Friday, December 5, 2008

Folk Hero

A figure stands tall, always alone
A folk hero, his gaze is fixed
Always ahead, always ahead
What makes him a man?
His mouth, a fount of words that sooth
His lips, discerning
His hands will crush or bind or gently touch
His mind is full of art and war
And in his chest beats time
What makes him a man?
He is killed, and killed, but cannot die
Determination's in his brow
His eyes will freeze or melt in place
He leaps above us all
He judges and forgives
What makes him a man?
He never forgets, but seems not to know
He always knows, but seems not to care
His critics are many, but never acknowledged
He'll bring a tinge of joy in sorrow
His mind is at work, always at rest
What makes him a man?
He sees inside of you, his soul is hidden
He picks us apart, and still
He is a man unto himself, a broken perfection

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Six Heroes

Where do they belong?
The feeling and the song
Among the folks who tell themselves that feeling things is wrong
Among the ones who hide their passions, no matter how strong
Put their silence all together and unmute the waiting throng

What am I to say?
To indefinite delay
Of facts and thoughts and inklings that might never have their day
Of chances first forgotten before taken all the way
I can scarcely part my lips before the words are swept away

Why is this our lot?
This hesitance we've got
Where men and women, boys and girls all let their ideas rot
Where anyone who's got a dream will tremble at the thought
And feign the passing of their mind in hopes they won't get caught

How could I relate?
The promise of my fate
To a world that has forgotten that there's anything that's great
To friends and enemies who both scrape the same damned plate
So I'm waiting for my turn, though I know it comes too late

When will someone hear?
The words I'm making clear
That keep me up at night till I can make them reach your ear
That boil up inside me, increasing every year
These words will give me everything; everything but fear

And last I will ask, Who?
Will make their dreams come true
In a place where it is understood; these things aren't up to you
In every way, they'll have to crush perspectives old and new
But their stars will light the night when such heroes are so few

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Sacrificial Love pt. 1

Give me your friendship

Sacrifice time

Search all my poems

Read every line

Think of me often

Over yourself

Kind words will soften

When days turn to hell

Turn over money

In gifts for my sake

Tell me I'm funny

Spare me heartache

Twist up your gut

At judgmental thoughts

Honesty, cut

Before you get caught

I'm not asking this

Expect it, I will

You'll clench up your fist

And start to feel ill

But that's just to bad

See, love is a gift

And once its been had

It turns back to filth


Kill unto Life

Slink and slack, tumbling traveler

Rolling and running down tangled path

Angles and math cautiously guide curves

Destinations, points, beginnings and ends

All plotted and planned through winnings and friends

Birds sing because you expect them to

Desert night greets lizards too

All is in place and all makes great sense


ROCKS FALL FROM SKY

ROCKS CRUSH THE MAN'S HEAD

ROCKS FALL FROM ABOVE

ROCKS BEAT AND BLEED THE MAN


Fore and back, the bumbling traveler

Rolling and running an ugly blood bath

Puddles of it form a tide that serves

To feed the red-eyed fish who split their fins

All blotted and spanned by sickness and lack

Birds pick the flesh because we beg them not to

Arctic morning hides monsters too

All is in disarray and confounds the wise

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Look

Look at me.
That's all I'm really asking;
Just to see your eyes lock
With mine
I lose breath
I'll dream about you later and wake up without regret
One day or two or a thousand years, I'll see you once more

Look at me.
We've let each other in on our little secret
I'm trusting that
You're true
Our fingers touch and it's like a blinding light
My eyes adjust to see yours looking back, smiling

Look at me.
Don't you know that it's the eyes that put the love in love-making?
When we're here
Like this
Separate from the world and naked to each other
Don't you know what it means to warm ourselves in each other's soul fire?

Look at me.
I want to feel your words inside me like a shot of rum
When you promise
I have hope
That the world is full of imbeciles and ignorants
Let them kill themselves with words and the wisdom of man

Look at me.
I want to understand your confusion and ease your pain
Something's wrong
With this house
Let me clear your windows and draw back your blinds
So you can see the colors of the world and the brilliance of our love

Look at me.
When did we need to ponder the question of “enough”?
What has changed
Or been revealed?
Can a scene so lovely be but a mirage in the dessert?
As the crow flies, my home is caught by the wind

Look at me.
A word so spoken must be delivered by your eyes
Not a glance
So cold
Birds fly instinctive paths, but I am blessed with logic
Reason, like peace, is stolen by the denial of your eyes

COLOR TEST

TESTINGNOTICEBROADCASTASDREAMCOMMENCETHOUGHTSTREAM

Like the unnerved finger-tapping of a death row inmate, drops of water fell against the window. Gilbert wrestled with his bedsheets to find a position that might let him get to sleep—as if to solve the real problem, he should avoid it. Nature's faint noises had become blaring sirens calling him to wakefulness; the manor bell rang three times. Consciousness mounted his sorrows and drove him to pull on his eyebrow; a nervous twitch. Eyes wide open, he practiced his ritual... once, twice, three times. At the moment of his third pull, he heard a voice. It was smooth and clear and it made his body straightened and tense.

“Gilbert, face me.” the voice urged. Eyes clamped shut, Gilbert attempted to ignore the impossible voice, or at least hope to wake up.

“You will face me.” the voice said, and suddenly Gilbert was involuntarily moving to an upright sitting position and viewing the being who interrupted his sleeplessness with fear. What he saw before him appeared to be the product of a haunted looking glass. Instantly, he recognized himself in the figure, though the being's eyes were hollow and its skin glowed like a low-burning candle.

Gilbert had many questions, the first of which being, “Who are you?”

“I am you.” said the being, “And I have come to rescue you.”

“You can't be me...” Gilbert replied, “I'm me.”

“Hahaha! I appreciate your sense of identity.” the being paused for a moment, then said dryly, “I am the ghost of Christmas past and I am here on a mission from Santa Claus.”

Gilbert was speechless. Humor held little meaning to him at this point.

The being sighed, and then went on, “You might find my appearance, and even my very existence explicable only as 'supernatural'. In fact, I'd wager that there are two possible ways that you're taking this right now. One, you think this is a dream. Two; I must be some kind of 'supernatural' being. Perhaps you haven't exactly decided, but I'm confident you're weighing those two possibilities.”

Gilbert nodded silently.

The being continued, “Nothing to add, I suppose?” it paused, “Right, well let me at least explain one thing about my existence. If you were thinking that I am merely a dream, you'd be partially correct in that dreams actually exist. The idea of my being a 'supernatural' being is absurd because of the term itself. 'Supernatural'. What meaning does a word like this have? In its simplest sense, it describes something that is not part of the natural order. What the 'natural order' constitutes is oft debated by philosophers, theologians and armchair thinkers the world over, but what is usually placed within this concept is all existence. So the supernatural, as you call it, is that which is outside of existence, therefore that which does not practically exist. What further irks me about this term is the prefix. Why are things and concepts that do not exist—these supernatural concepts—thought of as superior or higher than all of us schmucks and our ideas who and which actually exist? Our concepts of God and Devil, Heaven and Hell—what can they do? These are not concepts which make the leap from mind to matter. They are not blueprints or plans, but mere fancy! They are, in this way, not supernatural, but subnatural. To get to the point, I am unlike a subnatural concept in that I do exist, though the nature of my existence need not burden you this morning.”

“What do you expect from me?” Gilbert asked.

“You are coming with me.” The being replied.

“Do I have a choice?”

The being was silent at first, but for the first time looked directly into Gilbert's eyes. “You've had a choice your whole life but have refused to exercise it. If you perceived time in the way that I do, you would have made your choice already, and in a way you have...” the being seemed to seethe with anger, “You have proven that options must be shown to you before you can choose between them. That's what I am here to do.”

