Tag Archives: Something Old

6 O’




There’s festering green schlep
On the cream cheese for my bagel
I stare at the gunk on the knife
It smells like STD spirit
Empathy ugliness
And no one wants to eat you.
To the garbage—yet another bill
My internal moanologues
Drowning out PBS
Something about Srebrenica
Remember that?
Catch a glimpse
I feel cursory shallowness
Watching hungry armless children


Crumbs lodge in toothy gaps
My daily neurosis
Often in competition
With too-thin unloved blondes of soperas


Is beginning to hurt my eyes.
But I, Validation Junkie
Am unwilling to take the blame
Of changing the channel.
It is so easy to go in one direction and then,
Still go there.
An uninterested life,
Suddenly caked
In jaundiced cream cheese.


In unprecedented 8 degrees
Do not attempt to remove internal thermometer


Ha Ha Ha Ha
I heave
Dry, phlegm-less vomit
Rib cage hurts
Shoulders sag


Conventional wisdom
Seek Annan’s manhood
Defy the figurehead, Brother
Resuscitate the organization
Keep peace
Don’t enforce it!




30 Peacekeepers > 30,000 Muslims
Mozlems, Mozlems, who are they??
NATO fashionably late
To this Slabomêlée
The request was on a wrong form
Fuel was thirsty
Let’s triplicate!
Punctual Milosevic
When merciful
Shot us down
In the streets


The __ Clock Bombing

A camcorder’s vision of sitting on one’s hands.


You are far too good-looking!
Who could cleanse your ethnicity?
So much for the home court advantage
And of being male!


Let the children be
Passports to freedom
From everything.
But what about Aicha my rabbit Ma?
Let’s smoke the peace cigarette.
Ma I am hungry, and it is getting cold here.


I won’t be your last cigarette UN Enforcer!
Keep standing
Arms folded in supplication
Drink my wine
You instill the power in the Rat King.


Control S
Allah wont save You
We, who, even paid for the fuel
Will not survive this, Gloria…
Side Airbags: that is the answer to everything.


A promise on paper napkins
Made over drinks
In a silent forest
While we ran for cover
40 mile > 15, 000 Marchers
Where is the promised homeland?
Presents exchanged
Heinekens tossed
Danced in the puke blue caps
Muscling legs


We, here
We, made dinners


7,414 men no longer exist.
Only 70 have been identified
And returned to families.


Why can’t I rid my mouth of mold?


Necessary Chaos

Bitter are the words we use

When we admit

That we love someone

Ashamed accents

Thought of surrender

In these times

Such a sin

We prefer our pickled existence

Swimming in vinegar

So much more focused a job

(Energetic, complicated)

Than lying in a beloved’s arms

Engrossed in therapeutic naked confessionals

For if we all healed ourselves

What would the shrinks of the Upper East Side do?

Who would fill up office spaces with pleather?

Why would anyone care about anybody else’s business?

When the only juice that matters

Is the one between you and me

Religion, tenets, isms, hyperbole

Would be flushed down the toilet bowl

In God’s master bathroom

Where would the world be then

As we know it today?

Corridors we rushed through

Would bear silent homage

To unheard footsteps

Elevators which shot us up

To our corporate images

Saturated with cast-off pin-stripes

Sophistication we lived by

Blown away

In the smoke you & I create

There may occur


Would I then

Care about the muscular strength of your ideas?

When the whole world has gone

Hare Rama Hare Krishna

And would you love

My vulnerability?

When it can be bought in tepid bucket-loads

At your nearest, friendly, drug store

Would anyone be tranquil?

If that was the way the world swayed?

Necessary becomes chaos

To have pockets of peace

Even if lined with lint

And overwhelmed

By the mothballed odor of preservation

Seldom used

Unless in




Et tu Brutus?


Caesar ceases to think

Only lives on as a legend

Manifested through hardcore marketing

And a parasitic estate

Which refuses to go hungry

By letting a dead man die

But I am still alive

Feel me

Still breathing

I am not the 10

Contrived out of myth

Just a catastrophe

Molded so

By other accidents

Often forgetting

There is more to me

Until you remind me

And I get lost

In the nutrasweet of your liquid voice

To wake-up again

Translucent stains

The only proof that you were here…

Stumbling through a somnambulist’s haze

I enter His bathroom

To purge


My life force

Drains away

In a weightless sound

Which only You can hear

But refuse to

For We both know

I am a compulsive screamer

Une Liaison…

The first real love story I deeply felt in my bones was Mamet’s “Sexual Perversions in Chicago”. Actually it was the movie version “About Last Night”, with Rob Lowe at his prettiest, and Demi Moore, when she still looked human and not the divine incarnation she currently is. I was 12 or 13, and somebody left the video in the VCR (that’s what we had before DVDs children).

I really shouldn’t have watched it, but I did.

It was the 80’s, and the sexual revolution had come and long gone. Love had new rules, yet we still yearned for permanence, even the dysfunctional one of our parent’s mistakes. So when Lowe (don’t ask me the characters names, to me it was much more real then that) gets asininely provoked over Demi leaving a Tampax wrapper on the bathroom floor, you know then it should have been better left at the one night stand.

Yet I fell in, head over heels. Not with Lowe, or Demi-goddess for that matter, but with the vulnerability of two unbaked people trying to stretch the ephemeral one-night stand into a relationship. At the pit of my stomach I hungered, hungered for the warmth, the warmth of the fleeting, it’s so much more precious then.

Modern love.

These days, its surreally different. We live in a world of arrogantly-demanded haves, without a concept of those who may have-not. Nurtured on a diet of Hannah Montana and Dark Knight, little children daydream of being princesses and superheroes. And they grow into divas with an Amazonian appetite for the self. Enough to fill the river, the forest, an urban jungle or two with utter dis-balance, in order to negate the proverbial void. Perhaps they have it right.

We grew up a little more insecure. On days I was over-compensating I’d allow myself a Cinderella complex, worshiping the emotionally incapable Heathcliffs and Darcies of my Bronte/Austen infused youth, but disallowing myself to formally attend the ball. The self-attention-deficit combined with the unrealistic expectations B/Hollywood gave me about the L word, curdled odd fantasies where deprivation was not only an essential ingredient, but the culmination of it. The beloved would indeed not only un-notice my devotion, but his oblivion would actually land death and me in a scraping match. My pre-pubescent delirium saw me accidentally locked outside in thunderstorms, perhaps floundering overboard, trapped in a tower, and other such masochismos, until I was nearly lost and HE–the inevitable HE–but had to realize my utter adoration for him.

Pain seemed to be an ordained pre-requisite for fulfillment. Even then, the only way I felt deserving of return of affections was if I did not relent despite torture, ambivalence, distance, abhorrence, contempt, and just wretched misery for a good long while.

Even then!

And there it is. Everything I had ever anticipated has come true.

Rob and Demi, in a Mamet-created bar scene hell, make each other miserable. But apparently in this day and age there is no easier way to be together. How did I know at 12? And why did I imagine that this self-perpetuated prophecy of mutually assured destruction could actually result in something healthy? I mean who really cares in this day and age how loyal you are? What matters most is how pissed you can get on the moment someone misses a basket with a Tampax wrapper in the bathroom.

And then all hell breaks lose.

May the gods give us all mad-basketing skills.