My socks don’t match
My tattoo ain’t got a catch
My bellybutton ring
Simply ain’t the new thing
My pants are inside out,
My lungs just wanna shout
I’m feeling kind of feisty
Just like mister Imondi
You might think I’m crazy
But I’m just not that lazy
To try to act cool
During spirit week in school
Toe socks and flip flops and pears, OH MY
Make up all the things of my own apple pie
So scrumptious and tasty and yummy, OH MY
They’re not really foods though, sorry tough guy
They’re truly real people, dressed up as fruit
For a day of school spirit, oh, how cute!
If you were to have a bite of that big shiny apple
Cannibalism would inflict the new funeral chapel
Arjun is weird, we all know that
But Eric is weirder, now that’s a fact.
He comes from an island, so far far away
When tigers and bears make bowls out of clay
If I were you
Holding the world right in my hands;
The first thing I’d do
Is thank the stars for all that I have
And do everything that I wanted to.
My pants are inside out,
My lungs just wanna shout
I’m feeling kind of feisty
Just like mister Imondi
You might think I’m crazy
But I’m just not that lazy
To try to act cool
During spirit week in school
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Sisterhood of Traveling Pajamas (Pajama Day Poem)
They have one goal.
One purpose.
To find humans and protect them against the nudity of the moon’s glow.
Occasionally, on days like this, they are able to overcome their fear of daylight.
But usually, they are abandoned when the sun rises and reinstated when the sun sets sail.
Oh, Pajamas. Pajamas.
Wherefore art thou Pajamas?
Hiding amongst the clothes on my floor.
Covering the shiny hardwood floor below thy feet.
They imply that you’re lazy
And tell girls you like it cozy.
They say you’ve gone crazy,
And have a friend named Gabby.
Though I only own one pair,
A giveaway from my friend's Bat Mitzvah,
To find another pair of pants as comfortable would be extremely rare
These things are too comfortable to even share.
Ps.
Hi Yoni. You are a salsa-sensation.
Wearing Pajamas like a diva’s creation.
The invasion of Asians is simply a nation
Who wants to own fascists like a communist Playstation.
One purpose.
To find humans and protect them against the nudity of the moon’s glow.
Occasionally, on days like this, they are able to overcome their fear of daylight.
But usually, they are abandoned when the sun rises and reinstated when the sun sets sail.
Oh, Pajamas. Pajamas.
Wherefore art thou Pajamas?
Hiding amongst the clothes on my floor.
Covering the shiny hardwood floor below thy feet.
They imply that you’re lazy
And tell girls you like it cozy.
They say you’ve gone crazy,
And have a friend named Gabby.
Though I only own one pair,
A giveaway from my friend's Bat Mitzvah,
To find another pair of pants as comfortable would be extremely rare
These things are too comfortable to even share.
Ps.
Hi Yoni. You are a salsa-sensation.
Wearing Pajamas like a diva’s creation.
The invasion of Asians is simply a nation
Who wants to own fascists like a communist Playstation.
Trackies (Sports Day Battle Poem)
they say it’s a sport for them sissies,
them unathletic scrubs,
them wannabe studs.
they mock them running in circles,
jumping over bars,
flying over hurdles
throwing a thirteen pound ball
a distance so close-
yet so incredibly far-
they mock them sprinting a distance
so short, yet so fast.
they mock the wind,
blowing through their hair
in the last 100 meters
of their painful affairs
they question their motives
and begin to get they themselves to question
their own inspiration.
they doubt their dreams,
disregard their hopes and aspirations
and cause they themselves to doubt what they believe in,
the essence of their family
because it’s not just circles they’re running in,
it’s not a lost cause they’ve become too caught up in.
it’s reason to strive-
the wish to succeed.
it’s an experience beyond words,
a desire to feed.
it’s a reminiscence of youth
and a collection of truths.
a test of your spirit-
let ‘em hear it?
them unathletic scrubs,
them wannabe studs.
they mock them running in circles,
jumping over bars,
flying over hurdles
throwing a thirteen pound ball
a distance so close-
yet so incredibly far-
they mock them sprinting a distance
so short, yet so fast.
they mock the wind,
blowing through their hair
in the last 100 meters
of their painful affairs
they question their motives
and begin to get they themselves to question
their own inspiration.
they doubt their dreams,
disregard their hopes and aspirations
and cause they themselves to doubt what they believe in,
the essence of their family
because it’s not just circles they’re running in,
it’s not a lost cause they’ve become too caught up in.
it’s reason to strive-
the wish to succeed.
it’s an experience beyond words,
a desire to feed.
it’s a reminiscence of youth
and a collection of truths.
a test of your spirit-
let ‘em hear it?
A Tossed Salad Of Perspectives (Other Poem)
An idea diverted,
A thought incomplete-
Due to the nature,
Of man’s greatest feat.
The feat of distraction,
A well known contraption-
A plague of the mind,
That creeps up from behind
He travels the world
With a mission so pure,
So simple, and innocent,
Yet dangerous.
He’s inherited the
M i s un der stood.
The illusion of fear,
An image so clear-
A likeness that makes
His essence of life
So dear.
