Your old hooded sweatshirt smells the same
but the machinery feels foreign, out of touch
like these sports cars in the snow.
But we never knew how to handle one another
did we? Picturing future goodbyes over coffee and beer
was always my weak suit. Good thing you preferred denim,
falling through the seasons with the singular style and stony eyes
of a modern greek god. Statuary posturing to prove yourself
vulnerably invincible in your world of words and silence.
But these days I can't tell if it was different
before the early April afternoon when,
bathing in bright sky like daytime stars,
we slipped up,
and the rocks by the river
tore through your tough blue
to bleed black and white
'to Seurat's afternoon.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
what happened after the storm?
the living room windows are breathing in sunlight
and you will be coming,
like horses thundering down the valley,
with feathers of summer rain on your skin
you are shivering with life.
the trees on your street were steely and skeletal
their power dormant but doubtless
like you. come with me to river's edge;
see the perfect movement over rocks?
see the endless source?
feel the warm brown mud between your toes.
hear yourself: "this is, indeed, comfort."
it is the lock and the key
it is the threshold and the leap
it is time.
and you will be coming,
like horses thundering down the valley,
with feathers of summer rain on your skin
you are shivering with life.
the trees on your street were steely and skeletal
their power dormant but doubtless
like you. come with me to river's edge;
see the perfect movement over rocks?
see the endless source?
feel the warm brown mud between your toes.
hear yourself: "this is, indeed, comfort."
it is the lock and the key
it is the threshold and the leap
it is time.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Day In, Day Out
I skim sun off the tops of buildings at 6 a.m.
to stick it in my jeans' fifth pocket on the right hip
where we used to keep soda tabs, when we were kids,
for luck. So while they fashion new and terrible instruments
to help deaden the pain and excise capital from the afflicted
I try not to listen, pretending my filing cabinets are benign,
running a forefinger over the smooth distinction and clarity
that's pressed to my denim hip, a reminder that the tedium
will wash over me in rolling waves of paper and platitudes,
and if the grinding surf finally bowls me over
and I am scattered on the rocks for seagulls
I still have the sun.
to stick it in my jeans' fifth pocket on the right hip
where we used to keep soda tabs, when we were kids,
for luck. So while they fashion new and terrible instruments
to help deaden the pain and excise capital from the afflicted
I try not to listen, pretending my filing cabinets are benign,
running a forefinger over the smooth distinction and clarity
that's pressed to my denim hip, a reminder that the tedium
will wash over me in rolling waves of paper and platitudes,
and if the grinding surf finally bowls me over
and I am scattered on the rocks for seagulls
I still have the sun.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Turning
We sure try, but we're running out of metaphors for becoming winter.
Jack says it is watching yourself fall from a great height,
but Susan is so sure that sometime in November
we all start skating along a mobius strip of ice.
Kristin reminds us that it's also a giant spruce tree
holding us in its branches like so many drifts of snow.
But here in the north, the crystal lattice of Decembers
only remind me of my father with snow in his mustache,
the way his breath hung before him,
and how he told us that the importance is in the icicles,
their perfectly singular descents
like the cold fragile distance of our lives.
Jack says it is watching yourself fall from a great height,
but Susan is so sure that sometime in November
we all start skating along a mobius strip of ice.
Kristin reminds us that it's also a giant spruce tree
holding us in its branches like so many drifts of snow.
But here in the north, the crystal lattice of Decembers
only remind me of my father with snow in his mustache,
the way his breath hung before him,
and how he told us that the importance is in the icicles,
their perfectly singular descents
like the cold fragile distance of our lives.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Last Year
I put on sadness like a shroud;
just like Charlie Brown in late October.
Much more solemnity than that.
'Cause after the party it sticks to my skin
to fade like a scar.
And I've been walking down December sidewalks
since spring, watching imagined futures run away
like leashless dogs into streetlight.
Sometimes I reign the dreams in
to hide in my throat, behind my eyelids
like love. Or set them out on display,
flies on a windowsill who sputter and stop—
final breaths too subtle to see.
And that's why it took me three hours
of back and forth underneath slate skies
to notice the gold-auburn leaves.
Standing outside like a monk before a temple,
in a t-shirt with the autumn breeze of soft pins and needles
I could see myself again.
just like Charlie Brown in late October.
Much more solemnity than that.
'Cause after the party it sticks to my skin
to fade like a scar.
And I've been walking down December sidewalks
since spring, watching imagined futures run away
like leashless dogs into streetlight.
Sometimes I reign the dreams in
to hide in my throat, behind my eyelids
like love. Or set them out on display,
flies on a windowsill who sputter and stop—
final breaths too subtle to see.
And that's why it took me three hours
of back and forth underneath slate skies
to notice the gold-auburn leaves.
Standing outside like a monk before a temple,
in a t-shirt with the autumn breeze of soft pins and needles
I could see myself again.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
our things
under the torrent of her twenties
and three fifths of phillips
i'm watching her erode.
moving but not, shouting her silence
in a room of former friends.
the air is like a stone,
out of which she carves a temple
to life without regrets,
white rock sanctum
to hide from something she might remember
or maybe never knew.
but i'm just a sidewalk witness to the crash
too far to shout stop,
too close to ever forget.
and three fifths of phillips
i'm watching her erode.
moving but not, shouting her silence
in a room of former friends.
the air is like a stone,
out of which she carves a temple
to life without regrets,
white rock sanctum
to hide from something she might remember
or maybe never knew.
but i'm just a sidewalk witness to the crash
too far to shout stop,
too close to ever forget.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Time was
Your sweater was a sprightly light magenta
and we didn't care who heard.
Sun stained south windows
like ichor in the spring
two thousand years too late.
We didn't notice.
We were waiting
happily, for the stream of life
to usher us like feckless salmon
to the rocks.
And two months later
the sky was so blue
it felt like our last forever.
We were lying in the tall grass,
wildflowers too close to focus,
when the wind whispered one,
soft syllable of separation.
You danced away
on autumn air
like a paper doll.
and we didn't care who heard.
Sun stained south windows
like ichor in the spring
two thousand years too late.
We didn't notice.
We were waiting
happily, for the stream of life
to usher us like feckless salmon
to the rocks.
And two months later
the sky was so blue
it felt like our last forever.
We were lying in the tall grass,
wildflowers too close to focus,
when the wind whispered one,
soft syllable of separation.
You danced away
on autumn air
like a paper doll.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
September 28, 2009
Today the world convinced me
that fall will fade to winter
once again, that we'll all close up
and harden with the frost,
all the shoulders in the North
tight in expectant acceptance,
bracing for the impact
that devastates us
in slow motion.
But the cold air on my face
only evokes the furnace inside,
and your body is breathing like spring.
that fall will fade to winter
once again, that we'll all close up
and harden with the frost,
all the shoulders in the North
tight in expectant acceptance,
bracing for the impact
that devastates us
in slow motion.
But the cold air on my face
only evokes the furnace inside,
and your body is breathing like spring.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Hot To Tell When The World's Ending
All of a sudden everyone on Earth
will forget how to bake cookies.
The Wal-Mart greeters will always be genuine,
that the chicken came first will be decided by committee,
and the new World Government will build golden idols
to Reason, for which Rousseau will write a posthumous letter
on liberty, pissing off Mill and Burke alike.
Sesame Street will be canceled,
the PTA disbanded,
and garlic will be wiped out worldwide by a rare mite
(riots, led by gourmands and Listerine stockholders alike, will ensue).
Will Shortz's bagel will slip from his grasp
as he stares in horror on a Sunday morning,
realizing that he's unintentionally crossed
falconer with gyre.
English will devolve into a series of guttural
literary references, script in txt msg shorthand,
French will devolve into English,
Spanish into a series of suggestive winks and nods.
Some asshole astronomer with no sense of boundaries
will name a new planet Krypton,
and Jim Lehrer will swear on air about how
"collateral damage" has come to suffice
for the cessation of souls.
will forget how to bake cookies.
The Wal-Mart greeters will always be genuine,
that the chicken came first will be decided by committee,
and the new World Government will build golden idols
to Reason, for which Rousseau will write a posthumous letter
on liberty, pissing off Mill and Burke alike.
Sesame Street will be canceled,
the PTA disbanded,
and garlic will be wiped out worldwide by a rare mite
(riots, led by gourmands and Listerine stockholders alike, will ensue).
Will Shortz's bagel will slip from his grasp
as he stares in horror on a Sunday morning,
realizing that he's unintentionally crossed
falconer with gyre.
English will devolve into a series of guttural
literary references, script in txt msg shorthand,
French will devolve into English,
Spanish into a series of suggestive winks and nods.
Some asshole astronomer with no sense of boundaries
will name a new planet Krypton,
and Jim Lehrer will swear on air about how
"collateral damage" has come to suffice
for the cessation of souls.
Friday, September 4, 2009
maybe we gotta try
like summers'
sudden fade
to fall
you disappeared.
but i didn't treat you
as though you stood among those seldom september days
that crack the hardening sky
to touch the sun.
the handful of waning hours
that we hold to our chest
with bated breath
like a secret.
sudden fade
to fall
you disappeared.
but i didn't treat you
as though you stood among those seldom september days
that crack the hardening sky
to touch the sun.
the handful of waning hours
that we hold to our chest
with bated breath
like a secret.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
In the Quiet Light of Morning
I want to say everything at once
or nothing at all.
The six year old approach
to telling, the whole
vanilla sheet cake of experience
in one bite.
'Cause sometimes, the story seems to splinter
into small tinsel party-favor bags,
two tin soldiers of truth,
a hot wheels mantra, and a little packet of
gum drop lies
that stick to your teeth.
So instead, I try drawing
lines from pieces to whole,
like the sketched skeleton of a Tipi,
or a life story
in pointillism.
I spend my nights
plucking little words from
God's Great Leatherbound Dictionary,
dropping them into your lap
like stars.
Someday soon, I'll find
the primeval password that
renders everything weightless,
written into the towering walls of time.
I will whisper it
into your open ear,
and you will move forward
like a steamship,
your course quiet and true as
the movement of clouds.
or nothing at all.
The six year old approach
to telling, the whole
vanilla sheet cake of experience
in one bite.
'Cause sometimes, the story seems to splinter
into small tinsel party-favor bags,
two tin soldiers of truth,
a hot wheels mantra, and a little packet of
gum drop lies
that stick to your teeth.
So instead, I try drawing
lines from pieces to whole,
like the sketched skeleton of a Tipi,
or a life story
in pointillism.
I spend my nights
plucking little words from
God's Great Leatherbound Dictionary,
dropping them into your lap
like stars.
Someday soon, I'll find
the primeval password that
renders everything weightless,
written into the towering walls of time.
I will whisper it
into your open ear,
and you will move forward
like a steamship,
your course quiet and true as
the movement of clouds.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
13, Not 3
Alex Rodriguez
played small ball
in my hometown.
60,000 people, papermills, one college, Wisconsin.
I was 7 when his smile and swing
lit up the local batting cages:
power, potential, hope.
I had 14 different rookie cards,
and my 6th grade biography
featured a 3 ft. drawing of
the best shortstop of all-time.
Then money and drugs
rolled in like early afternoon clouds,
graying the hometown hero.
His eyes have been sad
for years now, heavied
with doubt and divorce.
My perfect symbol;
the fall from youth
and grace
bats clean up.
And he will break all the records.
played small ball
in my hometown.
60,000 people, papermills, one college, Wisconsin.
I was 7 when his smile and swing
lit up the local batting cages:
power, potential, hope.
I had 14 different rookie cards,
and my 6th grade biography
featured a 3 ft. drawing of
the best shortstop of all-time.
Then money and drugs
rolled in like early afternoon clouds,
graying the hometown hero.
His eyes have been sad
for years now, heavied
with doubt and divorce.
My perfect symbol;
the fall from youth
and grace
bats clean up.
And he will break all the records.
The End of Nights
Sometimes I fail.
Sometimes I feel like a failure.
The indefinite article is
important.
Often, I can't see
the way.
Frequently, the way seems
illusory.
But sometimes,
sometimes,
God feels close.
And nothing else really matters.
Sometimes, I don't polish my poems, and
let them be.
As they are.
Fine line between brilliance
and drivel.
I'll walk it happily,
thank you very much.
Sometimes I feel like a failure.
The indefinite article is
important.
Often, I can't see
the way.
Frequently, the way seems
illusory.
But sometimes,
sometimes,
God feels close.
And nothing else really matters.
Sometimes, I don't polish my poems, and
let them be.
As they are.
Fine line between brilliance
and drivel.
I'll walk it happily,
thank you very much.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Orientalism
Despite (or maybe to spite) my high priced education
I want to be a wandering poet
draped in soft olive robes,
listening to the soft swirl of sakura
fall all around me
like pink snow.
The plethora of polysyllabics-
Exoticization-Romanticization-Eroticization-
are frail shadows in
the face of a quiet mountain framed in sun.
We deconstruct, deride and
analyze to a hair,
but the simple eminence of predawn light
makes all my philosophy feel foolish.
I want to be a wandering poet
draped in soft olive robes,
listening to the soft swirl of sakura
fall all around me
like pink snow.
