The World is a Reality Show

Music!
rescue me
I am stranded on an island
where all things
are complained about
and starts compiling
poor forgotten trash
entertained out to sea
every face smiling
until the camera pans to me
I am thinking.
How did we even get to this position?
food dropping from the sky
no need for family fishing
television pixels cooking
no need for family kitchen
reality is heating up
our dogs are family bitchin
itching, biting, and scratching
a song that always gets sung
hymns about freedom been forgotten
Yeah they been done
Monogamy works perfect
like a shoe and some spit gum
stuck is how I feel
but I would rather be hit run

Freckles

The six strings and wood she holds
Against her belly an instrument hangs
knowing the truth of the temperature-cold
The opposite of my heart when you sang
to me-My blood streamed all day
flowing east then west
wishing my freckles away
Pointless because the melody says rest
around and play with the fire
How dare, in which, I say she lies
I know not when her thoughts expire
Or what treaty is lived by
Not yet, are you stronger
than the chords who sang that song.
to her.
to me.

Adaptation to Film

Incarnations of Burned Children

By

David Foster Wallace

PAN IN FROM ABOVE:
1. EXT. COUNTRY HOME - SUNSET
2. INT. THE DADDYS BARN, a yelling distance away from the house.
DADDY cutting wood, attentively, leaving the screams of the electric saw to drown out any other thought. Then a pause in the cutting but distant screams continues. The sounds of the MOMMY and CHILD. He drops the machine to the dusty ground, with its blade spinning still. Busting through the back porch door into the kitchen where the situation faces him.
3. INT. KITCHEN
The stove’s blue flames flare and a pot is on the floor, with steaming water branching out around it. The CHILD standing in the midst of scene, while his mother is hysterical, unsure of where to even begin. Kneeling in the burning water, she calls out to God.
DADDY rushes to the CHILD, lifts the boy from the water, and puts him in his right arm, rushing to the sink for the cold water. With his left hand, he throws the dishes out and sets the boy in. DADDY immediately starts running water over his red skin. The screaming continues as DADDY frantically wants to put out the burning skin. He yells towards MOMMY.

DADDY

Get towels and gauze! Towels and guaze! Quickly! Now!

MOMMY runs out of the room.
DADDY, working around the screams and hot things all around, is focused on his son, whose screams have become as regular as breaths. This time he does not focus on the screams, because he knew he would become frozen. He notices the oak tree outside swaying in the wind, and allows the screams to fade out.
4. EXT. OAK TREE - OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN WINDOW
A BIRD hears the multiple screams and observes through the window the MOMMY dancing around waving her arms about with white things in her hands. The DADDY is singing to the CHILD.

5. INT. KITCHEN
DADDY, assessing the inches of burns and blisters, sees red skin fading to pink and this eases his worry a bit. The burns were everywhere and CHILD is still screaming to the same extent as before. DADDY assumes his cries are now because of the surrounding fear. DADDY tries to calm him down.

DADDY

I am here. I am here. I am here.

He repeats the three words over and over, almost becoming a song. The DADDY cannot look at the MOMMY. He only focuses on the CHILD. Not positive if he is doing the right thing but wetting the towel anyway, he wraps the CHILD up tight, like a baby and pulls him out of the sink.
6. EXT. THE OAK TREE
The BIRD watches the DADDY now dancing closely with the child and the MOMMY following the steps, wanting to be involved. The DADDY sets the CHILD down on the table. The MOMMY continues to move her arms about, up and down from her mouth to her head and then waving around. Noises are coming out of the MOMMY’S mouth.
INT. KITCHEN
DADDY sets the child on the table to get a closer look at the damages. Unwrapping the CHILD from the towel, he sees steam coming from the diaper.

DADDY

God Dammit!

DADDY removes the diaper so quickly he does not realize his hands were burnt in the process. The diaper sloshes to the floor still steaming. MOTHER starts wailing out in despair. There is now blood and hanging skin where the diaper once was.

MOMMY

My God! Oh my God, Oh my God!

