Justin - Resolutions

I never thought much of the idea of resolutions;
Promising to be better to try harder,
Imagining a blank slate comes with the New Year-
 
It is like believing that your car becomes new again
As the odometer rolls one hundred thousand.
But it doesn’t.
 
Maybe it is the seeing the number roll that reminds you to take better care.
But then, wouldn’t the inspiration be your birthday rather than the New Year?
Would not a birthday be the mark of the odometer turning?
 
And if not, it seems that motivation for change could come as easily in February or March as on New Year’s Day,
Or inspired by some event like the prayers of bargaining offered up from the bathroom tile

while trying to survive you first hangover.

 
It also seems that resolutions can be too strict:
“I will go to the gym daily”
But daily means every day,
And once missing a day on January 14^th, you have failed for the year.
 
Or maybe too amorphous:
“I will do this more or that less.”
But you measure based on feelings:
“I feel I’ve done that more.”
There is no accounting.
 
And if the resolution is to be kinder or more compassionate,
To love more and be angry less,
Then what sort of person waits for January?
I think that maybe the best resolutions, if put off until New Year, already mark a failure.
If you don’t want to be a better person now, then you probably don’t really want to be a better person.
 
But then, I don’t think much of the idea of resolutions.

Resolutions - Jason

Resolve

The ritual feels like the labor of Sisyphus
Undone by gravity and the smooth edges of the rock
But worse, somehow more fatiguing
Like green pastures which refuse to feed.
It is a child’s untamed rainbow.

Our talk crossed the dirty dining room table
Of electric hope on painted memories and not granite goals.
We celebrated the ink filled calendar not the crisp unwritten
And our bodies washed in the foam or our combined mirth.
I remember the shows so bad
we couldn’t help but watch
Like falling into the shattered glass
Which captures the red and blue flashing lights.

So we played along
Eat less
Exercise more
Save money
If just for a moment we would pretend
The new would also mean better

The table is still dirty.
The calendar is now filled.
That threshold is once again is before me.

I’ll show them.
I’ll laugh at the ritual.
I will resolve.

Jason - Christmas Movie

Dear Mr. Berenbaum,

First, let me say, I was super excited, like syrup on gummi bears excited to see the documentary we produced. Woo Hoo! We did it. Anyway, I don’t mean to nit pick but there were some things which I thought we agreed were a little too naughty. I am certain you just forgot, so when you do that last edit, it would be swell if you could cut out a few of these things. Let’s make room for everyone on the nice list.

When your nice crew was filming, remember how that set the stage so I would run into that fake Santa? I don’t think that was an honest experience, also I feel bad that I said he smelled like beef and cheese. He did, it was horrible and he should be ashamed, but it is not very nice to tell everyone. Also, when I had a little slip I thought we agreed we didn’t need to include my reference to his sitting on a “throne of lies”. That wasn’t very elf-like. I mean, I think you did a great job, but who want’s to see an unhappy elf? It was odd how you included my excitement about Santa coming, even though you knew it would lead to this. I guess that is because you wanted to show just how much I love Santa. He is the best.

On the topic of Santa I would rather he not see some of the other less than festive things I might have said during the filming. It might have been nice to know you have set those boys up to throw snowballs at us, so I would not have had that outburst. It was not fair to nutcrackers, or their prospective children. In the north pole we are subject to a small fee for not only references to the progeny of nutcrackers, but also the mothers of the elves who are assigned frosting cookies and a few other things. Anyway, if we could trim that first snowball hit, or what whole snowball fight, that would be great.

Perhaps we could add more singing. Singing is great. Or friends, or big hugs. Remember that day I made snow angels for three hours, and my lips turned blue? Maybe we could use that.


Greatest Cheer,

Buddy the Elf

Justin-Grinch Letter

Dear Holiday Program Director,

I recently watched a broadcast of How the Grinch Stole Christmas on your channel and frankly, I’m a bit confused about some things. I know that Dr. Seuss is no longer with us, but I was hoping maybe that along with the broadcast rights, you managed to get some explanatory material that might shed some light on some things.

First, the Whos; is that their species like the Sneeches? Is that a name? The girl is referred to as Cindy Lou Who, so it seems like a name, but when they say “all the Whos down in Whoville” it definitely sounds like a species or at least a clan. This kind of applies to the Grinch as well. Is “the Grinch” a name, title, or species? It’s all a bit confusing.

Second, speaking of the Grinch, he’s green and furry yet manages to disguise himself as Santa with a coat and a hat. He’s still green and furry, and also, HE’S NOT WEARING PANTS. Does the Whos’ Santa mythology include a green, furry, pantsless Santa? Or does Cindy Lou Who have severe vision issues? Most cultures have a version of Santa that kind of blends with the population, which would mean not green or furry or half-naked.

