Sonnet 2...

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,

Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:

Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,

If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'

Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Bold and Ambitious...

North Korea launches

rocket Sunday, April 5th.:

North Korea, facing much world pressure to abandon such acts, has successfully launched a rocket over the Pacific. President Obama calls this a deliberate infraction against U.N. policy and a major threat to security around the world.

The rocket was launched into space, a claim that Pres. Obama disputes.

Wondering what the fuss is all about, Kim Jong-Il has decided to broadcast the "Song of Gen. Kim Jong-Il" from the satellite, on loop. This is complete truth. One song, about himself, over and over...

Saving Trees...

"The New York Times Co. has threatened to shut The Boston Globe unless the newspaper's unions swiftly agree to $20 million in concessions, union leaders said yesterday" (Boston Globe).

Besides the mass layoffs that would need to occur, as well as the ending of pensions and drastic cutting of pay, the end of The Boston Globe ends a literary history in the city. The paper was an identity for Bostonians. It was an outlet for our sports as well as our news. No longer can you grab the Globe to take on the T to pass time. The newspaper industry used to be one of the most lucrative industries in the country and it gives prospective to see it finally become obsolete.

Does a writer for an online newspaper carry as much credential as a writer for a published paper? One can now argue that an online reporter's words are not as worthy to pay to publish as a paper reporter's.

Act 1. Scene 1...

Scene 1: (A single light bulb is turned on revealing a staircase leading to a middle-class basement. The scene is dry, dingy. There are cobwebs that litter the once well maintained room. An old man of 87 years has pulled the light string and grabs the railing with a calloused hand and weary sigh. A staircase never used to trip the shaking in his hand. The sun spots from vacations with his family in Florida mark his now bald head. Down the stairs hang photographs of his wife and himself. One is their wedding, one is the first night with their baby son. The final picture is of the old man and his son greeting guests at a funeral reception. How long ago was it now that his wife passed? He still wears the ring. Years ago he tried to remove it but it would not come loose. He never tried again after that day.

The old man takes each step with trepidation. His life has been reduced to the slow pace and focus on each step. He advances towards the corner of the room where light no longer shone.

A blanket rests atop a vintage radio broadcast board. The microphone a cast silver relic of the 50's. An individual desk lamp is turned on to reveal the priceless and obsolete part of history. Pulling the chair from under the board, the old man removes the framed picture of himself all those years ago behind the same board. His eyes are just as sharp, though the lines in his face have grown long and rarely does he smile anymore.

He sits in a heavy movement that pulls his shoulders down with him. Gently he runs the tips of his fingers across the levels he knows better than anything else in his life. Anything save for the face of wife. He sees her face in the mirror each morning when he dresses and beside him in bed before he falls asleep. He never can dream of her.

Gracefully he leans into the microphone)

Atlanta, Georgia...

Sometimes the rooftop of a building reveals more than a city or its skyline. Soemtimes it reveals the faded black Big Apple shirt, sometimes it reveals a photographic enthusiasm, and sometimes you get lucky enough for it to reveal the future.
Atlanta is a diverse and strikingly urban city steeped in a rich tradition of civil rights. From the street art hidden under the Krog St. Bridge to the local artists descending upon Little 5 Points, there is an artistic ferver welling up ready to leave its mark on a city that is oddly transparent. The people of Atlanta seem to live in a city that is little more than a chalk-board in boarding school. I felt little life from the city itself and rather found it in the slow paced banter of Acapella Books' owner and in the appreciative smile of a local troubador in Vortex. As much as the city streets may have been swarmed, I often felt alone. the city is waiting for proper exposure, one not found as an obligatory name-dropping in a rap song.
Outside the Carol St. Cafe sits the house in which I will one day live. There is a park bench bench that sits underneath a palm tree, forever facing the sun. I'll bring jasmine tea and a Kurt Vonnegut book outside with me every morning.
What have I noticed about the future? There was a girl who dressed in black and drowned the colors everywhere she walked. There was nothing in a city i knew little about that drew my attention more than this woman I see every day of my life.

You will forever be standing on that rooftop with a city skyline at your back, and only the passing light of day will change around us.

In Days Following...

“Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick to each other as long as we live?”

The following days will be filled with grandeur,
When we are as tall as the skyscrapers around us.

Endeavor...

I saw the best minds of my generation
In rooms of white walls
Behind wheels of lettered trucks
In windows of shattered glass
Standing behind one another.
Falling soft with arms crossed,
Each of them lay still
destroyed by madness.

Knocking Off Rust...

Candy came from out on the island
In the backroom she was everybody's darling

The man in the white Oxford pressed shirt
held a crippled skull inside his hands
And his feet rested atop
the shoulders of giants.
The candle burned beside his notes
with wick casting gold.
Remember?

There were mounds of dried dirt
that waited for his return home.
And wheels of bicycles
waiting to be rode through wooden paths.
The skyline was a reserve
of little resentment.
Remember now?

Fortified are the final actions
when the man drove past the sign.
There were yellows, blues, and reds
that cascaded down a clouded end.
The mist fell softly on his eyes
and took seconds to brush off.
How can you forget?


Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo