In God We Trust

Grenre: Opinion, Editorial

In Response to “A Nation Guided by Faith” by Garry Wills of The New York Review of Books

America is ruled by religion – Is this an inflammatory statement? Yes. But is it untrue? I believe it is. It is more appropriate to say that highly religious men and women are currently in power in America.

This is debated. It is criticized. It is hated. It is celebrated. But is it new? Is President Bush the first American president of his kind? – A president who has been quoted as saying that God told him to run for office. Perhaps he is. But he certainly is not the first political leader to declare a divine motivation. Religion is at the forefront of many political movements around the world. This is true of the past. This is true of the present. And this is likely to be true of the future.

Garry Wills, of The New York Review of Books, wrote an essay outlining religion in current American policy. In his introduction to this outline he addresses the notion held by the right wing of America: “that the United States government was, at its inception, highly religious, specifically highly Christian, and even more specifically highly biblical.” He concludes, “That was not true of that government or any later government—until 2000, when the fiction of the past became the reality of the present.”

Wills seemingly believes acknowledging this is important because America seems to be unaware that religion is everywhere in our policies. Time has passed since Bush’s first election into office. In that time things have changed a great deal in American politics. Perhaps it is this time –the slow churning of voices and headlines– that curbs our awareness – that the powers that be are, indeed, shaping “A Country Guided by Faith.” But Wills is wrong to declare Bush is responsible for this.

Wills’ title proclaims that our nation is presently piloted by religion. However, his writing merely reveals that half of America is highly religious. What is ignored here is the fact that our governmental structure mimics the very nature of religion. And like most governments, it allows religion to be a shaping force in policy making.

To claim Bush is the sole perpetrator in what Wills calls “the labyrinthine infiltration,” a complex and cunningly orchestrated invasion of religion, is ignorant and over-zealous. The claim gives Bush more credit than he deserves.

The very concept of religion, like government, is a system. It is a system of social coherence. It is based on a common group of beliefs concerning an object, person, or unseen being thought to be supernatural. Within this definition one might also find words like “sacred” “divine” or even “highest truth.” The practice of religion relies upon moral codes, practices, values, traditions, and rituals.

Not all Americans are religious fanatics. Some are not religious. Some are liberal and of the Left in almost all ways. But still, these words cannot be lost to them. They cannot fear them. This is because they too must consider some things sacred. They hold their own beliefs. They practice rituals. They abide by moral codes. This is not shocking. This is the lowest truth. This is largely the human experience.

However, their recognition of these words ends with “supernatural” – with “divine.” President Bush believes in the supernatural. He believes in one greater truth, one set of moral codes, and his rituals include Bible study groups within White House walls. Wills is eager to point out that John Ashcroft's Justice Department performs the same ritual.

Our government and religion serve the same purpose. The only difference is we have been led to believe our government does not and should not involve “the supernatural” or God.

Wills provides a synopsis of the journey this far – the journey that has led us to this supposed theocracy: “Faith-based justice” began shortly after John Ashcroft’s nomination for Secretary of State when he assured his followers he would put an end to the task force set up by Attorney General Janet Reno. The task force was created to stop violence against abortion clinics. Ashcroft strongly denounces abortions. His faith is that these clinics commit injustice against partially formed fetuses. 2001 was also the age of the anthrax epidemic; Wills notes that 554 packets were sent to clinics that year.

Wills has drawn a connection between these two events. His implication is that Ashcroft’s faith is to blame for these chemical attacks. But Ashcroft surely did not send these packets of anthrax himself. Evangelical Christians consider Ashcroft a hero and even urged him to run for president. It is strange that Wills himself notes, “Evangelicals oppose the very idea of hate crimes.” Wills irrationally seems to disprove his own theory that religion played a part in these attacks. He is only successful at highlighting that Ashcroft and his followers are religious.

Wills claims “Faith-based social services” began when Bush so liberally provided federal aid to church groups that perform social services— his faith declared social services, no matter their actors, provide for the betterment of our nation. Subsequently, abstinence-only forms of sex education were provided for any young person seeking the benefits of this social service.

These sex-ed classes were not empty. The fact that they were even provided shows that a portion of America desired their children to be educated in this manner. Again, Wills suggestion that these services are wrong shows only he is somehow surprised that America is religious.

I received my sexual education several years ago in a public high school. We put condoms on bananas. I laughed when the instructor informed me, “condoms sure don’t protect you from a broken heart.”

However, in light of the facts provided by Wills’ essay, I see America has shown a demand for a different form of education, one that mirrors the moral codes practiced by Christians. Like other liberals, there are times I am confounded by this. How does our system government allow for a slow turn towards a faith-based administration?

Wills evaluates past administrations. He claims early on that there were none so zealous in their Christian foundation as the Bush regime. James Garfield, Lyndon Johnson, and Ronald Reagan all belonged to Disciples of Christ. This Christian church is a denomination of Christian Protestantism that grew out of the Restoration Movement. Today there are about 800,000 members in the United States.

Reagan was not overt in showing his religious zeal. He was smarter than this. As governor in 1970, Reagan signed into law California's liberal abortion rights legislation, before Roe v Wade was decided. However, he later took a strong stand against abortion. He published the book Abortion and the Conscience of a Nation, which decried what Reagan saw as disrespect for life, promoted by the practice of abortion.

Bush, an Evangelical Christian, precedes Jimmy Carter: the first openly born-again Christian in presidency. In the last election, 40 percent of the votes for George W. Bush came from the ranks of Evangelical Christians.

It is clear. Whether Wills likes it or not, a popular majority of Americans desired this religious “infiltration.”

It may be true that this administration is extreme. It may also be true that there are more figures in government that come from religious backgrounds than there has been in the past. Condoleezza Rice’s father is a minister. Chief of staff Andrew Card is married to a minister.

In the United States we are unaccustomed to the meeting of church and state. This is why Wills and liberal Americans are concerned to see these religious individuals in office. To see religion and state so cleverly blending frustrates us. For many it is sickening.

But it is important to consider that for others it is a relief. Wills fails to do this. Those that are relieved know something. They know moral codes, practices, values, traditions, and rituals. They know a system of social coherence – that is the nature of religion. As aforementioned, it is also the nature of government. Wills fails to acknowledge this relation. His evaluation of the immediate past is cogent. He does not go beyond this.

Wills essay elicits the forever question regarding the separation between church and state. His premise is to show the wavering division under the Bush administration. But we must go back. We must go bigger. We must see all.

Ironically, Jesus Christ has sometimes been credited with the invention of the separation of church and state when he advised his followers, "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s." (Mathew 22:21)

In many ancient cultures, there was just one political ruler. This ruler was also the highest religious leader and sometimes considered divine. Under republican governments, religious officials were appointed just like political ones.

Ancient Israel offers the first example of an attempt at true separation. The civilization was different in as much as the King and the priesthood were separate. One man occupied each role. There was limit to their respective spheres of authority and responsibility. And even then, interferences did happen. Under foreign supremacy, the high priest also held the highest civil authority in an autonomous theocracy.

Theocracy describes this state that Wills seems to fear – A state in which religious leaders and leaders in general society or government are identical. In a theocracy they form a strongly interlocked group. A number of states in the ancient world could be so described. Recently few exist, but those that do are known to be The Vatican, Tibet under the Dalai Lama and Iran in certain periods.

At present Pakistan could be called as a theocratic state, as Islam is the state religion. Bangladesh, after its separation from Pakistan has established a secular state but after some period of time it also declared Islam the state religion.

