I can feel the cold metal links
hanging indifferently from my neck
leaves swim by me, the cold air bites me.
The sun sets dutifully and the cars fly incessantly
a gust catches the kite on my chain
my back arches as my neck tightens in pain
I thought this device would help me fly
I thought it was possible to fly.
The gravel dust eats my palms
the thick crust of the earth is calm
as I slide heavily on it's skin
my eyelids up but nothing is sinking in
The clouds in my head have clouded my vision
no wisdom, concision, just deep incision
a rag doll in the sticky fingers of a child
a balloon caught in the door of a honeymooner's car
If I had hands I would grab for a hold
dig my fingers into the dirt until they bleed.
But I can't.
I can only hope this mad drag is just a rough takeoff.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
a brief summary of Obama's marxist ties
Obama was born of Communist activists, mentored by Communist writer and activist, spent his college days hanging around radical activists, worked as a radical community organizer learning the radical tactics of Alinsky, kept contact with radicals through the years, attended a radical church, and today lends his political skill to the international goals of radical activists, and has radicals working on for his campaign.
-theobamafile.com
I love this country.
-theobamafile.com
I love this country.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
eggs
Yesterday Doug and I were leaving Moody to walk to Kate and Samm's for dinner and we saw these cars stopped on LaSalle, right across from Moody. We couldn't see the ground because the barrier on the median blocked our sight of it, but everyone was really quiet and walking around dazedly, raking their fingers through their hair. When we crossed the street we saw a man laying in the middle of the road, not moving. I was walking my bike on the sidewalk and a passing girl said "makes you want to walk it doesn't it?" Another guy on a bike, late 40s with a blue tooth ear piece and an expensive looking bike was telling someone that he thought the guy was wearing a helmet and that he saw a splatter of blood on the pavement by the guy's head.
22
Clinton Miceli
Doored by an SUV, flew into traffic and was run over by a second SUV.
He was pronounced dead at 10:18 that evening.
Four other cyclists have been killed in Chicago since October. Three were in my new neighborhood. One was a Moody grad.
spilled and cracked
raw egg on the frying pan
hard shells brittle and membrane thin
all that protects
all that is in.
who is the cook
and what is his play?
omlettes and chicklets
and SUV dickheads
the fragile
the firm
the lucky
the dead
22
Clinton Miceli
Doored by an SUV, flew into traffic and was run over by a second SUV.
He was pronounced dead at 10:18 that evening.
Four other cyclists have been killed in Chicago since October. Three were in my new neighborhood. One was a Moody grad.
spilled and cracked
raw egg on the frying pan
hard shells brittle and membrane thin
all that protects
all that is in.
who is the cook
and what is his play?
omlettes and chicklets
and SUV dickheads
the fragile
the firm
the lucky
the dead
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
A Personal Essay
1.
I have always known that my feet were repulsive. My gender at large have a terribly poor track record for feet, aesthetically speaking, but mine are particularly difficult for me to accept, both because they are stuck on my ankles and because they are very hobbit like. Not to discredit hobbits, for them having big harry feet is probably like having big breasts or big muscles (man, did you see his feet? Gargantuan! I would smoke that pipe any day). But for humans, such as we are, large harry feet are generally a thing of shame.
The first girl I ever loved had a mortal fear of feet. Shoed, polished, sanitized, booted, didn't matter. Every foot to her was a foot too many. Of course my own insecurity about my oversized appendages was only exacerbated into full blown shame by this fact, something that I attempted to mask by wearing broad ankled trousers and the smallest shoes I could fit into. Later when the only people still wearing trousers three sizes too big for them were zit ridden adolescents, I had to find a new way of disguising my clown feet. And I did. Boots. Solid leather ranger from the north boots. Sure I still look like a fantasy figure, but rangers are hot, hobbits are not. I mean, Aragorn got some elf to give up immortal life just because of his kick ass boots. I bought boots that take five or six minutes of enormous pressure to get off my feet, they are that small. But it works, or I think so anyway. No more "Hey hobbit foot!" or "Bilbo, quit playing barefoot. The hacky-sack is stuck in your foot hair again. "
It is in this superficial way that I have dealt with this mammoth issue of self esteem.
2.
