I Sat on a Tire

I should like to think our fair nation past the dark times of racist name-slinging, yet not a day passes where my ears are left unassailed by horrible slurs. Exclamations of Black, Yellow, and White, these painful paint-filled balloons, splatter across my ears as I scamper across the schoolyard. Must we be so blind to the destructive nature of such verbal atrocities? Therefore, I propose nothing less than the complete overhaul of our current backwards argot – we must pull ourselves up from the dark pit of intolerance so that we may see the radiant sun of well-thought-out racial labeling.
As Plato once allegorized, I must now re-descend into the cave of ignorance, so that I may communicate with the helf-blind populous, that is, my primitive readers. As the USA consists mainly of “White” and “Black” people (I shudder to even write such slurs), I will address these two races respectively in my appeal for language reform.
“White” is associated with an absence of color, a void, a nothingness, and I for one am appalled to be addressed as an empty person, as if culture and heritage were only inherent with darker skin tones. Why, it is well known that people of my color have been very crucial and influential proponents in the course of history – the Crusades, the colonization of Africa and North America, the invention of mayonnaise…we were behind it all. Does our race therefore not perhaps merit a name of higher esteem? “Anglo-Saxon-American” would have been nice, but I fear our darker-skinned brothers may somewhat muddle it with the name for their indigenous instrument which so often graces the ear with soft blue notes via the talented hands of players such as Dizzy Gillespie. Also accounting for the fact that people of my color exist outside the USA, or have moved into the USA, or have parents from a foreign country, I propose that we preface our race with the dual-mention of both parents’ motherlands, followed by our prestigious racial title: Anglo-Descenders, or in our case, American-Anglo-Descenders. As it is common knowledge that people of my color originated in England, one would find it hard to mistake such a specific name for another. For example, I am an American-Anglo-American-Anglo-Descender, as my father was born in England, and my mother in Chicago. An individual whose parents were both from the USA would be an American-American-American-Anglo-Descender, or rather an “Americubed” (trust me, the name will catch on), the cube, incidentally, being the shape of perfection. Anyone who cannot see the clarity and accuracy of this label is obviously an old conservative Americubed who wishes to vandalize the beautiful face of my political correction.
Allow me to use the mention of vandalism to segue to my proposal for the name of our darker-skinned country-sharers. I have it on the authority of a friend who overheard a pigmently-gifted man in the subway claim that Africa has problems with poverty, famine, and disease on a daily basis. Were I such a man, I would think it rather degrading for the name of my race (“African-American) to entail such negative presences, and therefore, in an effort of civility I humbly submit a new proud banner for all darker-skinned persons to wear proudly: “Deep-South Europeans.” Indeed, the name is apt, as Africa does lie far south of Europe. Thus, instead of greedily hoarding away all of Europe’s rich culture and pride, I propose we share our paternal continent with our brothers; they are still allowed to reference their motherland, but avoid the awkward and uncomfortable mention of its myriad faults by speaking in relation to our upright and civilized continent. The “B-word” will also thankfully become obsolete, and I give my readers credit in assuming that I am not required to elaborate on the dark and insidious connotations of such a horrid color. A fellow reformer and friend of mine suggested to me that one should have their baby tarred as appropriate punishment for such a linguistic abomination. Thus, a badge of shame will be worn upon all racists in the form of their very own tar-babies. I have presented for you, my spongy readers, the very essence of my creative juices, in the optimistic hope of absorption. To both Americubes and Deep-South Europeans alike, I bid you adieu, and raise my glass to a bright future, free from our old-world and obsolete racial names.

Alphabeta - First Day Or So

I like letters. Thought I'd give some observations on them.

L, S, T, C, V - These are the sensual letters, the letters of sex.
-L causes the tongue to flick in and out, run over the front of the top teeth, and champions emotion in the Alphabet.
-S represents the long release of pleasure, or the seduction of overemphasized sound, as, next to N, it is the longest letter to pronounce.
-T comes from the teasing pop of the tongue, a little puff of air (usually released following S, truncating the long sigh)
-C itself is only included as a sensual letter when it produces the K sound (see all examples below), and frequently precedes K regardless. C itself is an innocent letter (candy, childhood, cry, cringe), but turns sexual when pronounced differently.
-V is a gutteral hum, produced when the top teeth playfully bite down on the bottom lip, and is released with excessive pressure
*Note that P is not included, despite the obvious and crucial example of "penis." P is too tart of a letter, too prim and proper, and does not see itself as sexual, but rather awkwardly forces itself out at times while trying to remain dignified in the presence of other sexual letters. N, additionally (although used many times in the following examples), connotes an opposition, a void, and is too sobering to be considered "sensual."
Examples: lust, love, clit, cervix, slut, lipstick, clandestine, vaginal, voluptuous, thrust, cunt, stick, suck, valentines, slave, lick

Mope

Metaphor for Wurthering Heights.
Check it.

