Fall term begins

I toss, I turn.
Who's that next to me?
Oh yeah,
She’s looking at me.

I reach for the ceiling, my arm is perpendicular to our bodies.
It’s like I’m asking God a question,
but He’s stopped calling on me.

I look at my arm, anyway.
It’s slender, two-toned and tattooed.

Ju(kiss)st me.
Looking at her makes me smile.

I'd like her to ask me if something's wrong, but I hate that question.
So we jus’ kiss. And, that feels good.

Her skin’s soft.
Really, another kiss?
Why thank you.

So, my feelings end up forgotten.

She loves me and I love that.
But, I'm having conflicting thoughts.

What's wrong with me that I'm like this?

It's Just)kiss) tha(ahhh)t the last woman that told me changed her mind.

So, I think: This could be my chance.
Then, I think: She deserves better.

I’m no good tonight.
Does she know this/me/why?
She’s pretty/smart.

I’m a mess right now, I say.
She doesn’t need to hear this.
Oh, she’s kissing me, good.

She can’t see my thoughts even
when I push our heads together.

Right now mine’s tired and drained,
emotionally and physically.
It’s mental obviously.

And she kisses me hard.
And again and is up against me -- we’re close.

There j(k)u(i)s(ss)t the past,
years (between us),
memories (of others),
moments missed (keep kissing),
(Oh, the mistakes I’ve made!)
and, me.

There’s you, I think, looking at my extended fingers,
here, and

Can I just hold onto you?
That’s what I want to do.

She hasn’t seen me in
forever and so she grabs me
(wants to have sex with me).

I’m blah, but maybe
I’ll be better later, when I get back.
But, you’ll be gone soon too,
so what then?

I don’t know, and so should be alone.
No, no one should be.
I’ll end up there. I’m no good at this.
We all will. Who is?

I’m a mess.
I said this and it makes me seem dense.

She bites my lip before I can think more.

These times are hard to define

My calendar shows the first day of autumn is the 23rd. Unofficially, the end of summer is Labor Day – no more white shoes (or belts, I suppose). These times are hard to define. It started to rain in Portland last week, which means to me the dry season (summer) is over, but still we get sun bursts that warm us. Those bring me back. There are more green leaves on trees than there are yellow ones on the Park Blocks, which will lead you to believe that it’s not fall, yet. Sweaters are out (no sign of scarves yet, though), which means summer is over, but some people are still wearing sandals, they don’t want it to be. It’s getting later earlier, I think Yogi Berea said, and that’s a sign that summer has descended. Bye-bye brightness; Portland’s favorite color is gray. It’s too cool to go to the Sandy River -- sorry, rats -- so that means less drowning – that’s good, I guess. Swimming is a summer sport. The NFL began its regular season, a sure sign that summer’s over – Sunday’s are here.

Usually when the semester starts we tend to think that summer is over – school’s in session, sucka. But for most schools that was a month ago – summer in my calendar. We’re on the quarter system at Portland State, and not that I’m complaining about my extended vacation, but it seems like a late start.

End of September: It’s not something you think of as a traditional school start. Portland State is seasonal, and there’s a quarter for every season. There’s a quarter for every state, four quarters for a buck. Where does that get us? Where was everyone this summer? Is the real question. Seemed quiet round these parts. Few students take the summer quarter – it’s shorter, so why do we have it? If Portland State truly wants to be a traditionally university, and the housing department, the rise in First Year Experience (up 60 percent), the push for attendance in athletics, the meal plans, will all lead you to believe it does, why not move to the semester system? So, we’d have a summer session. We’d start earlier, finish earlier. Less transfer fiascos. ( A cough covers my university studies slip-in.)

This summer I was stuck in a place that wasn’t quite bliss and wasn’t quite stress. I was happy to be out of school – summer and school were never two words I put together – but I wanted the school year to start, mainly I wanted my financial aid check so I could stop working. My daily dilemma: enjoy the sunny summer day, but I had no money to do so.

Okay, there are some things to do without a dollar during summer: take a dip in the Willamette; rebel ride the max; loiter the library; wander the sidewalks, window shopping; and, wonder why it’s the second week in September and you’re still not in school.


