Inflatable Ego!

Do you have flaccid self-regard? Do you suffer from self-underestimation? Oooohh! The pain! The agony of your hapless muscles. The routine of appearing indifferent to conversation. The monotony, loneliness, and relentlessly eroding downward spiral of self-deprecation. All that can end as soon as you finish reading this. With these three easy steps, you can banish insecurity directly to the core of your heart (where it thrives and never dies):

1) Above all...it's showtime, baby. You must remember this. When you enter a room, when you move along down the city sidewalks, when you play with little kids - it's showtime. Uh. Yeah. What. The lights go black, the crowd comes to its feet, the public address announcer clears his throat and says, "aaaand now..." There's a hot 20-something above the tunnel holding a sign that says, "TAKE ME HOME, {First Name}." People paid to see you tonight.

The place is rocking and you're still standing behind the security guards with the yellow jackets in the tunnel. You half-stretch your calves one by one, you give a little neck twist, maybe throw in a few hops. You're wearing a white headband, you take it off and chuck it to the side and think, "". Nothing. Nothing at all baby. The spotlight hits the tunnel entrance and casts a blinding light at your toes, "It's showtime, it showtime, it showtime," you whisper it.

The PA announcer belts out your name, "{FIRSTNAAAAME LASTNAAAAAAAAAAAAME}!!!" You hop a little, distributing the weight slightly onto your back foot (no one's that confident), and then you explode out the tunnel, spin around and show your face to your adoring fans as you high-five the trainer and the hot member of the support staff. You get to center stage, raise your hands above your head and say, (politely), "A buttered poppy-seed bagel, please" or "I finished that assignment you gave me" or "Happy Holidays Aunt Laurie." It's gotta be goin' through your head at all times, that scene, that's you, you're the star, it's showtime.

2) Because it's showtime, things go your way. When the subway arrives just as you descend the stairs, it's because of your aura. Your presence in the station literally adjusted the timetable and composition of the entire transit network. Cut ahead a few old folk (they won't even notice), maybe slap the top of the doorway like "yo wutup, I own this car," and go wedge between two comfortable groups of seated people and lean your ass all the way back. Yeah, who got the broad shoulders now! What.

When you're not sure if it's one of those vending machines that can take the bill both face sides up and you give it to it the face side that's less crinkled, and it takes it, that's cuz it's showtime baby! When you buy a bunch of stuff at the pharmacy and one of the items was actually half price and the math in your head was one dollar denomination too high...you know why. Baby it's cuz you're so good lookin' in the spotlight right now. Whoo!

3) You mad famous. You on top the world, baby. When people make eye contact, it mean one thing and one thing only, they are just dyin' to get with you. You see some old dude looking at some mad young chick and you cut in front of her, right in his way. He looks at you in the eyes: yeeeeah. Take a number gramps. Please. You walk past a coffee shop and startle some babe in the window because you're staring at her with your mouth open, she looks you right in the eyes: yeeeeah. Go round up a few mo'. What.

You stand on the elevator with reflective doors and everyone looks away as you stare at your reflection: yeeeeah. What now. The little bell rings but the doors don't open so almost everyone looks at the little blue number to see what up but as they realize you lookin' straight ahead they look into your eyes in the reflection: yeeeeah. "The'y a ho lotta lovin' 'go around, baby." Maybe give a little smirk. Nah. Nah. What now. Uh.

Now that you've read through the steps to achieving instant confidence, it's worth mentioning that before these foolproof guidelines become habitual (studies suggest habits take almost three weeks to solidify), you may need an easy way to remind yourself of the steps, here's how: once you get yourself all did in morning, take a last look in the mirror. Raise your dominant hand about 5 inches below your chin, extend your thumb and index finger, cupping the other three fingers, this should make a pistol-shaped figure with your hand. That little arrangement doesn't pack any punch and is for sissies.

Take your middle finger, extend it, and line it up just beneath your index finger. Now you got a hand cannon. Do you feel the difference? Try it a few times. Good. Anyway you want to look at yourself in the mirror, and fire the gun once. This should remind you of Step 1, when showtime begins. Next, blow out the top of the gun because it's all smoky. Then, put it in its holster at your side. This should remind you of Step 2 because it's cuz of your skill that the holster doesn't catch fire even though, because of you, it's so hot. Next, and this harkens back to Step 3, give yourself a last look and either wink with your dominant eye or give yourself a slight smootch. On days when you really need a big performance, you can do both, but baby... don't waste it.

