Here, before this computer screen, I am a glazed donut

sequacious (si-KWAY-shuhs) adjective

Unthinkingly following others.

The pulse, this machine's pulse, it sucks me dry, dry. I must find a way, a way outside.

Pigeon Holed

clay pigeon (klay PIJ-uhn) noun

Someone in a situation vulnerable to be taken advantage of.

Clay has a headset on and sits hunched over his workplace computer, scrolling through a webpage chronicling the effects of a chemical breach in upstate New York. His mouth agape, eyes half-shut, Clay imagines an onsite newscaster delivering the article's words: a cleancut, blue-blazered boy named something unwavering like Geoff Tammer, with stable eyebrows and a monotone voice that pronounces words with an annoying precision.

"...agephsitrin, a common chemical used in farms to increase livestock immunity to pesticides, previously thought harmless, is now being attributed to the death of nearly 100 cows in New York state alone. Farmers as far away as Michigan and Iowa have reported comparable deaths--"

He skims further down the webpage and encounters an interview. Here, a farmer emerges in his mind: dusty, dirty, donning overalls and a baseball cap; patchy facial hair, missing key teeth; underweight, or overweight, kind of hard to tell; and rusty, tight-jawed accent.

"First theyes look atcha bit clawdy, tongues'l dry and breff smellin sometin awfl. Then they's loosin weht...fastr n fastr. Jus ner fall ovr ded n to days time. Ain't nottin yous kindu. Nottin nobodys kindu. Jus gotta live, kno? Ho'l farm dead, nerly. Ho'l farm."

Sometimes Memories Feel Like Pocket Lint

verbigeration (vuhr-bij-uh-RAY-shun) noun

Obsessive repetition of meaningless words and phrases.

A month passes without a peep and here I am, a train stopped in spring. Sixty degrees outside, the sun shines calm rays while I sip coffee and contemplate change. Like the weather, I stumble between decisions--a week of heat, a day of frost--but May always stands as a month of assertion and finality, of graduation. Part of this past April included a breakfast conversation with my mom. She flew in to attend a conference downtown and we scheduled a morning one-on-one, an understood kind of meeting with expectations of such phrases as "your future" and "you can always" and "don't worry". No matter the gravity of the moment or situation, Mom (in a universal sense, really, or at least, hopefully) delivers a wisdom of balance. Over Swedish pancakes and eggs she said, "Zach, just make a choice. It doesn't matter what it is. When you make it, that will be the right one. But you have to make a choice."

Faced now with a cap and gown
only visible to me,
I must reconcile all the trials
and try again to dream.

That Sinking Feeling

paludal (puh-LOOD-uhl) adjective

Of or relating to marshes.

Last night I sat in the dark dressed like a hick lumberjack and listened hard. Mullet wig, red and black checkered shirt, orange vest, mesh hat--all thrown together an hour before in an effort to tease the audience. I had my glasses stuffed in a breast pocket for the full inward effect, hoping to generate character based on the newness of softened environment, of a blurry horizon. "Just listen and react," I kept thinking, "You know what you're doing." And I did. I did know, from the very minute it began. From the first moment I felt that familiar sensation, the physical sigh, the stickiness of a rotting scene. I knew.

Failing on stage strips the ego of all dreams. It's the papercut from a mailed letter that's never received. It's walking to work with splattered mud across your suit on Casual Friday. That grand godly scale tipping and pouring your fears all over your face.

Rhythm Or Without

pari passu (PAH-ree PAS-soo) adverb

At an equal rate or rank.

Whisper jazz as
overcast
clouds cover,
coast ahead.

All the pathways set
in stoned concrete
pavement squares--
a half-sleep haze
day
courtesy of the
WPA--
to the tinny tap taps
(my shoes
keep the beat)
mapped in my head.

Firm lipped
mumbled winter scats
blues up those flat souls
and frozen tongues
slapping the cement
amused by
the fuse lit in
what I say
instead.

