tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17945186122105503552024-03-08T15:05:25.373-08:00ZeeA little bit of the inside of my head, out there on the web.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-2689356641723390962013-02-26T22:35:00.002-08:002013-02-26T22:35:43.907-08:00Urban HikingWhen running in the<br />
Mission, one must be mindful<br />
of the human poop.<br />
<br />
If you persist though,<br />
the views of the city are well<br />
worth the sordid smells.<br />
<br />
18 February 2013<br />
1830Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-30970714249155833502012-09-16T20:09:00.000-07:002012-09-16T20:09:43.093-07:00Happy Birthday
<br />
<div class="p1">
As the years accumulate at an alarming rate,</div>
<div class="p1">
I find myself staring thirty in the face.</div>
<div class="p1">
Not that I doubt the math,</div>
<div class="p1">
it's not the number of years that've passed,</div>
<div class="p1">
so much as what they contain.</div>
<div class="p1">
I thought there would be a You,</div>
<div class="p1">
an as of yet imaginary You,</div>
<div class="p1">
amongst other things</div>
<div class="p1">
that I used to think.</div>
<div class="p1">
No point in fretting,</div>
<div class="p1">
time passes exponentially</div>
<div class="p1">
perhaps to help us cope with</div>
<div class="p1">
the spent year's regrets.</div>
<div class="p1">
Solace in the multiple of bygones gone by,</div>
<div class="p1">
knowing they ebb and flow quicker now,</div>
<div class="p1">
time accumulating like credit card debt</div>
<div class="p1">
wiping out misfortune by virtue of its vastness.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
6 September 2012</div>
<div class="p1">
2353</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-47800072463883479512012-09-07T00:10:00.001-07:002012-09-07T00:16:06.088-07:00Company for One <i>"How could we not</i><br />
<i>have become friends,</i><br />
<i>or the kind of enemies</i><br />
<i>who must talk into the night,</i><br />
<i>just one mistake away from love?"</i><br />
<i>-Stephen Dunn, 'On the Way to Work'</i><br />
<br />
It's just the turn of phrase<br />
that my solitude enjoys.<br />
It contains the perfect drop of sarcasm,<br />
a dew of gentle depression,<br />
an aroma of hope.<br />
The poet shores up romanticism,<br />
brewed over a careful cup of coffee<br />
and perhaps a smoldering cigarette.<br />
Brushing ashes off my page,<br />
I imagine I know him<br />
as his words seep into my consciousness,<br />
coloring my thoughts with peaceful melancholy.<br />
I pay my night in tithe to<br />
our pitiful pact of hearts.<br />
<br />
1 September 2012<br />
2301Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-5586410619018190822012-09-01T22:12:00.000-07:002012-09-01T22:12:24.191-07:00Dust to DustI recently had the fortune of hearing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pete_Goss">Pete Goss</a> speak about his life and experiences on the high seas. If you've never heard of him, and I hadn't prior to that lecture, you should youtube him. His tale is pretty amazing.<br />
<br />
He's a very unassuming sort of fellow; he got up on stage in front of a room full of up-and-coming fellows admixed with huge names in minimally invasive surgery, and began winding his engrossing tale that was meant to embody leadership. It did that, but walking away I was left more with a sense of the underwhelming nature of my own accomplishments in my very ordinary life.<br />
<br />
He described his decision to build a ship and enter the Vendée Globe solo around the world yacht race; there is absolutely no way I can recreate the mesmerizing quality of his narration but the harrowing account involves a two day, hurricane accosted rescue mission of a fellow competitor who was, by doctor's accounts, hours from death. The frenchman he rescued was clinging to a life raft, having just jumped from his doomed vessel, clutching a bottle of champagne that floated up from the bowels of the ship as its last parting gift. Septic and starved, he came aboard stiff like rigor mortis had already set in though he hadn't yet succumbed. It also involved a desperate auto-surgery on a septic elbow aboard the high seas via a jerry-rigged setup of semi-sterile instruments, a mirror balanced upon a knee, a headlight, and a mainland orthopedic surgeon directing him via fax machine.<br />
<br />
After this, he asked us if we'd like to hear his next story. The one he reckoned was the more interesting one. Dumbfounded, the audience as a whole mutely nodded our assent.<br />
<br />
He's met the Queen of England, he's logged over 250,000 nautical miles, and in the end he shook his head staring out into the audience made up of surgeons and quietly said, "What you all do is truly extraordinary. I have such respect for the work you do."<br />
<br />
Needless to say, most of us internally scoffed in amazement. Nothing I have accomplished seems particularly extraordinary or unattainable by my standards. In my mind, accurate or not, I don't really consider that I have excelled at anything thus far. Especially when performing a quick year-in-review, nothing about this collection of months strikes me as evidence to the contrary. It's had it's ups, but mostly it's been full of lows that have been lower than I've previously dealt with.<br />
<br />
So anyway. Pete Goss somehow managed to make me realize that my life is ordinary, mundane. I will never meet the Queen of England, never sail around the world by myself, never be a name that anyone cares about, or a speaker anyone pays money to hear. And while that is mildly depressing, it is also humbling. None of my worries or concerns are really significant at all. Because my life hardly is. So 2012: The Year of Colossal Disasters will go down in no one's memory. Because I am forgettable. And so are my accomplishments, <i>and failures</i>.<br />