Thai Coup Haiku

I'm all for a coup
detat, martial law, ha ha
"rampant corruption"

(more) Qs for yous

Got a message in my inbox, said you are not haikuing -- God bless you. Well, I'm showing you all I am, and I still can. Here's what I just jotted. Scribbled these bits while I was taking a shit, I jest. But could have in the same amount of time. Enjoy

They say there’s one more
Day that I have to work here
Closing the Borders

I’m sore and tired
It’s hard for me to get up
I’m just twenty-six

Done this for too long
Wake up, work, return, and drink
Over and over

So, for now I’ll stop
Clocking in and clocking out
Working for the Man

Direct Deposit
There’s money in my account
Swore I worked harder

I’ve made some friends here
Strong enough to keep? I think
Time will tell, I dwell

People come and go
In and out like the time card
Life really like this?

The structure falls down
No: mandatory hours
Schedule is broken

Cleaned out my locker
Today, gave away my things
Hope you enjoyed me

Ender's Game: a book report

This here, this is my first science-fiction book report.

My teachers (there are many out there) tell me to have an introductory paragraph, a body of some sort (three paragraphs), and a conclusion. This, the five-paragraph (page) essay. My thoughts don’t organize like that though, so I wrote this my way. And in Carsonation, you can’t edit me (Ha!).

Ender Wiggin: He’s got game. That’s what the title of the book implies anyway. Ender’s Game. I want to say it to you like I think it. It's intimidating.

"G-A-M-E, sinced it's been started I've been in it."

I was asked(?) to read Ender's Game. It was recommended to me, and I take book recomedations serious. I normally don’t read Sci-Fi. Have been told it’s anti-game. You know, chick retractor. But a special lady friend of mine gave it to me, and so I put away the 300-plus page paperback this past week as sort of a tribute to her. By the time I got through with it I found a connection with the book, the girl, this genre. Let me try(?) to explain.

I’m into coming-of-age novels. Like everyone, I’ve read Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Great voice, good narrative, a classic. Bank’s Rule of the Bone: another fantastic, first-person story of which main character I could relate to. Ender’s Game, by best-selling author Orson Scott Card, and winner of the Hugo Award, is the story of a pre-teen boy-genius, who’s special powers include: strategic planning, imagination, quick learning, operating on a low-calorie diet and limited sleep, computer-hacking abilities, and boyish athleticism. (Okay, maybe I can relate.) Ender Wiggin, which seems is recognized as having the ability to rule the universe in the womb, and seen -- with a monitor, mind you -- as the answer to all of Earth’s prayers as a military cosmonaut. Ender is the solution to a problem faced in the year 3030(?) against, you’d never believe it, Buggers.

Growing up, I was taught that picking buggers was a bad habit. I’ve come to realize that everybody gets them. They are a collection of debris that we breathe in. They can sometimes roll down the back of the throat, congregate as phlegm, and be spit out as something I’ll refer to as lugees. Buggers: bad? Or a natural, biological phenomena? Part of our daily lives, for sure. Prescription: Kleenex. Card parially portrays Buggers as the ultimate evil. The universal threat to man’s existence in this fantasy world. I’ll appreciate this creativity. I didn’t think of it, so I’ll read about it, contemplate its possibility(?). Yeah, okay. I’ll picture them (and you should too) as those animated gremlins from that one foot-fungus commercial.

Carefully crafted in the 1970s, (cough, and, Cold. War.), Card, a Mormon/Fascist/Racist/Sexist, attempts in Ender’s Game to incorporate political satire(?). I question this (notice the parenthetical punctuation) because satire – funny and thought provoking – it isn’t. The major flaw in this made-for-mass-market paperback novel is its failure to captivate a literate, politically insightful audience. I’m not about to write here that I’m an expert when it comes to satire, politics, the Russian Red, the political position of this time, or the fantasy world. I do, however, having read a book or two in my day, have the ability to acknowledge when an author has dreamt a story so far out of his own mind’s reach that he can't write his way out of it. In this case the universe is the setting, and Card cannot grasp that far. We can't blame him there. The political spectrum isn’t intergalactic, though, and Card writes his characters (pre-teens!) with worldly, John Locke-like insight. But it's clear he does not have it. For Mr. Card can’t describe political positions what his characters supposedly have. He tells but doesn't show.