DADDY reacting as quick as he can, ignores the cries of MOMMY and wraps the child back up in the towel, running to his truck.
EXT. THE OAK TREE
The BIRD watches DADDY running to the truck with CHILD in his arms. The truck speeds off flicking mud up into the air. The BIRD looks back through the window at the MOMMY who is now sitting up against a wall, on the floor, hands on her shaking head. There was silence.
7. INT. DADDYS TRUCK
DADDY still in disbelief of what was happening, hums to his CHILD who has stopped crying. He knows how long of a trip it is to reach the Hospital. Looking closer at his child, he realizes there are no screams. There are no breaths. DADDY removes his foot from the gas pedal and allows the truck to slowly move to a stop on the side of the road. He places his head on the CHILD and begins to cry and rock the baby side to side. DADDY looks up, It is silent and there are no cars or buildings around.
8.FLASHBACK-EXT. BASEBALL FIELD
The ball is hit and goes flying for the outfield. DADDY stands up and yells.

DADDY

Go! Go! Yeah! Thats my Boy!

The CHILD had sent the ball flying into the outfield and ran all the way to second base. He then points towards the stands at his DADDY. DADDY is clapping and almost crying with excitement and love.
9. EXT. COUNTRY ROAD
The truck door opens and the DADDY comes out with the child and walks into the field. Falling to his knees, he places the CHILD down and says a prayer. He returns to his truck, grabbing the gun on the ride side of his seat. Walking back to the child, he kneels back in the same position over the child, and pulls the trigger.
PAN OUT FROM ABOVE
DADDY falls slightly on top of the CHILD in the towel. The wind blows the long grass and the truck door still open.

Poem on a Postcard

The houses here are all the same
hoarding regrets with unorganized pocket books
in offices with words
successful, money, collecting and spending
supporting the inhabitants
to "follow your dreams"
but how can one dream
with those sleeping
never waking to slamming doors
swinging still and siding silence
breathe because you are alive
smell what the maids have covered up
so they can follow dreams too

(critique4)

Poem inspired from "Tattoo" by Ted Kooser

What once was meant to be a statement- 

trending with dirty jokes

laughing lies, he told

like working with animals

poor soul fondled the rich

we seated him as family

swung for every pitch

caught now, he see's 

a catchers stance

and towers above our grounded hearts

puncturing wound where noses bleed

skidded stains on back pockets

stealing a second then flees 

he is only another man, picking up

lost games, forever tied

and running away from home  

Don't Cry Over Grilled Hot Dogs (exercise8)

Don’t Cry Over Grilled Hot Dogs

My paycheck was handed to me and I turned for the exit. None of my coworkers were going to see me cry. I was obviously upset that day and the quality of the hot dogs definitely suffered. I was angry towards those wieners and the people eating them. The customers did not know what I was going through and why I was even here making their heartburn dogs. Making their hot dogs was supporting me, basically, in running away from home. I had gotten the job at Dat Dog towards the end of my Freshman year at Loyola and fell in love with the people and their puns about hot dogs. Two of my coworkers offered me a place to stay over the summer and that was all I needed. I certainly was not planning on returning to Lake Charles. That place stinks, literally and figuratively. The atmosphere would be described just like any other small town christian colony. Unlike New Orleans where the air is freer and the people, to say the least, are accepting. But this day, I did not feel free. My insides were churning and I had thrown up that morning, which had become a natural morning remedy for me now that began when I was in high school. My explanation for this is nerves and an unhealthy diet of processed foods, alcohol, and cigarettes. I had an idea as to why I felt oppressed and I knew a change had to happen. I have a lot of growing up to do. I was only nineteen but this day I was going to make a decision that could age me with at least ten years.

