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Sunday, December 29, 2013

Places in the Heart

Places in the heart. 
That bring me serenity. 
Never absent their vanity. 
But a moment lasts. 
Even those of the past. 

Places in the heart. 
Its a universal tongue. 
Its the song, the lips sung. 
But a dream. 
Is not all that it seems. 

Places in the heart. 
A whisper in the ear. 
A smile, and a tissue for my tears.
Lifetimes of argumentative stuff. 
But yet, a diamond in the rough. 

Places in the heart. 
Reality falls to a halting break. 
And we forget whats at stake. 
Its bliss, with one simple kiss. 
A wrist, that sometimes bears a fist. 

Places in the heart. 
Fanciful flirting, at the bar. 
Its okay, he has a car. 
The truth is what we make it.
They dance, but often fake it. 

Places in the heart. 
They're the sonnets of Aristotle. 
They're the letters in the bottle. 
Hateful harmonies in the home. 
It becomes, a silent poem. 

Places in the heart. 
You'll find it on the radio. 
And sorrow, has no place to go. 
Experiences, don't know a clean slate. 
Its the reason, that we fight our fate.

Places in the heart. 
White wines, but just a sip. 
It tastes of Adam, of his rib. 
In the end, were all but Mayans. 
We find ourselves, dying in the dandelions.

Monday, December 23, 2013

The Grinch

The trees are trembling, but there's a roaring silence in the air.
There's something in the distance, but I can't put my finger on it.
Tonight the allurement of the lunar sun sits low in the sky,
and the fall flowers are covered in the snow that my boots lye.
Buildings of bright alluring red, built of brick by hands owed their bread.
I venture out, down the cobbled stoned streets.
All the windows are tinted, but one of the exception.
In my peripheral vision, a pair of swarthy pupils glare me down.
I turn the other way, but the eyes are there as well, in a new window.
My feet, taking me far away, find themselves on the schoolyard swings.
I remember those days, I remember the school theater plays.  
Its very cold outside on this lonely night, no illuminating stars out to say hello.
By now the ticking clocks have found themselves an hour into the new day.
My hands are shaking, and my fingers have grown numb.
I can see my breath, and the sighs escaping from my lungs,
My lips have no words, but my teeth are chattering like mice. my hands are shaking, and my fingers have grown numb.
And there again, are those familiar piceous eyes in the bushes.
Staring me down, as their charcoaled flavor feathers my discernment. My chest presses to my knees, as I rest on the wood chipped ground.  
I feel a breathing down my neck, but my eyes are absent.
All I know is darkness, while the fear closes my vision.  
As they lay shut, there's a man's voice in my ear drums.
Whispering one to the two, and I'm coming for you.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Pride and Prejudice

And the phoenix cast me out like I was nothing.
And the Third Reich rose, telling the Aryans they were something.
So I stand in my humble abode, a criterion and a kike.
Not absent spite, not the absent the hope to make wrongs right.
Fuck you, if you won't join me in my Harlem Blues.
Why not chose to stand by the battered and the bruised.
You think that makes you smart?
You pompous prick, with that cross around your heart.
Sure, dance on the mountain tops,
and shout from the heavens,
and you can even shout from the Olympus pillars.
And you can tell me were all Christ Killers.
What hate brought you to my doorstep,
in your pajamas.
I guess the worlds full of Hitlers,
and ostentatious Osamas.
Laugh with me, because someday you'll see.
Your the cat in the casket, your the dog in the ditch.
But your nothing but a bitch.