The plethora of polysyllabics-
Exoticization-Romanticization-Eroticization-
are frail shadows in
the face of a quiet mountain framed in sun.
We deconstruct, deride and
analyze to a hair,
but the simple eminence of predawn light
makes all my philosophy feel foolish.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Deutschland to Germany
There are museums with neo-doric columns
to visit. Monuments from the worst war
to behold, haunting the backdrop of everyday life
like original sin.
But right now, all I want to do
is sit by this cafe's open window,
away from the heady mid-day sun
and speculate: who will be the next
to read the books about culture and angels
sitting so high on the decorative shelves?
These volumes exist here as dead weight,
as though without the literary gravity
imparted by heaven and art
the caffeinated drinks with Italian names
and the sufferable music they call "Deep House"
would tear the whole building free of the sidewalk,
heavy steel cables in the walls straining and snapping
bass-toned twang, dangling from jagged concrete like
silver spaghetti, shining in the sun.
to visit. Monuments from the worst war
to behold, haunting the backdrop of everyday life
like original sin.
But right now, all I want to do
is sit by this cafe's open window,
away from the heady mid-day sun
and speculate: who will be the next
to read the books about culture and angels
sitting so high on the decorative shelves?
These volumes exist here as dead weight,
as though without the literary gravity
imparted by heaven and art
the caffeinated drinks with Italian names
and the sufferable music they call "Deep House"
would tear the whole building free of the sidewalk,
heavy steel cables in the walls straining and snapping
bass-toned twang, dangling from jagged concrete like
silver spaghetti, shining in the sun.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Ich bin nicht ein Berliner, aber ich esse Berliner gern
When I was first coming to Berlin, I was worried. I had been looking forward to coming here for the longest time because EVERYONE has had only the best things to say about it, but the first and thus far only couchsurfer to bail on me was my first host in Berlin. I just could not get a hold of her to save my life so I texted Nikolas, the other guy who I was going to be staying with my last two days here. Fortunately he had no problem hosting me for all 4 nights instead of just 2, and we have had a great time. It would be a bit exhausting to relay everything in a seamless, all inclusive and cohesive narrative, and I am already exhausted. So here is what I will do instead:
Hightlights!
1. Pergamon museum with the massive Pergamon Altar (c. 3rd century BCE I think) and the massive Ishtar gate of Babylon. They are quite amazing. The Ishtar gate didn´t look at all how I expected it to, and the Pergamon Altar looked exactly how I expected it to, and both were awesome in the literal sense of the word.
2. Altes National Gallery. They had a ton of Caspar David Friedrich paintings, a few Monets, a couple Cezzanes, and one Renoir painting I really liked. It is an homage to 19th century painting (the brochure says that in even more flowery language), which is great for me because most of my favorite artists lived in the 19th century! It is much muich smaller than the national gallery in London, but it was quieter so that was nice.
3. Maybe the coolest bar I have ever been to is here in Berlin. It is on the top floor of an old apartment building with graffiti EVERYWHERE. Seriously, from the bottom of the stairwell to the top floor I dont think there is a single space of blank wall left, and usually the graffiti is layered ontop of earlier graffiti. On the top floor, there is a large balcony from which you can see the old black and white movies that are projected from the roof of the apartment building onto the white wall of the building on the other side of the vacant lot. On the floor below this bar/club, there is a rather awesome art gallery thats open pretty much all night (at least it was open when we arrived at like 1am).
4. I took the Free Walking Tour that everyone I have met has raved about. They were right to rave. In addition to the absolutely obligatory sights like the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag and the old Berlin Wall, we saw the old Luftwaffe headquarters and the area where Hitlers bunker had been.
5. Lots and lots and lots of Drunken German speaking :) Now that I am a little more confident in my ability to speak German, its been really a lot of fun, and I think I will actually really miss speaking it when I fly to London in the morning.
Alright, time to head out to Wannsee, bis später!
Hightlights!
1. Pergamon museum with the massive Pergamon Altar (c. 3rd century BCE I think) and the massive Ishtar gate of Babylon. They are quite amazing. The Ishtar gate didn´t look at all how I expected it to, and the Pergamon Altar looked exactly how I expected it to, and both were awesome in the literal sense of the word.
2. Altes National Gallery. They had a ton of Caspar David Friedrich paintings, a few Monets, a couple Cezzanes, and one Renoir painting I really liked. It is an homage to 19th century painting (the brochure says that in even more flowery language), which is great for me because most of my favorite artists lived in the 19th century! It is much muich smaller than the national gallery in London, but it was quieter so that was nice.
3. Maybe the coolest bar I have ever been to is here in Berlin. It is on the top floor of an old apartment building with graffiti EVERYWHERE. Seriously, from the bottom of the stairwell to the top floor I dont think there is a single space of blank wall left, and usually the graffiti is layered ontop of earlier graffiti. On the top floor, there is a large balcony from which you can see the old black and white movies that are projected from the roof of the apartment building onto the white wall of the building on the other side of the vacant lot. On the floor below this bar/club, there is a rather awesome art gallery thats open pretty much all night (at least it was open when we arrived at like 1am).
4. I took the Free Walking Tour that everyone I have met has raved about. They were right to rave. In addition to the absolutely obligatory sights like the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag and the old Berlin Wall, we saw the old Luftwaffe headquarters and the area where Hitlers bunker had been.
5. Lots and lots and lots of Drunken German speaking :) Now that I am a little more confident in my ability to speak German, its been really a lot of fun, and I think I will actually really miss speaking it when I fly to London in the morning.
Alright, time to head out to Wannsee, bis später!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Hamburg
Well, this blog is falling behind. But probably better that I am not inside online all day everyday. Anyways, Hamburg was pretty great as well. I saw some nice parks and a cool church memorial that was an old neo-gothic cathedral that had been bombed out that they left as a war memorial (there is another bombed out church here in Berlin that i think i will go to tomorrow) that was pretty cool. It seemed particularly effective as well; there is something especially haunting about tall arched windows with gray bricks filling them instead of stained glass.
Maybe the best part of Hamburg was a new development near the port area called HaffenCity. Its really, REALLY cool. Hard to describe in the best way possible. Just google image search it, or wait to see my pictures :)
My host also took me out to a couple of her favorite pubs, one of which was just a HUGE open room with like 20 couches everywhere, and the other was called something like the Gold Fish Bowl....errr, something like that, and they had this really cool touchscreen pool! That is, it had like 1 inch of water and underneath a touchscreen where you could attract the fish pictured there by putting your finger in the water and touching the screen! It was pretty awesome.
Now, I should go out and further explore the wonderful hauptstadt Berlin!
Bis Später!
Maybe the best part of Hamburg was a new development near the port area called HaffenCity. Its really, REALLY cool. Hard to describe in the best way possible. Just google image search it, or wait to see my pictures :)
My host also took me out to a couple of her favorite pubs, one of which was just a HUGE open room with like 20 couches everywhere, and the other was called something like the Gold Fish Bowl....errr, something like that, and they had this really cool touchscreen pool! That is, it had like 1 inch of water and underneath a touchscreen where you could attract the fish pictured there by putting your finger in the water and touching the screen! It was pretty awesome.
Now, I should go out and further explore the wonderful hauptstadt Berlin!
Bis Später!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Fish are Jumping
I never saw them.
My Grandfather knew this, so everytime
he would swing his great auburn arm
and point--"Look!"
Snap my head like an antelope
to the stern: only ripples on the sleepy surface.
Really, Grandpa´s steely insistence to point out every fish
slowly built a stalactite of frustration and doubt
from my windpipe to solar plexus.
But even then I knew that his was an iron will,
fired in the crucible of the Great War,
for his children and their´s
to taste only the fresh breeze of the Pacific Northwest.
But my mother got the folded flag when I was four
with the coffin that can´t be opened.
I had to drink ever deeper of the silent wooded lakes
for all three of us.
When I knew he was looking, I´d close my eyes and mouth
breathe in as long and loud as 12 year olds can,
imgagining tiny spruce and redwoods taking seed in my chest,
roots through my lungs, sprouting between ribs,
and finally raise my gaze to meet his
smile and endless eyes, alive
with the happier shade of sadness.
My Grandfather knew this, so everytime
he would swing his great auburn arm
and point--"Look!"
Snap my head like an antelope
to the stern: only ripples on the sleepy surface.
Really, Grandpa´s steely insistence to point out every fish
slowly built a stalactite of frustration and doubt
from my windpipe to solar plexus.
But even then I knew that his was an iron will,
fired in the crucible of the Great War,
for his children and their´s
to taste only the fresh breeze of the Pacific Northwest.
But my mother got the folded flag when I was four
with the coffin that can´t be opened.
I had to drink ever deeper of the silent wooded lakes
for all three of us.
When I knew he was looking, I´d close my eyes and mouth
breathe in as long and loud as 12 year olds can,
imgagining tiny spruce and redwoods taking seed in my chest,
roots through my lungs, sprouting between ribs,
and finally raise my gaze to meet his
smile and endless eyes, alive
with the happier shade of sadness.
Köln, or Ich Liebe Ümlauts
Köln war viel spaß. My first couchsurfing host graciously waited for me at the hauptbahnhof for about 2 hours since my first train was canceled and my second train was late! Her name is Louisa and she actually grew up in Canada until she was 8, so her English ist fast Perfekt! We went out for drinks with her friend Alejandro, a really friendly engineer who is currently out of work....just like 12 % of Germany. He was a little older, i think around 30, but he was really friendly, and because German ist nicht ihren Muttersprache, he spoke more slowly and so it was easier for me to understand. We went to a biergarten and drank a couple of Kölsch, the ubiquitously present beer aus Köln, then went to a bar that had 2 for 1 cocktails and we split 2 mojitos and 2 swimmingpools (like a pina colada but with BRIGHT blue food coloring, not as gross as it sounds) between the four of us; and then, then I had currywurst. MMMMMM, I do love me some currywurst. Also, Köln is rather cheap! The bar we were at was relatively chic, but the cocktails, at a 1am happy hour on a Saturday night, were about €4.50 each! And meine Currywurst war nür €2!
The next day, I explored Köln on my own. I went to the cathedral, that is truly massive, and wandered around inside for about an hour, paying the simple €1 fee to see the 10th century book covers and reliquaries they have in their treasury! Cool (for me anyway). I wandered around the fancy shopping district for a while, but everything was closed. I stopped by this cafe that my host had recommended called something like the Cafe Washing Machine auf Deutsch. The decor was really cool; all of the lamp shades were made from old, old washing machines. I emphasize the decor in part because it was awesome, and in part because the services was complete shit. I sat there for like 15 minutes by myself without being served, and watched as other people came in, sat down, and were served immediately. Maybe it was something about me that advertised I was only in the market for a coffee and maybe a croissant during the lunch rush, but I was rather taken aback. So after 15-20 minutes, I left without ordering anything. This ended up being in my favor actually. I stopped by what I THOUGHT was a place called Marx´s Winebar. Cool huh? So I sat down at a table outside but under their awning (it was sprinkling lightly, the first and only rain Ive seen during daylight hours this whole trip!), and a waitress came by within 45 seconds to aske me what I wanted. I ordered a glass of 2005 Bordeaux (probably the best vintage from Bordeaux in the last century, no joke), but the waitress informed me that the kitchen was closed, and they only had brunch, I spoke my halting half German to explain that I didn´t have a ton of money, so if the kitchen was closed, ein Glas Rotwein und vielleicht später ein Kaffee would be enough. However, she came back about 10 minutes later to say she had asked the chef if he would make something and he had said yes! I ordered a simple snack of schwarzbröt und käse, Gouda. The snack and wine were delicious, and I had a nice relaxing time reading and writing at.....nope, not Marx´s Winebar. Again in broken German, I asked the waitress why the owner had chosen that name, and she laughed to say that Marx´s Winebar´s sign was for the place next door that was closed on Sunday, and I was at the Lichtenberg---the Light Mountain. Sure enough, inside, it was plain as day. They had the MASSIVE chandeliers (sp?) that were made of all kinds of random glass, ashtrays, wineglasses, old vases, everything! It was awesome. And the whole wonderful experience, fantastic wine, cheese, bread, atmosphere, service and all, cost me something on the order of €6.50!
After my wonderfully satisfying snack, I went back towards the Dom, passed it, decided I didn´t want to pay €15 for a museum, and wandered around the Altstadt on the Rhein! I stumbled upon a pub called the Bier Muzeum, mit 18 Bier vom Fass! Es war ganz toll. Ich hätte eine Leffe und habe die erste halb des UEFA U19 Championships angeschaut. It was England vs. Ukraine, and Ukraine was up 1-o when I left.
Finally, I met up with my host and her friend Mara to go out for a drink again. This time we got Kölsch at the Früh Kölsch Brauhaus, und dann ein Caparinha (again, sp?). Slowly but surely, my German is improving. We chatted over drinks, and when it came time to go, I asked my host if it was still OK if I stayed a third night. She got a bit antsy because she had a lot of work to do, but then her friend Mara offered to host me since she wasn´t going to her bf´s place in Bonn that night!