<br />
Taken in that light, I might as well give up stressing. And spend more time reading about and experiencing the awe-inspiring world around me.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-5967638480499405722012-07-10T23:11:00.000-07:002012-07-10T23:11:08.746-07:00Cash For Pretense<br />
<div class="p1">
Thank god I'm free.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It wasn't really one final failure,</div>
<div class="p1">
so much as a series of trip-ups</div>
<div class="p1">
of pigeon steps,</div>
<div class="p1">
a stack of traceable</div>
<div class="p1">
sequentially numbered moments.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Thank god it's over.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
A few qwerty keystrokes</div>
<div class="p1">
and history is rewritten:</div>
<div class="p1">
it never happened;</div>
<div class="p1">
'these aren't the Droids you're after'.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Thank god for pills and Paint.</div>
<div class="p1">
We said let's not but </div>
<div class="p1">
shhh</div>
<div class="p1">
we really did.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
10 July 2012</div>
<div class="p1">
2213</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-85264243597641202942012-07-04T22:01:00.001-07:002012-07-04T22:01:55.578-07:00Last Call<br />
<div class="p1">
Being as it's the Last One Ever </div>
<div class="p1">
it should be triumphant, finally final.</div>
<div class="p1">
The great culmination of nineteen</div>
<div class="p1">
thousand, two hundred plus hours;</div>
<div class="p1">
I spend it dozing to Fratellis radio</div>
<div class="p1">
and study materials with too lengthy answers;</div>
<div class="p1">
then trauma in the witching hours,</div>
<div class="p1">
stab wound to the neck finds me</div>
<div class="p1">
pilfering textbooks at three am.</div>
<div class="p1">
Her stoic lips tell no stories, so </div>
<div class="p1">
we settle for the men in blue.</div>
<div class="p1">
The ghosts are close pre-dawn,</div>
<div class="p1">
another face, eyes heavy with PCP-</div>
<div class="p1">
lack of oxygen but somehow lucid.</div>
<div class="p1">
If I sit up and open my eyes,</div>
<div class="p1">
I can stare out the window into yours-</div>
<div class="p1">
of a distant past reality, of course.</div>
<div class="p1">
The skyline has subtly changed</div>
<div class="p1">
but the sunsets are always the same.</div>
<div class="p1">
We began the countdown</div>
<div class="p1">
only to to find ourselves surprised</div>
<div class="p1">
to arrive at zero.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
16 June 2012</div>
<div class="p1">
1803</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-50106621890127846322012-06-05T21:17:00.000-07:002012-06-05T21:17:25.823-07:00YOLO"I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."<br />
<br />
Rainier Maria Rilke<br />
<u>Letters to a Young Poet</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
#YouOnlyLiveOnceAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-64974668986172295102012-05-21T21:00:00.001-07:002012-05-21T21:01:03.588-07:00CountdownA blurred number down, only two to go.<br />
We forget these endless days floating by,<br />
nothing if not creatures of habit.<br />
Time carries us forward, lullabied on its gentle waves,<br />
placid on calm waters until<br />
faced with change the sea breaks.<br />
Picking up the past to ruminate<br />
like smooth stones rolled in the palm,<br />
we discover them innumerable and<br />
smaller than life.<br />
Faced with the options,<br />
we find the only thing for it<br />
is forward motion,<br />
full steam ahead carried by momentum<br />
pushing towards the infinitely finite.<br />
<br />
21 Monday 2012<br />
2251Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-10498946544394750922012-05-21T20:28:00.000-07:002012-05-21T20:28:37.924-07:00John Steinbeck, On LoveNew York<br />
November 10, 1958<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Thom:<br />
<br />
<br />
We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will answer it from hers.<br />
<br />
First - if you are in love - that's a good thing - that's about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don't let anyone make it small or light to you.<br />
<br />
Second- There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is in an outpouring of everything good in you - of kindness and consideration and respect - not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn't know you had.<br />
<br />
You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply - of course it isn't puppy love.<br />
<br />
But I don't think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it - and that I can tell you.<br />
<br />
Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.<br />
<br />
The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.<br />
<br />
If you love someone - there is not possible harm in saying so - only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness in consideration.<br />
<br />
Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.<br />
<br />
It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another - but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.<br />
<br />
Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I'm glad you have it.<br />
