There aren't many things on this earth that I truly hate. For that matter, there shouldn't be many things on this earth anyone should truly hate. I believe life should be lived with as little spite as possible and we should strive to see the good in all and refrain from hate in any form, for any living creature. But I friggin' hate cockroaches. I dont know what it is exactly that I hate. Perhaps it is their habbits of sneaking and crawling behind sugar canisters so you think they are gone untill you pick up the sugar canister and they fall to the floor with a greasy thud just before they pitter across your toes to their abode in the refrigerator coils. Maybe its because I'm jealous that if we were to have a nuclear catastrophe, my flesh would be boiling with cancer and they would still be happily feeding off of the crumbs in my toaster. I dont know why, I just know I hate them and would prefer they live somewhere other than my house.
The Terminex guy knows my name and I have discussed, extensively, my hate for roaches. He comes twice a month, but tells me that in North Carolina, there really isn't that much one can do to keep the occasional water beetle out of the house. I guess water beetle is the synonym for cockroach in the south because I've never heard a North Carolinian admit to having a roach or two hanging around. Maybe they are too good for roaches. Maybe they don't know any better. I'm betting on the latter, because these reddish-brown, poodle sized, winged insects are not beetles, nor do they live in the water. They live behind my fridge. Maybe if I started calling them fridge beetles, or sugar canister roaches the locals would catch on and agree to a compromise.

Stubborn

The biting cold on my skin
fights with the sun
to claim its territory
to claim victory
dominance
over my cheeks
and fingers
and toes.
A constant feud
of polarity,
yet I rally for
the sun,
and will not move
from this bench.

Bukowski

Had I seen you on the street
I would have pittied you.
Poor soul, look
at that face.
Those scars.
And always with
a bottle.
Poor soul.
Spewing vulgar
words.
Too many cigs.
But I know
your soul was rich.
And I would
now
give anything
to see you
on the street.

Loser

Lisa leaned in and let her husband light her lucky strike as he lathered her legs with lotion. He lethargically listened to her longings and loathings, her likes and laments while lubricating her large, lumpy, lower limbs with Lubriderm. Her locutions left him longing for liberation from her lap of luxury, from loads of lust that lacked the lubricity needed for even a loose lay. Laughter, love and loyalty had all become lucid lies lost in a labyrinth of laxity, and lately he had become lazy. He looked at Lisa as she lipped her lucy on her lilac lounge chair. She was a lush and he loathed her for that. He looked away as he lathered more Lubriderm.

