United Elbows of Fury

Every Documentary Ever

2011-11-29T12:10:00.001-08:00

"Look, we can't win without it."
"No one will even care!"
"Because? Because it ties the entire thing together!"
"Look;
first, we need a plain or sparse background.
A dilapidated brick wall,
an alley or street with no traffic,
a cityscape
a field
a couch with a picture on the wall that we can only see a corner of."
"It helps if the background is slightly out of focus."
"The person needs to fill the frame."
"Hey, you have to start with a full shot, then tighten
to a bust; head and shoulders man!
Head and shoulders!"
"It doesn't matter what you say, just speak slowly."
"No... No... Look Towards the camera, but not AT it!"
"To the side, at the ground, it really doesn't matter."
"...just keep filming for another minute or two of this..."
"Ok, it's coming..."
"Alright, now let your words trail off, and then don't say another word..."
"And... FREEZE! Remember, towards the camera, not at it."
"Now, tighten the shot so their face fills it... good..."
Okay! Now just say a few more words
and pause
but emotionally."
"I've told you, it, doesn't really matter what!"
"Here it is!"
"Now just stare off; ground, side, whatever...
remember, your too emotional to make direct eye contact..."
"...good..."
"Hey, shake the camera a little!
Make it try to auto-focus
zoom in and out a bit
come on, act like a professional!"
"Perfect!" "Now, slowly,
slowly, slowly...
look up
and look DIRECTLY AT the camera.
And just stare..."
"...hold...
everybody keep holding...
...keep holding...
and... cut! That's a wrap!"
"Best money shot I've seen, I KNOW we'll win again at Cannes this year!"
"Okay, now we just put that at the end of about
seventy-five
minutes of edited B reel footage
and we have ourselves a winner!"

2011-11-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Relief

My grandpa was a child during the Great Depression.
He was the youngest of twelve.
His mother died after he was born.

In his early 20's; an alcoholic with what
would now be considered a sex addiction,
a wife, and a child.

He tried to kill himself twice;
once was with poison.
The other time he shot himself in the chest.
Aside from the alcohol.

Then he found god, returned home a saved man,
made a happy loving marriage. Had three more children.
Became a preacher. Devoted his life to god, family,
and the church, in loosely that order.
He died happy, an old man.

Nearly 100 years later, and yet another depression.
With each step I take forward, I slide back two.
Just like my grandfather did.

My grandmother died of Parkinson's disease.
My other grandmother died of Alzheimer's.
Even as a child, I always trembled and shook.
Going to sleep, I can feel the memories,
my life, my mind, slipping, slowly erasing itself.
It's worse every year.

But, I am grateful for being able to forget.
Because I have not had an honorable life.
And only recently have I begun to figure out
what it means to be a good person.

God saved my grandfather.
But now, a century later,
the echo's of the past grow louder.
In me, my genes, my life.
Their addictions, their issues, their legacy's.
But this is a different time;
there is no god to save me
from myself. And with each step forward
I slip farther back into the past
following in their footsteps.

2011-08-14T06:26:00.000-07:00

A Rant After A Long Day

Elbow deep in Ranch dressing,
hot sauce, mashed potatoes,
and pieces of crayon embedded
beneath broken finger nails
who juggle boiling plates of
molten mac and cheeses;
thee rising smell of a hundred
dieing meals wafts up from the
industrial sized trash can
where uneaten rolls, untouched
steaks, salads and leafy greens
in every hue whither and rot
before being thrown out back,
food now fit for the desperate
rats and homeless who shuffle past
at night looking up at the dark
unlit faux-industrial finish
before dawn arrives and the
lines of Latin American workers
form outside the kitchens and
wash rooms of every American,
Italian, French, Thai, Gourmet,
Japanese, Indian, Chinese,
Sushi, German, Breakfast,
Deli, Buffet, Lunch, Dinner,
Diner, and restaurant in town.

The flapping sole of over-worn shoes
cries out as slipping across lakes
of ice and water and butter and grease
and Ranch
we hurdle through dining halls without
regard for our own bruised hips, elbows,
and shoulders around the diabolically
placed and menacingly curved edges
of tables and chairs and doors as
the screeching of children too young
to be brought into adult company
is followed by another geyser of
Cheerios, french fries, and pasta
as on hands an knees I crawl beneath
picking up, with torn and tender
fingers, every last Ranch soaked
crumb.

2011-07-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

Valleys

Stumbled upon this article today, it's interesting in how it relates to the Marxist concept of how superstructures can influence how a culture dictates an individual to be. In the article, it is like authoritarianism/totalatarianism vs capitalism or socialisms way of influencing... maybe more capitalism?
I started looking into it by brushing up on Marxism (via wikipedia) and this stood out;
"Society does not consist of individuals, but expresses the sum of interrelations, the relations within which these individuals stand."

— Karl Marx, Grundrisse, 1858
[Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy, by Karl Marx & Martin Nicolaus, Penguin Classics, 1993, ISBN 0140445757, pg 265]

In circling back to the idea of how these superstructures relate to the influence of culture on power relation in different social groups and how these cultures help dictate the clashes that occur when differing social groups come into contact and create superstructures of oppression [classism/racism/etc].

Central to understanding this seems to be getting a grasp of Marx's concept of the dialectic

This stems from Hegel's concept of the dialectic but with a focus on materialism, or, dialectical materialism .
Gould, the biologist contributes to this idea by using it as a heuristic for biological systems, their complexity, ecology, and interdependence. I like this idea, and it aids the philosophical to biological and sociological transition. [I should look up more of his work and philosophy; Gould, Stephen Jay (1990). "Nurturing Nature". In …. An Urchin in the Storm: Essays About Books and Ideas. London: Penguin. p. 153.]

This may relate to Noam Chomsky's work with linguistics as well; he talks about a deep structure and a super structure to grammar, is there a way this harmonizes which the deep and superstructures of culture from a Marxist perspective?

It seems that an emergence or connectionist theory, which would maybe be more in line with how the cultural model im considering works, but this appears to counter the ideas of language used by Chomsky. Is it acceptable to use only part of his work to connect it to the connectionist model?
The connectionist model may also work in the network modeling of the Framptom heart study; is this part of how the influence of social networks was partly analyzed? If this can work, then we can connect a long line of theorists and ideas from the linguistic level to the cultural; political and economic, and then use this column to run over a text like a grater, shredding the pieces to see how they fit to create a whole of oppression and how the cultural legacies are altered or maintained over time in response.

But I digress...

Returning to Marxism and base-superstructures, this seems to very an issue I have to pay attention to as it has come under criticism, I need to lookup Raymond Williams as a critic of this. He seems to have a school of theory called cultural materialism (and cultural studies ) which is, as I mentioned, one aspect of the thesis I need to cover. His bleedings of Marxism are worth paying attention to analyze texts seems worth pursuing. This seems to imply that I am conducting a neo-marxism literature review focusing on mexican literature. But the fun would be in adding a case-study or experimental element to the study which would involve real subjects. I worry about the language issues, and it looks like either way I will need to practice mis espanol.

I think this is where the research portion needs to come in. Now that I have a clearer idea of a topic and a philosophical basis to fill so many of those precious pages to explore, I need to see what has been done in this field, if anything (Fingers Crossed!).

Hegel
Marx

Gould
Chomsky

Althusser?
Williams

Stuart Hall [consumption (I need to consider this in view of Gould and Chomsky...hmmm)]

Terry Eagleton
Pierre Bourdieu

***that is a foundation, but I think the idea of change is complicated by the concept of a cultural legacy and cultural echo from the last post... I need to look at how the neo-marxist approach is used to get a better understanding of this***

Althusser's "levels" connect to Gladwell's Tipping Point, and seems to link with Gould's punctuated equilibrium and ecological theories. Althusser seems to be a key source I can use. Too bad he also strangled his wife...

2011-07-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

Mountains Beyond Mountains

In looking at topics for a thesis, I have been frustrated by the wax and wane of ideas; from looking at how cyberpunk and dystopia/modern literature posits the individual as in isolation while simultaneously allowing them to have and create or find meaningful relationships and communities; how modern web 2. technology has effected literature, writing, journalism, and educating by creating a new cultural standard for literacy, agency, and writing; to working with chicano culture and literature in a restaurant or professional setting to analyze how culture superstructures and the long term effects of cultural legacy in cultural collisions and classism/racism.

Through this wide range of ideas, a dominant undercurrent of influence has held sway. The works of Jarod Diamond and of Malcolm Gladwell have been strongly influential in changing how I perceive different settings. Against these post-structuralists theories, there is a counter-current of agency, a devotion to the existentialists philosophies/philosophers.

Does this then reposition me in the same place I found myself some four or so years ago, wondering what bridges are between these post-structuralists and existentialism?

"Guns, Germs, and Steel" is always in the back of my mind as a guiding ideology for understanding the broader place cultures have in history and modern society as a response to their environmental pressures. Recently, writing on Marx has rekindled too the class and socioeconomic awareness that underlies much of consumerism and American culture today. Gladwell, in his article in the New York, "The Revolution will not be Tweeted" made me skeptical of technology and coupled with a Marxist perspective allows me to view Cory's paper on Twitter in Education as increasing a class division. Gladwell's book "Outliers" helps position me in a better way to understand how this, cultural studies, directly effects the individual and can be determining (in a similar kind of argument that Diamond uses, which is why I consider both of these text to be post-structuralists ideologies.

But what room remains between these texts? How does an individuals statistical percentage, probability, challenge or confirm the concept of agency and the existential crisis?
I have three forays planned thus far; "Forms in the Abyss" has been sitting on my bookshelf for too many years, its purchase stemming from a similar vein of inquiry years ago, after being introduced to theory after my own previous obsession with existentialism in early college. Purporting to bridge the concepts between Sarte and Derrida, it promises to be a good jumping off point in looking for how both can speak to the same reality/experience and so address this returning curiosity of mine. However, heavily steeped in linguistics and semiotics/semiology, the text also appears way over my head. "Existentialism 2.0" may help familiarize myself with the philosophies current conceptualization, and finally reading "Curseo's Footprint" (another book collecting dust that has been unread in the 2 years that have passed since its lending) maybe help with the cultural perspective.

But I feel unprepared for the voyage and task ahead. The topics are not something that we have studied in any meaningful way in school. My bitterness at the educational institution increases daily as I look at what I have to do, what I have to pay, to finish, and how much of a waste it all is in so many ways. But I wouldn't embark on this without it, so, I jump, fiery rings and all...

All rivers lead to the sea" the saying, at least in intellectual pursuits, has always seemed to hold true for me. Idea pods upon idea, field leads to field, from general to specific and back again. One of my favorite illustrations is from SEED magazine,

What I take from this picture is the idea that all things, all information, is connected, the field we choose to explore is really a difference of scale, but each layer is connected to every other. So, if I try to explore several ideas, after enough time, maybe I can begin to see the connections between them in more detail, or at least have better questions...

So what can one do with all this, what are the initial questions?
When I drive, often my best ideas come to me, or at least I think they are my best because no one is there to disagree. I have taken to recording my rantings, so here are the questions I have a few minutes left to jot down (clarifications coming soon!);

cultural studies redefinies new fields and interdisciplinary work;
modern conflicts and paradigm shifts not taught in courses and cross-disciplinary not encouraged;
cultural studies of revolution? (kristena, feminism and civil rights movements- leaders through cultural studies lenses?)
restaurants as a illustration of opportunity based on cultural divisions and histories and influenced by racism/class-ism?
Correlation of studies on influencing qualities of application of 10,000 rule to literacy based on literature awards given internationally?

Two take aways from listening to those... I need to speak in a much more practiced way and I need to be clearer in my ideas, because I know what I'm saying and I can barley make sense of them. Explication coming soon...

Below is a running list of books I can pull from so far, I need to look for some chicano texts...

The Botany of Desire
Mountains Beyond Mountains
Sex at Dawn
Outliers
The Revolution Will Not Be Tweeted
Collapse
Ender's Game
The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven
Love Medicine*
Wuthering Heights
100 Years of Solitude*
Anthem
Cultures Consquences* [power-distance-index's]
Albion's Seed*
The Tipping Point*
Forms In The Abyss*
Existentialism 2.0*
Crusoe's Footprint*

*to read

2011-05-10T10:08:00.001-07:00

2011-05-10T00:08:00.001-07:00

2011-05-10T00:05:00.001-07:00

2011-05-10T00:04:00.001-07:00

2011-04-27T21:34:00.001-07:00

2011-04-27T21:32:00.001-07:00

2011-04-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

I'm Sorry.

We were riding.
The sun was
high, so were we.
I looked
back, entering
the palmed tree lane.
Sweat glistened off
her and the water.
Ducks, a mother,
five babies, walked by.
I pointed, she saw and
laughed, in delight.
I gave chase, hoping
to catch one, so that
she could hold it,
soft, young, beautiful,
in her hands.
Into the bushes, they fled
but I, fast and fleet,
swollen with love and
pride; they were not
fast enough.
Up the small slope
the last two ducklings
zigged and zagged.
But in the rush,
as I lunging towards
the one ahead of it,
panicked, it moved,
as reaching for its
brother, I stepped,
just the wrong way.
There was no crunch.
No feeling at all.
Just the way time slows...
It wasn't moving, I picked
it up. Alive in my hands
but hurt. Bad.
I remember her voice behind
me just as the mother
lunged out of the bushes
to attack.
"Don't touch it!"
But to late, later than
she was able to see.
I gently tossed the duckling
back, as the mother
lunged again.
It landed, in a heap, and
didn't move.
I backed up, terror gripping
me as I prayed, silently, Get
Up! Please! I'm sorry! Don't
let her see what
I have done! It rose, with
difficulty. It would soon
die, the damage to great for
its impossibly small body;
in another blink
it was gone, into the bushes,
with its family.
I stood, guilty sunken heart
breaking. She came nearer,
I smiled, dead inside, broken
as her innocent, naive, laughter
behind me asked, "If you touch
them, won't the mom not
take them back?"
But some things
you just can't
take back.

2011-04-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

I am the drunken tirade
of a lonely hearted man;
I am the the bastard child
of whiskey smoke and sex.
I am the unremembered dream;
I am the unsung song;
I am the torn to pieces part
of a love that has long gone.

I am the sandy dusty boots;
the broken leather's creak;
I am the fading ember of a cigarette
flicked into the street.

I am the bottom of an empty glass;
the panties left behind;
I am the dirty powdered mirror
the morning after lines.

I am the broken typewriter key;
the ribbon out of ink.
I am the discord of a five string guitar,
where the one-eyed rat is King.

I am the Fisher, I am the fallen,
I am the fallow field.
I am the silty river bottom
where the blind bloated catfish feels.

I am the unmarked soldier's grave;
the hero left behind.
I am the click of an empty barrel
behind enemy lines.

I am the rejected marble,
I am the diamond's flaw,
I am the rising smoke that wafts
past the body after a draw.

I am the raven's rising caw;
the timber wolf's midnight bay.
I am the fear that haunts men's hearts
and stalks beside their graves.

I am moiling worm at night;
I am the undertaker's light;
I am the wailing widow's spite.
When you fall, I am the unseen height.

In your ointment, I am the rotting fly;
I am the splinter in your neighbor's eye;
Upon your lips I am every lie;
I am your empty stomach's cry.

I am the first stone thrown;
I am the sacrificed son;
I am the wish you should be careful of
and your regret once the deed is done.

I am the eye, I am the tooth,
I am the coveted bride;
I am the river runneth red;
and the golden calf you hide.

I am the slouching beast that creeps;
I am the riddle and the Sphinx;
I am the whip and the master's drum;
I am the binding chain and the scorching sun.

I am the cotton and the field;
I am tobacco's leaf and the poppy's yield;
I am the ship and the selling block;
I am the raping soldier's cock.

I am the diamond, I am the mine;
the infected blanket and the railroad line;
I am the fallout and the spreading sore;
the prison guard and the jail-house door.

I am the branch, I am the noose,
I am the guillotine;
I am the salty sponge and leather straps;
I am electricity;
the blindfold and the firing squad;
full syringe and open child-proof caps;
I am the razor's edge,
and the ambulance driver's lapse;
I am the oil soaked rags and
the accidental match;
the spoiled smoke detector and
the oven door unlatched;
I am the slick shower floor and
the left out drying mat;
I am the rotten brake-line and
the surgeons unsterilized hand;
I am the forgotten land mine and
I am the wasted land;
the armor's chink;
the broken knife;
the broken condom and
the reaper's scythe.

2011-04-05T19:02:00.000-07:00

When the bad outweighs the good,
the good are all gone or dead;
when a shadows stalks
the halls of mens hearts,
and sleep a synonym for dread;
when the guilty run free and wild;
when innocence doth fade;
the hazy hallows of fantasy
become where gallows are made.

In the absence of any eternal,
the fallen have become lost gods;
babylon the dessicated capital
swallowed by sweltering suns.
A moan the only breeze,
death rattles the only wind;
brackish tears the only rain
to fill the barren wells and fields.

Against the waking nightmare walked
as much a man as shade.
Trudging, dust envelopes him
as he stumbles upon the plains.
Cheeks dark sunken hollows,
lips cracked and coated white,
eyes a weary bloodshot hue
without color or light.
With a pulse of mostly whiskey,
each rattling gasp death and smoke,
skin a too-tight leather holding
together a bag of bones.

He stares unblinking and unseeing;
behind him, no footsteps last.
He follows no road or trail beyond
the distant glimmer of broken glass.
Around him the carrion-searchers circle;
rabid and wild stalking beasts bay;
the creak of each weary shuffled step
the only sound he makes.

babylon beats his heart,
babylon the wasted land;
the drums of human skin are sounded
with the sun-bleached femurs of men.
the salty tears are his alone,
the weep a lost memory, forgotten shame,
the barren fields of his loins quiver,
he is the shifting soulless plains.

