At Night

the past
returns to me

from my bed
to my head

the raspy voices of
all my lovers
meld together

forming
a maddening cacophony

of grunts
snorts
sighs
cries

inhales
exhales
chuckles
giggles

the nuances of
paramours before
still discernable

despite the flood
of whispered lies
and half-truths

that characterize
every one

Bar Logic

Every drinking establishment
has its own pecking order

the hens and roosters
dispensing sin taxes

bantams
bitches
babies

barreling
against each other

competition
on a grand scale

this microcosm
of controlled chaos

-6 March 2007.

From The Birthday Letters

Except from "The God"

You were like a religious fanatic.
Without a god--unable to pray.
You wanted to be a writer.
Wanted to write? What was it within you
Had to tell its tale?
The story that has to be told
Is the writer's God, who calls
Out of sleep, inaudibly: 'Write.'
Write what?

my dear sweet child

My dear sweet child
How do I tell you
You came about one fateful, boozy night

Whose memories are now only
A man’s name
A phone number
Scrawled across a
Soiled cocktail napkin

Concealed in a drawer
Deep beneath old photographs
Newspaper clippings
Receipts
Ticket stubs

The dandruff of selves I once was

-2004

Mystical Experience, or Merely My Imagination

I.















I sometimes pass by Confederate Avenue five and six times a day.

There's a juncture, on the left hand side, directly parallel to the park. I've always sensed some sort of deep, intense energy from this point--a force that makes my whole being quiet and contemplative. No matter when. No matter what I've been doing. I've felt the same way now since I moved to Atlanta in August.

Every time I pass, I involuntarily turn the music off in my car and sit in quiet contemplation. Can't have the news on. Can't have my music on.

To most, it's just a landmark. It's just a way to criss cross back up and down one of Atlanta's main and busiest thoroughfares. I may be different. From the first time I crossed it, a shiver ran through my body. Words cannot explain the sensation I received.

It stuns me into silence even now.

That spot, which now contains a house built for white working-class textile mill workers during the post-war boom, sits directly adjacent to a yellow fire hydrant. This space has some deeper meaning. To me, it's more than just someone's residence. It's more than someone's MARTA stop.

The first thought that passed into my mind was. I've been here before.

I hasten to say that. I bring a healthy sense of skepticism to such thoughts. But something deep and sorrowful happened there. I sense some life was lost. The emotions I feel are despair and mourning and desperation all rolled into one. The proverbial stiff upper lip.

Sometimes I walk past and close my eyes and see if I can channel some of what was said by those who lived so long ago. But all I feel is sorrow. It makes me want to stand at attention.

I am Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck, walking out of the courtroom after his unsuccessful defense.




Stand up, Scout, your father's passing.










II.

On July 22, 1864, the Union forces launched an attack on Atlanta, trying to destroy its vital railroads. The last gasp effort. The effective death blow to the Confederacy. The North pushed deeper and deeper into Atlanta, creeping inch by inch. Fort Walker, blocks from where I live, fortified the Confederate defenses.

The Confederate Troops dug in, desperate to preserve their way of life. But the Yankees, too, overran that fortification.


III.

I do not know what exactly transpired at Confederate Avenue. I feel a powerful force full of devotion, determination, sweat, hell, and horrible toil. I want to know. I crave to know. But all I am greeted with are more questions.

My feelings, too, are those of deep ambivalence. Just as war contains irony and boundless devotion, so too my feelings are split. The true believers on both sides suffered.

They do now in Iraq.

IV.

I looked into the historical record of my family. My great-great-grandfather fought for the North but he would not have been there. He did not enlist until nearly two weeks later. He aided Sherman in his march to the sea. He guarded prisons.

He was not in Atlanta.

William Anderson Camp

Aged 19 years old

V.

Certainly, I, as a Unitarian, would have been an abolitionist. It's easy to casually dismiss that theory, blase, as rather a fait accompli.