Nationalism and Vietnamese Cashews: An Interview with Today's Marine

He smirked when I asked him for an interview. I might have interpreted it as a smirk of arrogance had I not known him better, but I understood there was an element of appreciation involved and I believe he knew exactly why I chose him.
He kicked back in his chair, turned his cell phone off and opened a can of cashews, anxious to get started. He had the appearance of a cliched marine; tattooed arms, hair cut high and tight, and even as he reclined, his stature was that of an alpha male, ready to take charge of even this interview if needed. But these aren't the qualities I cherish in him, for there are more marines that fit this description than don't. I chose him because, despite his appearance, he isn't a jar head. He speaks with compassion, eloquence and disregard for social norms (and a few expletives thrown in here and there).
I readied the tape recorder and waited for him to chew his mouth full of nuts. With a fluid flip of the wrist, he packed his can of Skoal and eyed me with anticipation. "Well," he said, "let's kick this shit off."
What made you decide to join the Marine Corps?
I always wanted to be a marine, since I was a child. I joined to help cultivate my ideas and concepts of the world by, well, going to war. That's sick, but that's why I did it. I thought it would influence my artwork too, but it's kind of ironic that I don't even do art anymore. I don't think anymore, I can't speak anymore, I just do what I'm supposed to do, and I'm satisfied with that.
You've just returned from Iraq-how do you think the media is doing at accurately portraying the truth on this ever changing conflict?
The media is made for sensationalism. They aren't going to show the truth because the truth doesn't always sell. They are going to report on what gets the most ratings. They don't show us getting the locals their irrigation systems back, or the city sanitation programs we created. They won't show that shit.
Are the Iraqis ready to take over and do this thing themselves?
The lower echelon, where the boot hits the pavement, is not that bad. Some of those guys are shit hot, I mean, they suck, but all in all they aren't that bad. Now, the officers however, are horrible. There was an incident where we found out a lieutenant was holding water and not giving it out to the troops and he would cut their rations in half and hoard them for himself. There's a lot of corruption and shit, and I think if there was one bad, coordinated attack by Al Qaeda-or whoever the flavor of the week is now- they could easily decimate a company of the Iraqis.
How concerned are the American troops for the rebuilding mission in Iraq and the well being of the Iraqi people?
It's all about the individual. After being in a bad firefight or hearing about your buddy getting killed, you don't give a fuck about them. You lose all your motivation and you're like 'fuck everybody. Fuck the Iraqi Army, fuck the Iraqi people, I don't give a shit about this mission.' I think the new guys that are fresh into the country care, but they eventually end up not giving a shit either. The officers want peace in Iraq and to appease the population, but the problem is that the officers aren't the ones watching their buddy get their head split in half. They don't have to be worried about IEDs, snipers, booby trapped doors or some shit head hiding behind a pile of clothes with an AK. They're worried about policies.
With approval ratings for Bush at an all time low, how do you separate what you are tasked to do from what the American people are unhappy about? Do you ever feel like their discontent is directed your way?
Listen, I know, in this war, we aren't fighting for freedom. We are fighting for corporations. I don't separate their discontent from my job. Take this can of cashews for example. They were bought from wal-mart-the global symbol of Americana, but look here...they're from Vietnam. Had thousands of troops not died in Vietnam, maybe we wouldn't be eating these cashews right now. I'm not fighting for freedom, I'm not that naive, I'm fighting for god damned cashews.
What news channel do you watch?
I prefer PBS because they try to be unbiased, but I end up watching whatever they show in the chow hall, which is mostly FOX NEWS. So yes, I watch FOX NEWS. After all, I am a right wing, republican, neo-conservative, goose stepping, neanderthal that fights for oil.
Is there any one dominant memory of your time in the Marine Corps?
When I busted my cherry. My first fire fight. I had just gotten into country-it was my first day there- and within forty-five minutes we were under fire. This was my first foot patrol...ever. I could hear the rounds going over our head and all I could think was 'Oh my God, these faggots are trying to kill us.'
Do you think the American people truly support what you do?
The American population has the attention span of about two hours, just long enough to watch a movie. They watch Saving Private Ryan and they see a beginning and an end and the war's over and every one's happy. A few people die but it's all good. But with this conflict, they're not seeing a conclusion so they're getting bored and frustrated. When we first invaded Iraq, everyone was pro-nationalism, every single house had a flag or ribbon in front of it. It was all 'fuck Arabs or whoever the enemy is' but they realize now, there is no quick resolve. I think the reason most people support the troops is because it's taboo not to. I don't really know, or give a shit if people respect us or not. It doesn't reflect on our paycheck and you still get your cashews.
Are we ever going to establish true democracy in Iraq?
Their religion comes first. Before their family, before their career, and definitely before the government. As long as they feel that they are defending their religion, the government will always be on the back burner.

Subjectivism

You stood in my doorway
and said you saw me
from your jeep
pissing from the stairs
last night
in my underwear.

You said
that's weird.

But I disagree
for you were the one
in your jeep
in the dark
at two in the morn.

Change We Can Tivo

I'm naive. Until recently I assumed college students were either a) smart or, b) striving to become smarter. My beliefs were recently shattered when, sitting on a bench on my college campus, I heard two middle aged female students discussing the new reality show, "Living Lohan." They talked in excess of 20 minutes about the show, how "skanky" Lindsay and her sister were, and the intricate goings on of Hollywood. I smoked cigarette after cigarette in anticipation for the next round of worthless, yet entertaining conversation. I was in awe. I never knew there was twenty minutes worth of conversation to be had on this topic and the concept itself was alien to me.
I almost lost interest during a lull in conversation, when suddenly, the portly blonde spoke up and asked her friend who she would be voting for in the upcoming election. I froze and tried to predict her answer, yet nothing could prepare me for what spewed out of her crooked mouth.
"Oh, I don't pay attention to that stupid stuff." she said while gathering her books for her next class.
It dawned on me then, that we need to change politics. We need to get people like her involved, and I have the perfect solution.
America's Next Top President.
It's a reality show, in which all candidates from all parties (and I mean all parties, including Libertarian, Green, Socialist and yes, even Republican) live in the same house for the duration of the year preceeding the new presidency. There will be surprise knowledge tests, cleanliness tests, and physical fitness tests. Wives will be interviewed, (hell, lets put them together too) and so will children and friends. Every other week, America will vote and a candidate will be asked to leave. It's brilliant! All classes and age groups will understand each candidate and their political views without even having to pick up a newspaper or put down their bowl of funyuns. We can feed them all the knowledge they need to make an informed decision without taking away their Sudoku time. Who knows, maybe it will even be available on podcast.
_________________

Quitcherbitchin!