<br />
We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.<br />
<br />
And don't worry about losing it. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.<br />
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />FaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-73963785229552543012012-05-14T20:12:00.000-07:002012-05-14T20:12:20.917-07:00Here's History<br />
<div class="p1">
Biopics have a way of making its subject larger than life.</div>
<div class="p1">
It makes me wonder how much of the reality matches</div>
<div class="p1">
the misty montages and sepia screen shots.</div>
<div class="p1">
The chronicles of the beloved TV personality</div>
<div class="p1">
somehow lull the mind into forgiveness of the</div>
<div class="p1">
vices mentioned therein; whatever the poison might've been.</div>
<div class="p1">
Married and divorced, and again, and again,</div>
<div class="p1">
with infidelities and alcoholism casually tossed in.</div>
<div class="p1">
Sons neglected, friends abandoned, and interviewees</div>
<div class="p1">
continue to chime in- the late, the great, the entertainer,</div>
<div class="p1">
the deep loss felt by a nation's brethren as one kin.</div>
<div class="p1">
Larger than life, and alone at the end- the audience feels </div>
<div class="p1">
pity but you know this story, less the soundtrack and money;</div>
<div class="p1">
we know the house stands of cards of our own making.</div>
<div class="p1">
Aspiring to greatness, and even achieving that lofty reign</div>
<div class="p1">
doesn't forgive the betrayals and choices, each decision</div>
<div class="p1">
down a path that led to your solitude, self imposed, exiled in fame.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
14 May 2012 </div>
<div class="p1">
2210</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-84477075702772399392012-05-13T21:51:00.004-07:002012-05-13T21:53:31.676-07:00DisconnectedSuddenly there is nothing,<br />
just fuzzy radio silence.<br />
A few clicks of the dial<br />
and things fall out of sync.<br />
<br />
White noise across the airwaves<br />
something familiar and oddly correct,<br />
jet engine humming on the wind.<br />
<br />
Not that I wish it different anymore<br />
but who knew even in this late hour<br />
a chink remained in the armor,<br />
an arrow in the quiver finds its mark again.<br />
<br />
13 May 2012<br />
2351<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-13190189753510293602012-04-09T20:03:00.002-07:002012-04-09T20:04:53.098-07:00Type BIt's a crap shoot,<br />
what humanity the trauma bay<br />
will deliver during call.<br />
<br />
It ends up being four<br />
Type Bs,<br />
their arrival proclaimed with the same letter,<br />
not quite as acute as the As<br />
but sometimes scarier for the enigma.<br />
<br />
It can be anything,<br />
these trauma activations.<br />
College boys full of bravado<br />
and nearly a fifth of Smirnhoff,<br />
brought in by ambulance:<br />
in this corner the contender,<br />
man vs escalator.<br />
<br />
Or next, glimpses into shadows,<br />
underworlds of poverty and scandal,<br />
rape and rival gangs,<br />
sobering the spirit as<br />
cops quietly ask questions,<br />
waiting answers from bloody mouths.<br />
<br />
Commonly, it's a motor vehicle collision-<br />
not an accident<br />
none of those in the trauma world.<br />
<br />
Fender benders, T-bones, prolonged extrications,<br />
a macabre box of chocolates.<br />
When Lincoln Navigators meet aging Escorts,<br />
the human body responds in incredible ways.<br />
Lucky to be alive, we'll tell the parents,<br />
even as the ventilator breaths for her,<br />
as her broken bones lay in traction,<br />
as her shattered kidney fights for salvation,<br />
pelvis restored and bladder sutured,<br />
knowing her teenage life is forever altered.<br />
The best the scalpel repairs, the scars remain eternal.<br />
<br />
9 April 2012<br />
2203<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-10582842467225922462012-03-21T20:31:00.002-07:002012-03-21T20:31:05.518-07:00Nothing More<br />
<div class="p1">
It is a hard thing,</div>
<div class="p1">
to turn around and walk away,</div>
<div class="p1">
to continue forward motion</div>
<div class="p1">
as my mind's eye watches things crumble.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It is especially hard</div>
<div class="p1">
because I have known the stories</div>
<div class="p1">
behind every brick, plank, and stone.</div>
<div class="p1">
These are my pathways, our home.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The tide has turned</div>
<div class="p1">
and I am told it is time to go.</div>
<div class="p1">
Despite my hesitation, still</div>
<div class="p1">
I am certain, I can do no more.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
To this journey I have withheld nothing,</div>
<div class="p1">
with patient hands my heart invested.</div>
<div class="p1">
If this labor of mine cannot hold the future</div>
<div class="p1">
then alas, my sorry steps have surely tried.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
18 March 2012</div>
<div class="p1">
2325</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-65457859244934571332012-03-13T06:15:00.001-07:002012-03-13T06:16:11.697-07:00You People'Homeless yet hopeful'<br />
I like your style.<br />
But I don't give you people dough-<br />
A smile, sure.<br />
We're all in it together.<br />
You return the gesture,<br />
and this time I think<br />
you're a genuinely nice guy.<br />
It's the first time I've felt<br />
empathy for you people in a while.<br />
Nobody's got it figured out.<br />