Seasonal Affection

virga (VUHR-guh) noun

Rain or snow that evaporates before hitting the ground.

Here would best go a picture painted--or taken--specifically to evoke an uncertain mood. Insert: A man standing in the shallow end of the outdoor pool, water up to just under his knees. Black trunks, blue stripes (if in black and white, two shades of dark). Dry hair, uncombed. Centered, staring straight; a background of overcasting storm clouds.

Foreword: My job is a tennis ball caked in mud, hidden by last Fall's leaves, somewhere in the woods.

Caption: Do you remember what it's like to run without purpose?

Want To Get Away

misology (mi-SOL-uh-jee) noun

Hatred of logic or reason.

Lester sits at the breakroom table looking at the glossy pages of an oversized, hardcover book spread-out before him. A can of cola, opened, positioned to his left, fizzles. To his right lies an end-torn, squared column of saltine crackers on its side. The two seen pages of the book reveal vast photographs of natural settings: a springtime mountainside anew with green; thick dark-barked trees shading soft-moss underbellies; an overhead meadow view with a captured breeze in tilting grass and small shadows of distant clouds. Lester reads the photographs, studies them, turns the pages delicately, as if to the rhythm of a slow-moving waterwheel. His focus consumes him; his head lowers to the book; he breathes noticeably. The pages shine, flash with color that reflect off Lester's near-oval lenses--his lips part--and he blinks in deliberate disbelief. Grazing across the emanating photographs, his fingertips edge toward the center crease, then stop, suddenly, and stretch, flattening his hands to cover the most space available on each side. Lester straightens his back, closes his eyes, and mumbles a half-phrase while veering his head slightly back soas to face the ceiling. His body starts trembling--subtly, first, then quickly escalating to the point of near violence, his hands stuck to the book like stone. Bolts of color shoot from the pages, flinging off his glasses and brushing his hair back in sharp bursts of wind. The can of cola teeters, tips, rolls to the ground. A loud, tonal alarm sounds and Lester matches its intensity with a primal yawl. His sweat now mingles with tears.

All movement, sound, and energy stops. Cale, a coworker, enters the breakroom and opens the door to the microwave, his back to the table. Lester, his face lodged into the crease of the book, snores lightly and drools. A cola stream crosses the table, passes Lester's glasses, and drips from the edge of the table onto the floor, where a puddle has formed around an empty cola can. Without notice to Lester, Cale reaches into the microwave, retracts with a wince, briefly sucks on the tip of his finger, pauses, tears off a sheet from a nearby paper towel, then reaches again, covering his hand with the towel. This time, he returns with a mini pot pie.

"Aw, man. Shit's burnt." Cale places the pot pie on the counter and begins opening cabinets and, only after sound inspection, removes a plate, a fork, and knife.

As the commotion proceeds, Lester stirs, lifts his head. One page from the book lifts with him, stuck to his cheek.

A Quiet Snow

umbrage (UHM-brij) noun

1. Offense or annoyance arising from some insult.

2. Shade, as from a tree.

3. A vague suggestion or a feeling of suspicion.

Last week I put together a mix CD called "Wintry Mix", inspired by the sudden cold and the soft comfort of falling snow. I chose tracks based on how I thought they'd sound as music to winter's more iconic pictures or maybe accompaniment to building the season's first fire. Right now, outside my work window, I can't stop myself from watching one of those pictures form, from the quickly disappearing sidewalk cracks, to the now clearly defined branches on a bare tree.

Snow lacks the basic follies of human judgement--discrimination, fear, self-censorship--equalizing every civilized triumph and failure to the same state, blinding value and suffocating class. She touches, kisses steps like foreheads, fills holes and paints hills. Ignorant, silent like love, snow holds, embracing.