But I do know that beliefs are funny things. Doesn't make them real. It's all in how you were brought up. It's all in how you were raised. I don't think liberals or conservatives are biologically created.

My father is a Reagan Democrat turned Libertarian. There are parts of me who are influenced by him. My mother is a left-liberal. feminist, Obama devotee. There are parts of me who are influenced by her.


VII.

But to return to Confederate Avenue. I find myself feeling that all war, no matter what justification is wrong. The energy involved is counterproductive.

I know what trenches must have been like in WWI. Five miles forward, five miles back. Progress measured in feet and inches rather than in miles. All these lives lost and for what? A few extra dollars? A few more decorations? A press clipping? A promotion? A tax burden? Ego? Pride? What is the sum of all of these things?

Meanwhile, the poor are duped into believing the lies perpetuated to make money. I do not fault the ignorant. I do not blame the true believers on either side. Some fought for glory. Some fought for money. Some fought because they had no choice. Some fought because they believed.

In the end, all suffered.

Narcissistic Parasitism

I.

big juicy rationalizations

I reclaim the term as
my own despite
its association from your larynx

(though it sprung
fully formed from my head as well)

What things will we do
and say to save face

II.

for example,
my great-great-grandfather

some mercenary
family myth would have it

may have actually
been a true believer

in the cause of
northern oppression

(or at least
southern oppression
of the poor)

covered up for generations
a way to keep in social standing
and not be expelled

III.

In short,

I am not Freddie
of Red Skelton fame

I did not
embed myself
in your bank account

I offered you only love
not ulterior motives

I was interested in your
mind
not your pocketbook.

But you with your
self-fulfilling miseries

your outs
your insecurities

you projected
this aura of parasitism
upon me

a trap I walked
into quite neatly.

IV.

your own personal mythology
(my term, not yours)

I do not believe in
your sob story of bootstraps
wrested upwards
abandonment

urchins cast into cruel worlds
of Dickensian poverty

You miss the cat's suede touch, Lulu.
Your lucky break
merely coat-tail riding

by the coat maker.

but who wags the tail?

-5 March 2007

Omega

I.

In times like these
I fancy myself a bit like
Alvy Singer

His face
Perplexed

where did the screw up come?

In all honesty
I might ask myself
that question forever

With that same
confused, bewildered look

II.

I knew it was over
the infamous fight over
a certain french hat

The issue in question
was trust of course

We faked it well for the party

We dove for our own
personal antidote
the bedroom

But when she twisted her ankle
Recapturing her lost youth
I must admit
Instead of feeling sorry

I felt
You did this to yourself

III.

But I had known it was
over long before that fight

Her carpeted resting
fetus returning to womb
let me know
I did not know her at all

Subconsciously I blocked it out

IV.

Subconsciously
I blocked something else out

The constant reassurances
The inevitable

You really want to be with her
You really want this
You don't love me
You don't trust me

V.

The true ending
The stressful day at work

Channeling my grandfather
My father
My mother
My grandfather

My familial Irish rage
I keep a close watch on it
But not this day

I picked a shoe
and in frustration
threw it madly

My mother did the same thing
on phone calls
she didn't want to hurt us
she lobbed phone books in our direction

Not intending to hit us
just intending to let us know
she was busy and overstressed

the shoe hit the couch
bounced away carelessly

and immediately I felt
relieved and remorseful

I would throw no more things

In response
she resumed her womb-dwelling

those blue eyes
flashed the same sort of fear
and pain

I'd seen in similar positions

She said
You're just like my father

Had I had it to go over again
the events of that day
in retrospective
I would have mentioned

You can't avoid being with
someone somewhat like Dad.

-5 March 2007

Alpha

Foolishly
milked the system yet again

not smart
guilt
shame
job security


I heard the voice of
my conscience and my father
simultaneously

So we made hasty late night plans
Plans not so hasty once we
recognized what we had been
feeling for each other.