Long after the bullets and the bombs have burst.
I've surrendered my nationally narcissistic blood thirst.
Nam made me all that I am. 
A monstrous masterpiece of a man. 
But now I’m done saluting for Uncle Sam.
We all have those experiences that shape who we are.
And though my spacecraft spins half way to Mars.
I'm still hear.
Shedding my patriotic tear.
It’s a post-war pontificated positively perfect place.
I'm allocating acid for’ah hallucinatory taste.
In a wonderland paradise, I've melted my mind. 
And this tingling in my fingertips feels oh so divine. 
I've ceased to be serious. 
Cuz now my fried frizzled fucked up brain is absolutely delirious.  
Are those snowflakes on the dashboard?
Is that an earthquake of tiny sell-swords?
Do I twist and contort?
Or give up holding down the fort?
The green lighter-lit Mary Jane machine. 
Is yet to be seen. 
Right now I be trippin, 
And I know its not the beer I've been sippin. 
I'm out of my head. 
And for once, I don't feel like being dead. 
As I stay glued to the skies, 
completely mesmerized. 
I'm seeing a sea of stars. 
And the little red devil Mars. 
Dancing across the constellations, a thousand meteorite rocks. 
Maybe it’ll help you forget your battlefield brothers ah’comin home in a box.
Sorry if I’m too blunt.
Napalm was the perfect stunt.
It’s not regretfully said.
That all the Charlie’s are dead.
I write this impassioned letter of shaming disgrace to you, Dear LBJ.
Because this broken heart of broken bones has something to say. 
What was once a nation of green pastries of delectable pomegranates and tangerine teethed jungles, sits in a pool of rocket-fueled flames. Blue flames and bright violent bursting flames. 
And now I’m done watching young boys kill in the name of philosophical differences amongst their fellow man, I'm done with the games. Garrisoned games, chess games and your foolish blood games. 

I Love You, Isabella Whiley

            I beckoned over my son. He always loved a good story before bedtime. “Tommy come here for a second. Sit on my lap. Daddy has a little story to tell you.” I said. “What’s it about?” Tommy said in his little cute 6 year old voice, you get the idea. “It’s a story about mommy. She wasn't like other girls. She didn’t give into the peer pressures. She stayed true to who she was,” I said. “Daddy?” Tommy Said. “Yes Tommy,” I said. “What’s peer pressure?” Tommy asked. 
            I laughed aloud and smiled. I had almost forgotten that I was talking to a 6 year old. “It’s when people tell you to do things that you shouldn’t do and you have to resist them.” I said.
           “Oh okay. I’m ready to here your story about mommy.” Tommy insisted. “So here’s the story of me and your mother’s first date. Your mother and I were at Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios. There were people in scary costumes dressed up like ghosts and there were girls dressed up like zombies dancing around.” I exclaimed.
           Actually the scary ghost costumes were men wearing pig heads with chain saws chasing people around the theme park. But am I going to tell my son that? No, are you crazy? Do you think I want to be up at two AM in the morning while my son tells me about his swine flu nightmare. No, I do not. So I’m keeping it kosher. For everyone’s sake. 
           “So then me and your mommy went on that one dinosaur ride that you like and we went into some terrifying mazes where people jumped out at us.” I said. Yah so all that stuff is pretty much true. Oh wait, no we never went on the Jurassic Park that night. I just thought that telling Tommy that would make him happy because its his favorite. “So me and your mom were waiting to ride Jurassic Park again, because we loved it so much and she began asking me questions like, what’s your favorite type of ice cream.” I said. 
           No that’s nothing like how it went. She had started asking me questions about what I wanted to do for a living. I told her about my interest in computer programming. Then I went off and talked about how my father had started his own online software company and became a self made man. I told her about how I wanted to create something for myself. 
           How I didn’t think life meant anything if you don’t leave behind some kind of legacy. I thought the date had been going great right up until we happened to run into Elizabeth Burks and her boyfriend Jason Field. But as Tommy started to drift off and so did I. I fell into a silent flashback. A vivid dream state in which I could live out the real story of what really happened that night.
         “So after we rode Jurassic Park ride again we went to go ride The Simpsons where we ran into a few of mommy’s friends from school.” I said. It would take to long to explain to Tommy that there was another ride there before The Simpsons called Back to the Future because then he’d want me to explain Back to the Future to him and for the purposes of completing this story before my son falls asleep, were throwing historical accuracies to the side. 
         So as soon as Jason and Elizabeth spot us followed us into the line for Back to the Future and Jason immediately broke out with his one liner, ‘Wow never did I think I’d see the day, Isabella Whiley and Jeremy Miller.’ Isabella told him to stop. But he didn’t stop. His next one liner was, ‘Can you put a leash on that thing.’ So Isabella took me by the hand and we both left the line, to escape from further embarrassment.
        I didn’t really mention this earlier but at school I stood at the bottom of the food chain and Isabella’s so called friends had used me as an easy target. After the little fiasco with Jason, Isabella and I awkwardly held hands in silence as we walked around the Amusement Park, riding rides and going on fear mazes for the next three hours. 
       When it was finally time for the park to close I asked her if she was ready to go. She looked at me in disgust and demanded to know why I hadn’t said a word to her since we saw Jason and Elizabeth. I questioned her right back and demanded to know how she could be friends with pricks like that. She explained how she’d get kicked off the cheerleading squad if she turned her back on Elizabeth, who just happened to be the head of the team. 
      So that’s what this is about, I yelled at her. Then she said something about how I must think she’s shallow and superficial if that’s all she cared about. I replied with, yah maybe you are superficial and shallow. She retracted, softening her words a bit, ‘does that mean you don’t like me anymore.’ I responded to that the only way I knew how. I embraced her and we kissed for the first time that night. It was angry and passionate and fucking awesome all at the same time. Then, it was over. 
      A little while later we left Universal Studios and I drove her home. I walked her to her door and she whispered in my ear before kissing me one last time and going inside, ‘I think I love you Jeremy Miller.’ I responded in kind, ‘I think I love you too Isabella Whiley.’ 
      It’s silly looking back on it now. How could we have been in love after one date? But we knew there was some spark. Even after one date we knew. It looked like Tommy was asleep. “So where were we in the story. Oh, right! So Mommy and I saw some friends at the Amusement Park and then Mommy decided to move to France to become an artist,” I Said. 
      I laid there for a few more minutes as Tommy drifted off. The truth is my wife never moved to France to pursue her career as an artist. Though I’ve always preferred the fairy tale endings. Though cancer took mine away from me. She was an artist, a writer, a painter, a musician but most importantly, she was Isabella Whiley.  

