The writer's plight.

You drink too much.
she tells him.
And it's a god damned shame,
you could do so much better.
I know I could.
he admits
as he snuffs a Camel
in an open drawer
and pours a glass of
Aristocrat.

No Correct Turn on Red

"It's just a light" I tell myself, yet my hands become cold and clammy and my face as white as the line on which my front tires rest.
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
"Red arrow means DO NOT TURN."
I say it aloud to calm myself as the cars behind me honk in blatant disregard for the law. They swerve around my vehicle and eye me with flaring nostrils, occasionally yelling obscenities as they pass. I slouch in my seat and stare at the red arrow, disgusted with the power it has on me.
"Hey asshole! Turn right on red!" yells a bearded construction worker as he menuevers around my vehicle, leaving me to stare at a HOWS MY DRIVING sticker on the bumper of his F-250.
Red arrow means DO NOT TURN. I want to scream it out the window to every ignorant turd that squeezes past my silver Pontiac sphincter. Instead I just continue to slouch, waiting with increasing anticipation for the arrow to turn green.
A small bead of sweat rolls down the center of my nose and falls to my chest. My insides are screaming GO! JUST GO!
My fingers start tapping the steering wheel.
GO! JUST GO!
My jaw begins to tremble and the tears build in my eyes.
GO! JUST GO!
I have had enough. I look left for oncoming cars and slowly lift my foot off the brake. My car creeps forward as I clench the steering wheel. Before turning I take a deep breath and accept the agony of defeat, realizing that I have let pressure from others make my decision. I tell myself I have failed as I look up one last time at the vicious, malevolent, unforgiving.............green arrow.
My chest swells with pride. It's all about self discipline.

Midnight Feeding

“It's time for another midnight feeding” I think,
but then I realize I’m already in the kitchen staring at the flower print
wallpaper next to the fridge with a screaming baby in my hand.
Oops.
Two scoops of formula for every one…
no wait, one scoop for every two ounces. Yeah, that’s it.
Infamil with Lipil.
And iron.
Closest to breast milk.
Mix then shake.
25 more times for good measure.
Im still holding a screaming baby.
My screaming baby.
No.
My screaming son.
No.
Just my son.
My gulping
spilling
frothing
gasping
gurgling
writhing
calming
eating
relaxing
sleeping
son.
Burping son.
Back to bed now,
over the gate
but don’t trip like that one time.
Sleep son.
Sleep dad.
Wake me if you need me.

It's all been done

Oh, the simple pleasures
of sitting under a shade tree.
But, oh the agony of realizing
how many poems have been written
about such a thing.

Math, Math, Math

I recently learned that there are quite a few primitave tribal peoples across the globe who only use the numbers one through four. To them, every mathematical measurement beyond that is considered unnecessary and excessive. I often day dream (usually while my college algebra professor is lecturing about imaginary numbers or cubed roots) about how magnificent life would be without the antagonistic, omnipresent demon we know as math. I can imagine it now; students in first grade, maybe kindergarten, covering a three or four day section on math which would consist of the numbers 1-4, how to write them, how to say them, what chronological order they belong in, and then move on. A bit of reiteration would be needed annually,of course, but after the fourth grade I'm certain most students would catch on.
The human race would undoubtedly miss out on many opportunities which advanced math skills makes possible, however, (i.e. a monetary system, any construction abilities beyond the fabrication of grass huts, any industrial capabilities beyond chipping flint for spearheads, et cetera) but oh what a small price to pay for the emancipation from the the slavery of mathematics. no times tables (beyond 2x2), no algebra, no calculus, no trigonometry, and most importantly, no statistics. I personally would opt for a grass hut, a livestock trading system in place of the dollar, and a donkey instead of a Pontiac if I could only forget about those math credits needed to graduate.
A man can dream, can't he?

