In Glorious Response

(Advice poster #3 in the writing center: "Always write – and read – with the ear, not the eye. You should hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.")

What does it mean, “if it doesn’t sounds nice.”
Must it sound pretty and nice,
as sweet to the ear as chocolate is to the tongue?
What if a sentence is bitter, soured by death and pain and fear?
It shouldn’t play nicely on the ear
Like an over-sweet rhyme
“If it doesn’t sound right, try again,”
sounds nicer than “nice.”

Precision is obscurity’s doppelganger.
“A square is a square! I see it precisely.”
Geometry sits passenger-side, shotgun ready,
And shoots deer from a pickup truck near
The forest of semantics.
From the road, Geometry shouts,
“A tree is triangle not a cone! A deer, a square quadruped
Riddled with my cylindrical
(bang!)
Now circular
Slugs.”
Precision grasps the steering wheel,
Revs the engine
And turns
To laugh with Geometry as
They bumble along what mapmakers call
A perfect and straight country road.

Perception is but a daydream of truth.
A black cloud, a bitter wind
That suddenly, sweetly, ruffles the hair
Of a child who ducks under a slick tire-swing
And spins, arms out, in a sort of wet rain
That drenches the rich black earth of an
Iowan cornfield,
That rusts the iron of a barbed, brush entangled fence.

Philosophical Problems

Formidable
My foe sits on cowls, cloaks
and confessional masks
naked
wasted, silent and frail.
Sits on grey cathedral steps.

Enticed
Doors open, they swirl and coalesce,
crowd and edge closer
to the beggar
naked
sitting on their chapel steps.

Defeat
I tear at their coats and scream
“your children, your homes!”
but trip on a cane and tumble
down their steps; I have lost
them.

Hope
The crowd parts. The beggar, my Foe,
naked
descends the chapel steps. Raises
my cowl, my cloak, my confessional
match.
I catch and burn.

Camp 2006

I attended Upper Peninsula Bible Camp's family camp this week. After two trains, one bus, a five mile walk, the movie "Miami Vice," and one four hour car-ride I happily arrived at camp tucked in pines and undergrowth by an aptly named "Little Lake." I spent the week either sitting by lake reading or swimming in its murky waters. Dead Souls by Gogol is hilarious and its genius characters would make a wonderful timepiece comedy. Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard is a profound piece of exposition on existence and faith, build on paradox, anguish, and honest inquiry. I haven't finished The Sound and The Fury by Faulkner and as of yet haven't grasped much of the plot hidden in Faulkner's stream of consciousness style, but perhaps the plot will become clearer later. I read in the shade on a wooden swing painted brown. I swam in cool water that smelled of fish and aquatic vegetation.

It has been four years since I last attended UPBC. Four years since I last talked to my friends there, and most of them have left camp themselves. Only two remain, both now on staff. One found his wife at camp, the other perhaps a sense of purpose. Regardless, when I arrived both were either busy re-roofing or were otherwise engaged. So I was left to my books, my family, and the lake. Later in the week a girl I once knew appeared at camp, but I never found the nerve to talk to her. I could never talk to her before. My hesitation was simply a carry over from the past. Strange how some places, some people inspire feelings, fears, and attitudes that don't dwindle with time.

But what good are northern forests and their lakes without their solitude? The weather shifts swiftly from warm to cool, from sun to rain. Creatures dash about ferns and trees, spew noxious perfumes, and buzz about with the sole purpose of raising welts on unsuspecting victims. Everything changes, everything seems chaotic, but patterns hide in plain sight like how dappled shadows overlay meshed pine needles and dirt. Nature is downright philosophical - concerned with life, death, and little else.

I enjoyed reading at camp and talking about literature with a middle aged South African woman who currently seeks her PhD in rhetoric at Northwestern and heads the English department at Trinity University in Chicago. Every morning before chapel we sat and talked about whatever was on her mind, be it Katrina, political language, South Africa, or what should constitute an English curriculum. No translations. Learn the French and read Camus and Sartre in the French department, for goodness sake. David Carruth, she salutes you. I suppose it makes sense though. Her father studied Chinese and Russian, only to settle on Zulu as his dominant second language.

Of course, it was a Bible camp and there were two chapels a day. The morning meetings concerned the Fruits of the Spirit. I must admit that love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faith, gentleness, and self-control are beautiful qualities. I still doubt the statement that only Christians exemplify these traits, but in some regards I agree with the doctrine of moral stagnancy outside of an external force. I cannot increase my love for others or self-control no matter how hard I try. Combine this series of lectures with Fear and Trembling, and perhaps I have an avenue to God and change. Time will tell.