Platonic for an instant more
I strummed my lyrical lute
While you applied varnish
to some commercial artwork

(I must admit I loathed it
Found it some sort of vulgar
accessory and far beneath your talents)

You sat cross-legged on the floor
And I sang and played

The red sofa
threadbare but loved

I would later
lay nude across
for some hasty sketch

in pencil and hesitation and self-doubt

later it would become
what we believed
our marital bed

the first instance of
personal mythology

but that was later
much later

You were tense
Bad day in general
The monthly curse

So I,
with half-concealed
ulterior motive

intended to seduce you
little did I know my task
akin to shooting fish in a barrel

My path already paved
begging to be ridden

a Thursday drive
of pleasure-seeking
and carnal impulse

-5 March 2007

Being Christlike

You did not want to be Christlike. Though your father
Was your God and there was no other, you did not
Want to be Christlike. Though you walked
In the love of your father. Though you stared
At the stranger your mother.
What had she to do with you
But tempt you from your father?
When her great hooded eyes lowered
Their moon so close
Promising the earth you saw
Your fate and you cried
Get thee behind me. You did not
Want to be Christlike. You wanted
To be with your father
In wherever he was. And your body
Barred your passage. And your family
Who were your flesh and blood
Burdened it. And a god
That was not your father
Was a false god. But you did not
Want to be Christlike.

-Ted Hughes

Discard

The only thing that remains of you
In this house

Are two shopping bags
And one cardboard box

I would have never happened across
on my own

I try to forget
The presents of love

Distinguish them from
the presents of closure

Unlike
The calendar which
dispenses ridiculously
accurate information
on a daily basis.

Your broke my heart
When I pressed my body against you
When I entered you

With your eyes full of terror
and disbelief
You really do love me

I do really love you

I thought this
I pointed this out
And you took great offense

I should have ended it then

But I loved you
I loved the imagination of you

-4 February 2007

German Cafe, Stone Mountain

We lived
five years
in two months.

Probably not a good sign
(A mistake on both our parts)

I remember the Frau
Some recent immigrant
Barely spoke English
Who took our order

I ordered something
heavily starchy as is my habit
Something eggs and potatoes and cheese

I started out the window
The aging cemetery
The historical marker
Some long ago Civil War event

Day after Christmas
Decorations still up
Still yet to be removed.

Our first real fight
Still present in my mind
Two days prior

We had quarreled over
Words I should not have spoken
Should have thought instead

Your Scorpian jealousy
Your insecurity
Your baggage from trust
or lack thereof

You accused
you lost your temper

Alll seemed to be forgotten
Two days hence

The trip to visit
My kinfolks' property
Long ago planned

Long since sold
The natives say "transitioned"
It's PC for "gone black"

I remember thinking
ugliness in color
black and white photography beauty

the scenery washed out
reminding of third world poverty
(which it is)


The visit was to appease
My father who wanted to know

Had ten years in the past
Plotted it out on surveyor's maps

Always wanted to explore
And you loving me,
Obliged.

The day was cold
Overcast and gloomy
Threatening snow

We drove and drove
Passed weed-covered
ill-kept resting places
of the dead.

Your macabre fascination with
ghosts slightly off-putting

Fascinating places
Peaceful and tranquil

But I'm not sure I'd want to
know the spirits there

-4 February 2007

The Challenge

Reclaiming
things we shared

Silly things like
name brands
turns of phrases
media of interest

I had this professor
once

Old little Irish lad
must have had his heart
broken by a Jane

oh please don't
mention any more Janes

It's all part of the process.

Revamped for the Current Day

The Think-I'm-Fixin'-To-Die-Rag (2003 Edition)

Well, come on all of you big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again
Got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Afganistan

Put down your books
And pick up a gun
We're gonna have a whole lot of fun
And it's one-two-three
What are we fighting for?

Don't ask me, I don't give a damn
The next stop is badly planned
And it's five-six-seven
Open up the pearly gates
Well, there ain't no time to wonder why

WOOPEE! We're all gonna die!

