Some people know where they are going to be tomorrow. I wonder where I was yesterday. I was having three eggs, scrambled, with mushrooms. Or was it two eggs sunny side up?
People tell me I forget everything I do. Or rather, everything I did, if you want to be critical of my grammatical usage. But what did I forget? I remember everything. I can recall exactly where I was when I –
Were my eggs hard boiled yesterday? They had this dry texture to them. I bet Marta kept them in the water too long. She has a habit of doing that. Maybe if she didn’t fail home-economics last year she would be a better wife. I can’t believe I married her after only one year of courtship.
Who is this old lady constantly walking in front of me? Definitely not my mother – she died before I graduated high school. Unless I’m seeing people from beyond the dead. Do I have powers?
Maybe I died. Maybe that is why I don’t remember yesterday so well? I really think it was an egg salad. Without the mayonnaise. I never liked mayonnaise. But I can’t be dead. I never went home. I never kicked the bucket. I never passed on to a better place.
Who is this little girl holding my hand? Oh, I know. It must be Johnny’s daughter. I always forget I’m an uncle now. Haven’t heard from Johnny in a while, though. He’s a pretty good big brother. He always drove me to the diner to hang out with his friends. He had this awesome car. You should’ve seen it. ’57 Ford. Boy did those lights float down the street. Flickering. I wonder if he got that tune-up he had scheduled for today.
Got it! That’s what I did yesterday. I told Johnny he should get his car fixed.
Why is my niece crying?
“I’m sorry honey, your grandfather expired.”
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Welcome to Medical School
Medical school. It is serene. It is calming. It is maturing. It is a life lesson.
We have all crammed ourselves into the auditorium for orientation. In the front row, dead center, is the student. Dressed properly. Carrying that aura of I know what I got myself into across his chest, half way between the shirt pocket of the Perry Ellis Portfolio dress shirt and the shiny black leather belt, holding up his pants and adorning itself with his ID. It’s the card he worked so many years for. The one that says MEDICAL STUDENT. His name is emblazon across the bottom, right next to the most mature smile of his life. Learning calculus, learning about photosynthesis, doing that elementary volcano science fair project. They are all now worth it. To be sitting there, knowing that in four years he will be awarded the right to tell every flight attendant that his name is Something Something, MD. What he doesn’t know is that behind him sits the lackadaisical liberal, in flip flops flopping against his heel, shorts, an "I love Greenpeace" t-shirt, and a bicycle helmet attached to his bookbag, which undoubtedly contains The New York Times and the last album released by The Who. Welcome to medical school.
Welcome to that beautiful girl. Yes that one. Single. The one who knows she’s a six in real-life, but it’s only a matter of time before she becomes a ten in the eyes of her classmates. Around her, sit the guys, wishing they went into Wall Street. Wishing they continued their immature futures as young adults. Like their friends. That’s the common thread in medical school, your friends. There are your best friends. There are medical school classmates. And in no time, they all become one. Singular. Absurd you say, but that’s the truth. It’s an experience. It’s an aging process. It’s maturation. It’s self-pride combined with an ounce of self-loathing. It’s an amalgam of joy, fear, and sadness. It’s the life we all chose without knowing.
“Welcome to medical school.” The words I have longed to hear for the last twenty-two years. The dude in the fourth row no doubt waited at least thirty.
To be continued ... I hope.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
We have all crammed ourselves into the auditorium for orientation. In the front row, dead center, is the student. Dressed properly. Carrying that aura of I know what I got myself into across his chest, half way between the shirt pocket of the Perry Ellis Portfolio dress shirt and the shiny black leather belt, holding up his pants and adorning itself with his ID. It’s the card he worked so many years for. The one that says MEDICAL STUDENT. His name is emblazon across the bottom, right next to the most mature smile of his life. Learning calculus, learning about photosynthesis, doing that elementary volcano science fair project. They are all now worth it. To be sitting there, knowing that in four years he will be awarded the right to tell every flight attendant that his name is Something Something, MD. What he doesn’t know is that behind him sits the lackadaisical liberal, in flip flops flopping against his heel, shorts, an "I love Greenpeace" t-shirt, and a bicycle helmet attached to his bookbag, which undoubtedly contains The New York Times and the last album released by The Who. Welcome to medical school.
