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

Pavlik over Taylor

Leave it to boxing to get me writing again. Kelly Pavlik was almost out on his feet in the second round. He took fifteen flush punches as Taylor brutally knocked the challenger down; if I were the refereee, I would have stopped the fight. However, this referee let the action go into the deepest, darkest dungeons of danger that only boxing will sanction; it's been a long time since I've seen a fighter battered that badly, only to rise again for a TKO win five rounds later. Pavlik fought a truly great fight, and deserves every ounce of every belt he won tonight from Jermain Taylor. On display were the best human qualities in boxing: determination, strength, endurance, and especially courage. Boxing ignores some of humanity's worst vices to display those virtues. Cruelty, pride, and even a bit of anger exchange between the gloves and skin. Both fighters struck hard and often; both were down, but only one got up. Congratulations to Kelly Pavlik on a great performance.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

I can’t say for sure how I feel about the motives of my tormenters. Their thoughts don’t exist for me, and their memories are always shorter about pain than mine. Many would consider me weak for exposing my uncertainty and doubt about which path is the straight and narrow through Void, and which path leads me through the meandering experiences the rest of you enjoy on your way through this Land of Nod, East of Eden. I know that I am not alone in suffering. Many have it worse than I could ever piece together with my nightmares. The rest of you have each other, and the society that honestly leaves you with more than an empty hand, a stack of verses, and a set of claws that always come out at night.

I don’t know if I’m a child of God, or just a colony of thoughts hiding in a hole desperate to be known, desperate for my punishment to bear meaning aside from my pain, desperate to be peaceful, to be pure of heart, to be merciful, to be hungry for righteousness, to be meek, to mourn, and to be poor in spirit. In pursuit of these ideas, I bear witness to everyone who will listen. Am I a spaz with a penchant for fisticuffs, or a child of God? I'm alone in this hole, that's how I know it's not the right place to be: Heaven has more residents than me alone. No matter how hard I try, what I do, what I say, or how I feel, I will always know solitude means living not only away from the rest of you; solitude means I live away from God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

In high school, I was voted biggest spaz and most likely to start a fight. I didn’t go to the senior banquet which distributed these awards. When I was in the mental institution, the ward elected me president of the patients: a patient who coordinates the snack pantry with the orderlies and other small tasks. It’s a tiny little honor, but it moved me. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged. I wasn’t out there for someone’s amusement as I got angry. I became comfortable with living as a joke in high school. In there, like most social situations, I was awkward. I rose above it by making myself into a big, flamboyant character who stood out: black leather gloves I never removed in public, a black leather jacket, a colored shirt, and asymmetrical paisley neckties. I liked my look. I became the role, I liked it so much. Then, unlike now, infamy comforted me. I knew as long as someone was laughing at my expense, or everyone who thought me suitable to insult in absentia at the senior banquet, I had a life away from the caged lion I quickly adopted to the exclusion of the rest of me. I still live with a hole in me. In private, I call it “The Old Wound,” a term I use in public to mean my damaged right ankle. The Old Wound never healed.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.

I’ve seen God, if only his hands. I’ve also seen Prester Bane, who is without a face. I try to be consistent in the path of conditions that seek to sour my heart. I’m pure in my eyes. They are intended to see, but recently seem unable to love. When I observe love in the trials of my life, I see people who share more in a glance than I share in fifteen blog entries. Nothing gets past me, but I can’t offer an answer for my favorite questions. I don’t know why I’m here; I know only what everyone else will show me. I can see God in his word and in hands whose example I seek to follow, but my affections remain aloof from me. Unfortunately, the more I temper my anger with scripture, common love falls away from me. I’m left with my thoughts and a quest for mercy in the face of uncommon love: the kind of love that follows around the thirsty with a bucket of water while doubting salvation out of sheer loneliness. Adam gave a rib long before nakedness meant sex.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

Mercy is a complicated subject to me. I see it largely as the other side of hope. Sometimes, all I want is for everyone else to see how much my life hurts. Other times, I just want peace. If hope carries those who believe in it, they will continue. Mercy-carriers who believe in a fashion similar to me look to help those in need around them; effort is welcome, determination is required, but continuance lays in the familiar hands of a good friend, family, and the Lord. We’re not all made to continue. Some of us hurt for a reason, and deserve mercy.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.

Hunger and thirst work on a very corporeal level to teach us either pain or other essential parts of life. My thoughts don’t work well, so in the end, I usually must use my body to praise the Lord. I rarely do this through fasting; my way is exhaustion. If I pace long enough into the night, I fill with first breath, then thoughts, then speech, then the kind of fatigue I usually need for sleep. I also bless myself with pain. Only rarely do I use corporal mortification. My favorite pain is the sweet hurt of resting an exhausted set of knees: That feeling when I don’t want to stand up after a good pace blinds me of my problems for the entrance of slumber usually with a prayer to return home. I find myself back with Prester Bane in the morning, and my patient quest for exhaustion.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