As I walked into the summer rain, they came--tears, pouring out, mimicking the clouds of rain falling from above me. I unlocked my bike, stumbled onto it, and struggled to pedal while the rain slapped my face. My destination was to find somewhere for personal space. I needed to be alone. The river had been calling out to me, in my daydreams, when I was throwing outrageous amounts of condiments on sausages. I knew of the perfect spot, and there, my frustrations would be set free. I suppressed my immediate emotions in order to keep my motor abilities of riding a bike and the rain had me soaking it all up. My tears blended in with the rain pouring down over me as I was trying to focus on how to get to this spot. I had been here before but always had trouble finding it. Riding along the levee, I found the opening in the woods and got off my bike. Sloshing and slipping down through the woods, I threw my bike down. I stumbled towards the slow flowing water, and I let go, bellowing with frustrations. So many questions and a feeling of no true answers.

Why do I have to tell my mother who I am? Can't she just stop pretending that I am her “babygirl”? I was never like them, all the girls she would compare me to. She was going to believe as hard as she possibly could, though. Why does she have to be so devoted to the Catholic Church? These are a few of the thoughts that raced through me as I began to imagine myself drifting into the river, contemplating how long it would take for me to reach the gulf. Then, I would be away from civilization--with its pre-packaged bundles of unanswered questions. Engulfed in my thought-provoking emotions, I had numerous amounts of hazardous debris that needed to be handled and disposed of properly. My energy was exhausted and I had fallen to the muddy ground. My white shirt had been painted with the Mississippi River mud color, and my white skin dirtied with shame. I was finally here, alone. Allowing whatever repressed emotions to flood out. Hiding had become second nature to me. Forgetting who I was back home was more difficult than I had assumed it to be. There was still so much for me to do and I had to ignore the overwhelming feelings. Truth had become an important aspect in my life after years of dishonesty. Lies can do horrible things to the body. I can only assume that the stress of living under a lie had something to do with my acid reflux and morning hangouts with the toilet. I needed to put an end to my physical and emotional pain. This had to end. The last uproar from my vocal cords and a few poundings to the ground coincidentally put an end to the rain.

I looked up, easing out of my wallowing fit, and searched for the horizon. Who knows how long I was there but it was getting dark. The sky was clearing out and a monstrous cargo boat crept by, which helped with bringing in the calm after this storm. My eyes, mimicking the clouds, once again, ceased all tears. A wave of power built up inside of me, out of the muck, and my chin lifted, only slightly. I smelled the moist air and listened to the branches slapping their leaves about. The sound of water making it to the shore soothed any reckless thought.  I watched the sun disappear behind the industrial refineries that lined with the river, reflecting its rays upon the polluted clouds that had developed from the day. I retrieved my blue bike, which lay seemingly abandoned on the ground, by a fallen tree. My energy was drained and it was difficult walking slightly uphill on newly wetted terrain, so I took it slow. One final push back over the levee and I was elevated, looking back over the river. Knowing what my next step was, I took a simulated deep breath and began to search my old, green booksack for my cell phone. My mother and I proceeded to play phone tag until I arrived home. It was like she knew what was about to happen.

Who even knew how long she had been dreading this day, I thought to myself, approaching my house. I did not care though, because her feelings were not the ones of my concern. I wanted it out. The secret I had been keeping from my mother. The secret being that I am attracted to women, not men, I say with my quivering lips, waiting for the response on the other line.

I just wanted you to know that, followed quickly after. I received only a deafening silence from the other line. I begged for a response. I began to desperately state that I was clearly upset, that I needed some type of feedback—that had been all I wanted with that day. I gave her a moment to put together an answer.

Did you fix your bike?
I am sobbing on the phone to my mother telling her the biggest amount of information I have ever revealed to her and she asked me about my bike’s flat tire from two weeks ago?!

Following her “response,” She then suggested that I need psychological help because of me being upset, her solution for basically every seemingly troublesome issue. I do agree that I have developed issues but she does not realize to what extent she has been involved in those problems. She did not want to understand, and I do not think I had even expected her to comprehend what I had tried to tell her. I honestly do not know why I even expected a positive response. Lake Charles is a primitive land where the idea of social construction has not yet been brought up. Before hanging up, I stated “I love you, Mom, but I’ve got to go. I just wanted to let you to know.” It was unnecessary for me to listen to anything she had to say. The deed was already done and this was just another chapter in a book of misunderstandings between my mother and I. As I begin to understand myself more clearly, the understandings from others become less important but yet they still creep by like a barge. What I do not understand is why my suffering is not seen while I am steeped in the mud. Is seeing this suffering not enough for my mother? How much more does she need? Time. These things take time. I am going to have to learn the virtue of patience. Something my mother always preached about. What else can I do but believe in change because if I did not what would I have to live for?