The next day, Mara took me to her workplace to get a map of Köln. This place is called the Globetrotter, and it makes Dick´s Sporting Goods look like Footlocker. Seriously. It´s supposedly the biggest outdoor sporting shop in all of Europe, they have a cold room where you can try on jackets, and even a pool for kayaks and canoes. Sweet. Then we went for another bier at the Bier Muzeum (ein Eisbock this time), and finally back to her place for dinner and cocktails. She invited a couple of friends over and we made Caparinhas and played German singstar! I knew like 3 of the German songs, so I sang those and then we switched to the American one. One of Mara´s friends actually did a HS exchange program in Edina when she was younger! Ganz cool.
Und Jetzt bin ich ins Hamburg! At somepoint, however, I have to stop writing and get out and start doing at least a LITTLE bit in this city, so I will have to wait until tomorrow oder ins Berlin to update about Hamburg. Bis dann!
The next day, I explored Köln on my own. I went to the cathedral, that is truly massive, and wandered around inside for about an hour, paying the simple €1 fee to see the 10th century book covers and reliquaries they have in their treasury! Cool (for me anyway). I wandered around the fancy shopping district for a while, but everything was closed. I stopped by this cafe that my host had recommended called something like the Cafe Washing Machine auf Deutsch. The decor was really cool; all of the lamp shades were made from old, old washing machines. I emphasize the decor in part because it was awesome, and in part because the services was complete shit. I sat there for like 15 minutes by myself without being served, and watched as other people came in, sat down, and were served immediately. Maybe it was something about me that advertised I was only in the market for a coffee and maybe a croissant during the lunch rush, but I was rather taken aback. So after 15-20 minutes, I left without ordering anything. This ended up being in my favor actually. I stopped by what I THOUGHT was a place called Marx´s Winebar. Cool huh? So I sat down at a table outside but under their awning (it was sprinkling lightly, the first and only rain Ive seen during daylight hours this whole trip!), and a waitress came by within 45 seconds to aske me what I wanted. I ordered a glass of 2005 Bordeaux (probably the best vintage from Bordeaux in the last century, no joke), but the waitress informed me that the kitchen was closed, and they only had brunch, I spoke my halting half German to explain that I didn´t have a ton of money, so if the kitchen was closed, ein Glas Rotwein und vielleicht später ein Kaffee would be enough. However, she came back about 10 minutes later to say she had asked the chef if he would make something and he had said yes! I ordered a simple snack of schwarzbröt und käse, Gouda. The snack and wine were delicious, and I had a nice relaxing time reading and writing at.....nope, not Marx´s Winebar. Again in broken German, I asked the waitress why the owner had chosen that name, and she laughed to say that Marx´s Winebar´s sign was for the place next door that was closed on Sunday, and I was at the Lichtenberg---the Light Mountain. Sure enough, inside, it was plain as day. They had the MASSIVE chandeliers (sp?) that were made of all kinds of random glass, ashtrays, wineglasses, old vases, everything! It was awesome. And the whole wonderful experience, fantastic wine, cheese, bread, atmosphere, service and all, cost me something on the order of €6.50!
After my wonderfully satisfying snack, I went back towards the Dom, passed it, decided I didn´t want to pay €15 for a museum, and wandered around the Altstadt on the Rhein! I stumbled upon a pub called the Bier Muzeum, mit 18 Bier vom Fass! Es war ganz toll. Ich hätte eine Leffe und habe die erste halb des UEFA U19 Championships angeschaut. It was England vs. Ukraine, and Ukraine was up 1-o when I left.
Finally, I met up with my host and her friend Mara to go out for a drink again. This time we got Kölsch at the Früh Kölsch Brauhaus, und dann ein Caparinha (again, sp?). Slowly but surely, my German is improving. We chatted over drinks, and when it came time to go, I asked my host if it was still OK if I stayed a third night. She got a bit antsy because she had a lot of work to do, but then her friend Mara offered to host me since she wasn´t going to her bf´s place in Bonn that night!
The next day, Mara took me to her workplace to get a map of Köln. This place is called the Globetrotter, and it makes Dick´s Sporting Goods look like Footlocker. Seriously. It´s supposedly the biggest outdoor sporting shop in all of Europe, they have a cold room where you can try on jackets, and even a pool for kayaks and canoes. Sweet. Then we went for another bier at the Bier Muzeum (ein Eisbock this time), and finally back to her place for dinner and cocktails. She invited a couple of friends over and we made Caparinhas and played German singstar! I knew like 3 of the German songs, so I sang those and then we switched to the American one. One of Mara´s friends actually did a HS exchange program in Edina when she was younger! Ganz cool.
Und Jetzt bin ich ins Hamburg! At somepoint, however, I have to stop writing and get out and start doing at least a LITTLE bit in this city, so I will have to wait until tomorrow oder ins Berlin to update about Hamburg. Bis dann!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Basel! (Not of Baker St.)
Basel was great. It wasnt quite as picturesqe as Lausanne, a city which I still feel in love with a week later, but it was a ton of fun. I just happened to choose to leave Switzerland on the national holiday, but the celebration was the night before, so my last night in Basel I went to a barbecue, saw fireworks over the Rhein, and then went to a really cool bar. It was in an old train yard, without any real advertising from the street, so you just walk into this industrial complex and eventually you come to this huge open space with two outdoor bars and music and a dance floor right next to the old abandoned railroad tracks. It was pretty awesome. Also, earlier that day, we went swimming in the Rhein! I´ve never swam in a river with quite so fast a current before, so we just walked upstream for about an hour then got in and floated/swam back down.
Unfortunately, my train from Basel nach Köln war ausgefallen. Canceled. So getting to Cologne was a bit of a pain, but I made it! More on Cologne soon, when I have time, but for now I am off to Hamburg!
Tschüss!
Unfortunately, my train from Basel nach Köln war ausgefallen. Canceled. So getting to Cologne was a bit of a pain, but I made it! More on Cologne soon, when I have time, but for now I am off to Hamburg!
Tschüss!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Lausanne: A Beautiful Place to Get Lost
This is a wonderful city. While I am excited to see Basel, I am quite sad to leave Lausanne. I think that, throughout all of the places I have visited outside the US in my life, the only two cities so far in which I would truly want to live are Amsterdam and Lausanne. Lake Geneva and the Alps are simply gorgeous. The first night I was here, my host cooked dinner for me and afterwards we went out for a beer at a local brewpub. I had a great ginger beer there, and we talked about her research in psychology and my studies in religion and history. The next day, I rented a bike (!) and cycled and hiked up in the mountains to the East through...wait for it....vineyards! They were beautiful. I actually got lost for quite a while (I think I biked/hiked a total of about 15 km?), but I really didn´t mind in that beautiful setting, amidst the vineyards looking out over the vines onto small Swiss towns, the lake and France and the French Alps on the other side. I stopped at a couple of wineries and tasted and bought their wine. Here they grow a grape called Chasselas that is native to here. It is a semi-dry to dry wine with a decent body and fairly prominent acidity. I really liked it. It comprises something like 75% of all the wine made here, with Pinot Noir a distant second at like 12%. Then, I met up with two other couchsurfers (one from Deutshchland/California and the other from right here in Lausanne) and we went to a park, then I went home for a quiet night in by myself. I decided to spend a third night in Lausanne, changing my plans, and my host graciously welcomed me for a third night without a second thought. Her name is Ute and she actually grew up in the DDR in Dresden, and the wall fell when she was about 8 or 9 I think. She was fantastic. Not only did she cook for me the first night, but the third night, when the plans I had made with the other two couchsurfers fell through, the only one who followed through accompanied me to Ute´s apartment and she cooked for both of us! We shared a couple of bottles of wine and talked late into the night over Swiss Pinot Noir and cigarettes. Quite a great visit. I am sad to leave this great place, and this great host. If ever anyone who reads this goes to Switzerland, visit Lausanne.
Also, join couchsurfing! I have only great things to report, almost halfway through my trip.
See you in Basel oder Deutschland!
Also, join couchsurfing! I have only great things to report, almost halfway through my trip.
See you in Basel oder Deutschland!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
A Brighter Shade of Melancholy
Belgian Beer and
Dutch Cigars
in Switzerland
spells:
LUCKY.
This word tastes better than
PRIVILEGED,
but I feel OK about using it,
I hear that language is malleable,
constant flux
and all that.
But sometimes, happiness courses through your veins
like molten sapphire,
obliterating even the
innermost guilt,
and you cant but help
to smile at the world
and all thats in it.
Dutch Cigars
in Switzerland
spells:
LUCKY.
This word tastes better than
PRIVILEGED,
but I feel OK about using it,
I hear that language is malleable,
constant flux
and all that.
But sometimes, happiness courses through your veins
like molten sapphire,
obliterating even the
innermost guilt,
and you cant but help
to smile at the world
and all thats in it.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Milano, Pt. 2
Yesterday was quite amazing to say the least. I'm increasingly aware that, unless I spent about 20% of my waking hours in Europe at a computer, I'm going to have to leave a lot out, so I'll just hit the high points. I was invited to lunch--for all our loyal readers, it was the very same lunch I truncated my post yesterday to attend--at my couch surfing host's brothers condo north of Milano. It turns out that my host, Daniele, chose to host me in no small part because my CS profile says I was born in Wisconsin! His sister-in-law is from Wisconsin, and actually spent two years in Appleton when she was a kid! So my presence at lunch was a surprise for her, and one for which she was clearly quite grateful. She moved to Milano with her husband about a year ago, and, living north of the city relative isolation and speaking only the most basic Italian, she is understandably a bit lonely. So we shared a delicious lunch of pasta with pesto, bread, mozzarella, tomato and fresh basil, and delicious wine! I had both a Bonarda and a Barbera...that were frizzante! Even though we sell a sparkling shiraz at The Wine Thief, I had never tried it, so these were my first sparkling red wines. I have to say, I really enjoyed them. After that, one of my host's friends from his job offered to show me around the city. We went to the Duomo, two parks (Simpiore and Venezia...I think), and the Castle Sforza, built by the great merchant family of the same name during the renaissance. Later on, we went to meet up with Daniele and some of his friends for a drink and some food. He wanted to introduce me to the Milano Apertivo, where you pay for a drink and endulge in a huge smorgasboard of food for free after the purchase of a drink. Sadly, it was all gone when I arrived, but I had what was I think the best barfood I've ever eaten: brie, prosciutto and tomato on an olive and basil foccacia and only five euros!....mmmmm. Also, the mojito was fantastic, and the setting and company were even better. The bar was called The Art Factory, with a lot of modern art (my art history terminology is woefully unexacting) and mirrors everywhere. Also, it was a beautiful night so many people were outside, and we frequently stepped out for a cigarette or a cigarillo. I met a lot of Daniele's friends from university, as well as some of his friends from his link with the exchange program Erasmus (a link that Im still not quite sure what exactly it is...). I met a young woman named Helene from Belgium who is working on her PhD in medieval studies! Although she focuses on medieval literature and public readings as opposed to straight up history, we had a long and, well, for us anyways, fascinating conversation...that would bore most people to deat. Still, it was fun. I also met a girl named Perrine from Avignon who is going to be published in Science! I could hardly believe it, but she helped with research on some article about yogurt...so she gets her name in Science. Damn. Then, shortly after midnight, we got in a car and drove to the university where Daniele and his friends had studied, and where many of the Erasmus students were currently studying. We had some rum and coke in the bottle, and then there was a huge bucket of sangria from which everyone helped themselves. It was great. I met a friendly Italian guy named Marco with whom I drunkenly ranted about how the US had blown it against Brazil in the Confederations Cup, and an aspiring environmental engineer from Milano named Anna with whom I comiserated about America's dismal environmental legislation and the urgent need for attention to climate change. Finally, as the party was winding down...well sort of, a bunch of people jumped in the car and went to this club on the southside of Milano called Karma. My host, however, was rather tired, so he took someone home on his motorbike, and then just came to pick me up at the club before I went it. It was probably for the best though, as the cover was 15 euros, and in Italia, you dont go out to the clubs until about 2, and you don't come back until 5....I was not exactly in the mood to drink and dance until dawn and then try to navigate my way back to Daniele's apartment drunk and exhausted by myself.
Still, all in all, a great night.
Still, all in all, a great night.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Milano, Pt. 1
My first leg of couchsurfing is underway. Friday morning I said goodbye to my aunt, uncle, cousins and their kids then again to my parents at the trainstation at Camucia-Cortona. I spent the afternoon in Firenze, walking around, admiring the Duomo again, and eating delicious gelato at Perche No! There, I bumped into two girls from Wesleyan who, when I asked what I should do with the remaining 75 minutes before my train left, advised me to go to a library around there. It was really nice, for one thing, it was AIRCONDITIONED. For another, there was a beautiful terrace with a view of the Duomo.