-The Glass Blower-

The molten lake stirs and riglets
settle around the hollow and
dripping
beam
as his hot neck sticks to his shirt,
and he licks his crackling lips
with a fire pop and hiss.

Breathe

And the sap bears itself
a new form, shaped around
his amorous words
carried on
puffs
of air
leaving it equally empty.

He shakes his furrowed head,
for the single
beautiful
moment
that he gives the first breath
is gone.

Set aside,
the piece gives a sharp cry
when placed upon the brick,
already rigid,
already forever,
already too delicate for him to touch.

A true champagne-glass frame.

Eve

The sun sets early in the wintertime. Just when we need the warmth most, it is given sparingly. A body with a day job would harldy feel true sunlight on the skin. It's just as well, though. The the sun is only beautiful in birth and death. Who cares for its lifetime? Born on a cushion of nascent pink clouds, it arcs ever-higher in hopes of snapping its umbilical cord from Mother Earth. But it is not to be. It sweeps downward to the opposite horizon, spouting its mortal purples and red.

The rubber soles of my slippers tapped lightly on the concrete walkway, accompanied by the muted clicks of my companion's nails. It was 6:13 in the afternoon, yet the night sky had already smothered the sun. We came to a street corner. The white street lamp hummed directly overhead. Not a car or body in the night air.

My dog sat, complacent with the silence, on the grass bordering the street.

So this is Christmas Eve.

Everyone is snug, nestled, burrowed in their respective homes, next to their warm hearths, the scent of transplanted pine filling the air.

I would hate to be homeless. I blinand I see two spotlights in the distance and they disappear and reappear as the front of the car is jostled by the paved landscape and the car rushes by the two observers and sounds much louder than it really is and vanishes over the hill. Exhale. The moment is over. A Car disturbed the transparent gel surrounding my scene. Homeward.

Will it come again?

"Candide" Extra

[Ce chapitre se passe avant le fin du livre, après deux ans de « travailler sur le jardin »]
Alors le travail du jardin continuait. Les jours devenaient des semaines, des semaines aux mois, des mois aux ans. Candide était tellement étonné de voir comme sa laide (il avait accepte cette fait après un an) Cunégonde avait change pendant ces deux ans. Elle avait bronze en travaillant au dehors, et avait perdu la plupart de sa grasse (comme tous les autres) en seulement mangeant des légumes et des fruits qu’ils cultivaient. –Il faut prendre des vacances quelque part, dit Candide, Pour que je peux montrer ma belle Cunégonde au monde !
Martin avait écouté le capitane jésuite parle d’une ville étrange et incroyable, qui se trouve a l’autre cote du monde, appelé «San Francisco». –Si elle est si loin, elle doit être comme un autre El Dorado, Candide a remarque. Alors, après une longe voyage de bateau, ils sont arrives a un port américain. –Les personnes ici sont vraiment bizarres, dit Pangloss, en voyant deux hommes qui tenaient les mains et portaient des shorts courts.
On pouvait écouter des explosions de musique et des cries joyeuses venaient de la rue prochaine, et le groupe a décide d’y aller. –Quelle spectacle miraculeuse! remarquait Cunégonde. La rue était plein des hommes et des femmes souriant, s’habillaient dans les vêtements de tous les couleurs de l’arc-en-ciel. La musique venait des chars énormes, façonnés comme des animaux, des planètes, des fruits…
-Mais que signifie ce parole écrivé sur tous ces panneaux et bannières? Qu’est ce que c’est «Gay Pride» ? demandait Candide. Pangloss, ayant appris (en deux semaines a l’Angleterre) la langue anglais, était plus de content d’aider cet européen perdu. –O mon naïf Candide, dit Pangloss, «Gay» signifie «Content»! Alors ces gens-ci célèbrent la bonté et le bonheur qu’ils ont trouvés dans la vie! –Je pense qu’il aiderait la situation en Europe si nous y’avions des fêtes comme celles-ci, Candide a remarqué.
Une femme dans la foule, écoutant (apparemment) sa langue natale, a approché les six. –Eh bien! Des autres européens! elle a dit, D’où venez-vous? Moi, j’avais habité ici depuis 10 ans, et ce sera mon dixième défilé! De plus en plus personnes viennent chaque année; c’est bon de voir que plus d’autres nous acceptent maintenant.
-Mais pourquoi est-ce que quelqu’un n’accepterait pas des gens «gay»? Candide a demandé. J’aurais pensé que la seule chose dont le monde a besoin est plus de personnes comme vous. C’est une monde épouvantable ou personne ne veut l’autre d’être content avec sa vie.
La femme a fait un signe de tête en accord. –Cependant le secret, elle a remarquait en faisant une geste a un grand homard qui passait, couverte des gens souriant, est en réalisant que la bonheur n’existe que dans toi-même. On ne peut pas compter sur les autres de donner l’approbation tous les temps, alors il faut être le bon qu tu veux voir dans ta vie. Martin a ronchonné quelque chose inaudible a soi-même, et Pangloss pleuvait en admiration. –Alors, dit Candide, cherchons notre propre bon. Et avec ça, la groupe se dispersait dans la foule, les seules personnes qui portaient le gris et le noir dans ce mer de couleur.

