I used to be someone else on the interwebs…

I am a recovering blogger.

I kept an online living room of sorts, inviting strangers into the comfort of my outermost inner thoughts, basking in the cozy glow of shared annoyances, fears, misery, and fascinations. It was a small community, but I took comfort in it.

And then someone from my lived world crashed the party.

Not the end of the world, but definitely less freeing and enjoyable for me. And so began the shedding of that skin. Then a time of silence. Now a time of reawakening.

If anyone from my previous blog life should find me here, they’ll see some very familiar sights, hear some familiar rants. In fact, I’ll be reposting many of my favorite posts – not in a shameless grab for likes, but really because they’re some of my favorite expressions of myself in those moments.

I’ve even begun to re-follow my previous community members. Perhaps we’ll rekindle virtual friendships. Perhaps they’ll recognize the me I manifested, perhaps not. It’s been 6 years since I started that blog, two years since I started stepping away from it, and six months since my final post.

Here’s to the me that will manifest. Older? Wiser? Who knows. Certainly more discreet.

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Apparently, everyone knows I’m fat

Me:[dialing local Chinese takeout restaurant]

Restaurant:“Hello, ___________, can I help you?”

Me:“Yes, hello. I would like two orders of chicken wings, and 1 order of crab rangoon, please.”

Restaurant:“That’s a lot of fried food! You don’t need us to give you all that fried food.”

Me:“I did want you to give me all that fried food. But now I don’t need you to give me any food at all.” 

Restaurant:[silence]

Me:[Click]

Screenshot 2019-03-26 13.21.21

Photo courtesy of Modernist Cuisine. Click on photo for bonus recipe for Crispy Chicken Wings, Korean-Style!

Bat-Crap Crazy: A Song for a New ‘Murica

In the dead of night,
In the cold light of day,
Our greatest fears and brightest truths collide

The institution that is ‘Murica
Which long ago stood proud and tall
Symbolic of all things possible

Now withers, undeterminable under the mighty cloaks
Of hubris, commerce, and war.
A land balkanized, in ways not even imagined
Just one generation ago.

All sides seek justice:
Many seek to maintain the justice and service
They feel they have rendered dutifully for generations.
Others seeking to avenge the injustice
Others have wrought upon it
Seeking retribution for, and escape from, these wrongs.

A man, long ago, who was hubris personified
Warned us that ‘men are not angels’.
Yet here we are, clamoring to elevate
Mortal wo/man to the highest order
S/He to whom we would swear oaths to follow
Each claiming to rebel against the immutable, unjust bureaucracy
But who now, dance before us like jesters to the throne.

They, all of them, would subjugate the populace
To benevolent assimilation, a colonization of our democracy
Given cheaply – even freely – to the snappiest soundbite
No rationalization or intention would forgive the imperialism
With which we would certainly be yoked

It could be an impotent crusade,
That which we Jedi warriors would wage
The hegemony of the Death Star, looming in gloom above us.
Only in our numbers could we strike a blow
For the democracy we hold dear.

Will you join me in song for this new ‘Murica?
Will you raise your hand, cast that choice?
Whether you speak for your ideals,
Or manifest your discontent.
No (?) choice is wrong, so long as we don’t forsake our right to make one.
We must live to fight another day.

Featured image, “Low key picture of a fist painted in colors of american flag” courtesy of vepar5.

Delusions of…many things

Ah, the vanity of youth. Disaffected affectation. The nonsense of prominence. The idealism of irony and romanticism of melancholy that plagued my late teens and early 20s…

[reformatted from my original, Spring 1996]

NO RESPONSIBILITy

Thank me.
Spank me.
Bank me.
Rank me.
I child.
I adult.
Member of this human cult.
On the edge of spring.
On the eve of winter.
From my heart
Remove this splinter.
From my soul,
Release this curse.
Of empty pages.
Of empty purse.
I alone.
I together.
From this cool, cruel world
My self do sever.
To say farewell
To things of man.
To minutes dreary
Which Life did span.
The clocks which ticked
The bells which chimed
My mind resigned
To thoughts sublime.
Of names and faces
Of persons passed
Relieve this stage
Of talentless cast.
Of fools and prophets
Crudities and graces
Which grand and glam
Society embraces.

Away with bureaucracy!
Down with elitism!
Kill the bastards!

Oh, excuse me.

The legacy I am left
By great bards of yore
Leave the poets of morrow
Much to deplore
It was less a gift
Than it was a cross to bear.

* I borrowed the first two lines of this poem from that cinematic paean to 90s rebel youth, “Pump Up the Volume

**If this page is somehow being monitored by unseen orange forces, “Kill the bastards!” was merely an anguished cry of hubris uttered over 20 years ago, not an declaration or admission of premeditated crime…

Featured image is my own amalgamation of some of the greats in my poet’s corner, whose images were lovingly borrowed from the accompanying links: Ginsberg, Giovanni, Pope, Wilde, and Dickinson.

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