Though she speaks through lyrics
And cries through chords,
Thinking what she meant,
Pondering how she felt-
Contemplating what she meant to me,
Told me her presence had already overturned
my world.
She’s left that footprint, that mark
She’s the irrefutable spark
She brings the sun out
When the day turns dark
She walks into your world
When the world walks out
She’s always there for you
Despite the deadly drought.
A thought incomplete-
Due to the nature,
Of man’s greatest feat.
The feat of distraction,
A well known contraption-
A plague of the mind,
That creeps up from behind
He travels the world
With a mission so pure,
So simple, and innocent,
Yet dangerous.
He’s inherited the
M i s un der stood.
The illusion of fear,
An image so clear-
A likeness that makes
His essence of life
So dear.
Though she speaks through lyrics
And cries through chords,
Thinking what she meant,
Pondering how she felt-
Contemplating what she meant to me,
Told me her presence had already overturned
my world.
She’s left that footprint, that mark
She’s the irrefutable spark
She brings the sun out
When the day turns dark
She walks into your world
When the world walks out
She’s always there for you
Despite the deadly drought.
A Rambling Solution (Other Poem)
No clue how to start,
How to begin?
How to proceed with a rant,
That comes from within.
Perhaps if I stand on my head,
The ideas will come flying down-
From my toes and down my large intestine,
All the way through the alimentary canal.
Maybe some brunch to accompany lunch,
Some French toast or almond?
Dried Mango on the side of some tango?
An added spice of dance on the side,
Might spark a little linguini-tastic light?
Do the meringue, the salsa,
Allow yourself to get lost down the path of least resistance,
Until your legs tire out and your ship hits shore.
Then again, possibly a nap could do it?
Falling asleep on my Chemistry textbook,
Allowing Hess’ Law of Heat Summation,
Quantum numbers and the activated complex-
All to imprint in the dearly moist clay I have set as a brain?
May I suggest ceramics?
Wedging the clay, feeling it squeeze through your hands,
Compact the molecules and allow them to abide by the laws of nature.
Draw out an idea from the pretty pinch pot,
The mere creation of your deft fingers and hands.
Perhaps you could hit up the Lotto store,
Draw a mega million and possibly go for the powerball?
Allow those fools on television to pick up a random ball,
Awarding the victory of chance that faith has,
All upon the whimsical shackles of mankind.
All in all though,
Ideas come from within.
They can’t be found, or looked for.
They can’t be seen, or stolen.
Ideas,
The innovative solution.
How to begin?
How to proceed with a rant,
That comes from within.
Perhaps if I stand on my head,
The ideas will come flying down-
From my toes and down my large intestine,
All the way through the alimentary canal.
Maybe some brunch to accompany lunch,
Some French toast or almond?
Dried Mango on the side of some tango?
An added spice of dance on the side,
Might spark a little linguini-tastic light?
Do the meringue, the salsa,
Allow yourself to get lost down the path of least resistance,
Until your legs tire out and your ship hits shore.
Then again, possibly a nap could do it?
Falling asleep on my Chemistry textbook,
Allowing Hess’ Law of Heat Summation,
Quantum numbers and the activated complex-
All to imprint in the dearly moist clay I have set as a brain?
May I suggest ceramics?
Wedging the clay, feeling it squeeze through your hands,
Compact the molecules and allow them to abide by the laws of nature.
Draw out an idea from the pretty pinch pot,
The mere creation of your deft fingers and hands.
Perhaps you could hit up the Lotto store,
Draw a mega million and possibly go for the powerball?
Allow those fools on television to pick up a random ball,
Awarding the victory of chance that faith has,
All upon the whimsical shackles of mankind.
All in all though,
Ideas come from within.
They can’t be found, or looked for.
They can’t be seen, or stolen.
Ideas,
The innovative solution.
Twisted Romance (Sonnet)
Looking inside the translucent window,
I saw the image of her hopes and dreams.
I saw her head resting on the pillow,
Her world upturned by the hideous screams.
Her faith and desire crushed by the fire,
My vision blocked by self-abiding truth.
My own heart aching with great desire,
For the endless ties of her naive youth.
Aha, sadly, the truth is truly no.
A world of food is where we wish to go,
To live among the fruit that doesn’t grow
On the Earth that only makes Pizza dough
Of which is grown on South Asia’s big toe.
Reality exists in the humbled foe
You know?
I saw the image of her hopes and dreams.
I saw her head resting on the pillow,
Her world upturned by the hideous screams.
Her faith and desire crushed by the fire,
My vision blocked by self-abiding truth.
My own heart aching with great desire,
For the endless ties of her naive youth.
Aha, sadly, the truth is truly no.
A world of food is where we wish to go,
To live among the fruit that doesn’t grow
On the Earth that only makes Pizza dough
Of which is grown on South Asia’s big toe.
Reality exists in the humbled foe
You know?
Aspire (Villanelle)
To be who you are in the world today,
Is in truth, less than the top of a pin’s head.
A mere leaf of a tree; oh how cliché?
Consider marshmallows more valuable,
Than your lethargic presence from your bed-
To be who you are in the world today.
