Finally Southern

change over time

2011-09-02T09:55:00.002-07:00

i have to make friends
with strangers, just to appear
that i'm still myself

change over time

2011-09-02T09:55:00.001-07:00

i have to make friends
with strangers, just to appear
that i'm still myself

It is the Memory Factory

2011-06-15T02:30:00.000-07:00

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
table: surrender's sleep at last.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For the bright partition of clouds.
For jungle air darked blue by the shade
of a billion teeming canopies.

Or the best part,
of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's first.

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old laughter,
the playground of a child's mind
and decade designated memorabilia.

There it is

just dont

2011-06-15T00:43:00.001-07:00

There’s an Applebee’s across the way
and my grandpa always told me never go there
its full of creeps and wives and spitting children
there’s grime on the walls and grudge in their hearts
its a terrible place with decent bacon, he said.
of course i went there,
of course i did because he told me not to.
and when i came out, there was blood on my hands
and on my shirt, what was left of it.
and so i took a picture of myself,
looking like a newborn baby - all bloodied -
so that when i told my children never to go there,
they’d fuckin’ listen.

National Identity At Last

2011-02-20T08:44:00.000-08:00

I had a sentiment once:

I saw a black man in a suit,
jumping from a cliff into a lake,
and there were mountains
in the background, covered
in trees the color of autumn
at dinner time.
The sunset was every color purple,
and he was falling fast
with a giant American flag
in his grip, and a grin
the size of the grand canyon.

Below, his friends,
also wearing suits,
cheered from the deck
of a boat
wavering on the surface
of a sheet of
glassy
black
water,
reflecting the white flash
of handheld fire crackers,
an intense, pulsating glow -
fire-colored fire flies -
from embers
of deeply inhaled
joints;
the collective shimmer of
celebration.

Splash.

Their beer bottles clinked and
their spirits flowed overboard
as they helped him to the
deck, extending a beer
for their sopping friend
and I thought,

this must be the place.

Untitled

2011-02-20T08:43:00.000-08:00

I went to my friend's house
and let myself inside.

He was reading.

"What's up man?
What are you
doing?"

"Learnin'."

"Oh yeah?
About what?"

"God and stuff."

I grabbed an apple
from the counter
and sat
down next to my
friend.

"God - and stuff..."

"Yeah, well, I'm reading.
Can't quite elaborate, can I?"

"Guess not."

I crunched my apple
and flicked on the TV
while I waited for him
to stop learning.

"Could you stop that, please," he asked.

Mouth full of apple I blurted, "stop what?"

"The TV. And the apple. I'm trying to learn."

"Lemme tell you something, man.
What's there to learn?"

"That's a question."

"That's not an answer."

I turned my apple
against my teeth,
eyeing my friend,
watching him think.
I bit down
just before he
spoke.

"Sheesh. What's there to learn?
Loads. Does god exist or not?
Can he exist? What are his qualities?
Where does morality come from
if it doesn't come from god? If
god created the universe, then
who created him? What
can abiogensis tell us about
the creation of life?
Does the presence
of the forbidden
fruit in the garden
of eden suggest that
god knew man would fail?
Is supernaturality a
logical contradic -"

"Okay, okay. Alright.
Jesus.
Sorry I asked."

"Lemme ask YOU something."

"What."

"Do you believe in god?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Science."

"You can't just say 'science.'"

"I can and I did."

"Well, extrapolate. For my sake."

He folded the book closed.
I bit my apple and started
talking while I ate.

"Every fucking thing in the world
can be better explained
by science than by
religion of any kind."

I swallowed and repeated, "everything."

"Really. Everything...?"

I nodded and he proposed,
"The ceation of the universe."

"Big bang."

"And before that?"

"Don't know."

"See."

"See what."

"Science can't explain it."

"What can?"

I chewed my apple
all the way down
to the core
unti there was
nothing left but
the seed
while my friend
sat
ruminating.

"God dammit," he said.

I popped the
seed in my
mouth
and obliterated it
with my
teeth.

"You're god damned right."

The power of prayer

2011-01-10T04:34:00.000-08:00

beaten by gunfire -
a wake full of silences
buried by the Rest.

Peach Poem

2010-04-29T16:22:00.000-07:00

When you have a peach,
what do you do?
Do you squeeze it and mash it
up against your teeth?
Do you grip it heavy and
rough like a ball and leave
dents with your fingers
as you switch hands?
Do you sniff it and tease it
a little bit before easing
it into your mouth?
Do you suck all the juice
before it drips down
your wrists, and into the
pit of your arm?
Do you let the warm sugary
blood from the fruit
glide willingly down
to the floor?

I've seen a knife taken
right to its core.
I've seen it peeled and
skinned alive.
I've seen the fibers grasp
at air.
I've seen skinless yellow
flesh without a hair.
I've seen it in the hands
of women.
I've seen it lay
by the wayside.
I've seen it sour
like a lemon.
I've seen it in the hands
of men, devoured
like a clementine.

That isn't all.
I haven't seen it all.

So what do you do with a peach?
Watch next time.

From the Light-Hearted to the Grave

2010-04-23T12:22:00.000-07:00

Often we find ourselves asked who we are, and in a rush to communicate the most apropos of answers, we inevitably dramatize our own lives.
Everyone word is immediately made concrete.
Every opinion or belief is painted on our forehead, immovable, immutable.
If accuracy is the goal, does it really matter what we say, or how we say it?
To some degree, yes.
But considering how impossible a task it is to describe to others, much less to ourselves, exactly who we are, I say it matters little what you say, and a great deal more how you say it.
Don't we find our personality in between our words, in and between our breaths, our gesticulations, our mannerisms and our tics, in every in-between?
This is an old idea, but it has freshness still.
In fact, the way things are going, it seems this old idea is only ripening, fattening up and plumping in bulk and pulp, making droop whatever branch on which it has grown for millennia.
I believe that what you'll find in fiercely honest responses is a stark comparison between you the listener, and him the responder.

One must only possess the patience to listen, and a healthy curiosity towards other people's stories.

So, I'll ask myself on your behalf: who am I?

Put it this way - I love cats, for example.
I will try to like any cat I see.
Even the bitch cats.
The ones who hiss and give that guttural groan because they hate you.
The bloody, beat-up ones in the allies with scabs and scrappy diseases.
The skittish ones with spiking hair, and a good sense to run away, but an ignorance to know what from.
The ones who will meet you in the hot brush of the jungle and paralyze you with their beaming yellow eyes, then swiftly gulp down your head and fatly grin.
I will try to like them because I am a lover of cats.