Welcome to that beautiful girl. Yes that one. Single. The one who knows she’s a six in real-life, but it’s only a matter of time before she becomes a ten in the eyes of her classmates. Around her, sit the guys, wishing they went into Wall Street. Wishing they continued their immature futures as young adults. Like their friends. That’s the common thread in medical school, your friends. There are your best friends. There are medical school classmates. And in no time, they all become one. Singular. Absurd you say, but that’s the truth. It’s an experience. It’s an aging process. It’s maturation. It’s self-pride combined with an ounce of self-loathing. It’s an amalgam of joy, fear, and sadness. It’s the life we all chose without knowing.
“Welcome to medical school.” The words I have longed to hear for the last twenty-two years. The dude in the fourth row no doubt waited at least thirty.
To be continued ... I hope.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
3:53 A.M.
Friday. 3:53 a.m. Old Man Jensen drives his ‘67 Pontiac GTO off the Steeplechase Pier into the Atlantic, killing himself and Martha Lemon.
Amidst the July jellyfish, the stench of used condoms, bloody tampons, and bags of Wise potato chips emanated from the rainy Coney Island shore. With the engine idling, Old Man Jensen sat in his car, admiring the pre-War red brick building on West 10th Street. Rain was falling so heavily that the raindrops stripped the blood red bricks of their tone. It looked like red paint running down a canvas. But to Jensen it was symbolic of his dead son helplessly bleeding in a murky war zone along the Persian Gulf.
Curt Jensen was twenty-six years old. Before enlisting in the army he lived a simple life. During the day he worked as a cashier at Key Food. In the evening he came home and spent time with his dad. They played gin, drank brandy, and reminisced about the 1986 Mets. When Curt left for Iraq, his father rediscovered the art of jerking off. Several months later, on a Friday, at 2:47 a.m., Old Man Jensen was watching Saving Ryan’s Privates when the phone rang. With a half hard on, he knew his son was dead. He got in his car, thinking it would clear his head.
Eddie and Martha ran through the streets hand in hand, silent, as if on a covert mission. They snuck over the gate to Astroland and took cover in one of the cars on the Wonder Wheel. They were drenched. Eddie could make out the firmness of Martha’s small nipples through her shirt. Her hair lost its curls as it lay, long and shiny over both eyes.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Amidst the July jellyfish, the stench of used condoms, bloody tampons, and bags of Wise potato chips emanated from the rainy Coney Island shore. With the engine idling, Old Man Jensen sat in his car, admiring the pre-War red brick building on West 10th Street. Rain was falling so heavily that the raindrops stripped the blood red bricks of their tone. It looked like red paint running down a canvas. But to Jensen it was symbolic of his dead son helplessly bleeding in a murky war zone along the Persian Gulf.
Curt Jensen was twenty-six years old. Before enlisting in the army he lived a simple life. During the day he worked as a cashier at Key Food. In the evening he came home and spent time with his dad. They played gin, drank brandy, and reminisced about the 1986 Mets. When Curt left for Iraq, his father rediscovered the art of jerking off. Several months later, on a Friday, at 2:47 a.m., Old Man Jensen was watching Saving Ryan’s Privates when the phone rang. With a half hard on, he knew his son was dead. He got in his car, thinking it would clear his head.
* * * * * *
Friday. 3:53 a.m. Old Man Jensen drives his ‘67 Pontiac GTO off the Steeplechase Pier into the Atlantic, killing himself and Martha Lemon.Eddie and Martha ran through the streets hand in hand, silent, as if on a covert mission. They snuck over the gate to Astroland and took cover in one of the cars on the Wonder Wheel. They were drenched. Eddie could make out the firmness of Martha’s small nipples through her shirt. Her hair lost its curls as it lay, long and shiny over both eyes.
“Damn.” He pulled out.
“That was uh-amazing.” She tried to catch her breath.
“Mother--. Dammit.”
“What happened?”
“I finished.” Panic and dullness mixed in his voice.
Her euphoric smile turned to horror. She reached over the metal bar and picked her black panties off the ground. She slid them back on, turned her back to him, and began to cry.