I left Florence an hour late after missing my train :-/ and arrived in Milano at about 730. I took the metro almost to the end of the line, where my gracious host Daniele picked me up on his motorbike. We spent the evening in with some of his friends eating pizza. It was fun, but I certainly felt the foreigner as they were mostly speaking Italian, and I was thus oblivious. There was also one tense interaction in which I got into a verbal tiff with one of Daniele's friends. I brought in a bottle of Prosecco as a gift for my host, when Daniele was not in the room, and he made some comment, in English, to the effect of 'oh you are trying to poison us with that stuff, gross.' Needless to say, I was rather taken aback that he had insulted my gift. What insued, I did not expect; we ended up having a veritable battle of wine knowledge in which we debated good versus bad Italian wines, and whether or not DOCG appelation controls mean anything. In the end, he backed off from his insult, without actually conceding that I was right, and we never came to blows, so that was good! Ha, one night here, and already got into an argument with someone from Milano, hope today is a bit more relaxed....though I doubt there will be more English spoken.
Unfortunately, I know have to get going for lunch, but will write more soon!
Ciao
I left Florence an hour late after missing my train :-/ and arrived in Milano at about 730. I took the metro almost to the end of the line, where my gracious host Daniele picked me up on his motorbike. We spent the evening in with some of his friends eating pizza. It was fun, but I certainly felt the foreigner as they were mostly speaking Italian, and I was thus oblivious. There was also one tense interaction in which I got into a verbal tiff with one of Daniele's friends. I brought in a bottle of Prosecco as a gift for my host, when Daniele was not in the room, and he made some comment, in English, to the effect of 'oh you are trying to poison us with that stuff, gross.' Needless to say, I was rather taken aback that he had insulted my gift. What insued, I did not expect; we ended up having a veritable battle of wine knowledge in which we debated good versus bad Italian wines, and whether or not DOCG appelation controls mean anything. In the end, he backed off from his insult, without actually conceding that I was right, and we never came to blows, so that was good! Ha, one night here, and already got into an argument with someone from Milano, hope today is a bit more relaxed....though I doubt there will be more English spoken.
Unfortunately, I know have to get going for lunch, but will write more soon!
Ciao
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Rural Tuscany
The ceiling of the
living
dining
sitting
room
is stratospheric. Well,
maybe exospheric,
it depends, I guess.
The cyprus stand like shady sentinels,
while the flowing fields
of sunflowers ripple and burn in gold.
And the eyes of
their sun warmed faces
are deep and kind,
they shine with a certainty
that everyone here knows,
Jesus is really and truly inside
the bread is always unsalted,
something about a fifteenth-century tax
abd pride
and tradition.
living
dining
sitting
room
is stratospheric. Well,
maybe exospheric,
it depends, I guess.
The cyprus stand like shady sentinels,
while the flowing fields
of sunflowers ripple and burn in gold.
And the eyes of
their sun warmed faces
are deep and kind,
they shine with a certainty
that everyone here knows,
Jesus is really and truly inside
the bread is always unsalted,
something about a fifteenth-century tax
abd pride
and tradition.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Roma Pt. 2
I need to be on a train to Tuscany here in just about an hour, and although I am looking forward to being there, I will nonetheless be sad to leave Roma. My first couchsurfing friend, Roberto, was such a wonderful friend to show me around the city. On Friday, I joined he and his cousin from Milano out at a club for a bit. The first one we tried had too long of a line, so we then went to an outdoor club that is right on the Circus Maximus! The cover is free until 2am (they go out WAY later here, stay out till 4 or 5 usually) so we didn't have to pay. We didn't stay too long, and actually left just a little before 2, but I once again had a great time talking with Roberto and his cousin. The sightseeing was, as always, amazing. I saw St Peter's, the Sistine Chapel, and the Vatican Museum which, altogether, probably took about 6 hours. Last night I had a couple of missed connections with couchsurfing people, so I ended up just staying around the hotel and having an espresso and a cigar on the Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore. Then, however, someone from CS did get in touch with me; his name was Luis and he was a really nice guy who was originally from Bolivia but has been living and studying in Brussels for a year or so. We just had one drink at the local bar/club (which caters mostly to the tourists at the hostel and hotel nearby), then walked all the way to the Colosseum looking for another bar or club....finding none. So we just walked back around 2, and he left. However, right before he did we bumped into some wasted Irish guys, asking frantically for a bar pub or club as though they were inquiring about an injured family memeber. Turns out, they were all cousins and were in town for a wedding. Luis bid me farewell and we exchanged a knowing smile as we watched the Irishmen stumble their way up to follow me. I showed them the bar right near my hotel, and, thinking I would turn away to go to bed, I was practically forced down into the basement to have a drink with them. It became immediately apparent that conversation down by the dancefloor was utterly impossible, so I went back upstairs to the outside patio (basically the sidewalk) with one of two of them (I think there were 6 of them in all). There, we met two girls from Norway who spoke the most fluent English I've heard from a European since arriving. They were FAR more sober, so I ended up mostly talking with them, as we watched the wedding party (most of whom were probably 19) get increasingly mashed, and eventually, thrown out. Then, after being teased about not being drunk on my last night in Rome by the bartender, I finally went back to the hotel at about 4am....at which time I woke my parents up.
AH! TRAIN! I have to run.
AH! TRAIN! I have to run.
"Yawp," In The Literature Of The Northern English Diaspora, Uses, and Misuses, Of
I write a very relevant academic article.
While smoking a cigarette
while sitting on my hands (which is hard, and impressive)
while the fiery barber tries to
carve his name into the back of my head
without me noticing.
But now, now I have to go
to a conference about Africa
in Chicago. "Achebe, yes, yes
and....yes, yes" we agree.
But then my confidence is shattered
as the tenured snicker and sneer
"Heeeere's Johnny!" behind me.
But underneath the scalp named
"Johnny is the MAN!"
the overfed brain hoos and hums and
grapples violently with
itself, like a crazed mime,
dressed all in black, chalktone facepaint
muddled, dirty.
While smoking a cigarette
while sitting on my hands (which is hard, and impressive)
while the fiery barber tries to
carve his name into the back of my head
without me noticing.
But now, now I have to go
to a conference about Africa
in Chicago. "Achebe, yes, yes
and....yes, yes" we agree.
But then my confidence is shattered
as the tenured snicker and sneer
"Heeeere's Johnny!" behind me.
But underneath the scalp named
"Johnny is the MAN!"
the overfed brain hoos and hums and
grapples violently with
itself, like a crazed mime,
dressed all in black, chalktone facepaint
muddled, dirty.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Roma, Pt. 1
I have spent one night in Roma, with two more to go.
I am already thinking of what I want to do when I get back.
Thus far, my time here has been simply awesome. Although my parents get on my nerves now and again, traveling with them has been really nice (and, you know, its always nice to have someone else say "Oh yeah sure, we should take that guided tour! Ill pay!"). Our first day, we arrived at 8:30 AM and, without having slept, I somehow stayed up until 2AM. We didnt really do much of the obligatory sightseeing that day, just taking care of logistics. Checked into the hotel, found the closest ATM (scusi, Bancomat, gotta get used to that again), and I got an Italian mobile phone! Then we had dinner at a wonderful Pizzeria called Dar Poeta on a recommendation from a friend. It was a bit of a walk (4 km maybe?), but well worth it. The house wine was pretty good...and €4 per half liter. The pizza was delicious, and equally affordable....I hate to say it, but Il Calesse, the wonderful pizzeria I went to in Venezia with Josh and Matt, might come in second after Dar Poeta; sorry Veneto, Lazio FTW.
After about 2/3 of a bottle of wine at dinner, I was feeling pretty good. But it was the night that was to follow dinner that I really will never forget. I called someone I had messaged from Couchsurfing and we agreed to go out for a drink after he finished eating, around 10:30. He came to pick me up on his motorbike and we rode aruond the city for a bit. It was both thrilling and enthralling, like a bikeride I didnt have to bike! He pointed out some of his favorite spots and we got off to walk around and chat for a bit. Finally, he took me down to one of his favorite areas on the banks of the Tiber and we had a beer.....yeah, I had an Affligem Rouge, again, if anyone but me cares what kind ^__^ I truly enjoyed having a drink with Roberto, we talked about everything from Italian hitory, to medical school, to (naturally following medical school) health carei in Italy vs. America, to the future of the European Union. Afterwards, when he was bringing me back to the hotel on his motorbike, he paused at an intersection and said "I have an idea." He showed me how to jump the fence around the Basilica of Maxentius (well, or Constantine, since he killed Maxentius at Milvian Bridge and finished the job himself), then we climbed the scaffolding, and finally we ascended the 1700 year old spiral staircase up to the roof. Looking out at Rome at 1:30 in the morning, on top of the massive temple that Constantine finished after he ascended to the throne of the Roman Emperor was something that I will never forget. We chatted for a little while longer while admiring the view (or rather views, as every direction offered a different, but equally stunning visage, though the view of the Roman Colosseum was probably my favorite) before finally climbing down.
Today my parents and I did a lot of the obligatory sightseeing which, despite its obligatory "if you go you have to see____" nature, was still astounding. We saw the Colosseum up close, the ruins of the Roman Forum, The Pantheon, St. Peters Basilica at the Vatican, and the Trevi Fountain. Though they were certainly breathtaking structures (ha, while looking up at the Roman Colosseum, my dad remarked, "it certainly illustrates the aesthetic notion of 'the sublime' perfectly," and my mom just scoffed at him ^_^), and there are tons of more beautiful buildings to see, the few minutes I spent atop Maxentius/Constantine's Basilica was doubtless the most remarkable moment of the trip, and one which I think bodes well for my future couchsurfing experiences in Europe.
Now, I'm going next door to shop for wine.
I am already thinking of what I want to do when I get back.
Thus far, my time here has been simply awesome. Although my parents get on my nerves now and again, traveling with them has been really nice (and, you know, its always nice to have someone else say "Oh yeah sure, we should take that guided tour! Ill pay!"). Our first day, we arrived at 8:30 AM and, without having slept, I somehow stayed up until 2AM. We didnt really do much of the obligatory sightseeing that day, just taking care of logistics. Checked into the hotel, found the closest ATM (scusi, Bancomat, gotta get used to that again), and I got an Italian mobile phone! Then we had dinner at a wonderful Pizzeria called Dar Poeta on a recommendation from a friend. It was a bit of a walk (4 km maybe?), but well worth it. The house wine was pretty good...and €4 per half liter. The pizza was delicious, and equally affordable....I hate to say it, but Il Calesse, the wonderful pizzeria I went to in Venezia with Josh and Matt, might come in second after Dar Poeta; sorry Veneto, Lazio FTW.
After about 2/3 of a bottle of wine at dinner, I was feeling pretty good. But it was the night that was to follow dinner that I really will never forget. I called someone I had messaged from Couchsurfing and we agreed to go out for a drink after he finished eating, around 10:30. He came to pick me up on his motorbike and we rode aruond the city for a bit. It was both thrilling and enthralling, like a bikeride I didnt have to bike! He pointed out some of his favorite spots and we got off to walk around and chat for a bit. Finally, he took me down to one of his favorite areas on the banks of the Tiber and we had a beer.....yeah, I had an Affligem Rouge, again, if anyone but me cares what kind ^__^ I truly enjoyed having a drink with Roberto, we talked about everything from Italian hitory, to medical school, to (naturally following medical school) health carei in Italy vs. America, to the future of the European Union. Afterwards, when he was bringing me back to the hotel on his motorbike, he paused at an intersection and said "I have an idea." He showed me how to jump the fence around the Basilica of Maxentius (well, or Constantine, since he killed Maxentius at Milvian Bridge and finished the job himself), then we climbed the scaffolding, and finally we ascended the 1700 year old spiral staircase up to the roof. Looking out at Rome at 1:30 in the morning, on top of the massive temple that Constantine finished after he ascended to the throne of the Roman Emperor was something that I will never forget. We chatted for a little while longer while admiring the view (or rather views, as every direction offered a different, but equally stunning visage, though the view of the Roman Colosseum was probably my favorite) before finally climbing down.
Today my parents and I did a lot of the obligatory sightseeing which, despite its obligatory "if you go you have to see____" nature, was still astounding. We saw the Colosseum up close, the ruins of the Roman Forum, The Pantheon, St. Peters Basilica at the Vatican, and the Trevi Fountain. Though they were certainly breathtaking structures (ha, while looking up at the Roman Colosseum, my dad remarked, "it certainly illustrates the aesthetic notion of 'the sublime' perfectly," and my mom just scoffed at him ^_^), and there are tons of more beautiful buildings to see, the few minutes I spent atop Maxentius/Constantine's Basilica was doubtless the most remarkable moment of the trip, and one which I think bodes well for my future couchsurfing experiences in Europe.
Now, I'm going next door to shop for wine.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Couch Surfing....Sweet? Sweet! Sweet...Sweet?
Well, I'm ALMOST done planning my travels in Europe....almost. I have found hosts on couchsurfing.org for 12 out of the 17 nights I'll be traveling on my own. I'm actually really thrilled to meet all of the people who are hosting me!....and almost equally terrified that some of them will fall through. Still, I think the risk/reward analysis for me levels pretty heavily on the reward side, so I'm more excited than I am scared, and most cities seem to have pretty good SOS message boards to couch-ify those in desperate need. I'd just, ya know, prefer not to find myself in desperate need.
In other news, I went cycling today for a while on the CE trail, my old favorite bike path before I came to Mac and discovered the Glorious Greenway. Still, I like the CE trail.