Day Quill, Day One

cynosure (SY-nuh-shoor) noun

1. One who is the center of attraction or interest.

2. One serving for guidance or direction.

head colds drive
hard bargains between
mucus laden slip and slides
and the thinnest strips of paper
super soakers
laced with aloe vera

follow your nose
when it runs
amok
directing all eyes
to the dry red tenderness
breathing like tiny coals
on fire
on the inside:

the pulse of health
unmasked, on stage
for all to sneeze

It Only Goes To Show

Garrison finish (GAR-i-suhn FIN-ish) noun

The finish of a contest in which the winner rallies at the last
moment to score the victory.

There's this weird notion that exists in the entertainment community called "making it". Everyone, seemingly, stands on some level of this ambiguous concept, strives to achieve it, and, often, wallows in disappointment when left unfulfilled. "Making it"--unlike "making out"--has few tangible or measurable attributes. Does "making it" presuppose fame and respect? If so, how does one quantify that? Is grand financial success a tenant of "making it"? And how much is rich, anyway? Rich for now, or rich forever? Who deems someone as successful, and should it be deemed at all?

Regardless, the whole thing smells of social pressures and sliding scales. Live dreams, don't "make" them. Very few people die having spent every dime.

And Your Bird Can Sing

speculum (SPEK-yoo-luhm) noun

1. A mirror used as a reflector in an optical instrument,
such as a telescope.

2. Speculum metal: any of various alloys of copper and
tin used in making mirrors.

3. An instrument for holding open a body cavity for
medical examination.

4. A bright patch of color on the wings of certain birds,
for example ducks

I can feel the weight of my eyelids and the heat leaving my hands. Every dismally mundane task drops like a brick before crumbling into my own dismissal. The dull drone of computer hardrives and day to day chatter of coworkers spending time as fast as they can buy suddenly flicks at the back of ears like a seventh grade instigator. My job, of late, leaves me cut open and dried; a human canyon.

I think I'm ready to move onto something new, something challenging, something more professional. Something with lunch breaks and steady, specific hours. Something that pays the same or more. Something that asks of me what I ask of it--the handshake of honest employment.

It's Over, It's Over, It's Over

regent (REE-juhnt) adjective

One who rules for a limited period, on behalf of a king or queen who
is a minor, absent, or ill.

We approached the Armitage apartment nearly crippled over with stomach knots. The old neighborhood, the old walk, that burned feeling of tender scars, all floating in the crisp winter air, drying out our lips and accelerating our heart beats. Were we under surveillance? Does she stalk the block, hunting down her aggressors, volumes of law books tucked under her arm? Street lights posed as eyes; pedestrians trolled like agents. We arrived.

My attention immediately focused on the original location of the For Rent sign I taped atop the inside window facing the street, some two weeks prior. It wasn't there. I paused. We began whispering our thoughts, searching quickly for tangible indications. A lone chair sat shadowed by the building, hidden in the far corner. Adrienne pointed to a small mound of cigarette butts just outside the front door. Possibly, maybe, a light shimmered in the kitchen.

Smiles staged a coup across our faces--rejoicing, we sang Roy Orbison to Damen. The burden lifted high and wide, drawing out sudden exclaims and gitty laughter. Our lease, our landlady, was broken.

His Name Was Peter Sacks

akimbo (uh-KIM-bo) adjective

With hands on hips and elbows turned outwards.

I've tried to write a decent blog entry for the last couple of mornings and nothing's surfaced. My quick, furious jaunt to Tucson proved both ridiculously exhaustive and wonderfully reaffirming, yet, somehow, I am starved for how to put together a set of interesting sentences. So here's an unrelated thought.

A very kind coworker gave me a pocket version of Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg as a gift. In the foreword, Goldberg quotes a passage from Jack Kerouac that, in a roundabout way, reminded me of a South African poet I met in college. His name escapes me (as names often do), but the experience of listening to his thoughts and hearing his voice enliven his poems will remain etched in my memory forever. "Patience is passion," he said, nonchalantly in response to a particular poem. "The words stem from the same etymological root."