You might as well go trudge and haul dog sleighs-
You’re nothing more than a book unread,
A flea drowning in a large load of hay.
You’re but a speck of sand in the desert,
A star among space’s milky white bed.
To be who you are in the world today.
Nevertheless, if your legacy stays-
If you do a good deed to lead the misled,
To destroy the karma that tends to betray.
Saving one life is in a way portrayed,
As saving the world, a glass sphere on a thread.
To be who you are in the world today,
Has a value no man could ever repay.
Is in truth, less than the top of a pin’s head.
A mere leaf of a tree; oh how cliché?
Consider marshmallows more valuable,
Than your lethargic presence from your bed-
To be who you are in the world today.
You might as well go trudge and haul dog sleighs-
You’re nothing more than a book unread,
A flea drowning in a large load of hay.
You’re but a speck of sand in the desert,
A star among space’s milky white bed.
To be who you are in the world today.
Nevertheless, if your legacy stays-
If you do a good deed to lead the misled,
To destroy the karma that tends to betray.
Saving one life is in a way portrayed,
As saving the world, a glass sphere on a thread.
To be who you are in the world today,
Has a value no man could ever repay.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Final Project Proposition
Danny and I are debating teaming up and forming a coalition in which we will attempt to write a series of silly, rhyming poems that outline our experiences in life from elementry school to the modern day, in high school. Each poem will flow with a certain rhyme scheme and consist of very ridiculous and impractical diction. At the end though, each poem will have an important theme to it. K.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Villanelle
To be who you are in the world today,
Is in truth, less than the top of a pin’s head.
A mere leaf of a tree; oh how cliché?
Consider marshmallows more valuable,
Than your lethargic presence from your bed-
To be who you are in the world today.
You might as well go trudge and haul dog sleighs-
You’re nothing more than a book unread,
A flea drowning in a large load of hay.
You’re but a speck of sand in the desert,
A star among space’s milky white bed.
To be who you are in the world today.
Nevertheless, if your legacy stays-
If you do a good deed to lead the misled,
To destroy the karma that tends to betray.
Saving one life is in a way portrayed,
As saving the world, a glass sphere on a thread.
To be who you are in the world today,
Has a value no man could ever repay.
Is in truth, less than the top of a pin’s head.
A mere leaf of a tree; oh how cliché?
Consider marshmallows more valuable,
Than your lethargic presence from your bed-
To be who you are in the world today.
You might as well go trudge and haul dog sleighs-
You’re nothing more than a book unread,
A flea drowning in a large load of hay.
You’re but a speck of sand in the desert,
A star among space’s milky white bed.
To be who you are in the world today.
Nevertheless, if your legacy stays-
If you do a good deed to lead the misled,
To destroy the karma that tends to betray.
Saving one life is in a way portrayed,
As saving the world, a glass sphere on a thread.
To be who you are in the world today,
Has a value no man could ever repay.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Rubble.
Mr. tire, Mr. shoe,
Without further ado-
Please meet Mr. pipe
Who once worked at the zoo.
Who once sustained life,
But developed a strife.
Left forsaken by friends-
With no chance to amend
His outdated end.
We live in a place
With no boundaries, no space
Just a disfigured face
To show our legacy’s trace
A face distorted through time
Telling a story through rhymes-
A reminiscence of lives
Of the hardships of widows,
Of children, of wives.
Without further ado-
Please meet Mr. pipe
Who once worked at the zoo.
Who once sustained life,
But developed a strife.
Left forsaken by friends-
With no chance to amend
His outdated end.
We live in a place
With no boundaries, no space
Just a disfigured face
To show our legacy’s trace
A face distorted through time
Telling a story through rhymes-
A reminiscence of lives
Of the hardships of widows,
Of children, of wives.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Poem-Out-Loud Response
On Inhabiting An Orange
by Josephine Miles
All our roads go nowhere.
Maps are curled
To keep the pavement definitely
On the world.
All our footsteps, set to make
Metric advance,
Lapse into arcs in deference
To circumstance.
All our journeys nearing Space
Skirt it with care,
Shying at the distances
Present in air.
Blithely travel-stained and worn,
Erect and sure,
All our travels go forth,
Making down the roads of Earth
Endless detour.
I particularly liked this poem because of its subtle but very creative comparison between life and an orange. Normally, you’d think of them as two completely contrasting ideas: An orange is merely orange in color and simple, whereas life is complex and filled with colors of all shades and tones. Josephine Miles, the author of this poem, manages to pry into the idea of an orange and play around with it to encompass a deeper and more profound meaning, yet without losing sight of her initial purpose, which is keeping the simplicity of the orange. She uses clear and concise diction and short and sweet sentences, but does so in a way that gets you as the reader thinking in a different mindset, a mindset not typically used in his or her daily life.
by Josephine Miles
All our roads go nowhere.
Maps are curled
To keep the pavement definitely
On the world.
All our footsteps, set to make
Metric advance,
Lapse into arcs in deference
To circumstance.
All our journeys nearing Space
Skirt it with care,
Shying at the distances
Present in air.