In other news, I've spent the past 3 hours trying to network with couch surfers (with some success) and I'm exhausted.
In other news, bed.
In other news, I went cycling today for a while on the CE trail, my old favorite bike path before I came to Mac and discovered the Glorious Greenway. Still, I like the CE trail.
In other news, I've spent the past 3 hours trying to network with couch surfers (with some success) and I'm exhausted.
In other news, bed.
Wafting
I evaporate—
diffuse into open air
spread wider than the sun.
I love the vapors.
Steam, lapping the rim of my coffee mug,
caught transparent in the bright hope of morning.
Smoke trailing from the tip of a cigarette at night,
slender and smooth as the beautiful fingers that hold it,
soft and sensual, smoke from burgundy lips.
I watch billows of cigar-smoke slowly escape my mouth,
and feel that I am a cauldron,
and bathe in the smoke of breath from
all my sisters and brothers,
day in, day out.
All the sages and all the prophets,
false and true,
bathed in and drank of this same breath
I find here at my bedside.
But I will not talk of the end
with pride of secret knowledge,
as though forecasting horses or stocks.
We drink the sky by moments,
and leave plenty after us.
diffuse into open air
spread wider than the sun.
I love the vapors.
Steam, lapping the rim of my coffee mug,
caught transparent in the bright hope of morning.
Smoke trailing from the tip of a cigarette at night,
slender and smooth as the beautiful fingers that hold it,
soft and sensual, smoke from burgundy lips.
I watch billows of cigar-smoke slowly escape my mouth,
and feel that I am a cauldron,
and bathe in the smoke of breath from
all my sisters and brothers,
day in, day out.
All the sages and all the prophets,
false and true,
bathed in and drank of this same breath
I find here at my bedside.
But I will not talk of the end
with pride of secret knowledge,
as though forecasting horses or stocks.
We drink the sky by moments,
and leave plenty after us.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The Time Everything Went Wrong Or At Least We Thought It Did
For one thing, this Canadian whiskey is
way too fucking sweet.
But for me, he was out of Bourbon
and time. And for another thing,
the expressions on the faces of
all the ancient Gods
that are packed away in boxes in the truck
seem sad and full of pity. Didn't they used to be
noble and unstoppable? Like immutable doves?
Like Godward mountains?
But then, to be fair,
the movers took the mountains last week,
"just the bare necessities" they said.
So I find myself with a coffeepot, an automobile muffler,
three pairs of woolen socks
and a gun
and Canadian whiskey,
in a box next to me, when I'm
sitting cross-legged on hardwood floor
with ten feet of free in each direction
before bright white walls.
The painters were here last week.
I asked for "Eggshell,"
"Eggshell !" I shouted, but
they just painted "void."
way too fucking sweet.
But for me, he was out of Bourbon
and time. And for another thing,
the expressions on the faces of
all the ancient Gods
that are packed away in boxes in the truck
seem sad and full of pity. Didn't they used to be
noble and unstoppable? Like immutable doves?
Like Godward mountains?
But then, to be fair,
the movers took the mountains last week,
"just the bare necessities" they said.
So I find myself with a coffeepot, an automobile muffler,
three pairs of woolen socks
and a gun
and Canadian whiskey,
in a box next to me, when I'm
sitting cross-legged on hardwood floor
with ten feet of free in each direction
before bright white walls.
The painters were here last week.
I asked for "Eggshell,"
"Eggshell !" I shouted, but
they just painted "void."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Michigan (Part 1) or A True Story, Seriously, This IS A Blog Post! or The Giant Robot vs. The Über-Mosquito (Part 1!?)
Out somewhere on a trail in the West-Central Michiganian woods
I couldn't hear another human being. My cell phone was off, not that it would have mattered. I sat on a log where the sun broke through the canopy. Across the path, I noticed a Monster Energy Drink can left upside down on a tree branch
and frowned. I walked over to remove the can, and when I did, there were two fuzzy caterpillars inside. I actually felt bad, because
c'mon, if you're a caterpillar, you're not gonna find a better bird defense than
MONSTER ENERGY DRINK.
Who would have thought?
Not me.
I sat back on my log (it is my log now, finders keepers) and watched a spider bump into an ant; they frightened one another and scurried in opposite directions. Then the spider spun a web, and I wished that somehow we could collaborate to
kill all these damn mosquitos.
Then I saw the Über-Mosquito, and we had a showdown.
It was a draw. He left, so I spent a while pretending that I was a giant robot and the mosquitos were fighter planes trying hopelessly to defend their beloved Earth from rapacious alien might.
Then I wondered when the last time was that I couldn't hear or see human life.
Then I heard a plane and frowned.
Then I wondered if my tone wasn't conversational enough, too monologuesque (monologuey?), then wondered why or if it mattered, then wondered if this counts as poetry, but decided that it was, perhaps, not exacting, pithy, or polished enough to be poetry, and thus probably prose.
He is back! The Über-Mosquito! (A technical term)
He is large and very fast, so fast it is hard to tell that he is even a mosquito at all.
I leap to my feet and we have a battle so intense it requires
a shift to the present tense. After darting, feinting, bobbing and weaving, I finally land a solid swipe of my small, black-leather notebook to his backside (well, at least I think it was his backside) and the Über-Mosquito goes careening off into the distance--but I'm sure he isn't finished.
There will probably be a sequel.
BUT THEN! A WASP! He landed on my leg and in an instant I'd stamped him into the crisp brown leaves below. False ending; I guess the Über-Mosquito was just the second in command. But now, the dastardly plot of Wasp and Über-Mosquito has been crushed. The Giant Robot is the hero.
There'll be no sequel.
(Cut to shot of Über-Mosquito looking menacing, ominous music, fade to black).
I couldn't hear another human being. My cell phone was off, not that it would have mattered. I sat on a log where the sun broke through the canopy. Across the path, I noticed a Monster Energy Drink can left upside down on a tree branch
and frowned. I walked over to remove the can, and when I did, there were two fuzzy caterpillars inside. I actually felt bad, because
c'mon, if you're a caterpillar, you're not gonna find a better bird defense than
MONSTER ENERGY DRINK.
Who would have thought?
Not me.
I sat back on my log (it is my log now, finders keepers) and watched a spider bump into an ant; they frightened one another and scurried in opposite directions. Then the spider spun a web, and I wished that somehow we could collaborate to
kill all these damn mosquitos.
Then I saw the Über-Mosquito, and we had a showdown.
It was a draw. He left, so I spent a while pretending that I was a giant robot and the mosquitos were fighter planes trying hopelessly to defend their beloved Earth from rapacious alien might.
Then I wondered when the last time was that I couldn't hear or see human life.
Then I heard a plane and frowned.
Then I wondered if my tone wasn't conversational enough, too monologuesque (monologuey?), then wondered why or if it mattered, then wondered if this counts as poetry, but decided that it was, perhaps, not exacting, pithy, or polished enough to be poetry, and thus probably prose.
He is back! The Über-Mosquito! (A technical term)
He is large and very fast, so fast it is hard to tell that he is even a mosquito at all.
I leap to my feet and we have a battle so intense it requires
a shift to the present tense. After darting, feinting, bobbing and weaving, I finally land a solid swipe of my small, black-leather notebook to his backside (well, at least I think it was his backside) and the Über-Mosquito goes careening off into the distance--but I'm sure he isn't finished.
There will probably be a sequel.
BUT THEN! A WASP! He landed on my leg and in an instant I'd stamped him into the crisp brown leaves below. False ending; I guess the Über-Mosquito was just the second in command. But now, the dastardly plot of Wasp and Über-Mosquito has been crushed. The Giant Robot is the hero.
There'll be no sequel.
(Cut to shot of Über-Mosquito looking menacing, ominous music, fade to black).
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Ether is Real
Last night I dreamt that I could fly
like in the old days,
when gravity didn't tether me quite so tight
and the tips of my toes would barely brush the blacktop
and the feeling of being alive would
shoot through me like so many arrows,
and the mortar that held my soul
to my body was as solid and sound
as that which holds my hearth.
And as real.
When I felt as light and as brave
as the city finch that hops to my feet.
And I awoke and filtered these things
through the years and through myself,
and found each to be as true today,
with as much empirical reality
as the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink.
like in the old days,
when gravity didn't tether me quite so tight
and the tips of my toes would barely brush the blacktop
and the feeling of being alive would
shoot through me like so many arrows,
and the mortar that held my soul
to my body was as solid and sound
as that which holds my hearth.
And as real.
When I felt as light and as brave
as the city finch that hops to my feet.
And I awoke and filtered these things
through the years and through myself,
and found each to be as true today,
with as much empirical reality
as the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Happy Fourth of July
So I spent my Fourth of July alone and didn't see any fireworks at all;
it was awesome. My grandparents both went to my grandfather's opera. He composed and conducted it and my grandmother wrote the libretto for it and gave a short introduction, contextualizing the opera (it's based on the Hebrew Bible story of Ruth). I went to see it last night, and had previously seen it when it first premiered when I was in high school (2003?), so I stayed at the lakehouse. After a day of biking, reading and writing in the woods, I spent my Fourth of July evening alone on the shore of Lake Michigan with a glass of red wine (a 2006 Washington State Cabernet Sauvignon, if anyone else cares ^_^), cheese, crackers, and chocolate. I split my time between watching the sunset over the lake and reading a book--one which I actually just started today--about the need to contextualize the all too often self-contained American historical narrative within a broader view of international history. At one point, I think it was after reading the line "The raw materials of history rarely stop at borders. The nation cannot be its own context. No less than the neutron or the cell, it must be studied in a framework larger than itself." I exclaimed aloud "Yes." Then, I looked up to see the sky awash in pink and red, to which I responded aloud with an equally visceral, "Yes."
Happy Fourth of July? Yes.
it was awesome. My grandparents both went to my grandfather's opera. He composed and conducted it and my grandmother wrote the libretto for it and gave a short introduction, contextualizing the opera (it's based on the Hebrew Bible story of Ruth). I went to see it last night, and had previously seen it when it first premiered when I was in high school (2003?), so I stayed at the lakehouse. After a day of biking, reading and writing in the woods, I spent my Fourth of July evening alone on the shore of Lake Michigan with a glass of red wine (a 2006 Washington State Cabernet Sauvignon, if anyone else cares ^_^), cheese, crackers, and chocolate. I split my time between watching the sunset over the lake and reading a book--one which I actually just started today--about the need to contextualize the all too often self-contained American historical narrative within a broader view of international history. At one point, I think it was after reading the line "The raw materials of history rarely stop at borders. The nation cannot be its own context. No less than the neutron or the cell, it must be studied in a framework larger than itself." I exclaimed aloud "Yes." Then, I looked up to see the sky awash in pink and red, to which I responded aloud with an equally visceral, "Yes."
Happy Fourth of July? Yes.
Twenty-Seven Tips for Better Living
Yeah man, see, that's the thing about traveling right after heart-wrenching-stomach-dropping goodbyes, too much time to think when you least expect-most need it.
Existential angst doesn't sit well with honey roasted nuts and crying babies, plus the stewardess looks at you funny
when you ask for horse tranquilizers with your complimentary Sprite, but you shouldn't be having that stuff when you're in this state anyways (the state of travel I mean), that stuff screws with your homeostasis, or so I read/heard/thought. I mean, cheap $9 airplane Chardonnay; fine. But with Sprite, the carbonation sends that corn syrup straight to your brain and you start thinking too fast, and you realize how the geological time scale weighs on your every move and crunches your whispered hopes of immortality
like a carpenter ant under a paper towel under your thumb.
And then you get depressed. I mean real bad man, real bad. Not like "oh shit, I suddenly see the crossroads I've just passed and recognize all at once my impotence in the face of regrets and sudden death" depressed. I mean real bad. I mean "third drivers test failure in as many weeks, spilled punch on your new dress at homecoming, C- in Algebra II" depressed, "LA Clippers fan for life" depressed, "the CD playing in the restaurant stuck on repeat and you're the only person who seems to notice the 79 solid minutes of a purely instrumental rendition of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" depressed.
No, you don't want that kind of depressed, but don't worry, just follow these simple instructions:
First and foremost, don't drink the Sprite. Don't drink the water, filter the water, then drink the water (it doesn't matter whether or not you know what you're filtering out, just do it), take deep breaths, chew with your mouth closed, don't mix alcohol with
horse tranquilizers, have another Chardonnay, pretend to care about the vintage, but be nice to the stewardess, she's had a long day, call your mother, don't litter, make cute faces at the babies even though they are crying so much it makes you almost like the Clippers, don't overdo it, stop making that face, don't talk to strangers, fight the power, but pay your bills on time, sit still while we're talking to you, wear your seatbelt, wear sunscreen, don't wear flipflops, they're unbecoming, smile in the face of adversity, don't put your elbows on the table, sing in the shower, take the blue pill (but make sure it isn't a horse tranquilizer first, you've had a lot of Chardonnay you know), laugh at yourself, laugh at everything.*
*Should you find yourself in a tough spot in which these instructions are not at the moment readily accessible, please disregard the first 25 instructions.