Lean On

The blood runs down my upper lip and is channeled into the corner of my mouth. I taste iron. I close my eyes and fill myself with air; a full balloon bracing for the next impact. It happens to land beneath my lowest ribs, in the area of the appendix.
I had mine removed long ago; it collapsed beneath a blow much like the one I just recieved, and I would have died, but for the compassion of my attacker. That also made me feel good. In a way, getting beaten up once a month is about the most selfish thing I do.
This month, I hate gay people. Last month it was poor people, and the one before...I can't quite remember...I might have been a White Supremist...I'm not quite sure. In any case, it all ends up with me getting the crap kicked out of myself.
I'm a humanitarian at heart, really. No one is born evil, and upbringings are irrelevant as far as how one turns out when they grow up. I think so, at least.
It's strange to see the kinds of people who hit me. I've never been happier than when a young Jewish boy of five or six glared at me when I donned my swastika t-shirt. His glare will be unflinching when he becomes an adult.
Knowing things like this is my comfort net; the world is growing to find hate groups unacceptable. The stronger the resistance, the greater the bliss. Get your nose broken, and add a notch to your tally of people who will not allow slavery or the Holocaust to happen again.
As I collaspe to the ground, seeing my attacker with jaw squared and fists clenched, I spit a small gob of blood onto the concrete next to me, and say "Thank you." I black out with a grin of my red face.

Normalcy

The year was 2002 when we got the call from the Russians. By “we” I mean our government, of course. It’s kind of funny to imagine the Russians, you know, punching in the speed dial number for the President, twirling the phone cord around their finger while the listening to our phone ring.
The Russians wanted us to give them 50 billions dollars, and they would refrain from dropping a nuclear weapon on one of our major cities. What was strange, however, is that the Russians did not give us a deadline to collect their money. There was no due date, no ultimatum, no Judgment Day. This is a new concept in the world of threats and ransoms, for what is a threat if push never comes to shove?
This is where things got interesting; actually, things became uninteresting again.
I hear the Army has these planes that can be flown by computers alone, and they can’t be seen by radar, and they are really quiet when they fly, and they use this special kind of fuel that doesn’t pollute the air so much. They cost around 100 billion dollars each to build. I don’t know if this is true. It’s just something I heard.
So we did nothing. Well, of course people fled the major cities. All around the country people shifted. No matter where you lived, that’s where the bomb was going to hit. I didn’t get it. I figured the chances were the same no matter where you were at any time. It took about two years of nothing happening for the mass pilgrimages to start. Everyone just kind of crept back into their original hole, their wide eyes still glued to the sky.
“The Scare” (as the whole bomb deal came to be called) passed from one President to another. No one did anything about it. No one talked about it. People were barbecuing in their backyards.
And then our world was shattered. New York City was leveled June 1st, 2013. I think everyone knew that it was the target all along. The populous city, the elitist city, the always-downtown city. Everyone was furious. We all knew about the whole “unlimited time” thing. I guess eleven years is forever to some people. The President was impeached, and tried for crimes against humanity and neglecting to protect civilian life. He was given a lethal injection not two weeks after the incident.
It doesn’t make sense to me. Is this fair? Please tell me.