Monday, October 21, 2013

A Mother's Story

So, my 16-year-old left his Facebook page open on my cell phone and I read his messages. I could tell you it was a mistake-that I thought I was my connected to my account, but I would be lying.  I was looking for evidence to confirm that he is or is not smoking marijuana. Instead I discovered--he’s not a virgin any more. It’s important I come completely clean, I looked through his private messages and he was telling a friend how he wanted to have sex with his ex-girlfriend. I didn’t even know there was an ex-girlfriend. I felt like a fool. Not long ago he was still saying he was going to wait until he was married to have sex. I know that sounds crazy. His 13-year-old brother told him that was a stupid idea Robert, “What if you’re not compatible in bed together,” Andrew asked.

I never expected him to actually wait until marriage, but 16? He’s too young to be having sex and I thought I would know. That would be weird right? If my teenage son came to me, sat me down and said, “Mom, I’m having sex.” I just thought I was cooler than that or we had some intuitive bond, like I would know by just looking at him. I was just getting used to seeing him hold hands with his current girlfriend Bailey whom I adored, I wasn’t even aware he had a real girlfriend before.

He and Bailey met at church, became close friends, and she began hanging out at the house, swimming in our pool, staying for dinner. One day, I walked past the window to the backyard, I see Robert brushing Bailey’s hair, my knees buckled, and my heart starting racing and I hid in the pantry,  careful not to seen. I felt as if I were watching the most romantic love story ever. Then he wrote a short film for both of them to star in, and he showed me the finished cut and the kissing scene where she-her character-takes control and pulls him towards her with his back to the camera. By camera I mean laptop-that’s how they filmed their six minute love story.  I nearly died. They were sweet and creative and I’m watching my son in an “on screen” performance and I played it cool, all I said was, “wow, very believable, guys. Nice work. ”

Then she asked him out and next thing I see is them making out in the Jacuzzi, and all I could think was about him getting his heart broken if things didn’t work out which I knew was likely because they’re 16, and then he did get his heart broken.  She broke up with him because she wanted a white picket fence, and he aspires to join the military, and he told her so, and she didn’t like that one bit, and after she tore his heart out, he regretted telling her that he didn’t want the white picket fence and the dog and 2.5 kids and here’s where I should have earned a Mom medal. Inside I wanted to tell him that Bailey was a bitch, that he was better off without her. When she still came over to hang out, I wanted to give her dirty looks, and I didn’t say a word about the fact that I knew they were still making out every time they were together even though they were broken up. I knew because she joined us at my partners work softball game and they went walking around the park for hours, and when they returned you could tell they had been macking on each other the whole time.