So who knows,<br />
hobo with the nice smile,<br />
maybe you do.<br />
<br />
29 February 2012<br />
1712Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-48045896187796896182012-02-20T21:50:00.000-08:002012-02-20T21:50:46.938-08:00UntitledIt's not like the missing-you-ache of any other relationship-<br />
it's not a co-dependent, dysfunctional, deficient ache.<br />
I am a whole person with you, unto myself.<br />
It's not a consumed, infatuated, barren ache.<br />
I am in love with you like grass grows green.<br />
It's a subtle hint of you, a familiar ache.<br />
I miss you in quiet Sunday nights<br />
of TV and pasta for one, with room<br />
for two on the couch, in the serving size of my soul.<br />
I miss you in perusing the Arts section,<br />
catching up on movies to see together<br />
which we instead watch separately in cities apart.<br />
<br />
19 September 2010<br />
2153Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-60015278916260681942012-02-20T21:48:00.000-08:002012-02-20T21:51:01.638-08:00FireflyI think I would've done it, too.<br />
He was doing all the right things.<br />
and I was being<br />
impulsive.<br />
I closed my eyes<br />
to focus.<br />
<br />
Can you will yourself to hum?<br />
<br />
Like most things visceral,<br />
the harder you try the farther it fades.<br />
I wasn't confused before,<br />
I had made myself clear.<br />
but the best laid plans.<br />
<br />
Because there it was,<br />
your voice not so much in my head<br />
as in my conscience.<br />
More than that<br />
the memory of utter relief<br />
that I could honestly answer no<br />
when you asked<br />
"was it anyone I know?"<br />
<br />
20 February 2012<br />
2320Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-51516622386402922982012-02-20T21:44:00.000-08:002012-02-20T21:51:21.023-08:00Muir Woods After a Friday in the CityBetter than coffee,<br />
or hair of the dog.<br />
Better than a slap in the face,<br />
or greasy bar food.<br />
<br />
My tonic?<br />
A sturdy pair of shoes<br />
and a long hike<br />
through Middle Earth come alive,<br />
with companions for exploration<br />
of trails and vistas,<br />
of evolution and adaptation.<br />
<br />
My tonic?<br />
A cup of good clean Earth.<br />
<br />
20 February 2012<br />
2333<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-34526654928362085182012-02-09T08:00:00.000-08:002012-02-09T08:00:58.661-08:00Secret GardenFor girls,<br />
the less you do it<br />
the less you want it.<br />
For me anyway.<br />
<br />
Perhaps practice makes perfect<br />
but it seems the longer I wait<br />
the more it builds, the better.<br />
<br />
Course lacking a partner<br />
with which to practice<br />
leaves it to fall by the wayside,<br />
to rear up in unexpected explosions,<br />
an untended garden<br />
randomly bursting into fiery blooms.<br />
<br />
3 February 2012<br />
1933Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-87037425597122885402012-02-08T08:12:00.000-08:002012-02-20T21:55:36.763-08:00Musings in CoachIn seat 14A<br />
aboard United flight 2285<br />
your life is distilled<br />
to the confines of<br />
your seat.<br />
<br />
In the succinct 2x2x2<br />
feet of space<br />
I carefully arrange<br />
foot, iPad, drink.<br />
<br />
Airplane etiquette<br />
is bizarre and dynamic<br />
depending on your seatmate-<br />
we can't all fly First.<br />
<br />
Two strangers can<br />
connect,<br />
exchanging more than<br />
incipient pleasantries.<br />
<br />
Or,<br />
stuck next to an oaf,<br />
so physically unaware,<br />
spreading mayo and crumbs<br />
on your chair.<br />
<br />
More likely to be<br />
polite & normal.<br />
"My reading light is broken,<br />
may I borrow your's?"<br />
<br />
Compact interactions,<br />
humanity distilled to a drop,<br />
a neighbor for 1400 miles<br />
forgotten at the tarmac.<br />
<br />
29 January 2012<br />
1815Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-11630670573315991522012-02-03T16:03:00.001-08:002012-02-03T16:11:22.503-08:00Thanks AlotYou know no one can say the phrase<br />
"hill of beans"<br />
without recalling classic Bogart.<br />
Thanks to the silver screen it's unusable.<br />
<br />
Shouldn't there be some kind of<br />
language equivalent to anti-trust laws?<br />
Some protection for the everyday poet<br />
against blockbusters, indie flicks, and<br />
young-adult best-selling trilogies?<br />
<br />
How many idioms and phrases <br />
must we see ruined before <br />
something will be done?<br />
Authors have rights, too.<br />
<br />
Like the Oxford comma,<br />
pregnant pauses, and speech fillers,<br />
the valiant must champion the cause.<br />
Grammar warriors, we unite to defend <br />
<br />
the irrefutable rights of speech;<br />
in a world of likes, umms, and txting,<br />
someone must stand firm against the onslaught <br />
of theirs, they'res, and theres.<br />
#grammarsnob<br />
<br />
29 January 2012<br />
1647Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-10386750395107975652012-01-19T19:57:00.000-08:002012-01-19T19:57:07.999-08:00Time on the Proverbial Couch<br />
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It is so much easier to write about things like</div>
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my encounter at the tanning salon,</div>
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where everyone thinks I'm there</div>
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for the same reason I assume they are.</div>
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Which is funny because I'm not white.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At the same time, it's nice to feel Normal</div>