Her fingers were cold and short between mine, her breathing labored through her narrow nostrils. The sway of the bus was hypnotic, and the warmth of her thigh against mine vaguely comforting. Physicists tell us no two objects can ever actually touch each other, that before they can the electrons on the surface of each react to electric repulsion from the other object's electrons. Sometimes something passes between these energy fields and links two beings in a preternatural way. Sometimes the energy fields repel, like same pole magnets. I could feel blood pulsing through her hand, could sense the exhaustion in her weak grip, but we were not connected. I found myself watching as a fly, disconnected and objective to the interaction taking place. I saw a boy holding a girl's hand, saw him watching her, knowing she was in her own impenetrable world.
The hands on my watch rushed the minutes past defiantly. Perpetual tardiness had aptly prepared me to deal with the urgency once again generated by my hesitancy. Hesitancy for her to step into the wheeled metal box and be propelled away from me by combustion and pressure. Hesitancy not because these last moments or the many that had preceded them were so rich with connection, but because they were so rife with muted attempts, and the chance to connect was now about to roll away. And in the chaos of urgency, I feared the goodbye kiss I had been anticipating since her arrival would be lost. The goodbye kiss, of any, is the most pregnant with possibility. It is born of innocence, a child of affection and of restrained desire.
True to form the walk to the connecting bus was a sprint, bags swinging from sweaty shoulders, old shoes scuffing smooth concrete rhythmically. I glanced down to try to see her soul through her eyes but only saw her eyes, and reflected in them the looming wheeled can of blue and yellow and the digital clocks hung frozen from the walls and the sweaty browed baggage handler chucking the last of the bedraggled travelers precious belongings into the cold steel belly of the bus.
We arrived not a moment too late, ticket wagging in her hand and her other hand wagging in mine. The driver motioned with weary apathy for her to step forward and she started to but then stopped, turned, and connected her eyes to mine. So sudden was the shield her eyes had previously held gone, and so unexpected and raw was the connection that our eyes bore, that I stood stunned for a moment, held frozen and rigid.
Goodbye.
And I kissed her. And she was not what I would call a great kisser, but this, this was a great kiss.
3.
There is a man I hate above all others.
He is the terror of children, wily suitor of mothers.
He once gave me a straw colored doll, with tendrils like coffee.
He told me if I behaved very perfectly and did just what he whispered in my ear
that it was mine to squeeze and pet.
So I perfectly did what he quietly said and my doll grew teeth and bit off my head.
He is a fisher of me - dangles a wet worm for my hungry eyes
Hooks jerks tugs - playing reeling in.
The reward, no tasty morsel - death by asphyxiation.
But to my last breath all I can think about is that damn worm.
The man I hate is always on the set
a leghold trap and I am the bear
a golf ball on a flimsy wooden tee
a bug light from a dark and and stooping tree
He makes me love the films I should love to hate
He makes me love the girls I should hate to love
He makes me ache and pine for things I reason should be mine.
He makes me die inside a little when he opens the gap between himself and the cold one.
From this gap all conflict springs abundantly, the gap between mr. expectation and mr. reality.
I have always known that my feet were repulsive. My gender at large have a terribly poor track record for feet, aesthetically speaking, but mine are particularly difficult for me to accept, both because they are stuck on my ankles and because they are very hobbit like. Not to discredit hobbits, for them having big harry feet is probably like having big breasts or big muscles (man, did you see his feet? Gargantuan! I would smoke that pipe any day). But for humans, such as we are, large harry feet are generally a thing of shame.
The first girl I ever loved had a mortal fear of feet. Shoed, polished, sanitized, booted, didn't matter. Every foot to her was a foot too many. Of course my own insecurity about my oversized appendages was only exacerbated into full blown shame by this fact, something that I attempted to mask by wearing broad ankled trousers and the smallest shoes I could fit into. Later when the only people still wearing trousers three sizes too big for them were zit ridden adolescents, I had to find a new way of disguising my clown feet. And I did. Boots. Solid leather ranger from the north boots. Sure I still look like a fantasy figure, but rangers are hot, hobbits are not. I mean, Aragorn got some elf to give up immortal life just because of his kick ass boots. I bought boots that take five or six minutes of enormous pressure to get off my feet, they are that small. But it works, or I think so anyway. No more "Hey hobbit foot!" or "Bilbo, quit playing barefoot. The hacky-sack is stuck in your foot hair again. "
It is in this superficial way that I have dealt with this mammoth issue of self esteem.