2011-04-01T18:50:00.000-07:00

f*ck'd

Fuck these winds of women and whiskey and weed that whirl around me like dervishes;
Fuck this sober societies discrimination of functional alcoholics and day drinking morning drivers;
Fuck the warring camps of consumption and anarchy that grip my desires for love and freedom and turn them on each other;
Fuck the demands to have a phone, have a mailbox, have a dog, have responsibility, have maturity, have goals, have dreams, have hope, have god, have family, have friends, have love, have appreciation, have respect, have a heart, have a nice day;
Well what if it's not a nice day.
What f today is a terrible horrible no good very bad fucking day?
What if today is just another same shit different shovel kind of take a flying fuck at a rolling donut sorta red headed stepchild of tuesday and thurs-fucking-day?
Forget yesterday. Tomorrow hasn't come yet. Live in the moment. Live in the now. Be in the zone. Find your zen. Find a way to unify all million little fictional piece inside you into some all-or-fucking-nothing resemblance of an "identity"; god, the devil, ra, nirvana, nothing, everything, the force, politics, narcissism, work, play, children, television, sports, money, love, drugs, dope, depression; just change! The anwser is that grass-is-always-fucking-greener easy. Happiness is in whatever you are not, spotlight offstage, its name always before, taking, overtaking, yours.
Fake it till you make it. Fake/real; procreation and masturbation, love and lust, blood and family, real food and processed, living and really living... so, are you really living? Are you really feeling? Is this your authentic self? Is this the real you? Is this the real life? Is this just a dream? Is there no day but today? Have you been all you can be? Have you just done it? Have you obeyed your thirst? Have you had your MTV? Did you eat your wheaties? Is a diamond really forever? Is this till death do us part in anything but paperwork and emotional wreckage? Have you found jesus? Have you been born again? Have you thrived? Is this your brain on drugs? Do you D.A.R.E.? Does money make the world go around? Did you have your break today?
Just another...
2,000 situps...
13 bottles of scotch...
5 ounces of weed...
16 eighteen-year-old-hookers (or 18 sixteen years old)...
3 hits of acid...
512 pull-up...
483 protein smoothies...
3 jobs...
2 careers...
4 marriages...
and 63 marathons...
Till I'm happy.
Miserable.
The same.
Older.
More immature.
Richer.
Poorer.
Dead.
Already.
Or just
maybe
finally
learning to live.

2011-03-28T12:11:00.001-07:00

Graffiti Art

2011-03-14T00:44:00.000-07:00

"Just a man trying to hold it together while falling apart"

Midnight. Drunk. Weary from a day of not working, watching the sun rise and crest and set and make its way around again.
Should be writing my thesis.
Should be working on a rough draft of Dorothy closing arguments in the murder of Miss Gulch.
Should be asleep.
Should be sober.
Life stretches behind and in front of me as a series of should's:
Should have gone for a run,
Should have bought more cigarettes.
Should have drank enough that I'd be hovering face first over some toilet, my own or another's, praying for death or the oblivion of sleep.
Should have gotten high.
Should have filed for unemployment a week ago.
Should be looking for a job.
Should stop sleeping around.
Should leave the country.
Should have worn a condom.

Parallel, but equal in both length and girth, are the penetrating shouldn'ts:
Shouldn't have finished off half a liter of scotch.
Shouldn't have smoked a pack of cigarettes.
Shouldn't have gotten high.
Shouldn't have spent a weekend running with no sunscreen.
Shouldn't have spent that extra day away from home after a week of not seeing the inside of my apartment.
Shouldn't have spent an entire day watching tv shows and streaming movies.
Shouldn't have lied on government paperwork.
Shouldn't see a friends ex.
Shouldn't of unloaded the last of the Vicodin.
Shouldn't feel sorry for myself.

Should and shouldn't; I am a series of ties between these steel girders. On a bullet train called the present as these tracks race ahead and behind me across the west's wild cityscape of SoCal.

Another unemployed writer whittling away his time with a bottle and a blog; the stuff dreams are made of. A slice of humble, a la mode, from this fucked up american pie. If it wasn't for narcissism, then I would truly be lost.

But another day dicking around, wrapping myself in the warm post-coital blanket of self infatuation while vainly avoiding the inevitable encounter with the wet spot of reality. Hiding under the covers of any mind-bending mood-altering substance I can get my hands on to keep the monsters of feeling that hide in every dark nook, corner and cranny of the English muffin that is my unconscious waiting for the sheets to slip.

Monsters, wet spots; should, shouldn't. Flying down the line at 180 miles-per-hour each moment and decision and action and in-action a blur recognized in its glimmer on the horizon or in reminiscing about how I got on this god-damned train in the first place. A series of cherished regrets, all those experienced and all those still anticipated.
Should have finished my Master's.
Shouldn't have cheated.
Shouldn't have gone to jail.
Should have finished my cover letter.
Should have brushed my teeth.
Shouldn't have more coffee.
Should have washed off the shame.
Should use spell check.
Shouldn't write.

But you smile like a happy ass or cry till you die of dehydration. Fucking and punching or getting beaten and fucked. Wet spots and monsters. Scotch and cigarettes. Should and shouldn't. Story of my life.
"If you remember nothing else about me remember that I smiled"

2011-01-26T10:26:00.000-08:00

I wait.
For what, what slouching beast towards Bethlehem slinks?
The burning blue sky of winter on a hot empty day on the coast,
Its oppressive expansiveness pushes down on the homes, hearths, and houses.
Alternating from coffee, to beer, to scotch, to cigarettes, and back to coffee...
Recognition, connection, false hopes;
we don't believe in soulmates, and we wait for them, like Santa.
Just as real.
Dream jobs, lottery tickets, death;
and endless list of future pursuits: travel, money, love...
Always in the tomorrow that will come once the sky has been burnt and blackened by the day;
tomorrow will be better.
Different.
But there are no differences in days or months or people.
No tomorrow; no soulmate; no Santa.
Just seconds and minutes marching in an endless line;
carried for the first nine months in a darkened train
we arrive, stripped, assigned, pretending that Belzec is the Balkans.

An easy metaphor; in an apartment, the air a sultry sink, it would be shame if there was any to be had. If you could still feel shame.
But we are born into shame. The rank mix of sweat and drugs and depression and desperation and dreams. Dreams like so many empty condom wrappers scattered on the floor; multitudes, hidden in wastebaskets, under beds, tucked away at the last minute... the unborn future sitting next to us, rotting in a haze of spermicidal gel in a garbage can under that selfsame sun as us. Whose condom are we in? We, the slowly coagulating present?
Our only freedom comes in desolation of our dreams, in our sacrifice of ourselves beneath that empty sky. No trumpet's blow will pull the scales off your eyes. We are blinded by birth. We are Abraham and Issac on that hillside, and there is no god. Just the same empty dead blue sky, the color of a corpses lips, above.

It won't care.
Scream, cry, rage; it will remain. The sacrifice is one of perception, just like the jailhouse, the stoic argument of virtue; easy on the agropolis steps, different in the lion's den.
Because there is no virtue.
But there are lions.

Creation and destruction are fantasies. Action; political, social, economic... movement is no more an anwser than stillness as the slightest blink, like a butterflies wing; your truck breaks down two weeks later. Unrelated?

We surround ourselves with each our own fog, hoping that cruel light of the world outside will not penetrate. Substances, hopes, dreams, plans, a future. Tomorrow.
A haze we hide ourselves in, hiding ourselves from the world, the world from us...
but the day burns on.
Born into Borges lottery. A complexity we can't understand, an absurdity that extends beyond laughter. Fatalism, nihilism... we march in step, aware or not. Each pace bringing us closer and farther from the cataclysm of the duel of the present. Turn, and you find, through the fog, that you face yourself. Look closer, and you see the fog is you; you are nothing; you face nothing; there is nothing. Gasping and bleeding, a shot rings out; your gun, your life, cold and flaccid against your hip.

A woman dies in the throes of passion, her safe word left unspoken or unheard. A senator assassinated. A person explodes. 10,000 people a year die from earthquakes. Markets bull and boar and collapse and stagnate in loose 10 and 20 year cycles. A DUI checkpoint. A bottle of scotch. Organic salad covered in the later runoff of bacteria from a neighboring factory farm. Hospital bills piling up from falling down with no one around to sue. Bounced checks from work; accounting errors that your bank and bills don't understand or care about. Cancer. Heart disease. Stroke. High blood pressure; high BAC's; just being high; to drunk, to sober, to alive, too filled with words to take action. Too many actions taken without words. Too many empty words used to justify actions, too many words used for inaction.
Too many words.
Too many tomorrows.
Listen close enough, and through the fog, you can hear the unsteady march of multitudes...
empty echoes beneath the winter sun.

2010-12-05T23:15:00.000-08:00

Expression depression;
Writing empty blind words
like lonely thoughts and feelings.

Like waiting inside a car with
no gas and a broken heater
on the side of a busy highway.

Like a full bowl from your favorite
box of cereal on a Sunday morning
and an empty bottle of milk.

Like singing your heart out
to an empty room on a sinking
ship with no life-raft.

Like a log sitting in a fireplace
with no kindling and a
busted chimney flue.

Like a fresh blank canvas
sitting next to a bottle of wine,
and no brushes.

Like holding a much needed
cigarette outside a bar
with no matches.

Like a perfectly brewed pot
of premium roasted coffee
and an empty box of sugar.

Like a long walk on a
cold windy night to the store
while your wallet sits at home.

Like two candles burning over
a freshly made five-course dinner when
your partner calls working late.

Like a poem sitting on a
forgotten page, waiting words,
unseen. Unsung. Unknown.

Like a person;
like a poem-
like me.

2010-11-30T18:10:00.000-08:00

'Water, Water'

Unsatiated; squatting on a raft at sea,
squinted eyes searching the horizon
while the soft sound of the shifting sands
far below
echoes through the salt to surface.

Perforated thoughts torn and thrashing;
jerked from the dark cool depths;
lured by the frantic frenzy
of wriggling emotions; gorging on
the hook of desperation; choking
gasping grabbed by the filthy hands
of madness and stuffed bleeding-
beating-screaming
down the raw toothed maw of insanity.

Staring at myself muddled by
lapping waves; gently rocking
the unseen stillborn beast
that I catch in the depths
looking up
trapped, all one can do is wait.

Siren's discord, sweet and slow,
unceasing, unyielding, unrelenting-
a slip...
bubbles rise; looking up,
a figure, on a raft, a fading
silhouette against the twilit
surface...
...laughing...

2010-10-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Crying laying dieing
from the self-inflicted
serrated sides of pillow-talk
words whispered into
waiting ears.
Lying to the reflected
fragments of her
living in the space between
shattered facets and feelings
surrounded by what looks like
so many more sharp
wanting edges.

2010-10-25T09:37:00.001-07:00

broken
heart-bone beating jaggedey raggedy pop-lockin' emotions in the
strobe-lit stop loss chamber of feeling staring at a shattered mirror
and dining on consignment memory's leftover freezer dinners while seated
at a table for one.

2010-05-13T05:21:00.000-07:00

~~Addicted To Love~~

I've known for some time that I have a problem.

Maybe it was the string of jobs, one after another, that you got me fired from...

That was my first clue. But I reveled in you still. I mean, I didn't think it was a problem

as my life began to spin out of control...

You were always easy to justify. You were the one thing making my life better.

Despite the failed relationships, piling up,

like a car crash on the freeway in rush hour...

Sure, sometimes people made comments. But to me they just seemed jealous

of what we had. With you came a sense of power. Prestige.

By the time I realized what I had become. What we had done.

It was too late...

But I held on. Maybe because I couldn't let you go.

You've been a part of me, the best part, for so long.

You were electricity. Fire. A thousand supernovas

exploding, and we would rise and fly in the waves of cosmic radiation...

But it can never last. The fire would fade. The waves would crash.

And I would begin to sink, looking for you, reaching out, searching,

letting you pull me up. Even as you dragged me down.

It began so slow. So gradually. I don't know when I lost control.

When I became more you than me. You've changed my sense of time,

now measured by the regular highs and lows

that have no relations to clocks or calendars.

Only the desire, which takes over, without me even knowing...

Somewhere along the way the line between you and I,

between the individual and the act, the action, disappeared.

And now I can't even save myself. Us. You.

Because if I do, if I try, if I succeeded,

we'd both be dead.

I clenched you in my fist. Squeezing. And I feel heat. Like a spoon,

held over a flame. Red hot searing pain. But I let you

convince me... I convinced myself... you whispered, I listened

till my fingers fused around you. But the hunger didn't care.

I didn't care...

I see you now. I see exactly what you are. In every mirror,

waiting. Watching. Looking back.

I can't celebrate you anymore. I can't love you anymore.

I can't love myself anymore.

And I

can't

stop.

2010-02-27T20:07:00.000-08:00

Shit:
Desire, distance, hurt, loss, love and loneliness; the foundation of a poor poet's garden

She left, and I'll never know why
thought I can count the reasons
on one hand.

She left, and every clock stopped,
though shadows grew and the day
marched on.

She left, and now two thousand eight
hundred miles and three time zones
separate our every word.

She left, and I can not seem
to forgive myself, or her,
for letting go.

She left, and though together,
we have never
been more alone.

Noon
I wish we were laying,
the the dappled light of noon
blowing lazy curtains in and out.
Gentle bellows languishing as
the yellow rays turn gold
and sparkle with dust.
Curled together, comfort, peace,
while the slow sound of our breaths
call and answer each other
in time with the steady pulse
of the breeze.
Beyond the steady ticking of time,
the clock is stopped
and all the world is here
in this moment, together.
Looking, seeing, knowing
you in the silence. My fingertips
follow the dance of light
and dark across you.
The soft rasp of my dry touch
on your sleeping skin, hands
dancing gently to their own music.

Phantasms
Imperfect desire, one
eyes expressive with tight, down-turned lips,
mascara thick and dark against her fair hair,
a quiet, cautious raccoon.
Another
thin, tone, full lips, empty eyes,
the bored sound of her chewing.
A crane flustered and gawky.
Another
tan, brown, like a wild
impatient hoarse. Breathtaking
in this moment.
Another
dark hair, smokey voice,
a raven, mysteries hidden in
the promises of her smirk and smile
while somewhere, below,
in a Chinese restaurant,
sits my love
alone.

Open
I dream
beyond my reach, lives, worlds,
my small impotent hands
are unable to grasp.
Weary of waking, of walking,
of wishing and wanting... always
always wanting
what I cannot, or am unable,
to hold.
A bird is circling in the sky,
calling for its lost mate.
It is the only sound
echoing long after
the rifles crack.
A speck fading up
into the encroaching night.
I know that bird,
though not which one
I am.

Topography
The soft bulge, gentle lines
of taut tan skin
descending, the whisper
of secrets murmuring
from the hang
of her black blouse
before
plunging, my gaze
to the jeans beneath
and the silent silky
triangle of folds
suggested, imagined, desired,
within.

Forgotten
I am helpless, undone,
tied up with all the
strings pulled out.
Soft cotton falling,
a shower, then
a trickle.
Like so many
rain-laden clouds.

Curse
I am in love
with love
and I am in love
with pain
because in
the long run
happiness and heartache
become the same.

2010-02-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

2 bad poems in an hour... yeah, class was that boring...

Withdrawal

Nicotine heroine withdrawals

with caffeine headaches

and grass induced

paranoia

while on an LSD flashback

from peaking on shrooms.

Empty, cracks of desire

racing in canyons of fire and ice

and sparks, across dehydrated skin.

Eye twitching finger

spasms head shakes shakes

shake angry electric ants

dancing with daggers down

every nerve.

Sweat and urine sick

soaked sheets in locked

boxed beaten broken bound

burning burning, oh

the burning pain

of minutes and

hours and

days and

nights and miles

and miles and miles

unchanging, an eternal

suffering

easier

than being

without you.

Help

( I need a little)

I feel the distance

building between us

a change,

in the wind and the clouds,

Unseen but felt,

we don't know,

when or how,

till its strikes

out and flashes,

a bolt.

Igniting, it sizzles,

exploding, my world fills

with an arch of brilliant light

hide from the pressure

it builds

hide from the friction

and yield

as the sky tears us apart

each nigh.

Took me for a ride, lied,

wounded all my pride,

without knowing or having a clue.

Now bleeding and broken

my heart is spoken for

by someone, I can't hold onto.

the pain and the distance,

love flows with resistance

now tell me what am I

to do?

2010-02-15T20:47:00.000-08:00

So many fleeting thought go unposted...

Here are the few recent leaves that fell, rather than scattered to the moments without pen, without paper, without desire, or left to the carlessness of a man-boys charge...

Scotch

Flames lick and laugh
tickling with thick smoke
the belly and bowels
as slanting bars burn
casting colors of
gold and red warmth against
the room’s pale walls.

Lantern, furnace,
ruddy and rheumy,
bright blank eyes
stare off through
the dull gray fog of age
and ages, remembering
the ruins and barrooms
where once,
or never,
or always,
a lighter step had waltzed.

Desire, in 3 Movements, E Minor

I dream of you in the sacred space between twilights. Your smile haunts my nights and your absence is the stalking specter of my nightmares. I toss and turn, churning and twisting, the sheets, breathless and panting I silently cry out for you, as your unspoken name echoes deafly and I fall back into turbid slumber.

You, glowing, a woman, with power and presence in your every move and intonation. Innocence tempered by experience, your knowing eyes, brilliant insights exposed behind the flash of your smile, behind full lips smirking in perpetual bloom, ripe with humor dipped in tart ironic cynicism. To run my fingers through the ravens’ mane of hair, feel your hot pale skin in the cup of my palm, to let the tips of my fingers dance...

Forever. You. Days and weeks, terms, eventually leading to miles, and years, you, forever. Burned into my memory, now, into my heart, as the sacred, the holy, that my profane, in awe, could never approach.
Goodbye, and thank you, for the photo I never took, but will always, always keep.

2010-02-03T15:18:00.000-08:00

"The is a large gate behind childhood that closes" -Civilization of Max Bright

Haunting words. Haunting music. Can I grow up? Can I become a man? Can I be the man that others deserve? That she deserves? I want too. I am not sure I know how. But I want that love. To share it, to be a part of it, as it overflows from any person or relationship or family or home and spreads out like a rising tide into the world. The peace that comes with compassion, with empathy, with no longer being... alone?

Can I pack up the toys of my childhood, its whims and flights, and put them away?

All things that we touch are a part of us, forever. Joys and sorrows both leave their scars.
Suffering is life, and desire. Desire is not love. I know desire, what I want to know is love.
All things happen for a reason. Even if that meaning is to nothing and no one but ourselves. An article, a movie, a song, a feeling, a moment... they layer together, creating and recreating us, as we are pulled and moved by the selves within us, reshaping what we are and what we will become.

