Why?

Why?  Why do we want weapons and a chance to live?  Sometimes I just want to be armed when they try to snuff or hurt me as early as possible, preferably when I can't tell anyone how much I want to live because I don't have a voice yet.  I couldn't trust you to give a damn when they were hurting me, even when I told you directly what was happening; why should I trust you to protect me now or ever?  Self-reliance, right?  Grow up, right?  Get over it, right?  This world is cruel and heartless, and it's your world, not mine.  Even now, you want me to shut up and get in line to be hurt by doctors too busy to see me, police just doing their jobs, preachers who can't be expected to represent God, or even best, slaughtered in the womb so I'm not a financial or emotional inconvenience to the rest of society.  That's why.  And it's not some nebulous "them" or "they" who are responsible, because it's you, directly you because we are all responsible for each other, right?  It's the system, right?  Guess what? It's your system.  So now I get so sign a deal with an orange devil, and he is a devil, for a measure of self-determination, or wait around for the grand party of empathy to care.  Schizophrenics don't have a flag or a month or a year or five hundred years or a hashtag or even anyone to listen for five minutes.  I'm not holding my breath for you, because I'll die first, and that's what you want.  Tell me I'm wrong.

Choice

 Legally, we can't legislate God in a Doctor's office.  Abortion is legal.  Make a choice.  That said, I think abortion for convenience is the wrong choice, and an awful one.  I understand being scared, desperate, and wanting a way out.  There are no easy choices for many women in a bad situation.  I can't make that choice for someone else, even from the pulpit, which is closer to my situation on this blog than being a pregnant woman.  However, I have substantially less empathy for a mercenary abortionist who does that sort of thing for a paycheck.  Please, women, if you're out there reading, make an earlier choice than the very last minute:  put some distance between a child and a choice, or choose life.  Please, abortionists, if you're out there reading, it's never too late to stop and not base a livelihood on taking advantage of legalities for personal gain in a trail of blood.  Adoption is an option, and should be a better one for children, mothers, fathers, and couples.

Arbery

 Ahmaud Arbery was lynched in the fullest, ugliest sense of the word.

Rittenhouse

 Even racists have a right to self-defense.

Inspiration and Bullshit

Ibram X. Kendi is an inspired person.  He wrote an impassioned piece in The Atlantic about Martin Luther King's legacy.  I loved it.  Precise choice of words, parallel structure, and cadence showed through in his prose.

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/10/martin-luther-king-critical-race-theory/620367/

The same writer wrote wrote this in Politico, and I couldn't disagree more.

---

https://www.politico.com/interactives/2019/how-to-fix-politics-in-america/inequality/pass-an-anti-racist-constitutional-amendment/

To fix the original sin of racism, Americans should pass an anti-racist amendment to the U.S. Constitution that enshrines two guiding anti-racist principals: Racial inequity is evidence of racist policy and the different racial groups are equals. The amendment would make unconstitutional racial inequity over a certain threshold, as well as racist ideas by public officials (with “racist ideas” and “public official” clearly defined). It would establish and permanently fund the Department of Anti-racism (DOA) comprised of formally trained experts on racism and no political appointees. The DOA would be responsible for preclearing all local, state and federal public policies to ensure they won’t yield racial inequity, monitor those policies, investigate private racist policies when racial inequity surfaces, and monitor public officials for expressions of racist ideas. The DOA would be empowered with disciplinary tools to wield over and against policymakers and public officials who do not voluntarily change their racist policy and ideas.

---

This is not Ancient Greece.  We are America.   Art belongs to all of us, as do politics, war, religion, and everything else.  No one kind of person owns the keys to any heaven, including and especially me.

Help

If I someone finds me and asks for help in the way only I can accommodate, I try to help.  The God I speak to regularly rebukes me when I don't.  Turning a people away while nervously deciding how much time is too much time and wishing the powers that be would remove that nervous decision before anyone would notice a distressed people is profoundly against the God who speaks to me.

Hello Blog

I'm writing here for the first time in years.  Time escapes me sometimes.  When I'm outside the written word, I feel naked.  I don't feel complete without it.  I know I'm an opinionated jerk, but I've always thought on some level redeemable, even loved.  Right now, I don't feel like I've made a mistake.  I feel like I am a mistake.

Columbia Makes More than Coffee

http://columbiaspectator.com/…/our-identities-matter-core-c…

Ovid is still important. Ibis is always fresh. Ancient Rome was not prudish; much of the literature is carnal. If students at Columbia worry about Ovid's Metamorphoses' sexual overtones, and manage to change the curriculum to something more Politically Correct than an old Roman pervert, I think the entire student body should ex-post-facto apologize to the world for employing Allen Ginsberg. Allen Ginsberg isn't disgusting because he's homosexual. Sappho already did that in style. Allen Ginsberg is disgusting because he treats sexuality like a bad manual typewriter missing the lower-case "t." To be honest, Catfish shocks the world. Sodomy just doesn't cut it as disgusting content for a modern poem with nothing else going on but the sexiness of an old metal thermos full of almost-rotten tapioca pudding. Make up your damn minds, so-called liberal OG shot-callers at Columbia: are we going to ruin the future of literature or not?

I'm a bible boy. I love Jesus. I'm also thirty six. What's gross when you're twelve and Michelangelo's "David" is the only male beauty around, doesn't make an internet-bound adolescent's list of sexuality to explore tremble, shake, or drop acorns on the ground. I'd love to study Ovid as literature in a class. Unfortunately, professors seem to think that typical, boring, vapid wannabe Ken Doll named "Insert random sexual poet with no imagination" is a modern substitute. Ken Doll in His Own Dreams is not a substitute; he's a surrogate for poetry delivered into the hole on the other side of the mattress who can't quite figure out no one cares anymore.

Toni Morrison is an average novelist at best. I think she's horrible. Euripides manages to give his characters names. Homer gives her characters names. The allegorical names of John Bunyan work in Reformation and Counter-Reformation times, but Morrison's Song of Solomon falls flat with them. Who is Guitar Bains and why is his name Guitar? Pilate is a proper Latin name for someone who already matters. Morrison's Pilate claims a powerful name for reasons never made clear. Why would anyone give a phylactery to someone named Pilate--an Eques Roman surname--but is clearly a complete autodidact? Pilate's name is a loaded name that's been done to death. Yeah, I went there. Why not? Columbia seems intent on destroying literature anyway. Let's give some nineteen year old freshmen reason to think Hannibal is a serial killer played by Anthony Hopkins instead of a Carthaginian boogeyman who sacrificed infants to kill more Roman Legionnaires on the battlefield than anyone else could ever dream.

Scipio never gets an epic. I'm sorry Petrarch, but he just doesn't. "Howl" is not an epic; 112 lines won't do. Sappho and Ovid rocked it. Toni Morrison did not. I'm going to buy lunch for too much money and lament the downfall of America, which isn't Rome anymore, and probably has to climb uphill to be Brazil.

Attrition

The cocktail is a battlefield with victory measured in hard-fought disfigurement, compromised torture, and milligrams of lost hope.  My enemies, camp followers, and fallen pill bottles all look the same from here.  I don't want out; that would be too easy and pointlessly cruel.  I want through.  I will burn fields of sanity and sow my skin with Roman salt in pursuit of victory.  When the fog of war slips through momentary peace, I can only write about love I barely understand.  My hands are bloody, and my stomach is sore in ways only those familiar with the battlefield strewn with shattered weapons and moments I will never know again may understand.  The best of all outcomes is a stalemate; a draw between pain so the order of battle falls at the same rate.  I mourn for our Legions, but they cannot mourn for me.  I am the evil genius of my nightmares, and I will have what I need, no matter how horribly I come across it.

Please

Christianity is about granting the Grace of God to believers, not denying salvation from anyone who runs afoul of Paul's opinions on Corinthians. Please sort the forest from the trees and stop being cold-hearted bastards.

Williams-Lara

Lara beat him pillar-to-post. This is some BS scoring. Roy Jones knows it, and so does everyone else.

On trying to be something you're not

I usually don't expect much out of Gwyneth Paltrow. She's just another highly-paid celebrity to me. Perhaps I judge too fast. However, her recent blog post seems like a good place to start one of my own. I don't understand homosexuality and don't participate. It's not for me. I don't understand non-Euclidean geometry, either. That's also not for me. I'm not going to drag a math professor out of a classroom to give him a lecture on how advanced math doesn't make any sense to me any more than I'm going to drag a homosexual man out of a forum friendly to his lifestyle, like a gay bar or coffee shop, to give him a lecture on how I see whatever he's doing as wrong. However, if you're homosexual and in a forum friendly to my lifestyle, like a church I attend on a regular basis, I want the same respect shown to me. Arguing sensibly somewhere neutral is cool, but don't expect me to mix it up there, either. It's just not in me right now. I don't feel the urgent need to go on the rhetorical offensive against homosexuality as a whole at this crossroads in my life.

If you're literally inside the walls of my house, there will be some rules. Firstly, no bashing: If you've ever felt uncomfortable because everyone around you throws around poorly-thought-out, abrasive, somewhat insulting ideas with the assumption that everyone is a democrat, or a muslim, or a christian, a catholic, a lutheran, a steamfitter or whatever else despite the overwhelming evidence that not everyone is the same, you'll feel welcome here. I have lots of different friends; I want them all to feel welcome. I don't live in a gay bar, a high school locker room, a high school musical, a choir chamber, a church, or your local union hall. We're all probably different here, so keep the ganging up on different kinds of people to their faces or behind their backs the hell away from my house. Vigorous discussion is cool, and encouraged, but if it gets ugly, it's over. There are more rules, but those are the important ones for the subject at hand, and only apply inside.