The countries outside of this realm are not free from religion. There may be separation. There is not always freedom. Each individual keeps morals. Each will practice rituals – some religious, some not. There is overlap where morals, traditions, and practices will clash with, but also coincide with governmental law. Gay marriage has been forbidden in America long before the Bush Administration. But still we rely on government and we are convinced of the need of social coherence. Religion is the original method in reaching this. Government is our attempt at social coherence outside of religion.

The United States thinks itself exempt from theocracy. We have the Constitution. We hold it high and declare ourselves immune. It is not allowed, this battle between the two – between religion and state. It is what prompts Wills to write his essay.

How does this paper, this constitution, possess the power to fight what is real? Not religion, but those following it. We follow the constitution as though it is our bible. It is what we rely on to enforce social consistency.

In the last section of Wills outline he aims to prove we are fighting in a “faith-based war.” Wills highlights the faithful speech delivered by deputy undersecretary for defense intelligence, General William (Jerry) Boykin. Boykin is thought to be a primary intelligence that will eventually lead to the capture of Osama bin Laden.

The lecture was given in churches. Boykin stood proud. He did not wear his formal military attire. He wore Army fatigues and declared Bush is “in the White House because God put him there for such a time as this. God put him there to lead not only this nation but to lead the world, in such a time as this.”

Boykin later continued to spew quotations that equated the war in Iraq to a war of good versus evil. He also went as far as to say that the enemy is not Osama bin Laden, but rather “Satan” himself. Ultimately, Boykin's statements were protected by the constitution under freedom of speech.

Perhaps it is not true that the founding fathers of our country were overt in their religious beliefs. They did however provide protection to those who are.

The controversy that followed Boykin’s speech may be credited for inspiring Wills essay. In his conclusion he writes: “There is a particular danger with a war that God commands. What if God should lose?”

Wills’ fear is that Evangelicals think this is impossible and that we will continue to fight a faith-based war no matter the loss. But I would like to remind Mr. Wills that our own nation circulates a dollar bill that reads “In God We Trust.” This is the national motto of the United States of America. This is not the currency of Evangelicals alone.

This has been the motto of the United States since it was so designated by an act of Congress in 1956. This motto officially supersedes "E Pluribus Unum" (Out of Many, One) according to United States Code, Title 36, Section 302. President Eisenhower made it our official motto when he signed the resolution into law on July 30th, 1956.

The only instance in which the motto has been disputed occurred when President Theodore Roosevelt argued against the motto on coinage. This was not because of his lack of faith in God. This was because he thought it sacrilegious to put the name of God on something so common as money.

The Bush Administration did not bring about the presence of religion in American policy. It is merely the first administration with a president that so actively reveals his religious devotion. Even in the instances revealed by Garry Wills, religion or faith is not what guides our country – but the religious individuals that are. This is not shocking. This is the truth. And they are speaking to the audience in America that has been and will continue to be religious.

A Mother to Demeter

Genre: Poetry


(Preface: Wrecked by dispair and taking the form of an womanly crone, Demeter sits down to rest near the Parthenion well, where she is approached by the mortal Queen Metaneira. The Queen treats the disguised goddess sympathetically and invites her to come to the Palace, where she needs a nanny for her young son. Offered hospitality, Demeter refuses wine, but accepts a drink called kykeion. Queen Meaneira pities the `woman' and gives her employment. Demeter anoints the Queen's boy child, Demophon, every evening with ambrosia, and puts the baby in the fire of the hearth to burn away its mortality. But one evening Metaneira spies on Demeter and interrupts the rite. Demeter drops the child in surprise, resumes her divine form, and rebukes Metaneira for interfering with divine secrets which would have made the baby immortal.)


Nowheres is as no one knows,
And we found her – D’meter, my Old Man and me.
Sad, yes. And wandering factory streets
Hopin’ to run into
What she once ran into and knew,
Surer than anything, ev’n the Bible:

She lost her, her little girl, we think to a bad man – a red cloak.
She spoke with frothy words – her tongue punching.
(musta been crack or smack, or somethin’).

We took her in, still
(we had the bread to spare).

And I turn to my child,
I says’
Wounds to the body are for the body to fix.
Skin must cover and bury,
In time, in private,
Where knives once went deeper
Than flesh was thick.

It’s a killing thought,
More th’n anythin’
(more th’n nowheres)
Oh, it pounds me.

And th’n I catch ‘er.
How dare she?

“Take my child out
of the fire,
You bitch!

You, pure gold whore!”

I’ve a fighting spirit.
My child is not no stone.

And she looks back up at me,
Tells me she’s doin’ me a favor,
Turnin’ him gold.

But I’ve a fighting spirit.
And my child is not no stone.

A Call For an Apology

Genre: Personal Essay, Opinion, Editorial

Painting by Andrew Graham

As a teenager I traveled through France with a group of students in the months following 9/11. As we traveled we learned the dangers of being American. Whether it was as small as the jeering of schoolboys on the street or distain from a waitress in a café – we did not feel welcomed as Americans. It did not occur to us to explore the question of why. We did not evaluate ourselves. We did not evaluate our country. We were young, but we knew. We decided from then on to declare ourselves Canadian as we interacted with strangers along the way. In the time after we were welcomed and could quickly forget the hesitance with which we were first greeted. As I look back, I regret the compliant nature of our actions. It was too easy to escape the hostility merely by disassociating ourselves with our country.

I am a still a young person. There are many places I have yet to see. And while there is much I wish to see of this earth, I am reluctant. Essentially, this is because it is uncomfortable for me to know I am hated for being American. It can even be scary, but more than anything – it is because I do not feel very American and therefore do not feel I deserve it. This is a dangerous sentiment – perhaps more so than the Anti-American sentiments I experienced abroad.

Still today, it is easy for me to excuse myself from being part of the America I so quickly abandoned as a teenager in France. Sadly, this notion of not belonging to America is only strengthened in light of current politics. With my age I see myself taking on new identities. When I became of age to take on the role of a voter – my only reward was to exit the voting booth to find that my country does not favor many parts of my identity – and with this my distance grows. Because I did not feel particularly American before the election, I was unaffected when the outcome favored the Republican Party. At the time it was easier to disassociate myself with this current America than to face its negative policies head on.
I stand and witness the great many atrocities this distant America creates. And still, from the Left, I shake my head and return to my separate life. I do not agree with these actions and therefore do not take ownership of them. Consequently, I do not feel the threats of terrorism on America to be threats to me, but to a larger being that refuses to apologize for its errors. And with lack of apology, this America continues to invade, attack, torture, and claim to be greater than. I am young, but I know this is not my America. I am young, but I am separate.

While the events of recent years have been a source of my distance, they are still the source of a great despair. This despair is only amplified when I realize that my own distance and that of many others has led to further atrocities. Like myself, America is young. Acknowledgement of our brief history as a nation and evaluation of the killing caused by our actions has made our immaturity obvious – to all but ourselves.

Because of these great successes so early on in our history, a great American egotism has developed within our infrastructure. This ego has grown from our young country’s many great successes. Our accomplishments in mere formation, in liberation, and in economic independence are immense. They should not go without recognition. However, only those within our iron core, also the core of our ego, own these successes. The rest, many individuals feeling separate from their egotistical core, do not claim these larger victories. I, still seeing myself as separate, do not claim pride or pleasure in remembering the short, studded history of America. Instead I evaluate our many errors. My despair and my distance grow. I am young, but I am aware and concerned for this widespread distance from our core. In evaluating and understanding my developmental process as a born member of my country to one that has matured and distanced myself from my geographical origins and the subsequent history therein – will possibly shed light on my country’s major errors.
Because we, as a country, are young, we are highly malleable. We are influenced not only by our own interior developers, but also by our adversaries. After the events of September 11th, terrorism has become normalized within our political and social sphere. We have accepted it because of its frequency and normalized its severe nature. So far has this normalization stretched that the term itself has become overused. Because of September 11th and the severe and public nature of the attacks on American society, terrorism has become synonymous with Anti-American sentiments. Terrorism is ironically unsuccessful in eliciting terror from me. Again, this is because I have grown to feel separate from my administrators. However, because there are so many unmoved by these distant attacks, those committing them are moved to increase their fatality. It is the only method they have left to gain my attention.

