Since January 7th 1973

Since January 7^th 1973

11:00am –

            Ace and his seven-man unit surge out of their squad van and into the double doors. Ace’s knowledge is bleak, only knowing that there is one man wreaking havoc amongst the occupants and rescue workers inside. Bellhops and maids flee the hotel with tears and ash on their faces. His unit makes way to the staircase, with heartbeats louder than the fire alarms screeching though the halls…

            He counts the bullets as they fire, and the men in blue as well. All of this in hope to avenge what he sees as corruption. He enters a seemingly vacant room, bypasses the two African American housekeeping workers, and looks out the window to see two men with the crescent and star on their chest. Soon the .44 folds the badge and like a poorly made paper airplane, the men fall off their ladder. He enters the stairwell and heads to the rooftop…

11:15am-

            The assailant hears Ace and his unit ease open the six inch metal door atop the Howard Johnson. At this, he turns around and riddles the door with his military issued M-16 Rifle. The bullets stop, and the clank of the clip falls to the cement rooftop. Ace takes the cue, and charges at the shooter. With a leap forward, Ace takes a shot that rips through his thigh and soars into the clouded sky. Ace comes down onto the shooter, and avenges the loss of his brothers in blue lost that day; one 9mm to the shin and one to each shoulder. His unit and the helicopters finish the job…

           

            Seven days into 2003, the once off white and orange, stands beige. Resting on its side, a clarinet. And so, playing its own tune to hide the echoes of gunfire from that day. Seven days into 2003, the once medal adorned man in navy, stands guard with a royal apron saving nothing but the glares given to him when greeting a man with a simple “welcome.” And so, welcoming only the ability to forget the echoes of gunfire and anguish experienced that day. 

Prose Poetry

On Food

Processed beef, sesame seed bun, lettuce, diced onion, mystery sauce; deep fryer, red heat lamp, left out for hours at a time, crispy golden strips; halibut, cod, and drum mined mystery meat; safely cradled in a square cardboard box.

Beef, beans, sweet and spicy brown sauce, tortillas, forty-seven ways.

Square patties, bits scattered about the floor, thrown into the ten-gallon chili batch. Obesity rate?

On Love

What makes a princess? Is it her beauty, her woo, her fame, her fortune? What makes a prince? Is it his strength, his wit or lack there of, his rescue of his maiden? What is it that makes a princess tale? Is it the journey of the prince, the oppression of the damsel, the rescue from her lofted lodging?

And the princess paradigm exists. “Roy, you lazy prick, the car won’t start!” “I’m coming darling!”

"Stand By Me" Renku

"If Mickey's a mouse,
and if Pluto is a dog,
what the hell's Goofy"

"One food for your life
It's pez, cherry flavored pez.
No doubt about it"

Whether it’s when you’re with your gals or bros trying to decide on what to do on a Friday night, or if you’re having a flirtatious conversation with a significant other, the question of “what’s your favorite movie” is often asked. My answer is often three fold with Donnie Darko, Dead Poet’s Society, and Stand By me. Three very different movies, but one really can never go wrong with a “coming of age” story such as Stand By Me. This movie brings back childhood memories such as tree houses, fire hydrant slip-n-slides, neighborhood treasure hunts, and trips to the Rite Aid for condoms to be used for water balloons. That last one is a tad extraneous, but nonetheless, great childhood memories. In terms of these two renditions of fantastic movie quotations from Stand By Me, what really is Goofy, and if there is one food you would have for the rest of your life, what would it be? Even though Goofy wears clothes and drives a car “he’s a dog, he has to be a dog.” And if I had one food for the rest of my life it would have to be freshly baked Cinnabons. I think I have a little bit of a cinnamon roll obsession to say the least. My birthday is June 25^th; just saying.  

A Trip to CCs

While Gazing through the glass,

gloriousness is displayed.

Hypnotic swirls and twirls

of puff and crumbly greatness

Alternating layers

of flaky and gooey lusciousness.

