am i the only one whose heart breaks just a little listening to Sam Cooke's "Having a Party"?

to unsettle presumptions, to defamiliarize the familiar, to reveal what is going on beneath and behind appearances, to disorient people and to help them to find ways to reorient themselves

She dreams in photographs.

The Tomb of Roland Burris: A one-act play

Based on an actual conversation at work.

Me: Did you hear about Roland Burris’ tombstone?

S: No, is he dead?

Me: No, unfortunately he still breaths our air and drinks our water and it looks like he will soon be our US senator.

S: How unfortunate.

Me: Isn’t it? Anyways, turns out the guy bought himself a plot and erected a mausoleum to use as a family tomb.

S: Sounds gothic but not that unusual.

Me: And the guy had the words ‘Trail Blazer’ carved in big block letters under his name followed by a list of his many, many accomplishments with extra room left for whatever he might do in the future.

S: You’re kidding. What kind of achievements are we talking here? First man on the moon? Getting his GED?

Me: 'First African-American to: serve as Illinois state comptroller, serve as Illinois attorney general. First Non-CPA member to: serve on the CPA board.'

S: That’s an accomplishment?

Me: Well he blazed the trail, sure. He was the first. The level of hubris is almost unfathomable here, like something from a Greek tragedy.

S: If only this were the Trojan War, I’m sure he would have already been brought down by his pride. That or by a griffin or a hydra or something.

Me: Maybe by Cerberus.

S: Sure, three-headed demon dog, that would do the trick.

Me: So I figured now is the time that I should invest in my own plot and tombstone and put all my extraordinary accomplishments on it. That way history will never forget my intense and immense glory.

S: So maybe just a small 8x10 headstone for you then?

Me: I was think more like 15-foot tall obelisk made of volcanic rock. That way there will be four sides on which to record my historic deeds.

S: How about a normal-sized tombstone that’s just 15-feet thick. That way people will notice your accomplishments when they trip over them.

Me: Another good idea to consider. Maybe I’ll just have a statue of myself standing holding two stone tablets with my list of accomplishments on it. Like Moses.

S: And clad in flowing robes and a beard. Hey you could get the guy who did the Michael Jackson statue on the cover of HIStory.

Me: Or the blind girl who made that godawful plaster head that looked nothing like Lionel Richie in that one Lionel Richie music video from the ‘80s.

S: I understand she’s hurting for work these days.

Me: I don’t think I want to be as humble as Burris either. I’ll include accomplishments that I haven’t yet accomplished. Yet.

S: Give yourself some motivation to get out there and really strive.

Me: Sure, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. ‘First man on Jupiter, first Caucasian-American to lead the NAACP and/or the Nation of Islam.’ Now that its engraved in stone I kind of have to do it. No more sleeping in on Saturdays. 'Star of The Goonies.'

S: Well, what with all these accomplishments your engraving costs are going to be unreal.

Me: Maybe I’ll save some money by just scrawling all my achievements in marker on a piece of cardboard and leaning it on a rock.

S: Or just use the office printer to print up a list of accomplishments and just tape it onto a marble slab.

Me: It’s a laser printer, right?

S: I believe so.

Me: I’ll just send the marble slab through the printer, let the lasers carve it up for me.

S: Lasers are so awesome.

Me: So is Roland Burris.

A Proposal on Taking Your Newsmagazine to the Next Level, 1

I keep telling myself that things could be worse. They could be so much worse than smooth jazz. I imagine pregnancies and broken fingers, birth defects and rapists with bad breath, death, dismemberment, and smiling Republican presidents. I imagine being asked to 'rock the vote.' Yes things could always be worse, but when I'm sitting beneath those flickering fluorescent lights in that cold and barren building, sitting with the ugly white glare of the computer all over my face and the smooth jazz pouring all over my ears, I just can't deny it to myself any longer. This is the fucking worst job I've ever had in my whole life.

I mean, keep in mind that I worked at Burger King when I was 16. Remember that? I would come home every night with grease dripping from the ends of every hair. Keep in mind that I worked as a deli slicer in college. I would come home every day with the stench of meat encrusted into my pores. It was terrible. You remember. But this, this is so much worse. Every day that I'm here I wish I was cooking burgers for fat suburbanites instead.

I work 40 hours a week at a newsmagazine targeting the African diaspora community in the city. I know that doesn't sound bad but trust me. When I answer their internet ad for an assistant editor they say they're getting ready to launch a new magazine for ethnic families. The magazine is going to be called 'Ethnic Family'. Only it turns out I'm not editing at all. I'm writing. I'm writing product reviews of 'gifts for dad' for the holidays. What kind of ties do black fathers want? What kind of aftershave are Hispanic uncles dying for this season? I didn't know that generic holiday gifts had any particular ethnic angles to them but now I have to find them, figure them out, explain them, and play them up to try to sell lucrative related advertising.

So every day I sit here and listen to smooth jazz and want to punch myself in the throat for the low, low cost of only $8 an hour.

I should have never left you.

flowering orphans chained to the broken drums
know the mirrors hidden in the back of the sun
asleep in black clouds they say cut off your wings
in the parish of sorrow you must sing
of seaweed and sickness that quickly depart
the angry perfume that spills from your heart

its just a sympathy for the strawberry
its just a synonym for the soul

an economy of animal mysteries.