Red, White and Blue

RED was the blood in the sand, pooling in the blazing heat.
RED was the transmission fluid, spilling from twisted lines.
RED was chaotic voices.
WHITE was his face, his hands, his eyes.
WHITE was the ash, floating higher. Higher. Higher.
WHITE was the lies we told his family.
BLUE was the sky on a dreamy sabbath afternoon.
BLUE was his lips.
BLUE was the tiny flowers, crimped under his weight.

Iowa

Amidst a sea of corn
and beans,
a small house sits
on a humble hill.
It's white washed pine
with seven layers
of shingles.
A screened in porch
in back
smells like cats.
In the gravel drive
rests a Buick
on blocks.
The air is thick
with hog and pollen.
Water drips from
an air conditioner,
frogs call each other
in a pond
and white clouds
sneak by
in Iowa.

Bukenfields

It was a 10:47 on a Tuesday night when Rick walked through the tinted glass doors of Bukenfields and stomped the snow off of his Caterpillar boots. He searched the bar for Gale, and after spotting her at the far end near the Kiwanis gum ball machine, he pulled up a seat.

Gale- "What are you doing here?"
Rick- "Same thing you are."
Gale-"It's Tuesday night Rick, how'd you ever convince Tammy to let you out of the house?"
Rick-"That bitch is done with me."
Gale-"C'mon Rick, you say that every week."
Rick-"I mean it this time."
Gale-"You meant it last time."
Rick-"Why you talking 'bout Tammy? I came here to get away from her."
Gale-"Fine."
Rick-"Want a beer?"
Gale- "Got one."
Rick-"Want another one?"
Gale-"Sure."
A moment of silence passes while Rick digs in his pocket for a ten. After ordering two PBRs, he turns back to Gale.
Rick-"You look nice tonight."
Gale-"Shut up you ass."
Rick-"You do."
Gale-"I said shut...up."
Rick-"Fine. How's Paul?"
Gale-"Working."
Rick-"He's always fucking working"
(Gale shrugs her shoulders while finishing her first beer.)
Rick-"You need a good man Gale. Someone who'll take care of you."
Gale-"Ha! Like you?"
Rick-"yeah like me."
Gale-"You're a damned wreck Rick."
Rick-"Still more of a man than he is."
Gale-" I thought I told you to shut up."
Rick- "Fine."
(Another moment of silence passes while each drinks their beer and watches the silent episode of M.A.S.H playing on the tv above the liquor shelf.)
Rick-"Hey, wha'dya say we go somewhere quiet, just you and me."
Gale-"Rick, give it up."
Rick-"you don't think I'm sexy anymore? Is that it?"
Gale-"It was one time Rick. One time!"
Rick-"Fine"
Gale-"Fine"
Rick-"I'm going home. Tammy finds out I'm gone, I'll be dead."
Gale-"See ya Friday."
Rick-"Yeah, see ya Friday."