What will I become?

"Sounds of laughter shades of life are ringing
Through my open mind inciting and inviting me.
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns,
And calls me on and on across the universe"
-Beatles

2010-02-02T17:06:00.000-08:00

2 years.
In the same place, computer lab at school. Killing time while thoughts of the future run in circles around my head like a toy train, box after box after box, cars chasing each other in an unending loop. So here I find myself, escaping from the pointless meandering of conversation, its inability to give any answers or to provide the same cathartic release.
Two cities, on separate sides of the country. San Diego, New York. Two coasts, two worlds apart. The two thousand eight hundred miles seems small compared to the months apart. Bad connections, time differences, life differences... miles unable to measure the emotional distance that exists, ripping and tearing with every beat.
No good answer. Job prospects running slim, far and few positions here, but great there. But friends, family, my life, here. My heart there. Warmth here, cold there, space here, none there, culture there, people there, ocean here... here, there, here, there...
Yeats,
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;"

And these overwhelm my own issues, my own fears and feelings. Struggling with a self that is held in casual dissonance, two songs playing at the same time, juggling identities, feelings, actions, attitudes, never able to let either go, the rogue, the womanizer, the rebel, the student, the boyfriend, the fiancé, the future husband and father... I look into the mirror and don't know who I see in front of me. Minute by minute, as both flash and flicker back and forth behind reflective sunglasses. I am torn. My life is torn. There is no reconciliation, just the sacrifice of one misery for another. I cannot embrace half of myself, half of my life.

The only joy left is in the moment, ignoring the future forks. But even that is tempered by the fear of falling two deeply into the moment, forgetting the consequences of smiles and small talk.
No forgetting. No letting go. No embracing anything. Tomorrow holds no joy. Today holds none either. Every moment is clouded with shadow and anxiety.

Right below my bellybutton, somewhere deep in my center is the worm of life, throbbing and aching, whispering in its serpentine tongue my own silent desires in my ear. I see beauty everywhere, and it makes the twisted form of me, inside me, throb and hiss till I feel it might burst out, exploding, erupting... la petite mort...
Coiling and uncoiling deep inside me, the serpent never sleeps...

Id and Superego circling and circling...

Binaries, choices, deconstructed into each other, built back up, then razed again. And again. And again...

Love and amore. Irreconcilable. The soul mate of my friendship or the love of my life. A career in misery, or a struggle in paradise. Together or apart, I fear I may never be whole. And the same fear, of myself, of the stirring serpent within, its shadow haunting them both.

"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

2008-04-28T00:23:00.000-07:00

Hmmm...

what has this become
an empty husk of a site
perhaps i should post

2007-05-27T20:45:00.000-07:00

Black and White Reflections: An open poem to Gov. Schwarzenegger, Mrs. Hilton, and the U-T

The Union Tribune
Newspaper today:

Unconscious smiles cross my face as I opened the front page.
A2, Public Eye- "Paris Hilton Sentenced to 45 days in jail"
It was as if a light had shined down upon me,
as if god herself had spoken and said,
"Here is proof that I exists. Your Welcome."
...
Four paragraphs later, I remember why I am an atheist.
"[Paris Hilton] has called the sentence unfair...
her fans have posted a petition on the Internet
urging Gov. Schwarzenegger to pardon her."
Why? I ask, pounding my fist against my chest,
ripping out my hair in handfuls,
tuffs falling like tears of rage on the page
blurring the truth and revealing the
ignorance of the youth;
"The petition, which had more than
nine hundred signatures..."
wait, repeat,
NINE HUNDRED SIGNATURES(!?!?)
"...urges the governor to pardon Hilton because..."
wait for it...
wait...
"...because
she provides 'beauty and excitement
to our otherwise mundane lives.'"

I have never had much faith in humanity
but this article, drives me to the brink of insanity
television, tabloids, teaching trash to our families
replacing education, talent, a work ethic, and spirituality
with proclivity for vicariously living our dreams
through empty, wasted shells of human beings
that feed and fiend on attention deficit teens!?

This is why I am becoming a teacher.
For those
NINE HUNDRED(!?!?)
plus people,
who think the best use of their lives
is to sign a petition supporting a
person who should be imprisoned
for prostitution;
but they can't understand,
ignorance is bliss,
so I need explain it in a way they can get;
like,
"Life...
is shorter
than Britney's new hairdo;
shorter than her 14 minute
faux concert at House of Blues.
Life is more fleeting than
Federline's fame;
and opportunities come and go
faster than Oprah's weight;
that if your life revolves around
50 Cent's lyrics,
that's how much you'll make
working the position you took,
robbed of your potential to create;
so take a break from the magazines
from the television screens,
from these people who are paid
to sell complacency for dreams!
Stop living their lives!
Start loving your own!
Learn, remind yourself you have a soul!
Read a book, write a book,
or paint me a picture,
reconnect with the flickering spark
of your human spirit!

Because entertainment and education
are separate divisions,
and every time you change the channel
you're making a decision,
lining full pockets of puppet master
corporate politicians;
hiding behind glowing boxes distracted
from famines by fashions,
we fatten our waistlines while fascists
fashion weapons,
then government's lull us into submission
saying, 'Don't ask any questions,
just watch American Idol auditions!'
Meanwhile global tensions tighten,
and companies siphon trillions,
so that by the next election
we'll be txt-ing in our votes for
'America's Next Top President!'
And I know the present has pressures,
bills, babies, and credit card collectors,
and it's comforting to put on the blinders,
escape into the lives of entertainers,
these dealers and fakers,
owned by studios and bankers,
brokering bullshit,
and we are the takers;
but,
if our only concern is to
complain of eyestrain,
treat education with disdain,
forgetting our ability to think and attain,
make a difference and campaign,
our governments, restrain,
our freedoms retain,
our right to profane,
our beliefs, explain,
our lives, regain
by severing the umbilical cord,
the noose,
of the trash media chain,
...
then Paris Hilton is right.
However
I believe
the most mundane
and worthless aspect of all our lives,

is her."

Forgotten Perspective

Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
From the direction of the noise,
thrumming against the clear pane,
emerald and jade wings flash;
a rubied throat dances, twinkling
as the small thin boned bundle
dashes itself in futility
choosing death, rather than obey
these invisible laws of man.
Whose memories are these?
Hands cup gently,
frozen, unmoving, unblinking;
weightlessly still inside open palms.
Until the first fresh breeze
in minutes? Hours? Dark eyes and light
peer deep and blind;
another window closed.

Returned to the natural freedom
of open spaces;
a lingering envy, a green
speck against the empty blue sky.
While I remain,
unsure which eyes were mine.

[
Heroine A Sonnet

Hidden in my glove compartment, two grams,
tied in a junky friendly black balloon;
perforated veins await the next slam,
as in the dark I cook a rusty spoon.
Surgical tubing held tight in my teeth,
I pull back the plunger, full chamber load,
pre-cum squirts from the needle's tip beneath,
dirty street lights gleam off steel as time's slowed.
Razed bruised blue lines numb to the metal's tear,
easing off, blood adds a faint crimson hue,
battle-weary soldier's thousand-yard stare,
fluid motion fries reality's view.
Leaning back, I finally close my eyes
this night unable to hear the baby's cries.]

Life: In 3 Stanza's

Suns pass

as stars wax,and

wane across unseen skies

as dream filled eyes

tremble in reverence.

As starlight ends, our day

begins forgetting the miracles

blindly witnessed.

As light grows souls go

so we sow in thick rows

with bare hands calloused

by subsistence, blistered by

life's toils, strife's toils,

while the hangman coils the

final loop of our existence.

We plant seeds, plant

hopes, plant goals, plant

dreams, water beliefs with

tears and sweat from

fists that bleed and mouths

that need because hungry

bodies must feed!

Because starvation breeds

death's seeds!

Because death's seeds

grow into death's weeds and

death's weeds bring dark deeds

done, moiling in the midnight hour

of our mortal desperation.

From Eden's gardens tangled

vines creep and mothers weep

there is no sleep as men slink

like wild beasts in nights

shame, they kill and feast,

with tortured moans from

withered rows from withered souls;

humanity twisted and overgrown

morality starved by stomach's

groans, so vultures circle

dieing homes while jackals

gnaw on human bones and

ravens pick at throats slit

windows dark, souls unlit,

spirits die and gray skies

forecast future troubled times

suns scorch while wells dry

tongues thick while arms lie

flies drinking off dry eyes,

as darkness falls, babies cry;

to dead to live, but to dead;

to be able to die.

Lighting bursts and pressures build

silence grows, something yields,

the world erupts!

The ground trembles,

forests burn while smoke billows

black soot rains sulpher ink,

rivers stained strained flash flood

rip raped lands till mountains

crash-!

Nothing.

Left but blackness

time passes impassive

till the impasse is past.

Clouds break,

and stars wax

and wane across

unseen skies

as dream filled eyes

tremble

in reverence.

Fusion

Lips like finger tips connect,

a speck, electricity arcs join 'n,

as colliding like riding lightning,

the speed of light ends

in gravitational bends, black hole

my soul swirls as the galaxies of

I and you like cosmic dreams crash,

smash fast stuck wishing our days

away on dead stars, ghosts of suns

past last while you and I ride,

each other with

hips that waltz

without fingers crossed

behind the well spun white lies of

Well-meant words in pillow

talks and moans, swears and oaths, uninterrupted

by the relativity of

futures unknown and promises lost

tossed into the passing backdrop;

No! This momentary flash lasts in, ripples ridding

emotional waves of passion, embraced,

flesh feeds desires and deep needs,

penetrating, connect, souls feed

filling human needs combine in

loves flame fanning fuels firing furnace's

furious roar pressure builds with steam

until red lining steel bends, backs bend, moans blend

souls spin together in

exploding quantum schemes

of sublimation, radiation,

fallout all that's left sheets wet

air is sweat laced and sex laced,

her white lace, balled up in

his place.

Cigarette smoke rising in the dieing mushroom cloud

sunset of fusion, two embers glowing from,

orgasmic physical bonds knit,

room lit, by feeling and knowing,

like the sensation of home

knowing that warmth that lingers

like lovers fingers

intertwined in this moments time

fresh scent of young flesh

of you and me, meshed,

pressed in comfort.

But what now we say as the night plays its way

into the morning horizon.

Dusk glows and silence grows

contemplating decisions.

"You don't own me, baby, and you don't know me, baby, and

I need to be free, baby,

to be me, baby, fulfill my dreams and destiny. Maybe baby what I'm trying to say is that however long our lines of time are crossed connected

these love lines of hand's

match pressed palms together read a silent prayer said"

so she said

"in freedom we are together,

separate hands wield different fates

so we are now like the beauty of the eclipse,

in distant orbits our worlds, revolve and

here we are circles perfectly matched

each alone but lights overlap and are trapped

in memory of the moment. And if our paths catch

if love lasts then this moment of hands pressed

won't pass so let me go and let me glow

and let me know that I can grow

strong and independent."

So freedom in open doors and open palms

these lovers psalms, open hearts

not barred by false expectation

but cages flung open like doves coming home

released from the prison of dependence

then returning on their own.

Filled with self love overflowing the

the cups we were made of, happiness

the frame of our shared days and moments,

in the wide open spaces we possess,

roaming free how much more it means when

you are not my obligation, but my choice,

every single moment.

And every night, feeling that speck,

arc into a spark, as and we again

break the laws

of physics.

Black History Month

It may be hard to offend me, but I do tend to get upset easily,

when I am confronted with any kind of social hypocrisy,

like priests and politicians trying to legislate sex,

while in the backs of their closets little boys are kept.

That is the kinda shit that really pisses me off,

but even worse are these false American idol role models,

and I'm not talking about that show on, what the station, "false freedom"?

I mean fox,

no I'm talking about the celebrities wearing name brands and flashing rocks.

Let me ask you all a question,

close your eyes, take a sec',

if we could travel back in time, 200 years into the past,

how many cotton clothes would you buy,

knowing how many African slaves died,

knowing how many dark mothers cried,

knowing about all the rape, murder, and torture that went untried,

knowing how much hate was justified,

and the daily struggles of these people just to survive and stay alive!?

How many, cotton shirts, would you fucking buy,

and don't say none because that is a lie.

You see it's funny because February is quickly coming up,

the time of year we all know as "Black History Month",

where every classroom watches "Roots" and Dr. King's freedom bell rings,

where George Washington Carver makes peanut butter and Rosa Parks takes a front row seat,

while the Birmingham Police and Fire Departments stop asking for donations for a few weeks.

But I'm trying to raise awareness, since it's the first month of a new year,

we'll let February have Black history and use January to talk about the Black present and future.

That means we are talking about slavery;

we are talking about segregation;

we are talking about sweatshops;

we are talking about humans bought and sold on auction blocks,

because that is the present.

We don't need to look 50, 100, 200 years into our past

talking about dead people and ancestors we never met.

Let's talk about today, since it is January,

and I'll tell you a little about your relatives still living,

his name is Azeboh, or Chekumboo, or Choma,

her name is Orpha, or Mandisa, or Keisha

he is 8, or 12, or 17, or 23...

she is 7, or 13, or 15, or 20...

locked in a designer jean sweat shop,

in a diamond mine, in a shoe factory,

he is one of the 10,000 slaves

she is one of 10,00 sex workers,

in just one of the dozens of camps covering Africa,

covering China, India, Mexico, South America.

Tighten the sneakers that are to expensive to wear running down the block,

finger the material your shirt is made of,

now touch that diamond in your ear or around your neck,

and as you do, tell me can you feel the lashes on his back?

That frost on your finger you bought from DeBeers,

bought them 50 new slaves,

out of which, just in time for your anniversary next year,

15 will be killed.

I don't know if diamonds last forever,

I do know how many of Flava Flav's and Puff Daddies

relatives had to die,

be molested and raped,

be whipped and beaten,

starved and worked for no pay,

just so they could walk around with

their bling in place.

I don't know if a diamond lasts forever,

but I do know that thanks to all of us,

slavery will.

So I say,

bring on the reparations!

For the millions of men, women, and children

who suffer for all American, both black and white, comfort.

Bring on the reparations!

For Africa, for India, for China, for South America, for Middle Eastern

families who have lost a father, a mother, a son, a daughter, a way of life,

to Nike, Adidas, Fila, Reeboks,

to Coca-Cola, Pepsi, BMW- Ford-Nissan and Starbucks!

To Wal-Mart, Kmart, Target, and Big Lot's!

To Victoria's Secret, Ralph Lauren, L.L. Bean, Levi, and Timberland!

To Disney, Old Navy, Gap, Abercrombie and Fitch,

To Phillips-Van Heusen, Eddie Bauer, Banana Republic, and TJ Maxx!

Because every day we force on these people conditions

that make them dream they could live in Harlem.

And I think if anyone deserves

reparations

and affirmative action,

it is not us,

but them.

As for how many shirts we'd buy,

if we could go back in time...

your honest answer would have been, as a country,

673 billion dollars worth,

or about 2,300 dollars each.

Somehow I doubt

the people of January's Black Present month,

or February's Black History month,

would thank you for your support.

Dream

Whitey

is not

the problem.

Because for thousands of years,

before Europeans set foot on African fields

tribes destroyed tribes, blacks were killing blacks,

slavery covered the continent before whitey got into the act.

Women were subjects, subjugated to there king's,

harems and whores weren't some new Western thing,

forced to stay in homes, cook clean and make kids

the culture was destructive long before whitey corrupted it.

European just did what they've ever since done best,

exploited the culture, globalized and marketed it,

acting like drug dealers to greedy African kings,

dark skinned empires were the first to profit from slavery.

Till running out of enemies to ship and sell to auction blocks,

the cheap labor addiction they helped start they were powerless to stop.

Like jonesing crack addicts, Europeans turned on their dealers,

the center could not hold, greed has always been contagious.

SO now here we are 700 years later,

on a continent where none of us are truly native,

no longer Afar, Maasai, Zulu, or Berber,

no longer Spanish or English, Italian or German,

melted together in America today,

none of us knows our ancestors, so we use skin color to hate,

coastal signs and gang colors replacing tribal ways,

while the wealthy rape the poor with no attention to race.

The problem today isn't the color of our skins;

the problem is greed and the ignorance that allows it.

You think its coincidence that poor people don't vote,

while 10% of this country controls 90% of it's wealth?

Put down the knives and the guns,

the needles and remotes,

as long as we're a people divided,

we're a people conquered and controlled!

I may look like white Jesus, but I think like Dr. King,

and the destructive black and white cultures I see,

on B.E.T., M.T.V., ESPN too,

are a nightmare version of our leaders dreams from before.

I had a dream...

that the ringing of freedom was not just the sounds of the chains of slavery passing our servitude from a person to the almighty American dollar...

I had a dream...

that our brothers in humanity were not auctioned off to the highest paying record company or team sport prostituting themselves to the greed of cooperate mass media plantation owners...

I had a dream...

that "bitches" and "hoes" were still just dogs and field tools rather than words used to describe societies mothers and sisters and daughters; and that mothers and sisters and daughters stopped acting like pets to breed and used tools to rent and walked with the beauty, pride, and strength god gave them...

I had a dream...

that bad grammar and broken English were not justified with pride,

that men were measured not by the size of their rims, the number of speakers in their Lexus's and Escalades, or amount of gold on their teeth, but by the power of their thoughts and words,

that the members of society who did achieve something returned and gave back to the grassroots communities they came from leaving them a better place than they had,

that ego's, vanity, and pride were replaced by humility and decency as virtues in our heroes and role models,

that drugs, violence, sexism, and hate were not excused as "telling it like it is", telling little kids how to act without taking responsibility for the fact that little kids deserve better than to repeat our own fucked up past!

I HAD A MOTHER-FUCKING DREAM!!!

And as I stand back and look back at our corrupted cultural communities,

I wish I'd never woken up.

Not because our fathers and grandfathers dreamed

of a better life than this for us...

but because I thought,

we'd at least

expect better

of ourselves.

Prayer

I want…

you.

