Wet Snow. Sick House. Week Six.

There you lay bright as death
cold and blue
Angelic eyes cracking the window
you move
our eyes cannot touch
yours are closed and mine are open
Its no fair exchange for you to look out and let nothing in
you fall again
your messianic pose strewn across the madonna couch
The snow fell but it didn't stay
Somehow it turned the couch and you and everything blue.
These sham winters and false springs leave us could and wet.
They freeze our hearts and melt our heads.

Sitting in the back at Trinity

Little shrieks punctuate the constant humm
of infants mewling and puking in their mothers arms
little damnations landing on wrists
little salvations entering mouths
These have tasted the heavenly gift
These rejoice in singing all the more
they can't sing parts
they spill juice
they shift in their seats
they push their sisters
They unite us to Christ
Become like the least of these and enter rest
These little cries are the sounds of the covenant
They reverberate of the roof of heaven
They batter down the doors of hell

Goodwill, Laundromat, Basement

There’s a place I go in hopes that giants have died.
That I may plunder the treasure which they have cast beside.
To clothe from the cold my pale Polish hide.
And in style and comfort to the sunset I’ll ride.

There's a place where I take my stains.
Where I take my clothes for a spin and a drain.
With cameras and guitars we tickle our brains.
Then we leave in silver trains.

Heavy on my feet I land
In the room where I cannot stand.
We play at cards and food and band
me and the friends I find so grand.

Nominae Sanctorum

I thought I would get to watch the funeral. It threw me a bit, but then again I don’t know why I thought I would. So much for stereotypes. There probably isn’t even an escalator. The line is long and its getting longer. I shouldn’t have expected an immediate audience, but I didn’t expect to wait so long. This is worse than the DMV.
The line stretches far in front of me but suddenly I feel a jerk underneath my feet and I’m flying toward a white light. Imagine a friend a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you lifting you up to hug you. There is a mild discomfort, not derived from the friends imposing bigness but from your shrinking smallness. The unseen embrace dragged me up and suddenly I was before the face of… something. I don’t know if it was God… I don’t think they let you see God that easy. Suddenly I heard a voice. Not with my ears. I don’t think ears work as well in heaven… If this is heaven. I heard the voice with my teeth; it was in my head. It asked me what my name was. I told him. Or it. Or her.
“My name is Mark.”
“No it is not.”
I’ve never hid from a disagreement, but to be disagreed with in my own head was a little galling. And what right had it to be in my head anyway?
“Really, then first why the Hell did you ask? And second, what do you think my name is?”
“I do not think your name is anything. I know what it is.”
I was having Lion King flashbacks.
“Then what is it?”
“Lee.”
Heaven is random.
“Why is that?”
“For the same reason your smile happens more to the left side of your face, hair will not grow on your upper lip, and one of your arms is a half inch shorter than the other. It is how our Father made you.”
I wouldn’t have minded giving up my crooked smile, barren lip or asymmetrical arms, but I really liked my name. It was actually my middle name, but as soon I could talk I asked that everyone called me Mark. I busted a friends lip when I was twelve because he promised he would never call me Mark. Before I got married I had my name legally rearranged to have Mark as my first name. Who wants to be Timothy anyway?
“You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Do you think I could be in your head and mistake you for someone else?”
It had me there.
“Well, I assure you my name is Mark.”
“That does not suit you. The name Lee fits you. Your name is the essential tooth on the key that will allow you into heavenly rest. Surely the name you have given yourself is not worth the alternative.”
“What if I think it is?”
Suddenly I was rushing down. A different embrace drew me down this time. This was the hug of a child exactly half your height slamming into you, doubling you over, making your stomach hurt. I was in hell. It was just how I pictured it. Or at least how Gary Larson pictured it. Finally something expected. Amid the stalagmites there was a small receptionist desk and behind this desk sat a shedevil who looked startling like my high school sweetheart. She looked at me with a knowing smile.
“Angela?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, how are you?”
She didn’t reply, but smiled again and after a moment told me that I was expected. I noticed a door that may not have been when I arrived. She asked if I wanted something to drink, and as I began to answer she poured me a scotch. I couldn’t see where the bottle came from.
When I entered the office, a ruddy man with dapper clothes and slick hair stood to greet me. He had the characteristic twin bumps on his forehead. Just like I wanted. His manner reminded me of my favorite uncle. He grabbed my hand gave it two solid pumps and asked me how my scotch was.
“Smooth.”
“Oh, how rude of me, I am the Morning Star.”
“I’m Mark.”
“Wonderful name… He tried to take it didn’t He?”
“Yeah… how did you know?”
“He tried to take mine as well.”
I liked him. He spoke to me, not in me. He liked my name.
“I thought it would be hotter.”
“Celestial subterfuge. I can make it warmer if you wish, but we try to keep it as comfortable as possible.”
He walked to a thermostat on the rough stone wall that I’m almost sure was not there when I entered. It didn’t bother me for some reason. My perception of Hell must simply be more fluid than I expected. It was warm and soft; not at all like the sterile fixedness of heaven, or wherever I just was.
“No its fine.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mark, why don’t you come work for me. Angela isn’t working out so well, and I could use a good man like you around.”
My mother had no idea what Hell was like. She couldn’t possibly understand that Father O’Toole was off his little Irish rocker.
“I’d love a job. I couldn’t imagine standing around singing for the rest of my life.”
I always hated singing.
“And anyways, who wants to spend eternity as Lee.”
At this the Morning Star burst out in uncontrollable laughter.
“Lee? They tried to name you Lee? Those sneaky bastards didn’t pull the ‘key’ bit on you did they?”
I nodded my assent and he responded with another great peel of laughter.
“Listen Mark, keep your name, stay with me, you can’t imagine how quickly you can progress through the ranks down here.”
“Deal.”
As our hands touch I again felt the warm oversized embrace and the rush upwards. I landed in the white realm that I hand grown to hate and before me stood a rough wooden door. In the door there was cut out a silhouette as though a man exactly my size had just run through it. Through the Mark (or Lee) shaped hole I could see bright sunshine and green fields. My side of the door felt like a dentists office. The voice suddenly appeared this time not in my head but separate from me. It was covered in wings and eyes and had the rainbow shimmer of oil on pavement.
“Welcome back Lee.”
“My name is Mark.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s my name, damn it!”
Something in me twitched and I made a mad charge at the door. I bounced off my hole as if it were a semi-truck.
“Lee, this is your last chance. What is your name?”
I hated him. I hated him so much I wanted to rip out every feather, gauge out every eye, burn off his glimmer.
“My name is Mark!”
With that came another head-butt to the groin and I was falling, like a comet, burning up, smoldering. I collapsed in a heap on the cave floor. Angela and her desk were gone. I longed for a glass of water much less scotch. I wasn’t on fire. I was fire. I wasn’t in pain. I was pain. I was eternally separated from anything good. I looked up and saw standing over me the Morning Star. Everything I loved about him was now odious to me. He was changed. Grotesquely huge, his horns were gone, and he had become ghostly pale. With a feverish giggle he looked at me with a glint in his eye.
“Welcome back, Lee, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I'm Alive!

