Villanelle #1

“Well said,” I say, as if you were quite right.

How mighty your mind seems at my command,

Though sometimes you look pale against the light.

 

They say to have a pallid face shows plight

in soul. Ah well, I take your sweaty hand.

“Well said,” I say, though I know I am right.

 

So dark’s a rhyme when rhymed in dark of night,

I’ll write quite sweetly sweet words you demand,

Though sometimes you look pale against the light.

 

“Write this!” you say, and “this” I promptly write

In bright, bold print, and when I lift my hand

“Well said,” I say, pretending it’s alright.

 

I see how cute you are in fits of spite,

Raging at me, like fire through dry land

(Though sometimes you look pale against the light.)

 

Rage on sweet rage and sweetness you’ll command

With soul and body – and when you lose my hand.

“Well done,” I’ll say, and exit to the right.

My shadow gone, you’ll pale against the light.

The Worst Obituary Ever

From the New York Times

 ”Khun Sa, the publicity-loving Golden Triangle drug lord who thrived in the region’s kill-or-be-killed cauldron of ethnic rivalries and heroin-financed private armies, has died at age 73 in Yangon, Myanmar, according to an officer in the militia he once led.”

The Search

Where is an Aphrodites?Marilyn has failed me and my

Dark brown hair.

Her alter is too neon

And my eyes

Are still too weak from years in

The dark-room.

The screen is void of her,

The screen which led me where

I’ve gone so far. It has no

Aphrodites, no prude Diana,

No smart-aleck Athena

Telling everyone just what to do.

Where is prissy Hera,

If not in the high heels,

Those love scenes and shaky monologues?

Front Page News

I like to ask myself why a particular media outlet has made the content choices it did. For example, sometimes my favorite part of a movie is the previews, because it gives me insight on what the marketers thought was the kind of movie views of the current film would watch. It’s interesting when a horror flick is advertised during Superbad or a political drama during Rush Hour 3.

Sometimes I read the front pages of newspapers with this same thought-process. Why did the editors feel these stories were the most important? They have the power to decide what comes to the forefront of public discussion. (Let’s face it, the average American doesn’t do independent research to see what else is happening.) Today I saw this article on the front page of times and began to wonder how what seemed to be a localized addition the death penalty debate with no tangible national consequences could beat out genocide and civil wars.

The more I read the article, the more I understood. It touched on nuances of an issue that has, for better or for worse, been a major conflict in national and local politics throughout U.S. history. I particularly found this prosecutor’s argument interesting, because it made me pit my feelings about the death penalty (which are already mixed) against my feelings about the justice system:

“Our job is to enforce the law no matter who the victim is or what the victim’s religious beliefs are,” said John A. Connelly, a veteran prosecutor in Waterbury who is not involved in the Cheshire case. “If you started imposing the death penalty based on what the victim’s family felt, it would truly become arbitrary and capricious.” 

This angle on the death penalty may have be stated before, but never this eloquently. As long as we have the death penalty, shouldn’t it be subject to the rules of standard prosecution? After all, there are women who try to drop abuse cases against their boyfriends, but the justice system is usually obligated to prosecute the man anyway so that they can protect other women from being victimized by the suspect. 

It’s a good article. Give it a read.

An Outing

Cinematical made this post about other childhood characters that might be outed in light of Dumbledore’s newfound (at least to the less observant out there) homosexuality.

My additions to the list:

• James Bond - He’s just too straight.
• Daffy Duck – Totally has the hots for Bugs.
• Your Mom - She told me… Last night.

Summary: The joke is getting old.

A Tetrametric Sonnet

(Three weeks straight of Elizabethan verse gets to a gal.)

 My beaten heart no longer beats.

The doctors leave for weekend plans;

They say my heart will go no more

As others go. No other glance

From other men will move it forth

From whence it came. No other song

Will lend it measured meters and

No other scale will test its worth

As you had done with balanced arms.

You tilted left, a foul tilt

Which sentenced me to this foul state –

Though once you promised me no harm.

But listen! Your ear on my chest

Might wake the sound of beating yet. 

55 Words #1

The blog “55 Words” has started a trend of 55-word short stories online. I think this is an excellent exercise, so occasionally be posting some of my own attempts of these miniature pieces. This particular one shows that I have been reading too much Chuck Palahniuk lately:

This slow-walking hipster has red hair that looks like a perfect target for my fist.

“Move it!” I shout because I’m late and just got off of the phone with a dying relative who thinks I’m their old lover. He jumps forward. Bits of him spit at me when the bus hits.

My martyr.

Drive-in without a license

One of the best things about living in an urban environment is witnessing the insane ideas of entertainment some people come up with. My current favorite is the indoor “drive-in” theater where they provide the car. If you were complaining about $11 tickets at the Times Square Loews, check out these babies at $75 a pop.

Of course, it’s fine establishments like this that keep us from reading even more boring news, like our friends over in the Land of The Office, Scranton, PA. According to this article, I  should be a seasoned jailbird right now.

Guitar Lessons

I wish I could play guitar. Not because I have any rock star dreams (I’ve got my mediocre abilities on the keys to satisfy that), but because my next-door neighbor sucks and I would like to give him lessons as an investment in my own ears’ happiness. In my wildest dreams, I knock on his door and deliver this monologue:

“Ok, how long have you been playing guitar? If you’ve only been playing a year, then you should know you’re a good five years shy of even THINKING of playing loud enough for anyone except your mom to hear. If you have been playing longer, then you should have realized how talentless you are by now.”

I then take him out Bruce Lee-style, but that’s something for the therapist that doesn’t exist (because I can’t afford him) to figure out.

More in Iraq

Sometimes I love The Onion.