Therein a scale has formed. Each attack against America is measured in comparison to those before. Lesser attacks are ineffective. Greater attacks go to the top of the scale and from there the bar is raised. 9/11 has the unfortunate characteristic of the attack that has gained the most attention – even from those distanced American’s like myself. Currently, the bar is held very high. America’s response to this attack has not lowered this bar in the least. Rather, we have responded with actions that have only spilled more blood and taken the lives of civilians in other countries. Effectively we have accepted the terms of war today and pronounced to our adversaries that these are terms we are willing to fight by. Lowering this bar is nearly impossible. Because America is part of the violence and will continue to be, all sentiments thought to be Anti-American will also be considered linked to terrorism.

The danger in this lays in the vastness of this Anti-American sentiment. It is dangerous and self-detrimental to be threatened by every criticism. My experience in youth was merely to deny acknowledgement of the criticism and adapt a safer identity. Independently, I could do this as I traveled. But the hostilities I encountered were merely by association with my country and my ability to separate myself from my country was easy. America cannot separate itself from its actions. It is impossible now for America to deny our errors. They are on display in the harshest lights of the world stage. As we continue this political dance, we fumble, we blunder and step to on the toes of our partners – our ego is what keeps us dancing. If we stop now we will be deafened by the silence – there will be no applause. Our once innovative steps will be forgotten. Instead we impose upon others our tired routine. We are unable to recognize anything outside of it.

Having established America is young – our formation should not be so distant that we are unable to learn from it. Our formation came from a desire to escape the imposition of British rule. Why now have we imposed upon others what we strove to escape from? Furthermore, why are counter insurgencies considered extreme? Our participation in the Revolutionary War stands as an example of how hard we will fight for our definition of freedom. But it is just that, our definition. Others define freedom differently. Imposing upon them our own definition is to now reverse our role to that of tyrants. We ignore this notion, this hypocritical action – because if acknowledged there will be guilt. Our ego will be bruised. It is confusing to be young. Your mistakes are often placed visibly before you. Your enthusiasm and your unwavering sense of entitlement sometimes do not let you see them. And when you do, there is embarrassment, there is guilt, but there is a moment waiting to be filled by an apology.

I learned in my youth the savior of an apology. In its essence, an apology is merely acknowledgement of one’s errors. An apology is acknowledging you accept your actions as wrong in full. It does not offer defense. In youth I often tried to defend my mistakes. I did not realize that my youth came with an inability to articulate. This inability is inherent to youth as it stems from a mere lack of experience. There is only room to apologize. I am young and I must apologize.

I apologize for separating myself from my country. I apologize for being blind to the freedoms offered to me, which let me do so. I apologize for not taking ownership of the actions my country has taken against terrorism. My indifference to terrorism has allowed them to engage in this exchange of violence. I apologize for only being interested in the news when the killing reaches a new climax. I apologize for being unmoved by all other deaths.

Things He Did

Genre: Fiction

Wearing only a moist white towel, Tobin More ran his fingers down his side, felt the cold ripples of bone beneath skin, breathed deeply, and turned to the side. In his mirror he thought he looked thin, not too thin, but maybe what one would call a naturally thin twenty-something. But he didn’t consider himself this. If he were a naturally thin twenty-something, he wouldn’t be worried about how thin he was. That’s not what naturally thin people do, twenty-anything – they eat hotdogs without shame, they order french-fries just because they’re craving some. Tobin More didn’t do any of those things. Tobin More stood in his mirror and hated those naturally thin people he so longed to be.

After he finished his pinching, his sucking-in, Tobin sat on the bed located in the kitchen of his no-room apartment, pulled on the narrow, piped legs of his dark denim pants, pointed his toes, pulled on his socks as to complete the transaction, and stood starring at a rack of shirts. He had decided long ago to always wear the same pair of jeans as to make dressing only half the effort, but his rack of shirts had only grown since then. Because buying jeans was out, he seemed to pick up new but used shirts at a rate of three a week. He chose a standard plaid, the one he always chose when the others didn’t seem to work, buttoned it to the last button from the top and kicked at the sneakers beneath his bed.

With his laces tied he felt accomplished. Fully dressed, he looked to the coat rack, realizing he was only halfway prepared for the blistering cold of New York in late December and tried to pick a jacket naturally, as though he wasn’t really thinking. He put on a gray nylon jacket, shoved his arms in and zipped it to just below where his shirt was buttoned. He reached for a vest. The brown one, the one with three carefully placed pins on the left breast, and put it over his jacket. Then he returned to his spotlight before the mirror and examined himself once again. He tilted his head, sucked in his cheeks, and thought ‘is this was naturally thin people look like when they bundle up?’ He certainly didn’t feel naturally thin at all, sighed, and chose a scarf and gloves. As he gathered his staples – his wallet, his Ipod, the small satchel which carried whatever book he was currently reading, his cigarettes, a lighter from the kitchen counter, and a handful of change from the bowl on the kitchen table – he ignored the torrid suction from the mirror behind him. It was calling for him, one last glance. No, he was late and had to be at work in 45 minutes. The L train could easily take an hour to cart it’s plain-faced passengers beneath the east river and shuffle them off to their respective jobs in Manhattan.

In his last seconds before reentering the world for yet another wind-blustered day he remembered his cell phone, only prompted by the list he once taped on the inside of his apartment door reading ‘cell phone, keys, wallet.’ He took the keys from the hook beside the door looked back as if too say goodbye to the space, stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

On the train, Tobin opened his satchel, took out his book (a beat memoir) and glanced upward to see who was watching. An older Arab man with thick eyebrows looked as though he was nodding angrily and repetitively at Tobin, but seeing the wires that trickled sneakily from the man’s ears, he realized the man was wearing headphones. Tobin looked down at his book and read for the remainder of his ride from Morgan Avenue to 6th Avenue in Manhattan. As he got off the train, kneading through the eager crowd of those wishing to board, he looked in the direction of the stairs. It was his custom to inspect each staircase as he approached and always find the least crowded of them. The idea of having another’s face so close to his own ass was unnerving to him.

Today it was the very last of the staircases that was most void, but only because by the time he reached it, the platform was nearly empty. He jaunted up the stairs, turned the corner, up the second flight and onto the street. He stood outside of Urban Outfitters, lit a cigarette and stood in the harsh light of 11am and scowled. He wasn’t sure if he should be smoking, but did anyway. Sometimes smoking before work didn’t go over nearly as well as he hoped. Sometimes it went over fabulously, other times, one time – he lost 300 dollars because of it.

As he took a pull from his cigarette, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He slipped it out of his tight jeans, shifted his bag from his hip, transferred his cigarette to his other hand and cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said, with some sort of emphasis on the Oh, almost like it was a question.

“Meet me on the corner of 6th Avenue and 13th,” the voice said, “I’ll be there in 5 minutes.”

He hung up, held his phone in his hand, had a slight flash of something between eagerness and fear, took another pull from the cigarette and stayed put. Tobin regretted his cigarette, thought about buying gum, put his phone back in his pocket and crossed his arms, as to imply casual thought to those that passed. He always needed this five minutes, ten would have been better, but five was usually just enough.

After about seven minutes, he walked halfway down the block, stood beneath some scaffolding and looked over at the corner of 13th. ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I made him wait.’ Like always, he thought about turning around, swallowed at his nicotine-wet throat, and stepped off the curb.