One Nation, Under Gaud

The waiting room in the doctor's office was empty, save a couple of middle aged women thoroughly indulging in the latest issue of a celebrity tabloid. The date was September 13, 2001 and America had yet to absorb the reality of what had taken place two days prior. I was anxiously awaiting the nurse to call my name when I heard one of the ladies strike up a conversation. I could have predicted that it was going to be a personal opinion of who was responsible for the attacks or an extreme discussion on what we should do in retaliation, however nothing could have prepared me for what oozed out of her mouth.
"You know," she said, "I wouldn't be surprised if China was responsible for this." She said it quite matter of factly, as though this was something we had all been thinking, yet no one had the audacity to say. "Maybe they are getting us back for dropping that nuclear bomb on Pearl Harbor."
It took me a couple of seconds to register what she had said, a couple more to decipher what she had meant, and one or two after that to pinch my arm to assure myself that I was, in fact, hearing this perversion of American history. Part of me wanted to kindly sit down and give her a brief but adequate lesson on geography and world affairs. Another part of me, however, wanted to less than gently remove the tabloid from her hands and replace it with an encyclopedia.
The nurse entered and softly called her name. As the woman stood, my still lingering bafflement from her previous statement was immediately replaced by sheer amusement. Sprawled across her sweatshirt in cross-stitch fashion were huge, red, white and blue letters, reading AMERICAN BY BIRTH, PATRIOTIC BY CHOICE.
It was then that I realized people were creating a new, modified version of patriotism that does not involve pride in American heritage or history. This was a glamorous, shiny new patriotism of pop culture that hatched over night, spawning tawdry bumper stickers and a spike in Lee Greenwood CD sales.
True, pure pride in America had seemingly been replaced by gaudy glam and sparkly jumpsuits. In an effort to project the qualities of a strong, unified nation, the American people dove head first into a trend of billboard loyalty and emerged covered in rhinestones and pinwheels, never stopping to think about the very ideals they were on the verge of mocking.
Just as individuals were adorning themselves with the flare of nationalism, businesses were jumping on the star spangled bandwagon as well. Car dealerships and furniture stores across the the country launched unprecidented "patriotic blowouts" and "all American" sales to appeal to the mind set of consumers. To be considered un-American was an economic death wish for any company, and compared to what it would cost to erect an American flag beside those golden arches or Texaco star, it was a death wish that was easily avoidable.
The warping of the meaning of patriotism is hadly a new concept. The elegant songs and recruiting posters of World War One depicting Johnny going off to war with a gleaming smile and a rifle portrayed a true patriot as someone who was a true warrior. It was replaced, however, with the brute, ruggedness of World War Two posters urging American families to be patriotic by growing their own vegetables, working hard on the home front and buying war bonds. By the time the conflict in Viet nam was under way, many young Americans had dreams of starting a revolution in an attempt to uphold the image of a true patriot who made a stand for what they thought was right.
The difference between these extremes is sacrifice. Standing up for what is right is not a requirement often considered by supporters of so-called patriotic American ideals. We can simply wave miniature flags in figure eights, buy and display limited edition Bald Eagle commemorative coins and wear Old Glory on a wind breaker to prove we are worthy citizens of this country. Without victory gardens, food rations or a draft, we have all but lost the idea of sacrifice for the support of America, the idea of true patriotism.
Ever since I walked out of that doctor's office on that September morning, I have thought about the woman who, apparently, made a choice to be what she believed was patriotic, yet woefully uneducated about the country she professed to love. I often wonder if she has taken the time since then to sit down and develop an understanding of what it is about America that makes it worth taking pride in. I wonder if she now realizes what she said that morning was a disservice to every other American who has made a sacrifice, in any way, for this country. But even more so, I find myself wondering if she ever got rid of that horrid sweatshirt.