She hated herself. Four minutes ago Eddie was inside her. Forty-six minutes ago she straddled herself onto a man’s genitalia. Two hours and twenty-six minutes ago she left Peggy O’Neil’s with a drunken stranger. Four hours and fifty-seven minutes ago she let a man buy her a drink. Four hours and fifty-nine minutes ago she said “Hello” to a twenty something blonde hair blue eyed man. Six hours and twelve minutes ago she walked into a bar knowing she was going to screw the first guy she spoke to.
When her anger outweighed her fears, she stopped crying and ran. Her feet took her to the edge of the Steeplechase Pier. She grasped the railing as she heard the pounding roar of her heart. She would never know that the roar was a car speeding towards her.
Written 3/14/2007
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Monday, May 17, 2010
My Wry Scottish Wit - Part 2
To read My Wry Scottish Wit - Part 1 click here.
Oh boy. So herein lies the dilemma. If I get up and walk away the professor is going to think he's an epic failure. And I mean epic. Not in the "I'm bad at teaching way," but in the head down, shameful, cringe, disgraceful way. How can a man not be a fail if he has no comical delivery ability. Did I just compare comic relief to a science? Comicology.
Anyways, his lifetime achievement in academic presentation will be shattered. Knowledgeable he is. Anybody with half a brain and a doctorate or graduate degree is knowledgeable. But delivery. Presentation. Attention grabbing wit. That's the challenge. Except for potentially attractive Barbies with quarter-brains. So yes, me walking out would not be good for his ego.
And I'm a nice person. I have compassion. I have a swagger.
On the other hand, if I sit here, immobile, I'll be left with the worst rash of my life. I can already tell. This isn't your ordinary Tuesday post-practice jock discomfort. This is that I should have done my laundry today, or yesterday, or sometime in the past month.
Option number three. Continue to try and squeeze the midline of these Michael Jordan endorsed Hanes boxers® from out the valley. I could let Ellie watch me dig myself into a deep hole. I'll never get out. A crater. It's like being stuck on the moon. Mission to the Moon. Help me get back home!
Listen to those rails a-thrumming (All Aboard!)
My leg starts to shake. Ansy, they call this. Old people call it an overactive bladder. But mine is dry. Empty. I went before class like Mrs. Deutsche taught me in the third grade. This lesson came right between shaking the pen to get the ink flowing and tucking the loop of the tail under the line on the "Y". And she always made sure I dotted my eye.
Italicized lyrics in the above piece come from two sources:
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Oh boy. So herein lies the dilemma. If I get up and walk away the professor is going to think he's an epic failure. And I mean epic. Not in the "I'm bad at teaching way," but in the head down, shameful, cringe, disgraceful way. How can a man not be a fail if he has no comical delivery ability. Did I just compare comic relief to a science? Comicology.
Anyways, his lifetime achievement in academic presentation will be shattered. Knowledgeable he is. Anybody with half a brain and a doctorate or graduate degree is knowledgeable. But delivery. Presentation. Attention grabbing wit. That's the challenge. Except for potentially attractive Barbies with quarter-brains. So yes, me walking out would not be good for his ego.
And I'm a nice person. I have compassion. I have a swagger.
On the other hand, if I sit here, immobile, I'll be left with the worst rash of my life. I can already tell. This isn't your ordinary Tuesday post-practice jock discomfort. This is that I should have done my laundry today, or yesterday, or sometime in the past month.
Option number three. Continue to try and squeeze the midline of these Michael Jordan endorsed Hanes boxers® from out the valley. I could let Ellie watch me dig myself into a deep hole. I'll never get out. A crater. It's like being stuck on the moon. Mission to the Moon. Help me get back home!
Listen to those rails a-thrumming (All Aboard!)
My leg starts to shake. Ansy, they call this. Old people call it an overactive bladder. But mine is dry. Empty. I went before class like Mrs. Deutsche taught me in the third grade. This lesson came right between shaking the pen to get the ink flowing and tucking the loop of the tail under the line on the "Y". And she always made sure I dotted my eye.
Italicized lyrics in the above piece come from two sources:
- Eiffel 65 - Blue
- Duke Ellington - Take the A train
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
My Wry Scottish Wit - Part 1
Dry humor. That's what I want to write about. Some might think this entry -- rant -- is going to be filled with subtle puns on a serious topic. No. It's going to be a discussion of punniness.
Get it?