Also, where is Santa? There appears to be a strong enough belief in Santa that the Grinch believes he can get away with grand larceny provided he has the right coat and hat. Yet, the fact that he attempted his holiday stealing plot indicates that he has no belief in Santa himself. The fact that he gets out of Whoville without Santa seeing what he is doing indicates that Santa is not real. Is this story saying Santa is a fake? Maybe there should be a warning before the broadcast so that parents can have a heads up concerning potential myth breaking implications.

Along with that line, the Grinch knows the Whos believe, which means he knows something about them. He’s probably met some of them. If I lived in a small community and someone I knew met a tall, green, furry guy up in the mountains, I’d probably know about it. Everyone would know about it. Assuming we all know that there is a green, furry guy up in the mountains, I’m going to assume that that’s who the green guy is in my living room, not Santa. But again, we don’t know the Whos Santa story.

            Anyway, if you could possibly answer some of these questions, that would be great. I don’t need a written reply, maybe an FAQ section on your website. And I would really consider that whole warning thing and maybe a parental discussion guide or something.

            Thank you for your time and Merry Christmas.

Sincerely,
A concerned parent

P.S. You might also consider giving the Grinch some pants.

Thanksgiving - Jason

Plymouth, 1623

William Bradford, the Governor of Plymouth, looked around the table, at the bounty, the guests, the gifts of the Lord Almighty. He considered how much had transpired in the last two years. He felt the immense sadness of his loss, the blessing of his fortune and the great weight of his responsibility.

Massasoit, the native king, stood across from the Bradford and held his hands up over the long table. Voice spoke in what seemed a child’s language as his sun darkened hands pointed to the roasted meats, the shellfish, the indian corn and corn bread. He then turned his attention to the Governor himself and while he did not understand the white man nodded politely.

“He thanks you, sir, for the hospitality,” started Squanto the native who had helped them make good with the soil these last years, “He thanks the deer for their sacrifice and the sun for its warmth.”

“Thank you, Squanto.”

“This is Mrs. Bradford’s first Harvest Festival,” said Edward, a good lad who had been at the Plymouth since the first. He would probably be Governor one day. He looked to the Governor’s new wife and then back to William. They shared the mix of joy and sadness. The salt water breeze felt good, but it reminded them of that moment when William had pulled himself back onto the Mayflower and he looked from one tear streaked face to the next. He knew, even before Edward had broke the news, he knew.

“William?” asked Alice, “What is wrong?”

“We have just been blessed so much,” he started. The people around seemed to wait for him to say something more, something which gave substance to that relief that they were feeling. Massasoit, Squanto and the others, both from the land and the church seemed to give him notice.

He stood and spoke in a way they all could hear, “Inasmuch as the great Father has given us this year an abundant harvest of Indian corn, wheat, peas, beans, squashes, and garden vegetables,” the eyes of those at the table looked over the spread before them trying to find the various items of bounty he named, “and has made the forests to abound with game and the sea with fish and clams, and inasmuch as he has protected us from the ravages of the savages,” he looked to Squanto, a savage but a good one if there be such a thing, “has spared us from pestilence and disease, has granted us freedom to worship God according to the dictates of our own conscience.”

It was then the smell of the deer and roasted vegetables got to be too much. Those gathered gave thanks, those who were standing sat and they all began to eat of the abundance.

Justin - Chocolate

Bite in Lying

Take a cookie

Take a bite

Bite the lie

Bite your tongue

Tongue assaulted

Tongue is tasting

Tasting the lie

Tasting a fake

Fake delicacy

Fake chocolate

Chocolate is dark

Chocolate’s not white

White is for rice

White is for milk

Milk is for dunking real chocolate cookies

Milk is for making the cacao less bitter

Bitter is the flavor of authentic chocolate

Bitter are my thoughts against the imposter

Imposter, nothing but sugar and dairy

Imposter, using an icon’s name

Name it something more appropriate

Name it not for all it lacks

Lacks the strength

Lacks flavor

Flavor is the melted essence

Flavor gives the substance life

Life in this is only shadow

Life proves this pretentiousness

Pretentiousness calling this gourmet

Pretentiousness claiming this superior

Superior white?

