Post-A

His road to her was a wasteland of rubber tires and a sea of salty bottlecaps
He wrote to her every day without being sure she'd get his messages
Telephone wires were crossed and cut and the airwaves were halted by radiation
Malted bald eagles, remnants of a nation, brave and free
His love was part of the debris, but he didn't know it
Down by the docks, he sat and listened to a man singing river-town blues
He tossed a couple dollars to the man so he could repair the trumpet that he used
Rusted and bent, it sung out across the water and through the bare treetops
"Thank you," the trumpet man said and gathered up his worthless paper bills;
Artifacts of a time when a lot of nothing was worth something and people fought for it
He later took them to the old diner and gave them to the woman who lived there
She laughed at his lark and pretended to give him food as their stomachs rumbled
The man who'd lost love stumbled back to his apartment, weaving among the rubble
He finished off his box of crackers and boiled a cup of water
A rotten cigarette burned between his fingers and the ash fell among dust
He brushed off an old photo album and prayed, "Why? Why, God, why?"
God answered- as a barking dog in the distance
The chemical sunset filled his room with swirling purples and reds
He fell upon his cot and turned his head against the doom
A flower in the jungle bloomed but he didn't notice
His world was hopeless and he had lost focus
On a burnt earth it seemed like Death's door was all around him
Ambitions were scorched along with the place that he had found them
He wanted to get behind the wheel of a car, but hadn't seen one drive in years
Drying tears every morning from the stinging smog, he was a lone scavenger searching for enough to get along
"Enough to get along on down the road," he thought, but there was never enough
And all this stuff from another time was running out
And coming out of caves and sinkholes were wild animals to snatch his finds
Ravenous wolves and dogs of many kinds
He dipped his musty canteen into a secret spring he knew
And she seemed to know him too
She greeted him with clear water and a symphony of crickets
He crouched and crawled among the thickets, first to find and then to leave her
He told others of the spring, but they didn't believe- or perhaps they didn't care
They were calm in their despair and boiled river water
And then they gave it to their sons and their daughters and pretended it was milk
As the man struggled through the woods to get back to the road, he heard a voice
"Where'd you get that water?"
That water- that gift from the spring that kept him walking and let him remember what hope was
He turned to see a wild animal with stars on his shoulder and a cross on his gun
The man clutched his canteen and thought to run
The animals had charred the land and now they want the spring
To dig a hole and take control and make it their thing
He wouldn't
He couldn't give the spring away and spoil her truth
He had toiled through the roots to find her
They would bind her
He turned to flee the animal and leapt through the bush with what energy he had
Thunder sounded as the animal emptied his clip
The man stared at the cloudy pink sky, thought of his goodbye and took his last sip

Grooming

(An instant-messaging conversation)

What's the deal with Yasmin and Malakai?

What do you mean? They're friends.

No, I know that, it's just that they're always hanging out.

And why is that weird?

Well, because Yasmin is going out with Abimelech, but the only time she spends any time with Malakai is when Abimelech is not around.

He's grooming her.

Who's grooming her?

Malakai. Malakai is grooming Yasmin.

What the hell does that mean?

It means what it means.

"Grooming," what does "grooming" mean?

It means he's getting her ready in case she breaks up with Abimelech.

Getting her ready? You mean like he's trying to steal her or something?

No, it's a lot more passive than that. He's simply getting her on his side. Playing it real safe and making sure she feels comfortable talking to him.

Isn't that kind of insidious, I mean, plotting like that when Yasmin and Abimelech are an item?

I don't think so.

What do you mean you don't think so? You don't buy that "All's fair in love and war" business, do you?

Of course not. All's fair in love, but when it comes to war, there have to be conventions.

You know what I mean.

Yeah, I know what you're saying, but the thing about grooming is that, because Malakai's single, there's really nothing wrong with it even though it seems kind of sketchy.

Does Abimelech know?

Oh, I'm sure he does.

Then why doesn't he say anything about it?

Because he can't.

What do you mean, he can't?

If he says anything about it, he'll seem like a smothering boyfriend; overbearing and insecure.

