8.11.09
My window tells me
The earth is frozen.
I make my pitiful rounds
On the screen again
And again.
When I get tired,
I change screens
And somehow start again.
I do not know why I do this.
Each page smooth and untouched
Like the snowy surface
Of a magazine or peanut butter jar
And it feels like magic
But wrong, idle magic
And I can’t help but wonder
What it was like outside
Today.

8.14.09

I kissed her ankles
Her small, delicate feet
Trembled with pleasure

I kissed her quadricep
Her flecked belly
Tensed and sighed

I stand in the doorway half naked
She sits in a tomboy pose
Clasping her shin

I recall a picture our eyes locked
Her hair is up but falling
I am enclosed

St. Louis

Not always,
but often you’ll find
gardens of shadows
on regretful French streets
a herd of chimneys
in the distance
the smell of a funeral
boiling in the sun.
Again and again this sky
shows me some new emptiness.
My own eyes obscure it.
Looking out the open vestibule,
from Frontenac towers,
Masonry Pillars,
bagpipe plains,
smokestacks of Soulard;
The town is a million splendid views
No one is allowed to see.
The evening will be haunted
by abandoned warehouses
toothless, back-alley grins
amber tiger-lily dances
on the sidewalks
prowlers loud and alone
the empty pubs and pizzerias.
Life passes from stall to stall
flush the blood with the ash
like it was never there
and pray to god
or whomever is there
it will pass by morning.
Take the woman and her babycart
Circling the poorly lit pond,
The fish follow her.
To the south an exchange of smiles.
Take two old men
muttering of miracles,
wheezing in the night.

Wake

We stand in a barren grassless
plot of soil gaping
before a hole where my grandmother
lays. Our brown hands
toss dirt and trinkets into the hole
for the Great Spirit to carry into the sky.
We take turns shoveling the dirt,
sweating, passing
the shovel onto someone else.

Cub Fur

The cubs meander
In and out of the den
Like halfway hermits
Never stepping far
From their dank sanctuary
Sniffing and pawing fresh soil
Canvassing the nearby dale
That is the world in their eyes
Starry, strategizing;
Retreating docile
To the comfort of dark
At the slightest wind
of what they deem danger.
In cold nights they bundle
A sprawled heap of limbs,
Knit with heads and paws
Their fur as yet unfrayed,
Swaying with their breath.

This is the first poem I turned into the poetry workshop I'm taking right now. It was vaguely designed to be an inaugural poem for Obama but it doesn't have to be read that way. Take it in the context of someone with very little power speaking to someone with an enormous deal of power.

Our Swords

If we were to slip
On our own swords
Will you be waiting

If we were to dive
In our empty pool
Will you be ten feet under

If we thrash and grope
And choke on our voices
Will you spin me savior

When our dreams turn sour
For the misty moon
Will you too be asleep

Caught in the funnel
Of the buildings you lay
Will you be flying alone

What colors will spring
From the beaming omnibus
the three-ring circus
We call you and I

If you were to help us
If we were to fall
Will we tell the difference

Fate

Fasten your seat belt
For all is lost
We have dreamt our Dreams
And sung our Songs
And none can ward our fate
A simple thing it was
And what remains...
A simple prize
A piece of the puzzle
Not worth a moment of our lives
But advancing yet inside
Another hope bestirs my mind
The fate of all our lovers
The fate of all our friends
Collecting fragments of our fate
Together in this stretch of time
Lost with each other
on the same wild ride

Open All Night
Bruce Springsteen

Well, I had the carburetor, baby, cleaned and checked with her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet
Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks for a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks
Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points
Well, I'm goin' out tonight. I'm gonna rock that joint

Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime
Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone this turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone
Gotta hit the gas, baby. I'm running late, this New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape

Now, the boss don't dig me, so he put me on the nightshift
It's an all night run to get back to where my baby lives
In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy radio relay towers, won't you lead me to my baby?
Underneath the overpass, trooper hits his party light switch
Goodnight good luck one two power shift

I met Wanda when she was employed behind the counter at route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried Chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' in my lap
We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap
I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill with them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still

Well, at five a.m., oil pressure's sinkin' fast
I make a pit stop, wipe the windshield, check the gas
Gotta call my baby on the telephone
Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home
Sit tight, little mama, I'm comin' 'round I got three more hours, but I'm coverin' ground

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, woncha hear my last prayer hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere

Oddly enough it is the thing which we fear most that brings us closest to the very essence of life itself. A wolf (any animal really) knows this lesson better than any man or woman ever could. We cower and cry in the shadow of ourselves. I don't deny it. The very letters that I type are personal erected monuments to my own fear, loathing and regret. Death is meaningless beyond our own identity. Life is a state of mind. The imprisoned mockery of persona we display. Who are we to declare ourselves in the presence of something so sharp and so near?