Well, come on Wall Street
Don't be slow
Why, man...this war'll go-go

There's plenty good money to be made
Supplying the army with the tools of the trade
Just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb
They don't drop it on an innocent pawn

And it's one-two-three
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn
The next stop is Afganistan

And it's five-six-seven
Open up the pearly gates
Well, there ain't no time to wonder why

WOOPEE! We're all gonna die!

Well, come on generals
Let's move fast
Your big chance is here at last

Now you can go out and get those heads
'Cause the only good Muslim
Is one that's dead

And you know that peace
Can only be won
If we blow 'em all to kingdom come

One-Two-Three
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me I don't give a damn
The next stop could be Iran

And it's five-six-seven
Open up the pearly gates
Well, there ain't not time to wonder why

WOOPEE! We're all gonna die!

Well, come on mothers throughout the land
Pack your boys off to Iraq and 'Stan
C'mon, fathers, don't hesitate
Send your sons off before it's too late

Be the first one on your block
To have your boy come home in a box!

One-two-three
What are we fighting for
Don't ask me I don't give a damn
The next stop's Afganistan

And it's five-six-seven
Open up the pearly gates

Well, there ain't no time to wonder why

WOOPEE! We're all gonna die!

New Poetry

Holidays

I still remember
in reference to you

You are now
some landmark

A compass point
pointing towards directions
I once traversed

Dribbled away to some
worthless bar conversation

full of
what do you do
what are you drinking
what would you like
to do with the rest of your life?

I dreamed of you
this imaginary journey
to the Cape

Chatham, I recall.

In reality,
I think about places we went
Odd twists and turns on Ponce

Like some explorer
in his older years

But unlike a fountain of youth
I am in search of a fountain of peace

-4 March 2007

With Apologies to Ted Hughes

Apprehensions

Your writing was also your fear.
At times it was your terror, that all
Your wedding presents, your dreams, your husband
Would be taken. Your word processor. Your children.
All would be taken.
This fear was the color of your desk-top,
You almost knew its features.

That grain was like its skin, you could stroke it.
You could taste it in your milky coffee.
It made a noise like clacking of keystrokes.
It hid in its own jujus--

Your mantlepiece seashell
A good omen of protection

Your photographs
So many I have forgotten now.

You stared at these. You knew it was there.
It hid in your sharpie marker.

That was its favorite place. Whenever you wrote
You would stop mid-word,
To look at it more closely, fat, black
Between your fingers---
The swelling terror that would any moment
Suddenly burst out and take from you
Your husband, your children, your body, your life.
You could see it there, in your pen.

Somebody took that too.

-Modified from Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes.

Revision/Pastiche by Kevin Camp.

A Short Film

It was not meant to hurt.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still too young
To have learned about memory.

Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long term, too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds,
You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.

Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge,
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, and electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.

And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing a nerves
For something that has already happened

-Ted Hughes.

Homily of the Day

• "Those of us who were taught the cheerful American notion that progress is linear and hierarchical may have had to learn with pain

• that no worthwhile battle can be fought and won only once

• the issues still repeat themselves in different ways and in constantly shifting arenas." -Gloria Steinem

No worthwhile battle can be fought and won only once.

Yet we don't let ourselves learn even that lesson, and too often berate ourselves for not "getting" something the first time through.

Be gentle with yourself.

If you are not, how can you ask others to be?

And how can you expect yourself to be gentle with others?

Amen.