My blog is different. Read and respond. I only delete obvious spam.

Two Liars

Two people can't keep a secret. I just saw Keith Barry, who calls himself a "mentalist" trick two awful liars to give up information on TV. I suspect the whole thing is a set-up. If the piece of film was legitimate, those guys couldn't lie or stall long enough to fool a keen observer for an hour. If the cops are worse observers than Keith Barry, and criminals are worse liars than these two, we're all a rather sad bunch.

CLONE WARS/GRAPES

Jive Poetic, I met him at the 2005 Austin International Poetry Festival. He's a great writer and performer. We wouldn't see eye-to-eye about many issues, but his talent and acumen are obvious. I can't speak like he does anymore; the tardive dyskinesia in my jaw is not getting much worse thanks to practice, but it's still there. Performance poetry was never my thing, but now, I don't think I can compete with guys like Jive Poetic with my lungs and tongue. I must live on the page.

A Rededication Of A Myth For My Love

The Taj Mahal shows its beauty in white marble for anyone who cares to look. Four minarets guard the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, without whose love the Taj would never exist. When a rich man truly loves a woman, he will go to no material end to show that love to everyone. Shah Jahan commissioned the tomb, but made none of the sculpture, calligraphy, architecture, or any other art in this greatest romantic edifice.

Not everyone can afford white marble domes, and inlaid poems stretching into acres of poetry for the most special woman in the world. This is me: Shah Jahan left enough room in his symbol of love for the rest of us, too. I cannot make a White Taj for Sarah; I can only make a watery reflection that looks black at dusk. I will not measure my poetry for her in acres, but in lines, stanzas, cantos, and perhaps eventually, reams. I cannot keep Sarah's spirit beside me in stone; I can only write and love her for as long as she chooses to stay next to me and look into the Black Taj together. These are not the first words I've written to her, but these are the first words of my dusk reflection, the first public drop of water in a language we can both understand, and the first dedication of our Black Taj.

So I took Another Look At The Pacquiao-Margarito fight

This fight should have been stopped after the ninth round. It's a frightful beating, and the officials should not have forced Pacquiao to carry Margarito. That said, they might have punished Margarito for wearing plaster of paris in his gloves. I don't disagree with punishing Margarito, but it should have been in prison, not the ring. Pacquiao looked amazing; he would be Floyd Mayweather Jr.'s toughest opponent since a prime Castillo.

Wait

I'm keeping kosher. The wait between meat and dairy is insufferable. Right now, I'm looking at a cheesecake. I want some, but it's not quite time yet.

I Was At The Rally

The crowd of liberals at the Stewart rally were much nicer than the crowd of liberals I encounter at poetry slams and readings. No one threatened me with violence; it was ok. I only found the timing suspicious. After taking over in 2008, the mouthpieces of the Left talked only about national mandates and how with a majority in the legislature and the presidency they could pass any legislation without veto and without participation from the Right. Now that Democrats and the powers-that-be are headed into a potentially tough election, the mouthpieces of the Left only want to talk compromise. I prefer compromise, but promoting that compromise should have come a long time ago without any threat of losing incumbency. Work together, folks, and maybe we can stop the two-year cycle of extremism, and get some work done.

Rally to Restore Sanity At The Next Steelers and Ravens Game

Ben Rapelisberger gets a reduced suspension instead of prison time that everyone else would serve. Six guys can't go into an alley where one guy winds up dead, and no one faces punishment. They're just ball players, folks. If someone wants to rally to "Restore Sanity," how about we start with boycotting overpaid professional athletes, or at least holding them accountable for their criminal actions. The next 70 thousand Steelers, and Ravens fans with tickets are a good group to start the outrage. I won't hold my breath.

Ok, everybody, save a purple shirt for October 20th

Bullying is in the news a lot, and often against homosexuals or those perceived to be homosexuals. Those of you who know me know that is unacceptable to me. If you don't, check out the link above. This sort of thing must stop. A friend of mine named Ryan Cassata let me know about a day to remember the youths who took their own lives in despair, and oppose the bullying and abuse of young, school-aged homosexuals. I'm wearing purple on that day, and so should everyone else. I would love to see a sea of purple outside on the 20th of October.

If you're having trouble endorsing homosexuality for religious reasons, don't think of October 20th as a way to endorse the practice, think of it as a way to endorse good will, and show that God's love is not just for you, your congregation, or your Church. God's love is for everyone, and we don't get to make the decision to take that away. Every homosexual is a child of God just as much as I am. I'm not going to shut anyone out of Christ or salvation because of largely blind prejudices: that kind of thinking and speech just discourages people from seeking Christ later, when everything depends on accepting Christ as the savior. Hateful words and cruel seclusion are counter-productive and wrong far more than any love between two men or two women. God does the judging; we just spread his word and his light to as many souls as possible.

Wear purple on October 20th. It's not about prejudice; it's about peace.

Diaz vs Noons II

If you liked Diaz vs. Noon in the rematch, which I did, watch more boxing, which I do. Neither fighter can wrestle, and without the takedowns, Diaz' jiu-jitsu is worthless. It was a good fight, worthy of TV. I like both fighters as MMA artists, and respect them for putting on a boxing match. That said, their boxing abilities are not up to world-champion boxing.

I had Noons winning three rounds to two, despite pulling for Diaz the whole time. Diaz gets the nod. I disagree.

RIP

Jay Hepner, my dear friend and coach, is dead. Knowledge is power; I know because I was there. I love you, Hep. We'll meet at the pearly gates some day. I know it.

Jake Rossen is a Clown

Jake Rossen is a clown. James Toney didn't get his obvious pugilistic dementia from boxing not being a "real fight." Where is the top-shelf MMA fighters volunteering to trade hands with the best boxers under boxing rules? Don Frye stepped into a K1 kickboxing ring with Jerome LeBanner. That didn't turn out so well for Don Frye, former UFC tournament champion.

MMA championship matches go 25 minutes. MMA non-championship matches go 15 minutes. The shortest fight without a knockout in professional boxing goes twelve minutes. Boxers fight for 30 minutes or more on a regular basis. Now Jake Rossen wants to claim how football players spend more time in danger than MMA fighters, despite wearing helmets. Mr. Rossen shouldn't bash on James Toney, who won 72 boxing matches with more knockouts than Evander Holyfield has wins.

I like MMA; it's fun to watch, but it's not even close to the dangers of boxing. If an MMA fighter is knocked down in a round, nobody cares; he can even easily win the round. If a boxer is knocked down, he has ten seconds to collect himself, stand back up, and keep fighting. Quitting is only allowed for quitters and ex-boxers; MMA endorses quitting, even from strikes, not just from potentially maiming joint locks. Furthermore, the knocked down fighter automatically wins the round, and the equivalent of losing another round. Knockdowns are devastating on the score cards and on the fighters. Boxers go through hell to not only win rounds, but to stay on their feet and not lose another from being knocked down. Also, one must consider the options for MMA fighters: if you're in trouble in the cage, you can clinch indefinitely or take your opponent down, and rest right on top of him for minutes at a time. Boxers have three options: go down voluntarily and lose two rounds, Clinch for a few seconds before your opponent can wail on you again, or just take more punches.

Jake Rossen Is Still An Idiot

Comment From The Amber Eye
Jake, MMA is a dangerous sport. Greg Jackson coaches fighters on how to win without deliberately risking grievous injury. Fighters shouldn't be compelled to take unnecessary risks with their bodies for applause. Victory is the goal of MMA, boxing, and any other combat sport, not appealing to your bloodlust.

JakeRossen: If self-preservation is your primary character trait, MMA is absolutely the worst job title you could ever choose. That, and volcano inspector.

JakeRossen: I do not expect fighters to risk their necks unnecessarily, but I do expect them to make an aggressive effort to win, not hunt and peck for scorekeepers.



When will this man figure out that he's neither funny nor knowledgeable?

The Big C

This is a terrible show, absolutely horrible. Why am I watching this crap? If any of these characters approach reality, I will happily share my Void with no one. The show is named after Cathy, so I'll use her name. The rest of the characters shouldn't have names, so I'll just invent names that seem appropriate. Fat Student is the only one with insight. The whole show should be about her. "Fat Student Rules the World" would be much more interesting than this television product that's wasting my time more than this blog. Asshole Neighbor is better than her neighbors, but once again, this character has to share a stage with Cathy. Cuckolded Husband By the End of this Episode deserves better, but he will have it soon enough. The handsome Englishman gets a different name: Thor! Thor is awful, but will get some every night for the rest of his life. To be honest, if this show transferred itself from the land of the lost also called Showtime and placed itself next door, I hope Cathy lives for a long time so she can realize how stupid she is in five years. There is a fate worse than death: living this show. Eighteen months is too short a time for Cathy to know how stupid her choices are. Thor knows, but he would. Fat Student is compelling. Her show would be better. Yep, Cuckolded Husband by the End of this Episode lived up to his name. Married is married, folks. I hate art so much after watching this show I don't even want to watch Dexter now. I think I'll go read Equus again, and think up a musical version.