I have troubles being meek. Despite my youth underfoot, I find submission difficult now that my life is not under a set of knuckles. I spent so much of my life avoiding two beatings instead of the none I deserved that I just don't want to give up any of the carnal control I now see as my right. I was closer to The Lord in those old days. I could pray without interference, and I felt a small degree of empathy for the cross. Now, the voices take over during moments of concentration or self-attention; I'm also completely unwilling to return to any state of power under pain. Once again, my intellect calls me to go with God, but my life always seems to revolve around fights, arguments, arrogance, and a mortal refusal to submit to any man.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Intellectually, I don't believe capital punishment or vigilante action to be just. However, my temper often leads me to situations where my intellect cannot protect me from my frenzied bloodlust. When injustice is profound, I often become as unjustly motivated as the target of my outrage. Sometimes, I shudder to think what I could do while confronting an unjust situation. I don't think anything causes my temper to explode like abusive behavior to children. I know the difference between defense wounds and accidental scrapes and bruises. There are times when I see or hear the marks of abuse in public, and all I can think of is approaching the obvious abuser and pointing out his cowardice and cruelty with a direct threat. There are times when I hear about captial punishment in action and can only think good riddance.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Sometimes, I struggle with humility. I fumble around with poetry seldom worth reading, by Cicero's scale or any other systematic approach to time-wasting. I don't know why I feel the need to be understood; the pursuit of happiness has brought me none. Still, I write. As I put every popular song written for teardrops into my mental catalogue, each one makes me feel closer to that breakthrough I so readily covet. The songstress' name doesn't matter anymore: most of the songs sound the same to my weary ears. To a certain extent, the music industry, poetry, and the art world trade tears for tender. Most songs in my library are sad ballads whose authors could never know how perfectly their words reflect my feelings during any number of my psychotically-fed, dizzy moments, but that's not the point. That perfection is the foundation of my megalomania; still, I write. If a songstress can pull such profound emotions out of a song that has nothing to do with me, I can write a poem that does the same. So my lack of humility is threefold: I believe I can write well enough to be understood; I imagine that somewhere out there, someone will read one of my missives with the kind of perfection that lingers on my lips when I listen to Alison Krauss sing about a lucky one; finally, despite the intellectual and historical undeniability of the falsehoods in first two folds of my humility, I still deeply harbor the notion that I will be heard, understood, and loved peacefully in the same manner I imagine when I listen to my favorite love songs on radio stations brokering in unrequited affection turned commercial with a few songs from a silver disc. Still, I write.

The Same Song

The Choir sings while the Scabbard Man follows the Many Armed Knight straight to me. I don't think I'd mind as much if the song isn't always the same.

Hello our old friend
You should know our names by now
He doesn't want your help
Or your love
He wants only our Mercy
Don't worry, we won't hurt him
And you'll never hear him scream

We have all been weighed and found wanting

Keat's Grecian Urn calmly says that truth is beauty. I must dissent. The truth is strong, but weaker than opinion. Facts don't lie, but people do. How many people have ever truly loved the ideal gas law? It brings not one truth, but three. All literary characters, by necessity, must resemble autobiography or biography while simultaneously being neither. How many can love truth? Few try, and far fewer still succeed. How many people have a favorite movie? How many have a personally beloved law of thermodynamics? We love movies, music that sings to a "you" several million times per day on everyone's cd player, ipod or radio, and we associate actors with their roles more than with themselves. I am no different. My poems and remarks I share here are all genuine, but in the end, we are not who we say we are. We have always been and will always continue to be the products of what others believe us to be. Thomas Jackson does not exist. I always tell the truth, and hold nothing back. Unfortunately, there are none close enough to confirm or deny anything for certain. Those of you who venture too close may only come away with bits and pieces of truths, all ugly. When all that's left of me are those verified morsels, and weary sets of thumbs passing by my words in print to seek a poem by Nii Parkes, only the thumbs will matter.

Sparse

My blog is obviously sparse. I'm writing this to change that. Unfortunately, I'm watching Ali/Frazier III, so I'm in a bad mood. Angelo Dundee is in the studio talking about the fight with a few other boxing personalities. According to Angelo Dundee, Ali called Joe Frazier an Uncle Tom in jest; while some might think that indifference mitigates Ali's remarks, I think it just makes the venom sting twice as badly. Keep in mind that Frazier helped Ali while Ali was in exile for refusing conscription. If Ali didn't mean it, why did he say it? If the sole motive in saying something so obviously false and demeaning is a few chuckles, why would any civilized person say those horrible things? Dante leaves the ninth circle for betrayers of their benefactors, I think it might be appropriate for "The Greatest." I would probably think nothing of Ali's remarks if the tenor of those remarks aren't completely disregarded, or if Ali's losses stick to him in the public eye. His nickname says it all for me: "The Greatest." He's not the greatest. Jack Johnson--who has always been a personal favorite of mine--fought in more adversity. Rocky Marciano has a better record. Joe Louis and Larry Holmes have more title defenses. Larry Holmes knocked out Ali. Joe Louis also had a longer reign as Heavyweight Champion.

Why is Ali in such high esteem? This observer thinks Ali's most memorable moments were in front of a microphone. The Foreman fight was amazing, in all honesty; it was Ali's best moment in the ring. Ali had a great chin, probably one of the best. I'll admit, I like Floyd Mayweather. I like his style. I like his abilities. I also like his record. Undefeated is undefeated. Floyd seems to win fights despite his talk. It's generally considered to be a flaw in his character, if not a flaw in his boxing prowess. Ali said far more horrible things to Joe Frazier, and people love Ali because of them. Ali's mouth, no matter how false and hurtful the remarks, is still lauded and touted as a wonderful thing. Ali's losses don't stick, especially in the press. The media still plays "Down Goes Frazier!," Howard Cosell's famous remarks from Frazier's two fights against George Foreman at every available opportunity. Those same outlets, including ESPN Classic, almost never replay Cosell's call of Ali's brutal knockout at the hands of Larry Holmes. Ali's no bum, but he's not the best fighter ever, either. He's a media darling. I hate media darlings.