I want to taste your,

spirit. I want to imagine

your back, pressed against my

chest, running my hands over

your arms, making Goosebumps

dance, with my lips next to your,

ear, hearing the sound of your breath,

…catch…

I want you.

I want to trace the lines of your neck with

my tongue's teasing touches and

soft sloooow seduction

tasting your salty scent,

your smooth skin,

silent moans seeping from sealed lips

while your shut eyes,

…flutter…

Cool caresses become

hot with need, desire so deep it drips…

down… my kisses flowing…

down… my hands running…

down… you lean back,

holding my hair, guiding my head…

down, the terrain of your topography,

I need no compass, though we are both lost,

trailing the curves of shadows and shoulders,

of chest and breast,

side, stomach, hips…

…lips…

The heat radiating off you bakes my skin

as I bask in the rich deep scent and taste,

the sacrament of your deepest secrets,

my Ark, my grail,

I want you to overflow so that

I may be baptized in your passion,

and Christened by your lust,

so on my knees,

before you

I pray!

The building moans and whispered words

in the lost dark language

of each other's name build

in tempo and rhythm as I press and

you pull these locks with growing tension

yearning as you feel the aching sensation

The hot breathe of these lips and these words shaping

the silent chant my tongues transmission an

electrical storm until lava through your veins course

released from your every cell and pour you lungs explode

in your swear,

your call,

your plea,

your roar,

to "Don't stop! Don't Stop!,

Oh God Yes!

OHHhhhhhhhhooooo…!"

…

And that, is just the beginning,

of foreplay.

"Text"

I texted you, "Hello...",

but what I really wanted to say was that its been

four weeks since I last heard the sound of your voice over the phone,

touching my ear like a hot breath and

I can't remember feeling my heart beat since!

I hit SEND instead...

So slow seconds stretch into eternities

and as I try to stop staring at the clock

whose hands run backwards as I watched and waited

for the moment the vibrating tone would tell me

that-

You have (1) New Text Message...

I looked, wondering if it would have taken this long

to type the words I wished for,

"I love you, I miss you, I want you back",

and as I reached for the phone, the world started turning black,

my fingers were trembling as waves of dizziness passed,

before I realized I'd forgotten to take a

breath...

Menu; View Inbox; Exhale...

Zach!? Zach! No not Zach,

please not Zach, please not now,

this isn't the person I'd hoped would write back!

And what if they both had sent messages simultaneously?

And hers had gotten lost, now I'd never receive,

The words of her love! Oh cruel fate and cruel destiny!

Please, just a moment, some slight digital delay,

to save me from-

You have (1) New Text Message...

So I cautiously reach out again... and...

No! It's Kat! Fucking Kat!

Which means really, Kat and Chris,

The last thing I need is to hear their lovely- dovey drama bullshit!

But I'm bitter and frustrated, so I angrily re-texted,

"Please Kat, you're her friend, which makes you my Prometheus;

please Kat, can you search out the answer to the riddle of her divinity for me?

Please, Kat, can you bring back the knowledge

of how to make the pillow smell like her again?

because at first holding it in my arms as I feel asleep

was the one thing that made me feel close to her still,

and now it doesn't and I feel so far apart...

...please... Kat...

-SEND

No response! No Response!

And as the day fades to black,

the phone in my pocket becomes

the monkey on my back.

As I wandered around town hoping and waiting,

until internally frantic and unable to keep containing,

the confusion that covered my mind like a cloud,

the shape pain of wondering if she'd given up, moved on,

The anger! The exhaustion! The depression! The END!

So I took the phone to the edge of Sunset Cliffs and said,

"No longer will I be tethered to the past, I can forget!"

So I cocked back my arm; wound it up just like a pitcher,

And took a deep breath, body set, torso filled with tension,

And preparing my mighty roar of primitive masculine aggression,

as I was about to let go... I heard the beep of a text message...

...I looked...

"I love you,

I miss you,

I want you...

back"

Be

Be

I have to admit, I'm a little confused,

we often hear the cliche of being alone in an empty room

but I've never heard in all my reading and being

of a person alone who feels the pleasure of company.

It doesn't make sense, at least not to me,

because if loneliness has nothing to do with objective reality

than neither does companionship, compassion, or love,

or any of the emotions we speak or write of.

But we turn over stones chasing tangible leads,

buying anything that will help us stop feeling so empty,

But it's a lie! It's a ruse! leading to the suicide blues

of the rich and wealthy; burying their sorrows in crystal brown bags,

of alcohol inducing suicidal tendencies. Because they know the truth

that's why so many hide, bottles and pills swallowed in the dead of night

that we'll never hear about, media muckraking,

only sells violence because that's supposed to be interesting.

That "empty" feeling isn't from lacking wealth

it's from not being rich in the one way that counts.

So we buy their bullshit without thinking about it

not knowing they don't have shit unless they can convince us to want it!

These false idol slum lords peddling snake-oil,

on street corners, cars cash, coke and sex symbols,

cell phones, Ipods and ugly expensive cloths;

the right soda, the right brand; we're a bunch of corporate whores!

Selling our identities, our bodies, with advertising ads,

because they hook us on cool, on sexy, on rich; till we totally forget,

that all it takes to make an "in-crowd"

is to keep others out of it.

Do we really need another divide,

between boarders and races?

All these meaningless lines separating each other,

brother from brother,

creeds and religions,

politics and gang colors?

Stop the hate! Stop the fighting! Stop this devolution of society;

this fracturing isn't a quilt, its a brokenbreaking humanity.

And the worse that it gets, these crack addict sweats,

so spun out on spoon cooked media advertising bullshit

that we kill and we steal, robber barons of the world!

Forgetting that with every dollar we stack and we build

the bars of our own jail, and become our own prisoners,

reaching out of shut doors for the very thing that put us here!

We've forgot! We have forgot,

what joy even is, we've forgotten that what it was we really needed

was already their, and always has been.

We've been brainwashed by commercials

and capitalism, and forgot

that not a single emotion depends on them.

Loneliness is always their, and always will be,

right next to happiness and love, confidence and peace,

all these emotions come from within us

so reverse all you see.

Stop looking out,

asking the world to decide for you

what it is you feel,

you need,

you care about!

We've forgotten how to be humans, forgotten what it means,

We've forgotten how to feel without this media IV feed.

We ape like we're free,

but we just act like monkeys,

with a bad dope dependency.

Because happiness cannot be made bought or found,

because it's already within us

and we each contain

all the love in the world so stop running! Stop hiding!

Stop fearing and dieing!

Destroying ourselves in back boardrooms and black markets,

selling our souls to the slave-owners that bought us!

Just stop! STOP! Stop looking for what you need!

Stop searching for yourself,

happiness, creativity, aren't on some store shelf!

It's already inside you,

and always will be!

Stop looking, stop forgetting,

and remember what it is to be

free

Blue

Do you know what it is to be blue?

Really blue? I mean really really really blue?

Let me tell you, I'm blue,

and it is

fucking

HARD!

No one understands you and no matter how well you do do,

your friends and your family and your coworkers dismiss you,

or mock you or tease you or get really pissed at you,

they yell at you and scream at you saying "Stop being blue!"

I wish I could change the colors I feel,

just like changing my shirt to a different veneer.

I've tried and I've tried to modify my hue,

but it just isn't me, and I think there is nothing I can do.

I wish I could be like the rest of my town,

but everywhere I go I seem to bring the crowd down.

I lost all my friends and my family stopped talking to me,

so without any options I realized it was time to leave.

I packed up my bags, without looking back,

saying "I'll move to a place where I won't have to act!"

In my luggage I threw my big bag of weed,

my peace signs and rainbow flags and posters that said "Anarchy!"

Al Gore's new documentary went into the bag

with my Virgina Wolf novels and my Pro-Choice rally name tag,

and my uncensored text book on evolutionary biology,

and my four year degree from a damn good University!

I left the bible where it was, propping up my old table,

and though I took the TV, I said "Fuck it!" to cable.

With two hundred hours of punk, reggie, and rock

loaded onto my IPod, it was almost time to stop.

And so finally, with my Greenpeace card tucked safe in my wallet,

I put it all in my Hybrid and took off for California!

Because blue is the color of my heart and blue are the thoughts in my head,

and blue is the color of blood running in the veins beneath my skin.

So I make no apologies, what I had to do I did,

because it's fucking hard to be a liberal when the whole

god-damned-state's-red!

Prologue to Life... or... What Else Should I do While The World Sleeps?

Cool air quenches my, sore throat,

crisp clarity cleansing the cough caused by coke coffee and

cigarettes,

consumed under the starry eyed causeway of too much,

bad poetry and,

good weed.

We are all high,

we've just traded in one drug for another.

The canniboid and hallucinogenic

consciousness expanding antennas

pointing out to the cosmos

of a better tomorrow

have been unplugged;

hiding ourselves from the discovered

depths and distance of the human experience.

This the degree of emotional death in our society;

liquor store Hallmark cards using,

empty words to describe our own three ninety nine cent feelings.

What happened to those children of

modern thought?

Who traded in for

the RX prescription plateau of acceptance?

choosing the safety of hiding within themselves,

than facing the fear of their failed reality?

What is this glass wall

that separates us all

from our idealized conceptions?

Why would I rather change society,

the whole world,

to make

MY two halves whole;

than simply... change myself

to achieve the same result?

I will not be another shackled

Ebenezer Scrooge or Jacob Marley,

one of six billion,

ghost or slaves,

dragging, weighed down,

by the shackles and chains of

someone elses failing responsibility;

for unquestioned acceptance is

death;

dead before we even

knew we were alive...

NO! that is Not ME,

you see,

my beat;

isn't the sound of, live flesh against dead, of

palms pushing out aesthetic equations;

metal and glass and wood,

bombs and bullets and bullshit

isn't!

my music...

my music, my beat;

is the organ,

the four chambered rhythm of red reality, whose

internal echo is the air upon which, my

passionate notes float. Your

passive silence is the chorus on which I play, my

off beat, my

off rhyme, my

self

to echo in,

This moment where the vitality of now and ability of imagination are,

indistinct.

This is,

my medium,

this is,

MY melody,

this is,

MY MUSIC,

and the silence where we are NOT

separated by words, you, embracing NOW,

either reflect, my

lite; or create your own;

but do not be another shadow in this

ever darkening

and silent world,

The alluring sirens song of

fear and complacency,

may tempt, but will NOT triumph

over our

Ignoble Human Spirit.

Waking Life

It's, five thirty, and silent sirens scream

blaring alarms that pierce this waking dream

Regression into the shower, waiting for the

fetal truths to come in the dark womb of

warmth and shampoo in which I'm reborn.

What time is 6 o'clock when the world sleeps and steals my hallucinations of life?

My collective unconscious fills with the tribal beats of 50,000 years,

coalesced into the spiral swirl of cream in coffee; whose galaxy today?

Lite up. the cigarette of false control

the day taking hold with caffeine and nicotine

enabling the the sleep walk of dressing like

every other individual.

Lite up with the addiction of happiness you cannot create on your own,

is happiness really worth the effort?

630- I see the world reflected in my smile... the world needs to brush more often. Where does the decay begin, 6 hours ago before my eyes were even closed tomorrows fate was sealed. How much less important than a single day am I?

Light! Camera! Makeup!

Central character in my small auxiliary role on this stage of self importance

self impotence

without awareness of our own drama we are flaccid to the power of the human condition; pull my strings, make me dance...

pull again, ill sell my soul,

just because i grab my own and give them a....

remote control to the radio television

satellite bowl hard wired access to my desires and goals,

doesn't mean I am more than a puppet.

all actors have free will

What else can I do but lay here and tune in and out and in to the cosmic roar of the universe.

Or is it just the lonely echo of my own hidden consciousness's static

reminding me my

"broadcast will resume at the normally scheduled hour" of not yet

at Seven i discovered i was a false god.

I saw my perfection in the first full yellow rays; it looked nothing like me.

"Before it can be me I have to be me and I don't even know who me is!"

a thousand drops of dew trickle together down my life's windows, adding to the stream of thought

finally i am evaporated off this flat two dimensional plane into a world of deeper symmetry and meaning,

not 8

not time

not ready

no

shit driving down the road of potential catastrophe,

me, my car, my planet, my galaxy, flying in circles within circles, down predetermined lines of imagined meaning on the black nothingness of the universes asphalt highway

careening in a bubble of illusion where the maximum speed approaches infinite and space has no brake-lights.

Crash

crash slide trip fall spill into the office where lost in the reality of waking i see that the world has just begun to go to sleep. i open the door and enter the dream of life. its time for bed.

wake up

Red Eye

"Buckle your safety belts, folks"

Guardian angles mime with vague and silent gestures

the emergency exits in case of emergencies

It's okay to scream. Not enough people do. Its easy to forget

stuffed for efficiency in a metal tube hurtling at speeds we can barley imagine two thin membranes of awkward jutting aluminum keeping several tons of important cargo

and its owners

soaring miles above the ground

We level off around 10,000 feet.

Do you want Coke or Diet?

You can't decide because the two year old three seats over is throwing a tantrum and anyone who doesn't believe in abortion has obviously never flown coach

look left to the deep sea of my emotions, out of which sticks the mountain of creativity surrounded by plateaus of laziness and dis-inspiration. Its a long burro ride to the top.

"We seem to be experiencing some nasty weather, take your seats please and put up your trays. Don't panic folks, we're just coming into another glass"

Teeth stained red reflected blue background error fuck windows. Tethered by the line which wraps around all writers throats as the gods of despair and drunkenness puppet another show midwifes to the anguished depression which are the contractions of talents birth C sectioned with a cigarette and scotch on the rocks left alone to endure the postpartum hangover of morning.

It's twenty one o'clock Pacific Standard Time, so set your watches back since we lose and hour for each one we gain approaching the night before tomorrow. Out your left you may see the cloud formations of drifting desire lingering over a town named after someone you've already forgotten whose face you remember better with your eyes closed.

Halfway home.

We've grown middle aged in out time together descending from the crest of our mutual ignorance of the wonder in our experience at all. Alternatively drifting and dropping the trip is lost before our minds have grasp that it's begun. Our first real look at the faceless mass of familiar strangers is usually our last. Considering the cost, it's always a pity, but it isn't a journey if we don't have an end.

The world shrinks as our destination approaches while the maps and globes are crumbled in the hands of time and technology into bits and balls bought and sold in the international market of our living rooms and kitchens hostels to the diplomats of profit and pleasure until we've Wal Mart-ed the Ikea to the Target of Ford McDonald's Microsoft Starbucks -and-can-I-get-a-twelve cylinder-venti-super sized-order of-somebody help me please-on-the-side-with-that-to-go? for corporations business casual Sunday formal black tie sweatpants lunch meeting scheduled for the day after IS THIS REALLY MY FUCKING LIFE after which it is socially taboo to wear the color of your particular insanity.

Nauseating; the final few feet we fall with a faint fetid flavor wafting through the stale compressed air's last moments with plastic-lined paper bags holding the reruns of our delicate constitution's fragmented feelings. Emotional baggage rattling around in the overhead compartments of our stowed conscience, we rush to unfasten the seat-belts of obligation which fastened us to subjective reality as we trip over our neighbors in a rush to disembark the frightening flight of dis-poetic a-prose for safer and more secure grounds.

It's like watching a car accident paused halfway through slow motion in reverse. That's how you know you're having fun.

Thank you for flying to drunk to write
and too tiered to care airlines, we hope you enjoy your stay at whatever emotional landscape your left in.
Now excuse me while I discuss the journey from sobriety to spinning with my porcelain copilot,
followed by an in-depth study of the Carioles' effect in action.
Have a nice day! =)

On "Language Poetry"

A.        Language poetry. But what

            letter upon letter, syllables, words fucking

            a page, a paragraph, promiscuously birthing silence.

For what, if meaning is, dug, rooted, deep down

Both within and without the ejaculatory

Mess of black and white dots? Nothing. Spiraling

Into

            free flowing

                                    running

                                                slopping

                                                            spilling

                                                                        sssircling

                                    Shit.

[Part Z]            Otherwise known in the back of our minds,

                        we recognize "Language Poetry" in the inherent meaning

                        seen behind the symbol and beyond the symbolic, recessed

                        deep down as we contemplate a piece of crap

                        swirling in countless circles. The literal

Part IV. metaphysical connotation of the

DIII.      denotation of the

Ia.        "I am a Language Poet!" flushed down the black

              hole of porcelain and shit shat shot out the back (whose

            fucking hoarse? I don't even own a saddle) your mind.

I.          who knows, if it happens to land on paper, I'll

            be published.

Untitled

Burning from your soul

a hot spring of desire dripping from the deep caverns of your empty ache.

The taste of you, the coppery rich mineral essence of a stream

welling up from the dark fertile earth.

The scent of your sex, primal passion and primitive need overpowering the

artificial.

Beads of sweat wash you clean, leaving you stripped and bare of all

but your most secret self.

Quaking, quivering, legs stomach hips loins heart, fluttering, spasming.

Flutter, flutter until electric waves burst from within, and the fire of your

veins is drawn out upon great burning wings

which open, and you with them, soar.

2005-11-16T11:36:00.000-08:00

Full Circle

So I'm up for parole in a week, I've met an incredible girl, and Thanksgiving is just around the corner (Christmas Songs, Woooo!). It is wierd how suddenly things just ended. It's like all these feelings I was dragging around are suddenly gone, like the colored lenses which I viewed my life, my X, and everything with have been lifted and I can see the world clearly for the first time. I still hate her, but I don't love her. I realize she doesn't, and possibly never did, love me, she cheated on me, and she totally screwed me over and always put herself first. Thats not love.
Who knows what the future hold, but I've found someone different, and who, in every way I try to see it, seems frighteningly perfect. The future is so bright it's scary.