Superior- I laugh

Laugh at the claim and name

Laugh, laugh while I cry

Cry “White chocolate”

Cry “I’ve been fooled”

Fooled by the name

Fooled by a promise

Promise of complexity

Promise of passion

Passion drives chocolatiers precision

Passion is dark, never pale

Pale in comparison to the truth

Pale grows my face in wonder

Wonder why this thing exists

Wonder by its creator’s lying

Lying by saying this is chocolate

Lying by saying chocolate is white

White…

Chocolate…

Chocolate - Jason

Dream of Chocolate

scent of cocoa
scent of dream
dream of flavor
dream of melt
melt in bowl
melt over simmer
simmer over water
simmer and stir
stir the pieces
stir and let stand
stand and inhale
stand within yourself and draw the cream
cream over ice
cream to beat
beat into shape
beat into peaks
peaks of snow
peaks you whip
whip the egg
whip to firm
firm with sugar
firm with whisk
whisk in joy
whisk the rain streaked sadness away
away from kitchen
away and prepare
prepare pool of Hershey’s
prepare to fold
fold in egg whites
fold all at once
once with hope
once complete
complete with whipped cream
complete just enough
enough stirred airy
enough you can feel the bubbles of sweet burst
burst as a vision
burst from cover
cover the mousse
cover and chill
chill for one hour
chill until set
set out goblets
set to fill
fill with dessert
fill with Chocolate
chocolate as art
chocolate in layers as seasons of life
life...
art...

City - Jason

The Last Homely House

Beautiful she seems to float or hide
A timid girl whose scent you can’t forget
I was fifty then and Oakenshield was by my side
Protected Misty Mountains foothills set

Babbling Bruinen warmed the air
She sleeps upon that river’s golden shore
The enchanting house of Elrond stripped us of our care
Here precious little rest bestowed great cure

Graven ancient house had perfect Halls
For food or dance or work or sleep
Soothed on twilit porch by gloried tales and waterfalls
Charged was she the elves and men to keep

Sixty years on There and Back Again
And ink like joyous days seem nearly done
So like Gandalf I sojourned where I dreamed from my home, Bag End
That the journey end where once begun

Justin-CIty Love Poem

Plymouth, My First True Love

Could it be said you were my first true love?

Safe haven from an oft too frightening world

Shelter from all ugliness outside

Instilling small town humbleness and pride

Of tree lined streets with flags in breeze unfurled

Those rain slicked streets soft with lamp light pearled

When coming from the Bean or Penn I stride

And to you all my fealty I confide

As I feel your arms about me curled

Yes, I must say you are my first true love.

But did you know you were my first true love?

Though others may have vied to take your place

You are the measure by which I compare

Looking for your heart in city square

Looking for your warmth in street's embrace

And when the autumn morphs the foliage face

I think of cider drank in chilly air

Strolling a Fall Festival thoroughfare

So how could one my love for you replace?

Oh, you must know you are my first true love

But do you hold me still, my first true love?

As life has caused me far from you to roam

Out here ‘neath western sky by mountain’s peak

Or those long years in bleary desert bleak

Taking barren sand for fertile loam

In my heart, all leads to you as Rome

So when your name I see the signpost speak

My eyes awake as your first view I seek

And seeing you I know that I am home

And that you hold me still, my first true love.

And you should know that leaving you I wept

Knowing in my absence you would change

But always safe your memory I’ve kept

Long miles can't my heart from you estrange

Nor can time passing cause the ending of

My love for Plymouth; you my first true love

Jason - Decorative Object

A Vase

It masquerades upon the dark wood shelf,
So plain creating space to isolate,
On center stage the vase is by itself.

For one long year it held this change of state,
Glass cleaned of dust which did accumulate.

No sign of contents which it cupped before,
Enduring idle days on basement floor.

The glass it curves the light which passes through,
And only hints to shapes which rest inside,
By bending both the edges and the hue.

Translucent truth obscured it tricks the eye,
By all the thorny stems and sticks to hide.

A simple shell in which the memories hold,
Contents arranged and left as they grow old.

The rose petal paper faded pink,
Such beautiful nostalgia colored thoughts,
Alone and dried they only make me think.

They’ve aged a year the little budded knots,
But back in time they pull my heart in shots.

I see the card of sympathy embossed,
Attached with prayers and signed with thoughts for loss.

The Pitcher

In autumn colors orange and gold and red
Like the fire from which it was born
That flame which o’er the artist sweat and bled
Meant for a shelf or table to adorn
A flaw just one that brings the object scorn
And for one errant line it is reject
But he the vessel for his own elects
 
Why bring the reject with him to his house
Was it the flaming colors that made him choose
Was it a gift he brought home for his spouse
Did it adorn a shelf or was it used
Did he gaze upon the glass and muse
In his own mountain home could he foreknow
This fire would burn on distant peaks of snow
 
From that home in West Virginia’s peaks
Now home in Salt Lake City’s mountain sprawl
Years and generations slowly eke
Artifacts lost decayed in aging crawl
But here the vessel sits surviving all
Through grasp of four generations hands
Not returning aging glass for sands

Justin-Miracle

Wide shot, exterior day. Reporter standing in open, rocky desert terrain with cave opening behind him to the right.
Reporter: Here in Bethany, just a couple of miles outside of Jerusalem, a man named Lazarus died after suffering from an illness for a couple of days. Not an unusual story. No, but here it gets strange; this cave, right behind me, was Lazarus’s tomb, yet here it stands; open, empty. I’m here in Bethany to try to find out what happened here; and to interview eye witnesses to this reported miracle.


