Wednesday, December 7

Make your way down to Kansas City, Monday through Friday, and you'll find barely a spot on those busy sidewalks. Rain falls.Wind blows. Sun shines. And still the constancy of busyness pervades. Restless souls wearing thin, until you get to Al's Cafe on the corner of Ave Maria and 13th Street. 

There, each day at noon for a buck fifty you can buy 30 minutes of lukewarm solace in the company of your peers. Jan, Fran, and Betty will serve you up your choice of soup or salad either with hot-open-faced meatloaf sandwich or Al's Casserole Surprise. If you have another 10 minutes to spare, feel free to get a slice of apple pie for just twenty-five cents. 

Sunday, November 27

this is the way it is- fool
sit yo ass down
nobody told you to run off
nobody told you to go no where!
you gotta take it all in
take it, sitting on this street
listen to that train rumbling up top
look at those chips and cracks everywhere
this yo city- fool
Come on.
Why you crying?
It ain't so bad yet.
There ain't no ganstas
claiming their turf
with their o-zone killing bottles
pick yo chin up
have some pride
this is yo town
and you gotta keep living it

Sunday, November 20

Mr. & Mrs. White

The man called Mr. White
get's in his steel grey lexus
and drives away
every morning
at 7:15
7:20 am
Mrs. White
departs the house
in her starched and ironed pant suit
The Whites are seperate all day long
Typing, meeting, drinking coffee
doing those important things
that make the world
go round about
but at 9pm
both arrive
Mr. White and Mrs. White
Throw themselves on their bed
without removing their shoes! Imagine that
They jump on their bed with their
dirty, shiny, important shoes
until they collapse
and then
give eachother a kiss goodnight...................................................................

Tuesday, November 15

The witch's wedding

They say that when it rains with sun, the witches are getting married. But I know better. Three years ago on a sad October morning, I was doomed enough to be invited to a fall wedding. I knew not the bride nor groom, but I was the friend of a friend of the bride.

It was an outdoor wedding. All was set on a free lying field. The blood-red chairs were primly set in rows amongst the prickly brown weeds. Most guests were dressed in drab black clothing, but others sported ebony dresses or raven colored clothes. The witch-bride wore a bone-white dress.

When the ceremony was about to begin, all were called to order with the sound of a mournful howl let out by a mangly wolf that had been caged and tethered for the occasion.

"We are gathered here today, to witness the amalgamation of Miss Grendaline Wales and Mr. Atanacio Menacioso," proclaimed a pallid and starved looking man of enormous stature.

The groom, Mr. Menacioso barred a grin towards his soon-to-be witch wife. Miss Wales shot back a bleary stare.

"Do you, Miss Gredaline Wales, not dare to repudiate the advances of Mr. Atanacio Menacioso?"

"I certainly do not," Miss Wales breathlessly whispered.

"Do you, Mr. Atanacio Menacioso, agree upon suffering the burden of a conjugal relationship with Miss Grendaline Wales?"

"Every organ in my body consents to this union." Mr. Menacioso declared.

"It is then my obligation to pronounce you Man and strife-- uh, I mean, Man and Wife."

Upon that definitive statement made by the wedding officiant, the wind began to blow. It blew in huge billowy gusts that came in from from the warm south. It blew and made the prairie dust rise along with it. Soon the wedding party was enveloped in a cloud of grey dust. The guests began to scatter and the wedding was disbanded.

Only the witch remained, Mrs. Menacioso. She ruefully glanced about at the remains of her festivities, then went to join her husband in private celebration.