Sleep is good

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but being unconscious in slumber helps me forget the visions which would otherwise burn into my retinae. That was today.

In Pursuit of Happiness

Nothing beats choosing bone and waking up to the same. I will sleep some more down in my lair. Only good swimmers can find me. I doubt any would try.
.

Bone

Today was hell; I choose bone. Good night.

Steel or Bone?

Counting doesn't help. I don't think any sentiment will reverse my fortunes in struggle. From moment to moment, I might seem ok, but I'm not. Eight years ago, the verses flowed off the tip of my pen, and every last one was beautiful, strong, and important. For a time, I thought I could beat this. Signs pointed to yes; not everything was bad then. I had effective medication, a circle of friends, and a supportive family. I firmly believed the notion that deep inside, in the breath of my smallest voice, lived redemption. Nothing could be further from the truth.

My poetry had three distinct phases, the burning era, the lion era, and the post-leonine awareness. My first poems featured fire in a realm of almost pure fantasy. I lived for days in the Void, observing and recording the behavior and customs of my Void's visitors and inhabitants. The terror came from these visitors; I didn't want to be discarded in the fashion most people discard people like me: promises, proverbs, and snake oil. Clearly if nothing improves once given the customary line of dismissive drivel and pointless, clueless pep talks, the blame rests squarely on the crazy person to most of you. That was the burning era; vitriol, violence, and intelligence make fabulous company when no one else will speak.

The lion era fell on the heels of a revelation: the fundamental truths in my poems were bits of me that no one wants to hear. People could appreciate the more familiar imagery of lions, wildebeest, and water buffalo, but remain more aloof. I assumed for many years that the violent vitriol of my character was the part most despised. I was wrong. I delved deeper into the Void, and thought I found the distasteful sections of myself. Your world and my world would see eye-to-eye from time-to-time, and it is the memories of those years that help me know that change is possible, no matter how unlikely.

That unlikelihood sparked my post-leonine awareness. I'm not a Lion anymore: I can't run and my claws are lacking. I learned the secret of my solitude from a once very dear friend of mine: this whole thing, every word of every struggle, is pointless. The parts I want to share, all of them, are but worthless sources of sentimentality. My withered pen so accustomed to writing beautiful nothings, accomplished two very solid conclusions. Firstly, no one wants a ticket to the Void, even if only to visit. Also, anyone foolish enough to choose the inside of my gilded palace of sonnets to be with me would never stay. All things come to pass; some can feign surprise, but not me. The same voices of my past and future are always right: this is pointless, and no amount of beauty can make this strong.

Steel or Bone?

Long Slow Grind

There is no good news to report. It's just more of the long, slow grind. I take every day as it comes, and search for blessings to keep my spirits. I usually find solitude in my own monkish way.

Cezanne painted onions with sprouts. I believe he painted the onions as he saw them: as onions grew slowly, he painted their progress. My regression is much the same: no one who stays around me a lot sees the slip. However, if the curious reader observes me over years, my onions grow sprouts. All I can do anymore is follow around those sprouts with a pen that never seems as ready as it was yesterday.

If You Can't Sing . . .

Your lyrics should be brilliant. I loved Kurt Cobain. He couldn't sing, but his lyrics were so unbelievably pure and true that he wasn't made for the fickle world the rest of you inhabit or even the flatness of mine. He was so true to himself that he transcended music to me. Kurt Cobain spoke in a voice I could understand. He had many imitators in his time and ours: nothing annoyed me more than the legion of plaid flannel-shirted posers that showed up for the first day of school in eighth grade. Their favorites were Pearl Jam and Nirvana, in that order. I never understood Pearl Jam's appeal; they were so sensationalist and fed off the spirit of the times instead of adding to it. If he were still alive, I know he'd hate my politics, and a good portion of what I listen to musically, but the world is always full of meaningless variety. We'd agree on Leadbelly, and probably Robert Johnson or Son House. My look in those days was very different: I combined long sleeve broadcloth shirts and assymetric paisley neckties in a wide array of colors with a black leather jacket and a pair of leather gloves I never took off in public. Nobody dressed like me, and I purposefully dressed unlike everybody else. Perhaps I was the biggest poser of them all. Kurt Cobain hurt like me, but turned it into art in ways that I can only approach. People will listen to a rock star more than a fumble-mouthed poet. I purposefully know little about Kurt Cobain aside from his music. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't appreciate art that needs a long-winded preface or tons of biographical information on the artist. I should be able to listen to a song or a poem, and appreciate it for itself. I love Kurt Cobain's music, and I'm sad that there will never be more. I will listen to what he left behind and respect his privacy and choices. If it takes living how he did to make the music he made, I can understand anything he decided to do in pursuit of art. I also think we should let his genius rest; he made music I love, and now he doesn't. He's in my prayers when I steady myself enough to speak to the Lord. Our prayers will lift us all.