Blithely travel-stained and worn,
Erect and sure,
All our travels go forth,
Making down the roads of Earth
Endless detour.
I particularly liked this poem because of its subtle but very creative comparison between life and an orange. Normally, you’d think of them as two completely contrasting ideas: An orange is merely orange in color and simple, whereas life is complex and filled with colors of all shades and tones. Josephine Miles, the author of this poem, manages to pry into the idea of an orange and play around with it to encompass a deeper and more profound meaning, yet without losing sight of her initial purpose, which is keeping the simplicity of the orange. She uses clear and concise diction and short and sweet sentences, but does so in a way that gets you as the reader thinking in a different mindset, a mindset not typically used in his or her daily life.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Godly Gum Store
The isles were arranged in such a way that they consisted of prime numbers, with isle 1 on the third floor and isle 787 on the -13th floor under below sea level. They held flavors of gum ranging from delightfully delicious doobleberry to balistically balanced banana. Isle 1 contained all of the special assortments produced by Eric after his adventurous expedition to White Castle with Arjun and Kal Penn, preceded by isle 3 which held Mr. Imondi’s beards’ all time favorites like the infamous 11LEAVE-ME-ALONE flavor spontaneous invented by him with his patented humor back in the day when he taught creative writing in the greatest creative writing class of all time.
The second story of the underground nightclub was devoted purely to Ronald McDonald and his McDonald minions, in their conquest to conquer the fast food world with their superciliously supersized cheeseburger-cheeseburgers and godly sized succulent Caesar salads. On the sewer-top down 7th avenue which serves as the entrance to the underground nightclub, huge, ghastly letters written in invisible ink that’s visible only to those whose noses have been touched by Mr. Imondi’s artistic fingers.
The second story of the underground nightclub was devoted purely to Ronald McDonald and his McDonald minions, in their conquest to conquer the fast food world with their superciliously supersized cheeseburger-cheeseburgers and godly sized succulent Caesar salads. On the sewer-top down 7th avenue which serves as the entrance to the underground nightclub, huge, ghastly letters written in invisible ink that’s visible only to those whose noses have been touched by Mr. Imondi’s artistic fingers.
Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot
This is the beginning of a story by Robert Olen Butler.
I never can quite say as much as I know. I look at other parrots and I wonder if it's the same for them, if somebody is trapped in each of them paying some kind of price for living their life in a certain way. For instance, "Hello," I say, and I'm sitting on a perch in a pet store in Houston and what I'm really thinking is Holy shit. It's you. And what's happened is I'm looking at my wife.
"Hello," she says, and she comes over to me and I can't believe how beautiful she is. Those great brown eyes, almost as dark as the center of mine. And her nose--I don't remember her for her nose but its beauty is clear to me now. Her nose is a little too long, but it's redeemed by the faint hook to it. She scratches the back of my neck. Her touch makes my tail flare. I feel the stretch and rustle of me back there. I bend my head to her and she whispers, "Pretty bird." For a moment I think she knows it's me. But she doesn't, of course. I say "Hello" again and I will eventually pick up "pretty bird." I can tell that as soon as she says it, but for now I can only give her another hello. Her fingertips move through my feathers and she seems to know about birds. She knows that to pet a bird you don't smooth his feathers down, you ruffle them. But of course she did that in my human life, as well. It's all the same for her. Not that I was complaining, even to myself, at that moment in the pet shop when she found me like I presume she was supposed to. She said it again, "Pretty bird," and this brain that works like it does now could feel that tiny little voice of mine ready to shape itself around these sounds. But before I could get them out of my beak there was this guy at my wife's shoulder and all my feathers went slick flat like to make me small enough not to be seen and I backed away. The pupils of my eyes pinned and dilated and pinned again. He circled around her. A guy that looked like a meat packer, big in the chest and thick with hair, the kind of guy that I always sensed her eyes moving to when I was alive. I had a bare chest and I'd look for little black hairs on the sheets when I'd come home on a day with the whiff of somebody else in the air. She was still in the same goddam rut. A “hello” wouldn't do and I'd recently learned “good night” but it was the wrong suggestion altogether, so I said nothing and the guy circled her and he was looking at me with a smug little smile and I fluffed up all my feathers, made myself about twice as big, so big he'd see he couldn't mess with me. I waited for him to draw close enough for me to take off the tip of his finger. But she intervened. Those nut-brown eyes were before me and she said, "I want him." And that's how I ended up in my own house once again. She bought me a large black wrought-iron cage, very large, convinced by some young guy who clerked in the bird department and who took her aside and made his voice go much too soft when he was doing the selling job. The meat packer didn't like it. I didn't either. I'd missed a lot of chances to take a bite out of this clerk in my stay at the shop and I regretted that suddenly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I regretted not fleeing when I had the chance, not dropping my feces upon that damned clerk the few times he accidently let me loose. Doesn’t matter what come and gone, this is war- meat packer better bring his best, because this is full out war. Honestly, if you think Japan had it bad, you don’t even know what’s coming. I’ll ruffle my feathers to make myself twice as big as the incredible Hulk if I have too.