Tuesday, November 8

Educational Philosophy Parody on “Theme for English B”

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty, an average girl, born in Chicago.
I went to school there, then here, Florida.
Fifteen years, I’ve been to school
Two more, I still got
Before I’m done and in school again
But by that time, I’ll be the teacher

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
There are so many theories
So many philosophies
Well, just five
But that’s enough when you’ve got to prescribe to one
 or two
 or three
 or four
or all five

At twenty, my age, I’ve suffered them all
Teacher-centered essentialist classrooms
Rows of students paralyzed in fear at no kitten but rather
Of a rather fat cat dressed up in a test booklet
I’ve been a victim of perennialists 
Holding within a “great book” a great book.
For all the eyes behind her head,
Teacher couldn’t see my copy
Of Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging inside of my copy of The Iliad
One day I walked into a progressive classroom
The teacher put us all in groups
We built a robot and learned
About torque, levers, and voltage
I’ve been privy to social reconstruction
Now that is motivation
To seek and find a problem
Then to seek and find an answer
My mind was never idle in that class
In the class of an existentialist
I drank cool water
She let us be
And was our friend

Being me, I can never be you
Or Ms. Wild
Or Ms. Green
Or Mr. Melvin
Or Ms. Kilic
Or Ms. Miller
I can only be me
And with being me, I will carry every philosophy
I am product of them all
Of the tests
And old books
Of the group work
And activism
Of the simple, free classroom that played my kind of music and turned me into Da Vinci
For an hour

I’ve learned from all of them
I guess they all learned from me
And now we’ve both got something true
A living, flowing, breathing philosophy
This is my page for Special Topics

Saturday, November 5


'give me liberty or give me death'
she cried with all her strength
then with one swift flick
she threw the knife
that took away his breath

the crowds began to roar
and slither like a snake
soon they swallowed up the girl
and all evidence of her mistake

But still, she took off running
leaving spectators in her wake
her feet flit on the concrete
as she tried to make her break

umbrage in the park
promises of freedom
the sky turned light to dark
and the drums beat to a rhythm

Boom, boom, boom
ra-ta-tap, tap, tap
Boom, boom, boom
ra-ta-tap, tap, tap

Now the mothers are wailing
and the babes cling to their chests
the fathers are all dying
doubling over from duress

The girl? She is no more
no more a girl she is
the good season has come and passed
and exposed all that was amiss

Shared at

Wednesday, November 2


Walking up to the circulation desk,
books in one hand
library card in the other
Sliding books across the shiny, marble counter top
to the woman, who stands tall on the other side
with her mother-of-pearl rimmed glasses
nestled in the crevice of her full bosom
the glasses hang from her neck
on a glass beaded chain
She asks for my card
and without a word I place it in her open palm
I'm holding my breath as 
She slides the card smoothly, then frowns
Her lips part and she begins to speak-
But my body's turning
I'm running
I'm running before she gets me
Before she grabs my collar and shakes me
Before I'm locked up for being such a bad bibliophile 
There's a hold on my account
I'm banned 
I'm black-listed
I'm prohibited
There's a hold on my account
and I can't check out any more books

Tuesday, October 25

Hot Date

My baby took me on a hot date to a greasy spoon
"Oh, darling! I'm about to swoon!"
He ordered up a basket of 50 chicken wings 
Then our server gave us some napkins and things
The chicken came doused to the core
Could we desire anything more?
Oh, XXX HAUT--buffalo sauce!
we assured that not one went to loss
The fiery taste made my eyes turn to glass
you should've seen what it did to my-

Wednesday, October 19

Free write

I am going to attempt to free write in the most genuine sence. I am going to tyope away and not edit or delete o r change anything. This is difficult because I find that I tend to filter and want and long to cgo back and change what I expel. ther urge to revise is terrible. But maybe it is not so terrible. Maybe this exercise prooves something valuable. Writing is WORK! Writing does not happen without effort. Or at least good writing does not. The famntasy that an author is someone who sits at his table (or her table) and types uway until they've the perfect manustript completed isnt intirely true. What crap. I've approcimately 14 minutes to go ontil i will Free myself from this exercise. The minutes have never seemed longer. I wilsh I was at home. I wish I was watching a Korean fDrama. I wish I was in that world that exists outdsiede of me. I've been watching a good one. It ios called listen to my heart and it is about a deaf woman, well... does it matter? I dont want to tell you that anymore. What I want to do is quit. I want to quite this exersice that makes me feel foolish and utterly unlearned. But I won't yet. I will persists. Maybe someone will read this and be encouraged. Or maybe now.