Patience is passion. I used to say that all the time. It used to ease my more depressed moments, used to make sense out of loneliness, out of pining. Almost like a little prayer--was there ever a god of Patience?--to help balance dreams with reality. And now, from this palm-sized book about applying Zen meditation to writing, a fountain of old practices emerge.

I used to write every day. To journal. Read. Every day. Bike to class, to work. Shoot baskets at a nearby park. Drink on desert porches and draw self-sketched portraits. Sit alone in bars. Midnight breakfast burritos. Sunsets atop parking garages. Tack book or magazine-cut collages to my bedroom walls. Smoke joints, laugh, and drive home. I used to have a car. I used to underline only in pencil. I used to like two cigarettes each night of drinking.

I used to write every day.

A Mixed Drink

bling-bling (bling-bling) noun

Expensive, flashy jewelry or other items.

I just finished the Bukowski novel and, honestly, I doubt I'll pick him up again. Not that I was particularly disgusted or offended, as would probably mark most Never Agains in the Bukowski readership. Personally, I simply didn't find the book as a measure of much more than a succession of sexual exploits and belligerence. Although remarkable for their longevity and humor, all the stories of drinks and girls and erections and vomit never resulted in any interesting kind of enlightenment. Then again, maybe that's exactly what Bukowski intended. Pornography for the casual poet.

Bookowski

forehanded (FOR-han-did) adjective

1. Providing for the future needs; prudent.

2. Well-to-do.

3. Made with the palm facing forward (such as a stroke in tennis).

I'm reading again and it's much better than it ever was when assigned. I get to pick what to read, when to read, how far to read--a whole world of choices. In the mornings now, I go to the second or third floor of the theatre (whichever contains less distractions), sit by the windows, pour myself a cup of coffee, and read for about thirty or forty minutes. Starts my day off with a little story, kind of like meeting a friend for a casual breakfast. Only, I suppose, they do all the talking, you decide when they stop, and there's no check involved.

Anyway, this morning I started Women by Charles Bukowski. I received it as a gift two birthdays ago and, after moving into our new apartment and reorganizing all our books, Adrienne found that we now own two copies. We also own two copies of Catcher In The Rye and Catch-22 (nodding to our mutual interest in good catching), but the Bukowski pair signify the only identical editions we share. With two absolutely exact copies of Women sitting side-by-side on our livingroom shelf, I realized, having never read the book, I was taking the ultimate decorative risk: displaying something, in duplicate, I knew nothing about.

Twenty-two pages in and I can say, with a certain authority, that Charles Bukowski, too, knows very little about women.

Ushering In The New

prise (pryz) verb tr.

1. To force open or part something with a lever.

2. To extract information from someone with difficulty.

noun

A lever.

We stood by the side of the aisle positioned in such a way as to keep an open angle for approaching seat holders. Dressed in our blacks and whites, brandishing orange clip-on tags announcing our volunteer status, we intercepted every unsure ticket like penguins sliding into view. Penguins with little more than twenty minutes knowledge of the auditorium, its facilities, and its rules.

Free admission can certainly pad one's confidence in assumptions. When money's not involved, the accountability dissolves, and everyone's acting on integrity alone.

A scattered crowd witnessed the building, moody tunes of Califone, who performed forty-five minutes precisely, exiting to the excitement of second-round beers and the promise of the main attraction. With this transition, our roles quickly evolved into answering questions about restrooms and dancing and smoking--"But it ain't cigarettes, man!"--and then again into stalling conversations about the band or the theatre or if I saw the show last night or anything at all just to keep from ascending two more flights of stairs to a place where the music makers blur into a sighing distance.