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. Two women sit facing him.
Reporter: One month ago, your brother took ill.
Martha: Yes.
Reporter: What did you do?
Martha: Well, normally these things pass, but after a couple of days we saw he was getting worse…
Reporter: So, did you send for a physician?
Mary: A doctor had come early on and said all he could do was rest and pray. As he got worse, we sent for Jesus.


Wide shot, exterior day. Reporter slowly moving towards the cave entrance while talking
Reporter: Jesus of Nazareth has been called many things in this area. He is a wandering teacher who travels with a group of disciples and frequently attracts large audiences when he stops to speak. Not popular with religious leaders, yet many call him “Rabbi” some call him “Lord” and some claim an even higher title…


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. Two women sit facing him.
Reporter: Why send for a vagrant teacher?
Mary: He’s not just a teacher; He’s…the Christ the prophets spoke of.
Martha: He is the Son of God.
Reporter: That’s a big claim.
Martha: He’s done big things. He’s given sight to the blind. He’s fed thousands of people with just a few loaves and fish.
Reporter: Could he not just be a prophet, or someone else empowered by God?
Mary: No. He claims to be the Christ and God’s son. If he’s not, if he’s a liar, then how is my brother alive?


Wide shot, exterior day. Reporter crouching by the cave opening. Shot tightens as reporter speaks.
Reporter: That is a question I am not yet able to answer. Could he exaggerate his claims? Certainly previous prophets have used hyperbole in their pronouncements. Unfortunately, I was not able to get an interview with Jesus himself, but I was able to sit down with one of his disciples, Thomas.


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. A man sits facing him.
Reporter: Were you with Jesus when he received the message that Lazarus was sick?
Thomas: Yes, we had went across the Jordan because Jesus had upset the religious leaders and they wanted to arrest him; maybe stone him.
Reporter: So you all risked arrest to come back into the area?
Thomas: Yes...well, not right away. We stayed where we were for two more days preaching and baptizing.
Reporter: Two more days? Did he not understand how serious it was?
Thomas: He understood, I think, when he told us it was time to come, he said Lazarus had died. Actually no, he said he had fallen asleep and he was going to wake him, but we didn’t understand. Then he told us plainly, Lazarus had died.
Reporter: He could have saved him though, right? If he knew he was dying he could have went and saved him, right?
Thomas: Yes. He said something about it being better for our sake that he didn’t save him from dying; so that we could believe.


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. Two women sit facing him.
Reporter: How long did it take for Jesus to arrive?
Mary: I’m not sure, longer than it should have. Lazarus had been buried for four days by the time Jesus got here.
Reporter: What happened then?
Martha:  I heard he was nearing Bethany so I went out to meet him…
Mary: I was very upset. I stayed at home. I felt let down.
Martha: I told him I knew he could have saved Lazarus, but that I also knew that anything he asked from God would be given to him. He told me Lazarus would rise again and asked if I believed him. I told him I knew he was the Christ, God’s son. I believed. Then I went and got Mary.
Mary: When I got there I told him I knew if he had come earlier, Lazarus would be alive. Maybe I shouldn’t have laid that on him, but I was so upset. I could tell I upset him when I said it. He looked so sad. All he said was “Where have you laid him?”


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter crouched by cave entrance.
Reporter: They brought Jesus here, to Lazarus’s tomb. Here is where the story takes an odd turn. Here, the man that they claim to be God’s son, did the most human thing.


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. A man sits facing him.
Thomas: He wept. He said he was coming to wake him up, to bring him back from the dead, and when the moment of truth came, when we were standing in front of the grave, he cried like he was uh.
Reporter: Human?
Thomas: Yeah, I guess.


Close up on Martha.
Martha: He told me he was going to bring him back, and then he stood there and wept. He asked me if I believed and then he cried. I was so confused. People were talking, friends that had come from Jerusalem to be with us. They were saying “Look how much he loved him,” and “If he healed the blind, couldn’t he have kept Lazarus from dying?”
Reporter: (off camera) But that’s not it is it?
Martha: No. When he finished he said to open the tomb.


Close up on Mary
Mary: Martha told him he’d been buried four days, that he would be starting to stink. He looked at him and asked her “Didn’t you say you believed?”


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter seated in a court yard, back to camera. A man sits facing him.
Thomas: They opened the tomb. I was expecting a lightning flash or a big boom or that he’d go in and pray over the body. He just stood there and called him to come out. Like Lazarus was just in there sitting, waiting for him to call.