Apparently John McCain and Barack Obama have found something they both have in common; being whiney ass babies. Why such the hullabaloo now that the fun poking and supposed degradation is on the cover of a popular SATIRICAL magazine? John McCain didn't have a problem with Hillary Clinton's slandering of Obama by doctoring ads to make his skin darker. Heck, a few months ago, every political candidate was painting mental pictures far worse than that on the cover of The New Yorker, but no two candidates took sides to fight this evil then.
I guess my disgust with this issue is that The New Yorker is a damn good magazine. It targets intellectuals, and in doing so, assumes those who read their magazine would be open minded and intelligent enough to actually understand the message being delivered on the cover, and God forbid, ACTUALLY READ THE ARTICLE, which was supposedly quite flattering on Obama's behalf. With that being said, I believe caution must be used when choosing what cover art to use that best portrays what the issue is about, but I don't think The New Yorker crossed the line here. Moreover, the title of the artwork was "The Politics of Fear", and if that is over your head you should put down the New Yorker and go back to your Maxim-and reconsider running for president.

In a Perfect War

The singeing smell of burning trash and sewage permeated through every sour alley way and filmy window throughout the city. Black, sludgy puddles reflected the setting sun like pools of mercury as our convoy rolled past the market district of Musayyib. Shop owners frantically slung chains through welded loops and studs in order to make it home before the call to prayer. Within minutes, the once bustling streets were occupied only by mangy dogs searching for any remaining bits of falafel or kebab. I couldn't help but wonder if Iraqis had a secret ability to morph into canines, for they never made a simultaneous appearance. As soon as the arm waving, beard scratching men disappeared while your back was turned, the dogs emerged through ravines and gutters to scope out the situation and watch without persecution. The fact that the two mammals smell almost identical only fueled my suspicion.
We rounded the corner and continued down an alley bleeding with anti-American graffiti. All doors were shut and the radiant orange blanket of sunlight was fading into a dingy grey, foreshadowing the ominous coming of night. I stood in the turret and scanned the rooftops, thumbs resting on the split trigger of my .50 caliber machine gun in anticipation for that first snap of a round or reflection from a distant Dragunov scope. Scenes from popular war movies swirled through my head while images of bloody ambushes and fiery explosions coaxed me to stop pondering why I enlisted for this bullshit and pay attention to my surroundings.
We passed a small building with a roof of grass, mere inches off of our right side. The mirror almost scraped and I turned to ensure all of the bulky, unnecessary, (yet government mandated) equipment bolted to each side of the vehicle passed without harm. I had taken my hands off of my weapon.
I never heard the muzzle blast but the gunner in the vehicle behind me said it came from somewhere near the school. It didn't hurt, in fact, I didn't even know I had been shot until I felt the slick liquid soak my sleeve. I stared in disbelief. Florescent pink paint was everywhere. He must have been using extra large balls-the kind the Geneva convention wouldn't let American troops use because of the confusion it creates from not being able to identify the exact point of impact. Insurgents used them in lieu of marksmanship training-if there's paint everywhere, they thought, we would assume it was in a vital area. I didn't assume shit. I stripped my gear and meticulously fingered through the latex sludge, searching for any remnants of crispy shell.
The UN Impact Official scurried to our truck, fumbling with his camera and various clip boards to document and officiate the exact point of impact. The scene was chaotic and marines were scrambling to find the sniper. It was all a blur. I was still coping with the realization that I could be going home. I was careless and I let my guard down, let my Marines down, let my country down. I would be revered as a hero at my homecoming, but my conscience would always tell me otherwise.
I prayed for an arm shot as I climbed out of the turret to assume the Vitruvian position. I could deal with two months of combat disqualification, but going home was not an option, not until my year was up. The UNIO snapped a few quick photos and asked a slew of questions in a sharp Dutch accent, most of which I couldn't answer because it had all happened so quickly.
What were you doing at the time of impact?
Where on your body did you feel the impact?
Are you physically injured in any way?
He scribbled down my answers on his UN clip board and immediately accessed his bag for a small, black wand. With a flip of a switch it hummed into service emitting an eerie blue aura. It was a density light, designed by the UN to make locating the prcise impact point easier. He slowly passed it over my paint spattered body, stopping occasionally to jot more notes and berate me for touching the paint before he arrived. Areas of thick paint coverage absorbed more of the light and showed up brighter with spatter and over spray absorbing little to no light at all. The brightest glow came from my flank, just below my arm pit. He sympathetically shook his head and lifted my arm to expose the jagged pieces of a shattered shell. I wanted to spit in his face and demand he do it again. I wanted to tear up his papers and throw his clip board into the shitty sludge flowing from the nearby drain, but I knew I was done. There was nothing I could do.
I handed my weapon over to my team leader and apologized. He lit a cigarette and said a few words about war being a bitch, all the while keeping a hurried lookout to the street lights and desolate alleys of the now darkened city. He was anxious to continue the mission, I knew, so I turned and reluctantly accepted defeat.
I climbed into the back of the UN van thinking of home. What would they think? Should I tell them the truth, or fabricate a heroic story of bullet barrages and valiant devotion? The air conditioner was cold. I reclined the seat and took a deep breath to steady my twitching hands and quivering lip. Outside, the convoy rolled on without me. It was hard to see them go, but at this point, it was beyond my control. The wheels of fate were turning, and now, I was just along for the ride.
I closed my eyes to rest and tried to think optimistically. "Well" I said aloud, while making myself comfortable, "I guess it could be worse."