Friday, September 30


Grey faces
Diets high in fat
Days that turn to night
Red eyes
Longing for cheap pleasures
Slavery in America is different

Friday, September 16

"Love"- Remix

Love is an emotion of strong affection and personal attachment.
a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
"So much of what we know of love we learn at home."
If you've ever been in love, you've probably at least considered classifying the feeling as an addiction
But I can't help falling in love with you
Love is the condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
let love be your greatest aim.
And can you feel the love tonight?
It is where we are
Make love to me
When the world’s at war
Let our love heal us all
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
And I will always love you.
I will always love you.
At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.

Tuesday, September 13

In a lecture hall.
Two hands pull open a bag of cookies.
Lone thunderclap breaking silence on a still night.

Thursday, September 1

Maybe I ought to write.
Just write.
I'll write until I get it right.

I'll move the words
words on the sheet
until they shine with meaning

Bang my head on my desk
I'm writing a story

I'll cry
Swear I'll never do it again
curse writing

And then I'll read what I wrote
And share it with another soul

I'll bite my nails at their response
then sigh when their head nods

Then I'll write
I'll write again
I'll just do that funny thing that makes me






be free

I will just write.

Tuesday, August 30

Dear Diary,

So, in class yesterday, if I can pretend to understand what my professor was actually saying, we were encouraged to begin thinking about our own literary theories instead of trying to adopt somebody else's theory. I think I'll try that now.

O.K. So this is what I think about literature:

I think that is the goal of writing. To write something good. Even if it is informative, it can be well-written in the sense that it has some sort of appeal and encourages the reader to keep reading.

Literature should not be something you labor over(when reading-writing is another story). It is supposed to be enjoyed, because it is a piece of art.

When we read, we always read for knowledge. Even if it is non-fiction, we are reading in order to gain access to information that creates a fictional world. Whether that knowledge is valuable or not depends on the reader.

And I guess that's about it. Those a my literary beliefs.

Saturday, August 27

Online Diary

I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to do this, but I guess I am. I am going to blog about my experiences as a grad student. ONLINE! I hope this will make me more reflective and maybe also help someone else. It should be fun, right?

So here I go:

This week marks the conclusion of my first week at grad school. I am very afraid, yet not entirely discouraged.

The amount of reading I am required to do is very large, which shouldn't be surprising since I'm majoring in English. So far, I've read everything except for one chapter. But I still have the rest of tonight, so there is hope that I will complete it by the official end of the week.

My professors seem knowledgeable and at least 2 of my classmates seem like they won't be overly mean to me. I was very worried about that. It feels like everyone in my class has an edge over me in one way or the other. Some are smarter, others richer. And me? I am just me. I have something to offer, but it isn't a whole lot, and that makes me feel like if I were in middle school again.

Well, I suppose that's it. Cross your fingers for me, will you? I'm off on one of the biggest adventures of my life thus so far.

Saturday, August 20

I thought I knew you
but then you changed
and then I knew you not

It wasn't a surprise
I had been expectant,
waiting, I was waiting

I knew we'd have to part

But I didn't know I'd cry

I didn't know you wouldn't care

I thought it'd be the other way around
you, holding your arms out to me
me, my back turned on you

I hope you're happy
I hope you'll be happy
I hope you never know that I am unhappy


Wednesday, August 10

Verbal Snapshot

In the darkness of the night, the man held the woman, tight around her waist. "I love you," she murmured to him. The man moved his mouth down, closer to her ear and whispered, "but do you love me with all your heart?"

Monday, August 8


Let me just tell you one thing: I love being happy.
Some people are adrenaline junkies- I pursue happiness.
I love smiling. Better yet, I love laughing.
I like to laugh loud and uncontrollably.
Laughter has got to be the human's purr, right?
They say that happiness is hard to find, but I haven't found that to be true. I find happiness when I get lost in a good story, or when I feel it on my tongue. Don't tell me dark chocolate never made a woman happy! I find it in rich conversation and in a restful night of sleep. Happiness is everywhere, if I stop and look for it.

Thursday, July 7

Apple Pie Not American- Experts Report

For years people have used the phrase "as American as apple pie" to describe the various aspects of culture in the United States of America. Everything from clothing, to sports, to even the physical attributes of an individual could be said to be "as American as apple pie." However, experts have recently discovered that apple pie is not as American as one would think. In fact, apple pie is not American at all.