I left a day early with my sister. The drive is long and she wanted company for the trip, so I obliged. I had no reason to stay. So now I’m back to my computer and a new anthology of contemporary poetry I hope browse in search of inspiration.

Evolution Has Painful Consequences

I went to the zoo Saturday. Lincoln Zoo in Chicago is small. It houses a few hundred animals from seals and bats to tigers and gorillas. My favorite exhibit was the primate house. Agile gibbons danced and flipped about fake vines, and a large baboon stalked proudly in his environment. One animal, however, scared me.

The Geoffrey Tamarin has a stark black face flecked with white and a ruddy red mane. One tamarin looked remarkably human, and its beady black eyes stared out of the cage. This human resemblance continued as the tamarin moved, walked, and bounced around bushes and trees. The tamarin was a veritable mini-human with a flowing red cape and a tail! No wonder some people think we descended from these creatures. All they lack is some sort of language, and even that they might have, as no one has ever managed to interpret a primate's chirps and yells.

But what happened next may shock you. The tamarin I was watching jumped from the back of the habitat, dashed across a branch, and landed on the wire mesh directly in front of me.

"Quick, Quick, come here!" the tamarin whispered. I was shocked. The little primate's dash had startled me, but his speech nearly sent me into shock. Not the fact that he spoke, but the fact that he had an accent. A Spanish accent.

"Come here, man! Before they see me!" My tamarin glanced from side to side. He looked afraid, and began beckoning me closer with his hands. I took a few steps closer and bent down until I was looking into the tamarin's eyes.

"Uhh, you speak?" I knew the question was stupid, but what else do you say to a monkey?

"Stupid question," the monkey whispered and then muttered something about the quality of education these days.

"I need you to bring me something, man. I need a fresh banana. They only serve nuts and small crickets in this joint."

"And you couldn't ask your zookeeper?" I asked. I didn't want to be saddled with this mundane task, as it was getting late and I still hadn't visited the Bat and Snake House.

"You’re talking about the waiter, yeah? I asked him, but the guy fainted, man, and when he woke up he didn't remember my order! But this is necessary! I don't want my brothers to find out I talked to you. They get rough when anyone gets special treatment. I might get neutered!" The tamarin broke away from our conversation at this point.

"Don't forget, man, fresh bananas!" he shot back as he dashed up a tree.

"Aahh, a banana?" I thought. "Where am I going to get a banana?" I didn't want to leave the zoo. Luckily, as I turned to leave the exhibit, a tamarin bounced up and yelled at me.

"Hey, did I ask you for a banana?" I looked at the tamarin closely. I stared at his features, his freakishly human features, and couldn't tell if this tamarin was the one I spoke to before. He might be a vengeful brother seeking incriminating information. He might have a neutering tool hidden on his person. I didn't want to be responsible for neutering a talking monkey.

"A banana?" I feigned ignorance, hoping his next sentence might reveal some identifying bit of information.

"Yes, a fresh banana." the tamarin repeated, annoyed at the repetition. At this point I knew this was a different tamarin. His accent was Irish.

“No…no…you’re not the same monkey I talked to before!” I stammered in surprise. The Irish tamarin glared at me, as if I had betrayed vital evidence.

“He asked you for a banana, didn’t he? Diego, Diego, Diego. When will you learn that the pursuit of selfish favors can never be hidden from the community’s watchful eyes? When will you learn that actions have consequences? Dire consequences.” The Irish tamarin looked pointedly at me and slowly raised his tail. It held scissors. “It’s an offence a monkey could loose his manhood over,” the Irish monkey stated, and in an instant he turned and dashed, howling to the back of the cage with scissors.

I never looked back, and ever since that incident I’ve always know the humanity, and inhumanity, dwelling in every monkey’s heart.

Why I Don't Like Opinions

I was three months old
when my mother took me to the doctor.
I was dressed in blue pajamas,
and my mother wore frayed jean shorts
and a flowery pink top.
“He moves in his sleep,” my mother told
the doctor, who sat legs crossed,
his shiny black-rimmed glasses hanging
off his nose, his pencil hovering
over a pad of paper.
“He rocks back and forth,
waffling like that for an hour every night,” she explained.

The doctor repositioned his glasses
and scribbled a note. “He’ll grow out of it in time,”
intoned the doctor.
He stood up and sat down again. Small talk
and general inquiries filled
the final twenty five minutes of the visit.
That night, my mother placed my
blue pajama body in a bundle
of warm blankets, and
I waffled until sleep stole my waking moments.