“Where are you taking me?” Gilbert became resolute.

The being was quick to respond, “To your beginning.”

BROADCASTCOMPLETEENDDREAMWAKEUP

Baker's Extreme Fun Ball; A Tale of Desire

He had to have it. It was that simple. Never before, while sitting aimlessly in front of the television did Gilbert see something that he wanted so much. What was it? It was a ball, simply put. To complicate and clarify, it was a Baker's Extreme Fun Ball. There was, quite frankly, nothing else like it. Sure, there's Cathy's Big Ball and Lloydcorp's Grandiosphere, but there was no system of measurement that would possibly compare these inferior products favorably against Baker's Extreme Fun Ball. Gilbert drooled lustfully as the commercial came to a swift conclusion. He decided that he would do whatever it took to acquire this product. However, before he made plans for said acquisition, he decided to contemplate his desire for a while. No doubt, he imagined, such contemplation would make acquisition all the more satisfying. He thought about what he loved most about Baker's Extreme Fun Ball. The color... yes, the color! The BEFB was multicolored! Gilbert always paused and mulled when people asked him what his favorite color was. He never could really decide. This ball was all colors, and illuminated so that you could see them—even in the dark. What else? The 100% roundness guarantee. That's right. Graham Baker Inc. guarantees that every Baker's Extreme Fun Ball will be 100% round, NO EXCEPTIONS. This would provide Gilbert with a sense of security. Is there anything else? Of course there is! The scented surface, the high bounce factor, the catchability rate, and all research done to create the BEFB was animal-friendly. Yes, this was the perfect product. Gilbert knew it and he hadn't even seen it in person. Gilbert looked at the clock—8pm—perhaps he would procure for himself the Baker's Extreme Fun Ball another day. 

Friday, October 31, 2008

Travel Writing: Entrée Quatre

(entry blasted into non-existance because it was so damned boring)

Travel Blog: Entry Three

I gripped the bicycle handles with the urgency of survival. I had a tendency to play it especially safe on unknown roads and in this case, the unknown was also foreign. The English countryside had a recognizable rural flavor to someone who had trekked winding Missouri roads. I often become impatient in the back of the pack, so I sped past my three friends as we made our way to Woolsthorpe, the ancient home of Sir Isaac Newton—“ancient” to a handful of young American students—just “old” to the English. At greater speeds, I became informed of the invisible resistance of air. It rushed past my ears the same way it had the first time I took my bike down a hill, losing none of the thrill. Every hill, turn and passing car presented a new minor challenge that made the ride what it was. It became quite easy to appreciate the concept of energy while pedaling up hills. We felt it not as the sinking feeling of filling up a gas tank, but the constant strain on our legs.

I hadn't had much time out of the manor prior to our ride. And whether or not people really have a need to experience the great outdoors every now and then, it certainly felt as though I was fulfilling this need. But what is so raw and natural about flying down a hill, paved through modern techniques on a fairly complex man-made machine? The inadequate cushion I sat upon wasn't a ripe pluck or fresh catch, yet it aided in my appreciation of nature. 

Upon arriving at Woolsthorpe, we begrudgingly handed over 5 pounds each to enter the property. After the feeling of authenticity delivered by the ride that took us off road and over fence, the house was dull and fake. Furnished with replacements and distractions, it was a severe disappointment. The only traces of the legendary mathematician's presence could be found in carvings on the walls. I thought of a prisoner trapped in a dull country house. No wonder he had so much time to think.

On the way home, we sampled the other side of the road under a sun that shone at a slightly different angle. The ride took a small toll on our bodies, but paid great dividends in beauty and experience. We saw a few fields of grazing animals; the initial wearers of authentic English wool. Some called out upon sighting us, but we weren't there to stay.

Unfamiliar Love Song

Billroy loved Delilah
Her fleece was white as snow
And every time she smiled, he would suck upon his toe

Billroy touched Delilah;
The hair upon her head
Her jaws unhinged and teeth came down and left him bleeding red

Billroy thought Delilah
Was lovely as could be
And there was no one lovelier as far as he could see

Billroy gave Delilah
A portion of his flesh
At which she screamed and down on him came heavy copper mesh

Billroy cried, “Delilah!”
“Whatever can I say?”
“Nothing.” she said, and left for dead the boy who lost his way

Billroy made Delilah
of thoughts and broken dreams
Imagination's done him in (at least that's how it seems)

Billroy stacked Delilah
Like books upon a shelf
If books were guilt and shelves were just a metaphor for self

Billroy loved Delilah
Although she was not real
And to this day he thinks of her before every meal

Writing Humor

(comic by Nicholas Gurewitch)

I often find myself sitting alone in my room brooding. I seethe and smoulder in solemnity and solitude, and write (often employing the use of literary techniques such as alliteration). All this brooding I'm doing doesn't come from the fact I've been wronged, spurned or even (dare I say it) gypped. Though social ills and political theatre can get under my skin, neither is it these that are my cause for brooding.

Writing Humor


Lesson 1: Brood for brooding's own sake

It is said that diamonds are forged in the harshest conditions. That's because they are. In much the same way, the most solid comedic elements of our society come from the most troubled minds. This is why many of your favorite comedians use cocaine and kill themselves and stuff. Taking this in mind, self-indulgent brooding is a fertile ground for effective humor. Ideal conditions include the following:

a. Separate yourself from others. (This is easiest to do when feeling sorry for yourself)
b. Turn your living quarters into an absolute wreck. (Try never folding clothes, and instead of emptying the trash, just buy more trash cans)
c. Make sure your shower is filthy, thereby removing the incentive to use it

Lesson 2: Build up a list of "influences"

Every successful humorist has "influences". These are basically writers, comedians and humorists who came before and shaped how you think about comedy and what is funny. In the past, influences could've have just been men (or in rare cases, women) who perhaps helped you to think in a certain way to come up with your own jokes and unique brand of humor. However, modern humor is a completely different game. Pretty much all of the good jokes have been told and there no such thing as "original" or "innovative" comedy any more. Shows like Saturday Night Live are merely the withered remnants of a bygone age of comedy. Legends like Robin Williams and Billy Crystal (their comedic thought fried by decades of coke abuse) are left to hand out meaningless awards and star in "movies" like RV and Flubber. 

So what use are "influences"? Influences are now great ways to "create" comedy through a process of cut & paste. Using comedic elements like puzzle pieces and jokes like glitter, you can turn your comedy into an ugly puzzle with glitter glued to it. I know it sounds bad, but the point is that no one will know the difference! Because not everyone is as clever as I am, I know that some won't understand this analogy. Basically, it can be summed up in two words: STEAL JOKES.

Lesson 3: Societal stereotypes are your ticket to Laughter City

Yes, Laughter City. I would have used "Laughter Town", but I didn't think it expressed the importance of this lesson well enough. And "Laughter Metropolis" would have been a bit overkill if you ask me. 

If there's one thing we're all taught to laugh at from an early age, it's stereotypes. From sex to race to religious background, stereotypes bring everyone together. Sure we talk about individualism and defining each other separate from larger collectives, but it's usually followed by a wink and a nudge. I remember when my mother used to tell me not to judge others by their sex or race. But she always said it with this whiny tone in her voice; (typical woman).

The power of this tool is evident in such shows as "The Carlos Mencia Show". This show proves that even the most low-functioning members of society can procure lucrative television contracts by sticking to the faithful principles of generalization and stereotyping. 

