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about me
poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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* m a y s t a r *
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  •  

    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Monday, October 31, 2005

    Halloween

    Halloween —
    the devil
    knows my name

     

    Sunday, October 30, 2005

    Devil's Night

    Devil’s Night —
    the ghostly glow
    of CNN

     

    Saturday, October 29, 2005

    October snow

    October snow —
    suddenly I feel
    so old

     

    Friday, October 28, 2005

    food shopping

    food shopping —
    one more bag of Halloween candy
    “just in case”

     

    Thursday, October 27, 2005

    layoff rumors

    layoff rumors —
    a full cup
    of burnt coffee

     

    Wednesday, October 26, 2005

    Halloween

    Halloween —
    President Bush thanks me
    for the Snickers bar

     

    sometimes I only want...

    ...everything, except the very thing that I dare not want, which is to say that I want not to want that very thing. but I digress. snow is in the forecast, leaves are on the ground, and I can’t seem to find my arsenal. the leaves that have fallen have not yet changed color — they have fallen to violent hands in the form of wind and rain. it’s sunny now, but I’m not cheered in the slightest.

    because nothing is coming up roses, but rather everything is glowing with the faintest traces of light. it’s in those spaces approaching darkness that we become most enlightened.

    except that I don’t believe that. I don’t even want to. what do I want? anything?

     

    Tuesday, October 25, 2005

    snow in the forecast

    snow in the forecast
    I microwave
    my coffee

     

    Monday, October 24, 2005

    startled from sleep

    startled from sleep —
    did I save
    that spreadsheet?

     

    Sunday, October 23, 2005

    phone call

    phone call
    from my ex-wife —
    mold on a peach

     

    Saturday, October 22, 2005

    the old tree

    the old tree —
    crossed-out initials
    inside a heart

     

    Friday, October 21, 2005

    first frost

    first frost —
    more than a touch of gray
    in my beard

     

    Thursday, October 20, 2005

    were you speaking?

    were you speaking?
    I was busy
    counting stars

     

    Wednesday, October 19, 2005

    gibbous moon

    gibbous moon —
    an email from my ex-wife
    flagged as “junk”

     

    Tuesday, October 18, 2005

    slow night

    slow night —
    the barmaid buys
    another round

     

    there goes gravity

    “wild flowers” she said.
    they were weeds.
    “from a secret admirer.”
    I could see where this was going already.
    “how do you know?” I asked.
    “there was a note.”
    “can I see it?”
    “why? are you jealous?”
    “should I be jealous?”

    she paused to smell them, inhaling deeply as if they were the most fragrant roses ever to grace the planet. then she tossed them into the river.

    “they were from you.”

     

    Monday, October 17, 2005

    (still) october

    october —
    I go to work wearing
    the wrong color socks

     

    Sunday, October 16, 2005

    october wind



    october wind —
    the dog guards
    a freshly fallen acorn

     

    Saturday, October 15, 2005

    the boogeyman weeps

    meet me in the ashes of the old city. bring a bottle of the finest cheap wine; I’ll bring the paper cups. there we’ll watch the river rise and fall against the broken glass shore and sleep under the stars.

    it rained. she never showed. the river was snatched into the air by a big black vulture, silent except for the rush of wings.

     

    Friday, October 14, 2005

    clearing trend

    clearing trend —
    a stranger returns
    my “hello”

     

    Thursday, October 13, 2005

    night terror

    night terror —
    the crack in the dogwood branch
    deepens

     

    billboard

    my lover’s eyes
    are bigger than my fist.
    they follow me
    down dark alleyways
    and wait for me
    outside the office
    outside the pub
    outside my home
    more patient than God
    all-seeing, all knowing,
    knowing
    that I will return
    that I will do
    anything
    she says.

     

    Wednesday, October 12, 2005

    october

    october
    all the storm windows
    closed

     

    Tuesday, October 11, 2005

    startled from sleep

    startled from sleep
    the broken gutter
    drips

     

    Monday, October 10, 2005

    the forecast

    the forecast:
    monday morning drizzle
    all week long

     

    Saturday, October 08, 2005

    high school football game

    high school football game —
    my son takes his helmet off
    in the driving rain

     

    Friday, October 07, 2005

    heightened security



    heightened security —
    pigeons watch the cop
    who walks the beat

     

    Thursday, October 06, 2005

    quiet night

    quiet night —
    a fish swims
    through the moon

     

    Wednesday, October 05, 2005

    Who do I think I am?

    Self-image is a curious thing. In creating this blog, I listed a number of attributes about myself that were intended as a sort of word-portrait. In truth, it’s what I want you to believe about me. The reality behind the smokescreen is a bit more prosaic: I really think of myself as an alarmingly skinny, painfully awkward adolescent with gray hair. Of course that self-image is only partly true, but it’s been indelibly stamped into the mirror of my self-consciousness. It may not be what I am, but it’s what I think I am.

    Let’s take ethnicity for example: I was born in Rockville Centre, NY to American parents, which makes me an American. Easy enough. Both of my father’s parents were born in Puerto Rico, as were all of his grandparents. What does he consider himself? Spanish. Not Puerto Rican, not Hispanic, not Latino - Spanish. My mother’s mother was also born in Puerto Rico, while her father was born in the Phillipines to a Spanish mother and an English father. What does she consider herself? Puerto Rican, as do all of her siblings. This is the context of my own cultural ambiguity.

    While my parents grew up in the melting pot of Brooklyn, I grew up in the opaque Tupperware bowl of Farmingdale, NY. We were just another middle class family with a station wagon and aluminum siding. We were as white as Wonder Bread.

    With a few notable differences, of course. My mother and her family always spoke to one another in Spanish, while my father spoke to his family as seldomly as possible, and never in Spanish. So while my brothers and I heard plenty of Spanish growing up, my parents spoke to us exclusively in English. Spanish was a secret code belonging to the grownups. I grew familiar with the melodies and cadences of the languages, but I couldn’t sing along.

    I started to learn a foreign language in the fourth grade. It was French. The Farmingdale school system taught Spanish and French in alternating years, and I happened to be in a French year. I learned it well enough to score a perfect grade on my 10th grade Regents exam. I can barely speak a word of it today.

    In college I finally had my first opportunity to learn Spanish. I took a placement exam, which revealed that while I had a great accent and good ear for the language, I had a very limited vocabulary and no understanding of Spanish grammar. I was a beginner. Over a quarter century later, I’m still a beginner. Most of what I hear outside of a classroom setting is much too fast for my ear to discern more than every third or fourth word. When speaking, I still formulate sentences in English and attempt to translate them on the fly into Spanish. This results in a considerable delay, not to mention a significant amount of self-consciousness. Simply put, I lack the confidence to speak.

    Which is a shame, since, as a phonetic language, Spanish makes so much sense to me. Moreover, it’s in my blood. How can I not speak it? How can I not be what I am?

    Or is it only what I think I am?

     

    Tuesday, October 04, 2005

    wrong number

    wrong number —
    the dog climbs into
    my side of the bed

     

    Monday, October 03, 2005

    new moon

    new moon —
    not much new
    this monday morning

     

    Sunday, October 02, 2005

    (still) October

    October —
    a shower of champagne
    in the winning clubhouse

     

    Saturday, October 01, 2005

    October

    October —
    I show my teenaged sons
    how to use an axe

     

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