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like I Fit In, even as I'm indignant </div>
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because I hate the smell of roasting flesh.</div>
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I'm there because winter makes my skin worse.</div>
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My mind goes into withdrawal </div>
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and my body follows suit,</div>
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longing for dregs of Vitamin D.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As opposed to my afternoon in the OR,</div>
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excising breast cancer with Dr. K.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Dr. K chats as he supervises me working,</div>
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ensuring no errant artery or nerve is led asunder.</div>
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We stumble upon the topic of my parents</div>
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and suddenly there's too much to say,</div>
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a paucity of words with which to say it,</div>
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and too many ancillary ears waiting to hear.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We're past the point in the case requiring concentration,</div>
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now it's rote muscle memory, closing in layers,</div>
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bringing the tissues back together minus the tumor.</div>
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Dr. K knows I'm struggling- he always knows, </div>
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whether it's with the case or the conversation-</div>
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and he leaves it be.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Good job, doctor" and he shakes my hand</div>
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over the sterile field like he is sometimes wont to do,</div>
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but this time he gives me an extra pat.</div>
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<br /></div>
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19 January 2012</div>
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2020</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-87681072348940676402012-01-10T19:46:00.000-08:002012-01-11T11:30:56.728-08:00Pathos<br />
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I have a friend named Calvin</div>
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who spreads shit</div>
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and tells lies</div>
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but somehow brings it back</div>
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to how much he loves </div>
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You,</div>
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The best of friends.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Except let's be honest,</div>
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his name isn't "Calvin".</div>
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Identities have been changed </div>
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to protect the innocent,</div>
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unlike "Calvin" who's as innocent</div>
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as he is guilty as sin.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We coddle him,</div>
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shield him from his reality,</div>
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a tacit understanding among friends.</div>
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A reticent river of deep dark secrets,</div>
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sinister insecurities only to him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It's hard to resist pity,</div>
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until you've shared a drink</div>
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which often turns into ten,</div>
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followed by reckless abandon,</div>
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"Calvin" pushing away</div>
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the demons in his head.</div>
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<br /></div>
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9 January 2012</div>
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2200</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-60570947887215200862012-01-04T21:51:00.001-08:002012-01-04T21:51:38.418-08:00Heavy Metal<br />
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The gym smells of sweat and impermanence.</div>
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Solid black rows of silent weights </div>
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next to panels of unblinking mirrors.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe that's why the gym brings</div>
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such excellent stress relief.</div>
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While daily tribulations bear down</div>
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like the weight of the world,</div>