Anthony Peterson

He let me down late Saturday night. I picked him to win; he lost, but that's not how he let me down. I always thought of him as a good fighter with good in-ring skills good enough to compete within the rules of boxing. On Saturday night, he landed about twelve significant low blows on his opponent, resulting in Anthony Peterson's first loss as a professional, and his first disqualification. Some low blows are more destructive to their implementors' chances of winning, because the referee will take points away from fighters who land punches on the hip. Anthony Peterson repeatedly lifted the cup of his opponent into the abdomen with uppercuts. Those kinds of punches can kill careers, like Riddick Bowe at the hands of Andrew Golota. There is no room in boxing for punches like that, and I will not be cheering Anthony Peterson ever again.

End of An Era

A good friend of mine is headed off to grad school! I wish him well, and I hope he continues to pursue excellence in the next phase of his life. He'll do well in whatever he decides to do; of this I am sure. Good luck David!

So a Friend of Mine Posted a Bad Joke

McGarver's bad joke

Comic books are a load of fun. In my youth, before comics priced themselves out of my entertainment threshold, I liked Green Arrow and Green Lantern over on DC Comics. Usually, the comics I like aren't serious and deal with fantasy, fiction, and crude parallels to our world when they feel the need to be serious.

My favorite moment in comics doesn't involve super-heroes battling unbelievable super-villains, though. It's three panels that bring some issues surrounding comic books forward in a way anyone could understand. Making the same comment as a joke in Archie Comics, expecting a laugh would be terrible.

My favorite moment in comic books

Check out moment #44. It's poignant. The rest of the crossover wasn't as good as those three panels.

If Mr. McGarvey put some characters together, and had them interacting as characters should, then I might deal with his list of reasons coming out of an unreliable character's mouth. I don't find Zippy the Pinhead funny, either. The same friend who shared McGarvey's joke put up some Zippy strips as humor. I don't take issue with them because it's Zippy the Pinhead, and I leave them alone. I like Watchmen as a satirical graphic novel, and I can appreciate the Comedian as a horrible example to follow while he deliberately points that very fact out to anyone he contacts. The Comedian is the type of character who can foil and dismiss other characters who are smarter than he is with a few well-placed verbal jabs, and if they object too loudly, bullets. The Comedian is his own damn pig, and it's no surprise when he says piggish things that remind readers of someone the reader knows. The Comedian reminds me of Don Frye, who is funny because he's a walking, talking Comedian, just like Watchmen.

These are funny because Don Frye knows his reputation, and can make a joke partially at his own expense sometimes:

#1
#2
#3

Don Frye should expect people responding with hostility to what he says, but in the end, it's Don Frye's words that he said, not some nebulous group of people on the other side that never existed and never said anything on McGarvey's list. Right now, McGarvey's joke is a just stupid list of bullshit. I don't think it's funny at all. I'm glad nobody in my proximity read it. Aligning myself with that list would just roast my credibility as a person who believes reasonably in love between two men or two women.

Unconquered

I hate being alone. Unfortunately, that's what Monsters are. We're alone. We're not evil, bad, or even excessive, except in solitude. Some of you know me, others don't. The others are now Legion, but I suppose they always have been. I will spar with sleep for tonight, probably all night. This little thing of mine is out of control, but I've never truly been in sole possession of myself. Little whispers become a loud choir that sings with one voice: "You are alone, and you always will be." This monster remains unconquered, but a little further away from the rest of you with each sleepless night. I'm alone with my Monster, and neither of us can sleep.

Castillo vs Corrales I

It's on ESPN Classic at 8pm tonight! Everyone should watch; it's the best match I've seen.

Many-Armed Knight

He's here now, so many arms, blades, and dark robes to color my insomnia.

True Blood

I'm trying to watch this show. It's stupid as hell. Someone explain the appeal of this garbage to me.

Prop 8

Sometimes, important words must change meanings. Marriage, strictly defined, is a union between a man and woman. That definition needs to change. If a particular church won't marry a couple for whatever reason, just go to the courthouse, and have the state issue the license.

I'm Not Some Dead White Man

My skin is pink, and I'm alive!

Freedom

I can drive wherever I want now. Maryland removed the restriction on my license. I'm happy about it, but I shouldn't have been miserable and excluded from driving because of my schizophrenia. For a long time, they've chained me to my house. I still resent that tyranny.

I Can Only Run So Far

I punish my legs on my bicycle to distract myself from my problems, but I can only ride so fast, and I have only two legs. It takes a lot of pain to ignore the feel of The Many Armed Knight's breath on the back of my neck, or the towering Harvester above me. My claws are out, but they just feel right tonight. Maybe I'll take a walk like I used to, flee into the night. That flight never helped me except to be even more alone. This moment is awful, and I think I'll have many more like it in the future. Tomorrow looms before me, and I can't stop thinking about tonight.

a child of doubt

a thousand dreams away
and thoughts are just as distant
The Lord once held me tight
but now, i sleep alone

a weird array of pictures
some real, and some imagined
i can't quite place them all
inside my scattered past

i don't know what's a dream
sometimes, I sleep too much.
so I can catch a glimpse
a little fleeting glance

of what was once so clear
so vivid, and so real
one dream is left alone
swimming in a thousand

more come every night
from what is here and now
a thousand dreams are wet
and some I hope are real

but most, i fear, are not

Ryan Cassata's Music is On My Links List, Others Are Off

I removed a couple friends' blogs because they haven't updated them in a long time. I added the myspace of a cool little dude I ran across on facebook, Ryan Cassata. I say little because he's short in stature, but he's tall on talent. Ryan has some good lyrics and some good songs, too. I like his music because it is confidently Ryan's; he's no parrot and neither needs nor uses a legion of lookalikes to be an artist. His sound is just good, honest music. If you listen, I think you'll agree.

I don't delete posts for idiocy . . .

. . . but I wish I did on this one. Allan Green lost every round.

Before the bell

Allan Green by knockout in the 8th round

words

only a few words deserve to exist; i am not one of them

Now

I hope she forgot me. I put too much into my poems to take her out: it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the words, or The Word I chase like a questing beast. I'm taking apart my first house; it wasn't very good, and argued with the character that began as a woman, and ended up a sunrise. Now, it's past sunset, and I'm alone. I'd prefer someone be near me, but not her. She stopped being a person and became a muse before I saw her last. She stopped being a muse when my imagination replaced her with the next one, the one who woke the demon inside me that now won't sleep. If she doesn't find me, I'll be glad that I won't have to explain anything: my poems can be beautiful and nothing else. I stopped looking for her a long time ago: she's a memory and a name, and that's the way it should be.

Austin 2005, I miss it.

http://theambereye.blogspot.com/2005/03/news.html

CROW DANCE

The dancers in the center
Drew everyone's attention:
New clothes, new beaus, new shoes
The perfect couples in their rounds.

But I saw plague attendants
Quarantined in crow suits.
To dance around carnations
With long masks made of velvet.

The Black Death doesn’t scare me;
I still want what they had:
A crow suit and a mask,
Your hand wrapped firm in mine.

I dreamt you every night.
We danced, and I knew how.
We talked across the distance,
And kissed each other gone.

I left alone as always
With dancers in my dreams,
An orchid in my hand,
And tears swelled in my eyelids.

I folded up the orchid
And dropped my bitter tears
Inside the Song of Songs
To this day I keep closed.

The orchid is long withered.
The dance is long forgotten.
The tears are grains of salt;
I wait for you no longer.

I still don't have a crow suit.
I never learned to dance.
Still now I know my love
Could never be so awkward

Abandoned,
Untouched,
And silent
To still be.

Today

I attended a hand-fasting ceremony for my friends Boz and Nikki. They're great people as individuals, and I think they'll be even greater as a partnership. I read The Lord's Prayer, a bit of Ecclesiastes (4:9-12), and a sonnet of my own hand. I got more than a few compliments on the scripture I chose and the poem I wrote. The compliments were just what I needed to continue progress on my writing. I'll be submitting much work soon. Check out the sonnet, and tell me what to think of it:


Dear friends, lift glasses, hope and cheer!
We gather on this ides of May
From spring to spring with love today
To bind two friends we all hold dear.
They love and pledge, this much is clear:
One year, one day, together stay
With hands held fast this ancient way
In sentiment we all revere.

To Nikki, hold our friend Boz tight!
Rejoice your year and day together;
His motives are true in passion and reason.

To Boz! Dear friend, this moment is right
To pledge each other in far and foul weather,
For Love is true in every season.

Enjoy

As for Me:

I'm blue. I don't know what the hell to do. Right now, I'm focused on attending a friend's handfasting, and playing in the 'Ard Boyz preliminary tournament on Sunday. Maybe by then, things will be a bit clearer. Recent days were more challenging than I wanted with my disease, but I always make it through. This time will be no different in many ways.

Jason and Kristyn

Two great friends wed on tuesday! They already have a little one between them named Colin, and decided to tie the knot. Jason is a great dad, and I'm sure he'll be a great husband. Congratulations, friends!

Couture’s Date with Toney

Couture’s Date with Toney

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Yep, that's Jake Rossen. Why should we ignore a boxer knocking out a former world champion MMA striker for the first time in the MMA fighter's career? I can't think of a single good reason to, besides Jake Rossen being an idiot. This guy knows nothing about boxing, and precious little about MMA: Toney KO'ed Ruiz when they fought. It was later ruled a no contest because Toney tested positive for a banned substance. His doctor used steroids to heal James Toney's torn bicep.