So I'm sitting in class and the professor says he practices dry humor. Why would he say that? Is he comparing himself to matzo on a forty year journey through the desert or to a mushy village of hills and valleys removed from its safe cerebrospinal fluid environment? Nonetheless, I ignore it and lend him a customary "tehe." I do this because I have class. Do you?
So I go on sitting through this mundane lecture. Hearing but not listening. I might be absorbing prions of information, but most likely I'm exercising by drown-out skills, shifting my visual focus to the back of my eyelids and my auditory attention to the Duke -- I'm a blue devil Taking the A train.
I'm blue da ba dee da ba die.
So why do we strive for dry humor? Is it the skill of delivery -- the unflappable calm nature of presentation? Or because Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld made millions off of it? Or maybe because we (I) want to get up in front of a classroom and discuss the most __________ topic in front of umpteen deadpan half-sleeping zombies.
If you miss the A train
You'll find you've missed the quickest way to Harlem.
But I'm not going to Harlem. I'm sitting still, trying casually to wiggle my way out of a wedgie. I know I should have done the laundry today. On my right, I can feel the peeking eyes of Ellie, staring at me. She knows. She can see through my subtle oopty-loop of my rear end. But I swear, I was not picking my nose. Can't a man scratch the outside of his nostril without losing the "in" with a female classmate?
Hurry, get on, now, it's coming.
Italicized lyrics in the above piece come from two sources:
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Get it?
So I'm sitting in class and the professor says he practices dry humor. Why would he say that? Is he comparing himself to matzo on a forty year journey through the desert or to a mushy village of hills and valleys removed from its safe cerebrospinal fluid environment? Nonetheless, I ignore it and lend him a customary "tehe." I do this because I have class. Do you?
I'm blue da ba dee da ba die.
So why do we strive for dry humor? Is it the skill of delivery -- the unflappable calm nature of presentation? Or because Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld made millions off of it? Or maybe because we (I) want to get up in front of a classroom and discuss the most __________ topic in front of umpteen deadpan half-sleeping zombies.
If you miss the A train
You'll find you've missed the quickest way to Harlem.
But I'm not going to Harlem. I'm sitting still, trying casually to wiggle my way out of a wedgie. I know I should have done the laundry today. On my right, I can feel the peeking eyes of Ellie, staring at me. She knows. She can see through my subtle oopty-loop of my rear end. But I swear, I was not picking my nose. Can't a man scratch the outside of his nostril without losing the "in" with a female classmate?
Hurry, get on, now, it's coming.
Tune in tomorrow (5/17/2010) at 10:00 p.m. for the continuation.
Italicized lyrics in the above piece come from two sources:
- Eiffel 65 - Blue
- Duke Ellington - Take the A train
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
My Favorite Cube
It rests in the palm of my hand with the weight of the desert sand walked on by the slaves of Egypt. Nevertheless, it masks its torture in a colorful mosaic array of plastic. My eyes, your eyes, his eyes and her eyes dwell on the mysterious torment it afflicts on each of us. It is a game. You play with it and it toys with you.
White.
Three spins to the right. Twist. Four spins down. And all of a sudden the whiteness you were staring at is red. Then green.
Each color is perfect. The edges of the paint blend uniformly into the edges of its pure cubic form. The edges meet with the air on the outside, and shallow black valleys on the inside. They make the flatness not so flat and the layout into a grid. The symmetry of each square combines with other squares to make a larger square that orient themselves to make a shape with six identical surfaces. It is perfect. And yet, with each whirl I am taken into an inescapable abyss where the red sea parts further to permit a blue wave. Amidst every motion is the accompaniment of a click, followed by a click, and then another click.
Enough clicking goes by and all of a sudden I am staring at a face—a collage of dye. The red, the white, the green and the blue, say hello to the yellow and the orange. No panel of color wants to find its brothers and sisters. But I want every colorful family reunited—all nine family members together on one facade. Except, may I add, the white family, who only has eight members because it was screwed right in the middle.
I always stare at the screw. It dares players to turn it, to place a screwdriver upon its Phillips head and turn counter-clockwise. Each component of this community crumples to the ground in a sea of black. The baby cubes that comprise the agonizing rainbow cube are measly six-sided pieces with five black faces. Only a measly one has color. And that color is torture. But it is also comfort when one red, meets another red, meets another red and the clicking is not worthless anymore.