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heavy as the bar you struggle against,</div>
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the sweat dries and the machines forget.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The scales always stand ready,</div>
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the machines unyielding to infinite reps.</div>
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Like the gentle ebb and flow of one's physique-</div>
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gym goers tending toward the extra holiday cookie or two,</div>
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then toning their resolve with a new year</div>
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or the impending specter of bikinis and the pool-</div>
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problems take on new perspective.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfeeling rows of ellipticals ridden round the moon</div>
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have pedaled through the break ups, the take overs, </div>
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the buy outs and the meltdowns,</div>
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have transformed the energy of every saddled rider</div>
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into tighter abs and leaner thighs</div>
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and brought them through to the other side,</div>
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arriving at a finish line though stationary the whole time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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4 January 2012</div>
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2245</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-59200752010908113812012-01-03T20:33:00.000-08:002012-01-03T20:35:32.316-08:00Conversations in the Car<br />
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"I'm a feminist!" she declared,</div>
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eyebrows raised.</div>
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He looked at her askance,</div>
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doubt in his features.</div>
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"Really?" he questioned,</div>
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"it just seems"</div>
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his voice trailed off,</div>
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dot dot dot.</div>
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"What?" she wanted to know.</div>
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"Well your past hardly seems the feminist ideal" he countered,</div>
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almost apologetically.</div>
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She sighed and shook her head.</div>
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If only the heart could be made to listen to the mind more often.</div>
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<br /></div>
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3 January 2012</div>
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0700</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1794518612210550355.post-35633841635285752312012-01-03T20:32:00.001-08:002012-01-03T20:36:35.219-08:00Melancholia<br />
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Crazy's only crazy until it really is the end.</div>
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Then all of your worries about the worth of the world</div>
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are suddenly validated.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Put another way, maybe mental illness is relative to its context.</div>
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For example, we'd all seem a little insane</div>
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preoccupied with raking the leaves and watering the lawn,</div>
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making our endless to-do lists and resolutions,</div>
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crossing and adding, subtracting and erasing,</div>
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if in reality, the world really was coming to an end</div>
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hurtling toward a hidden planet hitherto unknown.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It would be beautiful though,</div>
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a fiery apocalypse to end the earth</div>
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with dueling stars across the sky</div>
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and surreal shadows slipping across the lawn.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then suddenly her crazy obsession </div>
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with the end</div>
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and the evil of humanity</div>
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transforms from a deluded rant</div>
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into prophesy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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3 January 2012</div>
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0630</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04952888631834927408noreply@blogger.com0