"Blueprint" Preview

The age of lightning fiber has smothered us;
we’re motionless in a storm of booming characters
bent on relevance, fat with legacy.
And even in my benevolent bittersweet state,
there was a record of my tarnished past,
haunting the unacceptably latent spaces.
So I charted the best path through Babel,
arrayed those booming characters, and
set out for dreamlands and their golden valleys.
On this deep-sleep destruction hunt,
I longed for explosions to disperse the steel storm,
to dizzy my mind and unsettle my stomach.
Yet as the sticky throne appeared before me,
my first chance at releasing the vile, bile currency,
I tenderly recalled the steel sky.

The memory of its slick surface sent polar chills through me,
shivering atop the high half of the Earthball,
seducing me to stay.
A carbon-borne instinct rushed through me,
urging the auspicious econogastric reversal,
which just may have stilled the storm.
As my sclera swelled red,
a heat wave swept up and through me, and
guilt-based nostalgia swung my head back to the stormy metal sky.
Yet I stole away, shattering the boom cube,
stretching my eyes in the hurricane, and
channeling the repressed, stubborn nausea.
Against the code, taking the first, the only opinion,
I leapt with my head and
leaned forward with my heart.

How annoying are references to high caffeine intake?
to vague disobedience?
to the author?

Arriving Rivendell

The planks on the wooden bridge waddled back and forth under the pressure redistributions caused by travelers. Each plank had a small hole on each side of its flat section, and through the holes were small, green, twinelike strands that held each plank to the next. Running across the bridge all at once caused a tidelike ripple to cascade over the span. Of course, the variables in such a wave may be examined relentlessly (ibid).

But all of this foreshadows a familiar topic, and, seeking variety I find myself back where I began: at this goddamned Roman Clef. The influences over the past two years have been few. When I catch it good, I can follow the flow of clean streams. When I see my reflection too clearly, I pollute the waters and tire my wrists. I need calm waters as much as I need hazy rapids as much as I need the frenzy of bodily functions to quiet down for a few minutes. The source seems pure and opportune, but the rest is a tangled, murky mess.

I'll travel with myself and hear ripples of sure success: "Got a new year comin'. Only God knows what's in it." Or the thing about the dog and the gentrification zone. Only to be saddled and handcuffed by sloth, gluttony, envy, and pride - are these my bridge girders! I read the LCD display. I'm like a Three Gorges Dam simulation with infinite retries. I well up, and before I produce anything, I fall apart (at least I'm not in the paper). Inspiration sought, bring it to the bridge.

Maybe I need to recupe in some magical homely house. The structure of the worldsuit doesn't fit me. The lush greens of the riverbanks don't appeal to me. Give me your tired, distracted, jaded, populous audience, and I'll forge a head! I'll leave the homely house of convalescence (assuming I rest there), and I'll blast through the arachnowoods, acidoceans, treacherousplains, and inauspicioussands - to the top of the mountain (of love/adobe of angels). I'll tower indifferently over the riverbanks and its masses, shackled by the worldsuits of slavery (if you can say it more sensitively, e-mail it to me), and beam a message into their receivers: "There is hope, you who listen."

Wasn't the Spring

You'd suspect that tall yellow-green weeds in front of a boarded-up house indicates an extended period of neglect, and in most cases, you'd be right. So let's analyze those cases when you'd be right, ok? You call up the town commissioner's office to ask about the property, and they tell you "nothing's been reported." You call up other local authorities, and they tell you, "haven't had any problems." So you walk to the library and check the newspapers for natural disasters in the past year and all the papers say is "..." (See #1 below.) Alas, nothing about any natural disasters, including epidemics, I forgot to mention that you'd look into epidemics in addition.

So it's looking more and more likely that your original suspicion was correct. You double back to the house because this is a blog and there's no time to walk. And as you approach it, you notice that nothing about the house has changed, it's still boarded up and lots of weeds remain in the front yard. The sun is setting because of all you've done today and because there needs to be some kind of trigger for the surreal events that follow:

A small red ribbon blows [like a tantrum]. Then it lands near your foot. You bend over for the ribbon but it swings all the way to the left [of you] and so you pivot a little and go to grab it on the left. You know you're getting old when you bend over to pick up a magic ribbon and wonder, "what else can I do while I'm down here?" Oh yeah it's a magic ribbon, forgot to mention that, just figured you'd have another one of your well-educated suspicions. Who has AIDS? The magic ribbon is sticky on one side.