2005-11-12T21:13:00.000-08:00

...Life...
by Michael Sherrillo

So, I haven’t really dated in almost a year and a half. So finding myself newly single, I feel a little lost. I used to have this stuff down, what to say, how to act, what to do and be… but right now I’m just so confused. I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. I met someone, and I’m more than a little sprung, which is fine, but she knows it, which is “okay”, but I’ve actually told her that, which isn’t. I just can’t keep my mouth shut, it’s like cool-confident-ladies-man-Mike has been replaced by nervious anxious high school teenager in first relationship. I’m just worried because I like this girl, a lot, which is kind of scary in its own right since I’m just getting over being burned. But I’m trying to ditch the emotional baggage I feel it left me with, and just live in the present and in the moment. But everything in my life is so ridiculously fucked up. I know I would be freaked out if I met someone and they bombarded me with all this stuff (jail, just out of long term relationship, “donating”, broke[stupid X], etc…) so the fact that she hasn’t bolted makes me think that there is something pretty incredible about this chick. I mean, a simple compare/contrast explains it… with over a year of history and support, my X bailed on me in this situation, wheras this girl barley knows me, has to deal with all this, and is totally okay with it.

Tangent, I didn’t even think about it till now, but on Tues. night, I was standing outside having a cigarette, and the moon had just risen and next to it was the first star. So, being the hopeless romantic, I did the little star light, star bright… and wished to just find that person who is out there for me. Well, no car pulled up that minuet and no tall dark female stranger walked by, so I dejectedly walked back inside. But the very next night…

So where am I with all this? I don’t know… I feel bad for my roomate, P. though. P. has been the third wheele with me for so long, I feel like I owe him some quality guy bonding time… so I think that I want to keep things “title free” till Feb. 14^th. I will not have a relationship before Valentines day. This is also out of respect for myself, I want to give me some “me time” to just remember who I am and what it is that makes me happy, and also for whoever I might be seeing at that time (though, confessionally, I hope it’s S., but I don’t want to get my hopes up, things are so new and I really can’t afford to be any more hurt right now… a part of me is just so damn fragile…). And, now I have to go back to jail for the night… maybe a good nights sleep will help me straighten my head out. 36 worst-scenario days to go… who knows, maybe I’ll actually make it (and maybe S. will make it with me?…) Only time will tell, and that’s the one thing I have plenty of.

2005-11-08T09:11:00.000-08:00

Fortuna Spins Again
by Michael Sherrillo

Life is good. Nothing is harder than knowing that the person who left you is happier without you than with you. And nothing feels better than knowing that they aren’t, knowing that you were right. I realized today that I am happy, that I am secure and that, even with my faults, I am a good person. I am responsible, I have my shit together, I am paying my bills and moving on with my life. I have made friends, awesome friends, and even when the morning seems a little overcast, like today, each cloud has a silver lining. My life is moving forward, and it’s getting better each day. I rocked my midterms, and I just feel like I’m floating on a cloud of sublime peace and tranquility. On days like this, it seems like nothing bad can happen (knock on wood). The world is my oyster, and promise is waiting around every corner. I have a good job, I have a good life, a great family… the Wheel Fortuna had me on the bottom, but slowly, she begins her rise, and carries me with her. I can’t remember when I last felt this happy. I know who I am, and I know where I’m going. And if I do say so myself, I’m doing a damn good job of getting there, despite all that life has put before me. I feel stronger and wiser from the hurdles I have had to cross, and feel ready for any new ones chance and fate choose to throw my way. Bring it on, world, I’m ready for you! =)

2005-11-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

Externalized Soul
by Michael Sherrillo

I don't know how to explain it, but I love San Diego weather, mostly though becasue their isn't any. Hoever, I have found some great satisfaction and solace in that the weather here usually seems to match my mood and spirits. Like with this recent breakup incident. When it all started, before she first left town for a trip to her parents, the weather was pretty overcast and gray, and we wern't doing very well. She leaves, the weather clears up until the day she was supposed to get back. Then it started raining. While she was back, breaking up with me, packing, getting ready to move out and leave, nothing but gray skies and cold days. Then, the day after she leaves, there have been nothing but gorgeous perfect blue skies, warms days, and cool breezes.
I'm not against supposing that I only really notice the weather when it matches my mood, but the hopeless romantic in me feels like this city has some special relationship with my soul and the the two are inextricably linked and mirror each other in some cosmic natural harmony. Another beautiful sunrise this morning, going from purple to pink to orange in the chilly morning, then the skies cleared and a wonderful day, full of all the promise and potential of a July summer, began. Except it's November. I love San Diego.
Sometimes, life is just beautiful.

2005-11-02T07:23:00.000-08:00

Stockholm Syndrome Blues

by Michael Sherrillo

Did you ever hear one of those stories from someone that just seems to suddenly put everything your going through into perspective? I did. However, let me give you a little history first…

So, my girlfriend who I had been living with for about a year and a half broke up with me a little bit ago and moved out. Now she will not even talk to me. I am not sure what I did wrong, but our entire relationship was plagued with suspicions of cheating. This is ironic because she is pretty much the first girlfriend I have been with who I actually never cheated on. While in retrospect, I can understand her suspicions and worries, I am very bitter about her not talking to me because I think it is because she thinks that I did cheat on her. This makes me wish that I had, because at least there would be a reason for all this. But, through numerous stories of love and loss which I have been privileged to hear in the past few weeks, I realize that she is probably just using that idea as an excuse to do what she did to me and my roommate, which is totally burn us and leave us high and dry financially after lying about how she wouldn’t screw us on rent and bills and whatnot, and because being angry at me, even if its for no fucking reason, makes her leaving that much easier on her. Nevertheless, I am digressing… what truly put her and everything into perspective was a story my apartment manager told Pat and I while commiserating on how betrayed we felt and how we never though she could do this to us. The story went something like this…

Mark’s brother had been dating this girl seriously off and on for about 8 years. She had some kids and baggage, but he loved the kids and the girl and really wanted to be with them forever. However, his parents had married each other twice, and each time had had a very horrible relationship, which made all their kids nervous about the whole marriage thing. Understandable. But this girl kept pressuring Mark’s brother to marry her so after a lot of soul searching and thinking, he decided he did love her and decided to take “the leap”. He bought the ring; they were engaged and set a date. Suddenly, he realizes that in the 8 years they have been seeing each other, they have never lived together. Sure, they spent a lot of time together, but they have never actually shared a closet and a bedroom and house, so he brings this up to her. He asks if they can move in together and postpone the wedding, just a few months so they can make sure they are compatible and everything is okay. He still wants to marry her; he just wants to live together for a while first. She flips. She accuses him of trying to back out of the marriage and in disgust breaks off the engagement and tells him it is over. She becomes totally cold and indifferent to him. He is heartbroken, he becomes suicidal, depressed, but after a few months and some therapy, he begin coming to terms with everything, and though he regrets his decision because he realizes she was the love of his life, but he tries to move on.

Well, a few months later, as he is beginning to get his shit together again, they “bump” into each other one night somewhere. They end up having sex, after which she confesses that she has been missing him and thinking about him this whole time. He tells her he regrets what he said, that he still loves her and wants to marry her. This is on a Sunday; they decided to meet at the Justice of the Peace's office on Thursday to get married. He asks Mark to be his witness. He is beyond excited and overjoyed, Thursday rolls around and he and Mark arrive at the Peace’s office. And they wait. And they wait. And they wait.

Two hours go by, and she still does not show up. At this point, the man is frantically worried something must have happened to her. Then she arrives. With her is a coworker of his, Kenny. She walks up and there is an awkward moment as everyone says hello. Well, all Mark’s brother can do is stare at her ring finger and the ring on it, Mark finally asks if that was the same ring he had given her. She triumphantly holds it out to them, and tells them her and Kenny are married, and have been fucking for months and married for several weeks.

This is the single handedly most evil real person I have ever heard of. The entire thing, the accidental meeting, the sex, the planned wedding later that week, was all just to rub everything in Mark’s brother’s face and hurt him. Neither Mark nor his brother ever though this sweet girl would be capable of ever doing something so beyond wrong or mean, something so truly evil, especially since they had know her for 8 years! All Mark could say to his brother was that “at least you now know her true colors, you know what she is really like, and aren’t you glad that you didn’t marry her now that you know who she really is. You made the right decision.” Mark then told Pat and me the same thing. And you know what, I think he is right.

I know who she really is now, and as much as I still love her, and even though every song on the radio reminds me of her and I can’t stop hurting inside or missing her or wondering how she is and what she is doing, I know that she wasn’t the person I was with. Who she is now, the person who did this to us, for no reason other than the one she made up in her head, is the real Mary. Now or three years from now, she would have done this to me eventually. And though I love her and it hurts, I’m glad to know the truth, and I am glad that she is gone and I am free.

I only worry now about how I can ever trust another person again. I thought that in a year and a half, with all the memories, all the love and sacrificing and working together, I could trust her. And apparently even 8 years isn't enough time. Mark told us that there are no garantees in life, that love really is a leap of faith. But after this, I'm not sure I will ever be able to take that leap again... she wasn't on the lease, she wasn't on the bills, my parents did make her sign a contract for the car... we all trusted her... what kind of horrible person betrays all that? And then justifies it all with some stupid comment my roomate makes trying to cheer me up! I mean seriously! It's called a fucking joke, he said shit like that all the time!

I will never make the same mistake of trusting again.

In the immortal words of comic book guy: "Worst life lesson, ever".

2005-11-01T10:25:00.000-08:00

Time Keeps on Tickin'...

So much has happened in the last few weeks, and it’s been so overwhelming, I don't even know where to begin... Mary left me, I'm in the middle of midterms, and I am but a week or two away from possibly being released on probation... well, the facts come easy enough, it's the emotion that are difficult to explain; fear, anger... ohhh, so much anger, excitement, hope, doubt, stress, sadness, depression, mania... I guess it just boils down to life, in all its bitter-sweetness. I am finding that adopting an existential perspective is helping to cope with all that has been thrown at me lately, just living in the moment, in the present, and not worrying about what will come or what has been. It's hard to let it all go, but each day puts a few more steps and a little more distance between me and my past. Time slowly stitching closed the gaping wounds of love and loss. But the anger... it haunts me and helps me, fueling my drive and passion to move on, to be better... I feel like such a different person now, I want to reflect that in myself, I look in the mirror and the bright happy guy just isn’t me... I feel a little darker, edgier, more bitter and jaded by life and people. Fuck angst, this isn't some whiney little kid who’s had his heart broken, this is a life changing experience, a complete cognitive reconstruction of myself and my life. First off is the tattoo, my compadres, Katie and Tammey, are helping me pick out my first; the theme: fuck love. They are so excited; I have about a million magazines they want me to go through so we can get ideas. Next is the piercing. Pat and I are in cahoots, he wants his labret pierced, and I want a lip piercing. Once I'm free, it's off we go, friends in tow, on phase one of my reinvention. Next is the hair. I like it long, but I'm sick of happy blonde Brad/Zack, I'm getting it chemically straightened and low lighted with dark streaks. I feel like a rock star, time to look the part. I'm sick of the music I listen to also, I want to hear anger, I want to hear real life and music and see shows about experiences al la dirty bars, panties, heroin, fights, love, and cocaine blues... I'm ready to get the hell off the couch and out into the world with some dark badass punk shows that are coming. I've made so many new friends, and met so many awesome people, who are so supportive and inspiring and individual... I feel great. I feel free. I feel invincible. I'm rocking midterms (looks like straight A's so far) I'm kissing off a class that is impossible, I'm working hard, moving to Ocean Beach soon with Pat, and am going to surf and party my brains out. They say the best revenge is a life well lived: hell ya.

2005-10-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

“Two Postings Diverge on a Blogger's Page, and Sorry I Could Not Travel Both...”
By Michael Sherrillo

I am torn between two thoughts right now on which to write upon, a brief encounter which has enchanted my imagination to the point of a fixative delirium, and an article I read on sex trends in young adults… decisions decisions. Maybe I have time for both…
I’ll try to stat with the concrete article; maybe it will give me a chance to regain a little of the composure which has left me for the last 24 hours.

So apparently, teens are having more guilt free sex at younger ages, the norm now being around 15. I don’t see a problem with that. The problems with sex are reproduction. Psychologically, I don’t think that kids that age are capable of being good parents really, or of making the best choices for themselves or their potential new offspring. However, the article relates current sexual activity to the availability of birth control, especially for women, and basically says that since women no longer bound to reproduction, they able to experience a sexual freedom which has previously only been granted to men. I whole heartedly support that freedom. If we are to truly have an equal society, then we should be able to shrug off the genetic dispositions which have been preventing it for so long, condoms helped free men from STD’s, while still placing the potential burden of reproduction on women, the birth control pills has now freed women from that, just as Viagra has given the elderly a second chance at discovering a sexual identity. With the potential dangers now mitigated, why shouldn’t people who are at an age to explore their sexualities be allowed? If “mistakes” do occur, then there are medications and treatments for several of the more common STD’s, and abortions are a legal option for those unwilling to have children yet, or ever. I understand a little more clearly the importance religion played, with its emphasis on sexual purity till marriage, and I think that before such contemporary options were available to a majority of the populace, then these activities would have had detrimental impacts on society. But in the same way that the danger of eating pork has been changed by science and progress since biblical times, so now have the dangers of sex.

We now live in an era where men and women, young and old, can discover themselves, their feelings and desires, and embrace their individuality and discover what it is that makes them happy as autonomous human beings. Legislation which supports self discovery and awareness I wholly support, as long as it doesn’t invade on a persons ability to choose the life and happiness they desire. I believe contraceptives should be available to young teens, just as I feel every car should come equipped with a breathalyzer which prevents a person from starting their vehicle if they are drunk. I don’t think teaching abstinence is the solution, just as prohibition wasn’t a solution in the early part of the 20th century. Laws need to start understanding human psychology instead of trying to change them.

People keep arguing about how the “innocence” of youth is being lost at younger and younger ages, but why is that bad? I don’t wish that I was a naïve and unknowledgeable or experienced person, I crave experience, and it is that which helps me grow as a person. This Victorian mentality of innocence was once forced upon women, and if we learned anything from the Women’s Rights movement, it is that this kind of behavior isn’t welcomed by the people is represses, and should be considered socially unacceptable. Yet because we silence children’s voices, legislatively denying them the rights to participate in the political process, their feelings go unheard. Only the parent's wishes matter. If we don’t want our government to be a monarchy, denying it citizens the rights we all crave, why do we subject every one of our member to such a state for the first 18 years of their lives. Young people are much more knowledgeable, responsible, and intelligent than we give them credit for. The maturation process should be one in which we guide them into the world as potential equals, exposing them to reality, both the good and the bad, so that they are able to understand it, experience it, and be ready for it when they are left to face it on their own. We hurt only our future when we try to shelter and hide children from the realities of life. They are individuals, with needs, feelings, and rights, that shouldn’t be that different from our own.

2005-10-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

My Girlfriend Doesn't Get Me
by Michael Sherrillo

Passion. Romance. Two terms which are inextricably linked in most any relationship. Except this one. I feel like we are on opposite sides of a wheel. I don't feel especially romantic without a lot of sex; she isn't especially interested in sex without more romance. And so we sit like two kids on a teeter-totter, stuck in equilibrium, unmoving. I can understand her perspective, but the problem is that with the limited resources/time at my disposal considering my custody situation, I can only be so romantic... but I have been trying, sexy love poem here, cute notes there, trying to just be happy and want to cuddle every time I see her... but I just don't feel the same reciprocative push from her end. And I don't think she really understands... in those post coital periods, I want nothing more than to hold her and cover her with kisses and affection, sex is the closest thing I have to a truly deep and spiritual act, and afterwards I feel like I'm basking in the afterglow of communicating with god. I am Moses, descending from the Mount, tablets of ultimate truth in hand, face red and burnt from being so near to such holiness.
I dream of just staying inside her, curled up together, skin against skin, and just talking or kissing and nuzzling before drifting off to sleep together... but that doesn't happen.
Instead, it's a few seconds of breathing, then she wants to dash away and clean up, and then she pulls on cloths and wants to leave or go to bed or something else besides just be together and cuddle. And it really sucks, because that’s almost my favorite part, the post act. It makes me feel like she is disgusted by all the sexy wetness and nakedness which I love so much, like she can't wait to detach herself from me and pretend that it all never happened.
And let me segue to romance for a second. She wants to talk about me not making an effort. Lets not, for a moment, mention her lack of any significant desire to put anything more than an occasional "sesh" into our sex life, while avoiding some of my favorite things, like the previously mentioned post cuddle, or other more explicit acts. Let’s talk about her romantic effort. There really aren’t any. No letter, hell she never even writes back when I send her emails, excepts a few sentences, or if I do send her a poem or a long letter, she doesn't even acknowledge it, I have to ask her if she even got it, and then its just, “did you like it?”, "yeah" and that all she has to say. But she can talk about a song for hours and listen to it for days... but when it comes to us, she seems deaf-mute half the time about her feelings and about showing and expressing any romance/desire/passion. When do I get to be swept off my feet a little, or surprised, or taken care of? When is my turn to be on the receiving end? Where are my letter and poems of love, where are the song lyrics that make her think of me? She talks all this stuff about how I don't communicate... well I could use a little communication from her as well. Not just about problems, but about good stuff. Gush to me about you and me and us a little, because otherwise I don't think you feel it. Then, she dismisses all the effort I do try to put into the relationship when she says things like, "there isn't any romance". Well, she could try putting a little into it as well. I give her most of my money; she hasn't even gotten me some socks, which I asked her to pick up over a month ago (since I am not allowed to go out, the custody thing again). Even that would have been a nice little thing she could have done for me.
I'm getting a little out of hand, and just venting at this point. All I mean to say is that I do understand her feelings, but I don't feel like she understands mine, or like she really takes them into consideration. Nothing means more to me than her happiness... unfortunately, I feel like nothing means more to her than her happiness either, at least not mine. And so we are where we are, stuck. And no matter what I do, I can't help but feel like she is pushing me away, or like she is simply drifting away herself. And I have no idea what to do anymore, except maybe just let her go... I want this to work, but I want her to want it to work also, and to put some effort into “us”, because this indifference I can’t help but feel is breaking my heart.

Post Script 1pm: and now, a few hours after writing this, after having vented my feelings, I feel great, I feel happy and secure, and remember that I am totally in love with this girl and want/hope to spend the rest of my life with her. Sometimes, I just need an outlet to get whatever negative thoughts and feeling are stuck inside me out and away so I can look at my life more clearly. I just get to emotionally close to the trees and can't see the forest. Sure we have problems, and we always will, but I am happy with her, and can't imagine my life without her. She is the partner I want to continue to grow and evolve and change with. And I love her with all my heart.

