Peace

Peace has a universal meaning:

Sharing, loving, caring, hoping.

Understanding that we are all unique and equal, too.

Helping or doing anything that we can do.

Together we come and unite,

No matter what religion or sight.

Some may be hanging by their last string,

While those who are lucky give a hand to cling.

Existing, still, is war and controversy:

Preppy, punk, Christian, Muslim, or sexuality.

Just be yourself and respect one another.

There’s no reason we can’t get along with each other.

Fighting and cruelty’s mighty sea

Over the years has greatly puzzled me.

In kindergarten we learn to share.

Through life we learn to care.

Peace has a universal meaning:

Sharing, loving, caring, hoping.

Understanding that we are all unique and equal, too.

Helping or doing anything that we can do.

The Individual

March 23, 2005

Individual, the individual

Is just another antique.

All not so unique.

Don’t be so modest.

You are just another soul –

Influenced like all.

Individual, the individual

Is just another antique.

All not so unique.

You can be free, but

Individualism –

Is idealism.

Individual, the individual

Is just another antique.

All not so unique.

The Next People

April 29, 2008

I can help the next person,

she says behind the counter.

He’s always been the next person,

he says to himself.

When he met his girlfriend,

he was the next person.

When he went to college,

he was the next person.

And when he tried to get published,

he was the next person.

I can help you here,

he says behind the counter.

She’s always been the next person,

she says to herself.

When she met her roommate,

she was the next person.

When she met him,

she was the next person

And whenever they were together,

they were the next people.

The one thousand things

12/22/09

The one thousand things

Trickle through my every breath

Whispers, “adornment”

Discrepancy in MMA Marist Poll

A recent Marist Poll found that 68 percent of New York State does not support legalizing “ultimate fighting”; however, analysts suggested this poll should not be the final tool in the decision process.

In January 2010, 838 New Yorkers were asked:

Ultimate fighting, which is legal in many states, takes place in steel cages and allows punching, kicking, and choke holds. Matches end with knockouts, submission by a fighter, or a referee or doctor’s orders. Supporters say legalizing it in New York would result in millions of dollars for the state. Do you agree or disagree with legalizing ultimate fighting in New York State?

The New York Daily News ran the Marist Poll story, but only regurgitated numbers. Analysts suggested that although there are some key flaws in this poll, the Marist Poll should be used as a starting point. Dr. Michael Saunders, a James Madison University professor, said the poll’s wording could make surveyors “argue either way.” This style of questioning (called front loading) creates a bias. He added that the white coat effect could also take place in a situation like this. He explained, “[Interviewees] will answer how they think they’re supposed to answer.”

Marist Poll’s preface also interchanges “mixed martial arts” with “ultimate fighting,” which is not the same thing. The Ultimate Fighting Championship owns exclusive rights to the term “ultimate fighting.” Such a phrase is also misleading.

Another thing the Daily News didn’t do was analyze the data. According to UFC.com, the Ultimate Fighting Championship’s target market is an 18-48 year old male. Perhaps the poll is suggesting that greater education on the sport is necessary before further political discussion. Dr. Saunders recommended the poll as a “snapshot” into the debate. The professor often reminds his measurement and evaluation classes to collect data with a purpose; collected data is useless without proper evaluation.

The Arsonist’s Daughter

Fingers of flames flicker from her palms.

A long white gown, with delicate lace, covers her tanned skin.

Her breasts bulge out,

Capturing the attention of young men passing by.

Her eyes burn the men with her glare.

She’s barefoot, but she was born to walk on coal.

She’s the arsonist’s daughter.

Born not of nobility.

Her beauty, though, is pinks, reds, and yellows of a sunrise.

As the his daughter,

She’s not expected to do much.

She warms men’s hearts at night,

And every so often she hugs women between her legs.

By day she’s a lady,

But by night she’s looking for a home.

Her father burnt hers down long ago.

Dear Readers,

Sorry I’ve been out of commission the past few days. I was a little sicker than I thought. No worries though – just a pain-in-the-ass cold/flu thing. Most of my days have been spent sleeping. Now then – off to finish Lemon Love! Check back at 10:45!

Lemon Love: Part Two

“Janice, dear? Some young man is asking for you,” Flora turned to smile at him. “Do you know him?”

Janice started playing with her bracelets, not really knowing what to do. He was at the diner yesterday, and didn’t even seem to enjoy it all too much. What could he possibly want other than to complain that his parents came down with food poisoning because of their meal? It wasn’t a far leap to assume that’s why because it’d happened at least twice under the diner’s current ownership.

“He was here the other day,” Janice whispered.

She walked up to him and was relieved that he said the first words in the conversation. He apologized for the way his father acted the other day. Janice waved her hands, bracelets sliding up and down her wrist. “It’s really alright,” she said.