However, there are still more sheets of cubes to turn before all nine reds are facing east. This journey with this toy is far from complete. To spin the left nine pieces down or up, to spin the top nine piece right or left—that is the question?
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
White.
Three spins to the right. Twist. Four spins down. And all of a sudden the whiteness you were staring at is red. Then green.
Each color is perfect. The edges of the paint blend uniformly into the edges of its pure cubic form. The edges meet with the air on the outside, and shallow black valleys on the inside. They make the flatness not so flat and the layout into a grid. The symmetry of each square combines with other squares to make a larger square that orient themselves to make a shape with six identical surfaces. It is perfect. And yet, with each whirl I am taken into an inescapable abyss where the red sea parts further to permit a blue wave. Amidst every motion is the accompaniment of a click, followed by a click, and then another click.
Enough clicking goes by and all of a sudden I am staring at a face—a collage of dye. The red, the white, the green and the blue, say hello to the yellow and the orange. No panel of color wants to find its brothers and sisters. But I want every colorful family reunited—all nine family members together on one facade. Except, may I add, the white family, who only has eight members because it was screwed right in the middle.
I always stare at the screw. It dares players to turn it, to place a screwdriver upon its Phillips head and turn counter-clockwise. Each component of this community crumples to the ground in a sea of black. The baby cubes that comprise the agonizing rainbow cube are measly six-sided pieces with five black faces. Only a measly one has color. And that color is torture. But it is also comfort when one red, meets another red, meets another red and the clicking is not worthless anymore.
However, there are still more sheets of cubes to turn before all nine reds are facing east. This journey with this toy is far from complete. To spin the left nine pieces down or up, to spin the top nine piece right or left—that is the question?
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Typewriter
There are twelve weeks in the year, four days in the week, twelve and a half hours in the day, twenty-seven minutes in the hour, and sixteen seconds in the minute. I am five weeks, two days, four hours, and some odd minutes old, yet I have not seen the sun rise even once. I was born in a tiny remote corner of neither here nor there. You will never know me and I hope you never have the privilege of seeing me. You're not allowed to ask why yet.
Why can't you ask why? Because, I'm the writer and I want you to read the rest of this damned story. Why do I want you to read this? Because, if for some reason it's published profits will flow from your pockets to my master's; if it's not published then because I want you to brag about me. I want you to express deep regard for this work and for my being. Why do I need and want you to love me? Because, I haven't seen the sun rise even once.
And if I could talk. I would beg for a birthday party. A celebration of the event that made me, that made me become something of matter. Significantly I contribute to their (your) world by holding every record at the tip of my ribbon with no remorse, qualms, or fears of impotence, because my successful endeavors will live on forever. Yet, my role will never be boasted. I will not be loved. I will not be the mind behind the story that you read. I will merely be the means to the ends. Used and abused. Raped and pillaged. Seen and conquered. And maybe, my knowing the truth, will make those fictitious sixteen seconds go by much faster.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Why can't you ask why? Because, I'm the writer and I want you to read the rest of this damned story. Why do I want you to read this? Because, if for some reason it's published profits will flow from your pockets to my master's; if it's not published then because I want you to brag about me. I want you to express deep regard for this work and for my being. Why do I need and want you to love me? Because, I haven't seen the sun rise even once.
And if I could talk. I would beg for a birthday party. A celebration of the event that made me, that made me become something of matter. Significantly I contribute to their (your) world by holding every record at the tip of my ribbon with no remorse, qualms, or fears of impotence, because my successful endeavors will live on forever. Yet, my role will never be boasted. I will not be loved. I will not be the mind behind the story that you read. I will merely be the means to the ends. Used and abused. Raped and pillaged. Seen and conquered. And maybe, my knowing the truth, will make those fictitious sixteen seconds go by much faster.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Maroon
I did enjoy the closeness. It had nothing to do with the proximity of my being to that beautiful specimen, but everything to do with the nearness of success. People say almost doesn't count. Well, almost does count. It did count.
Sunday, when it all happened, I didn't leap off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Instead, I got as close to the edge as possible. The middle of my soles clenched tight, my toes immobile, yearning for the last breath of grasp to the iron framework. My heels, the only contact to solid ground before a potentially fatal plunge. But this isn't a story about an attempted suicide. That would be sad. The bridge is a metaphor.
