My First (pseudo) Sonnet

Gone and dead are the times of romance,
the chalky candy is quickly discarded.
Hallmark greetings fail to create the trance
of love - but this is disregarded.
Flowers withering on the window pane
next to half-bitten chocolates with
stale cherry filling. It feels lame
to buy into this commercial myth.
Cheap cliches inexplicably wrapped
up with love and committment.
All my thoughts and feelings are sapped
of sincerity - I'm not content
with half-truth banalities, sappy dinners,
and waiting for love to inevitably simmer.

To J.P. on the occasion of an affront prior to a forthcoming midterm

My Esteemed Colleagues and Friends:

Ahem. . .

"Woefully Ignorant"
You call me
And people like me

[Now] These feelings lain bare
Eleemosynary praise
Soothes not my soul

My shelf of treasures
Aspires not
To bear your volumes

Have mercy J.P.
Upon the cretinous mind
Who sits before you.


The End

I Am Tantalus

The slow burning paper of a failing cigarette illuminated his tired face. The sweet smoke slipped out of his open mouth and danced along his face, stinging his pensive eyes. The cold fog had already swept over the city and a soft, sad
rain began to speckle the cement.
Save for his pulled up collar, Nolan seemed unaffected by the dropping temperature. As he sat on the curb he mentally revisited the events that had just transpired. He knew something big had happened, but he didn't know exactly what. He knew decisions had been made, but he felt little relief from his inner conflict. The image of Kat crying was almost enough to crack the tough facade he'd worked so hard, for so long to maintain. He felt his eyes gloss with tears and quickly took pains to repress them. Not a single tear fell. He continued in his fruitless conjectures.
He couldn't help feeling like an ill-fated new mother. A mother so excited about her new baby, full of love and concern for the little thing lying in herarms. Feelings welling up in her, from where she knows not, that she would do anything for the little one, anything to protect and care for it. Instinctually she kisses and hugs the babe. Her passion, so ardent and novel, causes her to smother the child. Death by misguided affection. Nolan felt like her.
Sparks flew from his cigarette as he flicked it into the wet lawn. He raised himself and walked away into the fog.

Dear Barry (aka wedding coordinator, counselor, and friend):

Wearing a black shirt,
Dashing,assertive,and strong:
My soul was soothed.

Harry Potter: The Best Worst Movie of the Year

Hollywood has done it again - and this time it's been done with gusto.

That's right: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire has been taking America by storm, ravaging respectable movie theatres until they resemble nothing more than cheap daycare facilities with vomit and pee indelibly tattooed on the maroon carpets.

A fun night at the movies has been turned into a night of screaming babies, fidgety toddlers, and an excuse for 12 year olds to date, while their parents chaperone/chain smoke in the foyer.

So is the new Harry Potter worth the suffering? The answer: a resounding yes, followed by a "well, on second thought..."

While the movie does delve into the darker side of teen wizardry (Harry shows hints of developing a drug problem, and Hermione is well on the way to becoming a pregnant highschool drop-out), it continually lapses back into shallow stereotyping of the Wizard world. The black pointy hats, the long white beards, and the predictable giants all leave a little to be desired.

While the snappy special effects and hipster music do their part to redeem what is lacking in dialogue and plot, this Potter flick is ultimately just a sad attempt at making Wizardry cool again. Let's face it people: Gandalf, Dumbledore, and their Wizard cronies are on their way out, and there's nothing we can do about it.

So go America, stand in line for hours, sit behind a tall guy with a fro, and suffer through the incessant whinings of your neighborhood's children: because if I had to suffer through this, then so should you.

The Friskies (2005)

The circuitous path of this two thousand and fifth year of our Lord is readily being traversed – the sands of time are quickly falling through the hole of that thing that holds the sand. Yes, it is almost six and two thousand.

In the spirit of remembrance and dead Indians, I submit the Friscalating Dusklight BlogAwards 2005 (The Friskies).

Best Review: Blue Like Jazz: A Review, C. Powell “This nationally syndicated review found its way to the pages of Christianity Today, the New York Times, Harper’s and even The Socialist Review. It’s impact is still being felt today as Donald Miller’s life has been rightly turned into a shambles and the only known copies remaining (that weren’t burned in the fires of our wrath) are in Cuba and Texas.” A. P. Rivell, PhD

Best Foreign Post: Whatever the crap Natalie posts when she condescends from her Spanish high horse. Seriously, Nat (If I can call you Nat), we have been waiting and waiting and now we are tired. We are tired of waiting! And you never e-mail…you never call. Sometimes I think of titles of posts you might be stewing over: “The Spanish and their many horses,” “Mino sounds like beano,” or “How many cocktails does it take for N. Smith to dance on the bar? Answer: none.” Please post soon.