“No, it’s not alright,” he said. All the waitresses were watching him. Although he noticed, he focused on Janice. “Are you on break soon? I’d like to take you out to lunch and make up for it.”

Just as she began to decline on the bases that she was working, Tammy came in. “Hunny, take the day off. I’ll cover for ya.”

Janice ran into the back and changed into her normal clothes. Then, not knowing if this guy was a serial killer or not, she got into his car. It was a nice car – real classy.

“Are you from around here?” Janice asked.

“My parents are,” he said with disdain. That was how all people talked about growing up in Sparta. “I moved out of here right before high school though.”

He was a Boston guy. Somehow he never picked up the accent, but he seemed to pick up the Harvard swagger. His grandparents lived near there and he always wanted to become a lawyer. “I wanted to make things right in the world,” he said.

The two of them laughed about the boardwalk in the heart of Sparta and the skaters that thought they were too cool for school. Janice thought this guy was unreal. Harvard, good looks, and he was more-or-less a martyr. The most boring profession, aside from dentistry, in Janice’s eyes was something like being a Lawyer, a suit. Yet he spun his job description to seem like he should be wearing blue spandex with a big “S” on his chest.

After lunch he brought her back to the diner. Janice put her hand on the door handle, then stopped. “I know this seems corny, but will I see you again?”

“I’m going back to Boston tomorrow,” he said. “I’d love for you to come with me. You’d really love it up there.”

She thought of all the coffee shops, and the arts, and she always wanted to go to Emerson. She just could never say goodbye to this old place. Looking up at the Boston Lawyer, then past him. That diner was her home. It was comfort.

“I can’t.” She got out of the car and stopped before even opening the door. Tammy saw her, gave her a moment, then came out.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“He asked me to go to Boston with him,” she broke down crying.

At the other end of the parking lot he sat there. He too didn’t want to leave. She was so perfect.

“He’s too perfect,” she mumbled. “I barely know him! I won’t have a job, and I can’t leave you and Flora, and Larry – he’d confuse every order!”

Tammy assured her that Larry, their cook, was on his last limbs anyway. She turned Janice around and told her to go back there. He was still sitting there and only looked up because Tammy shouted, “HEY! SHE’LL GO, SWEETHEART!”

Janice stumbled down the front steps. He too stumbled out of his car. They held each other tight and he assured her that he’d take good care of her until she got on her feet. When she got back into his car he smiled and said to her, “You just can’t let a good thing go.”

Lemon Love: Part One

She didn’t mind waiting on tables. Fresh faces at each meal, the common ones always came at their self-designated time. The rest of the wait staff was friendly too – mostly an older crowd. What Janice couldn’t stand, however, was the wasteland that she looked out upon every shift.

There wasn’t a bar in sight. No dance clubs, or funky coffee shops. Her rinky-dink diner was the only home she had. All of her friends had come and gone. Sparta is the kind of place you go to school, do well, then get as far away from it as possible. A rare few, maybe wise for their age, say they’ll come back to raise a family.

Janice had no intention of starting a family anytime soon. She had great intentions of meeting new, and interesting people. Her chipper personality and polite manners lent her to getting along with almost anyone. Though it made her good at her job, these qualities made moving difficult. Her boss bribed her to stay with a raise, and her co-workers told her that she was the reason they still enjoyed working at the diner. She was too sweet to say goodbye.

The Karate Kids

“Ichi, ni, san,” a young student counted off – the class officially began. I took my seat in the back of the dojo and the four young students, dressed in black gis, lined up while one girl lead them in Dojo kun. Midway through a newcomer in a white uniform shuffled her way into class.

When the class began lunges, they each had heavy joints. Their back knee made contact with the floor like a Kung Fu master’s punch in his opponent’s gut. Upon picking up their jump ropes, however, the students had different strategies for getting it over their head and under their feet. Some did it backwards, while others stumbled. An orange belt, who had excelled in the resistance portion of the workout, found his jump rope often balancing on his head.

Following the workout, two other masters took the two orange belts and the two white belts aside. The newcomer worked with the sensei.

The orange belts ran through elaborate choreography. Their sensei watched, but their precision left him with little to say other than to keep going.

Meanwhile, the white belts repeated simple combinations of punches and kicks. One boy, even though it was only his second night, had every move. Cross the arms and turn to the right, he thought to himself. Now punch left, cross right foot forward. Wait. Kick with the left.

Regardless of the fact that he and his protégé were supposed to be doing the same moves, the other white belt was thinking something completely different. What he was thinking, however, was impossible to decode.  The chubby little boy would slowly turn and cross his arms, stop, throw his left arm forward, stop, and then move his head slightly forward. Perhaps he was envisioning greatness as the next Lyoto Machida. Five minutes later, maybe longer, he moved on to the kicks. His sensei watched him topple over a few times until he moved him to the windowsill. He looked like a ballerina, only a little less graceful. Despite his challenges, he never appeared frustrated.