Lesson 4: Know when to end


Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Familiar Love Song

She laughs at all my jokes
Stupid people make us sigh
I swear we sat so close
...my iPod touched her thigh
Her presence gives me hope
That someone such as I
Could have a girl to help me cope
With all this withered pride

Self-indulgence runs like diarrhea
Down my pants-leg to the sea-ah
Her and me-ah, her and me-ah
Take her to the pizzeria
Oceans make a whole page crack
Pretending I'm not coming back
Don't go back, don't go back
Pain is black, black, black

She stomps upon my toe
At the playground, makes me laugh
My momma has to sew
Cuz my T-shirt's ripped in half
She can draw her elfin bow
And I will wield my magic staff
Cuz imagination's fun to grow
Walkin' down a wooded path

Adventures end when you're the hero
Without scores, you're left with zero
Drink your beer-o, drink your beer-o
Play her fiddle, play like Nero
Songs will make a white page red
Sorrows bucket, douse your head
What she said, what she said
I'm still thinking what she said

I'll impress her with my wit
I will caw, she will coo
We will shoot the breeze a bit
So glad finding one like you
Toss ourselves into the pit
And fulfilment we'll pursue
But we'll find that when we've quit
Only hatred has ensued

Bedtime made only for sleeping
In the mourning, hear the weeping
We're all sleeping! Stop your peeping!
Once alone, commence your creeping
Loneliness will leave the page
And at once you'll show your age
Goodly sage, honest sage
Teach us not to feed our rage

Trust

Trust.
Who do you trust?
Trustworthy, consumer trust, banking trusts, trusting personalities.

The living man thinks. I was alive today, and thought about trust. I trust some to borrow or loan. I trust others to watch over my things. I trust still others to personal information. But what of complete trust?

I define complete trust as the ability to have complete confidence in someone's integrity. I've learned that such trust cannot reasonably be extended. There is, however, a practical amount of trust you can put in your fellow man. Following the economics of trust and virtue, there is even a way to sort out who can be placed in your top-tier of trust. These people are your best friends, your spouses, the executors of your will. These are whom you share, confide in, and pray with. They are few and far between.

Or at least they should be. Throughout life, an individual should learn how to carefully determine who deserves this trust. To the experienced individual, trust is something to be given slowly and carefully because trust cannot be shed like snakeskin. New layers don't harden quickly, but trust lost can become a scar and possibly damage the individual in a myriad of ways.

Trustworthiness doesn't always imply that a person is prompt to meet appointments or always comes through with the potato salad at get-togethers. Trustworthiness is a matter of representation and perception. Does the person represent the truth of who they are? How well can you perceive what they represent? These questions are answered through experience with the individual.

Can you trust yourself? Only you can answer that question, but don't be so quick to trust your answer. Examine it. I trust myself, though not completely. Only abstract concepts can truly be given complete trust, as long as you can trust yourself to understand them.

The top-tier of trust is one that rarely changes, and is hard-earned. Mine has 3. It feels crowded. If anyone else isn't in that top-tier, it's because I don't know them well enough or I know them well enough not to place them there.

For your own sake, watch this tier closely.

Travel Writing Blog: Entry II

Today I thought about what it is to be observant. A lot of people will tell you that it's the ability to notice the little things. I disagree. There's no doubt in my mind that to be truly observant is to notice the big things going on around you. As a child, I would hunch down in the back yard and follow the path of a single ant carrying a unit of grain into its underground home. I was noticing a very small thing. However, it was only when I loosened my focus and surveyed the scene through a wider perspective that I really became observant of what was going on. A slightly bigger picture showed me several ants following that same path, carrying their own grain into the hole. What I saw then wasn't just a lonely creature storing his goods, but a collective of worker ants serving a more noble purpose—serving each other and serving their queen.

I am observant. I have the ability to look past the minutia of my surroundings and see the bigger picture. I see the common good in the common people who all depend on each other to improve their communities and reach their goals. I see the collusion of unseen forces that show themselves in the most subtle of ways. Today, what I saw—what I noticed—what I observed could very well be a most unsettling prospect if you choose to take my word. It was within the Isaac Newton Shopping Center in the town of Grantham that I made my observation. Starting with the simple, minute matters of my observation, I will say that I saw an elderly man sitting quiet and still among the ever-noisy movement of any place where men come to trade. This was the same elderly man that I had seen during many other short trips into town to pick up supplies. He sat in the same spot, wore the same suit, and tapped the same cane against the tile in uneven intervals. The sky produced an overcast glow through the fogged windows above, and the man seemed perfectly content not to subject himself to God's weather. There may be nothing extraordinary about these observations in and of themselves, but as I mentioned, the true observer looks past the object, beyond the physical, and into the bigger picture. 

What business had this man, sitting in that spot every day? Could it be that he was only seeing a devout people-watcher? Doubtful. The man's head surveyed the ever-changing crowd of shoppers with the motion of an impact sprinkler, though without all of the obnoxious sputtering. To satisfy my internal query, I thought of where I was—I broadened my perspective. There I sat, across from this man in the middle of a shopping center of an English town, when it suddenly dawned on me. English town... CCTV, Big Brother, The Nanny State... The United Kingdom is well-known for its widespread use of government surveillance! And to draw connections that now seem obvious, I discovered in my mind the underlying nature of this man's motives. He was, no doubt, an agent of surveillance. A man of experience who is now too old to be anything more than an eye on the street... or at least in this case, an eye in a shopping center. And this is no doubt a shopping center concerned with the prospect of shoplifting or vandalism in a country stricken with the fear of terrorism, whose people are urged to be ever vigilant. I also noticed that many patrons of the shopping center were at least familiar with the man; waving or tipping their hats as they hurriedly walked by. He is clearly a recognizable and familiar force of deterrence within the community.

Who does the man work for? I cannot say. Though his mannerisms, trim suit, and excellent posture all lent themselves to the traits of a government worker. As I made my attempt to discover more, I noticed the man looking back at me. I had been watching him for some time and perhaps he did not like being on the receiving end of such a relationship. I quickly redirected my attention to the large clock that hung above the commons of the shopping center. It was 3:20 PM. I had only a few minutes to collect my things and make my way to the bus stop.

Back in my dormitory, I still cannot understand how such long amounts of time can be spent by this man, just peering into the lives of others—seeing just a few minutes of their hectic day before they scuttle on by. What observations could he be making? What assumptions? What conclusions? Yes, I too am observant, but such a constant practice of observation may lend itself to fantasy or self-deception. I've determined that the nature of true observation lies in the ability to put things in the perspective of our greater reality. Anything less is just a dash of nutmeg wasted on the kitchen floor.

Monday, October 6, 2008

Travel Writing Blog: Entry 1

The Manor

Strolling down a gravel road through the English morning mists, I take a moment to pause and give a glance to where I had come from; that massive structure of stone and brick—a monument to… what? In all honesty, I don’t know. Though eager to form an opinion, I missed the history tour and will continue in my ignorance to admire this building for what it is—a brilliant work of architecture. But, is it? I ask myself this question because I just can’t help it. Though I had decided I would get some fresh air, the house calls me back inside to take another look. I seem to remember one of my fictional heroes, an architect himself, decrying the illogical obsession with tradition in architecture, and the beauty of function over form. Like an apple dipped in caramel, the interior of Harlaxton Manor seems to have been dipped in marble statues (some real and some false), intricate tiling, numerous winding staircases, and gilded designs of wood and plaster. And like a caramel apple, all this stuff seems to attract a lot of nuts… but then—I always take a metaphor a step or two too far. I shake off the poetic daze I’ve allowed myself to fall into and walk lightly into the State Dining Room. Ahead of me is a massive marble table, with a large enough surface, that you could sacrifice a lamb on it. Looking up, I see molding that looks like icing on a cake that has too much icing. It’s becoming apparent to me that I am just not well educated enough to appreciate such a complicated structure and all of its gaudy ornamentation. No Missouri boy who hails from a field of boxes known as the “suburb” could possibly “get it”. Then, thinking of how the architecture of a building reflects the values of its architect and its tenants, I recall some of the things I was taught, growing up in Missouri. A penny saved is a penny earned—Put only on your plate what you know you can eat—Frugality is a virtue. This building flies in the face of all of these things! Back in my simple dorm room—no doubt stylistically converted over the years—I look at the plain, smooth desk and tightly-knit blue carpet—the frameless mirror above the modern porcelain sink—the stainless furniture of condensed particle board… and for a moment, I’m back home.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Step 1