As I expected, he struck first. Throwing his plush bathrobe over my large black wrought-iron cage the moment we got home, the meatpacker hurled me into complete, damp darkness for the rest of the afternoon. What does he think I am, his coat-hanger? He abuses me like this, exploiting my presence for his own benefit and amusement whenever she’s not home, whenever she’s not around to protect my encaged body from being mistreated. Whatever happened to animal rights? Whatever happened to the consciousness of humanity?
I knew he’d try to mess with me the moment he gave me that grill back at the pet store, so I planned ahead. I called my new friends from Harlem with the typical parrot “cacaw,” knowing I’d need backup. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to take him alone, but with Mokwanda and Tigga-Pooh I had a pretty good chance. I had to protect my one true love from the grimy hands of that tyrannical, grimy runt who was trying to replace me.
To be honest, I have the opportunity to make his damn hands bleed just about everyday, but I’ve never done it. I’ve had the chance to peck his grimy fingers that have been G-d knows where
I never can quite say as much as I know. I look at other parrots and I wonder if it's the same for them, if somebody is trapped in each of them paying some kind of price for living their life in a certain way. For instance, "Hello," I say, and I'm sitting on a perch in a pet store in Houston and what I'm really thinking is Holy shit. It's you. And what's happened is I'm looking at my wife.
"Hello," she says, and she comes over to me and I can't believe how beautiful she is. Those great brown eyes, almost as dark as the center of mine. And her nose--I don't remember her for her nose but its beauty is clear to me now. Her nose is a little too long, but it's redeemed by the faint hook to it. She scratches the back of my neck. Her touch makes my tail flare. I feel the stretch and rustle of me back there. I bend my head to her and she whispers, "Pretty bird." For a moment I think she knows it's me. But she doesn't, of course. I say "Hello" again and I will eventually pick up "pretty bird." I can tell that as soon as she says it, but for now I can only give her another hello. Her fingertips move through my feathers and she seems to know about birds. She knows that to pet a bird you don't smooth his feathers down, you ruffle them. But of course she did that in my human life, as well. It's all the same for her. Not that I was complaining, even to myself, at that moment in the pet shop when she found me like I presume she was supposed to. She said it again, "Pretty bird," and this brain that works like it does now could feel that tiny little voice of mine ready to shape itself around these sounds. But before I could get them out of my beak there was this guy at my wife's shoulder and all my feathers went slick flat like to make me small enough not to be seen and I backed away. The pupils of my eyes pinned and dilated and pinned again. He circled around her. A guy that looked like a meat packer, big in the chest and thick with hair, the kind of guy that I always sensed her eyes moving to when I was alive. I had a bare chest and I'd look for little black hairs on the sheets when I'd come home on a day with the whiff of somebody else in the air. She was still in the same goddam rut. A “hello” wouldn't do and I'd recently learned “good night” but it was the wrong suggestion altogether, so I said nothing and the guy circled her and he was looking at me with a smug little smile and I fluffed up all my feathers, made myself about twice as big, so big he'd see he couldn't mess with me. I waited for him to draw close enough for me to take off the tip of his finger. But she intervened. Those nut-brown eyes were before me and she said, "I want him." And that's how I ended up in my own house once again. She bought me a large black wrought-iron cage, very large, convinced by some young guy who clerked in the bird department and who took her aside and made his voice go much too soft when he was doing the selling job. The meat packer didn't like it. I didn't either. I'd missed a lot of chances to take a bite out of this clerk in my stay at the shop and I regretted that suddenly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I regretted not fleeing when I had the chance, not dropping my feces upon that damned clerk the few times he accidently let me loose. Doesn’t matter what come and gone, this is war- meat packer better bring his best, because this is full out war. Honestly, if you think Japan had it bad, you don’t even know what’s coming. I’ll ruffle my feathers to make myself twice as big as the incredible Hulk if I have too.
As I expected, he struck first. Throwing his plush bathrobe over my large black wrought-iron cage the moment we got home, the meatpacker hurled me into complete, damp darkness for the rest of the afternoon. What does he think I am, his coat-hanger? He abuses me like this, exploiting my presence for his own benefit and amusement whenever she’s not home, whenever she’s not around to protect my encaged body from being mistreated. Whatever happened to animal rights? Whatever happened to the consciousness of humanity?
I knew he’d try to mess with me the moment he gave me that grill back at the pet store, so I planned ahead. I called my new friends from Harlem with the typical parrot “cacaw,” knowing I’d need backup. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to take him alone, but with Mokwanda and Tigga-Pooh I had a pretty good chance. I had to protect my one true love from the grimy hands of that tyrannical, grimy runt who was trying to replace me.
To be honest, I have the opportunity to make his damn hands bleed just about everyday, but I’ve never done it. I’ve had the chance to peck his grimy fingers that have been G-d knows where
Imondi's Late for Class
Some say he was looking for his girlfriend at the local pet store, listening to the harmonious chirping of the magnificently colored parrots in order to try to locate her, somehow trapped and encaged within the body of a bird. Other say he was down at the Bakery, using his deft fingers to carefully roll and shape the heavy dough to make his own exquisite creation of the infamous Pineapple Pizza a la mode. But I know the real reason. I know why Immondi was late to his undeniably remarkable 6th period Creative Writing class, and why my peers and I were deprived of his presence for a never-ending time span of 15 whole minutes.