2005-10-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

Withdrawal Dreams
by Michael Sherrillo

I usually don't remember my dreams. That’s not in the usual way most people have of remembering that something was going on and just not being able to recall it. My head hits the pillow and what feels like 30 seconds later, I'm awake and it's morning. No weird sensations, no vivid feelings I just can't quite grasp, nothing. Fade to black, and then it's time to rise and shine.
At least that’s what usually goes on. And then I became poor. I should qualify that, I've always been poor, but usually never broke, and never for this long. So, with only 8 dollars in my account for the past week, I just can't bring myself to buy a pack of cigarettes. Naturally I've been going through the withdrawals for the past few days. Which aren’t as bad as everyone seems to say. I feel desire, I want one, but I'm not shaking-screaming-going-to-die-if-just-just-don't-get-one-
more-sweet-delicious-puff-o-nicotine.
I just miss it, in the same way you miss a friend who is on vacation for a week. But my dreams... woooooaaaaah... they have been something else. Lights, colors, people, places, plotlines dripping with drama and emotion... it's like some weird independent movie which is so obscure and personal that only I truly understand all the symbolic meaning and depth. Sleep has become like an acid trip since I stopped smoking. And I've found myself trying to sleep in a lot more. It's really fun, the second I close my eyes, even if it's only for a 15 or 20 minuet nap, I have the coolest scenes start playing on the movie screen of my eyelids. This makes me kind of happy, because I can enjoy not smoking almost as much as I enjoy smoking. My life may be mundane, but it's the little joys I can find, like tiny gems on a long wide beach, that make it seem so very precious to me.

2005-10-12T10:07:00.000-07:00

Thoughts on Prop. 73
by Michael Sherrillo

Until the day I turned 18, I was not a child first and a boy second. I was born a boy, just as I was born with blonde hair and blue eyes and fair skin. That the state considered me a child was simply a temporary category. The same goes for girls, they are born females, that they are children is incidental. The rights that women have should be granted to all women, not just adults. Too much emphasis is put on age in this country. I have studies physiological psychology, I realize the implication of not being completely cerebrally developed by age 18, however, most people do not realize that development continues until they are in their mid-twenties (not just 18 or 21)! Even then, there are cognitive developmental categories that continue throughout adulthood as pruning of neurons and experience continue to make your mental gadgetry more fine-tuned. Not to mention the fact that nutrition, exercise, and your surroundings also have a great impact on delaying or speeding up development.
If we want to make laws that are based on physiology, we cannot ignore the fact that women’s genitals are part of their physiology as well. Their body has developmental stages just as their mind does, and we need laws that understand that a girl can have a baby at 14. So what if she isn't an "adult", your an adult when your 18, yet you can't drink till your 21. So why if the government can delay some rights, can they not rush others?
People keep saying, "Well when/if I had a kid I'd want to know if they were going to have an abortion!” Of course you would, and that is the very reason you shouldn't be informed! Yeah, so there are a few cool parents who would be understanding and supportive and this may open some communication doors, but how many of us remember our parents as being cool like that? Mine certainly weren’t! Voting "NO" on this proposition means you are protecting children from their parents and themselves. I've know a few girls who had backdoor abortions; some took pills and almost died trying to kill their kids, another threw herself down the stairs, and one in middle school actually had a wire hanger abortion and was hospitalized for a month from tearing and internal bleeding! Guess what, all of them came from very conservative homes, with Christian middle class parents (the very ones who are supporting this prop.), and one's father was a minister! All because their parents thought abortions was wrong, and wanted the girls to have the babies and either deal with the burden or give them up to adoption.
If we want to acknowledge that these minors haven't had their decision making equipment fully developed yet, then why would we put them in a position which could force them to suffer for the rest of their lives as single mothers who would be, statistically, living under the poverty line and raising kid or putting him in foster care, which would then make their children more prone to criminal and violent behavior?
The truth is most of these adults are too blindsided by their beliefs and morals to be able to remember their own childhood, and exactly how unreasonable parents are. Minors or not, we are human being capable of rational thought and decision making processes, and kids have to deal with that responsibility for most of their lives, the grades they get as a freshman in high school will influence the college they go to, and their career choices. If minors aren't capable of that kind of responsible though, then colleges and universities should only check your grades from your senior year.
Most minors understand their parents and their views and reactions, and are aware of the costs and consequences of making a decision like that. If they aren’t, then it is up to the abortion clinics and Planned Parenthood to give them accurate and unbiased information regarding the procedure and alternatives so they can make that decision on their own.
We aren’t talking about six year olds. These are human beings in their early and mid teens, let’s give them a little more credit. Their parents obviously are more worried about their beliefs and being controlling than of having rational and empirical discussions, if they weren't, this Prop. wouldn't even be on the ballot.

2005-10-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

"Comparitive Literature 561"
a Haiku and a Limerick, by Michael Sherrillo

Her monotone voice
Washing away interest
Time running backwards

I'm sorry I am always late,
and I want to do well in your class,
but I have more important things I could be doing
than listen to you talk out your ass.

2005-10-12T08:59:00.000-07:00

“Your Conditions of Love” or “Marijuana”
by Michael Sherrillo

If I had a million dollars,
would I not give you all the world?
Would I dangle carrots before you
and ask you to change all your views?
If you told me you were a believer
I may say, “I think you are wrong”
but I still wouldn’t want you to struggle
I wouldn’t tell you, “You’re on your own”
If we lived in another country
or in times much different from now
where Christianity was no longer legal
and prayer wasn’t allowed,
I’d tell you “It’s okay
to pray and to worship
whenever you visit my house”
Because I love you so much
I couldn’t, wouldn’t even know how
to make my money, my love, my support
contingent on beliefs I chose for myself.
I’d only want you to be happy
to discover life’s truths for yourself
and to pursue and enjoy them with all of your heart
and know I would always support you.

2005-10-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

“Coming To Know Jesus”
by Michael Sherrillo

A boy named Johnny walked down the road
on his way home from Sunday school.
When he met a man in a long white robe
whose hair seemed to shine like gold.
The man said, “Have you seen me boy?”
eyes wild with nervous glee.
So Johnny looked at his stubbled beard
and the sandals on his feet,
“Well, mister, I ‘reckon I have.
We just talked ‘bout you in class”.
Then the man looked ready to run away
so Johnny quickly added,
“Your pictures on this book right here,
I read from every night.
And every day my parents pray
to you, Jesus Christ.”
The man glanced down the street both ways,
while he fingered his paper wristband.
Then he reached out a sweaty palm
and Johnny happily grabbed it.
Down the street he led the boy
to a beat up Chevy Buick,
and as he open the boys door for him
he said, “You ready to meet the lord?”

2005-10-11T09:10:00.000-07:00

"Mary"
a poem by Michael Sherrillo

a mantra my every breath
a prayer to the holiness of your
lips pressed together waiting
against me against my
tongue touching tasting
deep into your dark
crevice your heat
uttering warm words whispering
forgotten languages lost
forever into the night
over and over the echo of your
moan your sweat your
cries lingering in my mind
twisted sheets twisted
dreams intertwined interlocked
one
your lips still
flushed swollen against
around me while
you my goddess my shrine my
temple remain sacred
your name still waiting
unspoken upon my
lips

2005-10-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

Introspecticus
by Michael Sherrillo

Writing becomes an addiction. When you spend all your time reading books and writing, it becomes an escape, a freedom. You just start writing one day and you feel the freedom of it, it’s something you can’t find in conversation, because there are so many things you can’t say when you talk to other people. I can’t say what do you mean you don’t have enough money for rent, I gave you 550$, you only had to save 225$ out of the 400$ you’ve made these last 2 weeks! You wanted responsibility and now the choices you made effect not just you, but me, and pat, and all our lives, because you couldn’t wait till after you had made sure you had enough money for rent to by a plane ticket, or a sack, or go out. That I hope you figure something out because otherwise you have just screwed everyone. And I don’t know why you think that would be different if you moved out, because whoever you lived with would be screwed and responsible for your actions just like me and Pat are right now. The only difference is that you would owe much more and have much less. And they wouldn’t be nearly as forgiving. Not that we really can be if we end up being evicted. I mean, I could say that, but…

But I can’t. There is no freedom there. Not like here, where I can rant and rave and scream and do whatever I want, where I can escape my parents and my prison and my life. It’s better than reading, it’s more existentially real. In reading, I just hide from myself and the world, but in writing I’m channeled, I’m proactive. Even when I just sitting down pounding out pages of crap, like my last posting. It just came to me and I wrote it, and its crap. But it’s something, it’s real because in some way it’s me, me acting and doing and being. Even if the words and sentences strung together mean nothing, it’s the act of doing that gives the emotionally and mentally orgasmic release of everything I’ve been holding inside. I hit keys like a punching bag. And that lifts me and my mind away from the ground and the gravity of depression which I feel like is pulling and choking me so often. No one to silence me with words or feelings, because no one is here to feel this but myself. It is my guilty pleasure.

At some point I started to think like I write, my inner monologue becomes words flashing across my mind and joining together into paragraphs of thought. In that sense I do nothing but write. I feel myself wishing there were some device which could save the text of my thoughts, which seems so much better… better worded, better written, than when I finally get to sit in front of the keyboard and have to try to reconstruct all the text that has been running through me. That’s why this is crap too. If there was some way I could recapture that moment which existed no less than 10 minutes ago, when all these things first came, and as I ran to the computer lab to try to capture the final ephemeral fragments as they drifted away… if only.

It was in the fourth grade, around the ripe old age of ten years old, that I first began my true studies. We were sitting in the Jacuzzi in my back yard, the lid was on so it was only us, cooking in the hot water and it swirled with jets and currents around our bodies. With only a foot between the water and the lid, it felt like we were breathing the same air. The fumes of chlorine filled our lungs as the steam transformed the space between us into a hazy dream, a world all our own. It was with that first kiss with the neighbor girl that I began, what Cynthia Shearer once described as, “the serious lifelong study of the lady female member of the species homo sapiens human beings”.

That’s been stuck in my head for the past two hours. I had to get it out. And now I don’t know what to say. I guess that makes this a good a place to end as any. It doesn’t matter than none of it makes sense to anyone, because there is no one to hear this, it doesn't exist (if a tree falls in the forest...). And so, I am purged. I am clean again, my soul renewed.
I am free.

2005-10-03T12:55:00.000-07:00

Strange Bedfellows
by Michael Sherrillo

The easiest way to turn friends into enemies is to ask them abut their politics. Only the rare individual can listen to your views and calmly explain why they disagree and what their own are. I often imagine myself to be one of those few, but in the reality of the moment, sometimes objectivity can get thrown out the window as the argumentative heat rises.

Take last night. There is a kindly old gent who I have taken to chatting with these past few nights, who is an avid reader and seems to genuinely enjoy going out of his way to do nice things for the people around him. He is white, 62, and a very successful realty/mortgage business owner. If your Republican-dar isn't pinging, then get it checked. I should have assumed he was republican. I usually consider myself a savvy enough individual to be able to guess a persons left/right leaning just by spending a few minutes chatting with them. Maybe it was his niceness which made me relax and forget myself for a moment, but as we joked about the job our wonderful "Gubernator" is doing, I let slip some comment about our new chief justice, something along the lines of the supreme court sending American society back to the 1950's "golden age" of repressed patriarchal domination which was only "Golden" in the minds of WASPey old republicans and southern hicks who had never left the inbred small towns they were born into and haven't had a science class beyond the 6th grade. Okay, maybe I could have been a little more sensitive about it, but like I said, my guard was down.

The building tension filling the pause in the air was palatable, I saw his lips move and before his words could reach my ears my republican-dar was pinging like crazy to the tune of "shit shit shit shit shit shit". I was floored. For five minutes I was laid flat by the ranting monologue about how our democratic senator had refused to support Roberts nomination, despite the fact that she though he was brilliant and that she couldn't think of a better man, because she wanted a woman on the court. Or, as my friend was so eloquently putting it, she wouldn't nominate him because he didn't have a cunt.

While I disagree with her reasons for refusing to vote for him, as the flood of words began to slow, I took the opportunity to try to mention a few that his records were being kept hidden for a reason, and the there are several documents which illustrate that he is completely against women in the workplace and all the civil liberties not endorsed by the Bush party. That gave him his second wind. After a few more minutes, I realized that I wasn't going to have the opportunity to get a word in edgewise until her remembered to breathe or completely passed out, so making up an important something I suddenly remembered I had to do, I politely excused myself.

While I walked away, I was imagining myself at the senate interviewing Roberts. The things I would like to say to him. That "liberal judges" are what have saved American society from racism, from sexism, from prohibition. That precedent weights an institution in it's past, but not all pasts are good, that this country was build on a wonderful ideology which ended up expressing itself with slavery, with denying women the right to vote, with trying to prevent workers from unionizing, with policies which hurt immigrants (and everyone but the American Indians are immigrants from one generation or another), which tried to extend the "life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness" to only rich white conservative Christian males. That is the precedent of American judges. We need more than someone who is mired by the past obligations of tradition to help guide America into a new future. One where people have the freedom to choose the lives that they wish to have, to choose their own happiness, instead of those prescribed by some dogmatic documents of Do's and Don'ts erected in front of a southern courthouse. We need activist judges to see that distant goal and dream, that equality which exists in all people and the ability for each of us as individuals to choose a life and happiness which is decided by us alone. Let gay men marry, let pot smokers toke, let women earn comparable wages! The goals of America should be to right the wrongs of our past and break from tradition to create a better future for us all.

That's what I would say to Mr. Roberts. Your precious precedent can kiss my red-blooded, patriotic, individual, free ass. Let liberty ring.

2005-10-03T10:08:00.000-07:00

My Catharsis

Heard this song, and lame as I usually think it is, on the freeway alone, cigarette dangling out the open window at night while I drove away, it was awesome to just rock out and vent a little with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drunk and I'm feeling down
And I just wanna be alone
I'm pissed cause you came around
Why don't you just go home
Cause you channel all your pain
And I can't help to fix myself
Your making me insane
All I can say is

I tried to help you once
A kiss will only vise
I saw you going down
But you never realized
That your drowning in the water
So I offered you my hand
Compassions in my nature
Tonight is our last dance

I'm drunk and I'm feeling down
And I just wanna be alone
You shouldn't ever came around
Why don't you just go home?
Cause your drowning in the water
And I tried to grab your hand
And I left my heart open
But you didn't understand
But you didn't understand
You fix yourself

I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life
I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life

2005-10-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

“Moving Out, Moving On”
by Michael Sherrillo

I don’t associate my relationships with a loss of identity. I feel like I have some comfort in who I am, I feel confident in myself and my “identity”. Maybe it’s because I grew up as an only child, and never had tons of friends. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been very independent and been able to do my own thing on my own terms. I lived on my own for two years, and while not being financially independent, I worked and was busy and had a large amount of freedom and time for self discovery. What I have always loathed is not being able to share that life with others, individualism and independence are great, but I was always haunted by a terrible shadow of isolation. Since the GF is planning on moving out in the next few months though (in pursuit of her lost identity and responsibility) I am having a great sense of freedom. The loneliness and isolation had all but disappeared. However, in sharing my life so intimately, I did have to make a lot of compromises in my own personal desires. Not that I feel any bitterness about it, because being able to make someone you love happy often gives a greater sense of joy and personal satisfaction than simply making yourself happy. But since the news, I have been feeling the faint stirrings of whimsy for the things which I do sometimes miss. When I’m alone, I’m don’t have to wait for anybody to want to do what I want, and I don’t have the excuse of codependency, so I’m forced to hold only myself responsible.

Maybe it’s due to my views of relationships, where you enter into an emotional contract as partners to share your lives, and while you expect to make some compromises, you also expect them to make some as well. Example, if you want to exercise, you don’t expect them to go with you every time, this might threaten your feelings of being an individual, but you would like them to want to share something together that makes you happy and thereby grow as a couple, i.e. she goes jogging with you a few times a week, you go to some concerts you don’t want to for her, and so you both grow, as a person experiencing new things, and as a relationship by sharing things with someone else.

But that is a balance I haven’t felt for some time. Actually, I don’t really know if I ever have, aside from deciding which TV stations to watch (I get a little discovery channel, she gets a little Springer and cheaters, and we both are happy and a little more worldly for it). So I’m looking forward to my “new life”, I have enough financial security with my various jobs and have learned enough budgeting responsibility to know exactly the life I want and enjoy. Surfing a few times a week, going to the movies and theatre hopping for a whole day, singing karaoke at the local bar, going hiking, and sitting around debating and drinking with my friends…

I’ve learned what it takes to make me happy. And I look forward to being able to think about just me for a change. Especially since I feel like I’ve compromised and worked and worried and strived for that balance and cooperation in this relationship, and since she isn’t happy, it feels sort of wasted, since that was the whole goal, for us to share ourselves, our lives, to compromise, and through that, grow as individuals, and grow together. But I guess that’s something I’ve known about this for a long time.

Happiness and freedom has its price: responsibility. I hope she figures herself out and learns from all this without us growing to far apart or something happening with her where she in financially screwed and on her own; responsibility is scary and can be devastating. And then maybe someday, a little older and wiser and more sure of herself, we can share our lives again, and start growing together instead of growing apart.

2005-09-29T11:20:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm hearing these songs for the first time. I’ve listened to them a million times before, but in the last few days, they have brought me to tears. Nothing I could ever write could explain my feelings right now better than this. But no one visits this site, so no one will ever know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Am I loud and clear, or am I breaking up?
Am I still your charm, or am I just bad luck?
Are we getting closer, or are we just getting more lost?

I'll show you mine if you show me yours first
Let's compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse
Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words

We live on front porches and swing life away,
We get by just fine here on minimum wage
If love is a labor I'll slave till the end,
I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand

I've been here so long, I think that it's time to move
The winter's so cold, summer's over too soon
Let's pack our bags and settle down where palm trees grow

I've got some friends, some that I hardly know
But we've had some times, I wouldn't trade for the world
We chase these days down with talks of the places that we will go

We live on front porches and swing life away,
We get by just fine here on minimum wage
If love is a labor I'll slave till the end,
I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand....until you hold my hand

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all

It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss
It was only a kiss

Now I'm falling asleep
And she's calling a cab
While he's having a smoke
And she's taking a drag

Now they're going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And its all in my head
But she's touching his chest now

He takes off her dress now
Let me go
And I just can't look its killing me
And taking control

Jealousy turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabye
Choking on your alibis
But its just the price I pay
Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes
'Cos I'm Mr Brightside

2005-09-26T09:16:00.000-07:00

"The Sublimation of Vices"
by Michael Sherrillo

I should be starting my paper right now. I should also be in class. Unfortunately, I’m doing neither. I left the folder for class in my car, and I haven’t had enough cigarettes yet to begin writing.