I am a lover of humans all the more.
I will try to like you, too - man or woman, young or old, however you come.
I will try, and I will sometimes fail.
Somewhere, though, in the flux of my emotions and my reasoning, in the place that weighs information against information and makes a calculated or miscalculated decision, there harbors at least the chance that I will like you.
(Most of the time, though, chance will be a last resort. Most of the time you'll be able to rely on your merit, your integrity, your courteousness and your generosity. Chance will be buried under the positive qualities and good looks you possess; your ear for music and your taste for food; your consistent loyalty and tolerant demeanor. Most of the time, chance will have never a need.)
From that point we will be connected.
We will have gripped space and time and made a knot of the two, strangling the moment, seizing our lives.
And while we coexist, however we coexist, our alliance will be borne of this intercourse, and you will know how I feel about you, and likewise I will know your thoughts of me.
Then, after having learned enough about each other to teach it, we will begin to communicate as animals: wordless and physical, straightforward and efficient, immediate and stable, supportive and fun.
Respect itself will marvel between us, but we will hardly notice its gawking.
Instead, our black holes will point themselves forward - two pairs pulling at parallel futures.

Even when out of earshot, out of sight and out of mind, we will have a sense of knowing, of connaissance, for another person that will blow away the perennial fog of loneliness, when and if it's felt.
Upon our (hopefully) countless reunions will resume the language of old friends: enormous detail, mutually inclusive anecdotes, splitting laughter - and joy.
And before we're even conscious of it, the combined force of our black holes will pull apart from the center any sense of awkwardness, of fear or insecurity, of strangeness that may have built upon our absences from one another.
We will both cry the same tear, for the same purpose.

And then it will happen: one of us and then the other will away.

Our pure black holes will stall, blurred by sadness, and rest woefully on frozen skin.

And in our mourning, mine or yours, with one hand at the mouth, and the other on the coffin, our lips will draw a wide smile, that at its corner will collect a single tear, because we knew we meant the best, and made the most.

It's nice to meet you.

Calm Calamity

2010-04-23T12:15:00.000-07:00

People are awfully calm,
considering that at any moment
an earthquake might begin,
and there goes your pen and paper,
your New York Times,
your Ethiopian coffee beans,
your daughter,
your left leg,
your right brain,
your desire to live.

But then again,
you could always win the lottery.

Man

2010-04-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

I survive on bricks of
coastal salt.
There's always sand underneath
my nails.
I never wear clothes anywhere
I go;
I just let the breeze hang out in the
hairs on my head and chest.

I flex and shove my face
into the water, open my eyes,
and bite down into a struggling fish,
guts everywhere.
I'm tough as fuck.

haiku

2009-09-15T00:15:00.000-07:00

beautifully removed:
the cricket and the oak tree
relax without me

Up in a Down World

2009-06-16T23:03:00.001-07:00

There are times,
and I am not sure
how my mind gets there,
when everything looks the same
as everything else.
When solids and liquids
and gases smear into
a common state--
When all colors
are only color,
and all music
is only sound.
When everything around connects.

In a way I live for those times.

There are other times,
just as hard to find,
when everything's distinct.
When every tree stands alone;
every atom singularly whizzes;
every leaf sways its own path to the ground;
everything happens the only way it can.

In a way I live for those times too,
but it feels more like living through.

In another way
I live for curry and rice pudding;
for parties and beautiful women;
for the emotion of happiness,
and the concept of peace;
for stability and sustainability.

I die for life and live for death.

But more and more...

It's looking like...

We may not have to die

at all.

HAIKU 1

2009-05-26T13:43:00.001-07:00

I am like a fish
hatched dry into a bird's nest
flopping to my death.

Galore Galore Galore

2009-05-13T13:23:00.000-07:00

What are you in waiting
but a bag of bones, impatient
with the lack of care and driven
to another state to live in?

Loneliness it comes
and the driver's never numb
to the void that occupies unbuckled seats
or heavy horns in trafficked streets.

Nostalgia is the freshest scent
from windows cherries come and went.
Ripe or rotted not the same,
the former joy and latter pain.

But great times they do await
(or should I say a place?)
where bags of bones are cherished
and the cherries -- they will never perish.

Hear me out, hear me out.
The shackles are undone!
Come—I’ll tell you all about
the time, the place, the fun!

Although the road is not cement,
the car not made of metal,
it's a place in Mind you never went;
I promise that you'll settle.

Despite my patience golden plated
How I’ve waited waited waited...
You came at last, at last you've come!
A drink, say you, some juice or rum?

It's paradise! Is it not?
Now go tell all your kids
that here on Earth is all we've got,
and Higher Ups cannot forbid

the smells of grass. Smell again,
the fragrance always lasts.
Already you've forgot your sin--
the power of the blanket grass!

Have some more. Have another.
Three and four and five or more!
Tell your friends and mother's brothers
"Galore galore galore!"

Thoughts on Scattered Thoughts

2009-04-30T18:06:00.000-07:00

Why is still a good question.
Why X, Why Z, Why me or her,
Because conception is a complex story
lived and told by the storyteller...

The auditory and visual centers of the mind are soft, mucous covered hunks of flesh. As far as the identification of objects, the process of storing and retrieving memory, and the sensations of sound and light are concerned, every experience is cradled in these centers. The way something looks and sounds, as contrasted to what something means, or means to say, is a function of these centers.

The language centers
of the mind
are also soft,
mucous covered
hunks of flesh.
Words, sentence structures,
meaning and the like
are conjured there.
Every thought is
X reaction, and each
Emotion too is
X reaction. There is
no difference. This is where
the story begins.

These two centers ha
ve a converging point.

And where they con
verge is a place per-

haps scientists
are calling the

story
of the

self.

If I told you I was once a man
who'd never killed another man,
who'd never pounded with my
fists against a wall made of bricks
to break through and cinch his throat
in two, would you believe me?
You must.
I am the storyteller.

But during my story I cannot hear you,
and so I have no way to listen.
But if I could, Oh! if I could,
Every word would glisten.
Each a drop of gelid rain,
stuck against a blade.
An orb of crispy liquid --
slippery, yes, but fast against the grade.
Advice, perhaps, to take
would be contained in every drop.
Something which to keep me sane,
ingredients to make a friend pop
right from thin air.