You see, it started that morning when he was having breakfast.
“Ma, where’s the cheerios?! I need my cheerios Ma!”
“Michael, I told you for the billionth time, that damn englishman stole it!”
Evidently, Mr Imondi is quite passionate about his cheerios. So passionate that if he was to be deprived of a bowl of these honey-nut creations from G-d, he'd go ballistic and lose his marbles. It was basically his miracle drug.
Nevertheless, with an empty tank bereft of cheerios and a sad puppy face cuter than any other dog on the planet, Mr. Imondi started his routinely morning walk to school. On any other day he'd merely run to the Walmart down the block, leaving the cereal isle cheeriosless in a matter of minutes. Not this time though- just recently, Walmart had been bought out by Paris Hilton and had been turned to a store that exclusively only serves 'hot' walls. Many argue that this is an idiotic attempt by her to cover up the fact that she thought Walmart was a place where they sell nothing but walls for constructing houses and office buildings, while others say that it is an attempt by her to make society more functional and a lot less complicated. Nevertheless, Mr. Imondi set out on his daily morning down Jericho Turnpike to Herricks High School with a empty stomach craving some scrumptious cereal on the side of a refreshing glass of cold, fresh milk.
The day started out normally like any other day would, with students racing down the high school's infamous 100 meter hallways against the grumpy morning bell and Mr. Cooper divinely splitting the vast sea of freshman blocking the doorway to his the math office. Sad and depressed, Mr. Imondi swaggered past the front office into the English wing, gingerly making a swift right turn into the dark classroom he had claimed as his during his first years at the high school. He sat down and slouched into the dark blue beanie bag his girlfriend bought him for Christmas last year, closing his eyes and quietly mourning for the sacred breakfast he was so dearly deprived of today.
You see, it started that morning when he was having breakfast.
“Ma, where’s the cheerios?! I need my cheerios Ma!”
“Michael, I told you for the billionth time, that damn englishman stole it!”
Evidently, Mr Imondi is quite passionate about his cheerios. So passionate that if he was to be deprived of a bowl of these honey-nut creations from G-d, he'd go ballistic and lose his marbles. It was basically his miracle drug.
Nevertheless, with an empty tank bereft of cheerios and a sad puppy face cuter than any other dog on the planet, Mr. Imondi started his routinely morning walk to school. On any other day he'd merely run to the Walmart down the block, leaving the cereal isle cheeriosless in a matter of minutes. Not this time though- just recently, Walmart had been bought out by Paris Hilton and had been turned to a store that exclusively only serves 'hot' walls. Many argue that this is an idiotic attempt by her to cover up the fact that she thought Walmart was a place where they sell nothing but walls for constructing houses and office buildings, while others say that it is an attempt by her to make society more functional and a lot less complicated. Nevertheless, Mr. Imondi set out on his daily morning down Jericho Turnpike to Herricks High School with a empty stomach craving some scrumptious cereal on the side of a refreshing glass of cold, fresh milk.
The day started out normally like any other day would, with students racing down the high school's infamous 100 meter hallways against the grumpy morning bell and Mr. Cooper divinely splitting the vast sea of freshman blocking the doorway to his the math office. Sad and depressed, Mr. Imondi swaggered past the front office into the English wing, gingerly making a swift right turn into the dark classroom he had claimed as his during his first years at the high school. He sat down and slouched into the dark blue beanie bag his girlfriend bought him for Christmas last year, closing his eyes and quietly mourning for the sacred breakfast he was so dearly deprived of today.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Iced Tea Dialogue Gone Wrong
Dialogue #1
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, if you rub it in one more time with your unnecessary, foolish sarcasm, I will punch you in the face. That's a promise.”
“Honestly bro, you have to calm down. So he was right, what's the big deal?”
“Whats the big deal? I'm lacking the stupid resource that's extremely vital in making your tea cold, leaving you helpless during a time of such anxiety and desperation, a time where icecubes have ceased to naturally exist due to the desperate gamble mankind has taken against mother nature's shenanigans. That's the big deal!”
“Honestly, it was Al Gore's fault to begin with. No one watches documentries.”
“Honestly, if you say honestly one more time, I won't only punch you in the face but I'll tickle you until you become unconscious and leave you in the sun to bake like old Uncle Earl's mudcream pie.”
“Look bro, it's over. If you can't honor your committment to me and give me enough attention like you do to the rest of your significant others, I don't think I can live in the same house as you, nevertheless even look at you for the rest of my life every single morning when I wake up and every single night, right before I go to sleep.”
“Who said I even wanted to look at you? I couldn't care less if you left buttercup!”
“UGH I REALLY DESPISE YOU. HAVE A NICE, CUBELESS LIFE YOU SOULLESS LITTLE RUNT. BYE.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, if you rub it in one more time with your unnecessary, foolish sarcasm, I will punch you in the face. That's a promise.”