My eyes burned. My fingers charred. The coffee grind vanished. It was one of the longest days of my life. And I made it. I made it to the end. The clock struck 23:59 and I was almost there. It was almost suffice to let go and leap into bed. I was almost at that stage when I could take that pressed sheet to bed with me and say, "I made you." But at 0:00 it all ran out. The coffee. The ink. The sheet -- bleeding darkness. And still, within that smudge of near perfection, burden rested in a silent and clear haven.
I hung up the sheet, too empty to be my companion, near its brethren. This one, the youngest, but the smartest. It was the one that got the farthest in the life. The one I raised correctly. The one that I raised without the self-help books and tutorials. The one that I raised with mere experience. This was the one that I most cherished. Didn't love. But cherished.
For love, I needed a six letter word for "red."
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Sunday, when it all happened, I didn't leap off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Instead, I got as close to the edge as possible. The middle of my soles clenched tight, my toes immobile, yearning for the last breath of grasp to the iron framework. My heels, the only contact to solid ground before a potentially fatal plunge. But this isn't a story about an attempted suicide. That would be sad. The bridge is a metaphor.
My eyes burned. My fingers charred. The coffee grind vanished. It was one of the longest days of my life. And I made it. I made it to the end. The clock struck 23:59 and I was almost there. It was almost suffice to let go and leap into bed. I was almost at that stage when I could take that pressed sheet to bed with me and say, "I made you." But at 0:00 it all ran out. The coffee. The ink. The sheet -- bleeding darkness. And still, within that smudge of near perfection, burden rested in a silent and clear haven.
I hung up the sheet, too empty to be my companion, near its brethren. This one, the youngest, but the smartest. It was the one that got the farthest in the life. The one I raised correctly. The one that I raised without the self-help books and tutorials. The one that I raised with mere experience. This was the one that I most cherished. Didn't love. But cherished.
For love, I needed a six letter word for "red."
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Poetry Is ...
Poetry is the empty liquor bottle, reflecting on the hallow life it is meant to fill.
Poetry is the filler of life that glorifies average and mediocre into existential and philosophical.
Poetry is the rant of relief, easing the pain and suffering of life’s senseless episodes.
Poetry is the bill of bliss, capturing the vividness in brush strokes, painted onto a personal masterpiece.
Poetry is a Cup O Noodles soup.
Poetry is instant coffee.
Poetry is a wake-up call.
Poetry is the tic and the toc before life expires.
Poetry is the days before the carton of milk sours.
Poetry is Houdini meeting David Blaine.
Poetry is twenty ones when all you need is a twenty.
Poetry is a double-knotted shoelace.
Poetry is the screwdriver unscrewing the tightened training wheels.
Poetry is the bungee cord before it snaps.
Poetry is your conscious dream.
Poetry is playing make believe.
Poetry is imperfection.
Poetry is a foul ball.
Poetry is a field goal.
Poetry is a shoulda, coulda, woulda, but didn’t.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Poetry is the filler of life that glorifies average and mediocre into existential and philosophical.
Poetry is the rant of relief, easing the pain and suffering of life’s senseless episodes.
Poetry is the bill of bliss, capturing the vividness in brush strokes, painted onto a personal masterpiece.
Poetry is a Cup O Noodles soup.
Poetry is instant coffee.
Poetry is a wake-up call.
Poetry is the tic and the toc before life expires.
Poetry is the days before the carton of milk sours.
Poetry is Houdini meeting David Blaine.
Poetry is twenty ones when all you need is a twenty.
Poetry is a double-knotted shoelace.
Poetry is the screwdriver unscrewing the tightened training wheels.
Poetry is the bungee cord before it snaps.
Poetry is your conscious dream.
Poetry is playing make believe.
Poetry is imperfection.
Poetry is a foul ball.
Poetry is a field goal.
Poetry is a shoulda, coulda, woulda, but didn’t.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Be Who You Are
Some guys are stoic. Some guys wear their emotions on their sleeves. But there is always that one guy who is inappropriate. The guy who is funny at the age of twelve, disgusting at the age of twenty, and an embarrassment at the age of forty-four. But yet, these are the guys that everyone gravitates to -- it's the guy that gets the girl and runs Wall Street. It's the guy that has "that" apartment in the city that makes your eyes glisten, your heart race, and your wallet quiver. We all say we'll never be that guy, but yet we all want to be that guy.