A dream, a fantasy it is to hear you while I live and tell my story. The truth is I would enjoy your feedback. You could tell me when to stop. When enough is enough so I wouldn't trail off forever. And if I did, I'd probably end up somewhere I didn't intend. Somewhere deep in that mucous covered sac. A place to which only accidents can lead the way. Maybe I'd end up telling you a secret? Nothing too personal; I won't lose all sense of censorship. What I'd do is tell you how mysterious you are to me. How I have made something for you, and how it is not a gift. How it is not a gift, but how I still want you to have it. How it is for you and me both really. How the chances are so low that I'll ever know how you feel about it, either because we'll never meet, or because you'll never read my story.
If you think it's sad, it isn't.

I am not lying, I am not lying.
I'm telling you the truth,
or at least so hard I'm trying
despite the shortness of my tooth!

Blossoms of the Mind

2009-04-22T09:05:00.001-07:00

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
the future brightens and lights up
my brain with dreams of easy life
and passion-pleased, in place of rigid
nights in chairs with nothing
in my hands and nothing to ensnare.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
a pathway colorizes and greys away
and all at once and all at twice
and all at three times my dreams
collide and thrice the impact rings my ears
with jagged jerks and metallic tension like
iron bars that trap me in or out.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay
at night, I sit and sway beneath
above between the night and day,
the earth and space, and think
this big planet is a pillow and
the stars are strictly night-lights
ever far away.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
to think of her, She Whoever,
and whether she'd find pleasure lying
back and hearing as I whisper
and repeat the words of another
in her ear, "Lay lady lay."

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay...
No! I'd rather not go another day
obeying fingers pointed in
an order straight forward, but to
live with Little People in
my brainmind quarters, quite
literally living in my dreams.

Whereupon my jewel eyes lay,
Wherever upon they'll lay,
I live to change my mind another day.

Two in a Crash

2009-03-29T12:29:00.001-07:00

The sound of fading RPMs
is the sound of life driving
off the distance. Below it dips away,
I can see its sails tipping, and
all the flopping limbs from
tiny men go overboard.
The sky sort of shakes up, like
everything kaleidoscopic.
Purple suns have eyes of red, and gold skin.
Red and gold and purple like the
smear of rainbows. Maybe
it was a rainbow, and
not the sun. Maybe I tripped and
fell out of the car in all
that chaos. Maybe my
head is bleeding and I
need medical attention. If this is death,
how wonderful. And if it isn't...

The ends we'll share

2009-03-25T21:07:00.000-07:00

we've been sharing a house on this island,
but we've been living apart for a while, and
the birds, they've been telling me what's the matter;
it's your wife, tell her to cool off, jump in the shower.

could it be that one of these
depressions is upon us?
could it be that one of these
threatened our perception?
could it be that one of these just might be the one to be
the beginning
the beginning of depression

we've been hearing a frown for the past few weeks
and we've talked all the dead ends right through our cheeks
we've asked all the right questions and why why not?
let's call it quits and shake our thoughts and hands.

could it be that one of these
depressions is upon us?
could it be that one of these
threatened our perception?
could it be that one of these just might be the one to be
the beginning
the beginning of depression

wait a second.
where do you think
you are going?
what do you think
you are doing?

wait a second, young man.
what do you think
you are doing?
and just where do you think
you are going alone?

Twirl

2009-03-22T12:13:00.001-07:00

remember when your mother
cooked spaghetti for the family?

ill bet you have fond
memories of it...

slick your fork into the pasta
with its pointed mirror pricks, and
meet it to the rusty
veggies, russet
colored meats.
dig and twirl and
use a napkin.
never been so neat.
hesitate to take a drink,
marvel at the comedy, the chuckle of the ice
and how it washes out the kinks that
every noodle noodle noodle ties.

and if ever you can really finish-

let them fall your clanky silverware.
let them drain your throat the drooling pasta bits.
let them coat your brain the bits and fall into abyss.
allow yourself unbuckled belts and bellies barely bare.
afforded you, aren't you so happy, the pleasure to stay there
and pat your belly once or twice, to sleep against the chair!

Off a beaten night

2009-03-20T00:59:00.000-07:00

Speak easy to me today. My brain is bricked with tired mortar from academic poundings and scholarly surroundings, loose and hard like a crashed-up lighthouse, but vulnerable too, like day-past-ripe bananas in a monkey fist. Why am I like this? Sometimes it's as easy to explain as a baby's gripe - he is hungry, go and feed him. Other times it's much more complicated, as when new knowledge weighs me down - like so much ice on aching branches, or startled salt water on the 2nd floor beach resort.
(Mother nature can be irresponsibly sad.)
What do I even know anymore? And where has feeling got me? I struggle either to accept the knowledge, or to wait for the temporary sense it makes to fade, the way cumbersome images from nightmares fade, or the melancholic way that marvelous, sleepy fantasies always fade into awake.

...my brain is wobbling; it's hard to listen. So speak easy to me.

Arizona and the Coyotes

2009-03-20T00:57:00.001-07:00

Suzy left her porch light on for me
So's I wouldn't step on top of a cactus tree.
She saved me lots of time, and just, well, gee...
That's why I love her, that's why I love my suzy.

In Arizona we can build a castle from the sand
Just as we did long ago.
In Arizona we can howl with the c o y o t e s.
At midnight when the sun is dipped so low.

Suzy is the wisp of smoke lit up by the blue of the moon.
Suzy is the warmth, and I the month of June.

the cat of a whisker tickled my face and bubbled me out of a dream

2009-03-15T13:31:00.001-07:00

Here she is in front, pawing at my morning breath. Her nose flickers once, she seconds no thought to the visible stench. Where was I just? Too groggy to tell. My tired eyes are blinking forth and back between an eager face-full of catty stomach screams and fading scenes from minute-old REM-cycle sleep. I'm rusty-eyed and crusted, primed to rest my sorry machine. I feel her shifting densely over the sheets. I sweep her sideways, and all her fur, as dust bins would and brooms would too the dust from dirty floors. Go lap from the toilet or contract disease! Do what you do whilst I'm neck deep in Zs. Impossible. She scratch my sheets, and noises of her struggle hammer on my ears. She again appears.

Back for more, are you? Oh what's the use. You're no worse than the first knife of daylight to my eyes. Get off my face already. Let's eat breakfast together.

Indiscriminate Optimism

2009-03-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

Gather the troops of your mind.
We are on patrol tonight!

There is new territory to be forged, men.
They are calling on us again.
We cannot stay here.

I know it's early,
the sun's barely up.
These times of days can
really bring out the bitterness,
the senselessness,
the brutality of it all.