“Honestly bro, you have to calm down. So he was right, what's the big deal?”
“Whats the big deal? I'm lacking the stupid resource that's extremely vital in making your tea cold, leaving you helpless during a time of such anxiety and desperation, a time where icecubes have ceased to naturally exist due to the desperate gamble mankind has taken against mother nature's shenanigans. That's the big deal!”
“Honestly, it was Al Gore's fault to begin with. No one watches documentries.”
“Honestly, if you say honestly one more time, I won't only punch you in the face but I'll tickle you until you become unconscious and leave you in the sun to bake like old Uncle Earl's mudcream pie.”
“Look bro, it's over. If you can't honor your committment to me and give me enough attention like you do to the rest of your significant others, I don't think I can live in the same house as you, nevertheless even look at you for the rest of my life every single morning when I wake up and every single night, right before I go to sleep.”
“Who said I even wanted to look at you? I couldn't care less if you left buttercup!”
“UGH I REALLY DESPISE YOU. HAVE A NICE, CUBELESS LIFE YOU SOULLESS LITTLE RUNT. BYE.”
Friday, March 5, 2010
How to Become a Writer
I found this piece beyond amusing. It kind of follows the authors stream of consciousness, allowing you to roam within her head among her random thoughts, only applying them to the true meaning and moral she ultimately intends to show you at the very end. The piece jumps around constantly and never really dwells on one topic for more than a moment or two, so though it takes a lot of concentration to follow the writer of this piece, you're never really left bored and you're always entertained by one of the writer's crazy ideas.
One of the quotes that I found really intruiging were:
_____________________________________________________________________________________
"In three years there
have been three things: you lost your virginity; your parents got divorced; and your brother
came home from a forest 10 miles from the Cambodian border with only half a thigh, a
permanent smirk nestled into one corner of his mouth."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
This part of Moore's piece really exhibits her style of writing, and shows us about what it means to her to be a good writer. It doesn't mean using fancy vocabulary and professional diction, or having a reputation for writing about a popular topic that people enjoy. Being a good writer means you're able to speak your mind and express you ideas, showing you're unafraid to present your true self. You can be as crazy as you want with your ideas and go anywhere you want with them- everyone does, but not everyone's brave enough to show it.
One of the quotes that I found really intruiging were:
_____________________________________________________________________________________
"In three years there
have been three things: you lost your virginity; your parents got divorced; and your brother
came home from a forest 10 miles from the Cambodian border with only half a thigh, a
permanent smirk nestled into one corner of his mouth."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
This part of Moore's piece really exhibits her style of writing, and shows us about what it means to her to be a good writer. It doesn't mean using fancy vocabulary and professional diction, or having a reputation for writing about a popular topic that people enjoy. Being a good writer means you're able to speak your mind and express you ideas, showing you're unafraid to present your true self. You can be as crazy as you want with your ideas and go anywhere you want with them- everyone does, but not everyone's brave enough to show it.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Wonderwall, by Oasis [Final Copy]
I guess it was my fault. It was supposed to be tonight, but I blew it. It was as simple as having dinner, taking a walk on the beach, and proposing to her on the edge of the cool, soft sand. I had it all planned out too- I ran the entire scene through my head at least a hundred times the night before, accounting for every little detail just so I could make sure it would go perfectly.
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected an errand like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had ever been able to cherish in my entire life. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I simply couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chunky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor old little chicken egg who ever so delightfully managed to roll myself off of a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing myself into millions of tiny, sharp emo-tastic pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, throwing myself way beyond repair just like poor old little humpty dumpty. To think I used to laugh at that good back in the day when we had naptime in class. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself because I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected an errand like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had ever been able to cherish in my entire life. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I simply couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chunky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor old little chicken egg who ever so delightfully managed to roll myself off of a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing myself into millions of tiny, sharp emo-tastic pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, throwing myself way beyond repair just like poor old little humpty dumpty. To think I used to laugh at that good back in the day when we had naptime in class. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself because I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
Monday, February 22, 2010
Wonderwall, by Oasis [Rough Draft]
I guess it was my fault. It was supposed to be tonight, but I blew it. It was as simple as having dinner, taking a walk on the beach, and proposing to her on the edge of the cool, soft sand. I had it all planned out too- I ran the entire scene through my head at least a hundred times the night before, accounting for every little detail just so I could make sure it would go perfect.
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected a task like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had cherished. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest, when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chucky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor little chicken’s egg who rolled off a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing into millions of tiny pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, thrown way beyond repair just like poor old humpty dumpty. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself when I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
Next week would be three years, seven months. 184 weeks. It seems like only yesterday that I met her though, at the end of a supermarket in the poultry isle. The first time I saw her, I knew it was meant to be. Love at first sight doesn’t just happen in movies you know. She was struggling with the muscular, weighty chicken leg when I first approached her, offering my hand in assistance. I carried that thing all the way across isle 3 to her car- I never expected a task like that to be so tiring. But then again, love is a crazy thing. It’ll make you do nearly anything.