Close up on a man.
Lazarus: It was like I just woke up and heard Jesus calling for me to come out. So I did.
Reporter: (off camera You just got up and walked out?
Lazarus: (laughs) No, I was wrapped up for burial, I kind of hopped out.
Reporter: You could have called back for help.
Lazarus: I was dead and then I heard Jesus calling me. I didn’t need help; I needed to get up and go.
Reporter: What do you want to tell people about this?
Lazarus: I was dead, now I’m alive; what more is there to say?


Medium close up, exterior day. Reporter crouched by cave entrance.
Reporter: What more indeed. Jesus came saying he would raise the dead, and he did. But before, what I still can’t manage to grasp, knowing he could raise him, he wept. He mourned for a man he knew he would heal. Is he the Christ or a prophet? Is he God or is he a man? This reporter can’t make sense of this strange wandering rabbi, but maybe I don’t need to. A man was dead in this tomb a month ago, now he is at home with his sisters. Maybe that is all the answer we need.

Jason - Miracle

Little Amber was saved my mystery voice

On Valentine's day a baby, being reported only as Little Amber was found alive after being trapped in a submerged car for 14 hours. Claims are she was saved by a mysterious voice.

The police who worked the accident claimed it was a horrific crash. They stated the the driver, a young woman, lost control of her vehicle and was killed on impact in the Little Rouge River. Additionally, they claimed that they heard a desperate plea of someone from inside the car before they were able to access the vehicle.

The overturned car had been found by an early morning fisherman who first spotted the accident. As he approach he said he could hear a woman from inside the car calling out, “Help Me.” He immediately contacted police and they were on the scene within the hour.

Officer Lester was one of the first to arrive on the scene. “The car had overturned in the freezing water,” Lester explained, “Which meant the officers could only work for about twenty minutes before swapping out.” The temperatures that day hovered just above freezing.

Lester explained when they got to the baby she has been suspended upside-down, just above the water line. It appeared she had, had no food or water for around 14 hours. She wore only skimpy clothes, but there was no sign the low temperature had affected her. She was examined for signs of hypothermia and frostbite.

Lester continued, “the water, because of the temperature, was so dangerous that under different circumstances we would have stopped working, but she kept calling for us.” This was a reference to the voice that all of the officers and the firemen who reported to the accident claimed to have heard. When asked who was calling, no one seemed sure, as the only survivor was an 8 month old baby.

Similar voices have claimed to be heard in an accident in Utah, with very similar circumstances, and in Virginia, where the first responder gave instructions before disappearing.

Jason - Rewrite

Unsettled

Awaken by the gentle creak.
Footsteps or wind you hear.
Night has made your heart grow weak.
You feel the presence near.
You dare not move until you know,
Which way your thoughts to steer.
You must be free! You must let go!
You can't give into fear.

So, try to quell the racing beat,
And hold your breath inside.
Don’t think of faces incomplete.
How much you want to hide.
Stop the nervous twitching moves,
That spectral haunts imply.
The want to still your mind improves,
But rest will not abide.

So, you lift your body from the bed,
And reach out for the light.
You feel that sudden sense of dread,
You can't repel the night.
The shadow's grasp your grasping hand.
You're powerless to fight.
To your feet you quickly stand.
You're now compelled by fright.

You bend your eyes to see the room,
Where darkling eddies flee.
You strive against the pressing tomb,
Which will not let you be.
You turn in place the black and blues.
Ignore the muffled plea.
You note how truth and light diffuse,
Foam left by ebon sea.

Fingers dance across your calf.
And scrape the loathsome door.
Is that a disembodied laugh?
You whisper, "Nevermore."
You make the aging hinges sing.
"What's there?" your thoughts implore.
Convinced you'll see some ghastly thing,
Not moonlit hallway floor.

But that is all your eyes reveal.
Disbelief begins to bloom.
How could all your senses feel,
The overwhelming weight of doom?
Then step, step, step you hear anew.
A wash with thickening gloom.
The ghost must want to play with you,
Just in the other room.

What could transpire if you press,
Plays out inside you head.
The specter dimly to address,
What words you would have said.
Your mind pursues the waning sound,
Your feet refuse to tread.
So in defeat you turn around,And you go back to bed.

Justin - Ghost Story Revisited

The Child on the Floor

As I sat at my desk writing, gently coaxing and inviting
Prose from sorrow’s soul to paper through my hand and pen outpour,
I caught a chill I could not fend and thought the fire to attend,
So rising, going there to mend, to mend the flames that roared before,
I spoke “My love, it grows cold; I’ll mend the flames that roared before,”
To the child on the floor.

Now the child oft there played since mother, sister had been laid
To rest having caught a fever in autumn of the year before.
And I smiled to see her folly, sitting, playing with a dolly,
It fought against the melancholy always pressing at the door;
The melancholy growing there where two were left where once was four
The autumn of the year before.