It's a catch-22... So I guess he doesn't care?

I'd imagine he does, but he doesn't show it.

That's all that matters.

Now, you're getting it.

So if I see Yasmin with Malakai in a few years, I'll know how this thing went down.

Yep.

Wait a sec, does she know?

Know what?

That she's being groomed?

I have three theories on that.

Haha, I've got time.

Well, my first theory is simply that she doesn't know.

Boring.

I agree. Though I think, knowing Yasmin, it's pretty likely. She's seems like a trusting person and caring friend.

What else?

Another theory is that she suspects that Malakai may be grooming her, but opts to go on as if he isn't. It isn't fair to assume, after all.

But she likes the idea.

Well, that's another part of it. With this she can enjoy the excitement of being groomed without the guilt of allowing it because she refuses to allow herself to assume anything.

I think I could guess what the last theory is.

Go ahead.

Ok. She knows what's going on and allows it. This is as bad as flirting.

No it isn't.

How is it any better than flirting?

Where are the rings?

Don't answer my question with a question.

I'm just saying, where are the rings? This is just some petty drama. The real mess comes with marriage. Anything before that is little leagues.

How would you know?

Hey jackass, my parents got divorced.

Oh yeah, sorry.

It's alright. What I'm saying is that we're just college kids. Eventually Abimelech will have the chance to make his move.

What do you mean?

"All my single ladies, All my single ladies!"

Ah, the ring.

"The One Ring".

What if she says "no"?

Then, we've cut through the bull, haven't we?

I guess we have.

Winter

Long Winter

Ice is

Broken glass on the ground

Cold cuts deep and sharp

Skins cracks

Winter days won over by gray

Sunshine is

Elusive and deceitful

Our winter will be hard

A day of tough dirt and

Frozen mud

Snow layers, scrape

Hard work pays off

Long-distance

I hinted at her

My winter cat scurries

And splintered casket

A withered basket

Of fruits, bad figs

Mad wigs worn by lovers

Worn by smothering

Torn up mothers who

Scorn all others

My body shivers and

Quivers as quick

While livers made sick pass

Whiskey and brandy and barley-wine

Hardly is there time enough to

Fill you in

In fact, it might kill you and

Do you in

Screw you in solid

Tight, bud squalid

Pallid, but flush

Distant, but touching and

Reaching and blushing,

Rushing and creaking and

Speaking and crushing

Across a distance and

Strung up by wires

Tiring fireside chats hiding liars

A flat man and woman who,

Lit by their faces,

Run stationary races

Stable places

Horses run, faceless

A shotgun hospital is baseless

Longer distance erases

2nd Journal for 2010: Workouts

I've been hitting the gym lately. Not to get in shape; I think anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I'm already very much "in shape". Working out can be about going from bad to good (which is something I would encourage you all to take part in), but for those of us who are already good it must be said that it is a worthwhile endeavor to perfect a good thing, or even polish a perfect thing.

Thanks to a decision that, a few years ago, made my tuition go from a number so big that I don't remember what it is to a number that I haven't looked at or heard spoken, the institution of higher learning that I attend now includes a membership to the Hannibal YMCA. I didn't ask for it, but I decided that I might as well start using this thing I'm paying some amount of money for. As often as possible, I drive on over to the YMCA (I don't feel as though I know it well enough to start calling it by its nickname, "Y") and shuffle through a locker-room full of wet, naked old men (who seem to spontaneously generate out of such conditions), change into my loose-fitting exercise gear and commence chiseling granite. The tools with which I attempt this feat are humble, but varied. With free weights, levers, pully things, and all kinds of weird looking chairs I task myself with reaching pinnacles of fitness that glorify the creator.

Though I am just now taking full advantage of my membership, I'm no stranger to workout equipment. In high school I took one semester of Weight Training and a semester of Advanced Weight Training. Both courses were taught by a football coach who seemed to be bitter about losing his hair. Honestly, his attitude may have had something to do with the fact that no one showed him any respect, but for my part I can guarantee I would have listened to him more if he had a decent head of hair. These classes taught me a little bit about weight training and a lot about "Jailbreak"; a variation on the Dodgeball convention that allowed for more players and more ways to reenter the game once eliminated. In retrospect, the title "Jailbreak" turned out to be an unfortunately accurate predictor of many futures belonging to those enrolled. Not in that any of the students I'm thinking of ever actually broke out of a prison; they are definitely still locked up.