Existential angst doesn't sit well with honey roasted nuts and crying babies, plus the stewardess looks at you funny
when you ask for horse tranquilizers with your complimentary Sprite, but you shouldn't be having that stuff when you're in this state anyways (the state of travel I mean), that stuff screws with your homeostasis, or so I read/heard/thought. I mean, cheap $9 airplane Chardonnay; fine. But with Sprite, the carbonation sends that corn syrup straight to your brain and you start thinking too fast, and you realize how the geological time scale weighs on your every move and crunches your whispered hopes of immortality
like a carpenter ant under a paper towel under your thumb.
And then you get depressed. I mean real bad man, real bad. Not like "oh shit, I suddenly see the crossroads I've just passed and recognize all at once my impotence in the face of regrets and sudden death" depressed. I mean real bad. I mean "third drivers test failure in as many weeks, spilled punch on your new dress at homecoming, C- in Algebra II" depressed, "LA Clippers fan for life" depressed, "the CD playing in the restaurant stuck on repeat and you're the only person who seems to notice the 79 solid minutes of a purely instrumental rendition of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" depressed.
No, you don't want that kind of depressed, but don't worry, just follow these simple instructions:
First and foremost, don't drink the Sprite. Don't drink the water, filter the water, then drink the water (it doesn't matter whether or not you know what you're filtering out, just do it), take deep breaths, chew with your mouth closed, don't mix alcohol with
horse tranquilizers, have another Chardonnay, pretend to care about the vintage, but be nice to the stewardess, she's had a long day, call your mother, don't litter, make cute faces at the babies even though they are crying so much it makes you almost like the Clippers, don't overdo it, stop making that face, don't talk to strangers, fight the power, but pay your bills on time, sit still while we're talking to you, wear your seatbelt, wear sunscreen, don't wear flipflops, they're unbecoming, smile in the face of adversity, don't put your elbows on the table, sing in the shower, take the blue pill (but make sure it isn't a horse tranquilizer first, you've had a lot of Chardonnay you know), laugh at yourself, laugh at everything.*
*Should you find yourself in a tough spot in which these instructions are not at the moment readily accessible, please disregard the first 25 instructions.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
America.
There is a heinous superabundance of coffee mugs.
Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, I'd Rather Be Golfing,
My _____ went to _____ and all I got was this stupid mug.
And they are discarded.
At Goodwill, there is a special shelf for all of them.
It runs 20 ft. long and 2 ft. deep, and
it is full. The #1 Dads rub elbows with the obscene, bachelor parties,
and everyone shuns the once personalized mugs
as callous shells, all their singular meaning bled away.
And somewhere northwest of Piendamó, Colombia,
a young woman with slender, auburn arms and cinnamon hair
harvests small beans with her harshly callused hands,
just as she has done for the past fifteen years,
just as she will do
for fifty more.
And they are airlifted to a central roasting facility in Enon, Ohio,
then ground, vacuum packed and trucked out to
A Super America Convenience Store Near You.
24 oz. $1.29. "100% Colombian."
Styrofoam.
Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, I'd Rather Be Golfing,
My _____ went to _____ and all I got was this stupid mug.
And they are discarded.
At Goodwill, there is a special shelf for all of them.
It runs 20 ft. long and 2 ft. deep, and
it is full. The #1 Dads rub elbows with the obscene, bachelor parties,
and everyone shuns the once personalized mugs
as callous shells, all their singular meaning bled away.
And somewhere northwest of Piendamó, Colombia,
a young woman with slender, auburn arms and cinnamon hair
harvests small beans with her harshly callused hands,
just as she has done for the past fifteen years,
just as she will do
for fifty more.
And they are airlifted to a central roasting facility in Enon, Ohio,
then ground, vacuum packed and trucked out to
A Super America Convenience Store Near You.
24 oz. $1.29. "100% Colombian."
Styrofoam.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
[Untitled 1]
The summer water drives me in,
it's welcome all the same -
it falls with no apology
to justify, nor shame.
The cooling gray across the sky
that crumbles into rain,
does rid me of this monstrous heat,
the passion and the flame.
The molten magma rages deep
in yawning vaults of rock,
without the proper medicine
will turn my bones to chalk.
The only balm seems hidden far,
yet plain for all to see.
The saving salve for all my soul
is borne in loving Thee.
For then do I know unity,
of God's soul and of mine,
the harmony of forces
and the amplitude of time.
it's welcome all the same -
it falls with no apology
to justify, nor shame.
The cooling gray across the sky
that crumbles into rain,
does rid me of this monstrous heat,
the passion and the flame.
The molten magma rages deep
in yawning vaults of rock,
without the proper medicine
will turn my bones to chalk.
The only balm seems hidden far,
yet plain for all to see.
The saving salve for all my soul
is borne in loving Thee.
For then do I know unity,
of God's soul and of mine,
the harmony of forces
and the amplitude of time.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Whatever Happened to Jean-Claude Van Damme?
Seriously.
Does anyone know?
Maybe he's back home in Belgium,
speaking at a podium in confident French
to crowds of voters, concerned about the economy.
Jean-Claude is wearing a black suit
with a red tie. His face is
old and melancholy, but with
eyes of determination.
He will win.
He is sure.
He always has, and after all,
Bloodsport and Street Fighter weren't much worse than
Eraser or True Lies,
were they?
Does anyone know?
Maybe he's back home in Belgium,
speaking at a podium in confident French
to crowds of voters, concerned about the economy.
Jean-Claude is wearing a black suit
with a red tie. His face is
old and melancholy, but with
eyes of determination.
He will win.
He is sure.
He always has, and after all,
Bloodsport and Street Fighter weren't much worse than
Eraser or True Lies,
were they?
Saturday, June 13, 2009
This is Water, This is Water. . . .
Melancholy bubbles to my surface like sea foam,
green-blue with the algae of
regret. It pollutes me,
mucking up my hair
whenever I break the surface.
So I dive.
Swim down through the various strata of marine life,
past the ugly hammerhead sharks of jealousy
and the gigantic tunafish of indifference,
their scales gleaming blue and pink,
glittering metallic bodies
cutting through the water with
life threatening complacency.
I swim past them
down to the dark depths of my ocean,
where the fish are luminescent and clear,
with steak-knife teeth and mailbox jaws;
down where the water pressure
crushes the exo-skeleton I've built
and washes away the algae;
and I become the fish.
Skin pigment fades to blank, iridescent glow
emanates from my transparent body. I am
Resplendent. Crystal.
green-blue with the algae of
regret. It pollutes me,
mucking up my hair
whenever I break the surface.
So I dive.
Swim down through the various strata of marine life,
past the ugly hammerhead sharks of jealousy
and the gigantic tunafish of indifference,
their scales gleaming blue and pink,
glittering metallic bodies
cutting through the water with
life threatening complacency.
I swim past them
down to the dark depths of my ocean,
where the fish are luminescent and clear,
with steak-knife teeth and mailbox jaws;
down where the water pressure
crushes the exo-skeleton I've built
and washes away the algae;
and I become the fish.
Skin pigment fades to blank, iridescent glow
emanates from my transparent body. I am
Resplendent. Crystal.
Monday, June 1, 2009
IR 2282, Bellinzona to Zürich HB dep 13:06 arr 15:51
“This isn't your train,” I tell the man sitting opposite me in this cramped, four seat compartment.
With his lips slightly ajar and his head pointed halfway to the window,
he stares at me like I'm crazy.
“It isn't. Yours left months ago.”
We are alone in the compartment. He shifts uncomfortably. He thinks that I think that maybe he doesn't understand English. He hopes this.
“Look, you can't just come in here, getting on other people's trains. It's not that I'm offended, it just ain't right, y'know? This isn't your train, is it?”
He must not like rhetorical questions. He's looking out the window.
“Alright buddy, listen to me; so you missed your train, so what? Sorry. I'll stop with the rhetorical questions, but really now, last month's train is leaving here in about three-hundred and forty-five seconds, it'll bisect ours somewhere just North of the faultline everybody always talks about.”
His expression is caught between horror, disgust, and fear.
I say slowly,
“You can get on it then, you know.”
We sit in silence for five minutes.
He is looking out the window. I am watching him watch things
pass us by.
He bows his head and puts on his bowler derby with one hand as he rises to his feet.
With his lips slightly ajar and his head pointed halfway to the window,
he stares at me like I'm crazy.
“It isn't. Yours left months ago.”
We are alone in the compartment. He shifts uncomfortably. He thinks that I think that maybe he doesn't understand English. He hopes this.
“Look, you can't just come in here, getting on other people's trains. It's not that I'm offended, it just ain't right, y'know? This isn't your train, is it?”
He must not like rhetorical questions. He's looking out the window.
“Alright buddy, listen to me; so you missed your train, so what? Sorry. I'll stop with the rhetorical questions, but really now, last month's train is leaving here in about three-hundred and forty-five seconds, it'll bisect ours somewhere just North of the faultline everybody always talks about.”
His expression is caught between horror, disgust, and fear.
I say slowly,
“You can get on it then, you know.”
We sit in silence for five minutes.
He is looking out the window. I am watching him watch things
pass us by.
He bows his head and puts on his bowler derby with one hand as he rises to his feet.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Martin Buber Encounters an Oak Tree
It stands alone in a field of tall, yellow grass.
He is just out of its reach, shunning its shade for the bright, skin-leathering sun.
Martin imagines a seed falling from the sky and crashing into the soil with the force of--what to call it?--pure being. It sends a tree sprouting up like a mushroom cloud; full growth in 30 seconds, standing somewhere outside of time,
outside of space,
outside of Martin.
He peels away the dissecting sections of his analytical intellect like so many layers of rain soaked clothing.
He watches his silver blue soul slide out of himself, into the grizzled gray brown bark.
He is just out of its reach, shunning its shade for the bright, skin-leathering sun.
Martin imagines a seed falling from the sky and crashing into the soil with the force of--what to call it?--pure being. It sends a tree sprouting up like a mushroom cloud; full growth in 30 seconds, standing somewhere outside of time,
outside of space,
outside of Martin.
He peels away the dissecting sections of his analytical intellect like so many layers of rain soaked clothing.
He watches his silver blue soul slide out of himself, into the grizzled gray brown bark.
Friday, May 29, 2009
These Buffalo Suck
Our relationship has become a perfect meadow. Clover, tulips, and tall grass, honey bees and
anti-personnel mines.
Our little purveyors of pain used to be stuck up in the north-west corner of the fields, sequestered away where the hills roll into the dark woods, where soft green slowly burns into shadow under the barren, steely trees.
But mines migrate. They are less the flying V and more the plodding herd of buffalo, quiet but powerful and deadly. They are so unobtrusive as to become part of the scenery itself, merely a prop for a landscape painter until they’ve migrated their way directly in front of you, seventy-three half-ton claymore mine creatures.
You can’t step on them.
They’re buffalo.
But a misplaced word, a noun where there should be a verb and they explode in a flash of orange-white light, sending chunks of blood-clumped brown fur, meat and bone flying at me in a tidal wave of passive aggressive gore and self-deprecating apologies delivered with all of the melancholy resignation to Fate of a 23 year old Japanese civilian turned once-pilot, climbing over the bright red Rising Sun into the cockpit of his dynamite-laden Mitsubishi Zero, keeping his left hand securely in the pocket of his grayish green flight-suit, thumb pressing hard and rubbing slow circles around the face of a black and white photograph.
anti-personnel mines.
Our little purveyors of pain used to be stuck up in the north-west corner of the fields, sequestered away where the hills roll into the dark woods, where soft green slowly burns into shadow under the barren, steely trees.
But mines migrate. They are less the flying V and more the plodding herd of buffalo, quiet but powerful and deadly. They are so unobtrusive as to become part of the scenery itself, merely a prop for a landscape painter until they’ve migrated their way directly in front of you, seventy-three half-ton claymore mine creatures.
You can’t step on them.
They’re buffalo.
But a misplaced word, a noun where there should be a verb and they explode in a flash of orange-white light, sending chunks of blood-clumped brown fur, meat and bone flying at me in a tidal wave of passive aggressive gore and self-deprecating apologies delivered with all of the melancholy resignation to Fate of a 23 year old Japanese civilian turned once-pilot, climbing over the bright red Rising Sun into the cockpit of his dynamite-laden Mitsubishi Zero, keeping his left hand securely in the pocket of his grayish green flight-suit, thumb pressing hard and rubbing slow circles around the face of a black and white photograph.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Going Out--a very short story
The last gulp of floral, bitter pale ale flooded his mouth, finishing his sixth pint since dinner. He couldn't tell whether it was the alcohol or the loud music that made the pulsing feeling in his chest a little less bearable than usual. He hastily called to the bartender to close out his tab, picked up his jacket off the back of the stool and dropped the receipt next to his empty glass with '1.00' scribbled on the dashed tip line. He felt the weight of all their eyes on him as he left with the young blond from across the room. “Fuck them,” he told himself. Even in his mind, his voice cracked. The neon Miller Lite and Detroit Lions signs left faint glowing trails of blue and white in his peripheral vision as he pushed his way out into the mild summer night.