This could be called my warm up. My body, alive and humming like a car puttering in idle in the cool morning fog, my tank is filled with caffeine but I’m still waiting for that special nicotine boost to send me off into the roads of my “creative” mind.

I feel something especially literary about my vices, and I cultivate them as much as I do the writing they fuel. The sweet taste of cool beer, the harsh bitter intake of a slow burning Camel, the joy of wake-and-bake… Without their insight, their criticism, their torture and love (and what is love without torture?) I don’t think I could write a coherent post-it note, let alone a paper.

Pushing your body to it’s brink, fueled by stimulants, hunger, and a lack of sleep, the creative process becomes a liquid, art rolling of your fingertips as if they had a mind of their own. The cognitive disconnect between thoughts, feelings, fingers, and words disappears into a haze where one is instantly sublimated into all.

Sublimated is a good word for it. That’s what writing should be. That’s what real writing to me is. That’s the zone. It’s not agonizing over sentence structure or syntax, not caring about grammar or spelling (and aren’t those what computer where invented for, after all?).

I recently read about a woman who wrote only a handful of novels and short stories in her 50 year career, she didn’t even receive recognition of her writing until she was 40! She was known for her very methodical and time consuming construction of her stories and characters. Everything had to be perfect. (Anal retentive much?)

Something tells me she wrote sober. And from the few short stories of hers I read, I think she suffered from it. The talent was there… but there was that disconnect. The passion was a passion she had to create, the characters where constructed and the plot elaborately planned and fabricated. Good writer. Good stories. But no sublimation… Nothing raw or real or spontaneous or authentic. She is famous now… but she is also dead.

I need another cigarette.

2005-09-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

Growing

In class, a teacher mentioned that, I believe the paraphrased quote was from T.S. Elliot, a person is allowed to write personal poetry until they are 25. After that, to be a true poet, they should write about society and troubles/concerns of the times which are greater than themselves.
I think there is some degree of truth in that. So I am making an effort to begin trying to channel my feelings into the greater social construct of the world in which I live. After all, history is nothing but the present seen from the future. =) Blog on.

2005-09-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

Still Waters Run Deep

I want to disappear. I feel so alone right now, and all I want to do is be alone. I'm surrounded by people, and I feel so much resentment and anger towards them, bitterness for being where I am, for taking my moments away from me. But I want to be social, I want recognition and admiration, but nobody sees the silent boy. I am invisible and I hate them for that as well, or do I hate myself? I'm not sure anymore.
I feel so responsible for maintaining everything, the happiness of Mary, my "social network", like it's always on my shoulders to make the effort, to make them happy, to make them like me. But it all feels forced, and it makes me, the me inside, feel even more alone because I am responsible. I can't bring anyone down, so I bring down myself. I sink farther and farther... I don't know how much farther I can go. I feel so lost, so completely lost in everything. Every day is like a switch between mania and depression, and I never know which is which. The smallest things just cause this swing of severe emotions.
All I want to be is home. To go inside my room alone and curl up alone and just disappear forever. I don't want to kill myself; I just don't want to exist anymore. I want to sink into the shadows and fade away into oblivion surrounded by the place that exists now only in my memory. Hate, rage and anger boil up and spill over onto everyone around me, and it is only through great effort that I keep these things bottled up, because I don't want to hurt people who don't deserve to be hurt. But I just want to break things, I want to destroy and kill and raze the entire world around me. Fantasies of sex and violence, though never together, fill my mind now. It makes me want to cry, because everything I though about myself doesn’t seem to exist anymore. I felt so together and in control, and now I feel like I'm struggling to float over and deep and dark sea and the temptation to sink into it, into the violence and anger and hatred and depression and nothingness that lies beneath them all.
Maybe I'm wrong, I do want to kill myself. But I am responsible for the emotions of my family, my girlfriend... I can make them happy or sad with a few lies or truths... or actions.
I don't know what to do but just try to float, try to rise above it all, or push it all below, it's all the same thing. But I have no outlet, I study and read and then go to class and then work and then study and sleep. That’s all I have now.
I want to run forever. From myself, from the world, from society. I want to lose myself on an endless beach and in the arms and sheets of endless women. In something eternally new, where I am reinvented and reborn and there is nothing behind me but the memories I choose. I don't want a history or a past. Just the ecstasy of the moment multiplied and played out into infinity of imperfect and amazing reflections.
But responsibility, society, pulls and tugs and forces itself onto my mind and my consciousness. My superego is strangling me, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hating it, for wanting what I want, for wanting what is... is wrong. I don't want to hurt, myself or others. Hurt involves a past, and memories. But in the constant paradise of my fantasies, in the constant newness, there is nothing but the now.
I am completely miserable, and it is my own doing. And I fear that I will be my undoing as well. Unless I take myself and my life into my own hands, into my own control, and end it on the term I choose, instead of the ones the world, and society, and my past will cause and choose for me.

2005-07-12T18:37:00.000-07:00

You are alive to me. And I will make sure you stay that way.

2003-11-23T15:53:00.000-08:00

"Dead at such a young age"
by Vance

What a crying shame. It seems this site is completely dead. Perhaps it will rise again in the form of a rhyme-busting zombie with incredible grammar. One can only hope.

2003-10-01T02:24:00.000-07:00

"UEF Redux"
an administrative post by Vance Tran

As you can plainly see, UEF is undergoing a graphical overhaul. Mind the mess. Only a basic frame is up now and a better version should be up in the near future.
That is all. Good day.

2003-09-26T01:55:00.000-07:00

"Mmmm"
a poem by Myrna Perez

For the first time I yearn,
Now is when I long.
Liquid palate of tactile
pleasure pain. Ah, admittance
to this genre of life.
Visions dance, like golden sleep
drops; through. Where did
loftiness flee to?

2003-09-05T07:40:00.000-07:00

Holy Zombie BaJesus
a sleep deprived rant by annie!

Urg it's 7:29 am, stayed up to do a stats analysis project. Just finished it by now I have to wait around for the department to open so I can turn it in. Man i've been up for quiet a while with very little sleep. In theory if I hadn't started a 10 -15 page research project at 1am I could have gotten some sleep. But that would or required me to start something early. Eh.

No one else is posting. Why is that? What's up with that guys?!?!?!

Hmmm... should I really be driving in my current state? Oh welll it can't be worst than driving drunk.

Why am I still writing? Should I stop? Why am I typing this out? Damn it stop...

2003-09-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

Random
a recounting of events by annie!

Well today (Labor Day) I decided to go get groceries after droppping a friend off. I went to the local Albertson's around 10:30pm, only to discover them closed. What was interesting is that 5 seperate people converged to the enterance at once, confused by the door not opening... we decended to the alternate enterance, to no avail. We started conversing amoung ourselves, a gentleman expressed that he really needed school supplies for his daughter, which I had in my trunk (crayons and filler paper).

As a side note, everyone should try these Quaker Crisp-Ums... so good.

*It was pointed out to me that I was not clear that I did indeed give the man the school supplies. Didn't even ask for money, though he obviously could afford it and now that i think about it I could have made some $$$. What kind of guy would wait until the night before his daugther starts school to get paper?

2003-08-20T02:41:00.000-07:00

Ahhh!!!
a rant by annie!

Hmmm... it's been quiet awhile since I have posted. And as I have a book report due (or rather a critique of a book, if you want to feel like you've moved past the 3rd grade) there's no better time then now to start a rant.

On Finances
I've become wholy (or is it holy? that doesn't look right) depressed as I've come to realize that I cannot afford to live in a decent neighborhood in San Diego County after I "graduate". Houses are so freaking expensive and rent is just an overinflated bottomless pit. The best I can afford is a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom condo, if I have a roomate; in Arizona I can basically sell my car and get a house! I think the only solution is to start a "San Diego For San Diegians!" Campaign, I implore all true San Diegian to heckle those who have been here for 4 years or less, until they all leave.

On Love
I've also decided that people are not meant to be with just one person. Mathmatically it is highly improbable that millions of people have find that one true person your suppose to be with; therefore it must mean that there are at least several people in the world you are meant to be with and it's just a matter of who you find first. Or maybe i'm just too damn cynical for my age.

On footnotes
I think footnotes are one of the greatest inventions ever. I mean you can rant on and on, in an exceptable manner in a "scholary" paper. With footnotes you can have 20% content and 80% rant. What other way is there to go?

On Apples
I've been vaguely tempted to get a new G5 or a powerbook. They are quiet slick are they not. Also this msblaster worm has erode my faith in Microsoft's bloatware to the point where I might be willing to shell out the dough. What they need is to port the OS to x86.

2003-08-05T02:25:00.000-07:00

" "
by Myrna Perez

This is my cup of pain
My lot of sorrow from this world
But a drop; still heavy with salt.
What passed before was but a trite mockery
of this, But a shallow reminder of life.
A pale contrast to the
Endless happiness.
Was my joy but an illusion?
A masquerade, an absence of
pain, and not reality?
My faith bitter frail,
Like old spun glass.
Not because I rail at fate,
But I realize the depth
of my own weakness.
A stream of words pours forth:
Is this me speaking; all the right words.
As if it were a game to be won.
My hope has not flown,
My song is not dead.
But both are pale
and spent.
This gray stone lives within my heart.
Where is the flow of life?
Hallelujah.

2003-07-27T00:42:00.000-07:00

"Soprano"
by Myrna Perez

If I had only one note
To sing for the whole of my life
It would be high and clear
A clarion for the winds of this time
Light and gold, to reach inside the heart;
The inexpressable beauty of hope.
And yet, a white hot song
It pulls through, so wonderful
It pains me. A melody that becomes
One's soul; the darkness itself
Is light.

2003-07-24T15:17:00.000-07:00

"Inspired By Your Smile"
a poem by Michael Sherrillo

Even this bright and sunny day,
Without the warmth of your smile,
Is but an arctic summer.

2003-07-14T02:26:00.000-07:00

"Why not Love?"
another rant by Michael Sherrillo

What is wrong with wanting to be loved? In life, if you want to be rich and go after money, you’re ambitious. If you seek new lands or search for new frontiers, you’re an explorer or pioneer. But if you search for love, you’re desperate. Why is it okay to passionately search and pursue anything we want except for passion? We all just assume love will come to us, will find us... I can't even count how many times I've heard someone say "You find love when you’re not looking for it". Bullshit. If said I don't go out and work trying to make money and instead just expected it to come to me, or said money will "find me when I least expect it" you would think I am the laziest person alive. Why is love any different?
I want love, I want passion. I remember the first time I saw Moulin Rouge (the new version) and in the very beginning the saying "the greatest thing you'll ever learn is to love, and be loved in return". That will always be my favorite part of the movie, because it struck such a strong chord with me. I've always believed that I could do anything, be anything, and it wouldn't matter to me, as long as I had someone who I could love with all my heart, and who loved me also. So instead of focusing on a career to make me happy, money, success, fame... I focused on love. Which apparently is, out of all the available choices, the only one that I'm not supposed to look for. Lucky me.
But none of this does me any good. Because despite all the time I’ve spent studing love, and by extension women, and with all that I’ve learned and know about them, ultimately I believe I need to act like myself, and that is the one thing which no girl seems to like. Just plain ol’ me. Which I am slowly learning to accept. I've given in to the pattern of like and loss that have become just another constant faucet of my life like the eternal rise and fall of the tides or wax and wane of the moon. There is some correlation (in psych, this is a -1 correlation) to how much I like or am interested in someone to how little interest they have in me. I.E. the more attracted I act to you, the less attracted you will be to me.
All I want is to find someone who is as crazy about me as I am about them... someone who cares about me as much as I do them. I am so sick of one-sided people who don't care enough to put any effort or to invest themselves in any way. To love, and be loved in return...
And while I'm at it, why do we need all this game playing, safety device, emotional parachutes, and rules? Why can't a person just be open and honest and why does that frighten so many people?
Does this rant lead anywhere? Not really, nor is there any specific point. Just the conclusion that I will die alone... without loving, and without being loved.

2003-07-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

"Hill Song"
by Myrna Perez

Clutched to my breast,
Indigo night, it pulsates;
Twisted burrow into the heart.
Take what is yours: can you not see it?
Swirled vortex, cosuming gravity pulls too sharply
at my core. A hollow shell, emploded blackness.
An emination of death, the finality.
Pleading anguish to you, I cannot give it
Gnarled vines too tightly wrapped around my soul:
Untangle me. Longing for the explosion, the
Pinions of light: ah, incandescence of super nova.
Recollection lost, my stars' life is spent.

2003-06-23T00:47:00.000-07:00

"You, My Friends"
a haiku, by Michael Sherrillo

I love you, my friends.
More valuable than rare gems;
You few, so precious.

2003-06-18T22:05:00.000-07:00

"Rat Race" or "Things to Do While Pretending to Work"
a haiku dialogue with contributions by David Zimet

david:
TAVERN PUZZLE SPINE
DAMNABLE CHEAP OFFICE CHAIR
I LOVE YOU, ADVIL

annie!:
ACCURSED USERS
GUESS THEY DO NOT KNOW BETTER
NOT A CUPHOLDER

david:
AT WORK BEFORE NOON
I WILL SO GET NOTHING DONE
ATTENTION: THIS BLOWS

annie!:
ELEVEN FOURTY
THE HOUR OF FOOD DAWNS NEAR
MY STOMACH RUMBLES

david:
PETCO HEADQUARTERS
CHATTY ASSHATS EVERYWHERE
SHUT THE HELL UP, KIDS

annie!:
THOSE SILLY USERS
I AM HERE ONLY TO MOCK
THEIR LAPSE IN LOGIC

2003-06-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

"Post-Mo Life" or "I Love My Stuff"
a haiku by annie! inspired by Vance

stylish red and white
give meaning to Vance's life
latch onto concepts

no matter how gross
give him style Trading Spaces
no faux finish please

2003-06-05T23:23:00.000-07:00

"From Clay Water Pots..."
a haiku by Confused Shopper #76

Oh container store
tell me what secrets you hold...
boxes for boxes?

2003-06-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

"Hmmm..."
a midnight rant by annie!

I feel as if I've been dropping the ball on posting. Been so busy, too many things happening all at once. Can't wait for school to be over. "Studying" for finals, yet not... will bite me in the butt.

2003-06-05T20:52:00.000-07:00

"Love is Like a 72 oz. Steak..."
a haiku by Vance Tran and Annie, inspired by A Clockwork Orange and King of the Hill

Lovely Steaky-Wake,
Being with you warms my heart,
It also slows it...

A tragic romance,
"The 'Dick Cheney Special,' please!"
Death by fatty bliss.

2003-06-04T19:46:00.000-07:00

"YES"
by Myrna Perez

an answer to myself

2003-06-04T19:44:00.000-07:00

"I'm tired of titles"
a thought by Myrna Perez

ah, the weary grind,
my life, prostituted for gain.
i am sapped of all:
innovation for this sad verse.
joy even here?

2003-06-04T16:12:00.000-07:00

"The New Mecca" or...
"I'm Ready to Homogenize My Living Room!"
a haiku by Vance Tran

I have an idea,
Let's all go to IKEA!
And consume their wares...

Age of the Dollar,
Face towards The Store,
Pray five times daily.

2003-06-02T22:45:00.000-07:00

"First Try"
a haiku by Thomas

This night never ends
The bars of white enslave me
I thought I had won

2003-05-27T03:15:00.000-07:00

"Relationships"
a working definition, by Michael Sherrillo

A real relationship does not involve worship. There is no leader, no hierarchy, no god or goddess... there is no slave and master, no one higher, better, or more worthy... no red carpet should be rolled out for only one party. This is infatuation. This is immaturity. This may be many things, and this may work for some people, but to me, this is not true love. So, I am here and now, for all time and history, setting forth my definition, my desire, my thoughts, my feelings, and my hope of what I believe a mature loving and serious relationship is, and what I hope to someday have. (This may encounter several revisions as time/life goes by)

My 10 Relationship Commandments:

1) A relationship requires first and foremost two very forgiving people. If someone can't or doesn't ever think they are partially wrong, and even worse never apologizes honestly and heart fully, I don't think the relationship will work. This is also true if they never say they forgive you when you do make a mistake. If a person holds grudges and doesn't forgive you or let you know you have been forigven, how can you have room for anythng except bittnerness, hostility, and hurt? Becasue you will both, always, need forgiven.
2) A relationship requires partners. Neither is better, worse, deserves more or less, you must see each other as equals. Which means you appreciate each other, respect each other, and give to each other. Neither is higher or lower, which means the relationship isn't one sided.
3) A relationship requires two humans. This means each person will make mistakes, probably lots of them. If you can't accept that they aren’t perfect and love them, mistakes and all, then you are working with the wrong species, and I suggest you take up sheep farming instead.
4) Each party did have a life before you. There history, good and bad, is what has made them the person you love and are with now. Either forget history and be grateful for what they are and you have now, or accept their past and that is made them into the person you love.
5) The golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Treat the other person in the same way you want them to treat you, whether you think they deserve it or not. Do not treat them the way they treat you! Only the way you want to be treated. (i.e. you want them to call more often, call them more often)
6) Each party has a life outside of you. Friends, family, and traditions... these are also a part of them, and make them the person you are with. How can you expect to be with them without becoming a part of their life? People are like an interlocking ring. These relationships with other people are circles that are all interconnected, with your significant other being the small central space they all share. You cannot connect to them if you don't want to also connect with their other circles of friends, family, etc and become a part of them as well.
7) Share. Everything. Share your heart, your thoughts, your days, your ideas, your dreams and desires, your hopes and fears, your problems and your worries. Why be with someone you can't talk to, how will you ever truly know someone who won't talk to you. Open honest sincere communication is the key to any good relationship. The better it is, the closer you will be.
8) Listen. You need to try to understand where your partner is coming from, to empathize with them and see their side and reasoning. You don't have to agree, but you need to try and put yourself in their shoes; And to do that you have to listen to what they say.
9) Be flexible. No relationship is static, there are always new situations and issues, which bring new problems and need new solutions. Never stop trying to work things out together. Try to compromise as much as you can.
10) Trust. Trust how they feel about you, trust what they do when your not their. No amount of gifts or attention proves or means anything. These only sooth your own insecurities. In your heart, you either trust someone cares about you and loves you, or you don’t. It's can't be shown and doesn't lay in big gestures, but in the small every day actions that show you who they really are. Trust can't be bought with 500 roses for you 5 month anniversary, its in the way they hug you extra tight when they leave, or the way they look at you when they think your asleep. Trust them and let them be themselves, or you will both be unhappy.