My father had a friend who rocked like me.
He was charismatic. Conversations were his love
and humor his tool to make them alive.
“He would take over a room. It was amazing
how all eyes would follow him,” my father
would say, his eyes brightened
by the memory’s light.
My father loved this man
and would likely still call him
“best friend” if he hadn’t died from brain cancer
at the age of thirty-two.

“You will grow out of it,” my mother exclaimed
the morning my bedroom door inadvertently
swung open to reveal my body waffling back
and forth. I stepped over dirty,
black athletic shorts to shut the door
and went back to bed.
“You will grow out of it,” my father firmly insisted,
as he mentioned his friend who had
died of brain cancer caused by rocking.
I turn twenty-one today, and I still rock or waffle.

Only eleven years left.

Care’s Wrought Vine

A bag of wind, violence wrapped in canvas,
armoire brown and tall, antique as a distant solar wind
caught between one Castor, one Pollux searching for home,
is placed in the hands of a sailor, strong, tall,
tanned by Trundholm, and worn like fig leaves
bound by the sins of yesterday, the sins of April.
Shocks of twine bind the leather mouth, a mouth
caught by torments, the Tantalus, the tapeworm writhing,
all bought the mind of Hamlet and none of Macbeth.
A Stone’s Story extended by thesis, death extended by
wails and tears.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Violence wrapped in canvas, sheathed in stone,
dreams of beaten mares and chases buggies to the curb,
stings the whip of madness to the eyes, sings verses onto
yellow paper, inked notes from air. Dreams of
wrapping arms around the house’s head and fields
of blood to graze it. Betrayal is a perfect thing
which breaks the waves of doubt to help a hamlet
entertain Macbeth with bread and wine, a white wine
served chilled like the blood in my veins.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Death steals horses like an evening thief, leads them to villages
tucked in fog and hills behind the Himalayas.
My shoes are steel! My feet are gone! My chariot digs
its feet in mud and rocks, and I shall be buried in it.
My bag of wind has blown to the sun, that heel of a sun
who blinds Castor, hides Pollux and burns the canvas,
but the twine, ah, the twine is in my hand. It twists like
vines, now binds my hands and roots my feet in something
similar to silence.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Claymores

Whoever compared the pen to the sword
knew what they were doing. Seriously,
today it's been a battle just to hold
the pen. Claymores would be half as heavy,
tired even before the fight began.
This white page is innocent. Pull the pen
along and watch the page bleed and again
hear the screams pierce a now wounded silence.
On the battlefield, sadistically slash
the wounded again, tracing, retracing,
widening gaping wounds. Madly drive the
pen left or right to the center of things.
Silence dies on the edge of a pen. It's
a battle just to hold the pen today,
because when silence screams, it deafens;
silence reborn in the form of blotted ink.

Draw

Where does the imagination draw me?
Does it draw me over bridges ascending
to meanings stuffed in clouds? Does it
draw me wisdom dipped deep from wells
worn with time? Does it draw me a figure,
molded lines formed to fit a 3 or 9?

But if imagination draws me on and over
rising bridges, am I not the one who
unpacks the clouds? Am I not the one
who draws wisdom like water from echoing
holes? For in the end, I own the figure
imagination draws. I draw myself.

Madness Built A House Next Door

Madness built a house next door
and its windows are twisted and
shuttered. On the front door
a raging dragon is perched like
a sparrow. With each knock
the dragon's maelstrom mouth
bites wood like a thunderclap.

Madness built a house next door
and its porch is ancient and
cluttered. On the roof, shingles
simmer like scales and chimneys
line the ridge. With each gnawing
knock at the door, flame and smoke
bloom skyward like red flowers.

Madness built a house next door
and its siding smiles a worn and
tired smile. And I built a hedge to
hide the smiling, weary home from
wandering eyes; a green hedge
my children played in when the
knocker struck the door.

And now I bear the dragon’s teeth
and knock on Madness’ door. On
pains of glass, I see my children
walking within the walls. With
each knock the children laugh, and
so I enter an empty home to find
Reason and a Hope.

Valentines Day

I took a walk and stole a beat
from a languid tune.
My battered heart hummed
as my feet paced in pace with
a song.

"Love is in the air," she sang.
"Mist is in the air," I whispered.
Black trousers, black shoes,
a black suit-coat, and last
a rose in breast pocket.