Stupefaction is truly the last bastion the world will posit and therefore possess. "Solace in excess." What other explanation is there for it? What else do we really have to be proud of? Ask us and we will tell you, stupefied or not.
Stupefaction is the key to a life less ordinary. Oddly enough it is also the key to a life less lived.

Here's another one I wrote in my St. Louis days, daydreaming during a class. Goes to show what results not paying attention can yield. I was experimenting a bit with different registers, clumsily I might add. I guess that eventually I'll be forced to stave off my laziness and start writing some new material for this thing. Until then...

Electromagnetic Assertion

An electromagnetic assertion
pretensions slow-wheeling
coaxed into bonafide adventure.
Unlearned compostions propel
the Mystic Continuum.
Glib, but arranged.
Massive, but flaring.
Til Spring we clamber,
in frigidity plummet
both to a groundswell
and a reservoir.
Arise a convincing pioneer.
A benefited narrator.
A quest, a configuration
achieved.

'The true King's murderers are allowed to roam free and a 1,000 magicians arise in the land'

I just finished reading Stephen King's "Eyes of the Dragon." Its strange that so far the books I've liked best by him aren't horror novels at all. This one, which is a fantasy novel, and the other one I really like "The Wasteland," which is a western novel.

Its usually a bad sign if a fantasy novel (or any novel really) has the word 'dragon' in the title. Despite being a little poor on the writing side, this one is quite a page-turner and has a pretty good ending that teaches the value of good manners. The plot makes a point to take unexpected turns on the archetypal fantasy/fairy tale formula, the biggest of which is the Hero slaying the dragon in the first chapter of the epic. The true struggle for the Hero becomes raising his two sons, the protagonists of the story. The true villain is Flagg, the court magician and King's Counselor. The dude is sinister. And sinister in that cold, calculating sort of way. Scheming and manipulative. Creepy.

The book references a line from a Stephen Crane poem that I later looked up. Nothing to do with the book, really. Just thought I'd throw it out there.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

To commence my glorious return to blogging!!! I wrote this in a rush for my creative writing class the day of... ironic that it turned out to be one of the best I would turn in.

Saturday Sun, 7:15 (A Day of Rest)

An exchange of smiles
A setting sun
A herd of chimneys
The smell of a funeral
A whisper of fire
A flicker of sparrows
A garden of shadows
I pass each day.

Very Strange...

Does anyone else find this slightly disturbing?