“A warm cinnamon roll

with your latte today, sir?”

“No, thanks. but I’ll take a

stale cream cheese bagel por favor.”

Inspiration for this ironic piece is from our break period last class. I figured ten minutes would be a solid amount of time to get super grande latte, but I was mistaken and strolled into class a few minutes late. Embarrassing? Yes. Worth it? Not a chance. Once Dr. Chambers gave us the green light, I dashed over to CC’s. Which, while on that note, “CC’s” is an abbreviation or term of reference which thoroughly confuses me because there is no personal possession or pluralizing “Community Coffee”. Confuses me as much as those acne medication commercials that claim to turn a pizza face into Leonardo DiCaprio. Aside from that, I went over to get my latte and was asked the question of if I wanted to add anything to my coffee. One day I’ll say “No, if I wanted one I would have ordered it”, but this time I felt like being kind. However, leading up to my purchase there were two cinnamon rolls calling my name and waiting to be devoured. As R. Kelly says “my mind was telling me no, but my body was telling me yes.” Moment of truth came; do I want a cinnamon roll? I cracked, and asked for a cream cheese bagel. As my mouth was salivating over this glorious looking cinnamon roll, I got a less healthy choice in a fully loaded cream cheese bagel. What was I thinking? Regardless, I lived with my decision and headed back to class. Swiftly strutting, I took a bite out of that bagel and quickly realized that I was victim of last week’s reject batch that the manager just happened to slip back into the case. At that moment I introduced the stale bagel to a trashcan that looked like it hadn’t eaten for days. My journey to CC’s was complete, I walked into class infuriated and embarrassed. 

Billy Collins and Roz

One walks around in a bluegrass field and sees every species of animal imaginable. The person sees a woman frolicking delightfully through the field of daisies. The woman walks into her home, sings songs to her parakeet, and settles herself for the evening. She tosses a field green and strawberry salad for dinner and eats next to the door with curtains blowing in the wind.

“Alice in Wonderland”? No, I don’t think so; just a fantasized prose version on Billy Collins’ “Poetry” to lighten the mood a bit. However, the first time I read this piece, I was almost entirely taken out of our discussion due to its ability to take me back eight years in my educational life.

Seventh grade at Holy Cross School in New Orleans, LA was a rite of passage. We were the big fish of the middle school, moving from the indoor staircase at fifth grade, to the right outdoor staircase in sixth grade, and finally the left outdoor staircase located next door to the wall ball courts in seventh grade. Our class shirts read “Nous sommes du fromage”; “We are the cheese.”

That being said, with cheese comes a rat to show who’s boss. That rat was Ms. LeMay. I’m not sure what frightened me more, her stench of six-day-old smoke, or her voice mimicking Roz from Monsters, Inc. Nevertheless, this was one rat not worthy of a Nutcracker center stage performance. Speaking of a center stage performance, the entire reason why Collins’ poem reminds me of this creature.

Roz’s class was highlighted by the reading of Edgar Allan Poe. In the Poe segment of class, more like all of spring semester, we were blessed with the opportunity to memorize “The Raven.” If this sounds like something that would be in the least bit entertaining to do, then please schedule a visit with your pediatrician. I did not have that choice at the time, so I was granted to pleasure of committing to memory one hundred and eight lines of masterful darkness.

The night before it was time for my center stage performance, I flawlessly recited “The Raven” to my mom and pup. Moment of truth came as my name was called. The first stanza was long walk on the beach with the girl of my dreams. The second stanza was as perfect as a 1990 Pam Anderson. The third stanza; enter Tommy Lee. Not only was I not able to get “silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain” out of my mouth clearly, but I decided it would look better if I just kept repeating the same line over and over again in hope it would trigger some memory. Oh wait, the next line was “So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating.”

I wish that whenever seeing or hearing of rustling curtains I did not allude back to this tragic moment in my academic life, but thank you Billy Collins. You are the cheese.