This we did with somewhat reluctance, until the moment when the house lights dimmed and a bunny suit carrying drumsticks walked on stage, sat down and began feigning to drum on a box that changed colors with the beat. The bunny played with his sewed expression and mock intensity amid laughter and raised eyebrows. He left waving. Wilco followed and performed for two hours and me and Adrienne held hands and smiled--two penguins in front of the Northern Lights--surrounded by hippies dancing and air guitaring, fleeing from disgruntled security.

Wilco, too, left waving with thanks. And in a way, when we walked outside toward the Red Line, on our way to a new place to lay our heads, we waved as well. Our eyes finally free from the prise.

Have Thought, Wilco

effrontery (i-FRUN-tuh-ree) noun

Shameless boldness; presumptuousness.

Here's what I think a wonderful idea for a family movie would be (for serious):

Wilco, an imaginative early teen borne into a Midwest yupster family, founds a micronation to tackle summer boredom and instill confidence against self-proclaimed "professional bully" Frederick Warner. After a local radio-spot covers Wilco's alternative country, media interest explodes, releasing distorted (albeit positive) information and ultimately leading Wilco to declare war.

Yesterday Light

exigent (EK-si-jent) adjective

1. Requiring urgent attention.

2. Demanding; exacting.

Yesterday afternoon I wrote an entire entry about how the most difficult aspect of breaking my lease deals with the intermittent periods between action, how every message I leave contains information about a message I received, and how waiting for an accurate interpretation of the received messages ("Should I be concerned about this? Is it a substantial threat?") compares to a child's imagining of what might sit inside a wrapped Christmas present. I named the entry "Clear and Present Danger" and based it on the above word.

Then, before I managed to save, every computer simultaneously turned off, making an unannounced machine-sigh. The office lights died and the dim, distant generator lights flicked on, and we sat in near darkness answering the occasional phonecall in a kind of dull, sleepy silence. Someone lit a lone candle; the room caved. I remembered making tents of blankets on chairs, holding my breath, sheltering a small flame of secret excitement, and waiting for the unknown to happen.

Lord of the Land vs. Ten Ants

hoi polloi (hoi puh-LOI) noun

The common people, the masses.

During my inaugural meeting with the Illinois Tenants Union, the Associate Director and I briefly discussed the medieval roots of "landlord" and "tenant". More than anything, I think our conversation served to break the tension--it was my first serious interaction with a lawyer, after all--and direct me toward the silly imagery of jewelry-laden landlords gallivanting through the streets during the day, skipping care-free from house to house collecting handfuls of hard-earned money, and eventually laying down to rest at the top of their sound-proof, sun roofed Castle of the Privileged, with all windows facing away from the dirty city lights.

"Well, they're lords of the land."

"Exactly. And some take that title a little too literally."

The First Weight Is Lifted

albatross (AL-buh-tros) noun, plural albatross or albatrosses

1. Any of the Diomedeidae family of large, web-footed seabirds.

2. A persistent wearisome burden, as of guilt, for example.

I am sitting at the box office window decked in pinstriped suit pants, a white collared shirt, and a thin black tie. My hair, for once, lays parted in an appropriate location and, judging from my dirty-pane reflection, my black frames compare me to a geek henchman from the Matrix or a maybe a roadie from Weezer. Either way, the whole ensemble exists for preparation only, incomplete without the fanfare of a white, raggity, over-worn wig, a dusty old grey fedora, and an acoustic guitar. All for the sake of illuminating two preposterous characters in an evening barprov performance with my friend Matt (also donning a hairy wig and suit combination).

Then again, while gingerly dialing the phone number to my prospective apartment management company to ask about the status of the application, a thought crossed my mind: Anyone listening to this call, anyone eavesdropping with basic knowledge of my situation, may very well believe I'm wearing suitpants and ties and nice clothes simply to boost confidence, to exercise any cosmic leverage to secure a new apartment.

And when the man on the other line spoke the good news, I wondered, for just a second, if maybe, in some sort of weird way, he'd pictured me in dark rimmed glasses and sporting a thin black tie, singing back up to Rivers Cuomo.