It was a favorite of the older sister when the days grew colder,
Huddled with her toys and playing warm before the fire’s roar.
Then the younger took the spot to sit before the fire hot,
For Jane I’m sure, and for me not she took the spot upon the floor;
To honor Jane she took to playing warm before the fire’s roar,
Quiet on the study floor.

The household staff had thought it strange, the child did her habits change,
To leave her room and take to playing where her sister had before.
I said I did not see the harm; I liked to have her near my arm,
And that the cause of their alarm they should mention nevermore;
She bought me some small solace from the sorrow knocking at the door
Since autumn of the year before.

Spoke my daughter “Is it cold? We had not noticed, truth be told.
For me, the company does keep me warm inside your study’s door.”
I smiled “My dear you are quite sweet; to think my presence might bring heat,
To keep the chill from toes and feet as flames will dwindle more and more;
To think that your dull father might replace the warmth from fire’s roar,
Tis enough for winter’s store.”

“Papa I do not wish you pain, but saying ‘we’ I spoke for Jane;
'Tis Jane whose friendship brings me in to play upon your study floor
She says she never feels the cold since the fever loosed its hold;
When green gave way to red and gold preparing for the winter’s hoar; 
When autumn’s leaves were growing old October of the year before,”
Said my daughter on the floor.
 
My tongue did fight to find reply, as my child I stepped by,
While busying my hands and giving new attention to my chore.
Did I somehow my daughter fail not seeing she in grief did ail
And her mind was growing frail, building an imagined lore?
Building a world of fancy as reality she did abhor,
This broken child on the floor.
 
“But Jane says mother’s always cold, since the fever took its hold,
That she will only come to sit when flames of fire fiercely roar.
Then she’ll come and take her chair, when fire wards off chilly air
And quietly she joins us there as she has done for years before;
She sits and tries to catch some warmth in the blazing fire’s roar
Now still ever as before.”
 
How my daughter’s words did prick, and flush the face and pulse to quick,
Hearing of her world of fancy formed around her on the floor.
Still I could not form a word as thought flew off like frightened bird
Vision being by tears blurred, as her speech my soul did bore;
As my daughter’s words into the wildest wish of heart did bore,
Spoken from the study floor.
 
Trembling now I sought to make the embers left of fire wake,
To thaw my precious daughter who was frozen in a time before.
I did not wish to make her weep and yet to wake her from her sleep,
Away with fantasy to sweep and bring her back from dreamland’s shore.
And yet I did not wish to steal the comfort of fallacious lore
From her dreamy, sunny shore.

As I got the fire blazing, I found myself at daughter gazing
When thoughts were interrupted by a shuffling down the hallway floor.
Joining to the floorboards creaking old door hinges started squeaking,
As if the answer of her speaking, inward swung the study door.
The shuffling sound, but nothing seen; the shuffling just and nothing more;
Shuffling towards the fire's roar.
 
I gasped but could not find the air, stumbling, reaching for my chair,
I fought to find the calm and peace my precious sanctum to restore.
Then I spied her slippers there, neatly placed beneath her chair,
As if she had with her feet bare stretched out to bask in fire’s roar;
As if my wife had again come visit me as oft before;
Oft then, but maybe oft once more.

Jason - Men vs. Women

Miracle Max's Tale

“If dead, go through his clothes and look for change.”
To Max, the man he bellowed croaked, “T-r-u-e L-o-v-e.”
Said Inigo, “True Love!” in voice less strange.
“To Blave, which means to bluff,” lied Max thereof.
“He cheated, probably while playing cards.”
The little old lady then storms the room,
With aged hands in air and teeth like shards.
“You Liar, Liar,” red, the woman fumed.
Retorting, angry shout, “Get Back! You Witch!”
“I’m not a Witch. I am your wife!” says she.
The thoughtless words flyout, a wild pitch,
“Perhaps, from Mrs. Max to Valerie!”
Quipped Max, “Never did you have it so good!”
“But words True Love, not blave, were understood!”

And with a wave, “Don’t say another word!”
“Prince Humperdinck had fired him; the shame.”
“That moniker should not again be heard.
You promised you would not pronounce that name!”
She jeers, “Prince Humperdinck! Prince Humperdink!”
He turns and shouts, “I am not listening!”
“True love, it stills, and you just let him sink?”
“O Valerie, I’m not hearing nothing”
With wild eyes, “Prince Humperdinck!” she breaks.
“Heal him! And then the Prince can not be wed!”
To Inigo, “So, Humperdinck then aches?”
“Insults galore! Her man no longer dead!”
Then Max, “Now that’s a job that I will do”
In wifely victory she gives a “Woo!”

Justin - Man vs. Woman

Two Songs of Misogyny

 Man
The man, he seeks to build or to destroy,
Exerting his control on all around;
By self-control though he cannot be bound;
That trait does not belong to man or boy.
And so when near a woman acting coy,
The scent is caught by his internal hound.
Can we forbid the animal to bound
When nature’s forces do his paws employ?
 