My experience now is much more sophisticated. As an educated college man only months away from my graduation in December, my approach to "gym-ing" has become a fine-tuned personal science. Using audio, visual, and emotive aids, I've been able to maximize the effectiveness of my exercise time. I've thought about writing an exercise manual for those of you out there who want to look as good as me, but frankly I just don't have the time. What I'll do instead is list some of the techniques that have been treating me so well at the gym. In this way I'll be doing my part in America's healthcare crisis and our country's struggle to reclaim the title of "Most beautiful people" back from Argentina.

Workouts

Twitter-Crunches: 140 crunches, keep count with cell phone in hand by tweeting each crunch

Unemployment lifts: For every job you interview and don't receive, go back to the interviewer's office and lift their desk above your head. Who knows? This may end up getting you the job.

The Native American Guilt-Cycle: (for white people only) Set an exercise bike to its highest difficulty setting and bring mp3 player with headphones. While pedaling, listen to "Song of Crazy Horse" by J.D. Blackfoot. The song is over 20 minutes long and provides a history of the US Government's treatment of Native Americans. This provides ample workout time and you should be fueled by your righteous anger toward paleface and his empty promises.

Harry Potter pull-ups: For every Hogwarts professor you can name from the Harry Potter canon, do one pull-up. This makes sense because the more you know about Harry Potter, the more you probably need to work out.

Keyboard push-ups: Place your computer keyboard on the ground. Putting your hands at home position, begin push-ups. This isn't clever or meaningful, but I just want to see how it effects those with ergonomic arrangements differently.

I promise I'll come up with more, but I really must be going because it's late and I heard that if you don't get enough rest, you'll never bulk up and be more satisfied with your self image so you can go at least one day without spitting at a mirror.

If you have any tips, please share!

1st Journal for 2010

I'm terrible at guessing and I guess I always will be. Every day I guess what the lottery numbers will be and I've never gotten it right. Last time was even worse because, though I guessed that I could afford two lottery tickets and a blue slush-pop, it turns out that the guy who works behind the counter now is Rick Yates; someone who I owe an amount of money that I can't remember.

I tried to participate in an office football pool once. Not only did I lose my five dollars, but one of the guys came up to me and started taunting me, "You can't play if you don't work here!", "How did you get past the alarm system?" I get it man, but don't discriminate against me because of my bad luck. I mean honestly, I'd have better odds at the Kentucky Raffle than the Kentucky Derby, but too bad I don't get a shot at either because the fates caused me to be born in Missouri.

You might think someone like me is pretty bitter about their position in life. I'm not. I know that there have to be losers if there are going to be winners, but I'd like to meet these winners. Who are all these mega-successful guys who are getting all the positive vibes I clearly lack? I mean, I've got some theories as to who they might be. A couple weeks ago, on the subway, I saw this guy picking on his guitar. His fingers were flying and strumming against the strings with seemingly no rhyme or reason and what came out was beautiful music. Now I've done the exact same thing with a guitar in my lap and it doesn't sound like music at all. As soon as I start picking everyone gets real mad at me. How am I supposed to get any better if I can't practice? And how am I supposed to practice if you don't let me use your guitar?

Another recipient of my good luck must be these jokesters I've seen at the bar. These jokesters are always joking around, telling their jokes to women; it's gross. Hey, look at me, I'm so clever because I can lighten the mood with this joke. What they don't know is that they're walking a tightrope with these girls. They're balancing on a razor's edge of comedy that could land them in deep trouble; I should know. They may be ignorant of this fact because they got lucky with their joke. It may have resulted in their getting a girl's number or even taking her home, but it doesn't always work that way. I can't count how many times I've told a joke to a girl who ended up slapping me. But Nick, maybe you should stop using dirty jokes. You're missing the point!! The jokes I'm telling are the exact same jokes I've heard those jokesters tell time and time again. But Nick, maybe you're telling these jokes to the wrong women. Wrong again! When I tell these jokes, I'm often telling them to the same women who laughed so readily at the jokesters. Huh-haw-haw-huh! There seems to be no way to predict when you'll get what reaction because I've tried every day of the week, which by the way, just gets you banned from a bar.