The weight of the unknown response was lifted and dropped on the bathroom floor, along with my dirty, wet clothes. I was now stripped bare, ready to rid myself of any dirt, and become clean. I worked the water and soap into my shedding skin until it breathed with color. Freshly hopping out of the shower and into my funkiest garbs, I prepared for the next step. I opened my Itunes and clicked for Johnny Cash. Music is always here for me, understanding and helping me dance through this fucked situation as it has manys of times before. “I Feel Better All Over” is the song by Johnny Cash that was playing as I stepped out of my house and into the New Orleans streets feeling better than ever before. I was inching closer to freedom. At the end of the day, all I have is myself and if I cannot love myself then who will. I go back to unbelieving that a place such as Lake Charles even exist and a smile creeps back on to my face.

Poor Powers.(Exercise9)

Arriving home, after her first shift at the new job, Sam has no choice but to cry. The smell of an overflowing litter box enters her nostrils, inspiring her shift meal to dance back up. She covers her mouth and runs for the bathroom, exploding vomit towards the toilet. After everything was out, she spits a few times and then flushes. She closes her eyes and wipes the tears from her face. Remaining on the cold dusty floor next to a pile of forgotten clothes, she cannot help but want to never stand up. Not like she even has the energy to, after standing up for the past eight hours. Because what is a woman to do with no college degree or money? Moving to and from the service industry has turned into some never ending chore--serving the working class people with food to make them happy, hoping they leave a pity tip. Her sorry self-loathing quickly turns into anger against the world. The blame for her depression was on society with its greed and lies. She had dropped out of college to marry a man and have all her problems solved. But unfortunately not all dreams come true. There is only so much time that you can fake the belief of living to a higher standard. This is just how the world works, and Sam has to accept that.

The sound of the front door opening reaches over Sam’s emotions, snapping her back to reality. Lindsey must be home. She brings herself out of the bathroom to find her roommate looking up at her, smiling, for a change. Usually she would have the same defeated look on her face after returning from another long days work.