Boxers Earn What They're Worth

MMA fighters make less. It's not the popularity of the sport, it's the way UFC pays its fighters. Oscar De La Hoya won $25 million fighting Floyd Mayweather. How does that square with the puny amount of money earned by MMA fighters, especially considering the UFC's huge yearly draw? I like boxing because fighters who put butts in seats and persuade people to pay money for Showtime, HBO, and PPVs get a fair slice of their worth. There's no star quarterback, star shooting guard, or star designated hitter who earns disproportionate amounts of money for little parts of team sports. Some sports franchises are pure toys for their owners, but boxers are in the game for their own money, and earn exactly what they're worth. MMA fighters show the same courage and determination as boxers, but appear to be servants to the owners of their promotion. There might be some under-the-table funding for MMA fighters, but that bill would have to be pretty damn hefty to pull UFC fighters even with their boxing counterparts. Apparently, the UFC is better at making money from its fans, but a lot worse at paying the most important parts of the business, the fighters. I'll continue to watch both boxing and MMA for the quality of character shown by both sports' participants, but if boxing dies or takes a second seat to MMA in the public eye, I'll always remember that boxers pay their promoters, not the other way around.

Lover or Fighter?

I'm a fighter. Love is great, but all I know in the end is pain and conflict. Sometimes people love too much, and fight too little; I am the opposite. I rarely love, and I seem in constant contention over something. No matter how small, I will find a way to turn any situation into a personal competition. I've tried love before, but there's just too little on my end to avoid constant repetition that will chase anyone away. If I could change anything, I probably would have learned how to be a person first instead of a fighter first. Now, I live in deep water fueled by the animosity of a life made to fight.

Floyd Over Oscar

Floyd clearly won that fight. The judge who scored the fight for Oscar was wrong. Fighters have to hit their opponents to win; Floyd landed more punches than Oscar. I think Floyd won the second half of the fight without a doubt. My scorecard: 117-110 for Floyd Mayweather.

A Question

John 18:38

"Pilate saith unto him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out again unto the Jews, and saith unto them, I find in him no fault at all."

In this verse, we have the opportunity to receive the direct word of God on what I consider to be the best virtue of men. God gives us no verbal answer. All we find is a Pontius Pilate who asks the basic question of morality, and instead of sitting around to hear the answer from God, he turns his back and flees the room at the critical moment to announce that Christ is innocent. Is this because of impatience or because there is no answer? I don't think so; I think Pilate's question has an answer, and Christ could deliver it. Unfortunately, I think probably most of us and definitely Pilate already believe to have the answer, and that answer is a lie we tell ourselves. The Gospel authors wait for Christ's crucial words on this, but they'll have to wait for first hundreds and then thousands of years. Without truth strictly defined, there is no one answer on how to teach or read God's word. We have four; each one is different, and none can truthfully be replaced entirely by another. In my interpretation, Christ didn't answer because neither Pilate nor the rest of us will ever accept submission to his truth. From God directly to Adam and Eve, to Cain to Abel, and Moses to David, we have Biblical evidence that those who come after ask questions that can be answered in the lives of their forebearers. Over and over again, we live out the same human mistakes, only to face the same human consequences. Some day, perhaps some day soon, I think we'll all understand God's answer for the truth, even if we seek to disagree.

3:13

11:19

Slowly into slumber,
Racing for cold sleep,
Come fast, the time I covet
With dreams I'd like to keep.

I'm desperate for my peace,
So eager for relief,
Thoughts that always wander
Repeat my daily grief.

I tire of truth and wisdom;
I yearn for long knives and loss.
My moments spent like this
Pull focus from the Cross.

How much of me is Simon?
How much is still Barrabbas?
The thieves next to my savior
Seem closer with each pass

Of breath between my lips,
On words that slip my tongue.
The bittter moments' names
Are songs that stay unsung.

But none of this is rest.
I count a thousand sheep.
Give mercy for exhaustion.
Cut down what's left to reap.

2:32

I See Something

Those were Max Schmeling's immortal words before his fight with all-time ring legend Joe Louis. The Brown Bomber dropped his right hand when he jabbed. Schemling took advantage and knocked out the undefeated American heavyweight, usually considered as one of the top two heavyweights to ever grace the ring.

I see something in the disclosed details of Oscar De La Hoya's match with Floyd Mayweather, Jr. They are both required to wear Reyes gloves: the last brand of glove still padded with horse hair. Floyd has brittle hands; he's broken them in six different places. For the past few years, he's worn Winner gloves from Asia, known for their extensive foam padding. I still think Floyd will win the fight, but remember those gloves if he winds up with a broken hand or two.

Mike Anchondo

How far has he fallen? Mike Anchondo, formerly nicknamed "Mighty," goes face-down in the mat in the third round to a little-known fighter named Darling Jiminez. The weak chin Anchodo displayed in his last meaningful fight recurred tonight in D.C. One left hook struck flush on Anchondo's exposed chin; Anchondo fell, unconscious, with his eyes still open. It was a brutal knockout. However, it was apparent that the D.C. boxing commission wanted Anchondo to win. The bell for the end of the second round came a full minute early! Jiminez knocked down Anchondo earlier in that round, and had the betting-favorite Anchondo in deep trouble. Like a guardian angel, the grossly incompetent or totally corrupt timekeeper rang the bell early to rescue Anchondo from a sure knockout. All the help from the timekeeper didn't change the outcome, though. "Mousy" Mike Anchondo finished the fight flat on his face against the canvas.

Chagaev!

