Me
By: Albert “Infinite” Carrasco
Writing is a passion deep inside of me caged up so anxious to be released, words not spoken can’t feed a thirsty mind waiting to eat, so I have decided to speak to the ones that want to be feed instead of holding these thoughts inside my head. You see my vision of happiness was chasing money, being a drug seller or a gun runner anything to keep my pockets full I did for the capital, at sixteen I was shot twice, took two for the team, but in the emergency room I lay there like damn all this for the cream, I was too blind to see what the pursuit of currency was doing to me. At this time I should have realized I was on the wrong path to the riches, in the ER undergoing surgery and getting stitches, I walk around with a bullet to this day. But to me that cash it’s a small price to pay, even out the hospital doors I’m on the phone trying to make money soar, blinded to what this game had in store. Cars jewelry , stick up kids trying to do me, groupies on line trying to screw me, living life like a movie, no script no actors, real men of my stature didn’t surrender the thought of possessing that legal tender. Celebrity stats fully auto gats cause me to wear Kevlar on my back, thirty two shot clips, stash box in whips, blinding light in rear to disappear when danger was near.
It was a catastrophic curriculum where I’m from in the slums to sell drugs and bust guns cause of the fear of being bums, isolated from the real world we continued the life style that we knew banging and hanging in our housing vestibule living life by our rules advice by others not needed and when it was given it wasn’t heeded, now I got cash but time has taken precious things from me, friends I rolled with and shared my bliss most are dead and so dearly missed, it is what it is I can’t change what was written this game is full of snakes and even the strongest get bitten, bad decisions in search of fame in this game will leave you lifeless, well I was smart and decisive in a game that’s cold as is, fun in this life doesn’t last for some, was like speeding in a car until it ran out of gas to them, my tank was always full and I kept a chauffeur , living the life of La Costra Nostra. Inner city kids in an inner city struggle with no direction just the ghettos reflection of kids needing attention. Time has passed by so fast just like most of the guys I lost in the oppression, I continue to live life with the few that are still alive, for different goals we strive, no more fast life were taking slow strides no more funerals to make moms and wives cry.
All I wanted was not to be poor, not to have my friends sent early knocking on heaven’s door. The choices that are made as a kid sometimes devastate us as adults, so I want the youth to see that the game is really fantasy! So those that looked up to me in the streets, I want them to continue to look up to me but for something positive not because of the life I lived. So I will share my scars, my losses and my bad choices to enlighten a few on what this game will bring. The street history is a story of destruction, corruption, a pattern of misery. At thirty eight I am still feeling the wrath of what has passed life I lived in, waiting anxiously for a few to be released from prison seventeen, twenty, and forty years bids for things we did as kids. The game ended for me and a few, but there are still those to have to see their sentence through. You know how sad it is to see the children of my fallen soldiers grow up without a father. My father died when I was twelve and so did my childhood, so their outlook on life to me is very sadly understood.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
On Guns for Butter
In a perversity of economic theory, perhaps poised to capitalize on the anticipated favorable ruling in McDonald v. Chicago, less than three years after the massacre at Virginia Tech claimed 33 lives, the Commonwealth appears to be turning to GUNS FOR BUTTER, as a long term solution for its economic woes. Suddenly, after 17 years, once a month is not enough. But while Richmond may selfishly think its bottom line will be augmented by paving the way for increased weapons sales with this short sighted legislation, if Governor McDonnell signs this currently House passed - and half cocked - bill into law, it could actually be detrimental to the overall economy of the state, and the region as a whole, a consideration that should be explored before it, and other related changes, are enacted.
First and foremost, a greater police presence will be required to deal with the inevitable criminal element that such a policy will attract, and because this change is being established in conjunction with a measure parroting Montana and Tennessee that makes firearms made and retained in the state beyond the federal authority of the Interstate Commerce Clause, and an increase in the speed limit to 70 MPH on many of Virginia's roads. Cops cost. Just when traffic deaths in the Commonwealth hit 750 in 2009, a 43 year low, courtesy of this triangulation, there will be a rebound in activity for law enforcement to contend with, spearheaded by those zipping in and out to purchase guns with a less than noble constitutional intent, that will more than offset the decrease in speeders to chase.
The enactment of this legislation, coupled with the 2008 ruling in District of Columbia v. Heller and the more recent allowance of guns in national parks and on Amtrak, could affect tourism in the region, of which Virginia is an integral part, the separatist and secessionist sentiment that has surfaced in relation to the health care debate notwithstanding. 29 National Parks are within its borders, spanning roughly 416,508 acres, ranging from the smallest, Arlington House, perhaps aptly located within a cemetery, to the 199,017 acre Shenandoah, and including Wolf Trap and the venerable 75 year old Blue Ridge Parkway among the others in between. Two years ago, the Commonwealth took in 19.2 billion in revenue from tourist dollars; ultimately, Virginia's "breakaway republic" attitude and grab for money by aiming to be the East Coast's top gun running hub may set the stage for it to be a spectatorless Sesquicentennial Civil and Criminal War Battlefield. The state's own website, captioned "Tourism - Instant Revenue for Virginia," touts the 1.28 billion in state and local taxes that tourism generates, as well as the 210,620 industry dependent jobs, claiming the intake is enough to pay the salaries for 11,500 new State Troopers, the education of 78,000 students, and the building of 1400 miles of roads. It goes on to assert that without these monies, the average Virginia household would have to pay $438 in additional taxes yearly. Projected firearm sales will not compensate for a decrease in visitor spending. "Virginia is for GUN lovers" is oxymoronic and segregationist sloganeering that does not extend the welcome mat. And then there is the human cost, apparently unconsidered to date.
In 1992, the New England Journal of Medicine (Kellerman, et. al., "Suicide in the Home in Relation to Gun Ownership," Volume 327, August 13, 467-72) reported that a study of the association between firearms in the home in two US counties between 1987 and 1990 revealed that the availability of one or more guns in the home created a risk of domestic suicide more than fivefold. A 1999 study reported in the same publication (Wintemute, G.J, and C.A. Parham, J.J. Beaumont, M. Wright, and C. Drake, "Mortality Among Recent Purchasers of Handguns," Volume 341, No. 21, November 18, 1583-89) followed gun purchasers from 1991 through 1996 and found that new gun buyers were more likely to commit suicide, and during the first week after purchase, had a suicide rate 57 times higher than the adjusted suicide rate for the general population. Handgun buyers were found to be at an increased risk for suicide by firearm for the entire 6 year study, with women who purchased them remaining at an elevated risk for both firearm suicide and firearm homicide for the entire duration. Having a weapon at the ready makes those more tempted to kill themselves more successful at it. Yet despite several recent high profile celebrity son suicides plastered all over the media, somehow in Virginia this topic of concern has failed to surface.
There will also be the more obvious and foreseeable elevation in human cost to law enforcement and the victims of homicide, intentional or not, apparantly equally discounted but infusing new meaning into the term "red state." Note to lawmakers: human life counts. To speak the only language Richmond seems to understand, without intending to be insensitive, coffins are unproductive for coffers. With the exception of the wealthy, the dead don't pay taxes, a not inconsiderable fiscal consideration. Add to that the potential for erosion of the business tax base because of the open presence of guns in bars or restaurants, GUNS WITH (BREAD AND) BUTTER, and there could be an even further subtraction from the Commonwealth's revenues via its misguide attempt to get and stay in the black. Fueled by alcohol, bar fights in the company of firearms will be more lethal and repellent. In attempting to "normalize" carrying them, like a wallet or purse, the General Assembly failed to convincingly articulate just what citizens need self protection from in these settings - could it be to fend off the "Bold Brew" at Starbucks? - and showed a striking lack of elementary savvy.
Finally, a policy welcoming of an explosion of gun purchases could spark a population exodus, particularly from Northern Virginia, a "mixing bowl" of out of staters and immigrants, reversing recent, more moderating, mainstream trends in the state, and undermining the wealthiest source of its tax base. Forbes just named Loudoun County the richest county in the nation, followed by Fairfax, with Arlington, Prince William and the cities of Fairfax and Alexandria among the Top 25. The result could be a "departed" of a different sort, but just as "dear" a "loss of life."