Eve Iounn, avid reader of Wikipedia online asserts, "When you study the history of the pomaceous fruit, you discover that its origins come from Western Asia. How then can a dessert made from a fruit originating from Asia be American?"

But it doesn't stop there. Apple pie is not just made from an un-American fruit, pie itself has foreign origins. The baked dish first appeared thousands of years ago in ancient Eygpt.

Chief editor of Food-R-US comments: "Pie was not, is not, and will not ever be American."

Americans have reacted to the news quite strongly. Upon hearing the the news, many people have begun boycotting stores that carry or make the dessert. Others have placed bumper stickers with the slogan "APPLE PIE MUST DIE" on the back of their pick-up trucks.


Saturday, July 2

Summer Nights

A full moon hung in the night sky and allowed its mellow light to beam in through the open window of Jimmy’s room. The light did not satisfy itself with just beaming in however, but took the liberties to bounce and dance about the various items tossed carelessly throughout. From where he lay on his iron wrought bed, Jimmy could clearly see the face of his Superman action figure who was still poised in an act of definite defense against the great and terrible monster, Dora the Explorer. Dora had, with Jimmy’s help, mysteriously made her way into Jimmy’s room several hours earlier without his younger sister Kayla’s notice. The two-year-old would have screamed until she was blue in the face, if she knew her favorite toy had been taken, but it was night time now and she was fast asleep.

Everyone was sleeping now. Everyone except Jimmy. The house was quiet besides the gentle hum of fans gyrating at full force, trying to give relief to the house’s inhabitants of the hot, humid Florida summer air which threatened to leave them drowned in their own sticky sweat. The boy rolled over on his stomach. “Why is it so hot?” he asked Superman. The solid little man did not budge. Jimmy furrowed his brows, angry that his hero would not give him an adequate reply. He closed his eyes, but then re-opened them only after a mere four “sheep-jumping-over-the fence.” It was just too darn hot to fall asleep. Jimmy clambered out of his bed, showering chocolate cookie crumbs onto the wooden floor in the process. With a full-on case of insomnia, there was only one course of action to take: visit the kitchen. A glass of milk might do the trick.

A quietly as a ten-year-old boy can manage, Jimmy crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. He kicked only two toys on his way down and stepped on the cat’s tail just once. But just as he had his hand on the refrigerator handle, he noticed something that steered him off his course: the kitchen door leading outside was ajar. It called for an official investigation. Jimmy abandoned all thoughts of ingesting cold, creamy milk and headed into the dark subtropical night.

Once outside, a warm breeze began to tug at the boy’s pajamas and pull at his blonde hair. He resisted at first, but soon found himself helpless against its draw. Jimmy allowed the breeze to charm him off the back porch and into the yard. Soon he found himself under the canopy of the great big mango tree that stood in the center of the yard. His body brushed against the hammock that swung down freely from the tree’s branches. Leaves from the tree dropped freely onto the ground and a thought popped into his young mind. “Maybe I can sleep here tonight.” It didn’t seem too improbable, and so into the hammock he went. The hammock was soft and hugging. It wrapped itself up all around the boy and rocked him gently, like a mother swinging her infant child to slumber. Waiting for sleep to come, Jimmy shut his eyes. But, alas, there was no way to shut his ears.

Coo! Coo! A bird sang out into the night. “Hush!” Jimmy cried, and sure enough, the bird flew away. But birds always return to their roost, and it wasn’t even a minute before Jimmy’s attempt to sleep was again interrupted by the coo, coo, coo of the bird. A sigh was let out but in the end what could be said except “Oh, let him sing! At least I’m not in my stuffy room.”

Just as the cooing song became a lullaby, a new sound became attuned to Jimmy’s ears. Buzz! Buzz! Some buzzing insects made themselves known. “Are those mosquitoes? I hope not!” Jimmy turned fitfully in the hammock. Nobody likes to get their blood sucked out by those miniature vampires. He clutched his hands in desperation, but when no sting ensued, he finally relaxed. Maybe the mosquitoes weren’t hungry. Yes! That was it, they weren’t hungry. He was going to be ok.