As a clumsy toddler, seated in deep concentration on the cold cement of the basement floor, I studied the ancient metal visage of my mother’s old vacuum cleaner. It had a protruding nose that reminded me of the Bat-mobile and it was a dark, flat grey. On either side of the nose extended the symmetrically formed wings, which were made to cover the maximum amount of floor—under which a spinning broom would whirl, sucking up sundry out-of-place flecks and specks in a process—which I did not quite understand yet. Upon growing bored of the green and blue floral pattern that adorned the cloth of the dust bag, I carefully stood up and marched toward the lime deposits that decorated a ring around the shower drain. I slowly took account of the experience of looking down at the dry floor beneath the faucet and how it differed from the experience of taking my first shower that same day. Dad had stood beside me and taught me how to bathe myself. There was freedom in learning a skill that would ultimately pass the responsibility of bathing from Mom to me. Not knowing the consequence, I had looked up into the faucet, which seemed to be indeterminably out of reach. What I had felt against my mouth and eyes wasn’t the soft, cool rains of springtime, but hard, hot drops of water, which blinded me and stung my unsuspecting skin. I had hung my head and rubbed at my eyes as if in defeat against this new challenge when Dad stepped in front of the sputtering stream and turned the pressure down. I hadn’t yet learned of the sore muscles and scratched skin that a day of work could cause, nor of the relief a hot shower brought to my father and would one day bring to me. “Is this better?” Dad had asked. It had been. Letting my eyes refocus on the metal grating of the drain, I had one memory that stood out among the rest. It had been the moment that I wiped the water from my eyes to greet the cooler droplets, giving me a new feeling altogether. “See a bug down there?” Dad asked. He found me staring at the drain, hunched over like a tribal hunter, enjoying a hard-earned meal. I shook my head and ran toward his workbench. Thinking that I must have looked foolish lost in thought over a shower drain, I quickly picked up a brown metal object with four circular holes in it. “What’s this?” I asked Dad. “Those are brass knuckles.” He said. “What do they do?” I wondered aloud. “I’ll show you.” He took the object and placed it in his calloused, sunburned hand. I hadn’t imagined that those massive holes could be made for someone’s fingers, but the knuckles fit his hand well. In mock suspense, Dad punched at the air, displaying how he would protect his family against any would-be intruders. I understood. I knew that they would be too big for me when he handed them back, but I tried to put them on anyway. For me, I decided, this device would be more of a hindrance. I would stick to my wooden sword. “Come on, buddy,” Dad said, “It’s time to go to bed.” Dad walked over to his record player and turned it off. I followed him up the stairs as close as I could to escape the creeping darkness that shot out from the “click” of the light-switch. With a kiss on the forehead and a short, scripted prayer, I was comfortably in bed. My little brother Adam had already gone to sleep and, after discovering that such a thing existed, required a nightlight glowing softly in the corner. I preferred the dark. Our quilt was decorated with countless anonymous baseball players. I jerked it over my head. Under the covers, I flipped the pillow over because I preferred the cold side. I few seconds into my restful bliss, I felt a little hand on my shoulder. “You’ll smother,” Adam said groggily, “You can’t breathe.” A little bit of Mom’s paranoia was keeping me up. I pulled the cover from my face. The air felt refreshingly crisp. I closed my eyes and finally fell asleep beside my brother.

The next thing I recall was sitting alone on the couch in the basement. All of the lights were off and the time glowed faintly green from a digital clock. I could tell that it was raining outside because of the warping and wavy image of the outside world through the window of the basement door. Between where I sat and the blue light from the window sat Mom’s old vacuum cleaner. Its headlight was on and it appeared much larger than usual. Frightened, I gazed at the vacuum, hoping that it would not come alive—when I heard a knock at the door. Cautiously, I crept past the beast toward a hopefully familiar face. Though water was consistently falling upon the window, blurring my vision, I could tell that it was my older brother, Eric, holding Adam. Their faces were distorted and strange beyond the rain-covered glass. Eager to have their company, I opened the door. In an instant, a torrent of rain splashed against my face. It wasn’t like the soft, cool rains of springtime, but hard and fast and blinding. Looking up, I saw the distorted faces of my brothers as they stood completely, hauntingly still. I tried and tried to wipe the water from my eyes, but it was impossible! No matter how much I swiped at my face, my brothers stood, faces warped, unmoving. A moment later, I woke up.

It was a clear morning and Adam had gone down to breakfast. I hopped down to the floor and stretched out on the carpet. I rolled back and forth on the tightly knit carpeting, giving my limbs each a turn in stretching out. After I felt satisfied, I dashed past my chalkboard, to the bathroom where I climbed upon my stool and looked at myself in the mirror. I was clear like the day. I reached with all the length of my arm to turn on the cold water. Tiny drops of water ricocheted up from the bottom of the porcelain basin as I placed my hands into the stream. Catching as much as I could, I threw the water into my face. Triumphantly wiping it from my eyes, my eyelashes were damp and a little sticky. I viewed myself in the mirror with even more clarity. I experienced the still-enduring wonder of focusing directly on my own eyes. I turned my head to the left and to the right, but my eyes remained on themselves. Wiping my eyes again, I jumped down from the stool.

The day before, I had wiped hot water from my eyes in the shower. Five years from the shower drain, I would wipe salty ocean water from my eyes upon submerging into that vast expanse for the first time. Eight years from the brass knuckles, I would wipe my eyes from the water of my baptism into a faith I did not yet appreciate. 10 years from swinging my wooden sword, I would wipe the sweat from my eyes during my first tennis match, swinging the racquet ferociously. 14 years from my brother’s nightlight, I would wipe away the tears of my first shattered dream. As tears fall on a page, I lift my head to see myself in the mirror again. I smile. I wipe my eyes. With all the passion and energy of my mind, I grasp the beauty of renewal.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

WALL-E: A Review

WALL-E Review

by Nick Hibbeler

I’ll begin my review of Pixar’s latest animated motion picture, WALL-E by discussing what I had to endure during the previews. Because WALL-E is an animated feature—and animated features are typically geared toward a younger audience in America—the trailers that preceded WALL-E were a collection of “family films”. These are movies that geared toward the widest of audiences, have easily pronounced titles and usually offer nothing of substance. The previews ran as follows:

Pink Panther 2 – This wasn’t really a preview, but more of a public service announcement (turn off your electronic gadgets) featuring Steve Martin as inspector Jacque Clouseau. I respect Steve Martin and have enjoyed his standup routine as well as some of his earlier roles, but let us engage in some word association. Peter Sellers is to Steve Martin as a pound of pure gold is to what? (If you guessed 1 Mexican Peso, you were correct).

Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa – In case you didn’t catch it, I’d like to point out that Dreamworks cleverly replaced the word “to” with the number “2”. As if that weren’t neat enough, the number actually points to the fact that this is a sequel. This trailer seemed to run very long. This might be due to the fact that I recognized all the gags as rehashed from the trailers from the first Madagascar movie, which I’m sure I had to sit through many more times than I would have wanted. It’s true that I made an attempt at seeing the first film of this series, but it was absolute tripe.