Quarterback

Roethlisberger should be in jail, at least. Police had less evidence on Mike Tyson, but can't even manage to arrest this piece of crap. The NFL is not above the law. I'm sick of superstar athletes like Ray Lewis and Ben Roethlisberger getting away with horrible crimes because they put score objects in the score zone better than the average ball player. These guys are just ball players, nothing more.

Picks for Saturday

Boxing:

Pavlik over Martinez by KO in the 5th round

Bute over Miranda by Decision


MMA:

Henderson over Shields by Decision

Lawal over Mousasi by KO in the first round

Aoki over Melendez by Submission in the 3rd round

Berto vs. Quintana

Quintana will win by decision by outranging the Haitian. This pick is late in coming, but well before the opening bell.

Rest In Peace

I'm going to write this a couple hours early. Kurt Cobain meant a lot to me; his end came just a week after the beginning of mine. He was beautiful and pure, too pure for us. I understand why he did what he did, but I still wish he didn't. Physical pain isn't good for people at all. Some will say it adds character; I disagree. Pain kills feelings. When I had my root canal without number as a four-year-old kid, I learned that lesson. I didn't cry, and I didn't pass out from the pain. My looming memory of that procedure is the smell of ozone as the drill struggled to dig further into my face. People respond differently to extreme pain. My friend Nick just takes it. I complain, but secretly love the challenge. Kurt Cobain didn't deal with it well; his music says it better than I ever could.

Haul out all your old Nirvana records, and listen closely. That guy spawned imitators and admirers throughout the nineties. He's a bit of an old hat for kids today, but he was important to me. He remains important in my memories. He's simultaneously the best memory of my youth and my worst. His music helped shape me, and lead me away from his own folly. I never smoked, drank, or did any drugs: the delicate parts of my soul I wanted to keep wanted relief from knuckles, the lash, and the emerging demons in my head. Drugs would have kept those parts numb, but would destroy me in the end. I built a prison in black leather to keep everything separate and stable. I planned everything as well as I could, but still wound up with a gun in my mouth. Fate saved me for something later, maybe this.

I don't think I'll ever forget him. I would love to have called him brother here, but that never happened. Maybe I'll catch up with him later, but for now, I just hope he has some peace, love, and understanding wherever his pain calls home.

MMA is Aging

Is it just me, or are MMA matches losing variety? Lately, it's bad boxing, mediocre kicking to the legs, double leg takedowns, and guillotine chokes. Some guys are good at staying active by landing some arm punches and elbows while grappling. The guys who go for submissions seem to give up the edge on those arm punches and elbows for little benefit: any submission attempt stands a very low probability for success. Even BJ Penn, a grappling master, just boxes for most of his fights; he saves ground fighting for when his opponent is busted up and tired. James Toney signed with the UFC; I think he might bring a breath of fresh air into MMA. His opponents will have to take the fight to the ground, and work submissions. Anyone trying to exchange punches or knock "Lights Out" to the canvas will just end up losing in short order.

If you saw Arthur Abraham fight Andre Dirrell over the weekend, you saw a single punch against a helpless opponent damn near cause a fatality. I see them all the time in the UFC, though; most knockouts start out with a knockdown, followed by an uncontested punch to the face on a near unconscious opponent. That same punch is illegal in boxing because it ends lives. I'm still unconvinced that cage fighters punch anywhere near as hard as a champion puncher in the ring.

Arthur Abraham

He needs to be banned. That is a horrible, intentional foul. I'm beside myself. Bad judges are one thing, that was far beyond what should happen even in a boxing ring. Abraham was losing the fight, and damn near killed Andre Dirrell tonight by hitting a downed fighter. I'm disgusted.

Sixteen

It's been 16 years. I'm no better now than I was in the beginning; I just know more about how to deceive the rest of you and myself into believing I'm well. No one likes this part of me, even if it's the only thing I want to share sometimes.

The Future in Copper, not Gold

My father served in the military for twenty years, and his service is the only reason why I can get the medical support I need to survive. My medication costs over four thousand dollars a month retail. Watch health care reform from my view: there are very expensive ways to treat schizophrenia, and very cheap ones. In the end, I suspect that a government-controlled health care system will trim their expenses and mandate the inexpensive option. That means even more Tardive Dyskinesia for me, and a future filled with Haldol, which is cheap as dirt. It's the just good enough solution I get on a daily basis from Annapolis and the Democrats who run the statehouse. If the U.S. government does a better job than that, I'll eat some crow. Until then, I only ask the left to please let me be a part of the opposition without lectures on soul, fear, and greed. My life matters. My suffering matters. My opinion matters. I'm neither evil, nor wealthy; I'm just a very sick person who has seen the inside of health care. Quite honestly, I'm afraid for my future, and I don't trust Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama, or their inevitable successors with the keys to my continued suffering. If the government mandates that I need to have crueler, harsher, less expensive treatment, I'm pulling the plug. I won't switch to Haldol, Thorazine, Prolixin, or any of the other cheap alternatives.

They Don't Sleep

I'm alone with daemons that don't sleep. Now they have me, so I cannot sleep, either. Things are a lot worse than I've been telling people; I'm lost. One hand is heavier than the other, and neither want the mailed fists I made for them; they yearn for something softer, but too elusive for a Monster like me. Monsters aren't evil, we are just not you or anything close. Even if I kept the secret again, these words will never amount to the love and care put into them. That is the Philosophy of the Monster.

Very Wrong, Pacquiao is the Champ

It's obvious that Manny Pacquiao learns a lot from Freddie Roach. Pacquiao's feet are as fast as his hands; his defense is much improved. This is not the same fighter that knocked Marquez down thrice in the first round, but couldn't finish. Manny's better now: he has a jab, a right hook, a monster left hand, and enough defense to get him through to his opponents. Well fought, Manny. Floyd beware, for this guy has a chance at you.

My Pick

I'm picking Clottey to win by KO in the 10th round. Pacquiao is a great lightweight; he's no welterweight.

Cold

Watch all seven if you have the time. No one should ever forget what this man and his peers did. This is the most ghastly thing I can remember seeing live or in video. He is cold. For some reason, twelve thousand per day is a reasonable body count for him, and he's indignant about reports of eighteen thousand. WWII didn't have to happen, and it sure as hell didn't have to be as messy in Europe as the Germans made it. They can't claim ignorance about the Gospel: every last German should have known better.

I wrote a comment to the video poster on the youtube website rebuffing Holocaust deniers. They know no shame.

James Toney in the Cage

This is going to be fun. I'll post more later.

Not Much Else

I reconnected with an ancient friend today, but not much else. The Many-Armed Knight crossed my path several times today, but I'm not letting on. Perhaps he will be gone in time for me to play some Warhammer tomorrow. I haven't played in a while, and I want to get back on the gaming table, if only to prove I still can. The space in here is small, sometimes. Tonight is that sometimes. Where there's The Many Armed Knight, Prester Bane is sure to be nearby, if only in terms of time. He has no face.

Regrets

I regret it all. At least in my past, I had something pretty to write. Now I feed those close to me to an insatiable solitude. The result is not an act of love, or even of my own choice; it's just clearer to me now that I'll probably be alone forever, regardless of anything I think or do. In my past, when I called Obsession another name, at least I could feed verses to that solitude. Now, pretty words won't suffice. In the past few years, I've forgotten the reasons why I started writing poetry: it's a substitute for society. Sure, the words were "Love," "Red," "Blue," and "Christine," but the meanings were Solitude, Delusion, Deception, and Imagination. I lost those. Now, I'm left not with a delusion or elaborate psychosis to chronicle; my words were never as beautiful again. Perhaps the words I destroyed were the best; I often say they were my best, but truthfully, I've forgotten everything but the colors. I won't mention them; I'm trying to destroy them, too. I can't stand that beautiful lie any more. It's not like I ever touched Love anyway, at least as Solomon felt it. I also know I could still hold the original beauty in my words if I hadn't tried to join the rest of you. I had a taste of beauty and truth that mimicked John Keats. Now I can't forget or ignore that flavor of life, even if what I tasted was neither beauty nor truth, rather the sourest form of delusion and deception. The deception wasn't mine, but the delusions were.

Delusions continue to drive everything, even this. Every time I check the distance, my watery lair is deeper, and twice as lonely: silence confirms it. I've seen people adjust to society and float like a duck on the water. I am not a person; I am a monster from deep water, and that is where you'll find me. Floating is for the buoyant; my hope doesn't float, it sinks like a rock. Understand that my lair is not a fortress to keep you out; it's a prison to keep me in. I'll send a blog and an occasional poem to confirm my outside position, but circumstances stay the same. I'm left with Truth and the delusions to obscure it. Keats' urn was wrong for monsters, and always will be. Beauty is not Truth, nor Truth Beauty for my kin; Pain is Truth, and Truth Pain. When I'm wounded by truth, the deep tunnel to my Pain is opened through my heart. I can't fill it with poetry any more. I crumble under Colors, and struggle with Solomon to understand that I can't even fill it with bullets. There just aren't enough bullets.

I fear only that my solitude will follow me forever. Sleeping through the night in the arms of the Lord would be nice, but I don't wake up smiling, even if that's the way I start my slumber. I rise with punches at phantoms, and screaming protests denying my muteness. If I stayed with seven years of safety instead of risking six months on trying to be a person, I might hold on to beauty and a muse today. Unfortunately, I can't grip anything with my head in my hands trying to coax water from my eyes as a lubricant for my pain. My palms still grind my face.