“Hi,” he said, keeping close eye contact and stepping forward. His voice took on the sound it always did for work and the two of them started to walk.

“I live just round the corner,” the man said. He was older, near sixty, or maybe an very worn fifty, and pointed north, the direction Tobin had come from. “The doorman, he knows my wife, so I might talk nonsense when we go in, so he’ll think you’re a student.” The man’s voice was something like that of a British academic, but didn’t sound completely authentic.

Tobin nodded and walked beside him. The man looked at him with an inauthentic smile, as though he wasn’t feeling awkward and asked him to “maybe remove the scarf, a little less flamboyant, just because of the doorman.” Tobin wasn’t offended, only amused that said scarf was so carefully chosen. He removed it as they approached the building and absently shoved it into his satchel.

They passed the doorman, who barely looked up, turned the corner and the man said “the building is full of cameras, otherwise…” ‘Otherwise what?’ Tobin thought. ‘You’d kiss me?’ Again, he was amused and played his smile as though he was coy. They entered the empty elevator, the button was pushed, they stood in silence, and the door opened at the 7th floor.

“Very nice,” he said as he entered the very nice apartment. It was nice, but recognizing it with speech was only something he would say while working. Tobin was generally unimpressed by wealth and rarely validated it for anyone. But he found men who do ‘this sort of thing’ like to feel as though Tobin is silly and young and lived in a cardboard box by the river.

Nearly three words were spoken, the man pointed at the table where 500 in twenties laid, carefully stacked. Then a tongue was in his mouth, tasting faintly of cigar, his pants where being urged at with awkward hands, and firm stubble was abrading his smooth face.

First shoes, then shirts, then pants. He didn’t have to do much, the man was eager but took his time as though an hour was eternity. The man was hairy, with a firm gut, black briefs, and gray argile socks. He led Tobin to the bedroom, removed all the bedding and jumped on the mattress as though he were suddenly twenty-one. He reached for a condom, pulled down his small underwear revealing an average-sized penis and began pulling at it while struggling with the condom with one hand and his teeth.

Tobin put one knee on the mattress and stood, almost looking bored, over the scene. When the condom was out and on the slightly limp dick, Tobin said “Hmm?”

“I want you to ride me like a little pussy bitch,” the man said. “Get over here and get on my cock.” The man’s voice was so obviously unfamiliar with such a direct pattern of speech that Tobin nearly felt embarrassed for him. Nonetheless, he shuffled over the man on his knees, straddled his hairy torso and lowered himself over the penis, which was growing slightly harder in actuality, but more pathetic in Tobin’s mind.

The man entered, made a sounded as though he were relieving himself, and began clenching his buttocks and thrusting upward into Tobin’s unenthused ass. Tobin looked upward, where no one would see his boredom, put his hands on the sweater of chest hair, and began to make sounds. First as though it hurt, then as though he were growing accustom to the pain, then as though it were the most amazing pencil poking into a very excited donut-hole. He couldn’t have been anymore unaroused, but his erection grew almost out of ritual. He put one hand on the back of his neck and thought that it would be nice to be able to perspire out of ritual. In actuality, he wasn’t remotely warm, but acted as though there were a roaring fire beside the bed and a bearskin rug beneath it.

“I want to make you come,” Tobin said when he was sure 45 minutes had passed.

“I need to take the condom off,” the man responded. “Then you can suck it.” Tobin hated sucking and so lifted himself from the hairy torso, removed the condom, and began pulling at the cock with his face resting on the mans stomach. He suspected it wouldn’t take long, and he was right. Within 2 or 3 minutes, before it was demanded he suck, the cock spewed forth a meager three urged lumps of pale cum and the man was quivering and shaking, his torso exhaling short excited huffs.

To add sincerity Tobin planted a limp kiss o n the man’s ribs, lifted himself from the bed, found his clothes, and prepared for the cold.

On the street he counted the twenties, something he really should have done inside, and lit a cigarette. He walked towards the subway, exhaled longer than he usually did, stamped out the barely smoked butt, and trundled down the steps. He was home only an hour and a half after he left. He removed his clothes, took a shower, found his place on the couch, and clipped his toenails. When he was done he stood and looked in the mirror. He hadn’t eaten at all, since yesterday. He thought he was getting closer to naturally thin.

Which One

Genre: Poetry

My fists -

I lost it somehow,
that paragraph of me.
so carefully (kept it in my closed fists, collapsed and clenched)
lost now, so I keep my hands as fists,
as not to lose again. I sleep
‘til five on the first real day of Spring.

On dirty sheets, my elbows my knees.
My heart, ka-thunk-ka-thunking,
and more importantly, my fists are still tight
like a pair of fat and smug pigeons on a windowsill
of one man’s apartment.

And now, my fists (their pecking thumbs)
are asleep.
ignoring the phone buzz.
rolling over,
letting their fingers fall just barely to
knead the pillow like they would
if they wished someone was there. Like
they would
if they were allowed.
to be mere hands – to touch
old clichés – cups of tea, typewriters.

He comes inside and smokes a joint
(the man) whose eyes are the same
colour as mine. The
man, whose hands are hands, not fists
like mine.

My fists, letting him stay to make nest
on the couch, are tired with their clenching.
Muscles and bones – blood and skin.

He, running dry (like wells do), calls me fat.
(my knuckles, my nails) ‘so lazy, so lazy, always self-loathing.’
force me to fly. I dare. tell me to fly. How dare?

I try, but fists are fists – not hands and cannot mimic wings (not
so long as they are fists)
I cry, I squawk. And like animals that grow too tame,
I forget how to provide myself (a pigeon needs and eats).

Now my fists are the hideous ones at the edge of the flock,
with gaps in their feathers – with eyes like beets.

Lament To An Island

Genre: Poetry
And so I climb, at your most southern point, to see your shape.
I stand and take you in – clapboard cupboards stacked high and higher.
And I atop: see your streets are black as boots, ganite heavy heels deeply rooted.

You wake me, Manhattan – you prod at my lids, ask me to listen
to hear you buzz and buzz, pound a flooded drum.
But I will try now –
to be unconvinced by you.

Why, Island, have you allowed just a few narrow
Bridges and tunnels through which to escape?
Is it because they pin you here? – afraid to exit, scared to miss what happens everyday?

Depressed, you are, and growing ever obese,
Expanding in all directions your men know how to build,
You coat yourself thick in tar and slate,
Inviting a tourist to stand and stare at your piles, the messes that you make,
What’s in illumination? Who is proud to never sleep? –


Why have you convinced so many, myself: ever guilty,
That we need you to create, to move, to twitch, to shake.
we pay and pray for you, we protect your very manhood.

And still,

you’ve given yourself away, so easily – a room with a view.
A room with a view.

How is it? That you have yet to sink.
Why have you resisted?
To passed down these filthy rivers
And try, try, try – to launch, to send yourself to sea,
Where only weeds will float and gulls will hover,
Picking at a trail of your refuse –

A Pepsi can, a magazine stand, and me –
a fat and smug pigeon – sending smoke signals
sneering still.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Portrait By Greg Evans

It's always essentially uncomfortable to be photographed. The panes of perspective are layered thick - what I look like to him as he puts my blue chair against the only empty white wall in my studio - how I'll look sitting in it. How I sit in the chair, what I am thinking about as he awkwardly adjust the lighting, focuses his lense, looking at me as I look at him and try to understand what I might look like; Nervousness is a complicated build of thoughts.