Meet Dave – This movie features comedy “legend” Eddie Murphy doing what he’s done best in the past 12 or so years. Apparently about a crew of tiny people who take over an android (played by Eddie Murphy). I could maybe, possibly, somehow see this premise producing possibilities for genuinely entertaining physical comedy, but let’s look at Mr. Murphy’s track record. Norbit, The Haunted Mansion, Daddy Day Care, The Adventures of Pluto Nash, Dr. Dolittle, Dr. Dolittle 2, The Nutty Professor, The Nutty Professor 2: Meet the Klumps…

Beverly Hills Chihuahua – I’m imagining a board meeting filled with advertising, studio, and merchandizing executives. They’re all laughing and smoking giant cigars made out of the flesh of innocent orphans. Why are they laughing? Because they’ve succeeded in “unleashing” upon an unsuspecting public a trailer of the most dire consequences. Amid a confusing and bright display of computer-animated Chihuahuas dancing (and singing) in unison, a movie tagline so sinister in its meaninglessness, that I can scarce forget it, no matter how hard I try. “50% Warrior, 50% Lover, 100% Chihuahua.” If you throw enough cute animals on a screen, people will see the movie. This also works with fart jokes, violence, and boobies. May God help us all.

Bolt – In comparison to what had come before it, this trailer seemed somewhat interesting. “Bolt” is a Disney animated feature about a stunt dog in Hollywood who thinks his movie powers are real. Starring Danny Zuko and Hannah Montana, my hopes are about as high as a Chihuahua.

If there were any more trailers, I wouldn’t know because I blacked out until that little Pixar lamp was bouncing up and down on that “I”. Like every Pixar feature before, WALL-E was preceded by an animated short. This time around, we were treated to “Presto”. The short was about a magician who couldn’t quite control his hare. It was very funny and acted as a buffer between the disgusting spectacle of Hollywood garbage and the film itself.

WALL-E begins with some stunning visuals of outer space and eventually drops us down to earth. Immediately noticeable is the forgotten landscape. As Stanton presents a barren shell of civilization, the social commentary becomes immediately recognizable. A massive, abandoned shopping center stands as an ominous vision against a dusty and lifeless backdrop. This setting is beautifully displayed in drab earth tones and complimented marvelously by Thomas Newman’s score. It is in these opening moments that we are introduced to WALL-E (Waste Allocation Load Lifter – Earth Class), a tiny droid endlessly fulfilling his task of waste management. The geniuses at Pixar use this simple character and environment to imaginatively and humorously ease us into this uneasy reality. For the first half of the film, dialogue is noticeably almost non-existent. I cannot properly describe how refreshing this was. Pixar once again displays their unmatched ability to tell a story through animation. Through silence, WALL-E represents a resounding answer to the deluge of meaningless animation that seems to pollute our screens these days. In a contrast to the all-star casts and incessant pop-culture references presented to us by animation studios such as Dreamworks, Pixar gives is its clearest example of distinction. How fitting it is that this clean-up job would be given to a little trash-compactor robot. The second half of the movie leads us onto the AXIOM, spaceship and mankind’s temporary-turned-permanent home in outer space. Here, WALL-E pursues fellow robot EVE with the kind of romantics learned by watching “Hello Dolly” while back on earth. A whole new aspect of satire takes place on the AXIOM as mankind has become an essentially useless race of self-pleasers and mindless consumers. The commentary gets thick here, but never overbearing. The fact that Disney could produce a movie with this much substance gives me great hope and I’ll be watching very closely to see how this does at the box office.

As with previous Pixar titles, WALL-E delivers on every level. It visually shines and thanks to Andrew Stanton’s brilliant vision and Pixar’s notorious attention to detail, I’ll never get tired of looking at this movie. Like Finding Nemo (Stanton’s other Pixar masterpiece), the storytelling is solid and made all the more impressive by the lack of dialogue. Two-time Oscar Award-winning Ben Burtt does most of the programming for Robot voices. His work includes voices on E.T. and Star Wars. What voice acting there is—is good (Yes, John Ratzenberger is in this movie). Fred Willard acts as Global CEO of Buy-n-Large Corporation, and does an excellent Fred Willard. Thomas Newman and Peter Gabriel collaborate on “Down to Earth”, a song which will most likely be nominated for Best Original Song, come Oscar season.

Overall, I’m pleased to say that this movie is excellent. I had ridiculously high expectations for it as Finding Nemo had been my favorite animated feature for quite some time (WALL-E is challenging that fact), but it didn’t dissapoint. WALL-E is about as close to perfect as I’ve ever seen when it comes to film. It combines engaging storytelling with stunningly beautiful visuals and one of Thomas Newman’s greatest scores. I cannot overstate the importance that social commentary plays in really great movies. Pixar has accomplished an immensely entertaining adventure with absolutely nothing empty about it. I would urge everyone to see this movie. I can’t imagine why anyone (except for the folks at Wal-Mart) wouldn’t get behind WALL-E. I’ll be looking forward to hearing everyone’s opinion on it.

Note: If you don’t like WALL-E, I do have some good news for you—“Shrek Goes Fourth” is in pre-production and should be coming out some time in 2010.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Decipher This!

I was walking across the campus of Hannibal-LaGrange College with my younger brother, Adam. I had my brand new digital camcorder in hand. I remember that it was sunny and the skies were mostly clear. This description wouldn’t hold true for long. There was a new aircraft landing strip that had been built nearby, so it didn’t seem strange that there were several low-flying prop-jobs in the vicinity. I got the idea to start filming the planes when one began to fly in, dangerously low. People all around were pointing and shouting that the aircraft appeared out of control. I wasn’t sure what to think, but this plane with one red stripe on each side came flying across the campus lawn incredibly low and collided with the giant tree that sits in between the Administration building and the Library. It bounced oddly off the tree’s branches and fell, in a heap, to the ground. By this time I had managed to hit “record” on my camera and was filming the smoldering wreck that used to be the red and white airplane. I scanned the skies to find several other planes. One was barrel-rolling out of control behind the Administration building. I whirled around and began filming as the blue airplane crashed into the parking lot. It was at this point that the sky began to grow dark. My brother and I decided to head for the Admin building when I noticed that the sky began to fill with what looked like little black birds. They all seemed as if they were flying towards us. We entered the building just in the nick of time because, upon turning to look out of the glass door, an immeasurable multitude of tiny, black, bat-like creatures flew into the side of the building and clung as if they were plastered there. More and more, the creatures piled on and the mass of them stretched all the way to Nunn-Cook dormitory. As I filmed the fantastic chaos, I noticed that my batteries were running out. I quickly looked around to see if there was anywhere I could procure a new battery. A few looks revealed to me a large Duracell stand with every kind of battery imaginable, plus a few I’ve never imagined. It was a good thing too, because upon opening the battery hatch on the camera, I discovered that this camera took multiple kinds of batteries, positioned in complex patterns and fitting together. Randy Shepard was nearby and granted me emergency permission to pilfer the battery rack of everything I needed. I sat down at a dining table and began to meticulously work at replacing the dying batteries. I first removed the old batteries, which were green and white and wrapped in some sort of queer cellophane. My goal was to do it one type at a time and replace the old with the new black and copper colored Duracells. As I worked at it, however, the process began to get more and more complicated. I was sweating at the brow and growing progressively more frustrated. At one point I removed all of the new batteries, attempting to start over. There were long and narrow batteries. There were short and fat batteries. There were even cubic and triangular batteries. In the midst of my struggle, I looked down to find that all of my batteries were of the same green and white color scheme. There was no way to tell the difference between used and new batteries among the cluttered pile. By this time, my brother had left to go find food. In the confusion of the moment, I blacked out.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Jigsaw