*Have any ideas, thoughts, comments, questions, and curiosities? Anything you think I missed, or which you feel is inaccurate or should be changed? Let me know! Just click on the "UEF: messageboard" button under "Links of Interest" to your right and post away!

2003-05-26T00:30:00.000-07:00

"Afraid"
My heart laid bare, Michael Sherrillo

I sit in darkness while the thousand-headed demon of doubt cackles as he circles my head. Pitchforks clenched in hoofed hand, my mind is pricked by its sharp and burning blades. Plagues of locust swarm into my heart, violating the tender cared crops of sea green tranquility. Raped and pillaged, these Elysian Fields are ravaged and razed into a scorched desert wasteland. I fall, into a pit without bottom, without end... the world fades to black as I lose myself with no direction but down. I feel dizzy; I feel weak; I feel lost. Is this my own creation? This monster, which plagues me, whose shadows keep my minds eyes from closing at night, whose whispers I hear echo in my ear? What will I see when I turn the final corner? My assailant? Myself? Nothing? These doubts, these haunting ghost of doom and despair, wailing in the empty halls and lonely towers of my unconscious, dare I listen to their midnight cry? Dare I heed the warning that may or may not be? Or do I cast off worry, fight off fear, and end this nagging hand of cowardice that tugs incessantly at my arm sleeve at its wrist and allow myself to honestly feel? Am I a coward of the heart? Have I been scared to deeply to open myself to another wound? Am I afraid because I see the chance of being hurt more than I ever knew? If only I knew why I cannot allow myself to fall... I'm tiered, and if I do it again, I want it to be the last time. No longer do I wish to struggle to float and swim only to sink and have the waves and tides toss me back upon the shores. I don't want to fight for nothing anymore. But I'm afraid to drown... so I stand not moving forward or back, ankle deep, looking out in hope and fear.

2003-05-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

"Smile"
by Myrna Perez

Failure.
A bitter ash in my throat.
Shame so dark, I cry black;
Blood tears, thicker than water.
PTC for my soul.
Drown me, in dying that
I might live again.
Have I based my life
on emptiness?
No. I am sane again.
Truth:

2003-05-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

"Love"
a haiku by Michael Sherrillo

Coals I once thought dead;
Now stoked embers hold a spark.
Will they catch and burn?

2003-05-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

"I Know"
a haiku by Michael Sherrillo

Smile without knowing.
Though you think you see a fool,
You have not known love.

2003-05-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

"The Machine"
by Michael Sherrillo

A child’s suffering matters not,
Pain is in and around us all.
Our lives, our sorrows,
So many bugs on times windshield.

Can you we really appreciate
The height of a mountain, without
Standing at its base in awe.
A gentle love will have more worth,
Having followed so much hate.
A man without arms will embrace,
His children even tighter with his heart.

Perspectives change.
Can I appreciate being tall,
Unless I was first short?
Life is not a plateau.
Life is a series of hills and valleys,
The depth of one accentuates
Another’s loftiness.
Anything can be done, felt,
But it has no meaning, it cannot be known,
Understood, realized, appreciated,
Without its opposite.

Believe you matter,
Think you have meaning.
For all your love and hope,
Means nothing alone,
And combined, every father,
Every child, all their loss and love and culture...
Are just so many bugs on the windshield.

I didn't, I actually answered it. There is no reason for the world to exist, and there is also no reason for it not to... it simply does. Existence IS a choice of perception, just like time. If you step away from time, it can pass instantaneously, and you will cease to exist; all that needs be done is change your perspective. And by having or not a choice, I only mean that generally your biological instinct to survive, coupled with humanities fear of the truly unknown, overrides any desire to do otherwise. So no matter your cognitive/emotional wish, it is very difficult to not exist.

2003-05-13T20:59:00.000-07:00

" "
by Myrna Perez

Tell her: a child raped through
endless darkness, groveling in a hole.
Hatred thrust upward through her body.
Tell him: his hands, now pieces
scattered like chaff across a mindfield.
Blood, like rain: splattered.
Tell them: machetes through their brains,
genocide claiming the heart of their families.
-All is one, facets of a singular whole.-
WIll she love better, her nerves deadened with
pain and shame?
Will he embrace his children more tightly,
though he lacks the limbs to do so?
Will they cherish their culture more,
as it is sacrificed on an altar of fear?
No.
Hope is not a wishing, it is not denial.
I do not deny the poignancies of experience;
the melding of sorrow and joy across the plane
of a life. The sentient desire to have true
interaction with reality.
But how can we, in our first world
cocoons claim that evil makes the world complete?
Evil is life's parasite.
How do you know that your illusion is real...

Changing the ontological category of existence gets you no further in explaining it. Why? Can you answer it?

2003-05-13T13:48:00.000-07:00

"You Don't"
by Michael Sherrillo

Love cannot exist without the taste of hatred,
Hope will never be if you do not know failure.
All is but one, all difference, all passions,
Just many faucets of a singular whole.
The illusion is that you have chosen love,
For love is hate, life is death.
These thin lines we walk,
Thinking miles separate us from either edge.
Take the magnifier off your life,
See yourself from the distance of eternity.
Buddha will fade, Jesus will be forgotten,
The temples of Allah will crumble
As Shiva’s statues turn to dust..
Of what greater importance to time are you?
Time is a pond, we but ripples from life’s stone.
In your family, you’re a boulder,
But step back and see yourself;
From the whole of your city, a stone.
From your country, a pebble.
From the world? A grain of sand
Now your decade, your century. From time innumerable.
You are nothing.
What grand delusions exist!
Becaue light is better than darkness.
Rather I would be miserable in truth,
Than blissful in deceit.

It is here for the same reason it is not. And 1) existence is nothing but a choice of perception, 2) what makes you think you have a choice?
Do live in sorrow? No, I live as nothing, and take neither joy nor sorrow, both one and the same, in it. I am at peace, and that is all.

2003-05-13T10:11:00.000-07:00

MessageBoards back UP!

2003-05-12T23:13:00.000-07:00

"I do"
by Myrna Perez

I do not grin. I smile.
I fling my heart and my hands
wide open to this world.
There is no illusionment here,
My hope is not borne out of
ignorance. I see hate, I see pain.
I know sorrow and worry today
As my brother lies in a hospital.
No, do not pity me for my illusions.
For if I have any, it is not this:
I know there is love, I know there is beauty.
I know the world was not meant to be like this.
Do you think my confidence, my love, my intellect
are borne out of an accident, a trick of genes?
That my content and purpose are simply another side
to a coin. No. This is not so.
And if for some reason, I look into the shadow and you into the flame.
So be it, you have not gained from this. Do you think your anguish;
your bitterness is novelty?. It is not. Shake off this burdern,
And we will live with gladder hearts and joy.

And so, if all is a machine, my life, simply another cog in a wheel. Answer me these two questions. Why is it here, can you explain its existence (i.e. why is is there something rather than nothing). And this: why live in such a world at all?

2003-05-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

"You do?"
by Michael Sherrillo

Have you ever felt time moving by so quickly that before you can truly grasp a moment, before your own life is realized, it is gone? Have you ever felt the worlds true sorrow, seen it's pain, heard its cries of anguish? Know what all-great minds before us have, that life is suffering? Mouths twisted with agony scream a million screams, of death, loss, hurt, hunger, thirst, defeat... the tears of humanities sorrow, of life’s brutal savagery, will always drown out joy. The only true happiness is ignorance.
Hidden unaware in the cave of denial and self-delusion we grin. We grin because we forget to realize no great forces, no benevolent spooky father figure is waiting for us to become his slaves so "his will" can be done till we go to some spiritual netherworld where we sit in “his” glory for eternity. (Most people move out of home for a reason) There is no higher consciousness of any kind, any god, gods, goddesses, or " spitirual force". We are all tiny insignificant cogs in life, in nature’s great machine. There is no deus ex machina, no god in the machine. Rather, a machina e' deus, the machine is god. That is all. Everything you know, everything you are, all knowledge, all culture, life, society, civilization, love... serves one purpose, to get our genes into the next generation. Beyond that, the machine of life and time rolls on, leaving our joy, our sorrow, our laughter and screams, our towers, our buildings, our churches and our whore houses, our faith, our religion, our "immortal" souls, our parents, our children, us... all food for the worms. A machina e' deus. Roll on.

2003-05-11T03:34:00.000-07:00

"Do you?"
by Myrna Perez

Do you ever feel as if there is too much joy, that you will burst before you can contain it all?
Do you see the world gilded with glorious sunshine, as if everything was singing along with the exultations of your soul?
Does everything you learn and experience seem to dance together into a harmonious whole, until learning itself is a delight immeasurable?

I do...

2003-05-09T22:02:00.000-07:00

"A little thought"
by Myrna Perez

Is my body ravaged by the hunger of desperate poverty?
Do I face the horrors of war, genocide, corruption, rape and other violence? No.
In short, do I have any claim to knowledge of true fear, sorrow or pain?
I am not sure.. All I know is that I am the darling child in an echelon of a society that contains luxuries and answers to my whims beyond the imagination of most of the world.
Is life easy? No, I make no assertions of this. Even so, I claim this: I live in fairytale land. And you all reside here with me. So let us pretend to know something of the real world: we'll pull up a chair and watch it through the box I keep in my living room.

2003-05-09T21:49:00.000-07:00

"Joy"
a poem, by Myrna Perez

A clarion call,
Pure and melodious;
A note borne by winds:
zephyr and gale alike.
Arms outstretched and eyes
closed, it pulls me across
the blue underbelly of the world.
Floating in the cool peace
I am vitally alive; no Ophelia's lot
Do I seek.

I lift my voice
And join in the song
of the Universe: a throbbing
endless joy. Sorrow touches me
even here; my tears lost in
the rivers of the world.
I evade despair,
my soul consumed in song.
I rise, dripping;
and embrace reality.

2003-05-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

"Make Mine A Sad Meal, Please..."
A Response to Mike's Post About Depression

I think Mike hit it on the nail. In society we place so much emphasis on being happy as much as possibile, but I think anger, hate and pain as emotions that are just as strong.

Why must everything be static? I mean in nature things fluctuates like population of rabbits to wolves.

We are told that we should be a single weight and something is wrong if we gain or loss a pound. It is not normal for us to not be constantly happy, and we should seek "professional" help to determine if we are sane.

Does a slap in the face not make you feel more than a hug?

2003-05-07T23:06:00.000-07:00

"Ode to Tea" or...
"And Now a Message from the Tea Council of America..."
A haiku by Annie and Vance

Be it Earl Grey,
Or chamomile with lemon,
Or even Lipton.

Be it hot or cold,
Crave sweet, sweet tea - constantly...
Fuel for my soul.

2003-05-07T20:30:00.000-07:00

"Canadian Capitalist" or...
"More Selling Out for Morissette v 2.0"
A haiku by Annie and Vance

You Oughta Know, eh?
A little too ironic...
Digging that iPod.

"Give a little bit"
Nevermind the child labor,
Thank U for the Gap.

2003-05-06T07:43:00.000-07:00

"Anticipation"
a haiku by Michael Sherrillo

Waiting on clock's hands;
Watched, the world moves so slowly.
Time followed stands still.

2003-05-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

"6:45" or "Damn I Hate School"
a haiku brought to you by coffee: it's liquid sleep

It's six fourty-five.
Why am I still awake now?
Dreaded tests are here.

Cursed game thoery.
I have not learned a damn thing.
A stag hunt indeed.

2003-05-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

"The Night Before Finals"
a haiku by Michael Sherrillo

Fatigue softly tugs,
fight off persistent Hypnos!
Pillow's siren song.

2003-05-03T19:39:00.000-07:00

"More Selling Out for Morissette"
A haiku by Annie and Vance

You Oughta Know, eh?
A little too ironic...
I dig the iPod.

Dictate my wardrobe,
Nevermind the child labor,
Thank U for the Gap.

2003-05-03T18:57:00.000-07:00

"Musings of the Weary Driver" or
"That Time Vance Screamed Like a Little Girl..."
A haiku by Annie and Vance

Oh, you cryptic plate.
"All-Star Men's Nude Tetherball?"
Can I watch you PLAY?

2003-05-02T03:20:00.000-07:00

"Attempted Rant"
by Myrna Perez

I have never engaged in the literary form known as "rant" on this website. I think I prefer the freedom, ease and relative ambiguity of poetry... so this will probably be shorter and less vehement than the more stellar examples on this website. Anyways, perhaps it is my naivete that so many in my life (especially males) have told me that I possess.. but I think that dating is really nothing to be upset over. I'm not directly this specifically at my esteemed colleague in life, Sherillo, but more to those my age in general. Why this endless search to find "the one" who is going to share the rest of our life with us? Why not glory and revel in one's singlehood, the mere fact and gift of existence? Is this not a time to cultivate passions, and aspects of ourselves that would be more difficult to pursue once we form that "couple'? I have always thought that if I am to someday have a meaningful life long relationship, that I need to spend less time looking for him, but instead focus on pursuit of being a worthy person once we have "found" one another. And what if I or any of the rest of us never do find that elusive "special someone"... will our time on this earth have been all in vain? I think not... especially if our pursuit has been in completion and not a completor. So what is my conclusion...? I know not, but that I am content and exultent in not having a romantic relationship, as much as I imagine I would be otherwise.

2003-05-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

"Another Date"
2 poems and a rant, by Michael Sherrillo

Another name, another number...
All days seem to pass the same.
One face blends into another,
No one lingers,
No one remains.
Drifting with the currents of life,
I see all, but cannot stop.
I only wish that I could find her,
Someone to float through time with me.

Another name, another number...
One less stone to hide under.
One less rock to search below.
Every leaf I turn, every number I call...
Maybe under the next I'll find that girl.

Another name, another number...
Dating... the final frontier. I'm afraid of dating, which isn't to say that I don’t date... I do, but I just don't like it.
Dating is too much like life... it represents a possible beginning, a possible end, and a present separate from the two...
It may be the beginning of something really fun, the end of something that never was, or the experience of and by itself.
I fear dating because so much depends on so little... they say love is like success, luck in both is all good timing.
I believe I may have the worst timing in the world. So many dates and people have seemed so promising, so interesting... even if they were destined not to last, even to explode in a short flight of Hindenburg proportions, what an amazing ride those few flaming falling moments would have been.
But every emotional bridge which I attempt to cross is constantly burned in the firestorm of bad timing which blazes up torching my poor heart and
sending it cascading into the crevice of loneliness again and again. Why? I used to blame myself, then women, god, karma, destiny, fate... I've raised my fist in protest of each, cursing with a pitch and fervor, with tone and words a sailor would blush to hear. But then I realized it's all luck. There is a reason luck is often referred to as a lady, the way it comes and goes, bringing you up higher than you ever though then sending you down lower than you'd ever go. Vegas is filled with tales of her fickle attention, of her moody nature. And I don't blame her for her swings, after all, women mirror the ocean, in its tidal comings and goings... life in its constant cycles of growth and death... I just get frustrated that whenever luck is a lady with me, she acts like a PMSing crack whore who just got stiffed 5 bucks. Maybe one day I'll meet someone... I figure that even if in the crap shoot of romance the house always wins, if you play enough times then eventually you'll get a lucky roll. So I sit, like a slot jockey being held up by the one-armed bandit, pumping in quarters while combinations of numbers, like so many cherries, lemons, and bar's spin by in front of me. Enough quarters... enough rolls, eventually, statistically, I have to win once... I just hope I'm not emotionally bankrupt before that one lucky pull comes. So I sit, thousands around me stuck in the same casino of loneliness, our eyes glazed from numbers and smoke, all the while, the distant din of money tinkling, or an occasional voice erupting in surprise, keep us shaking hands with the thief of hearts hoping the next waterfall of quartes will be ours. The plink of money disappearing into the void, the humming spin so much like the dry humorous laugh of lady luck, the pause as each number crashes into place, ring ring, "Hi, this is Michael, we met earlier, I was wondering if...". The sounds of empty hope... plink, hum, crash, ring... the sounds of someone who doesn’t know the house already won... plink, hum, crash, ring... for a moment lady luck stands their next to you, an invisible presence, plink hum, crash, ring... with a smile more elusive than the Mona Lisa, plink, hum, crash, ring... before she turns away and walks on, leaving you there. Plink, hum, crash, ring... plink, hum, crash, ring... another name, another number... plink, hum, crash, ring...

The entire site is now wider to accomodate rants! - ed.Vance

2003-05-01T02:16:00.000-07:00

"Collision"
by Pool Hall Junkie

Solid and striped balls,
angles all seem so easy,
math is not my friend.

2003-05-01T02:04:00.000-07:00

Early Morning Rant
by Cookie Lover 480238289839

Apparently I am supposed to post on a some what regular basis, "vote early, vote often."

Have you ever wondered how many people died trying to see what was edible? I mean back in the day no one knew what was safe to eat, someone had to try and taste it. Especially since there were most likely more plants and berries then there is now. All plants pretty much look the same to me.

If you think about it eatting is kind of gross. I mean you take bits of plant and animal tissue, sometimes break it down chemically by heat. Then you grind it with your own body fluids, and force it down your throat into a vat of stomach acid. Then is meanders thru your body only to produce... well shit.

Hmmm... makes me think that the whole Matrix thing might actually be a good idea, I guess as long as you don't know it won't hurt you. Though I am pretty sure transfer of human heat into any large amount of usable energy is not possible. Science has once again ruined our fun.