The Russian giant Nicolay Valuev lost a competitive majority decision against the little-known Uzbeki-German fighter, Ruslan Chagaev! Guts and determination beat the yardstick and scale; I love it. Not even a 90 lb and eleven inch disadvantage turned back the will of Ruslan Chagaev. Furthermore, Rocky Marciano's heavyweight record of 49-0-0 is safe from any numerical challengers at the moment.

Two bits of good news

My best friend in Tulsa dragged his feet for a long time on telling people, but I can finally post that he and his fiancee are having a baby, and it's a boy! He's going to be a proud poppa! I've known for a while, but haven't been able to post about it because larger players than the general public needed to know first. Congratulations, Jason!

In other news, I was re-baptised Easter Sunday. It was very cool; one of the parishoners brought back water from the river Jordan and put some in the baptismal pool for the service. Taking the plunge again was good, but my pastor didn't hold my weight well; he didn't believe that I'm 220 lbs.

Shameful

Ok, I doubt I have any Welsh readers; if I do, take this post to heart. I don't care what side of the political fence you choose, when you boo a country's anthem, you are not booing the current political leadership, you are booing the nation as a whole. I can understand booing George Bush if he showed up to sing the anthem, but decrying the "Star Spangled Banner" as a Welsh tenor sings the song is outright shameful. This American will always love his country, and will look upon those thirty-five thousand Welsh fight fans in Cardiff tonight as representatives of their nation until Wales proves me wrong.

Binkowski

Down thrice in the first round, heavyweight Art Binkowski picked himself off the canvas with a grim determination. His opponent, Raphael Butler was in control of the fight, and way ahead on the scorecards until thirty seven seconds left in the eighth and final round. The referee stopped the fight after a flurry of punches from Binkowski set Butler to the mat. While rising from the canvas, Butler spit his mouthpiece twice, and did not respond to the referee's instructions, giving the referee no choice but to stop the fight in favor of Binkowski. Toughness still means something, even in the heavyweight division where you can bring as much weight for your punches as you want.

Every Day Ends

Pills mark the exit. Today ends like the others: television I don't need to watch, unpleasant urges to write and the words that go with them, silence in the air that won't reach my ears, and the exit. Recommend submission all you want; it won't happen. I lived under boots and smiled too damn long. Compromise always came too easily to my youth; I'm capable of anything. I'm torn between the exit and something more permanent. Hope or mercy, help me choose. I'm a fighter with broken knuckles, and a lover with a lie for a heart. Give me an inch; I love to take miles. When I was in eighth grade, I helped my teammates make weight for club league junior high football. I ran slowly, but eventually I caught them all. One by one, they fell to the side. I don't know how many laps I ran, but no one on my team ran more. Training injuries stopped all that, though. My psychosis came on their heels. Now, I don't feel the burn in my knees. I have my knuckles (broken), my urges (pointless), my tormentors support me (I need them), and a handful of pills to make the rest of you feel like something can be done. That's my exit.

Thirteen

I argued with myself on the decision to write this post, or live through the day without comment. This morning told me not to write. I was also called "humble" by a very attractive woman. The cause for both escapes me; I'm usually arrogant and verbose. I stared at the screen for a while trying to write a brief letter to a parishioner at my church currently serving in Iraq. All I could come up with was "Thank You."

Today is the thirteenth anniversary of my madness. It started as laughing at the back of my ear. Today, the sympotms have names, voices, personalities out of my control. Most of my time is out of control. I look fine, but I'm not. I'm in a good mood, but my symptoms are spiralling. I've got a smile on my face, and so does The Harvester. Usually he stands behind me, and scythes me down like so much wheat. Today, he went out of his way to stare me in the face.

I just walked away and looked in the mirror. I have The Harvester's smile. My claws are coming out. Old visions fit my gaze like Christine's curves as I remember them, but this is not about her. Prester Bane would smile if he had a face. Both my hands grin like fools; my fingers float over the keys, with only the tips of my talons touching plastic.

I'm not fighting tonight. I don't feel like fighting. I won't do it. They don't sleep.

Tempo

The war in my head accelerates. Things change quickly now. I don't know what to do. Horses made of midnight, and the Lions of my youth chase me through fields of my own invention, but not of my design. Today, I spent a long time in The Void, and I don't know why. For a while, my friend Kris talked with me, and the tempo slowed. However, that was a fickle reprieve. Right now, I sit still, trying to outlast the Scabbard Man, but he can wait, too. I hope to do some missionary work with my church tomorrow; I try to be a good ambassador of my faith.

We Watch

We watch him more than you know. Every day ends like this. We stare at him and wonder why he hasn't taken anything yet. He sits and knows what we're after, and doesn't even care anymore. Who is left? Tell us who is left! In the end, we struggle in here; you don't. Trap a monster in a shell. Go ahead, try it. Look at us. When was the last time we all got together and told him any of our secrets? He has no secrets, but we do. Whisper them quietly, and he won't even notice. No acrostic name poem can identify us. You will never see us. No words from the past can capture us. Nothing exists outside of our influence, at least to him. Call him "friend," he will listen. Call him "brother," he will fall. Call him "love," and watch him douse desire with the aether. He knows the Act of Faith. Meet us in the middle, and both sides will fall. If you get too close, we might even add your voice to our choir. Those of you who know him, know this to be true. Sing for us. Laugh for us. Disguise yourselves, and make him believe again. This Void is ours with his smile. Eyes tell much, but we can say so much more. Listen to us in the silent moments between social episodes: you will hear us howl. When the rest of you are afraid, we sleep softly knowing that anything you do will never come close to changing us. When you are indifferent, we will spin the room, tearing sight into lines of perception taken from our song. When you finally know how deep wounds must pierce to reach us, we will laugh. Twelve is enough; thirteen won't prove anything but pain.