Something Isn't Right Here.

It's only a matter of time before this turns in to a big conspiracy theory. Yes, the photos were doctored. Yes, it was done horribly. But it wasn't a giant blunder created by some American fat cat to get the public to notice it and accuse Iran of not actually testing missiles. That of course would anger Iran and make them want to show the world their nuclear capabilities in other ways, like launching a Shahab-3 into Israel. Yes, that, of course, would give America a pass into Iranian airspace and eventually pave the way for a ground war, and more oil but...wait a minute, didn't the Iranian aggressors of the U.S Westward Venture ship have strong American accents? Hmmm.

Leaves of Grass...and Bunny Blood

The grass was long and they were kind of in a little divot and they were scared and crouching down into little balls and I couldn't really see anything in front of me and I wasn't really paying attention anyway so it really wasn't my fault if you think about it.
Who am I kidding? I'm a murderer. I'm a heartless sadist with no respect for life and I'm a damned murderer. I buried my head in my hands and fell to my knees amidst a Gettysburg of wet grass cakes and bloody tufts of rabbit fur. Memories of my childhood flanked my brain with images of cute, floppy-eared bunnies clicking and popping behind my eyelids like an old projector. My third grade class pet, Bugsy, was crying and remorsefully shaking his head for his slain cousins, scattered in pieces throughout the crab grass. All the beautiful images of Peter Rabbit I remembered from story books as a child were immediately tainted by spiraling entrails and spattered blood, all flinging from a pair of whirring, razor sharp lawnmower blades located somewhere off the page. The Easter Bunny himself made an appearance, crawling towards me with no back legs like a zombie from a cheap b-list horror flick.
I shook the images from my brain and regained composure, glancing left, then right to ensure none of my neighbors saw my temporary yet traumatic breakdown. After brushing the grass off my clothes I took one more look at the carnage that lay before me and reluctantly realized the task at hand. After all, I got myself into this mess and now it was time to assess and clean up collateral damage. There was no repair involved. I could not right this wrong- only clean it up.
My stomach was churning when I exited my house holding a trash bag. I felt I should be wearing a navy blue windbreaker with yellow CORONER or CSI printed on the back to declare that I was obligated to be there and not some finicky lawn enthusiast callously picking up rabbit pieces to keep stray dogs from dumping in my yard. Fortunately, the pieces were indiscernible and even with my eyes closed it only took a few minutes. Rabbit fur is unbelievably soft.
I bowed my head and said a few words before dropping the Glad bag into the trash bin with a mushy thud of a finale. It didn't quite bring the closure I was looking for and I knew it would take some time for my mental stability to make a full comeback. I wonder if Medicaid covers Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Ignorance is Bliss

I get so tired of hearing
all these foolish people say
"The world is getting warmer!"
"All the ice will melt away!"

I wish they all would realize
this theory is tomfoolery
it's some tycoons conspiracy
to buy his wife more jewelry.

And this oil shortage business
is somewhat of a ruse
there is no need for hybrid cars
or wearing walking shoes.

There's plenty of oil out there,
an infinite supply
it's just in other countries
we have yet to occupy.

And our involvement in Iraq
is rightly justified
compared to wars we've had before
not that many troops have died.

And all this nasty heckling
of Bush, I can't condone.
After all he's just the president
your problems are your own.

All this talk of discontent
I simply cannot bear.
Just do like me and look away
pretending it's not there!