“The government has agreed to give us money!" Lindsey declares, with an obviously sarcastic grin, "now we can feel like we owe a debt to society and keep filling in for cheap labor. Those rich people need our help, Sam!" She exclaims, making herself comfortable on the stained, flea infested couch.
"Without us, they would become us," she states, looking Sam directly in the eyes, "I almost feel like superwoman, flying in and saving the rich from even thinking about poor people existing. We have been given the power of invisibility. The people of this nation do not have to look at our poor battered bodies and do not even have to know about our perverse lives." she says, with a wink.
"To make an example of our wrong-doings, the media will sometimes show us ‘poor’ to the world because society needs to see where they will end up if they do not follow the rules. How do we control these super powers, you ask? That is something we do not have to worry about. The government will think for us. Wow! Aren't we living the American dream?"
"Well, when you put it that way..."
They both laughed and Sam sat down next to Lindsey, laying her head on her shoulder.
“So what do we do with these super powers, Linds?” Sam says, with a mischievous grin.
“Well, Sam. We purchase gasoline”
Sam sits up, looking at Lindsey in disbelief. Lindsey lights a cigarette and shrugs. “We are going to burn them down, just like they are doing to us.” Lindsey already had a plan and was just waiting for someone to brag about it to. She knew Sam would be on her side, no matter what.
Sam joins Lindsey in smoking a cigarette. Ashing it into a cup on the coffee table, she says “Okay, I’m in.” Finally they had a dream that was going to come true.
“All we need is a gas can” Lindsey was ready.
They finished their cigarettes and had flames gleaming in their eyes. Lindsey looked Sam in the eyes and says with a happy smirk, “Let’s do this, bitch!” Although Lindsey and Sam are feminist, they both laughed at this. This was going to be fun.
The gas can belonged to their upstairs neighbor, who referred to himself as “Scary Jerry” and introduces himself to newcomers with the same line, “I’m not straight, I’m not gay. I’m Jerry.” The girls always laughed at this. Jerry always came to complain about his problems with China, his ex-stripper, and rocker girlfriend. They were attempting to have a baby. Lindsey remembers from the night before when Jerry came crying about a “bloody zygote” on the end of a tampon. He referred to it as his dead baby. The conversation was so ridiculous, all Lindsey could do was try not to laugh as she patted crying Jerry on the back.
She thinks of how Jerry and China will react to hearing about their downstairs neighbors burning down a few corporations. They will now be able to brag to anyone they know. “Yeah my downstairs neighbors, two little girls, were the arsonists. Fucking bad ass bitches. My daughters.” Jerry always referred to Sam and Lindsey as his daughters which creeped them out a bit but really what could they do.
Sam throws the can in her trunk and slams it shut. Lindsey is sitting in the passengers seat, smoking a cigarette, smiling over at Sam as she hops into the drivers seat. She puts the car in reverse and they head to the gas station.
Filling up the gas can, not out of the ordinary, a man comes up to Lindsey referring to her as “fine ass” and asking her for money. She sighs at the man and the fact that he was asking for money, which she did not have to spare. Giving him no response, she tops off the gas tank and shuts it tight. Setting it back into the trunk and sitting in the car. She watches Sam comes out of the gas station with a new pack of cigarettes. Packing and unwrapping them, she anxiously lights up another. Quite unsafe at a gas station but what did she care, buildings were about to burn.
Rolling out of the station, they veiled their faces with black hanker chiefs and prepared for their mission. Lindsey, always the funny one, puts on “Sleep now in the fire” by Rage against the machine and they see each other smiling with their eyes. The clock reads midnight and they arrive at their first spot. The place where they met, Dot Hogs. This was the newly famed, newly corporate hot dog restaurant.

Lindsey thinks back to when she loved this place, back when it was a small hole in the wall. She had hope then, people listened to her and even though she was making hot dogs, she felt like she had a purpose. Everything changed when they expanded and started only caring about money. David, the new general manager, was hired who did not waste any time breaking out sexual jokes. The employees put up with this until he took it way past too far. This is when they decided to take a stand. A meeting was held with the owners and they were reluctant but if David was not fired, there were at least twelve employees, including Sam and Lindsey, who were prepared to quit. He was asked to leave and then was fired later that day. The person they hired to replace him did not seem to be any better, seeing as Sam was fired and Lindsey followed by quitting.

Parking a block away from Dot Hogs, Sam turns the car off and they sat in the silent car for a moment. The trunk popped and Sam exits the car and grabs the can. They walk to the restaurant and stand there staring at the painted pig hugging a giant sausage displayed on the front wall. Always finding this to be an unusual painting, Sam unscrews the lid and carelessly starts sloshing it on the pig and continues along the building. Handing it to Lindsey, who was patiently waiting her turn. She disappears behind the building and comes back with a cigarette hanging from her lips and an ashtray she stole from the break table. “We will need this” Nodding at each other, they both flick their cigarettes into the pools of gasoline and feel the heat of the flames expanding all around them.