On Throwing Stones in a Glass House

When will people learn that Grammer is in Indiana?

I won't say much more: I don't want to talk politics here or anywhere else right now. I'll stick to geography. I'd flame "robert," but that kind of thing is fruitless. I will use my time for better things. Tomorrow, I'll probably go call a bingo game over at a nursing home near my house.

Hector and Esther

I make up little stories about people I see in passing and don't want to forget. Yesterday, I saw a man in an unbuttoned tan leather coat running in Washington D.C; I named him Hector. I'll never forget the look on his face; he showed obvious physical fatigue, but his eyes showed something more. That's where Hector's story turns. He's running down L street desperately trying to catch a bus back to Union Station before Esther, his girlfriend of three years, leaves Washington D.C. for good. Hector loves Esther, and for a time, she loved him. Esther wrote about her Hector in her diary, and how much she wanted to marry him. Hector and Esther used drugs together since before they fell in love with each other. Esther offered Hector his first high: she was a small time dealer on the side. Esther quit selling and doing for the baby. She went cold turkey and beat the craving, vowing never to go back so her child grows up safe, strong, and proud to be Hector Avanti's daughter. When Hector didn't follow suit, the two lovers drifted apart. Hector Chased the Dragon. By the time Esther joined the Baptist church, she had less and less patience for Hector. She bought one-way tickets on Amtrak to New York, and looked forward to a new life in a new city full of surprises without Hector. No matter how fast Hector runs, he won't catch Esther; she's gone. Sometimes people like Hector have to lose parts of a good life before finding a whole one.

Come and Take It

Molon labe

With the new movie "300" coming out to mark the valiant stand at Thermopylae, we should also remember its 19th century equivalent: "Come And Take It"



This flag flew for the Battle of Gonzalez, in October of 1835. It predates the Alamo, and is the beginning of Texan independence.

An acquaintance of mine from New Jersey says Texas is just like any other state, but with a bigger ego. I'll admit I've got a little self-importance about me and my favorite place, but Texas isn't New Jersey: Texas is an idea. Some people don't like that idea much anymore, but I still love it. Nobody much liked Sparta, either. With iron currency and two kings, who has use for such a hard nut to crack? The same was true of Texas in 1835. There's no oil boom; the cattle industry has yet to bloom, all this place needed was water and good people. A common joke says that water and good people are all Hell needs, too. So why did we fight? It was the ego that made us fight. Santa Anna took our rights under the constitution of 1824. We took them back. Yesterday was the anniversary of the fall of the Alamo. I had rather bad symptoms yesterday; I didn't want my problems to cloud what I have to say, so this post is late. I wrote some Haiku concerning my time in Texas for a class once upon a time; I'll spare you from them now. Just remember the small garrison at an abandoned church, and holding out for thirteen days. No one man can speak for them or for Texas, but when we all speak together, it gets pretty loud. If you don't like what we say, Come and Take It.

Better

Monday was bad; that much is clear. The past two days were better. I played some games, lost some, and won some. My Dad had partial knee replacement surgery two weeks ago; I'm taking care of him for Lent. I think it's a worthy project; we've had difficulties in the past, as regular readers of this blog would know. It's the first special thing I've done for Lent in a long time.

Four

So I took a large dose of tranquilizers. I'm writing this to see how long it will be until my slumber takes me away. The horsemen are after me again. The first time I saw them, I thought they were polo players; they're not. These riders have sharp teeth and axes in shadows. I see them more and more as time wears on. I have trouble falling asleep; right now it's 12:52 Monday morning. When I finish this, I'll note the time.

I don't know why I seek. I know I will never find anything by searching for it. I get a little glimpse of love, sanity, purpose, and it's gone just as fast as it came. While we wait for thirty, I think I'll start making plans. It will be thirteen years next month, and I am still lost. I don't know why I bother trying. In the end, there's me and nothing else makes sense. Sometimes, I don't even want to know me. How can I expect someone to be happy with me when I am incapable of being happy with my own skin. My hand looks better to the rest of you, but it will always be the same to me. I see him; I feel him. He's mine, and you can't see him. I know us better than anyone else, no matter how much I tell to the rest of you.

12:58 This is slow

I want to be free. I have a few memories left of our life without my demons. It was unhappy then, as now. However, at least then I knew why. Depression is a bitch, and schizophrenia is a bear. I can't fight either well enough to get them off me. Every day is a challenge, especially now when I'm alone at night, and it seems like the rest of the world rests. Rest is not for me, I think. I have only pain and slumber. That won't matter for long. I'm close; I can feel it. Heavy eyelids can't come fast enough.

I also don't know why I write. It brings me nothing but pain. All the effort in the world, and I still make no sense. Understanding eludes me and makes the rest of you pause. Memories trickle onto the page, but not into your hearts. Like I've said before, this is the only way I know how to show you. This is me! This is my pain! I'm not a butcher, I am meat. I am not a person, I am a relic. I am not like you; I am a monster.