The Commonwealth needs to ensure that visitors will continue to come to "Meet Virginia" and citizens and tourists alike can continue to "LIVE Passionately" within its borders. Pull the trigger on BUTTERING UP GUNS because it doesn't make good cents.
Karen Ann DeLuca
In a perversity of economic theory, perhaps poised to capitalize on the anticipated favorable ruling in McDonald v. Chicago, less than three years after the massacre at Virginia Tech claimed 33 lives, the Commonwealth appears to be turning to GUNS FOR BUTTER, as a long term solution for its economic woes. Suddenly, after 17 years, once a month is not enough. But while Richmond may selfishly think its bottom line will be augmented by paving the way for increased weapons sales with this short sighted legislation, if Governor McDonnell signs this currently House passed - and half cocked - bill into law, it could actually be detrimental to the overall economy of the state, and the region as a whole, a consideration that should be explored before it, and other related changes, are enacted.
First and foremost, a greater police presence will be required to deal with the inevitable criminal element that such a policy will attract, and because this change is being established in conjunction with a measure parroting Montana and Tennessee that makes firearms made and retained in the state beyond the federal authority of the Interstate Commerce Clause, and an increase in the speed limit to 70 MPH on many of Virginia's roads. Cops cost. Just when traffic deaths in the Commonwealth hit 750 in 2009, a 43 year low, courtesy of this triangulation, there will be a rebound in activity for law enforcement to contend with, spearheaded by those zipping in and out to purchase guns with a less than noble constitutional intent, that will more than offset the decrease in speeders to chase.
The enactment of this legislation, coupled with the 2008 ruling in District of Columbia v. Heller and the more recent allowance of guns in national parks and on Amtrak, could affect tourism in the region, of which Virginia is an integral part, the separatist and secessionist sentiment that has surfaced in relation to the health care debate notwithstanding. 29 National Parks are within its borders, spanning roughly 416,508 acres, ranging from the smallest, Arlington House, perhaps aptly located within a cemetery, to the 199,017 acre Shenandoah, and including Wolf Trap and the venerable 75 year old Blue Ridge Parkway among the others in between. Two years ago, the Commonwealth took in 19.2 billion in revenue from tourist dollars; ultimately, Virginia's "breakaway republic" attitude and grab for money by aiming to be the East Coast's top gun running hub may set the stage for it to be a spectatorless Sesquicentennial Civil and Criminal War Battlefield. The state's own website, captioned "Tourism - Instant Revenue for Virginia," touts the 1.28 billion in state and local taxes that tourism generates, as well as the 210,620 industry dependent jobs, claiming the intake is enough to pay the salaries for 11,500 new State Troopers, the education of 78,000 students, and the building of 1400 miles of roads. It goes on to assert that without these monies, the average Virginia household would have to pay $438 in additional taxes yearly. Projected firearm sales will not compensate for a decrease in visitor spending. "Virginia is for GUN lovers" is oxymoronic and segregationist sloganeering that does not extend the welcome mat. And then there is the human cost, apparently unconsidered to date.
In 1992, the New England Journal of Medicine (Kellerman, et. al., "Suicide in the Home in Relation to Gun Ownership," Volume 327, August 13, 467-72) reported that a study of the association between firearms in the home in two US counties between 1987 and 1990 revealed that the availability of one or more guns in the home created a risk of domestic suicide more than fivefold. A 1999 study reported in the same publication (Wintemute, G.J, and C.A. Parham, J.J. Beaumont, M. Wright, and C. Drake, "Mortality Among Recent Purchasers of Handguns," Volume 341, No. 21, November 18, 1583-89) followed gun purchasers from 1991 through 1996 and found that new gun buyers were more likely to commit suicide, and during the first week after purchase, had a suicide rate 57 times higher than the adjusted suicide rate for the general population. Handgun buyers were found to be at an increased risk for suicide by firearm for the entire 6 year study, with women who purchased them remaining at an elevated risk for both firearm suicide and firearm homicide for the entire duration. Having a weapon at the ready makes those more tempted to kill themselves more successful at it. Yet despite several recent high profile celebrity son suicides plastered all over the media, somehow in Virginia this topic of concern has failed to surface.
There will also be the more obvious and foreseeable elevation in human cost to law enforcement and the victims of homicide, intentional or not, apparantly equally discounted but infusing new meaning into the term "red state." Note to lawmakers: human life counts. To speak the only language Richmond seems to understand, without intending to be insensitive, coffins are unproductive for coffers. With the exception of the wealthy, the dead don't pay taxes, a not inconsiderable fiscal consideration. Add to that the potential for erosion of the business tax base because of the open presence of guns in bars or restaurants, GUNS WITH (BREAD AND) BUTTER, and there could be an even further subtraction from the Commonwealth's revenues via its misguide attempt to get and stay in the black. Fueled by alcohol, bar fights in the company of firearms will be more lethal and repellent. In attempting to "normalize" carrying them, like a wallet or purse, the General Assembly failed to convincingly articulate just what citizens need self protection from in these settings - could it be to fend off the "Bold Brew" at Starbucks? - and showed a striking lack of elementary savvy.
Finally, a policy welcoming of an explosion of gun purchases could spark a population exodus, particularly from Northern Virginia, a "mixing bowl" of out of staters and immigrants, reversing recent, more moderating, mainstream trends in the state, and undermining the wealthiest source of its tax base. Forbes just named Loudoun County the richest county in the nation, followed by Fairfax, with Arlington, Prince William and the cities of Fairfax and Alexandria among the Top 25. The result could be a "departed" of a different sort, but just as "dear" a "loss of life."
The Commonwealth needs to ensure that visitors will continue to come to "Meet Virginia" and citizens and tourists alike can continue to "LIVE Passionately" within its borders. Pull the trigger on BUTTERING UP GUNS because it doesn't make good cents.
Karen Ann DeLuca
Friday, March 5, 2010
Dear Editor,
To this message I have attached my short story "The Matter of the Eggplant".
A little about me: My name is Sagy Zwirn, 26, I'm an Israeli grad student and am now working on my thesis about Dostoyevsky in Tel Aviv University. I've been asked to write a book review for the British journal "Quarterly Review" and a short story of mine has been accepted for publication by David Bright's American "Gemini Magazine". Another literary journal as shown interest in my work. I've also written two novels, and my literary agent is now looking for a publisher. A major theatre has shown interest in a play I wrote and put it in their waiting list for production.
I hope that you will enjoy my story and think it worthy of your magazine.
Thank you,
Sincerely,
Sagy Zwirn
The Matter of the Eggplant
The book you are about to read is not really a book at all. It is rather an eggplant. Yes. You did not misunderstand. An eggplant. After reading it, you might come to the conclusion, that it is not a good book at all, but then, consider this: How good of a book would you expect it to be, given the indisputable fact, that it is, at the same time, also an eggplant? I should think that one could demand very little of such a gourd of a book. Of course, some might claim that an eggplant, well sliced and cooked, could be very good indeed, and in more ways than one, but then, this would beg the question: having accosted the dubious worth of this literary endeavor, have you first sliced and cooked it? Have you broiled, steamed, or fried it? If you have not, you should probably feel ashamed for criticizing this work prematurely.
Then again, some might say that eggplants are, as a general rule - or perhaps always - unsatisfactory. If they are correct, you might say, that this whole work is done with before it has even started. Oh ye of little faith! Certainly a book that is also an eggplant is not the most common, perchance not even the most likely thing in the world, but one can not dispute the fact, that many uncommon and unlikely things, are in fact, quite beautiful. After all, even if you believe that gourds are not tasty, they can still make a good read.
Even this, which you are reading now, being a part of the book, is too an eggplant, or at least a part thereof. This might appear strange to you, perhaps even indecorous on the writer's part - that you are given a fragment of an eggplant to read. Still, it is the truth, and if Keats is correct, and truth is indeed beauty, then, this partial eggplant, which bits and pieces you are now gnawing at with your eyes and with your words (which are yours and yours alone, rather than the book's, as eggplants are not made of words), is quite beautiful.