But don't let that deter you.
You have everything
you need.

Ahead are the measurements,
the tools and rulers!
Ahead are your stones and sticks,
Your bones and muscles,
Your wit and size
Your skin and eyes!
Everything you need.

You know just as I know,
the dark battled blanket of earth
that bears on us ahead.
Give it no breadth
Give it berth.

Blood and guts.
Mud and rusty guns.
Other people's armies.
Slivers and cracks of light.

Peer through the prism.
I am with you there.
Open your eyes.
Gather your weaponsm, mes freres,
And keep to indiscriminate optimism!

call without response

2009-03-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

it's simple.
i love you.
even when my face
fades from memory,
and it will;
even while you speed through
your younger years;
even when my name
spills out the back
of your brain.
i love you.

and i wonder
today,
like all other days,
how are you doing?

alone in a new age

2009-02-24T21:15:00.001-08:00

here's my computer.
majestic, isn't she?
and my stereo,
look at the speakers,
they really blast.
my blinds are electric
venetian. press this
button. see?
(sunlight is nicer
when your venetian
blinds open at
the touch of a button.)
my telephone here is
connected to the internet.
it downloads everything
always. i am
so connected.
i own three satellites.
i make my own personal
weather predictions
with them. pretty neat,
i know.

you know what i've
never done, though?
i've never plucked
the peddle of a flower
and smelled it
for its flower fragrance,
as they call it.
i'd love to do that.

Swift Ballerina

2009-02-24T11:33:00.000-08:00

She's the envy of
Marbled Men. She's
a swift ballerina. She is
whirring and spinning
the history of man with
her artful arms and limbs.
She can tell you,
just by twirling her hair,
who won at Bastogne,
the location of Alpha Centauri,
Romeo's ultimate desires,
all of it.
She engineers the universe,
dropping out of perfection's
rigid verse as she feels,
just because she can.
She can give you the time.
You will want all of it.
She can give you the space.
You will want none of it.
But she only lasts as
long as everything
else is beautiful. Then,
when the grayness swallows
you again, you will have to dream
her up once more.

The Way I Saw It

2009-02-22T19:30:00.000-08:00

A Sweet Tea porch introduced
A dawn-dusk amber shift
from day to night:
"How ya doin?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"What'll it be?"
"Oh, a little off the top
if you don't mind."
This place, a place
where the meaning
of the flash
from the first
firefly seen through
southern living lenses,
and deep southern senses,
is a front porch
in Tennessee
where the rarest of girls named Ava Lee
had me over for Sweet Tea
and on her porch she offered me a hair cut.
I obliged, and from the porch I
duly noted the transformation: the view,
from the porch, of golden grass
and glassy dew unfold -
The bold bright gold of
old dead grass flattened
out by the coming shade
into a nondescript
rectangular mass.

Then the first firefly blinked, and
we both stopped for a
warm sip of sweet tea.
Her finger traced my ear,
and brushed my neck.

Haiku (though not my own)

2009-02-17T09:41:00.001-08:00

This made me laugh when I heard it the first time. Maybe it will make you laugh.

Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Bark!

2009-02-17T00:04:00.001-08:00

It was dark and wet on my way back from the mailbox. My mind was equally bogged down by muddy, vacant thoughts. My ragged shoes sucked to the mud and gravel concoction that was my driveway while I thumbed through previous tenant's junk mail. Inspiration, I was certain, had abandoned me. I hadn't thought of anything remotely clever in months. Everything seemed grey and smudgy, different iterations of the same thing, as if originality had spread itself too thin. Still sucking along the driveway I noticed my neighbor's bedroom light flicked on, and I could see his fat silhouette through the glowing venetians. I paused to watch his bedtime ritual. First he unclipped his watch and placed it delicately on his bedside table, must be expensive. Then he took the remote and blinked on the TV. Next, he sat on the edge of his bed and lifted each foot separately to slough off his socks. Then he stood up and exited the scene briefly, and when he came back he was wearing a large shirt and underwear. He pulled the covers back, and climbed into bed. Right on cue a four legged figure followed suit, making a palate out of a small corner of the bed. The light flicked off and all was dark except the blue glare of the television. It was then I had a funny thought.

There was a man who was raised in a basement by wild dogs. They were rough dogs with the raw experience of oppression and starvation, whose barks crashed like toppling poker tables, whose whimpers sounded like sad sirens, and whose chains clanked against a cold, hard floor. The man spoke in grunts, growls, sighs and pants. He ate what the dogs ate - dusty scraps and soggy bread, rodents, whatever was around. He walked on all fours, and because of it his knuckles were rough and swollen . He was naked, and he routinely licked his entire body clean. He used the same corner the other dogs used to relieve himself. His hair was dry and brittle, his skin was scarred and bruised. He did not appear to be aware at all that he was, in fact, a human. It was a rather convincing performance.

One night, the abusers left the surface hatch open. The dogs and the dogman looked at each other in a peculiarly humanoid way, as if to ask one another, "Do we dare?" The dogman gazed back at the opening. Star pricks and dark branches were all that were visible from the basement. Without another thought the dogman took one step closer to the exit. He ascended the staircase one step at a time, and as he conquered each step he became slowly more upright, until finally he was standing erect, with his upper half in the world, and his lower half in the basement. His companions worshipped from below. He gave them a look of transcendent solace before he took one final step onto the lawn. It was the first time he had seen grass. He bent down to smell it. To him it was as if the crust of the planet were a lush bouquet. He pressed his face into the grass for several seconds, sniffing and tasting. If he had known the word, he would have thought, "Bliss," to himself. Then he heard a shuffle from the side of the house. He jumped and turned in the direction of the noise. There was a man. It was the abuser. He had rage in his eyes. The dogman stood tall, displaying his proud stature, but also shamed to be of the same shape and size as his abuser. He quickly dropped this notion, and bolted for the abuser. Unprepared for an attack, the abuser shielded himself instinctively, but there was no aiding him. The dogman ravaged the abuser. He bit, tore, punched, slashed and kicked him within an inch of his life. The fight was loud and brief, but not brief enough. He caused so much raucous that his comrades crept out of the basement to see what was the matter. As soon as they realized what was going on, they joined in on the fun. The dogs slunk over to him, grinning a sinister grin, and ate into him without mercy. The dogman stepped back, and watched his comrades dismantle the body. He wiped his mouth clean of blood, bent down to smell the grass again, and then laid on his back to gaze at the stars for the first time in his life. Then he heard another noise.
The dogman jumped and turned even quicker than before. He could see another man walking toward the house next door. His shoes were making a sticky sucking sound. He fumbled through some papers, then reached into his pocket and jingled out his keys. He selected the key to the house and reached for the lock, but hesitated at the sound of a bark the size of a St. Bernard's woof. In a moment, the man imagined his neighbor, who he'd never seen before, barebacked and on the back porch with a beer and a beer belly woofing away the night like a mad man. A crazy dogman.