1:06 It won't be long

Check out the entrails I leave here. Nothing is a secret. Even the worst charlatan in the world couldn't mistake my signs etched in blood around me: youth is wasted on the young. Luckily, the end is close. I should be asleep soon; my stomach growls at me, but I shut it up with pepsid. This should be lost.

My intentions are to bring some kind of awareness to the rest of you. I'll never write another note; when the end comes, this will be my best epitaph a few years from now. It won't be a surprise, and everyone will know my motives. Backwards

Did you ever dream it differently? I don't think you have. With my condition, nasty accidents happen. We all know the constant nagging of doubt. Give the benefit to the rest of us; I'll stay on the other side of this madness, hopefully asleep in a few minutes or even a few seconds. Every word has its place at least once. My word right now is Four.

1:14

More Trouble Than He's Worth

I'm a bit of a Bible Boy, but those familiar with this blog already know that. For a while, I couldn't find a character that resembles me or my struggle anywhere in my favorite volume. I share a few things with Job, and for a while, I thought I shared a few more with Barabbas. However, I probably share the most with the man afflicted with Legion.

I continue my search through the scriptures, and it still bugs me that I can't find someone somewhat like me. I find my friends, family members, and everyone else I know in small measures, but that character to identify me eludes my perceptions.

The search brings me nothing, but it's part of the reason that I fell in love with Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur. I identify with Balin, knight of the two swords, heavily. He's a virtuous and strong knight who always means well, but perpetually ends up being more trouble than he's worth. He beheads the Lady of the Lake in a family feud. It's Balin who lays the Dolorous Stroke upon Pellam, the Fisher King. He's always honest, and knows that Truth is the best quality of knighthood. He's cursed, but still struggles with virtue. He's also a bit ahead of his time; he's dead before the establishment of the Round Table. His life is pain, strife, and a heavy sword belt.

I feel cursed sometimes. I also hunger for righteousness, probably a little too much. Pride is definitely my favorite deadly sin. Anger is close behind.

Pause

I want to write a pause
A space so long and deep
That it transcends the line
Vaults over the page
And only shows its sheer size
In the vacated absence of breath
The Bard promised to leave for us
But never did

I'd fill the pause
Pour in everything
Every first chance
Every last dance
Every wasted glance
In pursuit of a pause
That never meets the ear halfway
Like a staccato sonnet
Off the entrails of consumption
That most simply assumed
Was surely a broken heart
But wasn't

When John Keats and William Shakespeare
Compete for time in the pause,
That's when you know it's big enough

Big enough to wear as a hat
Heavy enough to sink a drowning artist
Attractive enough to chase
Into deep water where I make my home, but
Strong enough to maintain your street cred
When you

replace the poem with the def jam
substitute a reader in favor of a mob
swap the intricasies of verse
for this tired style, the only one you cheer
while you drink a tall espresso with no lime
no lime

Feign passion for cheers
Fake concern for sympathy
Take Maya Angelou as an idol
Be quick to offend easy targets,
And quicker to complain
When someone has the sheer gall to treat you likewise
Live the thug life just like 'Pac
Because we're cool like that

Oh yeah, and play the race card, it works.

Now that's a pause.

Read Keats!
Study Shakespeare;
Know that I'm the very butcher of your silk bullshit!
And populate your pauses
With letters, lines, and stanzas if they'll fit

Following Friendship

I lost a lot of respect for a person I can no longer honestly call a friend. He teases me, baits me into arguments, calls me stupid, and mocks me at every opportunity. However, in my usual fashion, I ignored the stones he threw at me: I guess I'm just willing to take abuse for company. As is often the case, it took a soulless, cruel, and selfish act put upon someone I barely know to force a change in opinion and action. For a while, I was ambivalent over how to react to his flagrantly improper choices. I couldn't decide if I wanted to confront him, use lower voices to get to my point, ignore everything in favor of feigned ignorance, or just sever all ties. I decided on a compromise: I'm going to treat him with the meaninglessly polite etiquette I treat to all strangers. I won't curse, I won't raise my voice, I won't even laugh inappropriately. I respect oaths, promises, vows, and statements made before God. People who unrepentantly destroy or aid in the destruction of these endangered Human honors have no place in my circle of friends. Following Friendship is the cold, inflexible, and meaningless stability of intentional estrangement.

Pipe Dreams

Peace, Love and Understanding are all pipe dreams for me. I sit alone as always, typing to a screen that doesn't type back. However, this is where I shine. I can pretend, through writing, that I'm together, eloquent and intelligent. Everything goes well until I speak. When you hear me, you'll know this as truth. Sometimes the rest of you make a little detour and visit me; I never understood why. It's clear that I'm not like you. My virtues are sure enough to earn a modicum of respect: I'm not a totally incoherent madman yet. That will change. I behave enough like a person to carry on a conversation and deceive those unfamiliar with me to believe in my humanity. Take note: I am from Deep Water, and I will return there some day, probably not as soon as most of you would like. Until then, let's play a game; I like games. I'll pretend I'm one of you, and you will pretend I'll live to see thirty. As the clock ticks away, so do I. The keys sound like the movement of an old wind-up watch on its last hour. My hour is measured in years, and my misery is measured in milligrams. Give me more! I want to feel close; I want to feel loved. Instead I'll settle for the sleep I need while I desperately desire something more permanant.