Certainly a critic would demand of this work: "How can produce make a fine book? A thing is made for a purpose! A gourd is for eating, not for artistic appreciation! Trying to make sense of gourd, while at times insightful, is also quite unseemly! Nay, quite rude! Nay, quite the opposite of auspicious! Nay, quite couth! It should never be attempted without a proper license and proper registration and proper procedure! Yes, procedure! What literary style can a gourd offer? I should think not more than a very rudimentary one! Nay, no more than amateurish! Nay, mo more than a circumspect one! And circumspect style provides not a work of genius!
I should hope that no writer would ever attempt to write an eggplant, unless he had taken the proper steps beforehand. Wishy-washy results are to be expected otherwise!"
And perhaps he would be right. Perhaps only a very average novel can come out of an eggplant, and perhaps only a quasi-satisfactory play. But sometimes, perhaps one gourd in a thousand, will be much more than that. Should you not then, give any gourd in the pile a chance? Of course, you might hear the critic again:
"I should think no gourds should be allowed in my journal! How preposterous it would be, if an eggplant would find its way to the pages of such a magazine? Even if it is a very fine eggplant, even if it makes for a good or perhaps even a very good read, it is still an eggplant! No matter how good it is as art, it still has its eggplantine nature, and that cannot be undone! Eggplants, even if they are good novels or mediocre plays, should remain in a salad, where they belong!"
I don't know about a salad, because eating good art would seem a waste, but if it is indeed the nature of good art that it should be eaten, then perhaps I am mistaken.
"It is unheard of!" the critic would demand once more. "Unheard of! After all, a writer writes a book, and a writer can not make an eggplant, unless the writer is fertile soil! And I should think I would not want to read any book written by dirt!"
Perhaps it is a conflict, that a good book be an eggplant, when no writer that is human can produce from his quill, a full sized eggplant. And yet, sometimes the unlikely occurs. Perhaps some of the dirt in the world would make for good artists, and perhaps a human would one day give literary birth to a gourd. Stranger things have happened, and I would never feel myself so superior as to rule them out. Therefore, when a good eggplant of a book would come my way, before making it into a middle-eastern delight and biting into its supple flesh, I would always read it first. Perhaps it would make a very good book indeed.
To this message I have attached my short story "The Matter of the Eggplant".
A little about me: My name is Sagy Zwirn, 26, I'm an Israeli grad student and am now working on my thesis about Dostoyevsky in Tel Aviv University. I've been asked to write a book review for the British journal "Quarterly Review" and a short story of mine has been accepted for publication by David Bright's American "Gemini Magazine". Another literary journal as shown interest in my work. I've also written two novels, and my literary agent is now looking for a publisher. A major theatre has shown interest in a play I wrote and put it in their waiting list for production.
I hope that you will enjoy my story and think it worthy of your magazine.
Thank you,
Sincerely,
Sagy Zwirn
The Matter of the Eggplant
The book you are about to read is not really a book at all. It is rather an eggplant. Yes. You did not misunderstand. An eggplant. After reading it, you might come to the conclusion, that it is not a good book at all, but then, consider this: How good of a book would you expect it to be, given the indisputable fact, that it is, at the same time, also an eggplant? I should think that one could demand very little of such a gourd of a book. Of course, some might claim that an eggplant, well sliced and cooked, could be very good indeed, and in more ways than one, but then, this would beg the question: having accosted the dubious worth of this literary endeavor, have you first sliced and cooked it? Have you broiled, steamed, or fried it? If you have not, you should probably feel ashamed for criticizing this work prematurely.
Then again, some might say that eggplants are, as a general rule - or perhaps always - unsatisfactory. If they are correct, you might say, that this whole work is done with before it has even started. Oh ye of little faith! Certainly a book that is also an eggplant is not the most common, perchance not even the most likely thing in the world, but one can not dispute the fact, that many uncommon and unlikely things, are in fact, quite beautiful. After all, even if you believe that gourds are not tasty, they can still make a good read.
Even this, which you are reading now, being a part of the book, is too an eggplant, or at least a part thereof. This might appear strange to you, perhaps even indecorous on the writer's part - that you are given a fragment of an eggplant to read. Still, it is the truth, and if Keats is correct, and truth is indeed beauty, then, this partial eggplant, which bits and pieces you are now gnawing at with your eyes and with your words (which are yours and yours alone, rather than the book's, as eggplants are not made of words), is quite beautiful.
Certainly a critic would demand of this work: "How can produce make a fine book? A thing is made for a purpose! A gourd is for eating, not for artistic appreciation! Trying to make sense of gourd, while at times insightful, is also quite unseemly! Nay, quite rude! Nay, quite the opposite of auspicious! Nay, quite couth! It should never be attempted without a proper license and proper registration and proper procedure! Yes, procedure! What literary style can a gourd offer? I should think not more than a very rudimentary one! Nay, no more than amateurish! Nay, mo more than a circumspect one! And circumspect style provides not a work of genius!
I should hope that no writer would ever attempt to write an eggplant, unless he had taken the proper steps beforehand. Wishy-washy results are to be expected otherwise!"
And perhaps he would be right. Perhaps only a very average novel can come out of an eggplant, and perhaps only a quasi-satisfactory play. But sometimes, perhaps one gourd in a thousand, will be much more than that. Should you not then, give any gourd in the pile a chance? Of course, you might hear the critic again:
"I should think no gourds should be allowed in my journal! How preposterous it would be, if an eggplant would find its way to the pages of such a magazine? Even if it is a very fine eggplant, even if it makes for a good or perhaps even a very good read, it is still an eggplant! No matter how good it is as art, it still has its eggplantine nature, and that cannot be undone! Eggplants, even if they are good novels or mediocre plays, should remain in a salad, where they belong!"
I don't know about a salad, because eating good art would seem a waste, but if it is indeed the nature of good art that it should be eaten, then perhaps I am mistaken.
"It is unheard of!" the critic would demand once more. "Unheard of! After all, a writer writes a book, and a writer can not make an eggplant, unless the writer is fertile soil! And I should think I would not want to read any book written by dirt!"
Perhaps it is a conflict, that a good book be an eggplant, when no writer that is human can produce from his quill, a full sized eggplant. And yet, sometimes the unlikely occurs. Perhaps some of the dirt in the world would make for good artists, and perhaps a human would one day give literary birth to a gourd. Stranger things have happened, and I would never feel myself so superior as to rule them out. Therefore, when a good eggplant of a book would come my way, before making it into a middle-eastern delight and biting into its supple flesh, I would always read it first. Perhaps it would make a very good book indeed.
Message from Mendicant Mother Nature?
As I sat inside my home a few weeks ago, watching the blizzard that weathermen had initially predicted to be just "snow showers," my thoughts wandered to the events of the first weeks of 2010 and I quickly discerned a pattern - not much credibility. Yes, forecasting in the DC Metro area is tricky, and I don't blame the meteorologists for the second round of shoveling out, but it has been a year, so far, marked by "discovery of the disingenuous." Obama has flip flopped, and not only from his initial campaign stances, in a desperate search of a "win" to halt the hemorrhaging of his political capital. Toyota seems to be proving "image is everything," and I feel for the owners of their recalled vehicles, especially those who are brave enough to drive them in navigating the historic snows. Most particularly, they deserve a straight answer from the Japanese company as to "what it knew, and when it knew it?" Mark McGwire - liar, liar, now we know why his bat was on fire. And John Edwards, well, he is that baby's daddy after all. The list could go on and on, and sadly, more admissions than apologies abound.