There you are - supporting a guardian angel and a devil's advocate on each shoulder standing in front of a boarded-up house that's almost certainly been subject to long-term neglect, having spent a good part of the day researching that very issue, and holding a magic red ribbon.

The angel says, "do the right thing," and the devil does a spinny motion with his fingers and the ribbon becomes translucent and tape-like. He expands it over your eyes and nostrils and ear canals and tongue and fingertips and says, "Do you think this cape goes with these boots?" And you say, "sure, you're the devil and things look appropriately hellish." The devil says, "Have you ever heard of salvation?" And you respond, "Ha, well of course I've heard of it but there's not much to say." The devil replies that you are completely incorrect about the cape, boots, and salvation. So you look at the house in front of you and it still looks boarded up. Then, the reality (See #2 Below) slithers into your mind: there might be malnourishment going on in the house, the government may be making some kind of statement, there could be a class action lawsuit against the proprietors, current or previous, of the residence - The devil has black hair.

There is no resolution because it's not spring yet.

#1 - Newspapers sure say a lot when you request historical information.
#2 - Remember that your senses have been cloaked in the devil's Scotch red tape!

Here At Home

[Ancestrally-privileged moguls] sometimes have these uncrinkled pieces of legal paper with manicured black characters drafted upon them, and from these West Indian (not East Asian) manuscripts, a showstopping food chain of sociopolitical implications expands – in to the inner-city, out to the shore (the ’burbs), in to the classrooms, out to the playgrounds, in ivory doors, out closets, in hearts out of iron. The networking is just splendid and the chicken is almost always prepared to perfection, their rooms are made made of bulletproof glass - a great irony considering the classes they’ve attended and the security at the iron gates.

Welcome to the Johnson & Johnson’s, leave the .223 at home next time, Damien. Would you care for a drink did you ask the trainer don’t worry I already did (what a question in this period, Mrs. Robinson reflected)? Mirrors slanted away from the walls as they soared towards the stratosphere interrupted by the arched ceiling and the golden molding in the great hall of the balding mogul’s mansion. The realism of the gazes trapped in the European paintings challenged the indifference of the Iowan safety established near the turn of the century. Safely looking up at the ceiling (because no one else was looking), Mrs. Robinson noticed paintings by Woody’s heroes on the walls.

As her shiny heels clicked behind her husband and his boss, the felt her face sink into its bones, her chest press down at her stomach, “oh, that’s George Washington,” she whispered as a code red level of inhibition began to swirl inside her. There he was, “The Father of His Country,” mounted on a horse in the New Jersey woods. Woody and Damien had a similar relationship [to other professional relationships like this one].

Right, right, oh of course. Next time, no such thing. Bust down the double doors on the field next time. Haha, yes. The logs from the inner thoughts during this interaction proved so large as to be correctly-termed ‘unwieldy.’

Winning Race

Clef

The hummin’ came from the hummer that started when I buzzed the buzzer, which ended when I clutched the black handle with both hands and pushed out onto the street. I ran to the corner and made a tight right because most intersections meet at right angles, right? A drop from a dirty old awning found its way into the hole at the top of my coffee cup.

And We! Are back!

Wondrin’ what’s wrong with this landscape, feelin’ the ground with my hands and the soul of privilege pressed squarely at my back. The pangs of lunacy addressing my backside, baby! Sailin’ for a living workin’ as a hobby like a dull knife’s afterthought – the beach resort of life. The Ohio wilderness at my back! The leaves turned and turned all around my head with my troubles and a mixed up maniac stirrin’ the pot wondrin’ thinkin’ all about crazy fates and faithless paranoia. Where we goin’ baby? We’re goin’ where we always end up goin’ ya heard me honey? Open the door by pressing against the black handle. At the end of my time, I hope my mind’s aligned.