“Fucking Hot Dogs” they were both thinking but Lindsey says aloud.
“Let’s go” Sam says in response, with reality setting in and distant sirens wooing. They run to the car, adrenaline pumping and giggling hysterically. Sam quickly turns the keys. Click.
“What the fuck?!” The car was not starting. Frantically Sam tries over and over again. Right when she was about to give up, the life saving sound of the engine humming on drives her foot to the gas pedal. They sped off deciding to go straight home. They returned the gas can to its place and of course run into Jerry, who is sitting on the steps that lead up to his house. He appeared to be crying and could not be ignored.
“Everything alright, Jerry?” Sam says putting her hand on his shoulder, noticing the bottle of whiskey nearby. To which he responds, “China got her period!” He tried to continue explaining himself but let out a normal Scary Jerry scream instead. Sam and Lindsey were used to this scream, they heard at least once a day along with some ACDC bass line. Jerry was a proud bass player and had a screamo rock band, which is impressive being that he is forty years old.
Lindsey looks at Sam with her “get away from Jerry” eyes. Sam then makes up some excuse as to why they have to go inside.
“You bitches smell like gasoline!” Jerry says with a disgusted look on his face. They both ignore the question and continue on inside.
“Goodnight Jerry!”
They hear him mumbling something and most likely continuing his nightly cry. Sam rushing to change clothes and into non gasoline smelling ones was too scared to keep going.
“That was it, Linds.”
“What about all the others? They need to burn too.”
“That was it, Lindsey.” Looking her in the eyes with the most serious look.
Lindsey agreed and settled down on the couch, lighting a cigarette. Sam puts on a movie and lies down next to her. Their hearts still beating fast. The sounds of sirens in the distance were continuous. They were haunting them but Lindsey showed no visible sign of distress. A knock on the door causes Sam to jump.
“It’s just Jerry” Lindsey says slightly annoyed. They let him in and he starts telling them that the place they used to work at was now burning to the ground. “Here have some whiskey! You must be the ones who did it?” Jerry says making a joke. They laugh and accept the whiskey. Jerry runs over to their tv and turns on the news.
“Dot Hogs burns to the ground. Will New Orleanians be able to survive without their sausages and fries? Stay tuned to find out.”
Lindsey smiles over at Sam and lifts her drink into the air, cheering to the night and mouthing “We did it.” There was no need to continue burning places down like barbarians, they did something huge already. Dot Hogs was going to lose money over this but it would not stop them from rebuilding and expanding even more. Sam and Lindsey will just have to wait a few more months until construction was finished.

(critique8)

A response to "The Female Body" by Margaret Atwood

Next door

lies sweat dried clothes

topping dusty worn shoes

torn to bits from these bumpy streets

She screams cracking screens

regretting the bloody mess

but loving the real feel

addicted to going

withdrawal and we’d know

like dropped inspiration

from the clouds

into snow

so cold like everyone here

and we all own jackets

Neighboring a witness

to battered bodies

frosted with sweet lickin’ fist

coming at

coming fast

memories remember

blending with trash and broken glass

awkward awakenings left to be swept away

I am reminded that forgotten has not happened

At least not for her

resistance towards an existance

being is real is a realization

things really happened.

orbit (critique6)

Inspired from "Her Lips Are Copper Wire" by Jean Toomer

Lift off

destination space

erupting fire

tips of fingers face touch

ignoring questions

that swim in the membrane
The everywhere is behind

Can't we just live in the clouds?

looking down between earth

with a different level of sound 

and a dropping impressionable hurt

sparkling within the stars boundaries

Eagle eye for easy routes

we quickly run out

of carbonated sugars

and escape now, in yards

traveling so far

along drifting coasts 

in air conditioned cars

Look!

here we are

we are smart 

cotton candy clouds 

lost in moisture 

perspiration 

plastics pouring out

A decision to be alone

even just for today

everyone stay indoors

Someone predicted rain 

H

heavy hormones have hate hoarded 

half here half home half history

history has habits 

half here half home

hoarded house

heating up

hassle heated hot habits

hoping hate habituates

hopefully having heated head hour

having ha ha ha

healing unhappy hour

hoping havoc holds head high

ha ha ha 

here?

harboring  

having honor

(hot-dogs)

So much depends upon a pantoum (exercise 5)

So much depends upon
finding what you really want
considering other peoples opinions
and going in your desired direction

Finding what you really want
A call for much responsibility
and going in the desired direction
chasing stability

a call for much responsibility
overwhelming feelings
chasing stability
organization is key

overwhelming feelings
considering other peoples opinions
organization is key
chasing stability

Setting a setting (exercise3)