Subdued, I walked to your house.
Your father greeted me and surprised me
with a hug. Your sister listened
to the falling rain. "She's sleeping now,"
your mother said.

In the mist and rain, we left
the house as ants in rank and file,
desperate not to drown. The car's engine
hummed. "Love is life!" it seemed
to sing.

February 14th and a party to
attend. People gathered round
as a gentleman raised a serpent's
cup and proposed a toast in
your honor.

Hearts accompanied you, not music
as you were lowered down.
Each beat bled because you were broken,
bled red like the rose in breast pocket
I placed upon your coffin.

Birthday

I hate this bookshelf
you made for me.
All beviled edges and smooth
like the day I met you,
dressed to impress.

You impressed me with
the beautiful designs.
The bookshelf was empty then
and no expectations. Only hopes
to fill the shelves.

I hate this bookshelf
you made for me.
Because
This year you made excuses
and now my bookshelf's walls
are bookends. The old
books fused between
the shelves.

The new lay
abandoned on the floor.

Throw Off the Worlds That Rest Upon Your Frame

Throw off the worlds that rest upon your frame
And shrug the atlas from your failing mind.
Weights, the Captives chained and weary, fully lame
As earthen are the links, the thoughts, that bind.
My house, its sleeping couches, is no longer home.
The street, its once sweet sounds, I hear no more.
I cease to read the words of ancient tome,
A book of hidden wisdom and dusty lore.
Who would not chase the scent of "I" in breeze
And walk descending path's identities,
For golden blood flows out, it slows and seize
A breath for freedom’s hopes and memories.
But bonds are safe and safety fast confines.
The Air, the Earth know meter and the rhymes.

Update On My Life

Nothing has changed. Seriously.

Update on my other vicarious lives:

The all knowing computer whipped my genetic code from its database. I no longer exist and miss myself already.

In a blizzard, a callous economic decision has placed my various troll identities into catatonic states. Revival any time soon is unlikely.

The Me inside my head turned into Sonic the hedgehog during a nap I took. I ran though an arching hall, much like the space station in 2001: A Space Oddyssey. However, the hall was filled with people meandering around like a sporting event was going on. I was dodging everyone really well. Then I woke up.

And there you have it. And entirely irrelevant post.

Dirt Roads

The boy wasn't very bright. The villagers always laughed at him when he chased chickens all the while calling them pettycoats. He refused to swim in still water because breaking mirrors brought bad luck. They laughed. When ornate carriagies bounced their way though town, the boy ran along side doing cartwheels in the mud. The villagers only laughed if the carriage didn't stop.

But one did stop. The villagers formed a semi-circle around the door in an effort to properly greet the dignitary who had graciously stopped. They also attempted to hide the boy, smothering him with arms and torsos. The carraige door opened and out came a lavously dressed man. One long red feather flourished from his hat and white frills encased his jewel encrusted hands. The dirt face villagers in aprons and jerkins lowered their heads in deference, and, in doing so thought, "How polished this man's shoes are!"

Only one head remained upright. The boy looked at the man and grinned. It was a silly grin fit for moments like grinning at grunting pigs, caught fish, or pretty girls behind their backs. It was not a grin fit for royalty.

The villagers, who's eyes remained firmly on those shining shoes, were startled to hear a sword unsheathed. Afraid of feeling the sword sheathed in something so unpleasent as their bodies, the villagers huddled lower. "His shoes have little spikes!"

The boy kept on grinning. The man frowned. Usually a show of violence effectively restored a sense of propriety. And thus he spoke.

"Your name, boy," the man's frills shook as he spoke. Even so, the villagers couldn't take their eyes off the man's cleats.

"Einstein, sir!" the boy's grin grew brighter. The villagers never spoke to him. Who was this marvelous man?

"And what's your name, sir?"

"Sir Isaac Newton."

"What a fabulous name, sir! And what do you do? Shoot pheasants? Chase skirts?" the boy inquired with all the impertinence born in a stable.

Apparently the boy's grin and frank questions won the Sir Isaac Newton over. "Why, I am a great swordsman. The arc my weapon makes is...perfect."

"A swordsman, sir? I should have though you to be a scientist...Who would ever take to being skewered by a Newton? No no. You must give up weapons and count apples."

Sir Isaac Newton laughted. "A little kindness never hurt anybody," he thought as he flipped his fine sword over and presented it to the boy. "Besides, I have pleny of others."

The boy took the sword and gasped, "It's sharp!"

The villagers were right. He wasn't very bright.