Boxing After Dark

Kelly Pavlik just knocked out a tough Mexican named Jose Louis Zertuche; it's not a shocking victory, but it is a notable one. Prior to tonight, no man knocked down Zertuche in all his twenty four professional fights. Zertuche was down twice in this fight: he was game, but just couldn't take the punches Pavlik threw at him.

Jorge Arce, with a lolipop in his mouth, came to the ring on a dancing horse. Let's hope the fight is as explosive as the ring entrance.

Arce's opponent, Ler, landed only 17 punches through four rounds. He's running away and covering up on the ropes. The fight wears on. Arce won every round through eight. I see more running from Ler, more laying on the ropes, covering up. I've never seen more taunting; this fight is a stinker, but it's not Arce's fault. Ler opened up in round nine, but no serious attempt at offence.

When Winky Wright fights, he fires back with accurate jabs and left hands. Winky seizes the initiative, and wins rounds; Ler is doing nothing.

Ler fakes a low blow from Arce in the eleventh round. Arce would win by knockout if Ler fought at all. Ler isn't fighting to win. Ler is fighting to not be knocked out. This is ridiculous. Twelve rounds to nil on my card, Jorge Arce wins a stinker and still gets an ovation. He threw lots of punches on Ler's arms. The judges gave three rounds to Ler; I don't know what the hell fight they watched.

Chant

Hello our old friend
You should know our names by now
He doesn't want your help
Or your love
He wants only our mercy
Don't worry,
We won't hurt him
And you'll never hear him scream

We have all been weighed and found wanting.

Sleep

I'm sleeping tonight, and I'm going to sleep for a long damn time. I'll make sure of that.

Hatred Fuels Me

When I was a kid, my father and brother beat me. Extension cords were fair game for my father, as was my back, legs, and occasionally arms. My brother knew no bounds. Once upon a time, I confronted him with a stick to defend myself from his wrath. He preyed upon my antiquated and useless ideas of chivalry, saying that I could set down my weapon or do the dishonorable deed of striking an unarmed man. I told him "fuck you" or some other reproachment, and set down the stick. He grabbed it, tagged me in my ribcage and broke it over my shoulder.

Many times, revenge tempted me to put them both in jail, or simply execute them in self-defense. I did neither. Now, I have to look at my father every morning, listen to him say that he loves me, and treat him as a son should treat his father. Every Sunday at church, I get to sit next to my brother and his wife. He has a life, a wife, and a future. I remain damaged goods. My father has my mother, my brother, and me I guess; that's more than I can hope. I could have killed them both hundreds of times, but I didn't; it would have been justifiable, but I didn't. I did so out of my antiquated sense of forgiveness and my often-wavering faith in Christ as my savior. It would be my hatred towards them if I would have used the law to its harshest extent, not their actions towards me.

Now, I operate with a sincere and accepted apology from my Brother. I have to forgive him no matter how much I hate his smug attitude sometimes. I never received a sincere apology from my dad, but I've grown to accept that. He hid behind alchohol then and now. It's not a proper excuse, but I have to live with him reminding me every day of power in pain completely out of my control.

Just because circumstances are out of our control doesn't justify taking life. Legally, it does with certain circumstances, but we all know inside those laws are for killers and revenge, not for the safety of the children of God. Just because a life reminds us of its injustice and horrors, doesn't give us reason to execute the human reminders of that horror, be it a brother, a spouse, a father, a lover, a friend, a son, or a child in the womb.

Old Glory and a Pirate Game

Many of you know me as a face-to-face friend in addition to my writing on this blog. I love RPGs, both playing and game mastering. This post probably belongs on my gaming blog, so I'll put a copy of it there, too.

Old Glory makes a line of 25mm pirates, including ships. I just joined their discount program, bought 60 pirates and two sloops. I'm starting a piratical D&D campaign with a world of my own design. Players will be privateer explorers who stumble upon a fantasy world in a distant sea. Fun should be abundant, along with adventure! So if you know me, and you're interested, just give me a ring, or an email, or a comment, or whatever.

Tonight

Tonight I'll be at Blue Fin Bar over here in Maryland; my friend Karen is finally playing a show within my unjust five mile limit. It should be loads of fun; she's very talented, and has obviously honed her talents well. Before I head off to see her play, I'll be at my regular Friday night Bible study group. They're good people, and they allow for some of my unorthodox (at least for a Baptist) beliefs such as my dedication to Transubstantiation, and my disbelief in eternal damnation. I'm a Bible boy, but I'm also a weirdo. Hopefully, things will fall together well tonight.

My Everyday Bullfight

I wait at the moment of truth
my sharp espada in one hand
a red muleta in the other

my only arms against my troubles:
the sword and cape are always close
to guard against the charging bull

the ring and crowd remain the same
as people stand and shout their cheers
some cheer the bull, but most cheer me

the bull is strong where I am weak
there's too much weight behind the horns
kept sharp despite their frequent use

each pass comes closer to my skin
as shouts for blood grow louder
the horns, near hips, get stronger

the shoulder grazes my left hip
they struck my right hip yesterday
and put me under very fast

I can't stop fate or alter it
I plunge my sword deep in the bull
my grip is lost, it charges still

my heart beats fast as horns dig in
my eyelids close as I fall down
I sleep like death with Thorazine

the nurses clean the ring
and dissipate the crowd
the tempo slows to a crawl

it won't be slow forever
my spirit never dies:
they can't take that away

my sword is in these verses
my cape is in my heart
I'm ready for tomorrow

I'll fight the bull again