I had a house guest and his clothes were piled up against the wall where I sat. They were burning in my periphial vision, just left of the lense upon which my eyes were fixed. I could feel them beside me, interupting the stillness of the chair and me on it. I thought for a second that they might not be in the shot - one can never know how closely and on what the lens is focused. 'Maybe it's just on my left eye. I could feel my eye twitch. Or was that the shutter of the lense? And it was over.

lines

Genre: Visual Poetry

/_-|\\|/__
\|_--//\||
_-_=////

less than, greater than, ups, and vees.

<^>vV>^<
>V^v>>V^
^<<^v^><>

18 ohs.

Oo0Oo0
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Drawing Rooms

Genre: Lyric Essay

Feng Shui,
the art of placement and balance,
the art of 'put the chair right here,'
is nothing without Qi-
a word difficult to translate,
but meaning literally:
'steam over uncooked rice.'

But more than this, because translations are difficult
and require more than this, Qi is the natural order,
Qi is how things should be. and Feng Shui is when
humans try to find it. Try to find where this Ikea chair naturally belongs.

Feng Shui relies on Qi.
Feng Shui assesses the quality of the local environment,
it looks at the map and makes notes of the effects of space and weather -
that is to say, Feng Shui is qimancy, or qi divination

I know this now, after the night I absent-mindedly thought
to myself, standing alone in my bedroom, 'I miss R.'
I thought this, but I could not remember his face, could not see his body.

And so I tried to find his Qi. Tried to find his natural order:
I had rearranged the furniture since he left.
The night that he left the furiture was different.

I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember the map
of how things were.
It felt as though I had lost my map of him,

R.

I, trying at best, I told myself that he was an area
(a country? a province?) that if I had been–
if I had visited as many times as I mentioned his name
I could remember.

I needed reminders,
because everyone needs reminders, R. held that policy.
And suddenly I could remember the stickit notes,
the reminders that were on the wall above the desk.

I found some and put them there, where he once had put them.
But still, I could not remember. I felt I lost my map of him,

R.

I tried and tried – spoke soft, trying to hear his voice in my own.
I even stroked my own arm, trying to feel his touch in my own.
And when rubbed my stubble against my own shoulder,

I could feel the sand, and suddenly I saw the beaches where R. was raised.

But it only drew so much from me and I could feel nothing when I touched my hair,
So I pulled at my scalp, used my own hands to pull, gritted my fists,
tufts of hair strangled to
red-cheeked exhaustion.

Because there was pain too. And with that thought I remembered his fist.
But my mere touching wasn’t enough, to see the rest of him I needed to see
the room as he had left it, and so


At five in the morning, when my mind was long departed, 12 hours of ‘icantremember,’
I decided on a diagram, to make a map of him,

R.

The room as he had left it - the bed – it went high in the corner of my loft, a cliff from which he had once pushed me.
The room as he had left it - the table – by the door, the mountain on which I landed.

The map as he had left it - the paintings on the wall were dropped and leaned
against the walls which needed stains – I used coffee grounds and ketchup packets.

The chair, naturally, on its side.

And when I was done I remembered:

He was much more like a room where fights or floods had swept.
Ebbed up carrying all the dust and lampshades and descended down leaving
domestic life where only floods and fights could, their natural order:

on the floor, like me – more like a room than I had remembered.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Prose Poem

'old bones croswell is an alterego of mine. he fits surprisingly well into nearly all social settings and is unpredictable in his making of appearances. sometimes he stumbles into conversations being had on rooftops and interjects his theories regarding the relative predictability of the cosmos whilst smoking a pipe and shifting his gaze - never making eye contact. an aging academic trying desperately to drink with a straw from the minds of his young replacements. other times he kicks at dead leaves and dog shit at the curb, cursing and deliciously drunk at 11 in the morning. no one pays him much attention at this hour, more than anything out of respect and public politeness - he's off his game and interacting with nature, something he'd openly declare as a trait of the soft. but sometimes, most times, he looks at his situation from above and wonders how the fuck this 21 year old he's always chasing around is going to get himself out of this mess or that, what will make him crack - and how he'll score on the charts of those he desperately needs. standing over beds with twisted sheets, eavesdropping on poorly constructed arguments, snickering at clumsy romance. he isn't a protector, no. he's a critic with no publication - a president without a following - launching missals and cooking the books because he knows no one is paying attention.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Prose Poem, Experimental

dear luka,

i started this letter saying how very busy i am. the thing is, i've never bought that excuse, so i won't use it here. there's always time for things that matter and you, my friend, well most of you, matter.

so here's the deal:

i lost my phone and i don't have anyone's cellphone number anymore. that's why i'm not calling.

i'm not going out anymore. so that's why you won't see me out this weekend.

i'm not drinking anymore. so i can't get a drink with you.

i'm not doing drugs anymore. so i can't do drugs with you.

i'm saving money to get myself out of the city for a while. so i can't go shopping, or do lunch (unless you make it - from scratch).

but i am doing things like, say, going to the park. so i can do things like that with you. so if any of this makes sense to you, and you still feel like we might things in common, then give me a call - but state your name, because it's been really awkward for me - you know, playing the "heeey.... what's up?... uh" game when everyone that calls has a 917, 212, or 315 area code.

-moore

homo-gothic white-trash meets heroin-chic westchester J.A.P.

Genre: Photography, Self Portrait



Caption: hate to love me, or you know, vica versa.

The Things I Learn From Ted

Genre: Cultural Commentary, Humor

I learn many things from Ted. For instance, he once taught me that it's ok to snap your fingers and move your head back and forth when speaking to anyone inferior at the work place, especially when they're older and/or fatter than you. Furthermore, his lexicon is one that has required some amount of research, but has ultimately helped me understand the precocious world of 14 year old domination in which I live. Below are just a few examples:

T a k e a m i n u t e authentic neo-afro-queen diva expression used to communicate an alternate way of dealing with any problematic situation; usually complemented by dirty weave.

W h o K n e w ? An aside said to the audience while showing something crafty on TV, like making a wedding dress completely out of dryer lint, or polishing your silver with peanut butter.

H o w f u n ! A young-at-heart mother or valley girl slash Laguna Beach-type viewing pictures from prom, vacations or houseparties. Can also be used by a talk show host listening to their guest's anectdote about the shenanigans while on the of the set of their new movie.

L a t a z ! (Lay-Tahz) a farewell said with lollipop in mouth and wheelie backpack in tow. Hot pants are a plus. carrying a small dog, like a chihuahua, a must.

L o v e t h a t ! TV fashion guru eunuch-homofag commenting on the a-line skirt and sassy kitten-heeled mule that turned one woman's look from drab to fab!

W o r k i t o u t ! An encouraging statement that has its origins in Black America, but thoroughly adopted by eunuch-homofag minority. Its at home on the runway or in the dance studio, as well as any conversation where the word "fierce" is an appropriate adjective to describe one's actions.

A t o u c h o f w h i m s y: a must have for any home-decorating show, best used when speaking about a faux-finish or the decorative wallpaper border you cleverly used as a chairrail.

S o d e a l w i t h i t ! : Sam goody keychain that is attached to your LL bean or Jansport backpack that explains your thirteen-year-old percocious outlook on life.

B - T - d u b s : A variation on btw or by-the-way its an updated internet lingo classic, for those in college who still use ttyl irl and need to give it an air of sarcasm.

D u n z o ! used when refering to a major breakup, usually in the lives of Hollywood "it" couples.