This creaky old wooden house
This run down old porch
This rickety deck
An ancient cast-iron stove sits firmly upon it
Covered in dust
A dermis of dust which lays over it evenly
A spewing of soot which cascades downward from the mouth of this iron beast
This cavernous maw which leads to a belly of blackness
A cauldron of cold coal that once burned brightly

The stepping of shoes rhythmically echoes eternal energy into the opening
The stove sits, door open and gaping
Seemingly leaning toward its fore
Hinting hunger and petrified anguish
Back into the black, a lone stone is waiting
A glimmering crag with not one ray of light to reflect
It once shone brightly by the frightening fire within the belly
Now stillness is its beauty

This still scene of solitude
This exiled conglomeration of matter
This lone puzzle piece of existence
Is it dead or waiting?
Is it alive or patient?
The warping wooden structure bends around it
Framing its state, however defined
This stove, its contents, its immediate surroundings
All at rest and seemingly static
Though change creeps and distorts
And elements simplify
Structures degrade
This portrait is alive

No doubt, an onlooker would relate neglect
But time neglects nothing and aging is action
The sky above is empty all the way
But birds fly through it

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Dream Girl

She was attractive for sure. More importantly, she was sarcastic, intelligent, and sure of herself. I only talked to her for a few minutes and found out that she loved movies and hip-hop. I woke up shortly after with those few details.

Smiling, I rolled over and thought to myself. I get to live her every day.

Friday, April 25, 2008

This Poem is Called Character Flaws

Everybody's got one
Unleash them on the world like blasting shells from a shotgun
Release them on your girl and your relationship is not fun
Relationships
Relationships
Relationships are taking pisses
Faking wishes, forsaking business for quaking kisses
Passionately drowning
Giving power to your future pain
Passively you're counting every single sad mistake I've made
Burn my journals down to dust
Write off all of my emotions
Pop my pimples, wipe the puss
And then moisturize with lotion
Perfect the image of my person
As if I have ever cared
Held up to standards, ever worsen
Finally, suggestions spared

I'd Like to Throw it off

Jealousy, obsession, love, lust & anguish
To throw it all off would be my one wish
Find my inner peace separate from everyone
And never feel again like I've got to get the gun
Run for fun if you want to
You've got no where to run to
Desire follows everywhere
And that's a word that's true
Truth & lying
Peace & violence
All the same as my time commences
Mincing words, hit the dirt
Quick to flirt and hit the skirt
Play the jerk
No other way to play
Unless they call you "gay" today
I've got to say
I'm holding off on scolding first impressions
Unless I want to cause myself an even worse depression
And an even worse obsession
I can't believe I fell this far
The only thing I've left to do is hit the bar
Now its ladies night
It's quite a sight
And everything is right tonight
Or everything is wrong
Put these colored words to song
Take a break for instrumental
Polyrhythmic forces chattering my dentals
Until I
Come back dry
My mind's eye cries as I take a deep breath
Tuck myself in
Roll over in a cold bed
Cold clutching nothing
And that's what I want to throw off
It's the want that leaves me empty

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Notes on Change

I'm not involved to increase my influence, serve my own interest, or change things for me. I'm not vocal to hear myself talk, or because those who hear me care. I don't vote because I want to, I vote because I have to. I speak the truth for its own sake, and I stand up for what is right because I must. I become involved because I am compelled to do all I can for the cause of liberty and justice for all. This concern is not a youthful phase or a self-righteous hobby. It is the necessity of anyone who loves life and the freedoms afforded to us by our creator, and ever encroached upon by man.

My actions must reflect my requests of God. If I plead with him to remove a parasite, yet I willingly feed it daily, how can I expect my prayer to be answered? In my actions, I serve Satan in his continuing stranglehold of my will. Only Jesus can break the chains of sin. Only I can allow him to.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Taking Inventory

This evening at 5:47 PM, my father called me and asked where I was. "Hannibal." I said matter-of-factly.
"Hannibal?" he asked, sounding somewhat confused.
I was at a loss as to why there would be any confusion as to where I was. After all, I do go to school in Hannibal, I had told my parents I would be coming home that night, and it isn't unusual for me to get home much later than 5 or 6 o'clock in the evening. "Yeah," I said, "why do you ask?"
"Oh! Well, there's just this bag of clothes and video games out on the front porch that's labeled 'N's Stuff' and we thought you had dropped it off and drove away somewhere in your car."
As unlikely as that turn of events would seem, I don't blame them for being a bit confused at the whole thing. When I heard about the bag, I thought for a few seconds and then let out a couple of high-pitched laughs, "Ah, ***** must have brought that by."
I admonished my dad to bring the bag out of the rain and told him I would take care of it when I got home. After hanging up, I laughed nervously for a bit and then breathed deeply. I breathed the way I do whenever I'm confronted with anything having to do with my ex-girlfriend. My heart started beating faster and I became a little light-headed and sat down for a moment. A bit more eager to pack up and get on the hump toward home, I put on some MF Doom (A Hip-Hop artist from New York who always wears a mask) and threw every remembered necessity in my backpack and foldable clothes hamper. On the way home I listened to music like I always do. And because I was driving solo, I was free to sing along loudly. When I'm alone, I try to pick songs that will push my range so that somehow I might improve my singing. This isn't hard to do. The familiar drive from Hannibal to O'Fallon was lit up by sunlight filtered through a thick blanket of ominous blue-grey clouds. It didn't rain, and the view was beautiful. Every dilapidated farm house that I spotted seemed to fit right in to the overcast scene. As familiar as it is, the drive seemed short. I pulled into the driveway backwards, locked my awesome manual locks and headed toward the house. Walking up to the front door, I noticed actual living grass had begun to poke its way out of the tangled brown mess that a sweltering dry summer had left us last year. When I got in, I greeted my parents and proceeded downstairs to my room where I expected the bag of stuff would be. I turned on the lights and saw the bag leaning against the wall in the corner. It was double-bagged and pull-strung. Two blue plastic bags, the outer one labeled, "N's Stuff". The handwriting looked like her mother's, though I can't be sure. If I was to guess why it was labeled, "N's Stuff" instead of "Nick's Stuff", I'd say it is because whoever wrote it just wanted to abbreviate. However, the thought did cross my mind that maybe it was too difficult to spell out my whole name... Get over yourself and open the bag. (I found out that the inner bag was labeled, "Nick's Stuff" anyway. So much for delusions of emotional distress on the labeler's part). Instead of pulling out the items one at a time like a parent on Christmas morning, I dumped them all out on the floor like a kid on Christmas morning. However, it wasn't Christmas and I had seen all this stuff before. Glancing over it all was the act of looking into a past that I generally try not to think about to avoid emotional stress. I sorted it out... well I really just put it all in a pile. Seeing it all, I reacted like I thought I might. I smiled and cried. Not like I did last fall when my world was seeming to fall apart. I left no giant snot-stains on my pillows, nor did I frighten my mother into thinking I was having a seizure... sorry mom. I just let a few gentle tears come out and went upstairs to grab a vegetarian dinner. When I came back down to my room I decided to take an inventory of what was in the bag. I took up a pen and the small notebook I traded a bottle of Dr. Pepper to my roommate for. I wrote:

***
Inventory

-Wolverine Action figure
-Incredible Hulk action figure
-Oddish Pokemon Plush
-Random Monkey Plush (Gerald)
-Nintendogs Plush
-Spiderman Action figure
-Oscar Wilde book (Various)
-Bernard Shaw book (Candida)
-2 Astonishing X-Men Trade paperbacks
-1 High School ID card
-Pokemon FireRed (GBA)
-Pokemon LeafGreen (GBA)
-Gameboy Advance SP
-2 Hannibal LaGrange T-shirts
-1 "Pick A Winner" T-shirt
-Writer's Anonymous Hoodie
-Toys R Us grabber
-Concert T-shirt
-Brian Jacques Book (Redwall)
-Missouri Hunter Education badge
***

As I wrote the contents of the bag on the graph-paper pages of this small notebook, I realized every item had a story.