As mentioned, I haven’t attempted the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre before – and don’t see myself doing so in the near future, even though I’ve recently acquired other such strippable paperbacks. I’ve heard from others that, with the stars as the setting, authors can and have grasped fantasy bigger imaginations. (I’ll take their word for it.)

There’s an Earth setting in this (no I won’t; yes I have to) novel, and it is Greensboro, North Carolina(!). Why in God’s name does Card make this the relatable setting to us Earthlings? I have no God’s-forsaken idea. It makes sense, however, if you read the forward. This is where he lives. Sheesh, is this the only place he’s lived? Greensboro, somewhere(?) in North Carolina, is out in the middle of nowhere. Okay, my opinion, but there’s woods, and some sort of town-like setting. There’s like a dozen universities there, is what I've read (elsewhere).

There’s one school there that I care about. One the average reader probably hasn’t even heard of. It’s a Quaker and private, liberal arts(?) college. It’s called Guilford, and it’s where this special lady friend of mine, who recommended the book is attending. Now, if you have a map in front of you, or have ever seen an image of the Continental United States you’re thinking: Dang, that’s about as far as two people (I'm in Portland, Ore.) could possibly be.

Clearly you haven’t read Ender’s Game.

the Enemy

The enemy woke me Saturday morning by throwing a paddleball birthday gift from my brother at my door as hard as he could. Woooop, crash, rubber-band reverb, and the bounce of the ball. Once. Then again. Then a third time. I put on my shorts to see what was the matter, though I knew who it was, I wondered why / how it had come to this.

I opened my bedroom door and saw the Enemy with his shorts low and with his shirt off. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Maybe startled himself by his display of stupidity, the apparently stoned enemy stood and shaking he came up with his intended comments. ‘I don’t have respect for you,’ the Enemy said.

And I stared.

He went on, calling me such names as 'bitch' and an 'un-inspirable bitch'. I stood and stared and looked at the gashes in my door, created by the enemy. His weapon of choice: my own for-fun toy. He says it was a plastic bottle. There was no bottle.

He fragmented sentences together as to the reason for this middle-of-the night awaking; he pulled them from the belly of his consciousness. I tried to fall asleep at eleven, was awakened just after two, had to be up and ready for a ride to work, arriving at five. My body was tired, but my mind was now wide-awake. I stood, letting the Enemy get out whatever he thought he needed to say about me/ to me, at this point of our relationship/ living arangment, at this point of the evening, actually morning.

‘You should live by yourself,’ the Enemy told me. ‘You don’t like people. It’s just you and your dog. And you spend all your time in your room. Why don’t you live by yourself?’ The enemy wanted asked but did not want to find out.

This one-sided conversation had become the major problem I’ve had with the Enemy. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t want to hear reason. Doesn’t get it. Leaving me stuck and fighting an enemy in a battle that cannot be won.

I’m not interested in fighting with anyone, physically. I’ve thought about it. I’ve pictured myself doing it. I’ve punched inanimate objects. I recently hurt my right middle knuckle doing so, and I now have to picture myself punching with my left, weaker hand. I’ve said I was a pacifist, and these descriptions might make this statement seem untrue, but I wouldn’t want to be in a brawl. Am fully aware that physical violence doesn’t solve anything. I hope in the future that I am able to express myself verbally, in ways that give meaningful understanding to my enemies. Still, my Enemy calls me passive-aggressive. A term someone planted inside him. I’m passive at times, sure. Aggressive other times, yes. But, even little-ole me knows, It’s when you’re passive-aggressive that your words weaken.

I don’t hate the Enemy. I get made and frustrated and sometimes wish I could break bones. I would never, however, and upon contemplation I find myself sad at the state of my being, and at the attitudes of others.

At the end of our battle the Enemy tells me he likes me. I tell him I want him to be happy. That we have to part ways and cannot live as one, but both have to live without afflicting physical pain on one another. I’m kept awake thinking that I could have done better in selecting enemies. But, that we can’t choose them. And that: The Enemy is within.