He suppressed the cool midnight air with a Black clove cigarette. He basked in her fawning gaze while he cupped his hand over the lighter, enjoying the crackling burn of his first drag before offering her a slender cylinder of her own. In silence, they watched their breath diffuse into silver-white wisps slithering into the streetlight. He flicked his half-finished cigarette to the curb and sauntered over to his '99 Ford Mustang that his father had called 'Lightning Blue.' They could still hear the faint din of Friday from the bar half a block away when, feigning indifference, he gestured for her to get in.
While they ascended the second flight of beige-flecked carpet up to apartment 203, he pretended that she didn't notice the suffocating smell of cigarettes that seeped through the walls. They were silent while he fumbled for his keys. They were silent when he dropped his keys. Under his breath, he apologized for the mess; she dismissed it as nothing close to how bad hers was.
He watched her shimmy out of a light blue tube top with a bulimic hunger in his eyes. Her look was confident while begging for approval. He slid up against her hips, caressing the underside of her breast while nibbling on her left earlobe. Lowering her down onto the navy sheets, he whispered into her ear to be patient—good things come to those who wait. He left her with a kiss so soft it surprised them both.
Staring into his bathroom mirror, hating the buzzing fluorescent lights that flanked his reflection, he choked down three generic extra strength ibuprofen with a swallow of what used to be his father's favorite whiskey, tossing the empty glass over his shoulder without a second thought. It hit the curved corner of the blue bathtub, shattering with an odd softness as the slide around the bend cushioned its destruction. He pressed the palm of each of his hands into one eye socket, his back heaving at every halting breath. “Is this it?” he asked the shards of glass that lay scattered throughout the bathtub, still tinted caramel with whiskey atop the baby blue porcelain.
He suppressed the cool midnight air with a Black clove cigarette. He basked in her fawning gaze while he cupped his hand over the lighter, enjoying the crackling burn of his first drag before offering her a slender cylinder of her own. In silence, they watched their breath diffuse into silver-white wisps slithering into the streetlight. He flicked his half-finished cigarette to the curb and sauntered over to his '99 Ford Mustang that his father had called 'Lightning Blue.' They could still hear the faint din of Friday from the bar half a block away when, feigning indifference, he gestured for her to get in.
While they ascended the second flight of beige-flecked carpet up to apartment 203, he pretended that she didn't notice the suffocating smell of cigarettes that seeped through the walls. They were silent while he fumbled for his keys. They were silent when he dropped his keys. Under his breath, he apologized for the mess; she dismissed it as nothing close to how bad hers was.
He watched her shimmy out of a light blue tube top with a bulimic hunger in his eyes. Her look was confident while begging for approval. He slid up against her hips, caressing the underside of her breast while nibbling on her left earlobe. Lowering her down onto the navy sheets, he whispered into her ear to be patient—good things come to those who wait. He left her with a kiss so soft it surprised them both.
Staring into his bathroom mirror, hating the buzzing fluorescent lights that flanked his reflection, he choked down three generic extra strength ibuprofen with a swallow of what used to be his father's favorite whiskey, tossing the empty glass over his shoulder without a second thought. It hit the curved corner of the blue bathtub, shattering with an odd softness as the slide around the bend cushioned its destruction. He pressed the palm of each of his hands into one eye socket, his back heaving at every halting breath. “Is this it?” he asked the shards of glass that lay scattered throughout the bathtub, still tinted caramel with whiskey atop the baby blue porcelain.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
writing with flame in my mouth
it was past midnight
and the room was illuminated
only by my computer screen
and the soft orange tip of my cigarette,
shedding ash it into a mostly empty pint of ben & jerry's.
decadent.
thought these things
curbed that shit.
isn't that the trade off for
early death?
maybe the trade is death for
the right to watch wisps of gray
dissolve into and out of the soft glow
of laptop light amid darkness
in perfect
solitude.
life comes in little drops.
tongue outstretched, i
squeeze my eyes shut and wait
for moments that make meaning.
litany of loss.
lost cigarette leaves
tobacco and plaque tasting like
life, at midnight.
i run into cliches like the
unexpected door jamb on six drinks.
no ice.
i slog through false epiphanies
like so many valu-pak coupons and
bills i shouldn't pay
stacked sixteen inches deep on my
desk next to durkheim and
the filter soaking up thawed cream.
i brushed my teeth before i smoked.
i'll sleep with this.
and the room was illuminated
only by my computer screen
and the soft orange tip of my cigarette,
shedding ash it into a mostly empty pint of ben & jerry's.
decadent.
thought these things
curbed that shit.
isn't that the trade off for
early death?
maybe the trade is death for
the right to watch wisps of gray
dissolve into and out of the soft glow
of laptop light amid darkness
in perfect
solitude.
life comes in little drops.
tongue outstretched, i
squeeze my eyes shut and wait
for moments that make meaning.
litany of loss.
lost cigarette leaves
tobacco and plaque tasting like
life, at midnight.
i run into cliches like the
unexpected door jamb on six drinks.
no ice.
i slog through false epiphanies
like so many valu-pak coupons and
bills i shouldn't pay
stacked sixteen inches deep on my
desk next to durkheim and
the filter soaking up thawed cream.
i brushed my teeth before i smoked.
i'll sleep with this.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
It's all gonna break
The ice
on the
corner of
the roof
came cracking
down from
the second story,
plummeting towards
the gray concrete,
already wet from the
dripping water. The
great icicle-
three feet long!-
crumpled into the concrete,
finally breaking
with a much less
profound sound
than I thought
should accompany
the death of
that damned winter.
on the
corner of
the roof
came cracking
down from
the second story,
plummeting towards
the gray concrete,
already wet from the
dripping water. The
great icicle-
three feet long!-
crumpled into the concrete,
finally breaking
with a much less
profound sound
than I thought
should accompany
the death of
that damned winter.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I am found guilty of 'Reverence at an Inopportune Time'
Tom Petty comes on the radio and
we think of each other.
We think of your navy-blue sheets.
Jesus dies again and
we eat him again.
The meat was tender but
you were a vegetarian.
Your velvet navy-blue sheets
smelled like death everynight,
smelled like daffodils and death everynight.
Then they tore down the door with
fire-axes and crowbars, barking
orders in a language that
no one needed to understand.
They pulled me from your navy sheets
and doused me in lemon-scented bleach
in order to loosen my grip and my tongue.
They brought me to the empty
interrogation room with the
concrete walls, two way mirror and
the table from IKEA named Herman.
Now I am here, wishing that I remembered
all the names for my furniture.
The man with wide shoulders in the deep black uniform
with the golden buttons and icy trim
slaps me across the face, again and again,
backhand and forehand, palm then wedding ring,
until I confess that I don't even know
what a daffodil smells like.
we think of each other.
We think of your navy-blue sheets.
Jesus dies again and
we eat him again.
The meat was tender but
you were a vegetarian.
Your velvet navy-blue sheets
smelled like death everynight,
smelled like daffodils and death everynight.
Then they tore down the door with
fire-axes and crowbars, barking
orders in a language that
no one needed to understand.
They pulled me from your navy sheets
and doused me in lemon-scented bleach
in order to loosen my grip and my tongue.
They brought me to the empty
interrogation room with the
concrete walls, two way mirror and
the table from IKEA named Herman.
Now I am here, wishing that I remembered
all the names for my furniture.
The man with wide shoulders in the deep black uniform
with the golden buttons and icy trim
slaps me across the face, again and again,
backhand and forehand, palm then wedding ring,
until I confess that I don't even know
what a daffodil smells like.
Climb
A Buddhist monk in yellow-orange robes
is climbing the snow-covered face
of a moderate peak in the Himalayas
alone.
The day is so clear that the snow
looks like bright light, and he feels that,
if this world were not a transient pit of nothing,
he might be walking on the mountain
face of God.
The slope is not so steep that he needs pick-axes or pulleys.
He leans forward and steps surely as he ascends.
He does not fear death. He does not even wonder
what it might be like to be climbing
the Pyrenees instead.
He knows this peak is sacred. But he does wonder why
hot dog buns come in packs of 8, and hot dogs in packs of 10.
This has bothered him ever since he was young.
Ever since it was the first question that
his parents could not answer.
He was wearing a shirt with brightly colored
Japanese robots fighting across the front
when he walked into his parents' blue bedroom
and asked. They told him, “sometimes, we can't say just how or
why the world is.”
He thought they were wrong. A few years later,
he thought that maybe it was a good idea to
give up meat altogether. He thought,
“maybe I should leave New Jersey altogether,”
“maybe I'll find Peace in the East.”
Now he prays to the Eternal Buddha as he ascends.
Now he turns his copper toned prayer beads between thumb and forefinger
as the snow's crunch beneath his feet
echoes across the gorge.
is climbing the snow-covered face
of a moderate peak in the Himalayas
alone.
The day is so clear that the snow
looks like bright light, and he feels that,
if this world were not a transient pit of nothing,
he might be walking on the mountain
face of God.
The slope is not so steep that he needs pick-axes or pulleys.
He leans forward and steps surely as he ascends.
He does not fear death. He does not even wonder
what it might be like to be climbing
the Pyrenees instead.
He knows this peak is sacred. But he does wonder why
hot dog buns come in packs of 8, and hot dogs in packs of 10.
This has bothered him ever since he was young.
Ever since it was the first question that
his parents could not answer.
He was wearing a shirt with brightly colored
Japanese robots fighting across the front
when he walked into his parents' blue bedroom
and asked. They told him, “sometimes, we can't say just how or
why the world is.”
He thought they were wrong. A few years later,
he thought that maybe it was a good idea to
give up meat altogether. He thought,
“maybe I should leave New Jersey altogether,”
“maybe I'll find Peace in the East.”
Now he prays to the Eternal Buddha as he ascends.
Now he turns his copper toned prayer beads between thumb and forefinger
as the snow's crunch beneath his feet
echoes across the gorge.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Your Unwasted Summer
We watched the trees' shadows run from West to East
across the too-green, too-well trimmed lawn.
Trapped inside the air-conditioning,
wondering why rehab centers always have names that try to
hide the fact that they are rehab centers,
I would wait. I'd wait for you to
emerge triumphant from your room. Meal times
forced you out. But then your butterfly manners
and listening heart made us all
hate your fucking MCAT prep-book.
I used to imagine that, when you closed
your plain wooden door named “3”
you didn't open the book to study at all. You just kept
trying to lift the weight of it.
It would be placed firmly on the floor, and
you would bend down like a baseball catcher,
grasp the edges, and, in complete futility, heave
like everyone who pulled before Arthur,
as though God had reached down into Middle America with both hands,
grabbing you under each armpit with his enormous thumbs
and forefingers, pulling behind you as you strained in vain.
You'd try to get it up off the floor for two or three hundred hours
I mean minutes,
raise yourself up, wipe the sweat from your brow,
shrug, put it on the desk and come out
just in time for dinner.
I transparently feigned a hatred for MSU
just to keep you out of your cave and smiling for a bit longer.
But you would always retreat eventually, leaving me alone to stare down
the sterilized motivational posters, plastered against
the noxious baby blue wall paper, all illuminated by
the horrible buzzing fluorescent lights—underneath which
we used to drink the shitty, instant, decaf coffee from paper cups.
It was beautifully cliché, and I'm sure that was the point.
But you were a great rock, and you let it all
wash over you and recede like harmless surf.
And you were also the antirock, because
your smile leveled mountains,
then built them up inside of me;
you gave me weight.
I am a Giant Redwood,
and you chopped me down and made me look at my roots to
count all the powerful layers that make up my being.
You cleared out all my dead wood. You burnt down
everything that stole my chemistry. You buckled my seatbelt,
and told me everything would be OK, and I could be as big.
Then it killed you.
Not a death of allegory, but the kind with
autopsies and paperwork, prepackaged,
“we're so sorry your ____ is dead” Hallmark cards,
and endless reassurance that
“there was nothing more anyone could do,”
all set in motion by a series of
trembling phone calls to next of kin
that unravel out into a dream-catcher of grief,
crisscrossing the whole country.
All that's left now is a gravestone that
shouts in granite,
'we couldn't save you.'
Looking back, it feels like
I survived a car wreck in
six months of slow motion.
But I was in a different city,
so I didn't have to watch you be
jettisoned through the windshield
while my seatbelt engaged
across the too-green, too-well trimmed lawn.
Trapped inside the air-conditioning,
wondering why rehab centers always have names that try to
hide the fact that they are rehab centers,
I would wait. I'd wait for you to
emerge triumphant from your room. Meal times
forced you out. But then your butterfly manners
and listening heart made us all
hate your fucking MCAT prep-book.
I used to imagine that, when you closed
your plain wooden door named “3”
you didn't open the book to study at all. You just kept
trying to lift the weight of it.
It would be placed firmly on the floor, and
you would bend down like a baseball catcher,
grasp the edges, and, in complete futility, heave
like everyone who pulled before Arthur,
as though God had reached down into Middle America with both hands,
grabbing you under each armpit with his enormous thumbs
and forefingers, pulling behind you as you strained in vain.
You'd try to get it up off the floor for two or three hundred hours
I mean minutes,
raise yourself up, wipe the sweat from your brow,
shrug, put it on the desk and come out
just in time for dinner.
I transparently feigned a hatred for MSU
just to keep you out of your cave and smiling for a bit longer.