I Can't Read Lady Chatterley's Lover

I can't do it. I tried. I watched part of a movie, and found it so bad that I turned it off and looked up the text online. The book seems even worse than the movie. The movie at least had an attractive actress to play Connie instead of leaving her up to my imagination. I generally prefer my imagination, but not for her. 1928 must've been a lame year for lust, love, marriage, and everything in between. People don't shut off passion in the face of electronics, the internet, or anything else for that matter. If anything, the sex drive is supercharged by the extreme volume of anonymous sexual information and activity available to anyone with a computer. Porn has never been bigger than it is now, and people can download large amounts of nudity and sexual information, and save it for later using the same bodily motions in the same place they do their accounting. If you want a peep show, you just go out to a porn site, find five minutes alone, do the deed, then you can then go back to paying bills online and watching bad network sitcoms on hulu. On the internet, there's no red light district with thieves and thugs, no magazines to buy and hide, no adult bookstores where you avoid eye contact with anyone, and most importantly, no neighbors, deacons, preachers, nor priests to catch people in the act. Sex won't set us free from the tyranny of science; sex is the tyranny of science! I'm sure people can buy prostitutes who will come to your door without fanfare or suspicion. The lame part of this book is not the sex acts nor the lovelessness of Connie's marriage, the lame part is that I believe D.H. Lawrence actually thought sex can save people from themselves and their unused passions. Sex is a commodity that costs money. I will always hold that Love is priceless, but love isn't the point of Lady Chatterley's Lover; sex reigns supreme. Bedmates might force themselves into Love because that's what society expects, but Mellors was ploughing Lady Chatterley before they knew anything about each other except they had attachable body parts. Besides, Connie is just a another hole in the mattress for another male writer to misrepresent females in the name of Love.

If Love is to be the subject of art, the artist must be willing to accept and embrace the asymmetry of his profession. By necessity, he has to spend a long, long time making the art, selling it, and hoping the critics like it, then he has to change his act for the next art project. No one will spend as much time writing, painting, sculpting or even dancing back at any artist. If you write a truly magnificent poem in praise of love, the love object cannot return love in an equal measure to the poet. It's impossible. People barely have enough time to read poetry as is, no one will ever write back or praise the work in larger quantities than the 140 allowed characters on any tweeter message. Even two married poets will never write equally to each other. Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath were both successful writers, but were never popular at the same time, and critics grew to rightly observe Sylvia Plath as the superior artist. However, we should never be allowed to forget that women swooned over Ted Hughes and his verses first. One of my favorite poets in the english language is John Keats. Fanny Brawne never wrote back anything so beautiful as a John Keats poem. My favorite poet in any language, Petrarch, was the king of asymmetrical feelings. Laura didn't even know the guy, but he wrote her the most beautiful sonnets from anywhere, any time.

I'm probably the world's biggest idiot on Love; I've said it before and I'll say it again. However, if Love is exactly as D.H. Lawrence describes it, count me out: I'll keep vainly writing my asymmetrically appreciated love poems for now. I saved bad poetry in the past for its foolish sentimental value, and I've burned plenty beautiful and precious poems, some of my finest in fact, simply because writing more of them together just felt like a lie to myself and everyone else. I could have finished, and it would have been beautiful, but some foolish asymmetry is just too extreme, even for me.

Pink's Ode

I sat down to write a pedestrian update to this blog just to stay busy. To my surprise, I came across video of Pink's performance tonight, and as usual, I can't keep away from reading the garbage. Usually, I'd just chase demons or write something while masquerading as Hannibal, but tonight, I'll make an exception to elaborate my views on art and religion in the context of Pink's amazing performance at the Grammy awards.

To be honest, I'm a Christian, but I don't condone the brandishing of Religion as a weapon by anyone else but God; he holds the sword, not me. I also read the Bible, Petrarch, and Sylvia Plath often enough to know that not all art sings the praises of the Lord. I absolutely love art, and I pursue an understanding of it with a passion equalling, and sometimes eclipsing my devotion to my religion. Just because someone can dig up a Bible verse to serve selfish purposes doesn't make him a prophet, a presbyter, or a holy judge. Much art is about very human challenges, suffering, or just the problematic individual struggle we all face, regardless of our faiths. Every daydream or object of study is a trade-off between one experience or another. Once person cannot know everything there is to know about being human. If a believer denies himself access or audience to any art that isn't also worship, that believer severs himself from a large and passionate section of human experience. Some do sever themselves in that fashion, mostly Catholic priests and Monks, but others as well. I'm not strong enough in my faith or even my body to abandon learning my craft; I need art, both in my life and the lives of others, to truly live. Good art makes me want to wake up the next morning just to observe some more. Pink's performance tonight was great art, and Pink deserves every chance in life to better herself without derision from the typical stone-throwers living, working, playing, and even worshipping in a glass house.

Shocked and Encouraged

I put my head in the ground a lot when it comes to politics, current events, and anything that's not my life or muse. This is what I see when I look up, especially around other poets. I was in the audience when David Word recited that thing in 2005 down in Austin at the Austin International Poetry Festival. They all cheered a standing ovation. I was there; I saw the whole thing. I saw a roomful of poets cheer mass murder by burning. I can take a boatload of pain in many different forms, but there's nothing else like fire. Everyone in that audience exploded in joy but me. If someone else in Austin heard his words, and felt like I still do about them, that person was silent or hiding. I didn't hide, but sometimes, I wish I did. I asked a few people why they support the poem and the poet, and got no straight answers. I even asked David Word; true to his poem, he wouldn't put himself on either side of the knife that convinced a crowded plane to fly into the Pentagon. However, he would turn some of us into glass or ash if it just meant pushing a button, and he got to decide the casualties. Earlier that evening, I recited "Old Gan" to the exact same audience. I wrote "Old Gan" to center around war, aggression, and forgetting why people fight when very understandable, even agreeable petty disputes become treason, betrayal, and needless death in pursuit of pride. He didn't understand the point of my poem. I made a blunt statement the next evening.

Imagine my shock when I saw this. I'm not going to declare myself in any journalist or politician's cheering section, but I'm not with David Word or direct lies to garner popular support for a re-election bid. Thunderous applause should draw suspicion: no one fixes a mortal flaw in one speech, especially when that speech crosses swords with earlier words from the same mouth. The audience of poets in Austin proved one thing to me: Poetry wrote itself into irrelevancy. I don't know what upset me more, that poets could respond so approvingly to David Word's writing, or the certainty that I'd have to convince those same people to read, understand, and appreciate mine. Perhaps some day, my vote will agree with the winner of an election: it's only happened once, and I'll let my audience guess which one for now. I'm determined to submit some more poems out for publication by the end of February: maybe things are different now than in 2005.

Then and Now

I changed a lot since then. My disease is under control, but still causes me misery. With more sanity comes better writing, which is my current joy. My goals are more simple now than then: peace, love, and understanding drive me. I'm in a comfortable place both mentally and physically, and instead of devoting myself to more madness, I devote myself to continued recovery. Life is a lot better now.

Prepared to Take It, revisited

A thread of comments starting in 2006 requires me to answer in more than 4000 characters. The post is passable, but the comments are more telling.

I'm a paranoid schizophrenic; the paranoia and social awkwardness are inevitable. There is one person in the world who understands paranoid schizophrenia from the outside beyond the largely speculative medication and milligrams; his name is Michael Mack. I've written of him elsewhere on this blog. No one else comes close. Just remember that if you walk next to a homeless person, about 40% will be completely out of your realm of understanding. It's closer to 70% in DC for reasons no one understands.

I'll let you and the rest of the world in on a few things I don't talk about much: the Beast and the Night. I used to prowl in silence. At the time, stealthy, quiet movements were more effective at satisfying my urges than prayer is now. The Night was my mistress and the Beast was my first wife. To me, darkness and the anonymity of cold, primal suffering made more sense than anything the rest of you tried to teach me in school. When I prowled, I was the Hairy Beast: I had talons, a mane, strong muscles, and a sense of smell like an animal. I could smell fear without fear smelling me. Imagine the great cat nearby. He's silent, smooth, and you'll never know he's there unless he wants you to know. That was me in my mind. I travelled with the Beast in the Night, and no one knew I was there. That was empowering and cathartic to me. I didn't share.

Reality was a bit different. I was still stealthy: no one knew I prowled the night unless I wanted them to. However, I was no cat. Imagine six feet and 155 pounds of white flesh hiding in the woods at night, naked. Men can be quiet and unnoticed, too, but we use completely different movements. That's before I got so damn fat; Zyprexa is a foul pill. From those times, I learned a lot; a ditch is the second worse place I've ever woken up. The worst was in the branches of a familiar tree. That tree died.

That was my life. The Night was my normal. School was something I did because I had to. I made up a character, and played the part. He was arrogant, more than a bit mean, and very unpredictable. I had to be something believable, and sustainable. No one could know about the Night.

I judge things harshly because I was judged harshly. I grew up with lashes, fists, and the complete inability to stop anyone from handling me physically: skinny, weak, and slow are not assets to a boy. Harsh and aggressive are my models. Pain is my standard: I just don't know anything else outside Church, the Bible, and Christ, and I know precious little softness from those. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stranger, and I am with the strange.

One of the strangest things about me in high school was my uniform. If everything looks like it belongs on a person, people will believe the misdirection. I wore the gloves and jacket to keep the aether inside. The barriers weren't there to keep people out. My gloves, jacket, and hat were there to keep my monster inside. The whole thing wasn't a fortress; it was a prison. Trust me, you don't want to be inside that prison, or even visit.