2.
Her fingers were cold and short between mine, her breathing labored through her narrow nostrils. The sway of the bus was hypnotic, and the warmth of her thigh against mine vaguely comforting. Physicists tell us no two objects can ever actually touch each other, that before they can the electrons on the surface of each react to electric repulsion from the other object's electrons. Sometimes something passes between these energy fields and links two beings in a preternatural way. Sometimes the energy fields repel, like same pole magnets. I could feel blood pulsing through her hand, could sense the exhaustion in her weak grip, but we were not connected. I found myself watching as a fly, disconnected and objective to the interaction taking place. I saw a boy holding a girl's hand, saw him watching her, knowing she was in her own impenetrable world.
The hands on my watch rushed the minutes past defiantly. Perpetual tardiness had aptly prepared me to deal with the urgency once again generated by my hesitancy. Hesitancy for her to step into the wheeled metal box and be propelled away from me by combustion and pressure. Hesitancy not because these last moments or the many that had preceded them were so rich with connection, but because they were so rife with muted attempts, and the chance to connect was now about to roll away. And in the chaos of urgency, I feared the goodbye kiss I had been anticipating since her arrival would be lost. The goodbye kiss, of any, is the most pregnant with possibility. It is born of innocence, a child of affection and of restrained desire.
True to form the walk to the connecting bus was a sprint, bags swinging from sweaty shoulders, old shoes scuffing smooth concrete rhythmically. I glanced down to try to see her soul through her eyes but only saw her eyes, and reflected in them the looming wheeled can of blue and yellow and the digital clocks hung frozen from the walls and the sweaty browed baggage handler chucking the last of the bedraggled travelers precious belongings into the cold steel belly of the bus.
We arrived not a moment too late, ticket wagging in her hand and her other hand wagging in mine. The driver motioned with weary apathy for her to step forward and she started to but then stopped, turned, and connected her eyes to mine. So sudden was the shield her eyes had previously held gone, and so unexpected and raw was the connection that our eyes bore, that I stood stunned for a moment, held frozen and rigid.
Goodbye.
And I kissed her. And she was not what I would call a great kisser, but this, this was a great kiss.
3.
There is a man I hate above all others.
He is the terror of children, wily suitor of mothers.
He once gave me a straw colored doll, with tendrils like coffee.
He told me if I behaved very perfectly and did just what he whispered in my ear
that it was mine to squeeze and pet.
So I perfectly did what he quietly said and my doll grew teeth and bit off my head.
He is a fisher of me - dangles a wet worm for my hungry eyes
Hooks jerks tugs - playing reeling in.
The reward, no tasty morsel - death by asphyxiation.
But to my last breath all I can think about is that damn worm.
The man I hate is always on the set
a leghold trap and I am the bear
a golf ball on a flimsy wooden tee
a bug light from a dark and and stooping tree
He makes me love the films I should love to hate
He makes me love the girls I should hate to love
He makes me ache and pine for things I reason should be mine.
He makes me die inside a little when he opens the gap between himself and the cold one.
From this gap all conflict springs abundantly, the gap between mr. expectation and mr. reality.
Monday, May 12, 2008
My return (after a brief romp years ago and years of absence) to attempted poetry.
If I knew the future as well as they did I certainly wouldn't want to fuck it up.
A year is short and people suffer worse
day in and day out
besides hard things are the best for you
stretch push try, I did.
And look what happened.
Pussies do what they want and taunt what is perceived wearisome.
Those possessing character understand that
they do as they should not as you would.
There is no should for me though, only must.
Some do as they wish others as they ought
or ought not. But all men do as they must. They must.
A year is short and people suffer worse
day in and day out
besides hard things are the best for you
stretch push try, I did.
And look what happened.
Pussies do what they want and taunt what is perceived wearisome.
Those possessing character understand that
they do as they should not as you would.
There is no should for me though, only must.
Some do as they wish others as they ought
or ought not. But all men do as they must. They must.
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