But you would always retreat eventually, leaving me alone to stare down
the sterilized motivational posters, plastered against
the noxious baby blue wall paper, all illuminated by
the horrible buzzing fluorescent lights—underneath which
we used to drink the shitty, instant, decaf coffee from paper cups.
It was beautifully cliché, and I'm sure that was the point.
But you were a great rock, and you let it all
wash over you and recede like harmless surf.
And you were also the antirock, because
your smile leveled mountains,
then built them up inside of me;
you gave me weight.
I am a Giant Redwood,
and you chopped me down and made me look at my roots to
count all the powerful layers that make up my being.
You cleared out all my dead wood. You burnt down
everything that stole my chemistry. You buckled my seatbelt,
and told me everything would be OK, and I could be as big.
Then it killed you.
Not a death of allegory, but the kind with
autopsies and paperwork, prepackaged,
“we're so sorry your ____ is dead” Hallmark cards,
and endless reassurance that
“there was nothing more anyone could do,”
all set in motion by a series of
trembling phone calls to next of kin
that unravel out into a dream-catcher of grief,
crisscrossing the whole country.
All that's left now is a gravestone that
shouts in granite,
'we couldn't save you.'
Looking back, it feels like
I survived a car wreck in
six months of slow motion.
But I was in a different city,
so I didn't have to watch you be
jettisoned through the windshield
while my seatbelt engaged
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Walt Whitman's Shirtsleeve
I am never buttoned.
My off-white cotton is too thick for cocktail parties,
and usually hangs in loose ruffles about his wrist.
But I am not a static portrait;
we are far too full to be a statue.
Rolled-up, I embrace the commanding curve of his bicep.
At full length, I kiss the supple curves of his lovers.
Pressed firmly at the small of her back,
caressing the cotton of her magenta dress,
we waltz endlessly to the cattle's low.
The olfactory impact of her lavender perfume might intoxicate,
were we not also bathed in this barn's dry scent of straw.
We dance out under weeping willows,
canopies of stars and wood.
Her violet fabric twirling billows
wider than I ever could.
But I too cannot be encompassed,
like da-Vinci's prostrate man.
An infinite undying fortress,
smaller than a grain of sand.
But those days now bygone fancy,
years that passed are half a score.
Now an age where all men can see
what the bayonet is for.
I hear them pray into the darkness,
what to do when friends 'come wraith?
Echoes back with frigid fullness,
guide thy hand with steadfast
indifference.
I heed their prayers.
Why fear the coming
metamorphosis?
Though the warp and weave in
tatters, I yearn not for
reattachment.
Now, I'm
serenaded everyday
with unbelievable
percussion.
Leave disenchantment to
dead poets and
the future.
I am brimming with rubies.
I embrace
the flood.
My off-white cotton is too thick for cocktail parties,
and usually hangs in loose ruffles about his wrist.
But I am not a static portrait;
we are far too full to be a statue.
Rolled-up, I embrace the commanding curve of his bicep.
At full length, I kiss the supple curves of his lovers.
Pressed firmly at the small of her back,
caressing the cotton of her magenta dress,
we waltz endlessly to the cattle's low.
The olfactory impact of her lavender perfume might intoxicate,
were we not also bathed in this barn's dry scent of straw.
We dance out under weeping willows,
canopies of stars and wood.
Her violet fabric twirling billows
wider than I ever could.
But I too cannot be encompassed,
like da-Vinci's prostrate man.
An infinite undying fortress,
smaller than a grain of sand.
But those days now bygone fancy,
years that passed are half a score.
Now an age where all men can see
what the bayonet is for.
I hear them pray into the darkness,
what to do when friends 'come wraith?
Echoes back with frigid fullness,
guide thy hand with steadfast
indifference.
I heed their prayers.
Why fear the coming
metamorphosis?
Though the warp and weave in
tatters, I yearn not for
reattachment.
Now, I'm
serenaded everyday
with unbelievable
percussion.
Leave disenchantment to
dead poets and
the future.
I am brimming with rubies.
I embrace
the flood.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Minnesota Robins
Fiery red breasts
bulging with tenacity,
likely as any dragon's
to hide a torrent of flames.
Staring at the defiant patches of browned grass,
I'm certain they are responsible.
Some days I love their presence,
hopping on the lawn like
dancing flames freed of their candles.
But oftentimes I am shamed in their presence,
as their unflagging industry
fixes a stony, disapproving glare
on the inconstancy of
our once and future selves.
bulging with tenacity,
likely as any dragon's
to hide a torrent of flames.
Staring at the defiant patches of browned grass,
I'm certain they are responsible.
Some days I love their presence,
hopping on the lawn like
dancing flames freed of their candles.
But oftentimes I am shamed in their presence,
as their unflagging industry
fixes a stony, disapproving glare
on the inconstancy of
our once and future selves.
everything ineffable
I saw you
the other day,
but I was afraid
to announce
your presence.
I was afraid,
because I was
worried that
saying where I saw you would
betray everywhere I don't see you.
Everything makes me collapse,
but thank God that everything also
makes me bloom again.
I will defy you. Whoever the fuck you are.
I will resist you. I will embrace you.
You can't stop me; you can't contain me'
you can't encompass me, because nothing can,
but I embrace you. You are me. Think you aren't?
If I can't dive into your depths as easily
as I can into mine, then all is for naught.
But even the frost on my window has a purpose.
Labyrinthine nonsense coalesces into nothing.
But shows that the seemingly endless black
is really the depth of endless Being.
The love for which
is the nature of true virtue.
Probe what you think is nonsense; probe everything, lest it was time wasted here.
the other day,
but I was afraid
to announce
your presence.
I was afraid,
because I was
worried that
saying where I saw you would
betray everywhere I don't see you.
Everything makes me collapse,
but thank God that everything also
makes me bloom again.
I will defy you. Whoever the fuck you are.
I will resist you. I will embrace you.
You can't stop me; you can't contain me'
you can't encompass me, because nothing can,
but I embrace you. You are me. Think you aren't?
If I can't dive into your depths as easily
as I can into mine, then all is for naught.
But even the frost on my window has a purpose.
Labyrinthine nonsense coalesces into nothing.
But shows that the seemingly endless black
is really the depth of endless Being.
The love for which
is the nature of true virtue.
Probe what you think is nonsense; probe everything, lest it was time wasted here.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
“nothing like having your thorax split open to make you feel bad”
I heard it from the 'barista' here,
but I don't like that word because
it makes me think of Starbucks.
This is not a Starbucks.
The oversized Christmas lights in the windows
are not a seasonal decoration.
The counter is cluttered with local artists' gaudy jewelery
and the business cards of everyone who ever asked.
The wide opening to the kitchen—much more than a door—
yawns unapologetically right behind the counter.
Everything fits together like a jigsaw puzzle,
regular customers as comfortable as in their own living room,
mismatched furniture, including a bright orange couch with frayed armrests,
and every knick-knack with any kind of reference to coffee you can imagine.
Yes. Every one.
Everything exhales a wonderful fragrance of cliché and home,
swirling in concentric air-currents around the holy of holies,
the bathroom. A glass box in the sky, walls baby blue
with vaporous wisps of white twirling round.
There's even a bright green beanstalk growing out of the floor.
Everything perfect.
I close my eyes, fall through the floor
into God.
but I don't like that word because
it makes me think of Starbucks.
This is not a Starbucks.
The oversized Christmas lights in the windows
are not a seasonal decoration.
The counter is cluttered with local artists' gaudy jewelery
and the business cards of everyone who ever asked.
The wide opening to the kitchen—much more than a door—
yawns unapologetically right behind the counter.
Everything fits together like a jigsaw puzzle,
regular customers as comfortable as in their own living room,
mismatched furniture, including a bright orange couch with frayed armrests,
and every knick-knack with any kind of reference to coffee you can imagine.
Yes. Every one.
Everything exhales a wonderful fragrance of cliché and home,
swirling in concentric air-currents around the holy of holies,
the bathroom. A glass box in the sky, walls baby blue
with vaporous wisps of white twirling round.
There's even a bright green beanstalk growing out of the floor.
Everything perfect.
I close my eyes, fall through the floor
into God.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
all those who came after
Sometimes I hurl them
into a great furnace,
flames lapping flesh
from bone like
popsicles in August.
Now and again
I am Vlad,
and they are my rats—
or disloyal subjects—
but usually rats.
Occasionally,
if I'm feeling pedestrian,
I simply knock them into the brick wall
on the opposite side of the street,
leaving a spiderweb of fractures.
But today, I just yawn,
and with only half-feigned indifference,
I ask about the weather,
coursework, and if
she likes the new apartment.
into a great furnace,
flames lapping flesh
from bone like
popsicles in August.
Now and again
I am Vlad,
and they are my rats—
or disloyal subjects—
but usually rats.
Occasionally,
if I'm feeling pedestrian,
I simply knock them into the brick wall
on the opposite side of the street,
leaving a spiderweb of fractures.
But today, I just yawn,
and with only half-feigned indifference,
I ask about the weather,
coursework, and if
she likes the new apartment.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
her orange shoes
seemed so utterly out of place
in the inescapable february gray.
caught helplessly
between the end of football season and
the advent of march madness,
punctuated by Hallmark's reminder
that, for at least one day,
the gift card industry can make
eight out of ten americans miserable,
the second page makes me shudder—
but also makes me
THANK GOD FOR THE CALENDAR.
it's square boxes confine it to only four rows of
waist-deep, slate-toned slush to trudge through.
i need the divisive power,
lest the evils ooze on into infinity.
i also need her orange shoes.
she can keep them, but
i need her to have them.
they weren't even crocs.
in the inescapable february gray.
caught helplessly
between the end of football season and
the advent of march madness,
punctuated by Hallmark's reminder
that, for at least one day,
the gift card industry can make
eight out of ten americans miserable,
the second page makes me shudder—
but also makes me
THANK GOD FOR THE CALENDAR.
it's square boxes confine it to only four rows of
waist-deep, slate-toned slush to trudge through.
i need the divisive power,
lest the evils ooze on into infinity.
i also need her orange shoes.
she can keep them, but
i need her to have them.
they weren't even crocs.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
abiding
even after the third washing,
my hands still smell of
barbecue sauce.
the irremovable smell and
deep burgundy pollution
stuck under my fingernails
is not at all like original sin.
it's much closer to sweet baby ray's
than anything else.
it is certainly not akin to
anything that brutus
wiped from his hands to his toga.
it is far too savory to be
anything like the lingering,
astringent taste of shame.
no, it is just barbecue sauce.
my hands still smell of
barbecue sauce.
the irremovable smell and
deep burgundy pollution
stuck under my fingernails
is not at all like original sin.
it's much closer to sweet baby ray's
than anything else.
it is certainly not akin to
anything that brutus
wiped from his hands to his toga.
it is far too savory to be
anything like the lingering,
astringent taste of shame.
no, it is just barbecue sauce.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
the room of sun
The 'dining room,'
in the house where I grew up,
is mislabeled.
I always knew,
but the naming of things
seemed to me
the realm of grown-ups.
It was the room of cats,
squinting contentedly
as they bathed in the
commonplace splendor
of the mid-morning sun.
In fact, it was the room of sun;
the sliding glass doors
breathed in warmth and light—
like a child filling her lungs
before her journey to the bottom of the pool.
It was the room of the New York Times;
though it was Wednesday, the Sunday edition
still sprawled across the tablecloth,
the gloss of the magazine glistened
amid the pile of coarser grays and blacks.
It was the room of lazy mornings and coffee,
of slow reading and hope,
of life, love and of
everything that has ever
shone like the sun.
in the house where I grew up,
is mislabeled.
I always knew,
but the naming of things
seemed to me
the realm of grown-ups.
It was the room of cats,
squinting contentedly
as they bathed in the
commonplace splendor
of the mid-morning sun.
In fact, it was the room of sun;
the sliding glass doors
breathed in warmth and light—
like a child filling her lungs
before her journey to the bottom of the pool.
It was the room of the New York Times;
though it was Wednesday, the Sunday edition
still sprawled across the tablecloth,
the gloss of the magazine glistened
amid the pile of coarser grays and blacks.
It was the room of lazy mornings and coffee,
of slow reading and hope,
of life, love and of
everything that has ever
shone like the sun.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Of Profanity and Apple-Fruits
What more appropriate title
could I have found
for the first post
on this 'innocuous blog,'
which is a phrase that
seems oxymoronic, as
'innocuous blog' makes
me think of only
cancer and death.
But this is a blog of Gods and life. Of people and fruits; of poor punctuation and few worries; of beer and of record players; of baselines and of clouds; of cantatas and distortion; of gods and women; of God and dogs; of snow and of lightning- if it is not as much yours as it is mine it is nothing or next to nothing.
could I have found
for the first post
on this 'innocuous blog,'
which is a phrase that
seems oxymoronic, as
'innocuous blog' makes
me think of only
cancer and death.
But this is a blog of Gods and life. Of people and fruits; of poor punctuation and few worries; of beer and of record players; of baselines and of clouds; of cantatas and distortion; of gods and women; of God and dogs; of snow and of lightning- if it is not as much yours as it is mine it is nothing or next to nothing.
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