One day one of my friends asked me if I’ve had “the talk” with Robert. “You mean like the birds and the bees?” Yes, he knows where babies come from and how they are made, and every one of his four parents has talked to him about protection and about respecting women. We’ve had the talk, we go to church, I keep a parental setting on the TV- -What am I supposed to do?

I want to protect my son from harm and broken hearts and all the stupid mistakes he’s going to make, but I can’t. He’s not six. He’s 16. He has his own ideas about life, and he has to make mistakes and fall and fail and get hurt so he can learn to get up, brush himself off and try again. I would give anything for my boys to be toddlers again, those years when I had them all to myself-when no other girl mattered more than I did. Sure chasing them around was exhausting but I feel as if I’m still chasing him, and the more I do, the farther and faster he runs. My protective behavior shows up in many different ways. Not allowing him to watch Boardwalk Empire when he asked me if he could, and by the way, he had sex pre-watching Boardwalk. I’ve tried steering him clear from the wrong type of friends, and yes, even reading through his Facebook. All of this medalling on my part are my ways to try to keep him from harm.  My intentions come from a good place and like my dear friend Jimmy continues to tell me, “he’s 16, he’s going to be on his own soon, you have to give him space.” Some parents here may sympathize with me and agree that as a parent our job is to take the reigns and do whatever means necessary to protect our children. I’m struggling with the balance and the boundaries.

Recently, in order to communicate better, Robert and I started writing daily letters to one another. These short letters, either hand written or in email, have given him a chance to not hold back about what I’ve done that’s pissing him off. If he had told me to my face, I wouldn’t be able to hear him, really hear him. What he said that stands out the most was this: “The more you try to hold me back from being myself the more I resist. It's that forbidden fruit element I guess you could say. I know you’re trying to help me and protect me but I'm going to be in the military soon, do you really think you can protect me from the world for much longer? I've decided to put myself in harms way time and time again. Whether it's to become a runaway or join the Army. It's just who I am and I apologize for that a thousand times over.”  

Did I mention my son is a Republican?  I hate war, people killing people, and I will never under why. He plans to join the military after he graduates from high school. Don’t think I haven’t tried every tactic to steer him from making this choice, but the more I tried to manipulate the situation by turning on Dateline or Frontline when there’s an exclusive about soldiers returning from war and what they really think of the US military, the more we fought, and the stronger his passion becomes.  And so I’ve decided while he’s still living at home, while I can still hug him and say good night to him each night that I don’t want to fight with him. So I don’t.  Time is short, but sometimes I just wish I could fast forward 15 years and know that everything is going to be okay. 

Friday, October 11, 2013

I Love You, Ice Cream

        Oh Ice Cream, how I love you so. What the hell is wrong with you Ice Cream? You’re just too damn good. When I finish off an entire pint of you Ice Cream, I feel like I’ve just assassinated all the time I spent to perfect my 8-pack and tighten my glutes at the YMCA. I really should have eaten you before I worked out but as you probably already know, I’m not that smart Ice Cream. I mean I did vote for Bush twice.
        Don’t judge me Ice Cream I was going through a physically conservative phase it my life. It’s so hard to eat healthy when you’re around Ice Cream. You’re like the T.C.T.F. girl Ice Cream. You know, to crazy to, well you know. I don’t want to curse in front of you Ice Cream, so you get the idea. Sometimes Ice Cream, well I’ve been eating healthy all week and then I open the freezer and our glances align. I see you and you see me.
        It’s a fatal attraction Ice Cream. You know I want you and I’m pretty sure you want me too. There are so many different flavors of the Ice Cream. Did you know there are Ice Cream shops that have ran their entire campaign slogan on that fact alone? Oh I can have you in so many ways Ice Cream.
        Oh Gosh! I hope that didn’t come out wrong Ice Cream. I’m willing to take this relationship slow if that’s what you want Ice Cream. I won’t pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do Ice Cream.
       I’m just so in love with you Ice Cream. But once again, the amount of flavors you provide is unmatched by any other desert. I mean its “Any way you want it, just the way you need it.” Wow! You like Journey too Ice Cream? Oh My God! The 1980’s are also your favorite decade for music! I love you Ice Cream, and I know this was meant to last.  