When she ended it though, she ended me. She ended everything I had to live for everything I had cherished. I imagined myself as an old man, living alone in a tired old flat with thirteen black cats and an excessive supply of Gouda cheese, and knew I couldn’t go on. My soul felt lost amidst my thoughts, my heart pounding harder, ready to rip through my chest, when she uttered those last words: “I’m sorry Jamaal; you’re too chucky for me. This relationship is geometrically impossible.”
I told her I could change. I told her I could lessen the obtuse angle of my stomach and redeem myself. But no, she wouldn’t listen. She refused to believe that the SAS postulate could prove the new dimensions of my beater-belly, and left me for an isosceles-built Latino who worked on the beach as an umbrella renter.
From that day, I became the poultry in isle 3 that I had once courageously carried the distance of an entire supermarket. I became that weighty piece of chicken on the rack that people always struggled with, that nuisance in the freezer section that always gave you the chills and made you shiver when you came near it. Except this time, I had no one to carry me. I was the poor little chicken’s egg who rolled off a cliff before having the chance to hatch, smashing into millions of tiny pieces upon hitting the concrete floor, thrown way beyond repair just like poor old humpty dumpty. And from that day on, my life turned to crime.
Since then, I’ve thought about my decision many, many times. Surely more times than the number of sheep I can count before I go to bed, but definitely less than the distance from Earth to Pluto in inches. I think about the atrocious crimes I’ve committed since then too, shoplifting all of those cherry flavored cough drops and all of that cotton candy from the general store down the block. Through all my thinking though, I’ve never found a way out- a way to save myself from the terrible fate I foolishly bounded upon myself when I was irrationally in love. I’ve figured out why though- it’s because I still am. It’s because she’s still always the last thing I think about every night before I go to bed, and she’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up in the morning.
“I said maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves
And after all
You’re my wonderwall.”
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
why be. (y.b) ah get it?
hey i'm yoni. yonibear, yonatan, yons, y, b, yb, why be, why, be, or whatever makes you happy(=.
So I have to say, I'm really craving food right now. I love food. Honestly, without food theres nothing to motivate you. Food's like inspiration. Cheesecake, Icecream, anything with honey including waffles and cheesecake; you better not bring it near me unless you want to see it in my tummy. Well you wouldn't see it, thats cannibalism. Something we frown upon in this society, right? Just kidding lol.
If you haven't realized it yet, I'm quite random. I can't help it, sorry. One idea always leads to another, and it always becomes a tangled web of facts of randomness. You know?
So basically, I'm up here right now writing creatively is to try to organize myself. I always get points off essay and literary works I have to do because I can never, ever stick to the thesis. I always wander off talking about something else of interest, avoiding the main topic I was assigned to write about. Silly, isn't it? So I guess I'm an exceptional procrastinator and a master of getting lost between the lines? lol, If that makes sense.
When I write creatively, I try to organize my random train of thought into a an ingenuous but unexpected idea. Don't deny it- you know that half the things you think about you'd probably never tell someone out of embarrasement. So the type of writing I like could more or less be categorized as maybe writing short stories or narrations, with nice twists and bizzare plots?
That probably explains why I love fiction books, more specifically suspense, mystery and adventure. The types of books I find best have everything in them- every genre from adventure and mystery, to love and romance. I guess it just completes to book for me because it leaves most of the questions answered. My imagination always takes over during a novel and creates the scene in some unique way or another, I suppose.
Oh goodness. You've heard more than enough of my miscellaneous shennanigans and random comments, so I guess I'll go. I'll be back though so don't miss me too much. sounds good? ohkay.
iite pcee(=
So I have to say, I'm really craving food right now. I love food. Honestly, without food theres nothing to motivate you. Food's like inspiration. Cheesecake, Icecream, anything with honey including waffles and cheesecake; you better not bring it near me unless you want to see it in my tummy. Well you wouldn't see it, thats cannibalism. Something we frown upon in this society, right? Just kidding lol.
If you haven't realized it yet, I'm quite random. I can't help it, sorry. One idea always leads to another, and it always becomes a tangled web of facts of randomness. You know?
So basically, I'm up here right now writing creatively is to try to organize myself. I always get points off essay and literary works I have to do because I can never, ever stick to the thesis. I always wander off talking about something else of interest, avoiding the main topic I was assigned to write about. Silly, isn't it? So I guess I'm an exceptional procrastinator and a master of getting lost between the lines? lol, If that makes sense.
When I write creatively, I try to organize my random train of thought into a an ingenuous but unexpected idea. Don't deny it- you know that half the things you think about you'd probably never tell someone out of embarrasement. So the type of writing I like could more or less be categorized as maybe writing short stories or narrations, with nice twists and bizzare plots?
That probably explains why I love fiction books, more specifically suspense, mystery and adventure. The types of books I find best have everything in them- every genre from adventure and mystery, to love and romance. I guess it just completes to book for me because it leaves most of the questions answered. My imagination always takes over during a novel and creates the scene in some unique way or another, I suppose.
Oh goodness. You've heard more than enough of my miscellaneous shennanigans and random comments, so I guess I'll go. I'll be back though so don't miss me too much. sounds good? ohkay.
iite pcee(=
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