X-Mas Break

The last X-mas break of my college career ended just as quickly as all the rest, but perhaps it ended a little more memorably. It started off terribly with the drive to T-Town. 44 was jam-packed because of the ice and there were a few accidents. The 6-hour trip this time took about 11 hours. But it was all well and good and I honestly doubt that I missed anything. Sometimes a long car drive to clear my head can be just what the doctor ordered especially after a nasty beast of a finals week. I ended up staying at Chloe's apartment for the break and it actually worked out really well with her futon and pull-out couch. I must admit the first week or so of the break I turned into quite a slob. Chloe would work all day and I would stay home and read, watch movies, or mess around on the internet. Those of you who noticed that I recently joined myspace, don't think that it was out of some desire to be social. That was all just simple boredom. But once Joseph and Soren got into town things started to pick up. My nights with Chloe were always fun. We would usually eat Taco Bell (or Bueno for those T-Towners who catch the reference) or something, bring it back to the apartment and watch a movie sometimes tipping back a few girly drinks during the meal (for those of you who are quietly judging me, beer in Oklahoma is more expensive and is only 3-point, which is why I can never bring myself to but it). For some strange reason my family wanted to spend Christmas in a bed and breakfast in this dinky little town of 13 people called Blue Eye, MO. It ended up being extremely relaxing despite the fact that the thermostat in the house didn't seem to work. But then again there is something relaxing about having an excuse to wear a sweater all day long. The other guest in the house was this crazy British guy who said "bollocks" any chance he got, which is pretty sweet. But the undeniably strange thing about him was that he was liable to puke spontaneously at any moment's notice despite not having any symptoms of an actual illness. The funny thing is that he got into a little tiff during dinner with my parents one night after getting completely hammered. Then he decided to make things even more interesting by sabotaging our game of balderdash afterwards. Either he was too drunk to follow the rules of the game or he was simply in the mood to play his own sort of game which seemed to blend the rules of balderdash with charades, clue and jeopardy. When I got back Soren, Joseph and I took a trip to the Land to camp for awhile. Although Soren's brother, who still occassionally goes by his old nickname ''antichrist,'' came along, it was definitely one of the highlights of the break. We played some hackey sack and frisbee, drank some beer together for the first time ever, cooked some bratwurst, and shot a few guns. What more could an ex-undercover Hippy ask for? The other highlight of the break was watching Phantom of the Opera non-stop for about a week. Ok, the real highlight was probably singing Phantom of the Opera songs all day and seeing how angry Chloe would get. After a fairly uneventful New Year's, Soren left town so me and Joseph started hanging out a lot more. We usually spent our time working out, playing chess, reminiscing, or talking about an excrutiating range of topics. We also smoked cigars with Brian a few times and talked movies with Jared who is actually expected to be married sometime in the Summer. That seems to be becoming a trend. Another trend I'd say is the book officially closing with almost all of my acquaintances from high school, which is kind of sad when I think about it.
For some reason, even though nothing really all that exciting happened, I felt saddened when the break came around and I usually don't. I'm not sure why, but for some reason it felt like the end of an era. I guess only time will tell.

The Ark of the Mario

My freshman year, a buddy and I decided to undertake a little mission. The quest was simple. Defeat all three Marios on the original Nintendo in one session. No warping. Every Level. Semper fi. Endeavor to persevere. Unfortunately at the time, we only had the original Mario and Mario 3. I often wonder how it all would have turned out and how different my life would be now if we could have gotten our hands on Mario 2. Man, I wish I had a time machine. Anyways, we decided to undergo the rigors of a Mario Marathon with what we had knowing that even if we tamed the beast, it would ultimately be a hollow victory. After around 8 hours of playing Mario we arose triumphant. Despite our victory, however, by my sophomore year I had grown anxious to complete a true Mario Marathon. This time my buddy and I had recruited a few other adventurous souls who committed to take the sojourn with us. That year's attempt, however, was marked by demoralizing defeat. None of us were mentally prepared to face such an epic, ungainly challenge. That and I had a paper to write and we had a date with Macaroni Grill that we somehow could not get out of. Needless to say, the boys were rowdy and fierce by junior year, aching to pickle the beast of Mario. But by some horrible stroke, we had decided to incorporate other challenges into the marathon as well, hoping that they would improve our chances of success. It would be the beginning of the end however, for junior year's run. The Mario Marathon had suddenly spiraled into a nightmarish 2-Liter, Karate Kid, Fort-Mario Marathon. We watched all three Karate Kid movies during gameplay hoping that Pat Morita would fuel our motivation. We constructed a playing fort to shelter us from the distractions of the outside world. And we each drank a 2-liter of cola to sharpen our senses. We could see the glint in each other's eyes. We came to play but good. Our fingers strained at the controller. Our eyes swelled with focus and concentration. By Mario 2 sweat was glistening from our foreheads. Unfortunately, Pat Morita beating the crap out of high-schoolers proved to be rather distracting. Building a fort set the marathon back two hours. And the 2-liters that we clutched so desperately in our calloused hands became the very thing that plagued our tummies and curtailed our marathon. Our hearts sank when we realized it was 5am and we had only just started to play Mario 3; the longest, most treacherous Mario of the series. I'm proud to say that two years of defeat has not flattened our resolve one bit. The last week of school before the Christmas break, we are attempting to finish the quest that has escaped our grasp for the past three years. And let me tell you that our experience and wisdom will not allow us to make the same mistakes we've made in the past. This time, we're constructing the fort well before we plan to raise the flag of the marathon. And we're watching all five Rocky movies to boost our morale. Sure, we're still drinking 2-liters, but we'll have baked goods to absorb the sugary poison left over in our tummies. This time we'll be ready.