Angry Death Goblins of Pain

Copywrite 2007, Kevin Camp. All rights reserved. Angry Death Goblins of Pain Part One Rick Covey sat at his book-signing desk, daydreaming as usual. For several years, he had been an established, if not highly respected author. Often, in times such as now—those dead spaces in between affixing his signature to yet another freshly printed book—his thoughts drifted back to his first published story. Like most young writers, he started out with grandiose dreams. Fresh out of college, some eight years before, he had submitted poem after poem to all of the key literary journals and periodicals: The New Yorker, Mother Jones, The Christian Science Monitor, The Harvard Review, among others. All of them came back returned, unsurprisingly, along with a standard rejection form on a half sheet of paper. After filling half a dresser drawer with similar slips of paper, Rick started to become desperate. He shifted to fiction. Still, the results were the same. The remnants of his college fund slowly running its course and with no visible means of income in front of him, Rick contemplated returning to his old high school job. The elder Covey, Rick’s father, originally a native of Alabama, had uprooted and moved his family to Atlanta during the economic boom of the 1980’s. Through a combination of dumb luck and being in the right place at the right time, Mr. Covey invested in cellular phones when they were just reaching mass popularity. Over the years, the man used his wealth and influence to become a powerful and notable ultra-right wing reactionary. Mr. Covey counted Pat Roberson, Jerry Falwell, and The Graham Family as close personal friends. He had once been known as James R. Covey but decided for symbolic and public relations reasons to have his name legally changed to Pro-Life Covey. With the incentive of an easy job and good wages, Mr. Covey had paid his only son to drive around his hometown in a truck. The vehicle prominently displayed, on either side, a titanic picture of an aborted fetus. Yet, to Rick, the thought of having to dodge hurled garbage, screamed epithets, and the occasional militant feminist was not appealing. Rick could not have been more different than his father. Rick left the Southern Baptist church of his boyhood at age sixteen, disagreed openly with his father’s political views, and expressed no interest in the family business. He wanted to make it on his own, out of the shadow of his father. So, one day, deeply frustrated, he revamped a manuscript he had written in the middle of high school. The story featured an often-abused main character that had once been beaten up for criticizing the maturity of two of his classmates—two football jocks who roared with laughter while simulating copulation with two tiny plastic giraffes. When satisfied with the finished product he enclosed the manuscript in a large manila envelope and slid the package through the tiny curbside mail slot. Ten days later, after he had finished washing the wheels of the Fetus-mobile, an enthusiastic letter arrived from a prominent magazine. Dear Sir, We here at Depressed Teen are enthusiastic about your story, “My Black Metaphoric Ebony Soul.” We are willing to publish it in our March issue. Please call our publishing editor, Mary Scarlon, at your convenience. Sincerely, H. Thomas Forbes And so it had begun. While he had yearned for the attention of a serious adult audience, instead, he was the darling of a new generation of teenage misfits. They skipped school for each book signing. They looked, invariably, the same. The girls always wore long sleeves and thrift store jackets over black t-shirts proclaiming the virtues of the newest death-metal band. Their acne was unskillfully concealed behind gallons of foundation and they referred to themselves as “Jade” or “Portutia”, even when their real names were Jennifer or Amy. Often they came hand in hand with unbelievably pale, skinny boys wearing form-fitting turtleneck sweaters, who cradled their hand mirrors to their chests while openly pondering why their voices had yet to change. “I LOVE your newest book, Mr. Covey!” gushed an adoring teenage female fan. Wearing a black choker and oversized canvas pants, the girl also sported a nametag on the right side of her XXL Cannibal Corpse shirt. The tag read: “Elveria”. The dot in the lower cased “i” in “Elveria” had been replaced with a cute circle. “I used to only read R.L. Stein books but one day, I was at the library in the young adult section and saw a copy of Somber Death Rattle. I read the whole thing in three hours!” Rick sighed and signed his name on the title page. The next kid in line bore a similar nametag, which in stenciled script identified him as “Franklin”. “Rick, that is if I may call you that, sir…you have been SUCH an inspiration! I really think of you as my sorcerer. I hope that isn’t too creepy.” “Nope. That isn’t creepy at all, Franklin,” Rick said, not once lifting his eyes from a fresh copy of the book that the boy had placed before him on the table. “So, who should I make this out to?” “Lord Belvedere,” Franklin responded. “That’s my nickname among my friends.” ______________________________________________________ Part Two During a momentary lapse in book signings, Rick reminisced about his devoted fans. The strangest ones tended to stick in his memory more than others did. In particular, Rick remembered the kids with severe personality disorders. Once, somewhere in the Northeast, he had met a child, who, like some fussy one-year-old, responded to every question with a snotty and apparently reflexive, “NO!” He seemed to be a normal child apart from that unfortunate side effect. Admittedly, Rick shouldn’t have taken the opportunity to use the malady to his amusement. “Hey, Billy! Will you give me a million dollars?” “No!” “Hey, Billy! Will you sleep with me?” “No!” “Hey Billy! Do you think Rancid is a great band?” “No!” Rick often received phone numbers from underage girls and occasionally, underage boys. He never consummated any of these invitations to dance the jailbait shuffle, though often he listened to their sob stories. Most of these came in the