Freddy wants to be that guy. He orders his latte at the local Starbucks outside his apartment in Flushing. Hops on the 7 train and ends up in Times Square. As he gets out into the 44th Street race to 9th Avenue he picks up a Chai Latte at another Starbucks. By the time he gets to work, his heart is racing even faster, and his pockets are a little lighter. He shows his identification to the security guard at the front desk, makes a little smile with the edge of his mouth, and drops the usual, "Have you heard the one about the Jew and the Priest?" After lefts and rights through various mirrored corridors, he comes to the elevator that will take him to the 67th floor. In the elevator, he glances to the left at Mr. Stephenson, the company CEO, "Last night was rough, came home and my wife told me I smelled just like the strip club. Can you believe these women?" The doors open and Mr. Stephenson goes left, while Freddy goes right.
Freddy unlocks the door to his office, takes off his coat, undoes his tie, and sits down on the stool as he finishes his second latte. He puts on his uniform, attaches, the ring of fifty or so keys to his belt, exchanges his Prada shoes for some work boots, and heads out the door. Mop in one hand, Windex in the other, and a mind of inappropriate dreams.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Freddy wants to be that guy. He orders his latte at the local Starbucks outside his apartment in Flushing. Hops on the 7 train and ends up in Times Square. As he gets out into the 44th Street race to 9th Avenue he picks up a Chai Latte at another Starbucks. By the time he gets to work, his heart is racing even faster, and his pockets are a little lighter. He shows his identification to the security guard at the front desk, makes a little smile with the edge of his mouth, and drops the usual, "Have you heard the one about the Jew and the Priest?" After lefts and rights through various mirrored corridors, he comes to the elevator that will take him to the 67th floor. In the elevator, he glances to the left at Mr. Stephenson, the company CEO, "Last night was rough, came home and my wife told me I smelled just like the strip club. Can you believe these women?" The doors open and Mr. Stephenson goes left, while Freddy goes right.
Freddy unlocks the door to his office, takes off his coat, undoes his tie, and sits down on the stool as he finishes his second latte. He puts on his uniform, attaches, the ring of fifty or so keys to his belt, exchanges his Prada shoes for some work boots, and heads out the door. Mop in one hand, Windex in the other, and a mind of inappropriate dreams.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Cynical
I don't need to help her become cynical. She'll figure it out on her own. Eventually. It's the world we live in, and the culture in which we're immersed. The do or die. The rich or perish. The use or abuse. The laugh or choke. The cry or weep. It's a left or a right. But the right is right.
It's the right turn down Fowster Avenue. The world pans down a narrow perspective to the end of the street. It's propped up by the lining trees on the left and the scrubs on the right, shielding the inhabitants of the row-houses from the hustle, bustle, and sadness of the avenue. That's what we call it. The avenue. It can stand alone. And if I rant on its misfortunes, she will certainly age generations and regress into fear and disappointment. She would stop making the right.
Would she even make a left? Or would she continue walking straight?
I ask myself those questions everyday as a grudgingly veer my hips to the right. To the avenue. To the burning asphalt in the dead of winter. The trees are growthless. The soil is lifeless. The safety is behind a shrub. Only safe because your eyes are shielded from the avenue. The avenue. I keep saying it. Like its a bad thing. Like its the choke and weep. So why do I never do and laugh and go straight? Go left?
Maybe because I care for her. Maybe because I care for him. Maybe because I care for them. The ones that have walked the avenue, walk the avenue, and will walk the avenue. Or maybe I do it because without me no one would think of walking the avenue. I prevent it from becoming Nagasaki by not mentioning its true name and its true nature.
"To the avenue. Promise that you will never kill those that cross your path, as we preserve your existence as the shield of cynicism for the young, and the unfortunate reality of life for the wise."
It's only a matter of time before the avenue graciously declines my plea.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
It's the right turn down Fowster Avenue. The world pans down a narrow perspective to the end of the street. It's propped up by the lining trees on the left and the scrubs on the right, shielding the inhabitants of the row-houses from the hustle, bustle, and sadness of the avenue. That's what we call it. The avenue. It can stand alone. And if I rant on its misfortunes, she will certainly age generations and regress into fear and disappointment. She would stop making the right.