Now, behind Jimmy’s house there lay a swampy river. During the day, it was a good place to swim and fish, however, in the cover of the night, all sorts of dangers from within it resounded. Splash! Something had thrown itself into the water. Could it be a crocodile? “No! It’s just a fish, right? Just a—” all of Jimmy’s rationalizing was interrupted by a low-pitch grumbling croaky-like sound. It was the sound of a crocodile!

Jimmy leapt out of the hammock, stumbling over his own limbs in the process, and tried to run into his house. Somehow though, he found himself paralyzed. His legs would not work for him. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to shout for help, but the words seemed caught somewhere behind his tongue. He heard another croak, it was louder this time. Was the crocodile coming to bank? The boy closed his eyes, for the third time that night, but this time it was to prevent the silent tears that promised to leak out. In such a wretched state of panic, fear and terror, the world was now becoming distant from him, and for all the noises that Jimmy had heard that night, he did not notice the noise that now entered into his surroundings.

Heavy footsteps, tramped through the grass. A click and then a boom rung out through the night. A splash, but no more croaking. A tall man, with blonde hair scooped down and picked up the little boy. He threw him over his left shoulder and held his gun on his right. “Jimmy, son. Don’t you know better than to sneak out the house in the middle of the night?”

Once back inside the house, Jimmy sat across the kitchen table with his father. A package of Oreos and two glasses of milk lay between them. “How did you know I was outside?” Jimmy asked. “Well, you see,” answered his father, “this house is so darn hot, that I couldn’t sleep, so I came down into the kitchen to get a glass of milk…”

Tuesday, June 21

A Letter to Summer

Dearest Summer,

I've missed you. It's been a long while, hasn't it? I know I had a hard time letting you go the last time we met. I hope you'll one day forgive me for wearing Hawaiian print shirts to work in September. But you've got to understand!After all, it was you who left me. Those long cold nights in January were pretty tough, too. I thought I'd never feel your warmth again. And please, don't tell me you tried to get through to me by sending your friend Spring. You know I could never exchange Spring for your beauty. Well, Summer. You're finally back. I guess there's no point in moping any longer. Just promise me one thing...promise me you'll never grow cold, no matter how many years we go on.


Thursday, May 26

A Wayward Lymerick

der wonce waz ah gurl hoo waz tyered
ov riting thingz da rite wai
sew, phun shi did hav
an boi, did shi laf
az shi rote an shi rote da rong wai!

Saturday, May 14

The Anti-love Poem

I'm not going to write a poem for you about red roses and starlight
I'm not going to tell you how handsome, how manly and strong you are
I'm not going to breathe softly in your divine presence
Cautiously pacing my words for your benefit

I won’t hold your hand when it’s raining
I won’t kiss you when you want and desire me
I won’t look into the dark pools of your eyes
Seeking for meaning and a deeper connection

I can’t bear to bare myself to you
I can’t stand to be vulnerable
I can’t allow for this senseless passion
To evolve and to grow and continue

Give me my yesterdays back
Give me all my tomorrows
Let’s stop sharing the present
Let's stop dipping our hands into the same bowl

Monday, May 2


How many?
Follow me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Oh! That feels good.
Water please.
Drip. Drop. Drip.
What’d it be?
I want that.
I want this.
Get me this.
Get me that.
Got it.
Down it goes.
Oh my!
Rub. Rub
Check please.

Thursday, April 28

Mango Madness


Hear the people chanting


See the people dancing

Round a circle
Round the mango tree
waiting, waiting
waiting patiently

First its green
then its yellow
wait until its blushing
wait until its mellow


I can taste it in my mouth


you are the gold of the south

juicy flesh and tender skin

give me a mango
make me grin

Linked to

Friday, January 7


I have this obsession which I quite can't let go of. I want to be a writer. Now, I know that if I want to be a writer than the path to realizing my dream is simple: sit down and write! Yet I can't bring myself to do it. It's as if I respect the art form too much to desecrate it with my poor form. AHHH!