"What a funny thought," he thinks.

Haiku

2009-02-15T16:11:00.000-08:00

Who wants to do this?
I know you want to do this.
Rub my shoulders, please.

Never Went to War

2009-02-05T20:25:00.000-08:00

Any movie with gunfire these days makes me laugh. I laugh because people who've only heard the shot of a gun in movies have no idea what one really sounds like. I remember standing in the field, dug deep in my foxhole, trying not to catch stray gunfire. I got this image in my head, it was like a giant blanket the size of a hill floated down over the enemy and muted their rifles. It was like popcorn popping in a cloth bag. There was no crack like you hear in the movies. The sound of it was quick to start and quicker to end. A bit closer and the sonic quality of the shot takes on a completely new texture. Usually there's an echo; in the field, though, the sound bangs to infinity and never comes back. No sparks or flashes, nothing cute like that. If you're in a wooded area, or a city, the sound from the contact the bullet makes will answer the call from the shot. Pow...Shunk. Right into the wall, or the tree, or whatever is around you. You dare not look. From up close, though, the crack of a gun goes on forever in your ears, as if concert speakers at full volume clicked on the sound of static noise. The ring that follows soon leads, and the sound of the static leaves, but the squeal from the aftermath sustains. Flat, unchanging, unending. Like a long blade. Then you shoot him back.

T E E T H

2009-02-02T23:34:00.000-08:00

The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.

In a dream all it takes is the chomp of your jaw;
On its own the collision of teeth says it all.
Your mouth pours with blood; take a thick plasma gulp -
Of spit and of bits of bloodied teeth and pulp.
You search with your tongue for the one tooth in tact,
But by now they're all holes or they're otherwise hacked.
The sour and salt drinks the back of your throat.
The sanguinary tinge of metal tops the coat.
Thirty-two teeth crack simultaneously,
And from beneath journeys blood unsurreptitiously.
Nerve endings whip about, put up a fight.
They deliver a cold spicy electric bite.
Your mouth oozes syrupy chunks down your neck
Your teeth are destroyed, your mouth is a wreck.
The desperate gurgle and sad try at speech.
The sudden removal of all of your teeth.

The taste of fear and of worry both
is the taste of your teeth both crumbled and broke.

Assortments

2009-01-29T23:31:00.000-08:00

As when liquid metal thuds
on granite or marble. A bump and
a smokey simmer, a wet hot drop.

Or when sunlight finds a crack
in the glass, and shimmers a
bit brighter than in the past.

When tired grasps clump
heavy glass onto bedside
tables: surrender's sleep alas.

For every child's cracked smile,
bloodied wrist and knee
crying Dad! for a while.

For coffee and flowers,
high speed rainbow chases,
Jupiter and Jazz.

For the bright partition of clouds and
jungle air dark blue by the shade
of a billion canopies.

Or of kissers' first kiss
and first kisser's
first,

Better still, lips plumped
puckered and pursed-
a perfect thirst to quench.

Of old leather, tough and
scarred. Scary barns
at night on farms

For these reasons and more,
including all at once
or either or.

There it is.

The reason to write it down.

2009-01-27T23:13:00.000-08:00

Waver or

Don't waver.

Whatever.

If nothing else be clear.

open.

honest.

clean.

Heaven forbid you're

pegged a liar.

I heard you say once

that you didn't like

such and

such. It made you feel

bleh or something.

And now you like such and

such, let's call it baby koalas.

So what.

The point is you can't take away the past.

You know that.

You already knew that.

Just say what you say and

mean it.

Even if it's something

sideways, like,

"Fetch a mush bag of lemons.

Gather it hither, I have a

special place for it.

The leaf pile! Put the mush bag

next to the leaf pile. That's

where it belongs. Yes,

the leaf pile next to the mush bag."

You lost me at mush bag.

I don't know what that is.

But I guess you were honest.

You were definitely open.

It was a pretty clean thing to say;

it might have had some inunderstandably

complex inference. Maybe.

It is clear in its delivery. Whoever

wants the mush bag is being

precise and direct with his or her words.

But the words in general,

and mush bags in specific?

Chaos.

Chaotic nonsense.

Junk poetry.

Junkyard absurdity.

Inanity.

Now go into the world.

Clone it. Destruct it. Fit

in and out.

I intended to get something

across to you with this.

When you need help,

read this again in a darker room with a sharp knife in your hand.

Preserves

2008-12-27T21:18:00.001-08:00

Who are they? And where are they from?

The last thing I need in this world is a gun.

Ideas are easy to come by.

Just think of tortoise shell, or a bustling ant hill.

Oh what in the world is practicality?

The senses of the world aren't making

much sense to me anymore.

From a distance I made contact.

But your teeth kept smashing together, together.

(Here's to the battle between heaven and hell.

Where wishing wonders down the wishing well.)

Today my grandparents came in.

Meet them, they are Rosie and Jim.

Hurray hurray hurray! For Rosie and Jim Today.

She made the best preserves, oh God! she made the best preserves!

Sonnet

2008-12-16T16:32:00.000-08:00

Today I learned a way to get around

The complicated task that yet abounds:

To fix with love each and all the parts,

And to excuse from it what break our hearts,

That, for reasons we seem less than able

To put in words, much less to label.

But here, for you I will attempt a try,

(I know in front that I will come up shy)

At sounding out the object of my love,

And how I've come to dispossess thereof

The creeps and thieves that pleasure with them take.

Reversing that which caused my heart to break!

Dare they say that for this I am a fool?

No! We are but the exception to the rule!

Disturbance in Childhood

2008-11-18T13:36:00.000-08:00

Where I'm from, there's a real haunted house.

I mean that.

And I tell my friends at the schoolyard

"I'm gonna go there, watch me!"

And they say "Man, you crazy!

But it's cool if you go with a friend."

So come on, I tell them!

No...

They just sit under the jungle gym

It's time to make some adventures in our lives!

We're young, resilient and young!

They're not having it.

Twiddling their thumbs, shaking their heads...

