Bein Smart With Words by Fellow Man

Dear Doomed:

2007-03-06T08:23:00.000-08:00

I’d never have branded

you fortunate—

at your most candid

you’d never endorse it.

Of course, in its

way our boyhood had its share

of happy accidents proportionate

to despair.

Slingshot wars and fists,

scrapping over infamy like rival

abortionists.

No real question of survival.

Now they need you “desert-side,”

then what?

If you go I might

start praying again, but

don’t blame me for having begun

to grieve.

You’ve been, save one

summer weekend of leave,

beamed to space and back, things

said me to you, you to me in voices

fragile on mobile phones crackling,

a universe of noises.

Birdcall Hymn

2007-02-21T12:58:00.000-08:00

Paradise Island Worker's Camp, Christian, WV
16 Feb. 2007

Chirping
smoke alarm means
low power. Every
forty-five seconds, as allocated,
chirp.
To a stockinged-feet marshmallow cadence.

Chirp
every forty-five seconds might drive
an old brown owl batty
for want of nine volts worth of battery.
Chirp
above my bed nearer than God to me.

We heard all
the old sacred songs
without smarm,
which was hard, being atheists both,
alert
all along on guard in case we misspoke.

I plinked
open chords primitive, while my
suddenly ill friend,
in tones of chalk and moss,
lurched
to the tune of the old bucket toss.

Cheap
rooms brownout prowler wears
down the carpet in front
of the powder room squirming,
retch
each forty-five in time with the chirping.

Chirp
what happened to John
Bonham ought to be a
lesson to you boys. Just try to ignore Me.
Chirp
sounds like this trailer’s bound for glory.

Twits
transfixed by pipe calls,
snowound since nightfall. His illness
subsided, what I’d become sick of,
the chirp
died when I started to hiccough.

Reverse Connotations

2007-02-13T08:15:00.001-08:00

Combust
For most: explode. For me: ignite.

Grotesque
For most: I hope I never see its like.
For me: Where is it? Light is losing fast.

Militant
For most: anarchic and dangerous, shut them down.
For me: valiant and commendable, hear them out.

Crafty
Most hear: Shylock. I hear: Sherlock.

Coincidence
For most: worth noting, nothing too bizarre.
For me: the Magnet’s smiling once again.

Haunted
Most read: Tortured, wracked and restless, shadowed.
I read: Priveleged with a glimpse at elsewhere.

Just Doin the Math

2007-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

I heard a brief note on NPR this morning about Emma Faust Tillman, a 114 year-old woman and now the world’s oldest person. She was born in 1892.

This woman’s parents were once slaves. She was born during the Spanish-American War.

She was 8 when the president was shot in Buffalo.

She was turning 20 during World War I.

She was sliding into 40 when the Great Depression came.

She was almost 50 by the time Pearl Harbor came around.

She was in her 60s for the Red Scare.

She had reached 70 by the time the president was shot in Dallas.

One wonders if she was a Beatles fan, back in her early 70s.

When a man landed on the moon, she was 76.

The Internet didn’t come around until she was 100 or so.

She was 108 for 9/11.

NPR had a quote from the woman’s daughter, saying, "So much has happened in 114 years that there's nothing really that fazes her anymore."

I don’t doubt it.

A Few Hundred Words on the Syllabus

2007-01-25T07:52:00.000-08:00

The syllabus, though certainly underappreciated, is a time-honored genre of expository writing. Its history is long and storied: the earliest known record of one was an object of worship for a prehistoric community in Mesopotamia. The ancient Phoenicians carried syllabi as good-luck-charms on their earliest sea voyages. Hannibal sketched his plans for attacking Rome on the back of a used syllabus, and it was a syllabus that carried to Paris the news of Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo. It has even been speculated that the great Chicago Fire of 1910 was ignited by a burning syllabus.

In recent decades, however, this once-revered genre has been primarily the province of academics, leading--perhaps inevitably--to a preponderance of self-important fluff that skews the genre heavily towards the farcical. Typically those who write them also present them, often in long-winded sessions of reading-recital, to a crowd of students most of whom won't give a shit about it, at least for a few weeks.

Usually a portion of the syllabus comprises a schedule with reading assignments and due dates, though this is by no means universal. Often a professor will offer a tentative list of assigments that will be subject to change, often drastic, over the course of the study period.

Educators often stress the importance of the syllabus to their students by referring to it as a "contract," as in: "this document is my contract with you." Though the practice seems to have fallen out of favor, in years past it was common for the educator to require his students to sign the syllabus, presumably to reinforce its significance as "contract." In this context, the syllabus usually contains grading guidelines that students can expect will be followed, as well as policies regarding missed or late work and participation, so that students might expect fair treatment according to the letter of the contract.

Less formally, though, the syllabus often functions as a "Frequently Asked Questions" sort of document, anticipating the most common and important concerns students might have upon starting the course and answering them up-front. Viewing the syllabus this way casts an even more absurd light upon some educators' habit of reading the document, word-for-word, to his class on the occasion of the first meeting.