So I am alive, and here is some art to prove it.

This, my friends, heralds a new direction for this bog. I believe I will use it to also regale you with my food adventures. Once I recover from my food coma I will tell you all about a fantastic place called Fogo de Chao.
T

I'm Back

So I'm in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, enjoy:

Beach Haiku:

Kites.
Black wings leap to the air, dragging my sister away, then crash to earth.


Beach Limerick:

There once was a man named Ty
Who once gave cigars a try
On the sand he enjoyed them
'Till the wind destroyed them
Which nearly made the man cry.


Beach Sonnet:

Sorry guys, way too lazy.


So I think I may have hyped up the not-fight too much. I was at the gas station at around 8:00 trying to get to a party at the Horst's, when a small red car whips into the station and a girl jumps out of the passenger seat crying and yelling. She begins to pump gas and begins screaming for the young man in the driver's seat to get out of the car. (I should at this point remind the reader to sprinkle expletives throughout all of the narrative) She continued to yell, he stayed in the car, until he got out with a vengeance. He began yelling at her and began to drag her back into the car. I ran over told him to get his hands off. He turned like he was about to swing, but changed his mind and we exchanged "words" instead. Another man ran up and called the police. I told the boyfriend I really didn't want to get involved, but if he touched her again, I was taking him down, and I waited until the police arrived. As I had not reported the incident I wasn't needed as a witness, and, after telling the girlfriend to drop this moron, I left. Post Script tidbits: She had just turned 18, he is 22. She says he slammed her head into the windshield. He is supposedly an MP for the Marines, which is really a blight on the name of the corps. She's a moron for being with this idiot, He's a moron all the way around. The more people I meet the more I like dogs.

And to answer Kenny's accusation of lameness, I think I'm going to steal an idea from Jen's blog here:

Movie: HBO miniseries, John Adams. Paul Giamati is pure gold.
Music: Artists: Julian Velard, : Album: The Movies Without You, Song: Joni (Buy this)
For the Guys: First, Avo 2, a fine Dominican cigar with a Connecticut wrapper, good draw, smooth but bold taste, and great for the beach. Second, don't touch girls in a harmful way within 200 feet of me, trust me, you'll regret it.
For the Girls: First, Stay away from morons, you'll regret it. Second, Ask Jen.

Hey Everyone,
Sorry for being such a lame blogger look forward for my story about my most recent not-fight, wherein I save a female moron from a male moron. Coming soon.
T

Evangeline Shaleigh

Cutest bambini ever.

Feminism

Perhaps NOW’s strongest argument is that men and women are indeed equal and ought to be treated as such. One of the many hard places to get stuck against in this discussion is the multifaceted nature of the organization. It really is true that the “want it all NOW” which makes it difficult to critique the organization as a whole. Part of NOW’s mission statement is a prime example of this conundrum, “Our purpose is to take action to bring women into full participation in society — sharing equal rights, responsibilities and opportunities with men, while living free from discrimination.” I gladly concede that women ought to share equal rights and opportunities with men. Yet hidden between those two innocent truths lies the dastardly word responsibilities, with which I simply cannot agree. Every woman ought to have all the same rights and opportunities as a hangman, but never his responsibility .
This quasi-agreement comes from an equivocation in the feminist’s rhetoric. The terms “equal” and “identical” have become basically interchangeable. This sort of equivocation may go undetected in the soft science of sociology, but imagine the devastation that could be caused in one of the hard sciences for such an inconsistency. Hydrogen and helium may be equally valuable in the sight of God and man, but any chemist would scoff at the concept that the equality made them identical. In fact, many of the tragic effects that one would expect from such a chemical confusion, can be seen in the dissolution of the American family. Castrated men, who behave like women, have given rise to women filling the gap that has been created, and, operating under the devastating equivocation, begin to act like men, and thus destroy their femininity.