The trailing moniker of the 2008 election, Bush bashing having faded and subsided, seems to be that the more things CHANGE, the more they stay the same. I, for one, think the extraordinary physical paralysis of our nation's Capitol for over a week was aptly symbolic of its typical, daily dysfunction. Perhaps the record snowfall was a not so subtle and intended missive from Mother Nature, begging our attention to stop barreling down that familiar highway and urging us not to "stay the course" out of inertia, but to instead really CHANGE our path THIS TIME. The great digout forced US to do things differently, beyond snow removal duty and altered travel routes, an empathetic coming together, if only briefly. Having been confronted with, and overcome, such an overt mirror and roadblock, it would be a shame to squander the potential to broaden and extend the sentiment. It could, after all, lead to 2010 being the Year of finally (taking) the Tiger, no reference to golfer Woods, who like Toyota is on a quest to restore trust and rehabilitate a reputation, or pun intended, by the tail.
This last week in February, again, Washington, DC area weathermen called for "snow showers." Again, they got it wrong; as I write this, not a white flake in site. The landscape, however, is windswept and roaring. Indicative of more rambling bluster on the horizon, or the beginning gusts of strong change? Or maybe a nudging message from mendicant Mother Nature in the wake of continuing mendacity? When will we learn???
As we enter a meteorological change of season, will we March forward, backward, or stay stuck in and proliferate the same pothole? Can there be a Spring awakening without yet another round of extraordinary weather events? Too soon to tell, but I certainly hope so.
Karen Ann DeLuca
As I sat inside my home a few weeks ago, watching the blizzard that weathermen had initially predicted to be just "snow showers," my thoughts wandered to the events of the first weeks of 2010 and I quickly discerned a pattern - not much credibility. Yes, forecasting in the DC Metro area is tricky, and I don't blame the meteorologists for the second round of shoveling out, but it has been a year, so far, marked by "discovery of the disingenuous." Obama has flip flopped, and not only from his initial campaign stances, in a desperate search of a "win" to halt the hemorrhaging of his political capital. Toyota seems to be proving "image is everything," and I feel for the owners of their recalled vehicles, especially those who are brave enough to drive them in navigating the historic snows. Most particularly, they deserve a straight answer from the Japanese company as to "what it knew, and when it knew it?" Mark McGwire - liar, liar, now we know why his bat was on fire. And John Edwards, well, he is that baby's daddy after all. The list could go on and on, and sadly, more admissions than apologies abound.
The trailing moniker of the 2008 election, Bush bashing having faded and subsided, seems to be that the more things CHANGE, the more they stay the same. I, for one, think the extraordinary physical paralysis of our nation's Capitol for over a week was aptly symbolic of its typical, daily dysfunction. Perhaps the record snowfall was a not so subtle and intended missive from Mother Nature, begging our attention to stop barreling down that familiar highway and urging us not to "stay the course" out of inertia, but to instead really CHANGE our path THIS TIME. The great digout forced US to do things differently, beyond snow removal duty and altered travel routes, an empathetic coming together, if only briefly. Having been confronted with, and overcome, such an overt mirror and roadblock, it would be a shame to squander the potential to broaden and extend the sentiment. It could, after all, lead to 2010 being the Year of finally (taking) the Tiger, no reference to golfer Woods, who like Toyota is on a quest to restore trust and rehabilitate a reputation, or pun intended, by the tail.
This last week in February, again, Washington, DC area weathermen called for "snow showers." Again, they got it wrong; as I write this, not a white flake in site. The landscape, however, is windswept and roaring. Indicative of more rambling bluster on the horizon, or the beginning gusts of strong change? Or maybe a nudging message from mendicant Mother Nature in the wake of continuing mendacity? When will we learn???
As we enter a meteorological change of season, will we March forward, backward, or stay stuck in and proliferate the same pothole? Can there be a Spring awakening without yet another round of extraordinary weather events? Too soon to tell, but I certainly hope so.
Karen Ann DeLuca
Most of them are dead, Fred
What about you?
The L.A. Police won't return the bloody
clothes that Bobby Kennedy wore when
he was shot
but 40 yrs later they will put them
on exhibit for the public to view along with the
sensational artifacts from Manson, the Trailways Killer,
& sundry other horrors, like things from the wax museum or a good freak show
Bobby's family objects, but why?
Down the hallway, where I live, old Frank was murdered by his girlfriend, old Hannah, & - aside from removing them both & a few hours of scintillating gossip - it's quickly forgotten, & downtown a derelict was found dead in Little Tokyo to be removed
immediately never to be thought about again, & yesterday a bloated child was discovered dead in a dumpster in Glendale.
They're gone & forgotten. If L.A. can make use of Bobby's clothes, so what? It all means nothing. Everything is nothing, & so what?
so what ...
Eating a ton of red meat fried
with cabbage, I sop up the grease with
potato bread & swallow it all into my clogged
arteries
I unclog them with apple juice from Trader
Joe who trades me in for a greasy hooker
I swab out the grease
from my skillet & write a poem about heart attacks & death
a fly flits from my open fly (I didn't think anything was in
there) & lights on my heavy nose
a tank rumbles from my
left nostril, but the fly throws Capt Booger from the tank, tank you,
& drives the tank over the top of the Twin Towers
into the flowers a million floors below, tank you
my nose runs for its life into a celestial kleenex & blows up,
sending a geyser of snot into the
wild blue yonder to flounder
& founder down to splatter in the street,
where the cars slip & slide & crash to the side
I try to hide in a dumpster, but it's already stuffed full
of homeless making their home in America's mess, &
there's Capt Booger dying of loneliness, tank you, sucking
milk from his machinegun to wash down the babies he's
mercifully eating after the beating the
little ones take
the ones he can't eat are
fed to the snake, who's been on the
take ever since Eve, the love of his
life, whom he seduced
Adam he traduced & killed with a
Knife
so much for life in
the old days
nothing changes but a name
it's still the same
murder & maim
a silly old game, then
you're dead, Fred ...
Fritz Hamilton
What about you?
The L.A. Police won't return the bloody
clothes that Bobby Kennedy wore when
he was shot
but 40 yrs later they will put them
on exhibit for the public to view along with the
sensational artifacts from Manson, the Trailways Killer,
& sundry other horrors, like things from the wax museum or a good freak show
Bobby's family objects, but why?
Down the hallway, where I live, old Frank was murdered by his girlfriend, old Hannah, & - aside from removing them both & a few hours of scintillating gossip - it's quickly forgotten, & downtown a derelict was found dead in Little Tokyo to be removed
immediately never to be thought about again, & yesterday a bloated child was discovered dead in a dumpster in Glendale.
They're gone & forgotten. If L.A. can make use of Bobby's clothes, so what? It all means nothing. Everything is nothing, & so what?
so what ...
Eating a ton of red meat fried
with cabbage, I sop up the grease with
potato bread & swallow it all into my clogged
arteries
I unclog them with apple juice from Trader
Joe who trades me in for a greasy hooker
I swab out the grease
from my skillet & write a poem about heart attacks & death
a fly flits from my open fly (I didn't think anything was in
there) & lights on my heavy nose
a tank rumbles from my
left nostril, but the fly throws Capt Booger from the tank, tank you,
& drives the tank over the top of the Twin Towers
into the flowers a million floors below, tank you
my nose runs for its life into a celestial kleenex & blows up,
sending a geyser of snot into the
wild blue yonder to flounder
& founder down to splatter in the street,
where the cars slip & slide & crash to the side
I try to hide in a dumpster, but it's already stuffed full
of homeless making their home in America's mess, &
there's Capt Booger dying of loneliness, tank you, sucking
milk from his machinegun to wash down the babies he's
mercifully eating after the beating the
little ones take
the ones he can't eat are
fed to the snake, who's been on the
take ever since Eve, the love of his
life, whom he seduced
Adam he traduced & killed with a
Knife
so much for life in
the old days
nothing changes but a name
it's still the same
murder & maim
a silly old game, then
you're dead, Fred ...
Fritz Hamilton
Thursday, February 18, 2010
My name is Nathan Nobbe and I am sending a sampling of my poetry for your publication consideration. If accepted for publication I would like to be considered for receiving print copies of your magazine. Also, if you would have further interest, i do have several other poems I could make available. Thank You.
On My Knees
I used to strut around my stuff
Pretty cocky in what I did.
I could laugh and wink and flirt a bit
And tell everyone the world I’d seen.