Crossing guard, let me pass to the other side! It looks so bad that I’ve been running and now I have to wait for the light. At the end of the fiery tunnel to the promised land, there’s a cliché and a license agreement. I misunderstood the former and forgot the latter. After business time, it specified. I laughed in its face and dreamed of America the land of orange lights and slick sidewalks. A light was on in one apartment (galactic tone) so I broke in and stole everything she owned. A late night arrival to a spired-city (galactic tone) ought to inspire criminal activity. She’s the one for me, so I swung around the corner, made a tight right ya heard?

I heard ya honey, I heard ya loud and clear this room has great acoustics. She sighed and reflected on her baptism. I stood in the doorway and sent the little broken chain link whipping into to the Ohio wilderness under her futon. In a corner…in a lot, in an old broken downtown spot was where I put the heavy black bag baby! And as dawn disturbed the big city, I hunched over a weak watery coffee and couldn’t take another sip.

The hole I was in now + all the incompatible feelings had me hurdling towards the fact that I was headed to Central Park next. I shouldn’t look so far ahead, baby let’s share some spit, rollin’ round in the riverbrush of the Ohio watershed. I can dream cain’t I? Slither towards me fucker and I’ll sucker-punch you right where it stings. You and I ain’t so different after all, Jersey. Gimme something to wear and I’ll be off. This bus sucks I want a new one, I want a new set of undies honey. Let’s transfer - let’s sniff out something better.

After the homicide I went back to her apartment and sat at the little table, blood glimmering on the hardwood floor so I got a sponge and cleaned it up. I knew the cops would come and bust down the door and take me away and that was fine with me I believe in justice. I believe in the system because back in the old country shit’s corrupt. I read an interesting article about lock-picking. Fascinating stuff.

Beads & Batteries

A little boy went "uuuughhhhh" when he saw the white reverse lights on the van coming toward his little sister in the stroller. Though precocious in one area of common knowledge, he was deficient overall; his mother easily wheeled the stroller up the curb onto the sidewalk (with a few seconds to spare). I mean, the extent of the car's backwards movement didn't even intersect with where she'd been while crossing the street...it was a guttural shriek, one that only a prepubescent little man could muster. Outward from his little lips the air tossed and turned restlessly. It mixed with the grease and grime of the city, alternately savory and disgusting, wonderful and loathsome.

With his family out of the picture, his heart and mind sunk in nostalgia whenever he saw those shiny green and red ceramic tiles. His stomach juices gurgled and popped and touched his heart and mind when he saw the place's menu assembled together in white, rounded characters on the sweaty grease-filled wall. The white numbers after each item related cost - numbers that served as an index, and, when paired with the year and just a little historical data, tells the stories of cities and countries, of countries and civilizations, in the northern hemisphere of Earth.

The air licked the burnt, crispy salt particles off of itself as the scream went by, passing on the exotic seafood and aristocratic baby formula, shoveling it off with a crest at its chest. I tell you, what beats this, what flies like a pig and chomps like a shark? What zooms like a race car and pivots like a row on an abacus? Who can label me in a few premeditated brush strokes! Who can capture my worth in a few succulent thighs, am I so bland! Am I low-sodium! Am I a number and a target, can I defy the numbers if I think hard enough? The pig has wings I saw them with my own eyes!

Right now aaaaaaand go! Go! Oh shit oh shit! Oh shit! Go Go Go! Chug chug chug chug chug hahahaha! Go! Chug! Oh shit! Beady eyes looked on from across the street, there's no street. There's no street if there's no city, and there is definitely not a city here. Athletic prowess flexes and stands over me as I look back cynically yet defeated. I am a piece of fine art - a porcelain vase a masterpiece a showstopper. We have a fan! Look, there he is with the tail and the coat. Now we have a fan and a coat, this climate is no match for us. We can control our destinies because we have the tools necessary to withstand the extremes of our climate.



We are utterly adrift and it has gone to our heads. We look into the distance and our bones are disintegrating. Our hearts and minds throb with the rise and fall of the moonleash. I want a cupcake. Me and my classmates want cupcakes. We want stickers and cupcakes and first honors. I want my number to be called and called and called until I'm looking up at the cheap ceiling tiles three feet above me from the mattress of a plaything - and through the walls, through the cement mixed together by an immigrant and slopped together with Holy Water and a sacred spade - I hear the engine of a way out of here, and it. is. so. gone.