Would she even make a left? Or would she continue walking straight?
I ask myself those questions everyday as a grudgingly veer my hips to the right. To the avenue. To the burning asphalt in the dead of winter. The trees are growthless. The soil is lifeless. The safety is behind a shrub. Only safe because your eyes are shielded from the avenue. The avenue. I keep saying it. Like its a bad thing. Like its the choke and weep. So why do I never do and laugh and go straight? Go left?
Maybe because I care for her. Maybe because I care for him. Maybe because I care for them. The ones that have walked the avenue, walk the avenue, and will walk the avenue. Or maybe I do it because without me no one would think of walking the avenue. I prevent it from becoming Nagasaki by not mentioning its true name and its true nature.
"To the avenue. Promise that you will never kill those that cross your path, as we preserve your existence as the shield of cynicism for the young, and the unfortunate reality of life for the wise."
It's only a matter of time before the avenue graciously declines my plea.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Fairy Tale
Once upon a time. That's how a fairy tale starts. Do you want to read a fairy tale? Yes? Did you say yes? ... Great. I'm so happy for you. Too bad this isn't a fairy tale. Do you still want to keep reading? Really? I guess you like me. Or maybe you just like the rhetorical nature of this gibber-jabber. The fact that I like talking to myself. The fact that as I strike these keys I hear a voice in my ear. A voice born with senses -- an ability to see words and make speech. Yet, all that voice managed to say so far is "yes."
I hate hearing the word "yes." Or maybe I like it. Or maybe I'm supposed to like it because it's every man's dream. Yes.
Yes, I hear a voice.
Yes, I am not crazy. You like how I can still muster the earthly power to install a negative. No you are not?
That's right. A negative times negative equals a positive. Say it with me. A negative times a negative equals a positive.
These episodic circles of mental incognition have me trapped and shuffling through a lily pond of shallow loss. But this isn't like losing my favorite teddy which I did at the age of four, or losing my perfect penmanship assignment in the 2nd grade to my pup Ajax, or losing my way home in "that" part of town at 16 and in a drunken stupor. No, this is the kind of loss you feel when your room can't become any smaller. When the world wants to wrap its arms around you, but all you can do is hear the pestering voice of the toneless air in your room saying: Yes.
Let's pretend that, Yes, I can do it.
And they lived happily, ever after.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
I hate hearing the word "yes." Or maybe I like it. Or maybe I'm supposed to like it because it's every man's dream. Yes.
Yes, I hear a voice.
Yes, I am not crazy. You like how I can still muster the earthly power to install a negative. No you are not?
That's right. A negative times negative equals a positive. Say it with me. A negative times a negative equals a positive.
These episodic circles of mental incognition have me trapped and shuffling through a lily pond of shallow loss. But this isn't like losing my favorite teddy which I did at the age of four, or losing my perfect penmanship assignment in the 2nd grade to my pup Ajax, or losing my way home in "that" part of town at 16 and in a drunken stupor. No, this is the kind of loss you feel when your room can't become any smaller. When the world wants to wrap its arms around you, but all you can do is hear the pestering voice of the toneless air in your room saying: Yes.
Let's pretend that, Yes, I can do it.
And they lived happily, ever after.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Why in the world did I do this?
Why you ask? Well, I'm going to go out a limb right now and ask myself the same question. Maybe it's because I have too much time on my hands, maybe it's because I have nothing better to do, maybe I don't hate the blogging community as I thought before, or maybe I simply need to force myself to do the few things I enjoy(ed) doing. As many can relate, medical school is one of those entities in society that diminishes time into a sand timer with a gaping crevice in the middle. It takes you from AM to PM faster than it took Eyjafjallajokull to bring down the entire British Airways fleet. Yet, in that flickering amount of time I have managed to discover a calmer me -- a me that is willing to explore outside of my own realm of comfort to keep the me, which existed before medical school, happy.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
At least I can try. And at the worst, I'll be a silly fool that scavenges through the "My Account" page in search of the delete, inactivate, turn off, good night global stalkers, or whatever name Blogger gives its link.
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