But sometimes it happens that we
Can’t explain a thing or two,
And for me it wasn’t a woodsman’s axe
That chopped me down to size.
It so happened that so it was,
That it was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Now I could talk a good game of politics,
Philosophize and reflect on God.
Give advice to anyone who cared,
Walk upright and without a damn.
But lo let me tell you a thing,
A thing I’ve learned since then.
For a man a woman has more power
Than any other thing,
And for me that fact was proved to me
When I met the one that sapped me good.
The one for me that had the power,
That one the one I’ll tell you indeed,
It was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Awakening
Asking for help
But why was it not
Sought
When digging the hole
You’re now found in.
The digging seemed fun,
Or at least held some promise,
Or reason.
How is it you finally saw.
That the sunlight no longer touched you?
That the breathing was difficult?
Was unfulfilling?
Or was it the walls that define
Now a perimeter of your existence.
Rescue me.
Throw down a rope.
Give a ladder.
I swear I will never do it again.
Reach out the helping hand.
It is there.
In front of you there.
Grateful and appreciative, yes
Thankful be.
For one more chance
Your freedom reprieved.
Vapor Visions
Surrounded by sale and trade and commerce
The modern world well lit.
The unattainable goal is near,
And draws my attention e’en though
Distractions appeal.
Differences reconciled.
A new goal appears. Or so I think.
Plans are pursued.
And where my focus had been
Is now gone away.
As I go toward the one,
The best I have ever seen.
My plans are in full motion,
Another yet appears.
This one is clearly distant,
An investment I cannot afford.
Now what of the other?
It has disappeared.
Was not at the end of the plan
As I had been convinced.
Must have been a distraction but
Now where is the real.
Many visions arrive, then pass by
My attention now fleeting
A direction is not there.
On My Knees
I used to strut around my stuff
Pretty cocky in what I did.
I could laugh and wink and flirt a bit
And tell everyone the world I’d seen.
But sometimes it happens that we
Can’t explain a thing or two,
And for me it wasn’t a woodsman’s axe
That chopped me down to size.
It so happened that so it was,
That it was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Now I could talk a good game of politics,
Philosophize and reflect on God.
Give advice to anyone who cared,
Walk upright and without a damn.
But lo let me tell you a thing,
A thing I’ve learned since then.
For a man a woman has more power
Than any other thing,
And for me that fact was proved to me
When I met the one that sapped me good.
The one for me that had the power,
That one the one I’ll tell you indeed,
It was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Awakening
Asking for help
But why was it not
Sought
When digging the hole
You’re now found in.
The digging seemed fun,
Or at least held some promise,
Or reason.
How is it you finally saw.
That the sunlight no longer touched you?
That the breathing was difficult?
Was unfulfilling?
Or was it the walls that define
Now a perimeter of your existence.
Rescue me.
Throw down a rope.
Give a ladder.
I swear I will never do it again.
Reach out the helping hand.
It is there.
In front of you there.
Grateful and appreciative, yes
Thankful be.
For one more chance
Your freedom reprieved.
Vapor Visions
Surrounded by sale and trade and commerce
The modern world well lit.
The unattainable goal is near,
And draws my attention e’en though
Distractions appeal.
Differences reconciled.
A new goal appears. Or so I think.
Plans are pursued.
And where my focus had been
Is now gone away.
As I go toward the one,
The best I have ever seen.
My plans are in full motion,
Another yet appears.
This one is clearly distant,
An investment I cannot afford.
Now what of the other?
It has disappeared.
Was not at the end of the plan
As I had been convinced.
Must have been a distraction but
Now where is the real.
Many visions arrive, then pass by
My attention now fleeting
A direction is not there.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Well, 4,500 of my ancestors were beheaded for returning to paganism after forced baptism.
According to the Talmud, I am Jewish, because at one point, I converted to Judaism. Therefore, to Jewish reasoning, I am apostate to Yahweh and his Torah (Law) to his people.
However, according to how I (and most people) would label myself, I am a gentile, zero percent Jewish. My last name “Sass” means “Sahson” or “Saxon” in the Old Saxon language. Old Saxony is in the northern part of Germany just below Denmark. My ancestors were “annexed” into the state of Germany in 1866 at the close of the Austro Prussian war. “Prussia” became the modern nation of ‘Germany’. Thus, I am Saxon by blood, but my ancestors are really Saxons swallowed by the modern nation of Germany. My relatives in Germany hated the Kaisers and the Nazis, but were swallowed anyways. We are not Prussians (Germans) we wanted our independence. I am sure the modern nation of Kenya encompasses many tribes. The Saxons were a Germanic tribe, so were the Angles, Jutes, Frisians, Bavarians, Thuringians, etc etc etc. However, over time, these tribes became the modern nation of Germany. The Prussians were the war mongering anti semitic german bastards. Though, to be blunt, once Christianized, all converted heathens became anti semites, as Christianity is anti Judaism. In the first crusade alone, the germans murdered 1 million jews before the armies left Germany for the Holy Land. Christianity breeds intolerance, i.e. there is only one true god, one chosen people, one way to eternal life, everyone else is wrong, convert or else… This is the mentality I hate.
I learned about my ancestral heritage after I left religion. I wanted to know if I was not created by “god” then what my heritage was, as Christianity is NOT an African religion either. It is a Jewish religion and Italian religion (Roman). All non Jews and non Romans who are Christian, most had their ancestors forced into Christianity. It was spread by the sword historically, just as Islam was. The most ancient religions on the planet, that pre-date Monotheism, were polytheistic. If I were to chose a religion, I would chose the religion of the pagan Saxons. At least it is my heritage, and not a foreign religion. Africans were better off before they were made Christian, and Christianity is a foreign religion to them as well. JMHO…
Robert Sass
According to the Talmud, I am Jewish, because at one point, I converted to Judaism. Therefore, to Jewish reasoning, I am apostate to Yahweh and his Torah (Law) to his people.
However, according to how I (and most people) would label myself, I am a gentile, zero percent Jewish. My last name “Sass” means “Sahson” or “Saxon” in the Old Saxon language. Old Saxony is in the northern part of Germany just below Denmark. My ancestors were “annexed” into the state of Germany in 1866 at the close of the Austro Prussian war. “Prussia” became the modern nation of ‘Germany’. Thus, I am Saxon by blood, but my ancestors are really Saxons swallowed by the modern nation of Germany. My relatives in Germany hated the Kaisers and the Nazis, but were swallowed anyways. We are not Prussians (Germans) we wanted our independence. I am sure the modern nation of Kenya encompasses many tribes. The Saxons were a Germanic tribe, so were the Angles, Jutes, Frisians, Bavarians, Thuringians, etc etc etc. However, over time, these tribes became the modern nation of Germany. The Prussians were the war mongering anti semitic german bastards. Though, to be blunt, once Christianized, all converted heathens became anti semites, as Christianity is anti Judaism. In the first crusade alone, the germans murdered 1 million jews before the armies left Germany for the Holy Land. Christianity breeds intolerance, i.e. there is only one true god, one chosen people, one way to eternal life, everyone else is wrong, convert or else… This is the mentality I hate.