Alright, I'm on my own. Here goes! I'm off.

"But its cool, if you go with a friend."

It wasn't so bad at first.

But then, there was a movement.

And it was just a cat

On the piano.

I took a few more steps inside-

to the back of the house.

Drapes. Chandeliers. Dust. And smoke.

Smoke?

I walked upstairs -

It was getting hotter, and hotter.

The smoke was getting thicker, and thicker.

Down the hall past the bathroom, past the bedroom -

I wish I had my friend with me.

I opened the last door on the left,

And there was a giant

man

on fire.

But when he touched me, it was cold.

Cold.

I could not explain this.

The fire was hot, raging hot.

But it wasn't bright.

It wasn't hot, it was cold.

I couldn't figure it out.

I asked him, who are you? Who are you...?

There was an evil, tremendous, incomprehensible growl that came from all directions.

That was... that was all he said...

and then I ran

Animal Cells

2008-10-21T09:21:00.000-07:00

In all unlikeliness you

fearing water

the measure of my maintenance

dry up at my leave.

And with equal surprise I

loving water

with one drop will you shortly drown

weep timeless at yours.

Hydrogen and oxygen

being what are

they have forever: keeping yours

and my gaze afar.

Pray that somebody present

a lubricant

to over-oil our machine

so that finally we may part

out of sight and heart.

Michel de Montaigne

2008-10-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

Herein is the first submission not my own. These are the words of Gaul/Frenchman Michel de Montaigne from his "autobiography" of sorts, Essays. Enjoy it, if you will, for its concept--nearly 500 years old.

On the topic of Conversation, he writes:

Contradictions of opinion, therefore, neither offend nor estrange me; they only arouse and exercise my mind. We run away from correction; we ought to court it and expose ourselves to it, especially when it comes in the shape of discussion, not of a school lesson. Each time we meet with opposition, we consider not whether it is just, but how, wrongly or rightly, we can rebut it. Instead of opening our arms to it, we greet it with our claws. I could stand a rough shaking from my friends: "you are a fool, you're talking nonsense." In good company, I like expression to be bold, and men to say what they think. We must strengthen our ears and harden them against any weakness for the ceremonious use of words. I like the strong and manly acquaintanceships and society, a friendship that prides itself on the sharpness and vigor of its dealings. I like love that bites and scratches till the blood comes. It is not vigorous and free enough if it is not quarrelsome, if it is polite and artificial, if it is afraid of shocks, and is constrained in its ways: 'for there can be no discussion without contradiction'.

The quotation in the last line is from Cicero, De Finibus, I, viii.

Ready

2008-09-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

What's taken love from my heart?

I'll tell you not what, but who.

It was me, my own smarts.

Far to say it was love I had too

Much to give away.

No. It was love a built castle,

High, bright and strong so.

Ready for the hassel,

Only to find my foe

Without the means to siege.

And so it was for me,

Out of respect, my duty

To unlay stone and mortar,

And find a formidable enemy.

Whereupon I'd reassemble;

Hope for hope to rekindle,

And to snuff out the anguish,

The lovelight vanquished.

Women

2008-07-25T01:00:00.001-07:00

...disappointingly, a subject I feel most comfortable talking about with men.

writers' building block

2008-07-23T22:04:00.000-07:00

If peace of mind is the true prerequisite for good writing, then curse you poverty and all your distractions.

Bull's Mind

2008-07-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

It's time to clean up my act, you see.

I'm sick of - SICK OF - poisons!

The more I rattle my brain around

The messier it gets inside.

And I must clean up my act!

Hey! How about exercise?

Of the mind? Of the body?

The starting line's a blur, isn't it?

My motors are, well, shoddy.

I heard somebody say once,

"Through it". Through it...

The thing is, I think I could.

I think I can. I think I care.

But through what? And to where?

Better moving than stationary.

Light bulbs flashing now.

Switches flipping now.

Next stop, Adult.

I barely have time to feel eager.

Life Cycle [a lot of one word poems]

2008-06-14T01:10:00.000-07:00

Star. Blunder. Wonder. Splendor. Order. Starter. Caster. Giver. Purpose. Reason. Life. Death. Doubt. Fear. Fantasy. Faith. Father. Sky. Forgiver. Him. Forgiven. you. Fake. False. Friction. Fail. Real. Nothing. Everything. Perception. Tunnel. Thought. Purpose. Reason. Everything. Purpose. Reason. Everything. Purpose. Reason. Everything. Purpose. Reason. Star. Again.

Comedy

2008-06-13T00:23:00.000-07:00

"I don't know much about Armadillos. That's something I haven't done a lot of 'studying' on, if you know what I mean."

-Me, Now.

Animals versus Animals

2008-06-13T00:14:00.000-07:00

I feel like a marathon.

Where has the time gone?

I feel American

What is that?

I feel connected, and purposed.

I feel unsure

But on the other hand...

I move real slow,

almost on purpose.

And I'm not sure what

it means to be American.

No, not anymore.

Get out of my country!

How funny are other people

With false senses of entitlement.

How unlucky that we must come face - to - face.

Religion

2008-06-13T00:05:00.000-07:00

A New Nonsense.

Welcome to New Nonsense. Here you will discover that all things in life are to be unexpected. Anticipation, Expectation, Prediction and the like have no such concrete meanings any longer. They are blurred, stretched, truncated and omitted. At New Nonsense, we react to individuals in the Now. One is not to consider what has happened, or what will happen when forming an opinion or a decision. What matters is the sincerity, truth and sacrifice of the Now. Come and join us. The movement starts as one, and it ends as One.

Understanding awaits.

You are Legend

2008-05-14T17:21:00.000-07:00

This is a departure from the usual fabrications, and various other poetic brain children I am accustomed to write. This is a farewell to my beloved 1989 Acura Legend that treated me so well, and that I treated with little to no respect.

Abernathy's Truck Salvage is now the proud owner of my former Legend. In exchange for my car, Mr. Abernathy himself gave me 5 crisp Twenties and a stiff Fifty. This is a far cry from the offer I was given by Carmax.

