Nice Words

Newspaper headlines from alley-gangs:

Explosive sadomasochism is legal in most United States

Perversion never made sense to me, too off-the-wall

Too counterproductive and benign to our foreign policy

(If foreign is really just your consensual partner, and policy

Is whatever you decide to do in your free time, wherever)

Too immature – back when that phrase was sensible –

Too slack-faced and long-jawed

Yodeling should be a socially acceptable hobby

But if you enjoy it what’s the point?

Hobbyists deserve neverworldly praise in sight of achieving

What all humans strive for: performing, acting upon, living off

Your greatest desires.

Live for the moment until it escapes you, then find another moment

And jump on it.

I find it hard to believe the greatest artists (sobjectively speaking)

Didn’t throw shit against the walls for years and years,

Waiting for the right color to shine.

I’ve heard most writers act the same

Backspacing as often as they space, when in all honesty

Their deletions deserve a presence, somewhere,

In a cavern, where tourists can visit

When they’ve run out of moments,

And desires to accost, and the price of

Admission becomes their human souls.

Discursive Ramblings: Dokapon Kingdom

Hello. I’d like to formally introduce my followers to an informal, casual series which I will try to maintain steadily. As I haven’t had much time to read lately, the Story of the Week series has taken a much needed rest.

Here’s what Discursive Ramblings will do to benefit both you and I, the reader and the writer: I’ll be able to vent some of my frustrations which come from my academic, laborious, and social life, and you’ll be entertained (I hope) by my providing a sense of personality that may be missing from my creative work. Discursive Ramblings is my time to relax and release. What’s in store? Well, I’m not sure of the particularities, but I am sure that this series will be rowdy and especially audacious.

While my opening segment may not entice you the way the following entries to this series may, I expect that I’ll get used to the structure (or lack thereof) that I’m creating the more I participate in it. So, without further ado, let’s get right into it:

Today and yesterday, I played an incredibly irritating yet somehow enjoyable game for hours on end. I think I had Stockholm syndrome. To anyone who knows anything about friendship-destroying party games, you must have heard of Dokapon Kingdom, for the Wii. Without exaggerating in the least bit, the game is built from the ground up to anger you. It will piss you off. It will throw you into painful and obnoxious situations you will learn to despise, as they appear consistently. This game knows how to hit a nerve, if you are the least bit impatient and easily bothered.


Surviving a Story Mode game without combusting into flames  is modern society’s most extreme measure of self-control.

But yet, I felt a desire to return to it after every painful brick to the face that the game throws at you. To an extent, I have an abusive relationship – that is, with a party game that sets me in both rage-mode and complacently comfortable mode in the blink of an eye, or the shift of the day.

A few weeks back, a group of friends and I started a session of the longest possible game setting and set for adventure. However, in actuality, the adventure was more so an attempt to survive in an expansive, probability-based world which takes every chance it can to screw you over. There is some element of skill and strategy involved, but much of that is obliterated as the “Surprise!”-based structure of Dokapon Kingdom promotes silliness and uncertainty instead.

If you have ever played Mario Party, think of Dokapon Kingdom as a longer, inescapable loop of the most difficult and/or annoying minigame, with role-playing elements included. Grrr! It’s frustrating to even think of it.

Like a true, abused partner, I am bound to the game because it animates us, excites us, and throws us into walls. Most of the time, we do it to each other seeing as the game promotes dicking around with your pals (whose status as friends may be slowly diminishing as the game progresses, only to be restored once you realize that it’s simply a game). That always elicits a reaction, either in game or out of game.

I swear a lot. And when I’m angry I swear even more. Fireworks fly. A little animation of steam rolling out of my nose appears. It’s all wrong.

Yet I enjoy this game.

Until next time, fellas.



He laughed lazily in a sunbeam

Shining decently on his forehead

It made him seem golden, golden

Like the laugh he loved to release.

It was autumn and the leaves colored

His day with shades of yellow again.

He laughed at the autumn leaves

And seemed golden under them.

The lady nearby asked the man

What he was doing, laughing alone.