Literacy Lariat

The word "literacy" has become sort of a buzz word in the Education field, but not in the way most people would expect. Of course, it's important that a teacher is actually literate and is capable of helping students become literate, but I guess it's all relative. Apart from this however, there is a growing concern for teachers to be literate in many other ways. For instance, most teachers these days are expected to be computer literate. Although it is probably a neologism, I think the term "information literate" has more meaning than it has in any other time period. I would describe information literacy as the ability to retrieve, identify and interpret the information we receive or require. Because technology has changed so drastically how we store and create data, information is flowing around us in a variety of formats and channels and we have to sort through the postmodern muck in an organized fashion. Our ability to do this makes us information literate. A couple years ago I was watching an old SNL with Bill Paxton who was playing an anchor in a sketch. At first, the show runs normally. At the bottom of the screen was the typical stock market streamer. Then once Bill Paxton moves on to various other topics like weather, sports, etc. he keeps putting up different graphs and images until eventually the entire screen is flooded with information. Eventually Tim Meadows for no apparent reason decides to superimpose a huge picture of a skeleton Terminator in the middle of the screen and Bill is left with this tiny gap of free space to talk through. Although the sketch was humorous because it was an exaggeration, I think it was a perfect example of information literacy as we know it. Being able to watch the news makes us information literate. Being able to navigate the web proficiently makes us information literate. And with this literacy also comes the ability to immediately evaluate the information that bombards us by identifying simple cues that we often take for granted. I guess judging from my description so far, being information literate usually does not require any training, but is simply a result of our socialization. In fact, you could even argue that one had little choice in the matter and the process was purely a matter of reflex, even survival.

Spy Versus Spy

Apparently students have taken ridiculing teachers to a whole new level going from afterschool gossip circles to all out, internet warfare. It is becoming more and more common for students to film their teachers in class usually in particularly unflattering moments such as boring the class with lecture or upbraiding a student, and posting them online at Youtube.com. Actually, it surprises me that students would go through such elaborate measures to make fun of their teachers. I mean, as a student I don't really take it personally if I feel a teacher is less than satisfactory. I joke to myself, occassionally make one to a classmate, and move on with my life. But as a future teacher, the idea truly scares me. If I ever discovered a video of myself online displaying my quirks and shortcomings, I would probably have a hard time regaining my confidence. I'm not quite sure how I would react in that situation. Normally I am not a very confrontational person, but as a teacher I would probably not let this sort of violation of privacy go unnoticed. When I really thought about it, what seems to be a harmless prank is actually quite a careless, degrading act. It is not as though these videos are posted privately or even in a setting where only students are able to view them. These videos are open for any person to see, and that to me just doesn't seem right. I've also heard a few stories of students making videos of themselves pulling pranks or even physically assaulting homeless people in some way and then posting the video on Youtube. Although the two examples are quite different from one another, there is still a common principle that is being violated. Although I am primarily concerned with the personal privacy and dignity aspect, there are also those who claim the act is a violation of intellectual property despite the fact that no profit is being made from it. I for one could care less. In my opinion the classroom is really not a traditinoal setting for intellectual scholarship to be put forth. It is primarily a setting for common knowledge, opinions, and ideas to be transmitted from one party to another.

Emos versus Goths

I was thinking to myself the other day as I lay peacefully in bed listening to the Boss' "Nebraska" and on the verge of tears, why do I listen to sad music? What do all those crazy emo-kids have up their sleeve? As I pondered this, I wondered as well why we engage in any piece of culture that depresses us. Then again, is there any point in creating something that ultimately brings us down despite how beautiful it may be? The answer is obvious, but the explanation in my mind's eye is altogether frustrating. I suppose there is the simple novelty of it. If we are fed one single emotion through every genre of every art, eventually it will lose its novelty. I could postulate, based on my own reactions, that I can chew on a movie the most when it finds some sort of happy medium, or in this case, an indifferent medium. If it's too sad I get bored and if it's too happy I get skeptical. But this is not altogether true. I've seen "Schindler's List," a thoroughly depressing movie, and I enjoyed it. And I've seen "Executive Decision," which is a thoroughly mirthful movie primarily because Steven Seagal dies in the first five minutes, and of course I loved it. Besides, who digs apathy, right? Not this guy. Anyways, I suppose I treat music the same way. Of all the Bruce Springsteen albums to like, my favorite is his most depressing. I've also found that my favorite Led Zeppelin songs are their saddest. So what gives? Do these songs make me want to curl up in my sock drawer and die? Yes. But do these songs also in some strange way make me happy? Yes, also. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that there is something inherently tragic about beauty itself. After all, the prettiest girl on the Earth is also the loneliest. I know one of my roommates would agree that there is something beautiful about tragedy as well, that crazy, goth weirdo. I guess the only way to explain it is that there are times in our lives when we need to be emotionally smacked in the face. Depressing movies, books, music, art, etc. serve as the best wake-up calls culture is capable of because in some roundabout way they make life seem all the more precious. I know that if I am ever feeling excessively complacent and need a swift, emotional kick in the nads, my good pal Bruce is there to lend a helping hand....er, foot, rather.