form of fan e-mails. Much like his phone number, which had been unlisted for years, he had also been forced to change his e-mail address periodically. Someone always managed to find it out after a few weeks and eventually his inbox would be swamped with admiring, adolescent praise. One girl from Minnesota named Katherine was remarkably persistent. Rick often thought about notifying the authorities when he’d receive yet another long-winded and highly sexually explicit e-mail from her. He had long delayed saying anything to anyone about her because most people simply wouldn’t believe him. Who has a sixteen-year old girl for a stalker? Over the months she continued to write, he silently compiled a list of things she had variously told him about herself. For starters, she had been molested at age twelve by an uncle, but had in her words, “enjoyed it”. Now a self-proclaimed nymphomaniac, she routinely picked up random people of both sexes at shopping malls for group sex. Rick suspected her family dynamic might be to blame for some of the dysfunction. She was the oldest child of a family of six and often had to keep an eye on her twelve-year old twin brothers, who always asked to sleep in the same bed as the younger children. She claimed that she and her mother were best friends: “More sisters than mother and daughter,” she had written. “We tell each other about everything”. Rick often thought about writing a book about all the strange correspondence he received, but knew that unless he wanted to lose his core audience, he had best keep it unpublished. Instead, he cleverly worked the often times horrifying lives of his adoring fans into new books. So long as they continued to bombard him with their deep dark secrets, he knew he had material to write about for years. ______________________________________________________ Part Three The next two girls in line had driven all the way from Washington State to see him. The first informed him that her name was Willow. She pointed to her mousy looking female friend and identified her as Jesus Christ. Jesus was cradling a baby girl, apparently hers, in her arms; the mother couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen Willow talked too loud. “Do you remember, Jesus, when you were seven and a half months pregnant, before you realized you were actually going to have a baby?” Jesus stared ahead blankly, saying nothing. “Oh, that’s right!” The friend replied. “I keep forgetting you made a vow of silence after Raven got you pregnant and you don’t talk anymore.” “May I help you, ladies?” Rick impatiently interrupted them. “Oh yes, Mr. Covey! I came all the way from Olympia for you to autograph my copy of Narcissistic Angry Bitch God. “Ah, yes,” Rick replied. “That was the one where the main character has ‘intelligent Tourette’s Syndrome’. He only blurts out gothic obscenities.” They both laughed. Jesus just nodded. “You’re funny, Mr. Covey. Just like I knew you’d be.” The girl shyly looked down at Rick and caressed his hand sensually with her fingers. He tried to change the subject. “So, how old are you, my dear?” Seductively flirting more with him, the girl responded, fluttering her eyelashes. “Well, I’m sixteen, but my last boyfriend was twenty-eight. I had to dump him because we were in this mosh pit and someone’s lit cigarette burned a hole into his eye. She frowned. “After that, he had to wear an eye patch, and I just don’t find them sexy at all. But now he tells me that he can see shades of red and blue now, so he decided to take the patch off.” Rick sighed once again, signed his name on the indicated portion of the title page, and shoved the book back in the girls’ direction. Jesus offered a weak grin, and Willow gave Rick a far too intimate hug before they both departed. ______________________________________________________ Part Four Katherine arose earlier that day. Four days before, she had read about the book signing in Evanton by means of her local newspaper and decided that she was finally ready to meet her meet her infatuation face to face. After all, Evanton was only four hours away. Booking the hotel room had been easy. Katherine’s mother didn’t suspect a thing when her daughter had asked to borrow her credit card. The reservation had been made for nearly five days before Katherine cranked her funeral black, heavily used car and started out on the road. On the drive, the girl listened exclusively to audiobook after audiobook of Rick reading his best selling novels. Along with her paint-stained thrift store pants, Katherine wore a man’s white v-neck t-shirt. In fact, when he met her later that day, Rick speculated that she had purchased a whole value pack of them at Wal-Mart. He surmised this because Rick’s father wore the identical sort of shirt around the house when he wasn’t working and always underneath his stunning array of country club attire. The girl had taken a black permanent marker to the shirt and, in shaky, feminine writing, slashed “I love Rick Covey” across the front. She had the swagger of a woman much older than her sixteen years. It was a slightly swaying, highly confident, cocky sort of presentation attempted only by a few females. Despite her sloppy dress, she was beautiful. Rick had not expected this in the least. He had never known a nymphomaniac, this is true, but he had always pictured them as somewhat akin to crack whores—with the same facial scars, open sores, singed fingers, and lingering body funk. This girl, as she was still very much a girl, seemed to have breezily walked off a runway, not dazedly crawled away from a drug den. Rick had certainly been tempted, at least at first. However, Katherine proved quickly that she possessed the extremely bad habit (like most of his fans) of not being able to withhold any personal details. The girl could not tell a lie in the presence of anyone. So, when she said—quite matter of factly, that she didn’t believe her genital warts were in a contagious stage at the moment, Rick had to politely decline her offer. He then lifted his right hand above his head: a signal to security that he wanted this person away from him immediately. Security complied.