The bumpy pavement, the passing cars, and the mechanical horse helps with an escape. The passing streetlights do not show every bump and crevasse. Leaving you and your horse to "feel it out." Riding at top speed, standing at every bump to ease over it. Being in control has never felt so smooth. Not focused on destination, for now, just balancing on the side of a mountain listening to the crunching and falling of rocks. Running the red light at every intersection. Taking my hands off the bike and extending them out as my hair flows back. I continue pedaling over the bumps and cracks, balancing has become more of a game. After awhile of riding this way, putting my hands back on the horse, I sail down the mountain. Allowing everything to fall in place, I close my eyes. Then my control is suddenly taken away. I lay on the pavement feeling alive but I can not say the same for my horse.

Hungover Hemingway. (critique3)

The Iphone, the laptop, the sprite, the fried chicken, the bed, blanket, pillows, the smell of an early morning spliff and nothingness were all you needed.

The blue-backed notebooks, the two pencils and the pencil sharpener (a pocket knife was to wasteful), the marble-topped tables, the smell of early morning, sweeping out and mopping, and luck were all you needed.

-Ernest Hemingway A Moveable Feast

Frank Ocean (critique2)

The past week, I haven't been able to stop listening to Frank Ocean's new album, "Channel orange". I am most captivated by his poetic lyrics. In his song, "Bad Religion", he writes about running away from his demons. He expresses his issue with religion not tolerating him being in love with a man. He says, "to me it is nothing but a one man cult." This is also describing his love for someone who does not love back. He talks about how he has three lives, "balancing on my head like steak knives". This describes his difficulty with balancing his three different lives because his religion is not accepting. His bad religion is his unrequited love that brings about so much pain because he loves someone/something that will never love him back.

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=vimeo+frank+ocean+bad+religion&mid=8B3C86FFC860E92DBA7D8B3C86FFC860E92DBA7D&view=detail&FORM=VIRE5

Frank Ocean-Bad Religion
[Verse 1]
Taxi driver
Be my shrink for the hour
Leave the meter running
It's rush hour
So take the streets if you wanna
Just outrun the demons, could you

[Hook]
He said "Allahu akbar", I told him don't curse me
"Bo Bo, you need prayer", I guess it couldn't hurt me
If it brings me to my knees
It's a bad religion
This unrequited love
To me it's nothing but a one-man cult
And cyanide in my styrofoam cup
I can never make him love me
Never make him love me

Love me
Love me
Love me
Love me
Love me
Love me
Love

[Verse 2]
Taxi driver
I swear I've got three lives
Balanced on my head like steak knives
I can't tell you the truth about my disguise
I can't trust no one

[Hook]

[Outro]
It's a bad religion
To be in love with someone
Who could never love you
I know
Only bad religion
Could have me feeling the way I do

Done Dat (exercise2)

I wrote a haiku describing how I feel about no longer working at Dat Dog after six long months of living the hot dog artist lifestyle.

I smell myself

no longer

hot dogs

Human nature-ish

Need it now
Can I have it?
We blast past
Make it present
And too long's a second
Time does not exist
Twist your mind
Into what they want
Human nature-ish
Feeling something missed
Can't get enough of this

Or this

Or this

Or this

We've been made into bad people

told to be good but good just seems evil

Born into a class
Raised not to fall in love
Money is the answer
If none fall from up above

(critique1)

empty mailbox

i pick wildflowers

on my way back

-Marlene Mountain

The first emotion I feel, after reading this haiku, is dissapointment. It is the feeling of wanting to receive some sort of mail but then finding an empty mailbox. The person, then, starts picking wildflowers to distract from the dissapointing feeling. The letter that was expected was most likely from a loved one. Someone the person thinks about while picking wildflowers and assesing the relationship shared between them. Missing having contact with someone missed makes waiting another day before you can check the mail seem like an eternity.

the writer is a crook essentially (exercise1)

"the writer is a crook: out of used furniture, he makes a tree."

-Anne Sexton

The writer is a writer.

He makes used furniture out of a tree.

The writer is a crook, essentially.

The crook used furniture.

Out.

He makes a tree.

The writer is a crook, essentially.