As for High School, I was torn, very ambivalent towards my classmates, until I heard about the senior banquet. I got wind that I'd be elected "Biggest Spaz" and "Most likely to start a fight." People asked my act constantly to go to that event, knowing full well that my presence was there was solely for their amusement, and to be humiliated. Needless to say, I played along. I didn't go; people got their chance to laugh at my act, and I had one more Night to spend outside with the Beast. That was after my diagnosis. I was hiding my continued prowling and weapon from the doctors and therapists. I suppose that was funny to them.

You're a far better athlete than I was. There was absolutely no competition. I thought I gave you something to remember, but obviously I did not. That was my idea of revenge. Revenge is stupid. Now, I have a much different view on things. If I'm out to hurt someone, I don't let them know. If someone needs to physically hurt, the hurt will come from behind, without warning, and will give no one a chance to reciprocate. Then, and only then, would I let someone know whom the incision, laceration, concussion, gouge, or choke came from. Needless to say, I'm not in prison, so I feel very little reason to hurt anyone.

So now I write down my thoughts, so I can keep a few for when I'm lonely. I get lonely a lot, for obvious reasons. My best friends are in this thread of comments: they're my peers and equals. Nick is still immune to pain of all types. I still have a lot to learn from him. Bean, Jason as I know him, is still the most guarded guy I know. His fiancee told me once that we love each other more than any two other men who aren't gay. Personally, I think I love the guy more because many gay people are understandably extremely bitter and suspicious because of the ubiquitous horrible treatment their life choices receive at the hands of society. Kris is my dearest friend, despite the distance. I miss the hell out of that guy, and I love him, too. I still bother him on a regular basis; he's an incredibly good person.

I vastly prefer you to the original anonymous in this thread; at least you sign your name. I hate the craven cowardice of drive-by verbal criticism with no return address.

PBR

My brother and I saw PBR this afternoon in Baltimore. I almost got into two arguments on the street, too. One of the PBR protesters decided to harass me for about a 40 foot walk right before I entered the arena. I didn't even make eye contact; it was bizarre. The protesters left during the show. Not even one of them stuck around to stick flyers in the faces of fans leaving the arena. Gary, my brother, and I had different reasons for disliking the protesters: I'll elaborate on mine, but not his. Pain, struggle, adversity, danger, and fear are all parts of the human experience; for me, courage is the antidote in sports and in life. I love boxing because I think it shows courage best in sport. If I'm willing to see a person fight and struggle through real violence and real injury in the ring, why would I be bothered with a bovine athlete instead of a human? Tell me what you think.

Illness and The Champion

Shane Carwin says it best.

I'd like to see him healthy for the next time he fights. If Brock Lesnar fights again, and he's not 100%, the fight would be cheating the fans out of watching the fullest combined expression of speed, power, and wrestling ever seen in MMA.

Manny Has a Jab

Pacquiao knocked out Cotto; Pac Man finally has a jab and a right hook. Pacquiao versus Floyd Mayweather is the fight we all want to see.

It's Not Iron. It's Rust.

Smack me in the face with a brick or the bottom of a flight of stairs. I felt both, and I won't tell you which hurt worse. I broke the landing, but the brick broke my face. Blood is red, but it's not Iron. It's rust.

If you have something iron, like a heart, a will, the truth, or a toilet seat or something, don't think that just because it was strong in the past, that it will always be that strong in the future. Even if it's near water, like the toilet seat, don't soak it with water, especially something salty like tears, urine, or sweat. Those droplets might feel good or appropriate, but don't let them near the iron, or the iron will not stay iron for long, especially faced with tears. Tears have a way of breaking things disproportionate to their own volume.

Iron monsters stay monsters forever. Only the truly stupid come by without weapons or someone to ditch who can't run away fast enough. Just because someone is nearby doesn't mean a damn thing to a monster. Instead of trying to bend the monster's iron into a heart like a circus clown with a latex balloon, keep it strong and dry. No matter how convincing or beautiful the twisted iron heart becomes, it's still the monster's calling card, and his best weapon.

Always remember that iron monster. He can masquerade as whatever he wants, but he's still a monster. If tears and low voices feign concern, the monster can't cry. If the testimony of a friend doesn't want to mix friendship with love, the monster must remember his iron. Love is for friends. Love is for the truly stupid. Love is for the masquerade, especially if it's something cool like a fake poet that does more lines than he writes, or a counterfeit pirate with a cool costume and a rubber sword. Love is not for iron monsters, even me.

I'm not armed: I let it get wet. Hope might be my sword, and faith might be my armor, but it's not iron. It's rust.

Screwjob

This is ridiculous. Carl Froch lost tonight to Andre Dirrell. I'm beside myself.

Showbiz

I don't wish Rush Limbaugh any harm. However, I do wish he'd notice that his experience at ESPN was a terrible idea, and that he should stay off the Sports page. He didn't know anything about football then, and he still doesn't. Sometimes, he touches on important subjects that the mainstream media does not. However, Rush Limbaugh is an entertainer that makes controversial radio. His show would be boring if he just covered news: nobody wants to know exactly what's going on in Washington. If people cared, Anderson Cooper's ratings would trail C-Span's. People inside the federal triangle, the White House, or on Capitol Hill won't change their minds about him if he buys the St. Louis Rams. All it's going to do is put him on the sports page and sports television where he can be a lightning rod for idiots and sports announcers.

Hope Glows

A little glow this evening
Illuminates the moment
A once lost face now found
Is lovely in the light

A smile and a greeting
Once common, then made scarce
My hopes and spirits soar.
"Goodbye," she said, but briefly.

Perhaps she can't remember me;
More likely, there's no past.
Each moment leaves me lonely
My solitude seems endless

No art of me exists;
My asymmetric feelings
Dominate my thoughts.
Your grapes outweigh my body.

Florescent light recedes
As I pass through the door.
A bag of food on sale:
Dessert, milk, and cans.

Momentary hopes
Lapse back to the familiar:
"Hello our old friend
You should know our names by now"

Shine

I can't be like the rest of you. I can pretend, living like I'm a dose away from your reality. Truthfully, every moment has a glow. Mostly, I spend my life looking at the bits of life that shine to me. Unfortunately, my only candle in an otherwise dark room is this, a place and a time where I can do nothing but string together pretty words and approximate a relationship with the truth. I don't lie, but I am blind to what goes on around me. I'm never certain of my location unless I'm in the Void where none of you can find me, or care to look. When there's nothing left but pain, ask me about my treasured moments: That is where I shine.

Food Blog from San Francisco

The food I've eaten in San Francisco so far is fantastic. Yesterday I had a mighty Mahi Mahi fish sandwich. It was perfect, quite possibly the best fish I've ever had anywhere. Annabelle's Bistro--which is the name of the restaurant--served up a thick fillet of Mahi Mahi with a custom aioli, a peach salsa, lettuce, and a big stack of sweet potato fries on the side. The fish was divine, and the sweet potato fries complemented the food very very well. Overall, the sandwich was well worth the fifteen dollar cost! Last night, I had Venison at Schroeder's restaurant in downtown San Francisco, and I had it rare. All the venison I've eaten in my life was cooked to annihilation; last night was different. I loved it. As good as Bambi tastes cooked to death, he's that much better with a little cool center. The restaurant served the venison in a traditional berry sauce, which was great on the meat, but not so swell with the spaezle. As I write this post, I eat at Lori's Diner; it's ok. The food is a little above IHOP in quality, but not enough to justify the increase in cost. However, they have freee WiFi, which makes up for the difference and then some. The Hotel wants fifteen dollars per device per twenty-four hour period. Needless to say, I won't pay. I'll post again from the next place that gives me free WiFi to update my so far excellent culinary adventure in San Francisco. Go Terps!

The Flying Pellet

I'm watching a TV show on Kung Fu and Dim Mak. One of the kung fu Dim Mak techniques is apparently a carotid artery attack. That's the same position as a rear naked choke, except the pressure is applied to the arteries instead of the trachea. Every Brazilian Jiu Jutsu white belt will know that thing. All Chinese medicine aside, that's the same "standing strangle hold" anyone can learn from plate 195 of Farmer Burns. Sheesh, I was expecting a blow to the head, liver, or spleen. "Dim Mak" can be as simple as a carotid artery attack. That's neither mysticism nor a secret. I learned Dim Mak from Randy "Macho Man" Savage. Apparently the will to kill is the difficult part, not the way to kill. Weapons and techniques don't really matter: a meat-maker is a meat-maker no matter chemistry or mysticism.

If you fancy an analogy, as I often do, give me a .45 and I'll show you the "flying pellet spin attack." It's a vital points attack to the side of the head. The temple of the skull has five lethal points.

Any strike to those points with the proper technique will result from a blow insufficient to dislocate an attacker's wrist. With time, proper breathing, and practice the flying pellet can be applied from fifty yards or more.

We can make some groundbreaking movies featuring the spinning pellet from horseback, which takes a lot of skill and technique. Tom "Sensei" Mix will be our first star. He's just a movie star, though. His flying pellet attack never faced competition.

Of course, real flying pellet masters don't advertise nor do they directly compete against each other. In fact, very few use the old Equestrian artifacts. The attacks are simply far too lethal to use in sports.

A few hours late

I'm a few hours late this week. There's nothing beautiful in my head right now, and nothing ugly.