Dating Four People At Once

Genre: Lyric Essay, Memoir

Dating four people at once is a bad idea,' I thought this morning as my eyes dripped tears into a toilet full of stomach-acid.

this brings up two points:

point one: i'm a little sad. well, to be honest, probably more than a little, but i can't really tell because i have food poisoning and i've been feeling about 7inches away from death for almost 12 hours now and as i heave and holler into the toilet, i realize that there's not anyone rubbing my back. my roommate bought me ginger-ale and crackers, but she used my money to get it, and it sort of nullified the gesture. then i think 'well, at least some people called to say they hope i'm feeling better.'

and then i assess the list of callers:

my dad, my brother, my mom (none of those really count because they sort of have to call, and two out of the three only called because one of them made the other two)

my two best lesbian friends (but that only really counts as one because they're dating and it was only one message. and although they cutely tried to go back and forth, each speaking one word at a time, in the end it sounded something like a learning-disabled lesbian robot)

and lastly: oh wait. no one.

point two: i remember once talking to a friend about how they were dating four people and how great it was. and somehow, through the vomit, i think to myself: how? how could that be great? even when i'm not dating anyone, that's horrible. when i date one person, that's horrible. the disappointment, the putting oneself on the line, the waiting around, the making plans, the blah blah blah. and i'm not sure how, but these two things connect: food poisoning, dating. draw your own paralels.

today: was the entire month of febuary.

Genre: Lyric Essay, List

today:

found an orange lighter on the sidewalk.
gave three cigarettes to the homeless man who lives in my stairwell.
sat cross-legged in the art section of barnes and noble and looked at a dirt bike magazine.
told a woman her dog was cute, even though it wasn't really that cute.
ate the crumbs from the pink valentines cake annie and i ate the night before.
emailed my mom and wrote 'you're reading this because i'm bored and it's febuary' in the subject line.
got asked on a date by a stranger or got asked to go to dinner with someone i don't know, but the first sounds better.
lied to my dad about being busy and productive.
smelled all the socks in my room to see which ones have another day left in them.
decided to get my boots fixed.
decided against getting my boots fixed because it was 55 dollars.
decided i really like the boots and it'd be worth it.
called movie phone to see if they changed the voice since the seinfeld episode.

when i first knew i was a feminist. by bowen

Genre: Lyric Essay

"i like frogs, and i'm a girl... i just don't like bugs, but not because i'm a girl" said cindy with a shrug of the shoulders.
"cool, cindy. right on," i said. "you're the most advanced girl in the 5th grade, even mora tuglowski thinks so, and she's supposed to be in 6th grade."

cindy smiled and put her ponytail in her mouth. we sat on the swings and looked around at all the rocks being thrown.

"hey, cindy."
"hey greg" she replied as greg weintraub approached our swinging legs. greg's shoes were untied in a way that read as 'i'm a rebel, i don't care.'
"so cindy, mike keibler said that you had a crush on me."
"i didn't say that! i just said i liked the stuff you draw on your desk. i like pokemon."
"girls don't like pokemon! you totally are, like, in love with me."
"No, i'm not."
"shut up, are too!"

"greg, cindy just appreciated your artistic renderings, it doesn't mean she wants to go steady," i said, backing up my friend. i knew cindy and cindy wasn't interested in greg weintraub. cindy was interested in biology and painting, she wanted to change the world, not chase after the shoelaces of some stupid boy.

"whatever. wanna go steady" he said, kicking at the dirt.
"yeah." cindy said with a hop from her swing.
"cool. do you like bugs? i've got a collection." he said showing her a keychain - a preserved exoskeleton of a dung beetle.
"yeah, i love bugs. once i found a walking stick bug and i named him henderson."

the two walked off in the direction of the jungle gym holding hands.

"a voice once stentorian is now meek and muffled." i said to myself with a shake of the head. "what would Judith Fetterley say?"

i spent the rest of that year swinging by myself pondering the gender binary in institutionalized gym classes.

the end.

fin tiltry, a detail

i remembered, this morning, as i rode the train angrily from montrose to 6th (and i say angrily, because no one wants to be pressed against a stranger and a pole at 9AM) a detail from a conversation with fin tiltry, the precocious child who lives in an attic in connecticut.

"my grandfather's really rich."
"i think mine was too," i say as i fold towels and put them in a pile on my bed.
"no, but mine's richer" he says matter-of-factly.
"well, i'm not one to argue about wealth, but i will say that you don't really know my grandfather, so you shouldn't assume much of anything."
"well, see. my grandfather invented screens, so unless your grandfather invented, like, toilet paper - i don't think he's as rich as mine."

i hate this. i hate how i'm constantly feeling belittled and befuddled by 9 year olds. i feel like they have secret powers - like the ability to make me want to go back in the closet, or the ability to question everything about myself, or the ability to make me ashamed because my grandfather did not invent toilet paper.

"screens?"
"yeah, he invented screens."
"i don't know fin, i think screens have been around for a while..."
"well, see, he's been around for a while. i can do the math. my mom is really old, see? and he's the youngest of her children, she's 55, and he's almost one hundred. but anyway, i don't need to prove it, i know it's true, because it's my family."
"well, i guess it is your family. and i won't ask you to prove it."
"good. well anyway. my grandfather, he owned a little fix-it shop, somewhere in like, the midwest or something. and he worked with wires a lot - like, the little ones. and one day, he thought about making fabric out of wires. like, weaving it and stuff. and so he did it. and bamm. now he's totally rich."
"that's cool."

that's cool? that's all i have to say? it is. because my grandfather didn't invent the screen, or toilet paper, and even though i'm twelve years older than this kid, he has an upper hand. he thinks quicker than i do, he's more confident than i am (probably because no one ever shot him down, his parents included).

i talk to jen about how stupid i feel around fin and how he makes me feel like i'm six. she brings up a good point:
"you possess an ability that he doesn't: you can punish him. so, anytime you're feeling a bit insecure (jen says 'bit' because she's canadian) just tell him to take his feet off the table, or not to chew with his mouth open."

jen is a genius.

riseup calmdown

i'm sitting across from myself right now. the position is very uncomfortable. it makes me realize what i look like when i sit across from people more important than myself. i start to stare deeply into my eyes. they look far-off and far back in my head. but they're staring forward, not at the wall, not at me, not at anything, and they're thinking. what are you thinking, i ask. i don't respond. i cross my arms and stare at myself like i'm guilty of something. i don't get it, i say. are you doing this to prove a point? what are you looking at? there's nothing to look at but you! stop looking like you're surprised or bored or crazy, i know you're not! i still don't respond and this makes me mad so i stand up and yell. what the fuck are you staring at?!?! fucking respond! i don't respond, so i sit. i cross my arms and look at myself like i'm waiting. i still don't speak. you're fucking boring, i say to myself. you're so fucking bored.

Milking The Milkman

rigly had been thinking a lot, probably too much, he thought. this morning he sat looking out his window, partially in anticipation but mostly out of distraction. he had been waiting for weeks for a package from his mother and just the day before he finally received notice that a delivery was attempted, but he 'wasn't home.' the slip said they had attempted delivery at 1:30pm. this made rigly feel guilty because he wasn't doing anything at 1:30pm aside from laying on the living room floor, staring somewhat sadly at the ceiling. today, he sat in the window and waited for the UPS truck to pull up.

his sneaking suspicion that he had been thinking too much only dawned on him after he had been sitting at the window for some time. in fact, when he looked at the clock, his initial reaction was confusion. it's 1:30? he thought. but this couldn't be. he had sat down at 1pm. surely more time had passed. when he looked back out the window he realized it was awfully dark for 1pm. he consulted the sun. there was no sun. only a very smug moon. rigly realized he had been sitting at the window for 12.5 hours. at first he was terribly embarrassed. then, slightly amused. and finally, completely disheartened.

if i can sit and look out the window, for 12.5 hours, and not be bothered by the phone, not be drawn to the kitchen to eat a snack. and finally, not even receive the package he had been waiting for, i am indeed a very sad person. do you hate me, moon? he caught himself feeling even more pathetic for speaking to the moon. i hate people who stare at the stars and moon, he thought. fuck you, moon! he yelled out the window. and stars! look how goddamn ugly these stars are! he shouted. rigly, despite his strong wish against it, admitted then, that the stars and moon were totally fucking crazy. stop staring at me! he yelled, and shut the window.