Hormonally fueled grabbing, groping lust;
Locker-room banter raising bitter bile-
Genetic code; to blame him is unjust
(And to fight it can be such a trial.)
Men can’t but help see women as their toys;
It’s said, and we well know, “boys will be boys.”
 
 Woman
So woman, though irrational by birth,
Must be the one who helps him be a gent;
Ignoring what for locker-rooms was meant
And dodging grasping hands with gleeful mirth.
With care she should keep covered all her worth,
Lest tempting flesh the last of weak will spent-
Remember that exposure means consent,
And flame is hard to fight once it’s brought forth.
 
It is her job her virtue to protect.
Which means to shield him whom by lust is weak.
A shoulder or a knee have strong effect-
So careful not to slip the smallest peek. 
Far simpler to her body fully drape
Than 'tis to teach a boy how not to rape. 

Justin - Sidekick

Dear Mom and Dad,

You’ve been gone for a while now, I still miss you. I’ve fallen into a kinda strange life. I guess I didn’t realize how weird it was at first having been born in a literal circus, but I’ve been starting to notice some things.

Bruce makes sure my schooling is taken care of and Alfred always keeps us well fed, but I’m starting to feel like I might be expendable. That might not be the right word. I mean, we go out after bad guys and the bigger, stronger, better trained guy is wearing a custom Kevlar plated full body suit while I’m running around in a red shirt and green silk underwear. When I first started, it felt like Halloween every night and I felt like I was doing something to help keep another kid from growing up an orphan. Now though, I’m standing to the side while the mayor thanks Batman and, ”oh right, the Boy Wonder” for saving the city from the Joker AGAIN, and I’m thinking the wonder is I didn’t get killed. It’s not like I’ve been fighting other kids for the last five years. I’ve been fighting the same hardened psychopaths that B has. I’ve even started to realize that when Gordon or Alfred would ask if I was ok, they weren’t talking about my parents dying, they were wondering how I was not severely injured. Why did they let him take a kid on the street?

Since I’ve been able to drive, it’s been worse. If we split up on an investigation, I go off on my motorcycle in my greenie tighties with no helmet (because it would mess up the look of the costume) while the big bat with his bullet-proof cowl and armored suit takes off in his armored Batmobile that has enough weapons to take out a small army. While were comparing costumes, he has most of his face covered, I have an eye-mask; how has no one figured out who I am? Bad enough that in costume I’m in bright colored briefs with no armor, but seriously HOW DOES ALL OF GOTHAM NOT NO WHO I AM? I’m pretty sure Bullock figured it out and he’s not that smart. Once I swear he said to me “You ok, Dick?” when I said “what” he said “You ok, kid?” kinda embarrassed.

With all that on my mind, Batman’s “no kill” policy is really starting to look crazy. And when something looks crazy to the kid that’s been fighting criminals in his green panties since he was 12 it’s probably crazy. It’s not even “no kill” as much as “catch and release.” Are there revolving doors on Gotham prison and Arkham Asylum? We locked up Joker 3 times last month. THREE!!! Superman doesn’t kill either, but I think he gets at least a month between Luthor’s schemes. The last time, the look on Gordon’s face when we marched the clown in, I swear he was gonna pull his gun and shoot him. You could tell he wishes B would go ahead and finish it.

Anyway, with my lack of armor, weak identity protection, and our catch and release arrest program, I’m pretty convinced I’m in constant mortal danger and I’m wondering how “the world’s greatest detective” hasn’t figured this all out. I’ll be heading to college soon, so I think I’ll stick it out with B until then. I’ll probably keep fighting crime after I leave Gotham, but I’m getting some Kevlar and some damn pants. I’m not sure how to talk about all this with B, but I’m afraid if he ever gets a new Robin, he’ll end up getting beaten to death by one of these psychos that keep breaking out of Arkham. Probably the Joker. I’ll have to figure out a new name, I think B has Robin trademarked. Something a little tougher probably. Definitely a darker costume with better coverage, like, you know, PANTS.

Well if I survive the next few months, I’ll be out on my own. B will cover my tuition I’m sure, so don’t worry, if that’s still an issue wherever you are. If I don’t survive, I’ll see you soon.

Your loving son,

Dick

Jason - Sidekick

Diary of a Former

Hygienistthe events of today and perhaps the law, compel me to release this diary, it should be clear to everyone reading this that what has happened was not the fault of Ultahombre. He is as noble and honorable today as he was the day I, his loyal sidekick, met him. He has just been distracted lately, which seems understandable given the circumstances. His biceps may be unnaturally strong, but his heart is very human.

If anything, he cares too much.