Ridiculous Garbage

Paul Malignaggi won tonight. Three fixed judges robbed Pauli, the New Yorker. I love Texas, but I hate this garbage coming out of Texan officials. Juan Diaz lost. 118-110 is a ridiculous score. I never want to see Gale Van Hoy judge another fight. Texan judges are now the worst. Even the worst European judging doesn't come to this. Malignaggi is righteously angry. He's a champion; Diaz is not.

Blog Ressurected

This post is the rebirth of my blog. I'll force myself to write something every Thursday, so weekly updates become the absolute minimum. My pen made a few poems in the difference, but "Stitches" is much better. Epics are my aspiration, and I'm looking for Calliope.

Grape and Olive

I never ventured far away from the comfortable zones where I grow grapes and olives. Even the iron-shod, rugged sandals of my Legion cannot adapt to the cold; the soldiers need full boots. My borders surrounded all fields suitable to my particular agriculture.

Somewhere to the North-East, the Germans cut carrots. They slice off round sections, and serve them hot with butter. Even the crudest field kitchens here cut carrots into long, thin triangles served with oil. From the dryest lands of the Parthians to the wall I built in Britain, all people ate, slept, and bathed in the same fashion: Roman.

Alarmists in my comfort zones still fear invasion from the Germans, the recovering Parthians, even the Nubians from the South, across our lake. However, the best among us know that my most dire enemies don't come from without, but from within. In the sands of the arena, my blood lust and cowardice grew. It's a simple thing to see a man killed while tied to a post; it's something completely different to kill a German with a gladius while he fights back. I'm accustomed to pain and bloodshed; watching it just removes my sensitivity to the realities of pain elsewhere.

Many years ago, I defeated the evil genius that haunted my nightmares. We fought first against the knowledge of his father, created a fleet, and matched his best efforts with Roman precision and ferocity. We fought him in Italy, Spain, and even the native shores of his home: Carthage made him strong. I chased him too long, and made him a bitter old man before he voluntarily ended his life with a poison. Romans know poison better than anyone else. In time, we razed Carthage and sowed the fields with salt to prevent recurrence. The evil genius still haunts me, despite his death and hundreds of years without him at my throat.

When I stopped conquering new territory, it was the beginning of the end. Reason fell long before the Palatine Hill. Emporers provided no comfort, merely strength. The Flavian Ampitheater fed my decay as the Praetorian Guard slowly tucked away undue influence, but that is all academic. By the time I knew the end was near, I could not stop it. I can move my capital East; I can grab a hold of a new religion that venerates the cross I used for my enemies; I can even buy my freedom for a time.

Now, the last bastion of what I was takes shelter beneath the Cross. I'm largely forgotten, but I live where it's safe: my home is the stacks of memories kept secure by time and the records of others.

Somewhere to the North-East, the Germans slice carrots into round, orange medallions; now I slice them in the same fashion. They still drink beer, and they still serve food with butter. I continue to drink wine, and serve food with oil, as my legacy fulfills itself anywhere man can grow grapes and olives.

Take It or Leave It; I won't eat at McDonalds

I love sports, boxing in particular. I got this link from my brother. I think it's telling what McDonald's will do for a buck. The world hates us chanting "USA" at sporting events, and considers our country despicable. A little loyalty from McDonald's would be nice. This post isn't about politics, it's about fair weather johnsonism. I love professional boxing because I can cheer for whatever fighter I choose, and even change mid-match. I cheer professionals who know how to behave in a ring. Courage decides everything in my choices to cheer. The Olympics, as I see them, are supposed to be a collection of amateur sportsmen competing for personal and national glory. I watched the "Dream Team" in 1992 and loved it like every kid did at the time. However, I think it destroyed the Olympics in the long run. Now, the Olympics are blatantly about money, not courage. Even Olympic boxing is dead: bad fighters tend to get gold medals and good fighters tend to get bronze if they medal at all. Thanks, McDonalds: you put your money where your mouth is. You showed no integrity in sticking by our country that made your corporation successful. Go ahead and cheer for China, Ronald. I'll cheer for courage; you'll cheer for money. I hope America at large finds out where the Double Arches plan on making a buck this summer. They won't make one off me.

Beauty Behind Me

Puzzled by the beauty
Behind me on the train,
She doesn't know I'm writing
Of her, not dreams or pain

It's rare I write of someone
When I don't know her name.
I think I'll call her "Laura;"
Petrarch did the same.

He named her that for sound:
For puns, for words, for diction.
He lost her in the plague,
But that is not my fiction.

My Laura sits behind me
And doesn't even notice
My pencil on the paper,
Erasing why I wrote this.

Peter's Cross

I see the cross and struggle;
His faith, my faith, the same?
By day, I face his challenge;
By night, I hide my shame.

What chain of lies is this?
I only wanted love.
For love, I write my cantos;
For love, I look above.

But love was there, below me.
I thought she'd understand,
We're strangers, now I know.
Bad timing? No, I'm damned.

The venom in the poison
Already taints my veins;
The demon she let loose
Leaves ink and other stains.

I'll die alone, I fear;
My solitude won't save me.
It works for some, not others
I close my eyes to see

That every morning's sorrow
Is strangled in my hand.
I want to smile, I do!
I think you understand:

I can't, I won't, I shouldn't
Be loved, be wrote to cherish.
All madness loves itself.
And in my arms, I perish.

Peter inverted his cross.
Me? I mount my verses.
I'll live, but no one knows me,
In darkness, teeth and curses.

A Poem for the Stage

I don't like most poetry delivered with a live voice that dies on the page. I wrote this poem a long time ago in loving admiration of the poets who can both write and speak. That's not me, but this is where the night takes me.

STOP

I try to write and

stop

my words are like a grain of salt
thrown into an ocean

my brackish tears do nothing
but wrinkle my paper
smudge my glasses
and drain me of fluids

as I write and

stop

with a staccato rhythm
flowing in my head
telling me it's all ok
if i just

stop

and listen with the rest
to unending teenage love songs
that never spoke to me
while i struggled
and purged
and bruised
in pursuit of a spine
to

stop

the pain that I feel
i made for myself
i made for everyone
around me
and in my head, I

stop

to wonder about writing
as I grab the blade firmly
not too hard, not too soft
just enough to cut
just enough to

stop

fooling around and listen
to the voices in my head
instead of those sincerely
looking at me writhe
in the dance of a drunkard
with nothing in my belly
but a pill
and a pill
and a pill

It just makes me want to

stop

smell the roses
feel the sun (cloud) on my face
and feel the tears (dye) in my eyes
as I sit waiting (watching) on a train
to nowhere but suddenly

stop

Broken Victory

My wings spring forth to fly
Away with pretty verses,
But armless, I can't touch
And faceless, I can't see.

For now, I'm Roman marble,
Copied from Greek bronze.
Was I once a pillar?
A caryatid beauty?

I sold Rome's victory;
My armies conquered Gaul.
My peace made men of letters
To read what now is lost.

My strength once martyred men;
I shamed my own arenas.
Eventually, I changed
And stood against false prophets.

But they don't need me now,
I'm useless and forgotten
By those who would now sculpt me
As memory in stone.

My Victory is shattered.
Every line seems incomplete.
I represented triumph,
But now, I am the past.

Fourteen

Fourteen years, I'll post more later.

Wrong Twice

Pavlik wins the decision. I thought he'd knock out Taylor for sure. I'll have to see the fight on replay next week; I hear it's a tough fight to score.

Wrong Once

Kimbo Slice by first round ko. This guy can hit with power. We'll need to see more of this guy.

Predictions

Kelly Pavlik wins via tko in the 5th round

Tank Abbot wins via tko in the 1st round

I Lied

I'm not museless. I speak to the muses daily, but there is no response. I'll even forget their names tomorrow.

Calliope, I love you, but I can't be you. Your songs of deeds force my pen, but instead of Roland, I only grant you Old Gan. If I wrote a thousand cantos, they would be for you. I know you only through the tip of a fist that never belonged to me. Perhaps that's why I chose Gan: I couldn't bear the thought being him, so I tried to change him. It's been too long since I slapped someone in the face with a gauntlet for you; if I did, the only thing I'd notice would be my own pain. My fists never felt good on someone else, but the fists of others seemed to revel in mine.

Clio, if only I could make you, they might understand. I know you like I know myself, but that's not enough. I fantasize for a footnote that clings to my best words.

Erato, I don't know you. I know only how to seek your phantoms through words. You never spoke back to me with truth. I confuse you with Calliope because, in the end, my hundredth canto is in pursuit of you both. I find nothing.

Euterpe, I lost the bucket in which I can't carry a tune. It makes for awkward sentences, like these. My only trace of you lives in my precise line breaks I expect everyone else to find. People in general lost that bucket of mine first.

Melpomene, I exceed excess. Tragedies come out in literature through the excess of virtue. My virtue is endurance, my excess is this. Catharsis should happen with every one of my cantos, but they just seem to elude me: I don't have an imitation of an action. I only have the silence at the other end of my pen and voice.

Polyhymnia, I found you in my Grandmother's margins. Proverbs was a lie, now it isn't. The Song of Songs remains closed, but not of my choice. I read Solomon's words and came away with nothing but rejection when I applied them. When I ask to see my accuser that incurred the wrath of Proverbs, I'm always referred to Melpomene, but that's not in your books. If there is a template to bridging the gap between your words and mine, I would follow. What is a madman to do with scriptures besides seek a flock of pigs that only sing a goat song in tongues I'll never learn?