I learned about my ancestral heritage after I left religion. I wanted to know if I was not created by “god” then what my heritage was, as Christianity is NOT an African religion either. It is a Jewish religion and Italian religion (Roman). All non Jews and non Romans who are Christian, most had their ancestors forced into Christianity. It was spread by the sword historically, just as Islam was. The most ancient religions on the planet, that pre-date Monotheism, were polytheistic. If I were to chose a religion, I would chose the religion of the pagan Saxons. At least it is my heritage, and not a foreign religion. Africans were better off before they were made Christian, and Christianity is a foreign religion to them as well. JMHO…
Robert Sass
Short Bio: John Grochalski lives in Brooklyn, New York
if i had it my way
i would be in bed right now
in my torn boxer shorts
in that t-shirt that my wife gave me
the one with the sweat
and wine stains on it
i’d have the covers pulled up
just high enough
the torn brown sheet over the windows
stretched to keep out the light
the curtains drawn
sealed together with some of my wife’s hair clips
there’d be a bottle of wine
on the nightstand
it would be cheap red wine from france
my glass would be full
i’d have tom waits playing
he would be singing
i hope that i don’t fall in love with you
on the half-broken sony cd player.
one of the cats would be resting on my belly
the other would be at the end of the bed
resting between my feet
of course you’d be there too, dear
you’d have your glass of wine
resting on your stomach
waiting for me to refill it
outside there’d be no voices
no cars and no dogs
there’d be nothingness
sweet bliss and nothingness
the world would stay like that
the whole day
silent and black
while we drank glass after glass
of the cheap french red
and made our way through tom waits’ whole catalog
the world at large would go to hell
if i had it my way
but we know it’s never my way, baby
you’re at home right now
sick with a cold for two days
i’m on this morning bus again
reading the same bad novel that i started
reading yesterday
going to work
forever hustling to make a buck
for the electric company and the landlord
for the pleasure of all those other faces
that i’ve never even seen.
growing old with me
i call my mother
she’s the only person that i call
i call her once a week, mostly
she likes to hear my voice
in pittsburgh they got two feet snow, she tells me
she and my father just got done spending six hours shoveling
i tell her that i wish i lived near home
so that i could help them
so that they didn’t have to keep shoveling
my mother likes this
she’s been on me about moving home for years
we talk about my great aunt’s funeral
it was friday before the snow came
my mother read a eulogy
she said that everyone was crying
even your father, she says
my father is like me
it takes a lot to make him cry
i ask my mother how everyone was at the wake
she said they all were all holding up okay
how’s uncle phil? i ask
well, he was okay, my mom says
he looked tired and old
he and my great aunt had spent fifty-two years together
he just got so old going through this, my mom says.
fifty-two years will do that, i say
when we get off the phone i go into the living room
my wife is sitting there with a can of natural light
i can hear the neighbor’s television
through the walls
it is a loud, numbing sound
it is the kind of sound that wakes me up at three
in the morning
with heart palpations and a general fear of the world
i sit down with a beer
i tell my wife that i don’t know if i can
handle this bitch anymore
i think we better think about moving
this makes my wife angry
she tells me that if i’m so mad
maybe i should go and knock on the woman’s door
and tell her to turn her tv down
she says that we all make noise in this place
that she can hear me down the hall and around the bend
singing songs while i make dinner
i tell her that she’s full of shit
my wife drains her beer and tells me
that she’s not moving anywhere
that if i want to move i can go move by myself
i’ve heard this line before
she says that nearly everywhere we go
it’s me, not them
that line is new to me
so we sit there in the living room
the big game turned down low on our set
something loud and animated playing through our walls
i think about my great aunt’s funeral
the one they had before all of that snow came
i think about what my mother said about my great uncle
about how tired and old he’s gotten
then i look at my wife, pouring herself a glass of wine
from the bottle we have sitting on the floor
she looks angry and sullen
and once again i’ve caused it
we’ve been together for twelve years
she still looks young
but i wonder what they’ll be saying about her
when i’m laying there in the casket
about how tired and old she’s gotten
growing old with me
how a life with me has taken its toll on her
for the most part they’ll be right
but honey, i guess i just want to tell you
that i’m sorry right now for all of the
stress and shit that i put you through
just in case i forget
i want you to know that i’m sorry right now
instead of you thinking it
when i’m laying there, cold and gray,
done with everything
with everything finally quiet
and at peace.
just how i like it.
the last man
i look up
from a book
realizing that i’m
the last man left
on the bus
it feels good
for a second
like the apocalypse
like getting a wish granted
but i know this bliss
will not last
i wonder
what’s next?
what comes next?
unsatisfied so easily
suddenly thinking of
oscar wilde
who said:
in this world
there are only
two tragedies
one is not getting
what one wants
and the other is getting it.
and ain’t that the fucking truth?
henry
henry worked in the wine store warehouse
before i got a job there
he had to leave because he got drunk one night
and got hit by a car staggering across a main drag in buffalo
the accident put him in a coma
broke a bunch of bones and such
when he got out he was confined to a wheelchair
henry’s brain didn’t work the way it had before
all of the guys at work talked about him like he was dead
when his family wheeled him in for a visit
henry would shake hands with everyone and sit
in his wheelchair while the guys crowded around him
they’d talk to him about the old days
but he couldn’t say much back
he’d nod and look around the store wide-eyed
henry’s smile was crooked too
when he left everyone would scatter
but throughout the day you’d hear stories about the guy
how he liked to drink beer and scotch and listen to rock and roll
henry liked the alt-country stuff like ryan adams
and the drive-by truckers
the guys said he was surly but had a pretty sharp wit about him
his girlfriend worked wine sales
she had about a dozen years on him
and before the accident henry was fucking bar whores
up and down delaware avenue
she had no clue that he was doing it
they told me that i would’ve liked him
they said he and i had a lot in common
i reminded them of henry a little bit
i was surly and i had a sharp wit about me too
i liked ryan adams and beer and scotch
the last time henry came in, the guys introduced me to him
his handshake was light and he had slobber on his shirt
i felt like i was at a wake
after a while i couldn’t stand the sight
of henry and his wheelchair
of the guys fawning over him
of his cuckold girlfriend wiping his mouth
as his parents stood there with stiff smiles
i went back and did my job
which i hated every second of
soon the guys were all back in the warehouse
they were laughing and telling stories about henry
the time henry drank a six-pack in under five minutes
the fat, black chick henry fucked at fletchers bar
the time he drove his car into a wall
all the good old stories about henry
they talked about him for about an hour
as i hauled cases of wine and kept to myself
then someone mentioned the sabres game from the other night
and everyone in the warehouse
started talking about something else.
sunday morning at 130 bay ridge parkway
sitting in the quiet
as the coffee brews
i hear the ancient chinese bitch next door
banging pots and slamming doors
talking stiff staccato
to her grandchild
the one who sounds
like a pack of elephants
when she runs
soon it’ll be the television
through my walls
for the rest of the day
but sitting here right now
8:20 on a sunday morning
130 bay ridge parkway
it is mostly silent and still
somewhat serene
at the beginning
of another long-ass day
in america
if i had it my way
i would be in bed right now
in my torn boxer shorts
in that t-shirt that my wife gave me
the one with the sweat
and wine stains on it
i’d have the covers pulled up
just high enough
the torn brown sheet over the windows
stretched to keep out the light
the curtains drawn
sealed together with some of my wife’s hair clips
there’d be a bottle of wine
on the nightstand
it would be cheap red wine from france
my glass would be full
i’d have tom waits playing
he would be singing
i hope that i don’t fall in love with you
on the half-broken sony cd player.
one of the cats would be resting on my belly
the other would be at the end of the bed
resting between my feet
of course you’d be there too, dear
you’d have your glass of wine
resting on your stomach
waiting for me to refill it
outside there’d be no voices
no cars and no dogs
there’d be nothingness
sweet bliss and nothingness
the world would stay like that
the whole day
silent and black
while we drank glass after glass
of the cheap french red
and made our way through tom waits’ whole catalog
the world at large would go to hell
if i had it my way
but we know it’s never my way, baby
you’re at home right now
sick with a cold for two days
i’m on this morning bus again
reading the same bad novel that i started
reading yesterday
going to work
forever hustling to make a buck
for the electric company and the landlord
for the pleasure of all those other faces
that i’ve never even seen.
growing old with me
i call my mother
she’s the only person that i call
i call her once a week, mostly
she likes to hear my voice
in pittsburgh they got two feet snow, she tells me
she and my father just got done spending six hours shoveling
i tell her that i wish i lived near home
so that i could help them
so that they didn’t have to keep shoveling
my mother likes this
she’s been on me about moving home for years
we talk about my great aunt’s funeral
it was friday before the snow came
my mother read a eulogy
she said that everyone was crying
even your father, she says
my father is like me
it takes a lot to make him cry
i ask my mother how everyone was at the wake
she said they all were all holding up okay
how’s uncle phil? i ask
well, he was okay, my mom says
he looked tired and old
he and my great aunt had spent fifty-two years together
he just got so old going through this, my mom says.