Podcasts

One day my ambassador friend told me that more and more people were asking about Podcasts when they came for a campus tour. It astounded us both not only that these people had the guts to ask such a nerdy question, but that they are actually being used more and more frequently. Now I've personally never had to use a podcast for a class. And unfortunately, up until now I've never had to make one. But as part of a new technology centered curriculum in the Education Department, I am required not only to create a podcast but also to evaluate one. Apparently, podcasts are even more popularly used in the elementary setting. Since my parents were once from Phoenix and I've also visited there on several occasions, I decided to pick a podcast about Arizona's capitol. I was surprised to hear that the podcast was narrated by a group of second graders. Now apart from the podcast being one of the cutest things I've ever heard, it also has some very admirable qualities as far as podcasts go. The podcast was able to hold my attention remarkably well for a file made specifically for elementary students. They had chapters devoted to Phoenix's weather, tourist attractions, sports teams, wildlife, economy, and "famous friends." Apparently Alice Cooper is a huge fan of fabulous Phoenix. However, if any of these kids honestly know who Alice Cooper is they have been exposed to metal music far too prematurely. Each of the chapters had interesting musical segues (oftentimes featuring the classroom a cappella group) between one another to make for little dead air during the podcast. The students themselves were also pretty fluent and comfortable making the podcast except for a few kids who were obviously petrified. I, personally, can't blame them. It was fairly apparent that the students were given scripts to read from since most of them didn't even attempt to use a regular "speaking voice," but I didn't see this as terribly indecorous. Even though the students stumbled over a few sentences, paused in the middle of words, and often spoke in trembling voices, it was not distracting or even unpleasant. Variety and mustard are after all the spice of life.

Here is the website where the podcast is located if you are interested:

http://learninginhand.com/OurCity/index.html

Dreams of a Bygone Whippersnapper

So I'm in this crazy English class called Adolescence and Literature and we talked about our old high school days. It seemed like almost half the class had a pretty dreary view of high school, but everyone kind of agreed that it was mostly a blur and I would have to agree with that. If I based my high school experience on the few memories I had, it would be a rather dull existence watching Jared Meyer squeeze himself into his locker every day and hijacking Mr. Ingram's computer whenever we could. And yet, every time I remember those times, it still seems funny. And whenever I reminisce about High School in general I can't help but smile. I went to a small high school in Tulsa called Cascia Hall. My graduating class was around 80. I knew everyone in my class and, although I only liked a select few, I loved being in such a small, manageable social cocoon. The one thing that I think that I did miss out on going to a small school is that there was a lot less drama. And let's face it. I thrive on drama. One thing I sort of regret about High School in general is not being in town for the summer. Since my dad lived in Missouri for occupational reasons, I spent my summers with him crafting model airplanes and playing golf. Don't get me wrong, hanging out with my dad is a blast. Honestly, if I'd spent my summers in Tulsa during High School I probably would've ended up palying video games and reading Goosbumps. But the summer after I graduated, I was finally able to stay in T-town and it was something spectacular. I spent most of my time biking around town, camping, eating organic food, and playing frisbee and hackey sack; basically living in a hippy's paradise. Quite the extremes in retrospect. I remember so little of it now, but it seems judging from the few memories that I have that it was one of the happiest times in my life. Anyways, in the same literature class the teacher asked who would ever want to go back to high school if they could. I rose my hand immediately. I think the shy, quiet kid I once was in high school might have missed out on some of the great things about High School like parties, brunches, debutantes...that sort of thing. Plus I'd be able to drop knowledge like crazy. And let's face it. Chicks dig brains. They can't help it.