Fin Tiltry

I visited Fin in Connecticut a few summers ago, where he proudly showed me his room before the most awkward dinner of my life with his parents. They emailed me, asking for me to visit because I had ‘such a profound impact on the boy.’ He said I was his favorite staff member at Long Lake because I ‘didn’t give a shit about shit.’ I never pictured myself visiting any of the kids I essentially worked for - some of their parents have taken me out to dinner when they were in the city, but the Tiltry's had nearly threatened me with sending Fin to my apartment if I didn't come to see them. The dinner was, as I said, awkward in the least, but Fin's bedroom was the most interesting aspect of the visit.

The Setting: A bedroom, which seemingly resembles a college dorm room, in the attic of a three-story colonial craftsman-style house. Up the winding staircase one enters the room and is taken by the height of it. The ceilings, planed in puzzle-like shapes, half pealing retro wallpaper, half flaking glue-stained sheetrock (where wallpaper once was), rise upward like the interior of a middle-class pyramid. Along one wall stands a pair of bunked beds, the bottom bed made neatly with a plaid duvet and corresponding pillow shams, the top a mass of twisted sheets and duvets. The walls, once white, are now a sort of stale eggshell color and are decked with record covers and psychedelic posters, all curled at the corner and speckled with tiny holes and wrinkles, revealing their age. Directly diagonal to the beds there is a rust-colored couch slouched between two stereo speakers and guarded by a stilted coffee table with names and dates carved haphazardly in its deeply veined wood. Thrown in the space between the couch and the bed lays a shag rug with its strands intertwined and matted. On the rug lays various items: a scratched and duct taped CD walkman (faintly playing The Eye of the Tiger through muffed headphones), a skateboard so covered with stickers its underside seems to be swelling, three wilted cigarettes that are beyond smoking, and numerous articles of clothing, all slightly tattered, worn, and smelling of boy.

The Character: Fin Tiltry is not a normal eight year old. He is, in all senses, ahead of his time. On Sunday mornings Fin sleeps until three or four in the afternoon and rises only when the light pouring in from the attics sheet-covered windows becomes too bright for his slate-blue eyes to ignore. He rises slowly from his top bunk, his shaggy blonde hair tussled and his eyes resembling slits in soft melon. First, before all else, he will scratch. It is a ritual of sorts. As his legs dangle from the top bunk he starts at his head. First rubbing his hair about, messing it further, and then gently pressing on his scalp with all ten fingers. Although he is barely awake, he considers this rubbing an essential part of his routine as it ‘wakes up his brain.’ He then gently urges at his eyes with twisted fists, removing all sleep-produced particles, and finally opens them slowly, allowing time form them to adjust to the sunlight. And then the scratching – his lower back comes first, damp from sweat, he itches rapidly. Then his hairless armpits. And lastly he claws at his entire torso and a wild motion, looking as though he is being attacked by bees. Then a sigh and a smile. His day can begin.

Nearing his 9th birthday, Fin has settled into what more closely resembles the life of an Ohio State frat boy. Two years earlier he had moved into the attic of his family’s house on account that ‘he needed more space.’ His parents, both professors at the local Ivy League and rarely caring about anything, barely raised a brow. Fin furnished his room with the things his four older brothers (all grown and gone) had left in their rooms or stored in the basement. With no help, outside of countless RedBulls (his drink of choice), Fin successfully moved all of his desired furnishings up the winding staircase of the attic and set up camp, rarely leaving. He is at peace in his bachelor pad. Only rarely does the blaring of 90’s classics disturb his parents and their only request is delivered by the family’s maid, Hilda, in the form of incessant rapping on the door at the bottom of his stairs. He rarely takes meals at the dining room table with his parents, but has repaired the dumbwaiter of their ancient house and hoists his meals up at the sound of the doorbell he has installed in the kitchen, which is only to be used by Hilda. In his room he keeps a mini-refrigerator, donated by the youngest of his older brothers, Lance, after he graduated from UPenn. He considers it a suitable addition to his space and keeps it stalked with RedBulls and string cheese. Later, when the family replaced their microwave, he hulled it up the dumbwaiter and rested it on top of the minifridge, using it primarily to cook ramen noodles and Jiffypop.

Adventure

Genre: Slight Fiction

You call and say you want to go on adventure and I think we met on Thursday and it’s Sunday and isn’t that a little early for an adventure? but I meet you and instead of hello you say you are happy I’m not ugly because you were very drunk on Thursday and couldn’t remember. I’m not sure if ‘not ugly’ means I’m attractive, and I think I find you attractive, but it’s hard to tell because I guess was drunk on Thursday too and here on this street it’s too dark to tell. So you say you hate New York style pizza and then look at me. Silence. And I say I’m sorry and look at you. Silence. And it’s starting to get awkward but then I see this is part of the adventure so we start walking and look for a real Italian restaurant. So we find one and I’m not sure how and it’s empty and quiet and no we’re alone. I sit across from you and we look at each other for a long time. Then you talk and I’m not listening because now I know I’m attracted to you and it’s sort of distracting because I’m usually not attracted to anyone except myself. Then you stop talking and I see that you’ve asked me a question and are waiting for me to respond. I say I’m sorry but I was distracted and you ask by what and I say you look like someone, which is true, but it’s not what I was thinking. Then we start to talk again and this time I listen for fear of embarrassing myself but I’m surprised because I’m actually interested in what you’re saying. We eat and talk and eat and talk and the meal is over and it was good but not as good as it really is, it’s better because you’re better. So we leave and put on our coats and it’s cold outside and you ask what’s next. I don’t know, I say and you ask if there’s anywhere I really want to go and haven’t. There’s lots of places I want to go but haven’t but that’s because I’m poor and it cost money to go anywhere in this city. But then I remember this courtyard to this building that looks really beautiful and I tell you about it and before I’m even done you take my hand and start walking in that direction. I’m not even sure how you know where you’re going because I didn’t say where it was but somehow you know what courtyard I’m talking about and after a few minutes of walking we’re standing in front of the gates. They’re locked and I say oh well but you say no way and now you’re climbing. I say no way and you say come on and suddenly we’re inside. It’s quiet and nice and you’re quiet and nice and we kiss for just a second before you take my hand again and we’re walking around. After a little while and when I don’t even know where I am anymore someone shines a flashlight at us and we run. Then somehow, I’m not sure how, we’re on the street and we’re laughing and kissing and still holding hands and you say wanna smoke and I do. So we walk to your building, this old hotel, and we’re in the elevator and talking and then we’re inside where it’s warm and then we’re outside on your balcony and smoking. We smoke and laugh and smoke and kiss and I’m so stoned I think I might fall over and you say it’s not over yet. So we go to the street and it’s freezing and we bundle each other and I’m not sure where my arms end and yours begin and I can feel every bone under your skin while we walk to Duncan Donuts. Then we’re inside and I say I don’t have any money and you say me either and before I can turn to leave you start talking to the man behind the counter and then we’re outside eating the donuts you argued out of him. So then we sit on a stoop and we wrap around each other and we kiss and I say it’s funny because it’s not the first time and you said you know because we kissed a lot tonight and I say no, I was talking about Thursday when we met and we were drunk and we kissed and exchanged numbers. You say it’s funny but not really, because now a lot has happened and we might even be in love. And I say what time is it and you say it’s five and I don’t say anything. But then I realize that you meant it was five in the morning and our adventure started at five in the evening and it’s been twelve hours and I didn’t even notice because your adventure had taken me somewhere I’d never been before.