Basically, I just wanted to admit that I'm coming to terms with my bad luck. I used to have hope that if I held out long enough something good would happen, but that hope has been shattered. I don't even bother guessing at the lottery anymore; I've switched to just picking numbers at random. The good news is that I found a great job that pays in cash. I'm usually just delivering packages to people behind buildings and everyone I come into contact with is pretty nice. My boss is hilarious and always poking fun at me. First time I met him, he said, "If you go and tell anyone about what you're doing, I'll kill you." Haha, "Understood, boss!"

Down with the Sickness

Getting sick can be an incredibly trying experience, both mentally and physically. I’ve always been fairly susceptible to falling ill and it tends to happen almost every month. The kind of thing I’m talking about here are stomach viruses, the occasional flu and of course, the malady to which no cure has or will ever be found, the common cold. As a result of this regularity, I’ve been able to study my typical response in an attempt to make it more efficient and advantageous to my health.

Usually things get kicked off with the sore throat. I like to think of this as “the egg period” because I’m waiting to see what eventual indisposition will poke its beak out from my initial sore-throatedness. I also like to call this “the egg period” because, in an effort to somehow rescue my health from falling overboard, I throw it a lifesaver of healthy egg-breakfasts. Unfortunately, by the time I’ve entered the egg period, my health has usually already walked the plank. I haven’t figured out what my health did to get such a sentence, but I’m already mixing metaphors so I think it best not to delve into those waters.

During the egg period I’m usually wracking my brain in a futile attempt to determine the root of my condition. Was it the dirty rail I touched in the train station? The leftovers I ate from under my seat on the train? Maybe it was that hobo I made out with to make my mom laugh. It really is a waste of time pondering these things, especially considering the fact that I always take the bus. It would be nice to know exactly how I’ve received the germs in question, but the answer is as muddled as the clogged-up basin that I always rinse my hands in.

What happens next is what I call “the sluggish period”. No matter what symptoms I begin to experience, my typical frenzied pace is curbed significantly. For instance, instead of flipping through the channels like I usually do, I just go ahead and sit through the commercials. I do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my listlessness keeps me from reaching for the remote at every 60-second break. Secondly, there’s a slim chance a miracle drug may be advertised that speaks directly to my needs. Suffering from sore throat, back ache and mild fever? Yes, I would nod. Then try Xackalax; it’s free, comes with ice cream, and it’s guaranteed to work.

Another reason I call this “the sluggish period” is that, at this point, any discomfort I may be feeling can be easily alleviated through the use of medical marijuana. I prefer a mellow Indica blend smoked through a bowl. Brownies can be nice, but may come back to haunt you if you develop an upset stomach. Interestingly, I’ve found that in the absence of medical marijuana during the sluggish period, normal marijuana works just as good.

At the end of the sluggish period is when things get tricky. The next period is called “the grasshopper period” because grasshoppers are green, just like the trickiest creature on earth, the leprechaun. Here, my affliction can clear up without a problem, or take one of many drastic turns for the worst. Such a turn will almost always lead me to the toilet. And whether I’m perched upon the bowl like Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”, or grasping the bowl with the kind of anguish represented in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”, it’s sure to be a long and painful process like Mick Jackson’s “The Bodyguard”, starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston.

Frankly, if I’m going to be spending time with my round porcelain friend, I’d just as soon be vomiting than anything else. Though, there’s a sort of “ripped-off” feeling I get when pukey-sick. What’s the point of all this torture if I didn’t get to finish off everyone’s rum bottles? Instead of cursing the bitch that drove me to drinking, I’m cursing friend that drove me to the movies (I know they don’t disinfect the seats between screenings). Whatever my business happens to be in the bathroom, my mantra is always the same: out with the bad. I used to spend a lot of this time talking to Jesus, but now his mom refuses to clean the bathroom until after I get better.