Terpsichore, I don't dance. Sometimes, I wish I did, but those moments are fleeting. I would end up with a crow's legs and mask to match: who dances with monsters?

Thalia, you're my mask. It's always funny until I say my peace. I make you into hamartia, too. Foul language and a cocky grin are great for laughs, some know that isn't me. They don't call anymore. Most of them never did to begin with.

Urania, my most vivid memories of stars never touch you. Every last point of light is an illusion: those warped perceptions never match the patterns of my peers. The stars that light my imagination haunt my nightmares. I'd point every last one out, but the patches of light to me are blankets of night to others.

Quintana over Williams

The fight went for Quintana. He got inside, and roughed up Paul Williams with right hooks and straight lefts. Once again, Harold Lederman's scored the fight incorrectly, but the old man's been fading for a while now. Quintana landed punches with ease: Williams' defense was terrible. A real puncher would take out Williams quickly. Sometimes I get a bit awestruck by fighters with a huge reach advantage and a gaudy record. The main lessons learned from this fight are that Antonio Margarito, Paul Williams' best opponent prior to tonight, isn't as good as advertised, and Miguel Cotto's the real deal. Cotto laid Quintana low: the fight was not competitive. Here's to me being wrong!

Ding A Ling Man

Darnell Wilson won that fight against BJ Flores on my card 115-113. It was a close fight. How any judge could see the fight going 118-109 the other way is beyond me. ESPN's compubox and Teddy Atlas agree with me. There were some tough rounds to score: I could see a draw if the judges like movement over aggression. What I saw was a scared fighter running away, landing a spare jab a couple times per round. One jab doesn't even come close to a hook and a half. You don't have to out-slug a power puncher to win a fight, but you're still expected to land more punches; BJ Flores didn't even come close.

A lot of bad decisions come about because judges look for remarkable moments in an unremarkable fight, particularly if those moments look like favorite moments of that judge from other fights. I'll give you a hypothetical example: I loved Pernell Whitaker's performance against Julio Caesar Chavez. Whitaker fought going backwards and landed some excellent shots; Chavez couldn't hit Whitaker at all. Most boxing fans and judges who weren't the official judges thought Whitaker was robbed of a victory; the official result was a dubious draw. The outcome forced the boxing public and a lot of judges to look at fights differently. At times, Flores-Wilson looked like Whitaker-Chavez: Wilson landed about ten shots per round, and spent most of the fight chasing down Flores; Chavez did about the same offensively against Whitaker. The fights looked very similar: the fast boxer runs away, causing the puncher to only hit air with reaching punches. However, Flores threw nothing back: he landed about seven punches per round. Whitaker won the fight in most fans' eyes by punching back effectively through Chavez' defense whenever the Mexican dropped his guard, which was a lot more than seven times per round. Still, most of the three minutes of every round was Chavez chasing Whitaker and missing. I can easily imagine a bored judge looking at Flores-Wilson, and thinking "Gee, Flores isn't being hit. This fight looks like Whitaker-Chavez," without actually counting punches Flores landed back at Wilson.

Picking the Punisher

I'm going to pick Paul Williams by decision. If Carlos Quintana gets on the inside, he must continue fighting and hurt Williams: if the Puerto Rican allows himself to be clinched, Williams will keep his huge, ten-inch reach advantage on the outside where it matters, and outpoint Quintana badly. Paul Williams is a very active fighter. He throws huge amounts of punches over all twelve rounds. I don't believe Quintana can outwork Paul Williams in a pure boxing match. Every second this fight turns into a brawl is a good second for Carlos Quintana. Both fighters are southpaws; sometimes lefties confuse other lefties, too. Paul Williams already beat a world-class, short southpaw in Sharmba MItchell. However, this is Quintana's first fight against a world-class left-handed opponent.

Surprise!

Saturday's boxing match between Paul "The Punisher" Williams against Carlos Quintana looks like a great match-up. I'll post my prognostication later; for now, I'll just speculate over something I found on YouTube.



Don Frye is a professional MMA fighter, and he's the one knocked out in this video. Throwing a punch takes a fraction of a second: one good shot, or in this case, two, can end a fight more quickly than any submission attempt. It's pretty clear that Frye wasn't sucker punched, but he looks drunk, and is obviously not ready to fight. That's the defensive value of surprise. This fight is over before anyone gets a chance to consider piling on, especially in the stupidity-enhancing environment of mass alcohol inebriation.

Grappling is great for challenges and duels, but if you're on the ground, you can't run away from anyone. In general, I wouldn't want to take a fight to the ground if the other guy's friends want to participate. There's no sense getting kicked in the head if retreat is a viable option.

Giants

Not boxing, not MMA, but still pretty sweet.

Thank you Giants!

Half Right

Frank Mir won via submission in a minute and a half; it was a toe hold, not an armbar as I predicted. Noguiera won by a guillotine choke in the third round, but only after a prodigious beating at the hands of Tim Sylvia. I'm not surprised at all. I thought Sylvia would put enough damage into Noguiera to get the knockout, but Noguiera hung in there like he did versus CroCop, and got the submission. All in all, a contest of skills lost by Lesnar and a contest of wills won by Noguiera.

I got all the information on these fights from Sherdog.com. I don't see myself buying an MMA pay-per-view, but I'll be sure to catch the fights on replay.

New Focus

I haven't written much, here or otherwise. I want to change that, but I still feel museless. For now, I'll write about boxing mostly, both to keep my polish and because I love to see courage in action. I just saw the main event on Showtime Friday night: Alfredo Angulo knocked out and totally outclassed a tall, rangy boxer-puncher named Ricardo Cortes. Angulo is a great finisher. He has legitimate power in both hands, great hand speed, and an all-action style. Questions remain about his defense, chin, and endurance. Sometime in his career, he will face a fighter who can take his best punch over multiple rounds: we'll know if Angulo can be a world champion sometime soon.

I watch MMA now, too. It requires a lot larger skill set than boxing for success on a championship level. No MMA fighter stands a snowball's chance in hell in a boxing match against a world champion boxer: boxers hit way too hard, way too fast. The reverse is also true: without extensive training for the pure boxer in wrestling, submission fighting, and defense below the waist, any MMA fighter would just take down the pure boxer and submit him in under two minutes.

I like to know a little about my subjects before I put pen to paper or open my big mouth: my last post on the topic was a little bit ignorant. My knowledge is now much broader on the subject. I'll compare MMA and boxing in more depth later. Before that happens, I'll give a prediction on who will win Saturday's big MMA matches: Brock Lesnar will take Frank Mir to the ground. Mir will pull guard, and armbar the former professional wrestler in under two minutes. Tim Sylvia will knock out Noguiera in the second round. Sylvia's punches (but not his kicks) are a lot harder than CroCop's, but less accurate. Unfortunately, Noguiera's striking defense isn't good: he's there to be hit. Despite an iron jaw, I see Noguiera taking loads of punishment at the end of Sylvia's jab and right hand because both punches are longer than Nogiuera's takedowns. Keep in mind, MMA is a lot harder to pick winners beforehand. Even the best fighters lose a lot: there are just too many ways to end an MMA match for handicappers to accurately assess competition. Only a fool wagers money on MMA. Lesnar could easily overpower Mir, and repeatedly punch Mir in the face inside the submission specialist's guard, and Noguiera, another submission specialist, could take the big man Sylvia down, and submit the awkward American with a wide array of arm locks, leg locks, and chokes.

I'm Museless

Until recently, my writing was more effort than inspiration. For a month, I haven't written. I can only pen so many rhymes and blog entries to Prester Bane. For now, I'm left without a muse: the time passes with no reason to write but my own meandering experience. There's no seal in the crimson skies for sonnets; she never was what I built her to become. There's no beautiful princess in Black and Yellow to elaborate with blank verse; I destroyed the words. I'm left with not even a faceless foe to hide my Monster; I'm plain to those who read. Even now, I'm waxing poetic and I'm not fooling anyone.

Espada

I enjoy eating meat, especially if the cut is so rare that it almost seems raw. Right now, my pen is my espada; I held the tip in protest of my hunger for understanding. My left hand grips no muleta; the only thing I hold in those sinestrous digits is my old Bible. Not the one many of you see me with these days, this book is a thicker tome with no concordance and far thicker leaves of paper. It's a cheap, cardboard-bound hardback with a faux gold finish. This is the Bible I took to school once upon a time; it was like carrying a saying "kick me, I'm churchy." I didn't care too much, though. When I had trouble sleeping back in those days, I just gripped this Bible and dreamt I was in the arms of the Lord. I slept there often. Now it feels like a memento from an old friend that doesn't talk to me anymore. I haven't read from it in years because I don't like the translation. The poetry is terrible. Some translations strive to instruct the reader, while other translations speak to the ear of every poet inspired enough to take a look. Psalms is terrible in most English translations meant to teach: my old, friendly, cheap hardback follows that trend thoroughly. The only thing that stands between me and meat is my pen; my protest is over. Feast with me. Talk to me. Tell me that I'm still close to the book in my left hand, no matter how many years, bulls, and rare steaks dwell between this moment and the last time I slept in the arms of the Lord. Come to me as the freshly masticated flesh drips its fat down my chin; seek me as I seek you. Until then, pray with me in the only manner I can sustain alone:

Take me Home
Take me home
Take me home, lord,
Take me home