With sincere glee he said to her:

“Because I enjoy it here.”

She walked away, moody, disturbed,

Wondering about the golden man.

In her daydreams she saw yellow

Streaks falling like light-beams

As they struck a figure laughing,

Alone to himself under the sun.

Why was he laughing so loudly?

“Because I enjoy it here,” he said.

She sat on her porch in a chair

That rocked back and forth with

A cup of coffee in her hand, resting.

The solitude and loneliness warmed

Her soul

And she laughed, too, like the golden man did.

Clockwork Paintings


In the shadowy, dusky realm of illusions and evil known as

Hamden, Connecticut

I see clockwork paintings lining the walls like

Ladders and siding hanging in an architect’s garage,

Which is likely somewhere in Hamden, too.


The paintings depict and march to abnormal music,

Some abomination of black metal and jazz fusion,

And I can see them grabbing for the saxophones

And the guitars

And the microphones

Like instruments of torture to the ears of unsuspecting, innocent

Passers-by in front of a Walmart in the Bronx,

Who are blissfully unaware of the pain about to breach their eardrums.


Like clockwork paintings shifting back and forth from one land

To another,

Moving like red silken curtains beneath a second and third floor

Of a large, windy mansion where the curtains often shake about

And cause distress to the children feeding in their beds

And crying for the wind to halt for they cannot sleep with the noise

But the tricky architect built the mansion on a hilltop

Near his garage in brisk, comely

Hamden, Connecticut


The clockwork paintings are singing lullabies to the humanities,

To the arts, the sciences, the world,

Spreading the word of angels and demons and humans,

Ensuring they rest easy and safely while a thunderstorm

Shakes families into unrest in the neighboring village,

And the careless arts and careless sciences dance in the rain

Celebrating success and fulfillment and time,

Like clockwork.


The whole world is a painted sunrise above cliffs of rainbow hues

Shouting outward to the masses below to

Paint them so they can stand there forever in color,

As if the world is a black and white Disney cartoon

And the cartoonist got bored and decided to

Stop production and focus on colored movies, instead.

All these paintings and more, in action, in clock towers

Changing with time like the moon does when it shifts from

Waning Gibbous to Waxing Crescent and then back again

One month later;


I imagine time resembles a rabbit, hoping from place to place

Rather quickly, I might add,

And similarly leaping past the tortoise who is

Taking rest stops beneath every passing tree

And then reigniting his flame until he sees another tree

And decides that the feeling of shade once more would be divine,

But the rabbit wins the race and

I think that’s how the story is told

But the tortoise is still underneath trees when sunset comes

And like clockwork he wakes up at dusk and the rabbit is

Lapping him again;

That jerk, he’s probably from Hamden!


Big birds flying over the sunset breeze

Sick twisted men shouting in the seas

Train track thespians trekking through the trees

Sing-a-long barneys making their own histories

Male model men marching money mysteries

Wroth wrecked warlocks wrestling swiss cheese

Apocalyptic apathy apples aching to appease

Calm cool communists communing with their skis

Rampant red range-rovers readying their PCs

Dead dark dynamite dancing in the disease

Dead dark earth as the whole world freeze


**Alright, I want to try to explain this one a bit. I like to experiment with poetry, different styles, moods, schemes, meters. In this one, I improvised the whole thing; as in, I wrote the first line off my head and then had to continue it in a (semi)logical way. It didn’t fit well, but it was fun to do. The rest is up to you. Just continue with your first sentence and with all the sentences you write after it! Try it out. I decided to use a lot of alliteration in this one, simply because it seemed more fun to continue the poem in that way.

Ulysses the Communist (Alphabetic Sequence)

Today, I felt compelled to write a sequence poem. Sequence poems use every letter in the alphabet in sequence. I find them very fun! You should try one, too. They rarely make sense, but they’re always entertaining in the end!

A brilliant communist died erroneously from gonorrhea.

He injured justices, kidnapped losers, murdered numbers of people quizzing residents sometimes.

Today Ulysses vaulted with xanthous-yew zebras.