Best Comment Appended to a Post: Donald Miller – “Like I give a damn what you think. I'm rich and I'm gay and I don't need you or your stupid book club's approval to feel good about myself.” Sheer Genius.

Best use of Profanity: City Daze pt. 1 ~ J.A. Klein, “Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips. “You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor...”

Best Poem: Papers Lay Heaped ~ A. Smith. “Smith’s portly poetry flows like ambrosia prose – satiating my lust and kissing my thoughts…It is the incarnation of ‘Yes, give me more.’” Wolcott Gibbs

Best Investigative Journalism: A Private Cleaning ~ J. Smith – “Jackie didn’t just observe peri-care, she became peri-care. I watched her as she brought in the alabaster flask and washed the elderly persons with her long flowing hair and tears. It was like music. Her post meant everything to me and more.” ~ Linda

Best Prose: The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin ~ N. Smith. “Such lucid composition deserves much adulation, but we will give it none – who asked you to tell our story?!” ~ Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin

Best Overall Post: Death to Jacqueline A. ~ K. Bush. “What can be said about Ms. B-sh other than that I am unworthy to even mention her name so I hyphenate it. She is that good. Frankly, I am jealous, angry, and tired of being myself. Why can’t I be more like her? The felicity with which she adds letters to make words shames me. I am shamed. Shamed. Damn you, Ms. B-sh!” “Dr.” Kathy Greaves

Just an idea

Get a bunch of your friends together, ring O. J. Simpson’s doorbell, and tell him that you are “the real killers” and that you are surrendering to him so that he can finally stop searching for you. Get his reaction on videotape and sell it over the Internet.

Borowitz, Andy. TRY THESE FUN HOAXES, Shouts and Murmurs in the New Yorker, 05/16/2005

I'll never be as pretty as Yoko

Dear Yoko Ono,

Oh how I wish I could overcome my jealousy regarding you, Yoko! I fear that my self-esteem is at an all-time low because of this realization: I can never live up to the example you have set for women everywhere.

I've tried and tried, but I can't write a good poem that conists of only one word the way that you can.

I've never even come close to breaking up the best band in the history of the world. Even mediocre bands don't think about breaking up over me.

I'm caucasian, I have short hair, and I'm tall - and if John Lennon were alive he would probably never look twice at me.
I'll never look good with raven-black hair, piercing eyes, naked on the cover of an avant garde CD of pure genius.

No Beatles (not even Ringo) have ever come to any of my art exhibits and taken a bite out of a display apple.

Oh Yoko! In the middle of the day I call your name and wish that I had your charm, talent, and good fortune. But for now I must settle for being me. And maybe one day I will be okay with that.

From your faithful fan, Christine Powell

Papers lay heaped
Awaiting my gaze
A dirty spoon and a Ziploc® bag
My desk is a mess
Peggy is ashamed

I keep to myself
The door stays closed
I would rather live alone
Jackie is ashamed

I’m a slave to fashion
I shop at the Gap
Natalie is ashamed

I like girls who wear Uggs
Nick is ashamed

You might be like me if....

You might be like me if...

...the thought of walking up to a deer, offering it a carrot, slitting its throat and calling it hunting makes you laugh out loud multiple times, even when noone is around.

...pretending to have autism or Turret's syndrome (or both) and saying phrases like "Susan Thomas, FBI...Son of a *$&%^!!," or "Starker Arts Park" brings waves of tumultuous joy crashing all over your body.

WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS

A guest article by my personal confidant Jack Handy. Taken from this week's New Yorker magazine.


WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS

People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.

You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.

We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.

Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: the projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.

You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.

You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.

You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.

I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.

No, not me. You, stupid.

You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.

I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to“milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.

You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.

You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.

True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.

If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.

If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.

Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!

I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)

Interview With A Thrush

Yestereve a little bird flew in through my bedroom window and perched itself on my favorite teddy bear. I, wearing nothing but my coy smile, glared at it inquiringly. It cocked it's bird neck to the left and spoke. "All that is left of you is what hasn't been taken. The water for tea is boiling." After pronouncing these curious words it promptly left me alone with my thoughts. I felt it right to put on my "thinking" stocking cap before analyzing the encrypted message. I played with my cap's tassle, twisting it with my delicately braided rat tail. After a few minutes of thinking I started to develop a killer headache. I replaced my "thinking" cap back on it's stand and went outside to play some homerun derby.