today

this morning i awoke on the couch. i was in a sitting position. i was completely dressed. a blazer, a hat, boots, a scarf. i had been dreaming about a party that i was throwing. i wanted everyone to stay, but they wouldn't stay, so i threw them out. i was screaming, which is why i woke up. i woke up. fully dressed, like i said. and i walked to the bathroom.

then suddenly, maybe prompted by what i was reading as i sat on the bathroom floor, i gave up. i said goodbye, i dropped a tear, i fixed my hair, i left the house.

my life is completely guided by everyone else. stupid glory.

my song.

the day i was born the number one song on the charts was The Reflex - Duran Duran:

'The reflex is an only child, he’s waiting in the park
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark
And watching over lucky clover isn’t that bizarre
Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a
Question mark

I’m on a ride and I want to get off
But they won’t slow down the roundabout
I sold the renoir and the tv set
Don’t want to be around when this gets out'

and so, i can't help but think, my mother really must hate me. so i called her to find out, and like she always does, she lied. she said she loves me, but i could here the regret in her voice - 'if he were born in the 90's, i could have left that little crying shit in a dumpster at the mall.'

In my mind (me in your mind) AKA makes no sense

Genre: Poetry

In my mind, I am more than me
In your mind.
I am everything that we once were
And continue to be,
Not for me, but for you,
In your mind.

See, I’m very far,
What with me moving on,
But for you, in my mind,
I am still close.

I am the time we,
Somewhat absent mindedly,
Forgot to be safe but pulled out
And prayed.

I am, to you, the things that
We said that
Night we sat and smoked and smoked
Until we couldn’t stop and laughed
This and that,
We spitted and spat,
Kiss and pat.

I am for you, everywhere,
Slinking down every narrow vein
Of yours.

The time, of course, long gone,
But not for you, I think.
You think, about me, as home.
A bed, a dresser, a chair.

I’m sitting right here,
You’re sitting right there.
You see me, and hear me,
Look in the mirror: me.

And sigh.

I am everywhere to you.
You can’t forget me
Because you can’t have me
And you still want me.
And that hurts, see?

I am multi-purpose.
I am dust on surface.
I am page after page,
Fingers licking, corners crinkling.

I am your heart’s thoughts –
An ever-bending wire hanger.
I unlock doors, I dry tear-wet shirts.

In my mind, your mind, is full of me.
And it hurts. See?

I think you're growing heroin in your back yard.

Genre: Dramatic Monologue

"I think you’re growing heroin in your backyard. Because to me, you can do that. You’re capable, I know. I used to worship you when cigarettes were as bad as cocaine. Now crystal-meth is just appetizer, you kid. Like chapstick. I remember when, you, with far less tattoos, cried to me and made me feel like I actually had advice to give. It only lasted a minute or two, but I felt a lot bigger than you. Now it’s the same as it usually was and I’m sitting on the couch and feeling like I’m twelve-something and you’re 5AM and still going. Even if I surpassed you in my self-loathing, which might be closer to the truth, yours is stronger, you’d think. I’d probably even agree. Because if you say so, it must be, because you make me believe. You convince me, at least when I’m kneeling before you, that life is a bad bad song and it’s ending soon. Fucking Avril Lavine, you say.

Now you’re pacing. You’re moving your hands like the bible is glued to them and you’re flailing in a desperate attempt to free yourself. I’m barely even listening, because just the sight of you does so much for me. Your eyes are very angry, which makes them look silly, but I’d never say that, because it would be mean. I’m still sitting, you’re still flailing, and I think of the time I wished I had AIDS so I’d lose weight. That’s weird. And not very funny.

I better start paying attention, because you might, by the grace of some strange force stronger than crack, ask me what I think and if you did it right now I’d say something about having AIDS. You’d slap me, probably. Actually, probably not, because you’d like it for me to say that. Because it wouldn’t make sense and I never make sense and you depend on that. And I’m dependable.

You ask me if I want to get some food because Blow-Pop or Iggy-Igs might be working at the bagel place and you could get us free food. I’m not hungry but you taught me that free should never be turned down, so we leave.

It feels funny when I walk beside you, because it might mean that I’m your equal, which I know very well you’d disagree with. I would too. I don’t like being equal, less-than or more-than only, please. I like being your less-than. It makes me feel more than in the rest of the world.

Blow-pop or Iggy-Igs are both not working at the bagel place, so I buy. I can’t tell if you like this, or hate this, because you’re not talking, just eating. I’m not hungry, so I watch. Your jaws look really strong - like that bagel is a concrete sponge. You’re like a concrete sponge."

Alice McKibbin and Sixteen Mailboxes

Genre: Dramatic Monologue

"I’m waiting by the mailbox, smoking a cig while I wait for Jimmy and one of his stupid friends to pull down the long, long road and pick me up. It’s November and cold and I really should have worn pants, leggings even. This weather is shit and soon it’ll be snow. It could probably snow right now and here I am, standing in a stupid little suede thing. It’s not that I wore a skirt for him so much as I know he’ll want to mess around in the backseat later and this just makes things easier. I hate the fumbling with belts and zippers and Jimmy’s not that smooth, really. Last week I was standing just right here and thinking the same thing. I was also thinking about how I never take a swing at the mailboxes like Jimmy and his stupid friend – my hair blowing out the window, bat in hand – swing, crash, cheer. 60 miles an hour in a 45, crumbled mailbox pummeling the road behind us. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Or was it that Jimmy never lets me? Not that I’d want to. I’d rather sit alone in the back where it’s not so loud and smoke cigarettes. If I get bored I can always glance back to see if it was a full one, see the letters and papers flow behind us in the red light. Plus I’m wearing the skirt. And Jimmy wouldn’t like my ass up in the air where his stupid friend can take a dirty glance at it while I’m concentrating on my aim – swing, crash, cheer.

Sometimes we backtrack down roads we’ve already tried; we drive through the mail, swerve past the rutted boxes. Jimmy and his stupid friend say stupid things like “we really fucked that one up real bad!” while I roll my eyes and think about how surely a couple of those letters were meant to get somewhere real important and now they’re in the ditch while Jimmy’s stupid friend laughs like a hyena. Not that I really care. It wouldn’t feel all that good to me anyway, smashing a stupid mailbox. I don’t need to blow off that kind of steam. Jimmy does. Here I’m standing, thinking about my stupid skirt and Jimmy’s got it real bad; he needs to hit something that won’t hit back.

That’s why I go, really. Jimmy likes it and he doesn’t get to like much, sometimes not even me, and a crumpled mailbox is a small price to pay, really. Yeah, he’ll blow off some steam, drink from his flask, and later he’ll crawl into the backseat and we’ll mess around while his friend speeds real fast, smokes a joint. Stupid friend, smoking a joint and driving. I don’t touch the stuff, makes me paranoid, but he could kill someone. Not that I really care. My name is Alice McKibbin. I’ll do the same thing next week."

Flashbulb of a Thought

Two men sit on a bench in Union Square. They're both wearing green jumpsuits, they are both drinking coffee from paper cups, one is smoking a cigarette and they are talking in deep voices.

"so, lou, let me get this right," one says, "i'm not environmentally concious unless i wipe my ass with a plastic bag, then wash the bag, and use it to pack my lunch. that's fucked up, lou. that's real fucked up."

"well, i mean, you use soap and everything. you don't just rinse the shit off the bag," the other says, somewhat apologetically.

"wow," the first says. "and i used to consider myself environmentally concious. wow, lou. you just blew my mind into a million little pieces."

they finish their coffee, stand, and walk away.