-Wolverine Action figure
-Incredible Hulk Action figure

I suppose when I was jotting these down that I capitalized the word "Action" to emphasize that aspect of these figures. These are Marvel Legends Icons made by Toy biz. (Hasbro has since bought the rights to make Marvel Legends action figures and they're not near as good). They are roughly 12 inches high, have over 40 points of articulation and are incredibly well detailed as far as the paint goes. One night, she and I were at Toys R Us. At the time I still worked there, so I was showing her the cool new action figures we had gotten in recently. The one I showed her was a 12 inch Marvel Legends Icons Captain America figure (unmasked variant). "That's cool," she said, "I'm not a big fan of action figures, but these are cool." I concurred. Over the period of a few months we ended up buying five figures in the series for ourselves. They were Captain America, Wolverine, Iron Man, Hulk, and Venom. We also bought a Captain America figure for our friend Zack, because his real name is Stephen Rogers, which also happens to be the name of Captain America. The two figures I got back in the blue bag had been in her possesion as part of a sharing deal we had going with the five we jointly owned.

-Oddish Pokemon plush

This little guy also came from Toys R Us. The story on this is pretty simple. I once told her that she reminded me of "a cute little Oddish". When I saw the plush, I purchased it and mailed it to her with a note.

-Random Monkey Plush (Gerald)

This is another toy bought at Toys R Us. The story on this is pretty complicated. It was bought during somewhat rough time during our relationship. It was in the fall and we had just started going out again the previous spring. During this time we didn't see eachother much and were neither really great "significant others". I asked a coworker and mutual aquaintance of ours to help pick out the toy. She did, though it was the one I was going to get anyway. This particular coworker was one who my girlfriend was convinced I liked quite a bit. I did admit to having a small crush on her at some point, though it was never something I thought at length about. When I brought my girlfriend the plush monkey, she asked me what it was named. "Gerald." I said. She liked Gerald. Over a year later I told her who helped me pick out the toy. She hated Gerald.

-Nintendogs Plush

Another toy I got her from Toys R Us while she was attending University in Missouri.

-Spiderman Action figure

This figure was bartered from my friend Dan whom I went with to the Wizard World Convention in Chicago, Illinois. It was a 6-inch scale Marvel Legends figure that came with a piece of a larger build-a-figure. Unfortunately when she found out it wasn't the "whole thing" she expressed some dissatisfaction.

-Oscar Wilde book (Various)
-Bernard Shaw book (Candida)

These are two books I had left over from one of my literature classes at Hannibal LaGrange College. I let her borrow them shortly after the school year. I'm not sure if she read them.

-2 Astonishing X-Men Trade paperbacks

A couple of trades I picked up at the Wizard World convention. She had them for a long time.

-1 High School ID card

For the life of me, I can't figure out why she would keep this. I guess it was just there so she stuck it in the bag. There are any number of reasons to explain why she had this. I lost those things all the time.

-Pokemon FireRed (GBA)
-Pokemon LeafGreen (GBA)
-Gameboy Advance SP

I had essentially given these to her in hopes I'd get her hooked on video games. As it turns out, she did play them, though I'm currently kicking the habit myself.

-2 Hannibal LaGrange T-shirts

I recieved both of these on seperate occasions as part of test-preparation kits purchased by my mom through the school. I gave them to my girlfriend upon request. (They are pretty neat-looking)

-1 "Pick A Winner" T-shirt

This T-shirt was originally red, with a picture of a man on the front with his hand in his nose. My dad must have thought it was funny because he bought it for me when he and my mom went to Kohl's. Currently, it is more of a faded light-red because of the one time my dad did the laundry... It also happens to be the shirt I was wearing when I kissed my girlfriend for the first time. It was the single most exhillerating experience of my life.

-Writer's Anonymous Hoodie

I designed this hooded sweatshirt for the writing club at my high school. I remember some other members of the club wanted another design that I didn't like put on the back of the hoodie, so I ordered mine without it. I gave it to my girlfriend upon request.

-Toys R Us grabber

Considering how many times she visited me at work, it's no surprise that she ended up with one of these. It's basically a clamp at the end of a stick that closes when you squeeze the handle. It makes a clicking noise that is strangely satisfying. I can recall several instances where this thing was actually used to get stuff out of household crevasses.

-Concert T-shirt

Last summer, my father and brother went to Cornerstone Music Festival for the third year in a row. I wanted to go as well, but was urged not to by my girlfriend because this was going to be during some of the few days she would be in town, as she had moved to live with her dad out of state. Whether or not this was fair, I handled it like quite a jackass and decided that if she was going to make me stay home, I was going to make her feel guilty about it. When my dad got back he gave me this t-shirt. At the time, it was too small for me so I gave it to her. Since then, I've slimmed down a bit and the t-shirt fits a bit better.

-Brian Jacques Book (Redwall)

I ordered this great children's book for her before we broke up. It arrived afterward.

-Missouri Hunter Education badge
I recieved this for completing the easiest semester-long course outside of aerobic walking that was offered at my high school. I kept it in my wallet for a long time until she requested it of me for some sort of patch design she was going to make.

After it had all been accounted for, I let out an easy breath. Thinking back on all of these stories is actually kind of nice. A collection of relics, bundled up and left at my doorstep like an abandoned child, they represent more to me than I thought they might. Regardless of all the mistakes that I've made leading up to this moment, these stories stand alone and innocent. It would be easy to shuffle this stuff back into the big pile and forget about the memories they hold, but what would be the point? Life on earth is a progression of events that eventually lead to death. They can be forgotten, learned from, cherished, or ignored.

Memories will sting if you put them in the corner
Memories will heal if you choose to think them out
Memories will dissapear if other ones replace them
And memories are all that's left when your life's light goes out

I like to think that I've found value in this stuff no matter what happens next. I will meditate on peace and pray for tomorrow.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

From Queen to Son

This is just a little exercise I thought I might try out.

The two accounts read perfectly well individually.

Also, you can take the odd lines of one and the even lines of the other to form a poem.
So, four poems in all; two free-verse and two with a paired-off rhyme scheme and not much rhythm...

Monday, April 14, 2008

Son of Perdition

1 A horse and buggy clop and clack down the cobblestone street
2 A young lad is working even before the day starts
3 He's mussed and dirty from shoveling slop in the filthy pig stye
4 He hangs his head in a regretful bow of inferiority
5 His wrists are covered up by leather sleeves that to his forearms reach
6 His hair hangs heavy, weighted by the morning dew
7 His world is miles away from the bickering of parliament
8 His countenance is sickly and his skin is pale and spotty
9 The boy wants nothing more than to be at peace within
10 His life's encapsulated in a hut by the creek
11 He wishes he was brighter and he wishes he was stronger
12 From the jaws of emptiness he needs greatly to be saved
13 No song could ever build his will
14 No strength could lift him up
15 No righteous deed could his guilt still
16 No hope could fill his cup
17 He needs a light to lift his sighs
18 He's in need of forgiveness for he has no excuse
19 He's in need of a beast, his burdens to bear
20 He needs a comforter, a keeper, a home
21 He runs from the harvest he surely will reap
22 He runs from the light and heads straight to hell's gate

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Queen of Perdition (The Queen and the Son)