fifty-two years will do that, i say
when we get off the phone i go into the living room
my wife is sitting there with a can of natural light
i can hear the neighbor’s television
through the walls
it is a loud, numbing sound
it is the kind of sound that wakes me up at three
in the morning
with heart palpations and a general fear of the world
i sit down with a beer
i tell my wife that i don’t know if i can
handle this bitch anymore
i think we better think about moving
this makes my wife angry
she tells me that if i’m so mad
maybe i should go and knock on the woman’s door
and tell her to turn her tv down
she says that we all make noise in this place
that she can hear me down the hall and around the bend
singing songs while i make dinner
i tell her that she’s full of shit
my wife drains her beer and tells me
that she’s not moving anywhere
that if i want to move i can go move by myself
i’ve heard this line before
she says that nearly everywhere we go
it’s me, not them
that line is new to me
so we sit there in the living room
the big game turned down low on our set
something loud and animated playing through our walls
i think about my great aunt’s funeral
the one they had before all of that snow came
i think about what my mother said about my great uncle
about how tired and old he’s gotten
then i look at my wife, pouring herself a glass of wine
from the bottle we have sitting on the floor
she looks angry and sullen
and once again i’ve caused it
we’ve been together for twelve years
she still looks young
but i wonder what they’ll be saying about her
when i’m laying there in the casket
about how tired and old she’s gotten
growing old with me
how a life with me has taken its toll on her
for the most part they’ll be right
but honey, i guess i just want to tell you
that i’m sorry right now for all of the
stress and shit that i put you through
just in case i forget
i want you to know that i’m sorry right now
instead of you thinking it
when i’m laying there, cold and gray,
done with everything
with everything finally quiet
and at peace.
just how i like it.
the last man
i look up
from a book
realizing that i’m
the last man left
on the bus
it feels good
for a second
like the apocalypse
like getting a wish granted
but i know this bliss
will not last
i wonder
what’s next?
what comes next?
unsatisfied so easily
suddenly thinking of
oscar wilde
who said:
in this world
there are only
two tragedies
one is not getting
what one wants
and the other is getting it.
and ain’t that the fucking truth?
henry
henry worked in the wine store warehouse
before i got a job there
he had to leave because he got drunk one night
and got hit by a car staggering across a main drag in buffalo
the accident put him in a coma
broke a bunch of bones and such
when he got out he was confined to a wheelchair
henry’s brain didn’t work the way it had before
all of the guys at work talked about him like he was dead
when his family wheeled him in for a visit
henry would shake hands with everyone and sit
in his wheelchair while the guys crowded around him
they’d talk to him about the old days
but he couldn’t say much back
he’d nod and look around the store wide-eyed
henry’s smile was crooked too
when he left everyone would scatter
but throughout the day you’d hear stories about the guy
how he liked to drink beer and scotch and listen to rock and roll
henry liked the alt-country stuff like ryan adams
and the drive-by truckers
the guys said he was surly but had a pretty sharp wit about him
his girlfriend worked wine sales
she had about a dozen years on him
and before the accident henry was fucking bar whores
up and down delaware avenue
she had no clue that he was doing it
they told me that i would’ve liked him
they said he and i had a lot in common
i reminded them of henry a little bit
i was surly and i had a sharp wit about me too
i liked ryan adams and beer and scotch
the last time henry came in, the guys introduced me to him
his handshake was light and he had slobber on his shirt
i felt like i was at a wake
after a while i couldn’t stand the sight
of henry and his wheelchair
of the guys fawning over him
of his cuckold girlfriend wiping his mouth
as his parents stood there with stiff smiles
i went back and did my job
which i hated every second of
soon the guys were all back in the warehouse
they were laughing and telling stories about henry
the time henry drank a six-pack in under five minutes
the fat, black chick henry fucked at fletchers bar
the time he drove his car into a wall
all the good old stories about henry
they talked about him for about an hour
as i hauled cases of wine and kept to myself
then someone mentioned the sabres game from the other night
and everyone in the warehouse
started talking about something else.
sunday morning at 130 bay ridge parkway
sitting in the quiet
as the coffee brews
i hear the ancient chinese bitch next door
banging pots and slamming doors
talking stiff staccato
to her grandchild
the one who sounds
like a pack of elephants
when she runs
soon it’ll be the television
through my walls
for the rest of the day
but sitting here right now
8:20 on a sunday morning
130 bay ridge parkway
it is mostly silent and still
somewhat serene
at the beginning
of another long-ass day
in america
Monday, February 15, 2010
AIM LOW
destitute, abandoned and scared no more time for crying I share my gifts amongst the world all the while I'm dying my body mind and soul they wither and they crumble I sit alone in blood soaked clothes hearing voices as I mumble I try to pray but can't form words so I carve my prayer into my arm with a blade blood drooling down the stairs my prayer's complete my prayer is carved I seal it with a kiss with blood soaked lips I hit my smoke and ash into my piss It's below me mixed with blood I crack a smile my prayer is answered and I'ts this to be here bleeding on these stairs aim low you'll never miss
kalifornia
The Price
I lie there dead staring up at the stars i feel the wind on my face from the passing cars. my body is cold bloody and broken i'd still be alive if he had just spoken. he use to watch me from afar to him i was a falling star. he saw me and he made a wish that my fucked up life would inspire him to write poems that made people admire him. a little attention in exchange for my soul but when his life is over he'll join me in this hole.....hope it was worth it asshole
kalifornia
gutter love
forbiden fruit i got the loot she holds out the apple in her flesh filled suit. so i chomp the apple it's like i took viagra the razors cut my mouth t's flowin like niagra. blood is runnin down my chest. look up at her and smile and put her to the test. i lunge foreward and open wide biting on her tits i taste her warm flesh in my mouth and the razors open slits. i raise up spit out the blades and gaze at her a bit. she smiles at me with blood soaked lips she sparkles in the sun. she leans against a piss drenched dumpster. now were havin fun!! an od'd stiff a dirty needle that's our bedroom decor. we fuck on top of broken glass...hey that's what alleys are for!! we make sweet love and swap some blood in our golden palice the glass becomes diamonds the piss becomes wine and the dumpster a golden chalice. we climb inside and lie in wait licking our lips with malice for those who pass. they open the lid with disgust to throw away their trash. we pull them in and slit their throats and rid them of their cash. we laugh and giggle and count our money drained bodies lay between us then we jump out get a room at the ritz and let their showers clean us. from filth and disgust to luxury we lay in white robes on the bed. the we do some H go to the club and sit under the strobes. we sip our drinks and smile looking over the dance floor made up of youthful flesh and blood and with our they will grow from east to west north and south there will be blood covered streets. so if you want to join us keep a look out for my girl with the razor filled treats. she'll feed you well your mouth will swell with blood as you enjoy. you smile she leaves your soul dissapears now your our little toy.
kalifornia
kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin christmass drowning in our excess. presents candy and booze. some of us take an eternal snooze. we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff. so when you open your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter. when you put butter on your bread someone is blowin of their head. happy birthday asshole thanx for all the hassle. thanx for creating a day when in order to receive love you have to pay for a present that you can't afford. you'll get nothing from me cause are'nt my lord but just this once i'll make a wish that your dead and gone and sleep with the fish cause then we'll be rid of this day and all over this country we'll be able to say. no longer is it your birthday but just another day
kalifornia
A.D.D.