See, this whole thing all started when we learned that Dr. Dress-up had been released from State Asylum. Ulta is a believer in that place, but I am not so sure. I can still hear his deep soothing voice, “Don’t worry about it, little man, that place has been a place for a long time. Did you remember my new spinbrush head?” Now, can someone so concerned about dental hygiene be wrong? … My thoughts exactly!

Anyway, Dress-up had been given his ticket to freedom, so we entered “release and catch” mode. Ulta stood on the top of the building beside the Doctor’s apartment, staring down into his window, watching him rub his hands together and offering a menacing laugh, while the villainous one drew malevolent, red X’s on his map of the city. I just waited in the car. Let me just note, that building is very tall, so I am certain he could not have known the cat was there when he leaped down the twenty or so floors. I am also reasonably certain that the feline in question did not have an owner. Sprinkles was just a street cat. I would like to add, that if this is part of the official record, any blood found in my car, particularly that found on the passenger side, I am certain it is that of an incredibly unlucky cat and there is no need for the city to run costly tests on it. Cat blood, only cat blood. This is not to say Ultahombre was inconsiderate, just in the limited time it was hard to get that surprising amount of gore off his boots. But, I digress.

So, Ulta hopped into the car, grabbed his GUM soft pick from it's holder on the dash and with the gesture of one of his oversized hands, signaled to roll out. I glance from the hand working out a piece of breakfast down to his feet and I remember thinking, “that is what floormats are for,” as he smeared a bit of tabby fur off his black boot. “Dress-up has taken the vile visage of the elderly.” I knew exactly what that meant, so I safely guided us to the place he would certainly go, the Sunnyvale Senior Center.

In this diary, given the relevance it might have in the coming days, think it is important to note, that if I had known what was going to happen I might have taken some different precautions. I might have been a little slower in getting to the senior center or perhaps tried to engage in a de-escalating conversation. Alas, at that time I did not know that Ultahombre had what might be called emerging Mommy-issues. Nor did I see what might now be considered a snap from reality. Yes, I had noted a higher level of stress, bleeding gums and such, but when he said he was being followed or they were out to get him, I had reason to believe him. Hero work, as it is, is dangerous.

“There he is!” he shouted, pointing at who I would later learn was Mr. Evans. He was out of the car before I even had a chance to slow. If the family of Carl Evans is reading this, it should be noted that he did better weathering the flurry blows than many a super-villain. You should be very proud of him. I suppose it might have occurred to Ulta that the complexion of Mr. Evan was somewhat different than that of Dr. Dress-up or perhaps he calculated that Dress-up could not have gotten ahead of him, or perhaps it was just distraction. I can never be completely certain what is running through his marvelous mind.

So, Ulta moved on and I administered first aid, with the kit I keep in my car for just such an occasion. Now by occasion, I don’t mean the pummeling of an innocent elderly man, not to say that Mr. Evans was innocent, only a court of law can determine that, I am just saying that accidents happen, if in fact this was an accident. Sorry for the rambling, I just don’t want a repeat of...Nevermind.

No matter, while I wrapped what I thought was one of Mr. Evan’s hands, I heard the valiant cry of,”Wrinkles.” At least I think it was wrinkles. Then Mrs. Jones walker was launched a somewhat unexpected distance across the manicured green. It was a graceful and silent. A perfect parabola of flight, not at all like Mrs. Jones, who followed shortly after.

I could hear things breaking and Ultahombre attempted to root out Dr. Dress-up. His voice was like music to my ears. “Age defiling.” “Damn you Dress-up.” “Mother!”

I would try to tell you what was going on inside this building, but I myself never made it in. I was kept busy with the flood of seniors, who seemed surprisingly mobile coming out of all of the doors. I imagine he was in there guiding the innocent to freedom, that he was helping those who could not help themselves, he was as always being a hero of the people. I won’t even dignify the pending accusations with a response in this diary. Additionally, it was not long after this I was knocked unconscious, by the Doctor, not as you might have read, Mrs. Simpkins.

Jason - Family

Seven Wooden Tiles, for my Grandmother

The seven wooden tiles longed to find their place,
Her fingers brushed the plate and potential arose.
The seven wooden tiles longed to find their place,
A word to beat my dad so cleverly composed.
Our time with her was treasured. Moments sought and sweet,
Her fingers brushed the plate and potential arose,
An orange became the wings. A simple loving feat,
A ritual of fruit and joy delivered so.
Our time with her was treasured, moments sought and sweet,
Long hours of delight locked away in sorrow.
That moment I found Juicy Fruit, unwrapped, her gum,
A ritual of fruit and joy delivered so.
And so, that flavor, did my mind unlock and run.
An empty chair remains beside the board I see,
That moment I found Juicy Fruit, unwrapped, her gum.
I’m taken back to Scrabble games, the apple tree,
The seven wooden tiles longed to find their place.
An empty chair remains beside the board I see,
And seven wooden tiles long to find their place.