A couple of days ago my father and I went to sell the Legend to Carmax where we had purchased the car I drive today. I had hopes to sell the car for at least 1 monthly car payment to my father - 75 bucks. When the salesman took my father and me back into his office, he had a look on his face like someone who had accidentally insulted the school bully. He insisted that we sit down, and proceeded to tell us that he didn't normally look at the offer before he let the seller see it. Today must have been different. He had gotten a good glimpse of the car, and I had answered all of his questions about it honestly. Perhaps he had anticipated the price to be low, and in an effort to save himself from the agony of discovering the price at the same time as my father and I, he took a peek. Just before he revealed the price, he informed us that Carmax had "never not bought a car." So, in other words, we could be guaranteed not to see a Goose Egg behind the curtain. Again, reminding us that he was "the messanger" (i.e. don't shoot me) he unveiled the offer...

$5.

That's right, Carmax offered to buy my car from me, to relieve me of my burden, for under two gallons of cheap gas; for a six pack of bitter beer; for a long distance phone call just long enough to say "hello, how are you?"; for a pack of cigarettes. And the worst part about it all...we actually went through with it. It was the hilarity of the situation that made it so enticing. The fact that I would be able to tell my friends, future children/grandchildren that I once sold a car (IN 2008!) for 5 dollars was too much to resist. So we did it. Dad didn't care to stick around for the 5 dollar check, so we virtually gave the car away.

Later that day I saw past the comedy and decided that I could get more than a Biggy Sized Combo Meal for my car. I called Carmax, and I called off the deal. The next day my father and I cut through some red tape, waited in line outside the bureaucracy, and re-obtained my car, for free. I promptly called some Junkyards who were happy to purchase my car for 30x the amount Carmax offered us. Today, I said my actual farewell to the Legend as it puttered off into a field of peers. It is in a better place now. I love you, Legend.

a paradox

2008-05-04T17:40:00.001-07:00

i know men who use logic like a shield and sword.

only -

they attack with the shield, and defend with the sword.

my ideal

2008-05-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

picnics. or, as the french call them, les pique-niques: chip-scooped spinach artichoke dip. melting cakes. plastic-ware and fruit tea. condensation. wrinkled red and white checkers. triangular tomato sandwiches. sundress, top hat, bare feet. ice cream in a cooler - the coldest thing for miles. delve. somewhere the mythology that ants are thieves. not today. a glance. wind pushing the trees, and the trees the wind. overly poetic atmospheres. hills, or no hills. probably a duck-filled pond, definitely not a duckbilled platypus. no need for talk above a whisper. slower-than-normal chewing. eyes catching one another on more than one occasion; purely unaccidental. subsequent caresses. connection to the outside world blocked only by the clouds and the horizon. protection. full bellies. one head in one lap. twin thoughts. two prickling stomachs. a billion butterflies. motions to a kiss. executed with perfection. a familiar mixture of saliva. they've done this before. more strawberries. always strawberries at a picnic. excited prickly regions. 2 minds, 1 thought. pure love. picnics.

irishmen

2008-05-04T11:58:00.001-07:00

I transformed last night. 8 o'clock found me leaving the Arcade downtown with plans to go to a party in the woods. I didn't have the directions. We met at a house, played some videojuegos, drank a couple of beers, and I was even tested on my French. I think I got an A-. It was time, then, to take to the woods. I followed a friend to the forest. When we got there we didn't know many people, but they were easy to party with. Drinks were drunk, moves were danced, people were wearing frog hats. Eventually I was one of those people. Slowly the party forged ahead, and some of my company began to leave. It was getting sort of late. By midnight I knew even fewer people. I found a friend and we went outside to smoke a cigarette. For reasons I cannot describe, we both connected on a very deep, very Irish, level. Neither of us have an Irish background. We both agreed, though, that somewhere deep inside us is a repressed Irishmen desperately seeking freedom from within. There was something about the woods that night, something that helped uncage the beast. We connected, my new Irish countryman, and spoke with Irish accents and used Irish lexicons. It was like I was talking for the first time. I found myself saying things like "the likes of you!" "BOLLUCKS!", "FUUUUUCKIN 'ELL!" and "I think tha'll DO!" at the top of my lungs. We flipped our cigarette butts out, and chummily traipsed back into the party. We weren't 2 steps in when we fired off some more Irish slang, accents thicker and louder than ever. We were greeted whole heartedly by what seemed to be more blossoming Irish folk. Growls of thick green accents filled the whole house. Everyone was becoming Irish, right before our very eyes. It didn't take long to find a bottle of vodka, open it, and finish it. It was like fuel for our new Irish identities. I'm struggling to know if I found myself last night, or if I lost myself. I found something - that's for sure - like a stranger in a very familiar land. We pressed on. An hour went by and I had completely forgotten I was an American. I wasn't an American. I was an Irishman - through and through. One by one we sniped away any trace of an American accent. Hell, English and Scottish accents were quickly smothered as well. I hated the English...

It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was feeling strange having a conversation with someone in my "normal" voice, like I was holding back Seamus O'Flannigan - my newborn Irish identity. I remembered who I was, and where I'd come from, and how some way - some how - Walter and I were able to see the best in ourselves, and in each other. As I write this, while a pile of Indian food digests in my stomach, I am reminded of my transformation. Swift, forceful and punctuated - just like an Irishman. I've never been to Ireland. But last night, I felt like I'd never left.

of brethren and sisterhood

2008-04-27T15:03:00.000-07:00

jonty!

jonkey!

LOOK! do you smell that?

drew akers

im sorry, but you've been given a prescription for giants

can you know?

are you tall?

goalpost modernism

he cut off my big toes and still expects me to stand when i cook him dinner.

better to have loved and lost

good investment

clink and clank. both of you always forget.

speak when spoken to

ancient debate

relax

rinse repeat

reconstitutionization

corporal cornerstone

bank holiday

missionary style

burst skin

situation now all fucked up

yellow heads and white tails. fast vixens and silvery streaks

broken fix-me-up

dig deeper. there you'll find.

who shouted? where's the mayonnaise ? what are upstairs?

once upon a time, seven gargoyles drank. each drank 6 beers. each beer had 5 ice cubes. each ice cube was 4 ounces. each ounce was ... gargoyles don't exist.

aversive racism

which one of you cretins drank my lager?

no one talks about castration

piqued flesh alters perception

news print. slow sprint.

running of the bulls

cap and cane

walk of shame

electroshock blip blop terry tribbs TALK TO ME

pieces of my shattered mind

abundant sleeper

shrouded secrets of suburban shame

fingers pointed at fingers pointing at fingers pointing at faces

prickled anecdotes are far from a "barn animal"

pottery farm

rodent states

leather straps

mouth bits

want two states: north and south

left is right and right is left but down can never be up

statutory statutes

hat trick or treat

suffrage

round gravity

crucifix

just reach deeper: jew can doooooo eeeeeeet

howard bast and his square bouillon

graveyard shadows

nearing birth, i wondered about a dead woman at the bottom of the ocean. i've never seen an ocean.

