupture the proletariat.
I personally believe that the reserve army of the ghetto has lost significance. The new reserve army is the population of Mexico.
Anyway, these are some random thoughts, no research, just off dome. Plus I really didn't expound this shift from the West to the urban frontier through Bronson like I planned. Perhaps in the future...
Thursday, October 12, 2006
In the womb
You're beautiful
with the lights out,
only the glow
of the clock radio
on your skin. Like that
on your bed you're a babe
in the womb, your skin lit
from within by your heart's
electric pulses. Blankets
like these are uterine,
sticky and warm. I hope
you emerge head first.
It wouldn't be right
to cut you out.
with the lights out,
only the glow
of the clock radio
on your skin. Like that
on your bed you're a babe
in the womb, your skin lit
from within by your heart's
electric pulses. Blankets
like these are uterine,
sticky and warm. I hope
you emerge head first.
It wouldn't be right
to cut you out.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Very Bad Post
You talk too much shit to be real.
What's the deal?
Are you swallowing pills?
Can't escape
Or maybe you can, my man:
Drink this milk out of a can
like some pussy ass man...
I know what you're thinking: Is this Sylvia Plath? Nope. Robert Pinsky? Wrong. It's not even Allen Ginsberg. You get one more guess. Did you say Vanilla Ice? There you go! (Note: Just read that again. I am one corny asshole. This opening is so fucking cliche. I might as well write for Maxim.)
Yeah, these lyrics are from a song called "Step Up or Shut Up," by that guy everyone forgot about 15 years ago, until VH1 aired his Behind the Music, but then we forgot him again, until VH1 reminded us in that annoying series of shows about the 1990's. Seriously, fuck you VH1. I used to watch you all the time when I was a kid. I loved that Paul Simon video with Chevy Chase in it, and all the Phil Collins you used to play. What happened to you?
Anyways, I don't know what the hell I'm writing about. I just find it funny that he points out how the cowards in our society tend to drink their milk out of cans. Isn't that weird? And so true? I prefer my milk out of a cup, or a plastic sleeve, and sometimes a canteen, but never a can. Dairy and aluminum do not mix. Real men like me know things like this.
God, this post sucks. If anything good comes out of it, it will be that you (Note: not sure who 'you' is. The only person who will read this is Shitface, who's heard this song already, and maybe some dudes from the Phillipines searching for "Ricky Davis Pony Shoes," whatever the fuck those are.) will try to buy or download Vanilla Ice's "Platinum Underground" album, which contains this track. It's my second favorite hiphop album, behind Macho Man Randy Savage's brilliant debut.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