Music to my Ears

Our tan utilities were covered with a white film of salt from an accumulation of days worth of sweat and the bags under our eyes were of a dark purple as we rolled into the base in the desert moonlight. I could hear it in my head already, even before the sacred tunes were present. They were dancing around, lulling me into a hypnotic trance as I swiveled in my turret. After days of anxiety, stress, pressure, violence and fear, I longed for that drug. I longed for that intoxicating effect, the escape. I longed for music.
Ever since I was four years old, bopping around the house to my mom's eclectic collection of cassettes, I appreciated what music could do for a person's soul. I realized Christmas Eve just wasn't complete without Bing Crosby desperately trying to convince Doris Day to stay in "It's Cold Outside" and spring cleaning would not have been possible without the Beatles' melodious slaying of Rocky Raccoon. My love for music was being forged and, unbeknownst to me, ingrained in my mind as on of the most important ingredients in whom I would become in the future.
By the time I reached high school, my taste for music was changing almost as often as my shoe size. In a small midwestern town, at seventeen, it is socially intolerable to listen to anything other than country music, so I set out on a solo mission to find what music truly spoke to me. What I found was a colorful lesson in history, ethnicity, expressionism, creativity, and human nature. After years of listening to every type of music possible and absorbing as much information about that music as I could, I soon found that the challenge of finding what music I liked changed into finding a type of music I didn't like. Soon, I became infatuated. Every bad test grade was remedied by the rebellious harmony of Jimi Hendrix's screaming guitar. Every pain caused by the rejection of a girl was alleviated by the soothing whine of Neil Young. I spent many wild nights wailing in unison with Hank Williams III and just as many lonely nights with his grandfather. To me, music was as close a companion as one pubescent boy could get. It was a friend who understood exactly what I was going through, who organized my scattered feelings into something I could understand and allowed me to vent without saying a word. It was a voice that said exactly what I wanted to say, in a manner in which I only wished I could say it.
As hard as surviving high school was for me, I knew making it in the real world would prove even harder. While going through a fit of heavy metal and masculinity, I decided to temporarily delay this responsibility and join the Marine Corps. Within one year of enlisting I was walking off an airplane into the blazing summer heat of Iraq. I had left my family. I had left my friends. I had left my life. But I had brought my music, and other than my rifle, this was all I truly needed.
In a war where so many things were difficult to understand, music offered my fellow marines and me one thing that truly made sense. It offered a means of relaxation and escape from a highly stressful environment. On many occasions, speakers blasting an array of music from multiple tents masked the crackle of a distant firefight or outgoing artillery. Even choir-like outbreaks involving several marines were not uncommon when a radio was unavailable.
We were not alone in our passion for music as a distraction past time, it seemed. During a patrol in the small town of Mussayib, we stopped by the local police station to gather some intelligence on the local situation. There was a cluster of young police men in the lobby, gathered around a small black and white television watching a game of soccer. Cigarette smoke was thick and frying chickpeas sizzled over the sound of mild conversation. Suddenly, a young man entered the room with a stereo. With a push of a button the room rumbled with cheers and the previously docile men, who were once lounging and smoking were now writhing to the ouds, rebabs and cymbals of the Arabian song.
"No dance?" asked a young uniformed man, dancing with half a falafel in his mouth and a cigarette in his hand. It was then that I realized music speaks a universal language in which everyone is fluent. It crosses borders and cultural barriers, oceans and continents, and it compels bodies of all colors to dance and sing as one.
I left that police station with a smile on my face. Not only from the image of dancing falafel boy, but because I knew exactly how every person had felt the moment that music filled the room. For a brief moment, music had created a perfect utopia, where we all understood each other and religion and politics were unimportant.
We drove down the highway toward base as I swiveled in my turret and hummed under my breath. As the silver moon rose above the horizon, the music began to quietly play inside my head.

A case for reincarnation

I know I used to be
a homo habilis
in a previous life.
I constructed blades
from stones
and meals from
carcasses.
I protected my
cave
from predators
and created
fire.
I spoke with
grunts
and moans
and ate flesh
raw.
I did these things
until I died.
Maybe from a leopard
or disease,
but I was born again,
and grew
into a man
who lives in a
house
with a
yard
and two
children.
A man who needs
to write poems
about his
previous life
as a caveman.

Coffee

How many poems
have been written
about coffee?
Many, I'm sure
for it is the beverage
of much adoration
and affection.
One can only imagine
how many people
(in a fit of infatuation)
have written
poetry
with such
glorious subject matter
as coffee.
Add one more.

I Hung my head

I have always been dumbfounded by the idea of blogging. Many times while floating around the expasive depths of cyber space for some (usually worthless) information on the internet via search engines I happen to land on some shmoe's blog. It usually consists of what his cat ate for lunch or a cliched story about what happened with him and the boys the previous Friday night at the local honkey tonk mixed in with some shallow political viewpoints which usually includes the phrase "...I say we just nuke 'em and turn the whole country into one big parking lot." I always hit the back arrow in awe at the idea that someone could possibly be so naive as to believe that enough people want to read these musings to create their own public web log. Huh. What losers.
Yet here I am, and I am sheepishly blushing at the idea that I now step among the ranks of those who litter the highways of the interweb with insignificant gum-bumping that really doesn't differ from the next. However, I DO realize how insignificant I am as a blogger, and will write as such. I'm not here to change the world, I'm just here to vent to the three people who will stumble across my page while searching for some unrelated information. So to those three people I say WELCOME!
Now let us move on to more important issues like what my cat had for lunch.