neglect poverty

tin cents

pence in pants

garbage men of the world unite

synaesthetic reassignments

swilled stella

slick shins dripdripdrip

tiny sliver in the wall

windmill huts

nimbly bimbly

exploitative

prostyle

stair step style

bin days are on thursdays

aderondacks taking a break - hear ye this!

sarah stepped out onto blackfriars bridge's bloocrimson abutement high above the thames. she sliced the water in a perfect swan dive. now she's dead. the end.

lnagauge

2008-04-26T17:03:00.000-07:00

Tadpoles, up in arms. Brisk fair-weather fan. crumpled headlines. exploding wastebasket dwindling, ominous. zoom in, zoom out. "but can't we, just for tonight?" it was an april fool's joke. whereabouts? a ten foot gazing sun spool. bodily harm, else no harm at all. sexual pleasures. accidental proximity, accidental meaning. metaphors are like similies. breed bunches, kill the strong. signature move. muscular distrophy. abstractionisms. "Hey? Is that a movie?" Who is touching you? weren't we together? here, there, nowhere. spin a spanish danish. do write. react. re-react. find the cure, find the cause. cast iron dreams. rectangle brain. who isn't afraid - come with the frogs. rattlesnake babies. showdown in heaven. rearrangements. sinister captions. what is your mood? bargain down. you could never do better than your worst. actualities. dim-witted leaders. please choke on your ties. i said please! discover yourself. frown upon frowning. don't ever drown. sticktoitivenesses. spend eternity catching wind with a fan. smother yourself in intangibles. write off schmite off. where are the gatling guns? there aren't too many on your shelf, only too few shelves. betwixt versus between. ransacked. stray cabbages in rags. live for happy hour. drink during sad hours. i have good advice - listen to good advice! ripple effect. pyramid scheme. brownian motion. trickle down. current events. currently. raised on reason. JUST SIGN HERE! his fingernails rapped gently on the 30 foot trunk, weathered from years of torrential... forewarn and execute. make a big deal. choke up. "what was it you were saying - you stepped in..." pick your favorites. stylize. wonder. wander. speak to the greatness of your sanity. are we really born with it? deoxyribonucleic acid. proteoeconometrics. Synth blast! ovation. overture. roundhouse kicks. iron deficiency. swear words from A - Z. count your fingers aloud. always be thinking of your cells. carwash victim. indemnity. radical wings. where did your shoes come from? delve. whisper. call to action. out of hiding. sprockets. inventiveness. substantial reward. he stands on top of the canopy of forgiveness. don't you simplify? risk/reward. thick crust mysteries. i want to sit on mud. what are my desires? end.

society

2008-04-25T07:52:00.000-07:00

We can think of society as a plant, or a system of plants. Presently, the plant, or plant system, is rooted in a soil called oppression, from which society gathers its nutrients which form the core of its being from the beginning. Insidious minds smarter than myself have found a way to capitalize on individuals who are too far below to see what is being created of them, and what is creating them. From this level, behaviors that are "natural", "right", "anticipated" only help to feed this oppression. The moment we diverge, even one person, from tyranny, oppression, dominance, privilege is precisely the moment these offenses come into focus for those around us, and for ourselves. It is our responsibility, especially those who benefit most from the handouts of society, to look after what is right, not according to who in society says so, but by applying some of the simplest ideas we have learned, or at least heard of, growing up. These ideas can be powerful; they are much more than etiquette to memorize so that you are not embarrassed when it is revealed that you do not know them. I am talking about such simple things as kindness, reciprocity, and most familiarly, what we have come to know as "the golden rule". You may scoff at how elementary these concepts are. I ask you to take a moment to reflect on who really exhibits these traits. Then compare this (small) group of people to those in power, those who make the rules, those with all the money. Money is not important in this situation as an indicator of worth, but more as an indicator for what one is being awarded. At the top you will find some of the greediest, power hungry people on the planet.

With all this I do not intend to dismantle society just to see the smoke rise from its ashes. In fact, I do not even intend to dismantle society at all. What I wish to see is a world that perhaps exists only in my mind, but that the makings of surely are within every person. Some say there are simply not enough resources to go around in order for each person to live happily and safely; in order to eliminate oppression; in order to solve the problem of poverty. What is there to say about billionaires and hundred millionaires? Is it my intent to rob these people of their money? Am I saying their lifestyles are inherently wrong because they are rich? NO! Success is a real phenomenon! It should not be abolished. People should be awarded for their good deeds, hard work and ingenuity - just not at the expense of others. There must be something better to do with all this money that to hoard it, buy extravagances, or flat out waste it. I do not have all the answers; I work hard to come up with questions that are relevant. Surely, though, there must be some way for model citizens to be recognized in such a way that it does not leave others in their dust, literally...

Money is a cruel beast. It's been said countless times that "the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer." Does the fact that it's been said over and over mean that to say it now is less poignant? Less relevant? Less important just because it has been iterated and reiterated? No. The fact remains that each time it is said, it is only truer than before. IN FACT - the rich get RICHER and the poor get POORER. This is not an observation made years ago that has remained stagnant ever since. No. A smaller proportion of individuals are reaping the benefits of society - a society with faults it cannot even perceive at times. It is because of these faults, in many cases, that some become richer.

Here is my issue - the problem with American society does not deal solely with income brackets, class struggles, or "rich vs. poor". While it may be easy to perceive it as such, it comes back to the soil in which are supplanted. Society did not start when I, you or anyone else was born. It has been growing for thousands of years. Smart people have figured out ways to make society work for themselves, but smarter people still have been able to break society and reform it for the better. To make significant changes takes more than intelligence; it takes righteousness, self sacrifice, and a sense of the scope of inequality in society that cannot be exceeded. To become aware of the oppression, inequality, and privilege seems impossible when you consider the power of society and how it shapes the human mind. How is one to compete with such a monster? I do not know. I do not know what causes one person to value equal treatment of other fellow human beings, and another person to be devoid of the concept of equality. I do know that it happens. I do not attribute this to supernatural powers; that raises too many contradictions to deal with. It must come from within humans. It must come from experience. It must come from the fact that there are patches in this giant social garden that are less tampered by oppression, and instead receive pure human goodness at a ripe age. To carry out this knowledge, and to be fearless in one's approach, is the most important thing one can do for the condition of society today.