indulge in drugs and sex roast marshmellows at fiery car wrecks collect diseases feel the wet blood on your skin dry during soft breezes stare at the sun just for fun have a siezure and stop breathin come to seathin with rage rip people into pieces the carnage never cieses as long as i'm breathin when i'm in jail i float through the bars and flip cop cars with my mind never kind the meaning of the word is foregn to me pee on the alamo never go slow through red lights end bar fights with an ak jack santas sleigh drop his ass at 3000 feet in the street he's not a kittin and won't land on his feet but on his head his fat ass bled all over the place now sell the presents on ebay take the money buy some heroin and an ak sit on the runway high as hell shotin at planes all day then play chicken with a 747 die go to heavin shoot god smoke some weed with the angels eat devils food cake and ice cream fuck'em make 'em scram put'em on my team get my cell call my demons in hell tell'em to meet me on earth give birth to my satanic army a reporter comes up to me and says "you just won the spernatural superbowl whatcha gonna do now?" i say "we're going to disneyland to report to our leader the true antichrist mickey mouse"
kalifornia
thank you for considering publishing my poetry
destitute, abandoned and scared no more time for crying I share my gifts amongst the world all the while I'm dying my body mind and soul they wither and they crumble I sit alone in blood soaked clothes hearing voices as I mumble I try to pray but can't form words so I carve my prayer into my arm with a blade blood drooling down the stairs my prayer's complete my prayer is carved I seal it with a kiss with blood soaked lips I hit my smoke and ash into my piss It's below me mixed with blood I crack a smile my prayer is answered and I'ts this to be here bleeding on these stairs aim low you'll never miss
kalifornia
The Price
I lie there dead staring up at the stars i feel the wind on my face from the passing cars. my body is cold bloody and broken i'd still be alive if he had just spoken. he use to watch me from afar to him i was a falling star. he saw me and he made a wish that my fucked up life would inspire him to write poems that made people admire him. a little attention in exchange for my soul but when his life is over he'll join me in this hole.....hope it was worth it asshole
kalifornia
gutter love
forbiden fruit i got the loot she holds out the apple in her flesh filled suit. so i chomp the apple it's like i took viagra the razors cut my mouth t's flowin like niagra. blood is runnin down my chest. look up at her and smile and put her to the test. i lunge foreward and open wide biting on her tits i taste her warm flesh in my mouth and the razors open slits. i raise up spit out the blades and gaze at her a bit. she smiles at me with blood soaked lips she sparkles in the sun. she leans against a piss drenched dumpster. now were havin fun!! an od'd stiff a dirty needle that's our bedroom decor. we fuck on top of broken glass...hey that's what alleys are for!! we make sweet love and swap some blood in our golden palice the glass becomes diamonds the piss becomes wine and the dumpster a golden chalice. we climb inside and lie in wait licking our lips with malice for those who pass. they open the lid with disgust to throw away their trash. we pull them in and slit their throats and rid them of their cash. we laugh and giggle and count our money drained bodies lay between us then we jump out get a room at the ritz and let their showers clean us. from filth and disgust to luxury we lay in white robes on the bed. the we do some H go to the club and sit under the strobes. we sip our drinks and smile looking over the dance floor made up of youthful flesh and blood and with our they will grow from east to west north and south there will be blood covered streets. so if you want to join us keep a look out for my girl with the razor filled treats. she'll feed you well your mouth will swell with blood as you enjoy. you smile she leaves your soul dissapears now your our little toy.
kalifornia
kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin christmass drowning in our excess. presents candy and booze. some of us take an eternal snooze. we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff. so when you open your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter. when you put butter on your bread someone is blowin of their head. happy birthday asshole thanx for all the hassle. thanx for creating a day when in order to receive love you have to pay for a present that you can't afford. you'll get nothing from me cause are'nt my lord but just this once i'll make a wish that your dead and gone and sleep with the fish cause then we'll be rid of this day and all over this country we'll be able to say. no longer is it your birthday but just another day
kalifornia
A.D.D.
indulge in drugs and sex roast marshmellows at fiery car wrecks collect diseases feel the wet blood on your skin dry during soft breezes stare at the sun just for fun have a siezure and stop breathin come to seathin with rage rip people into pieces the carnage never cieses as long as i'm breathin when i'm in jail i float through the bars and flip cop cars with my mind never kind the meaning of the word is foregn to me pee on the alamo never go slow through red lights end bar fights with an ak jack santas sleigh drop his ass at 3000 feet in the street he's not a kittin and won't land on his feet but on his head his fat ass bled all over the place now sell the presents on ebay take the money buy some heroin and an ak sit on the runway high as hell shotin at planes all day then play chicken with a 747 die go to heavin shoot god smoke some weed with the angels eat devils food cake and ice cream fuck'em make 'em scram put'em on my team get my cell call my demons in hell tell'em to meet me on earth give birth to my satanic army a reporter comes up to me and says "you just won the spernatural superbowl whatcha gonna do now?" i say "we're going to disneyland to report to our leader the true antichrist mickey mouse"
kalifornia
thank you for considering publishing my poetry
Friday, February 12, 2010
SHORT BIO
Mike Berger, PhD is bright, articulate, handsome and extremely humble.
I hold a doctorate in psychology. I am now retired
and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing
for a year. I have had good success publishing.
Thanks for your
consideration. I hope you like the poem.
Best,
Mike
DOOMED
My girlfriends giggle and joke.
They talk of love in the back
seat. They take bets on who
will be the first. I can't tell them
how horrible it is.
Mom has a bad heart and is too
sick, so dad turned to me. It hurt
and I'll never get used to it. It makes
me sick when he comes in my room.
I must endure in silence; telling
would kill my mom. I've gone from
being daddy's little girl, to being
a piece of meat.
I loathe all men and most boys;
they are all after the same thing.
You're like a toy, there for their
pleasure. On the day I turn
fifteen next month, I'll run away.
Mike Berger, PhD is bright, articulate, handsome and extremely humble.
I hold a doctorate in psychology. I am now retired
and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing
for a year. I have had good success publishing.
Thanks for your
consideration. I hope you like the poem.
Best,
Mike
DOOMED
My girlfriends giggle and joke.
They talk of love in the back
seat. They take bets on who
will be the first. I can't tell them
how horrible it is.
Mom has a bad heart and is too
sick, so dad turned to me. It hurt
and I'll never get used to it. It makes
me sick when he comes in my room.
I must endure in silence; telling
would kill my mom. I've gone from
being daddy's little girl, to being
a piece of meat.
I loathe all men and most boys;
they are all after the same thing.
You're like a toy, there for their
pleasure. On the day I turn
fifteen next month, I'll run away.
Hello!
BIO: Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.
Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.
Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.
Enclosed are poems to be considered for publication. My poems have appeared in more than 3 dozen publications. I live in Reno, NV, where I work as an English and Poetry professor.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Henry Sosnowski
Life Force
Toes tangled
hair too
lost in each other
like sun fed moon
all light
all reflection
all same.
Tide runs
fear ebbs
washed out
to sea.
Tranquility
covers us
in salty fluids
of our own making.
Wrong Reflection
You can feel
the rush
down to
your toes
when the cop
in your rearview
hit’s the party lights
and your trunk
is loaded
with bad news.
Probable Cause
If you’ve had
more than six
sex partners
you probably
have herpes.
If you’ve had
less than six
sex partners
you’re probably
a comic book collector
living in mom’s basement.
Desdemona of the Heights
My head
in your lap,
on your back stoop,
from this angle
the midnight blue sky,
pinpricked sliver,
frames you.
Leaning forward
your hair shrouds the stars
a scented auburn curtain
narrowing around me,
shutting out their world
closing on your kiss
BIO: Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.
Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.
Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.
Enclosed are poems to be considered for publication. My poems have appeared in more than 3 dozen publications. I live in Reno, NV, where I work as an English and Poetry professor.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Henry Sosnowski
Life Force
Toes tangled
hair too
lost in each other
like sun fed moon
all light
all reflection
all same.
Tide runs
fear ebbs
washed out
to sea.
Tranquility
covers us
in salty fluids
of our own making.
Wrong Reflection
You can feel
the rush
down to
your toes
when the cop
in your rearview
hit’s the party lights
and your trunk
is loaded
with bad news.
Probable Cause
If you’ve had
more than six
sex partners
you probably
have herpes.
If you’ve had
less than six
sex partners
you’re probably
a comic book collector
living in mom’s basement.
Desdemona of the Heights
My head
in your lap,
on your back stoop,
from this angle
the midnight blue sky,
pinpricked sliver,
frames you.
Leaning forward
your hair shrouds the stars
a scented auburn curtain
narrowing around me,
shutting out their world
closing on your kiss
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