From here on out, it’s pretty much wash, rinse, repeat until I’m back to normal. I have a special toothbrush for when I’m sick that I’ll sometimes give to guests as a prank. The final period I simply call, “the cleanup”. This is the period between my recovery and the redeployment of my maid squad. The cleanup usually entails a lot of hose water and incense. Raymond, my pet raccoon who comes in through a hole he chewed in the back door, does a good job of cleaning up a lot of my food mess. When I see him dutifully munching up my litter, I’m especially glad that germs can’t be passed between species, or else he’d be in all kinds of trouble. I think about all of the stuff I could have gotten done if I had remained healthy. I’m sure that a much bigger portion of my model train collection would be properly detailed if I didn’t get sick so often.

Although it tends to be an ordeal, I really don’t mind getting sick. It gives me a chance to reflect on my own health and appreciate those times when I can function as an independent adult in society. It also gives me a great opportunity to guilt my grandma into bringing me a Vanilla Milkshake. “Just leave it by the raccoon hole, grandma. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Halloween Monster Story

As the chef pried open a fresh crate of bananas, he noticed something odd about it. First of all, bananas didn't usually come in crates, so right off he knew something was wrong. Also, a large bat flew out of the crate, carrying a severed head.

The chef proceeded to stack the glowing, green bananas in their usual spot. Immediately, students began flooding the cafeteria to get a taste of the freak fruit.

Surprisingly, everyone loved the bananas. They were the most popular food item at breakfast. By lunch time though, the chef started noticing strange behavior in the students.

"Get me more bananas, Chef Tim!" said a burly, hairy, toothy girl.

"We're all out." Chef Tim replied.

"Look harder!" the girl shouted, in between unpleasant monkey noises.

Chef Tim looked around and noticed some very primitive behavior. Students were jumping up down, hanging from chandeliers, and picking lice off of each other to eat. Anyone who had eaten bananas (which was pretty much everyone) was turning into big, stinky apes. Their features were animal-like. Chef Tim felt like Charlton Heston.

Rushing back into the kitchen, Chef Tim alerted lunch lady Bertha of the emergency. "The kids are all going ape out there! It's a madhouse!"

Lunch lady Bertha turned around. Her teeth were yellow and her lips were covered in drool. Unsightly body and facial hair stuck out all over. She breathed heavily.

"Oh no, it got you too!" said Chef Tim, "You ate the green bananas!"

"What are you talking about?" Bertha grunted, "I hate bananas!"

"Oh..." Chef Tim backed away slowly, "Sorry..."

Back in the cafeteria, plates were being thrown, the floor was covered in soda, and the warm apple crisp had been violated several times over. Chef Tim knew he had to do something.

He went back into the storage where the mysterious crate waited. In it, conveniently sat a small note. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Because he was distracted by that bat.

The note read, "These bananas are evil. Don't feed them to anyone. If you do though, just recite this incantation: BALAWALANAK..."

Suddenly, a monkey child snatched the paper from him and ran back into the cafeteria.

Chef Tim tried to throw his most stale bread at the monkey child to slow it down, but to no avail. The monkeys were too quick for him for now, but he had a plan.

Immediately, Chef Tim started cooking up as many flapjacks as he could. Being a school chef, he had plenty of opium on hand and cooked it right into the flapjacks. When he knew he had enough, he shoveled the flapjacks into a shopping cart that he stole from Walmart and reentered the cafeteria. Like frisbees, he hurled the opium cakes at every devolved student within sight. They eagerly gobbled up the cakes.

Carefully stepping over the now-sleeping monkeys, Chef Tim successfully located the note and pried it from the clutches of the monkey child. Lifting it up, he recited the incantation, "BALAWALANAKTOFALA!"

Like Disney magic, all the hairy, apelike students transformed back into normal, filth-covered human students.

"That was pretty cool, eh Rex?" Tim asked his previously unmentioned talking-dog companion.

Rex answered with his old catch-phrase that has endeared him with countless children, "Yoooouu BETCHA!"