Why We Fight

I pull this section directly from Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States.

The roots of this current conflict in Iraq are rooted in money. Even Najinksy, the eccentric Russian ballerina put it best. I know why wars are fought. Wars are fought over commerce [money].

Begin passage from Howard Zinn:

The United States fitted the idea of W.E.B. Dubois (noted Black socialist activist). American capitalism needed international rivalry--and periodic war--to create an artificial community of interest between rich and poor, supplanting the community of interest among the poor that showed itself in sporadic movements.

End passage.

This was in 1917!

Visionaries like George Orwell saw this coming. Dwight D. Eisenhower warned us all of the the presence of the military-industrial complex. But the roots of this all started with the first World War. In reality, the roots of this started at the turn of the last century when America became an imperialist nation due to a totally unreasonable, irrational conflict with the Spanish in 1898.

My own great-grandfather, in a spirit of devotion, took his place amongst the throngs clamoring for war and glory. He was poor and needed money. In that respect, men from the poorest ranks have always fought our conflicts. My great-great grandfather fought, in true mercenary fashion, for the North during the Civil War.

Although much has changed, some things still stay the same.

Leaving

I.

sylvia plath bohemian
with emily post mother

new england
palmer method

mom wanted stability
put herself last

she's of that generation
you know

points out details
passive-aggressively

the world is always
full of something to
put into the sink.

II.

dad wanted pie-in-the-sky
the death of the hippie dream
set him angry at himself

his bark is far worse
than his bite

sure once I was young and impulsive
I wore every conceivable pin


III.

daughter was caught in between

daddy's girl
always and forever

IV.

sorority sister
for the sake of connections

(and for the boys)


V.

photo I saw of
mr. boring-but-stable
Buddy Wilkerson type

you know,
mr. nice guy

mom's favorite
no doubt

(I was always
good with mothers myself)

the ancient curse.

neither bad enough
nor good enough

VI.

in
pictures

she squints
she squirms

her face belies
no thoughts
the perfect mirror

married for thrill
not for security

a weakness for
musicians and need

and i
gentle reader

found my plath.

-28 February 2007.