Mr. Shakespeare

        Do to a recent catastrophe Champs Charter High School has lost one of his best and it’s brightest. The English known as Mr.Bailey was found dead in an explosion at the Phoenix building. It is believed that the explosion was caused by Mr.Bailey himself during a Chemistry lab experiment. What was a High School English teacher doing in a chemistry lab, you ask? Well, with a collection of police files and LAPD investigation reports it is speculated that Mr.Bailey was attempting to cook methamphetamine with intent to distribute.

        My journalist partner Sean spoke to Mr.Bailey a few weeks before the explosion occurred and he vaguely remembered a strange smell coming from the closet. When Sean asked about the smell, Mr.Bailey said that he had been eating a lot of Taco Bell, a fast food distributor often renowned for giving customers an intense case of the diarrhea. Working so hard these past couple days Mr.Bailey said that he hadn’t even left his room, and he had now built a porta potty into his classroom closet.

        When Sean asked to see this hypothetical porta potty, Mr.Bailey became infuriated as he often does when people ask to look at his excrement. Sean said he had no interest in looking at Mr.Bailey’s excrement and only wished to see if there was truly an existence of a porta potty in Mr.Bailey’s closet.

        Though Mr.Bailey refused and Sean was left with even more questions. When he came back to me with this strange story, I asked myself if they’re anything fishy about Mr.Bailey’s recent activities.

        It was true, Mr.Bailey hadn’t left his classroom in days, and he had been spending an awful lot of time with the CEO of Taco Bell. Now looking back on it the two men must have had something to do with the explosion.

        After speaking to the LA Fire Department Sean and I were informed that in the debris and rumble they found the body of Rus Bane, the CEO of Taco Bell. Half of Rus Bane’s face had been completely blown off during the explosion yet miraculously his suit remained untouched.

        It is believed by many that Rus Bane’s suit has magical properties that only extremely rich elitist douche bags possess. The suit was given to him by the Cartel, specifically a man named Zucco. Zucco was a Cartel enforcer in the Northwest and a notorious meth kingpin.

        But how could this be? How could Mr.Bailey be connected to a meth kingpin? Sean and I only had one choice at this point. As dedicated journalists we did what we had to do. We broke into the deceased Mr.Bailey’s apartment and looked through his DVR. It was just as we had suspected. Mr.Bailey was a fan of AMC’s Breaking Bad.

        Few men in this world aspire to be great. But Mr.Bailey reached for the stars, and he ended up biting the bullet. Well actually, we later found out that Mr.Bailey had a roommate at his apartment, and he actually got shot in the face. So much death and so much sorrow. What other horrors will we discover about our dear Mr.Bailey.

        Apparently a lot. Because after breaking even more house invasion laws, Sean and I decided to go through Mr.Bailey’s personal library and w found just what we were looking for. An entire collection of books, all addressed to a pseudonym name, Mr.Shakespeare.

        It is only become prevalent in the past couple days do to police reports released to the public that the pseudonym name Mr.Shakespeare was used to buy a semi-automatic machine gun on the black market. That same machine gun was later found in the trunk of Mr.Bailey’s car.

        The bullets from the gun match those used in a recent gang shooting on a number of white-power skinheads affiliated with the Aryan Nation. The shooting took place at a warehouse on O’Melveny Avenue near San Fernando High School. When police went to the scene to investigate, they found a young Champs student, named Jessie Linkman, who was chained up at the time and covered in a pool of his own blood.

        Jessie was being held captive in an underground bunker at the Aryan Nation warehouse. When forensic blood spatter analysts tested the pool of blood they discovered some of the DNA samples matched that of Mr.Bailey.

        When Jessie was questioned by LAPD about his affiliation with Mr.Bailey he refused to talk to the cops, repeatedly referring to the police officers as female dogs. Jessie demanded that he be allowed to speak to his lawyer before talking to the cops.

        Jessie’s lawyer, Paul Roodman has put out a statement to the press stating that Jessie will be released from police custody for lack of evidence. Though the police were unable to prove Jessie’s involvement in the explosion or any of the recent deaths that have occurred, it is believed that Jessie might have been able to tell us much more about this mysterious Mr. Shakespeare.