Christmas 2003

Man did I rake it in this Christ­mas. I must admit that I was spoiled this year. I got pret­ty much every­thing I asked for. High­lights include a DVD home the­ater sys­tem, new mes­sen­ger bag, foun­tain pen ink, and books galore [includ­ing cook­books]. The extend­ed week­end was quite tir­ing though. I arrived home Christ­mas Eve around 8, went to Mid­night Mass at 11, got up at 6 for presents at home, drove to my aunt’s [arriv­ing at 9:30] for more presents, drove to Fort Wayne the next day to my uncle’s for yet more gift unwrap­ping [and the pur­chase of my DVD home the­ater for 97 bucks] drove back to Noblesville the same day, home to Con­nersville the next morn­ing, and then back to Cleve­land on Sun­day. I put near one thou­sand miles on my trav­el­ing count this Christ­mas. It was all worth it though, I ate plen­ty of fudge, prime rib, sug­ar cook­ies, apple pie, braised ham, but­ter cook­ies, vod­ka ton­ics, more fudge. I still havent gained any weight. In a few days time, at Stone’s New Years par­ty I will con­tin­ue to eat things. I’m also going to make a non-alco­holic was­sail for the rev­el­ers.

I wrote this poem for my mom as a present.

The Last Samurai

I’d heard noth­ing but bad about The Last Samu­rai. I saw it last night and was enter­tained. What brought it down the most was Tom Cruise. The direc­tor, one Mr. Zwick, end­ed up putting a bit too much empha­sis on Cruise, in nar­ra­tion, diegetic dia­logue, and pho­to-mon­tage. I got the dis­tinct impres­sion that the movie was main­ly filmed as anoth­er chance for Tom Cruise to play dress-up and over­come his own per­son­al demons on the way to con­quer­ing some real life bad­dies. [just like Top Gun, Far and Away, Minor­i­ty Report, etc.]

The bat­tle sequences were sweet, although the final bat­tle wasn’t quit as epic as it was bor­ing. I can only watch peo­ple get mowed down by muz­zle-load­ers, Gatling guns, and how­itzers for so long before I start to yawn. I was most impressed with the per­for­mances by the actu­al Japan­ese who played samu­rai. Cruise did a poor job fak­ing an under­stand­ing of the Japan­ese world­view. In typ­i­cal Hol­ly­wood fash­ion, every­thing was a dichoto­my. This doesn’t work too well when cast into an Asian set­ting. The clash between incom­ing West­ern cul­ture and tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese way of life does not real­ly come through. Of course, you can see it por­trayed but I don’t buy it. Tokyo is mod­ern­ized but the vil­lage Cruise fights for look com­plete­ly unchanged.
Con­tin­ue read­ing “The Last Samu­rai”

Separation [Study]

a man with
a cane
sits on a bus.
some dirty snow
at his feet
a gift.
it melts.
he limps
off the bus.
his knee hurts.
-
a woman with
wispy hair
in a bun
kneads dough.
she has sev­en­teen
pet cats — two
are preg­nant.
today is her birth­day.
she is bak­ing them a cake.
-
a young poet
has no TV
doesn’t answer
the phone and
won­ders why
he is alone. he
makes spaghet­ti
on Mon­day and
eats the left­overs
all week.
-
rat tracks in
Old Moth­er Hubbard’s
cup­board. no won­der
the dog left.
-
a tele­mar­keter
hung up all day
goes home to
con­densed soup.
the phone rings
but its not for her.
-
three chil­dren at play
two are cops.
i am the rob­ber.

Habit

a habit is some­thing that is con­sid­ered rather con­stant i think. if you do some­thing only once or once in a while then it is not a habit. a habit is some­thing you do all the time — like rub­bing a bal­loon on a cat or throw­ing toast­ers at things. my habits con­stant­ly change. or per­haps there­fore i have no habits. or maybe i only have qua­si-habits. Nuns wear habits but i dont have one of those either.

so to make a short sto­ry long, when i am not surf­ing the inter­net on a reg­u­lar basis, i cease to surf the inter­net at all. and when i need to use it, i just use it for vague­ly com­mer­cial pur­pos­es, or for info of what­ev­er species it is that i am not informed of. or i’ll bring my lunch to work for a week and then not eat lunch at work the next week.

my morn­ing habits have been the same for years how­ev­er.
[excrete, show­er, deodor­ant, dress, drink, brush teeth, rub bal­loon on cat]
i am a ran­dom crazy dork­ish jack­ass son of a bitch [sor­ry mom] and i deserve to be blud­geoned with a rub­ber chick­en for the things i’ve said and done to those i love. but in the end, any guilt or remorse is use­less for all such deeds, and indeed, all deeds after all end in death.

that was a bit mor­bid. i should go wan­der into things now.
Con­tin­ue read­ing “Habit”

Return of the King

I saw Return of the King [RotK] last night at mid­night. I got to bed around 4ish and was at work at 7. I am writ­ing this at approx­i­mate­ly 20 past 9 a.m. on 17 Decem­ber 2003. I am a zom­bie, so bear with if at times I sound a bit inco­her­ent. There are also prob­a­bly spoil­ers ahead.

The movie was damn good. I am most glad that I saw the extend­ed Two Tow­ers before RotK, because the extra flesh­ing it pro­vid­ed was quite help­ful. I won’t delve into the stan­dard huz­zahs for the cin­e­matog­ra­phy, CGI ren­der­ings, WETA cre­ations and all that. Every­one already knows about how sweet that shit looks. Instead I’ll just touch on the high lows and instances of ‘I got­ta think about that before I make a deci­sion.’
Con­tin­ue read­ing “Return of the King”

pig in shit

cleve­land has been good for the muse. in the approx­i­mate month i have been here i have writ­ten around 5 poems and have jot­ted down a ridicu­lous amount of ran­dom things that sound cool. words have begun to lose their mean­ings for me again, and this is most def­i­nite­ly good, because i’ve to remem­ber what i want them to mean. which does­nt make any sense and does­nt real­ly need to. ive also been o’erwhelmed with new musi­cal inputs. i stream my always and for­ev­er favorite radio sta­tion 97X WOXY from Oxford, Ohio and write down the ran­dom names of ran­dom bands that rok in ran­dom ways.

i have also dis­cov­ered sev­er­al peo­ple who are great sources for said input. im wal­low­ing like a pig in shit.

untitled 19 [for mom]

For years, you asked me to write you a poem.
You who gave me life ? I can­not say no any longer ?
but do you know how hard this is?

Try to remem­ber exact­ly how
I slept warm in your womb ? or the sim­ple way
I brought you tiny fist­fuls of wild­flow­ers.

How dif­fi­cult is it to recall? You taught me
that life is worth liv­ing just because it is.
How can I write to you who told me
All of the Things that Begin With M?

You built my char­ac­ter.
How many leaves raked and shov­els full of snow
make a big enough pile of Thank You?

The great­est poem I ever heard was your ?I love you.?
For years, you have asked me to write you a poem.
The only one I real­ly know is I love you.