1 A trumpet sounds and curtains part
2 A royal figure is laid out upon satin sheets
3 She is voluptuous and tan with an air of superiority
4 Her eyes are like clouded jewels that reflect a stormy desert sky
5 Her hair flows like an infant stream, carrying the purest of brown hue
6 To see her lips is like tasting a crisp ripened peach
7 She is adorned with jewelery that falls across her body
8 And while they are more costly than the finest treasures of Solomon,
9 Her finery does no justice to the perfection of her physique
10 Her beauty blazes bright from a pyre beneath her skin
11 Her words echo throughout the gilded halls and into the ears of a thousand slaves
12 Each one is quick to do her bidding and struggles to look upon her
13 No man could ever hope to comprehend her
14 No artisan could ever hope to capture her
15 No army could ever hope to destroy her
16 She is beauty itself and holds all at attention
17 Her bidding is impossible for mortals to refuse
18 Yet her way is destruction and she speaks only lies
19 Yet her words are like daggers and she always sleeps alone
20 Yet her beauty is a guillotine and her fragrance a snare
21 Yet her path leads to loneliness, bitterness, and hate
22 She lives without life and dreams without sleep

Monday, April 7, 2008

Compelled

I am a man who lives and works in solitude
Tending gardens, praying for the destitute
I wear a simple habit and two simply fashioned sandals
And spend my nights reading by the light of a wax candle

The monastery's always been a home to me
I've never wondered how it might otherwise be
I keep a friendly feline I've named Randall
We spend our night sitting by the light of a wax candle

And I feed him
And I read to him
But he doesn't know the stories that I tell
In the garden
I beg God's pardon
And to a deeper life I often feel compelled

One day I walked into the town to get supplies
And as I strolled I turned and saw, to my surprise
An invalid who had no place to call his own
I asked and found that he was all alone

I took the man to a corner store and bought him food
And to the tailor who could fix his tattered suit
He told me of his life and how he made his ends
I told him of my solitude and feline friend

How I feed him
How I read to him
But he doesn't know the stories that I tell
How in the garden
I beg God's pardon
And to a deeper life I often feel compelled

Taking my sack, I started home and bid "goodbye"
He thanked me for the help I gave and then began to cry
I saw in him a need that I knew must be felled
That night I prayed to God and felt compelled

We live together now inside a humble cottage
I share my various recipes of warm pottage
Meeting the need of this friend I found, I am content
A deeper life, my God has finally sent

And I feed him
And I read to him
And he's thankful for the stories that I tell
When people ask
Why I had to act
My answer is that I had felt compelled

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

RE: "makeup"

I've had at least one person contact me about this poem because they were concerned about who this poem was about.

"makeup", like many other poems is only a picture, not a portrait. It describes a girl overcome by image to the point of losing identity. This is not about a specific person. As insulting as it would be if it were, I wouldn't have posted it if it were about a specific person. I can see where there would be confusion considering some of the language used, but the narrator in this one is NOT me. It's a voice that tells the story.

-Nick Hibbeler

Monday, March 31, 2008

last cry of humanity

world, close in and remove me
beauty takes place when i am removed
God empty your lungs and remove me
let wonder and majesty exist
remove my dreams remove my wants
remove my words remove my faults
God of creation or creation itself
exist on and on
exist without the spectator
wind whips and tree bends
exist and glorify on and on
water ripples and fish swims
exist and glorify on and on
nature plays and lives and breaths
exist without, go on and on
our souls are nothing
our lives are less
our thoughts are nothing
our words are less
a rock sits still and sings more loudly
a star shines bright and worships soundly
remove our stain
remove the pain
remove our greed
release the seed
let existence crowd me out
remove me God
remove me please
remove this evil parent of chaos

makeup

she's a woman of the world
looks to vogue to find her inner girl
her eyelashes will dance around their sinner's twirl
no light can pierce her eye-shadow
no ice can cool her blush
and in the solace of her makeup room there's not a hush
not a touch of human left under the paint
she's lost herself, identity is faint
she's glossed herself, identity is quaint

in a room upstairs she'll draw the stares
and justify the route she took to draw them there
straighten her hair and strip her insecurities bare
put her on her back and she'll be home sweet home
but don't attach anything to it, it must be sterilized
paralyzed by love, little boys will cry out their eyes
and she'll count the score and claim the prize
twisting every mental picture till the cock cries
while their cocks sigh and meaning takes the back seat to die

don't read too much into it all, cause i'll give you the digest
please excuse the emotional baggage while i digress:
i confess that to this mess i was a first-hand witness
you don't have to read between the lines to sense the stress
i guess my heart goes out to her because i know her well
she's living proof that death doesn't need to come before hell
she's no stranger to the danger of facing bitter truth
so like us, she'll lie to satisfy her sweet tooth
we all sing: ignorance is bliss
and since we don't know who she is or could possibly be
blissfully we'll come to find that illusion's all we see

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Righteous Indignation

Have you ever really wondered why
All the nations shrink at our war cry?
When our bombs are droppin’ from the sky
Those cowards run an’ hide an’ die

It’s cuz we got the muscle and it’s cuz we got the might
That other little countries run when we demand a fight
We’ll shoot you in the daytime and we’ll bomb you in the night
Cuz explosions gets good ratings if’n I remember right

The war with the most casualties was when we fought ourselves
And when we fight an’ torch an’ kill, our enemies all go to hell
Because judgment is the role we play and damn, we play it well
And we’ll light you up with napalm just because we love the smell

We don’t care about gas prices, we just care about control
So grow your beards and shed your tears inside your shady spider-holes
Freedom’s comin’, war drum’s drummin’, and your sins will take their toll
Our God is bigger than yours, may he have mercy on your souls

Because we don’t have no mercy, and why should we? We’re the best
We have so much more than you and so we’re obviously blessed
It sure looks like we are more mighty than you would have ever guessed
We are better. We are righteous. We have more. You have less.

We have less sins to confess
And our system is the best
Rest assured we’ll prove it to you
We won’t lose, we won’t lose
We won’t let you say you’ve won
Burn our flags, feel our guns
Run and hide, but you’re still done
America is number one

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Undying Love

The gray moon shot up quick that October night
Then hovered nervously, as if in fright
To see my true love’s corpse to be quite unsightly
I have dreams of her screams pounding in my head nightly

Her hair framed a face that wasn’t quite dead
As the worms and the beetles crawled over her head
She showed some emotion, bur remained quite still
Yes, hers was a figure that I could never kill

But that night she told me a terrible tale
About how her love for me started to fail
How she would be leaving for another man
And thereby destroying all of my life’s plans

I decided to take her for one final walk
Where we always would go when we needed to talk
And in our discussion I made it quite clear
Her professions of love were mine only to hear

She listened politely and finally laid down
Now her body sleeps peacefully there on the ground
I visit her often and lay down a flower
Oh, how I am moved by undying love’s power

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Ghost of the Past

There's this ghost who is always untying my shoes
Every time I get to walkin', it gets to stalkin'
Fumbles and stumbles me up from my toes to the top of my stockin'
So I'll lay down on the dirty green grass and sleep it off till the day goes by
If you knew my nights you might know why
Night knows why and night goes by
My fright catches a rocket and it shoots sky high
I get up to walk again, but why try?

The sun's up to mock again
The ghost's back to stalk again
I take a step, stop to talk to a friend, but wait! Great!
I'm bound and gagged and it's not even 8 (in the mornin')
The sun draws out its shades and says, "Fair warnin'!"
My day takes a dose of global warmin'
Stormin' might've saved me but it was a clear day
I heard it's not my fault, but that's just hearsay

Day in and day out and so goes my tiny life
I apologize if I caused you any cryptic strife
But life is rife with the cryptic, just ask the wife
We're loved by the husband, though ugly we be
See me? Now see the Word-God that's nailed to the tree
That's the real mystery, now I'll walk to the church
And I'll crawl there if I have to if it gets any worse
'Cause I've broken much larger than this ghost's little curse