Monday, February 22, 2010

Brain Drain

So I had every intention of posting something new today, but apparently my brain never returned from the weekend. Throughout the day, I stared at a blank Word document and was all, "Hey, Brain. It's Monday. Get with the program, already!" But Brain was all, "Duuuuude, bite me." Then Brain pulled the covers up over its neocortex, and I was out of luck.

Since Brain was sleeping off an apparent bender, I dug through the old writing folders to see if I could find a piece to rework and share. What I found instead was the reason why poor Brain refuses to budge occasionally. Seriously. Don't wake Brain. It needs the rest.

My writing ranges from gut-wrenching personal pieces to fluffy, frivolous essays to perplexing poetry to ridiculous raps. Am I diverse, or do I need to get Brain a strong prescription? You decide.

This piece, dated 2003, was scribbled on a piece of loose-leaf paper and shoved in the back of my writing folder. It must have been written during my "I wish I was an angry black coffeehouse poet" phase. And I also think I maybe had a thing for Tom Brokaw.

Mr. Anchorman

Mr. Anchorman
Thirty-nine ninety-eight is what I pay
So the satellite can relay
The talking heads
Who recap the day.

War, War
Raging at our door.
Please, Mr. Anchorman,
Tell me no more.

Drought and famine
Fury and flood
Worldwide epidemics
Sidewalks of blood.

Cheating and thieving.
And the children are crying
Lip speak and lip service,
While children are dying.

Weaponized mail
Disease in a box
Tragedies, terrorists
The plague and small pox.
Police in our schools
Bombs stockpiled
Our freedoms eroded
Our flag reviled.

The satellite sends
Each day's carnage.
It bounces through space
On its way to bombard us.
Into our family rooms
The images pour
From lips paid to comfort
Like tongues of a whore.

Even the children
Know the world is a mess.
You can't erase fear
From your anchorman desk.
Are they safe and protected
In their beds each night?
Mr. Anchorman,
Can we make it right?

War, War
Raging at the door
Please, Mr. Anchorman,
Tell me no more.

Mmmmmmkay. That was an angry, troubled day for Brain.

In stark contrast, the writing folder also revealed this little ditty Brain crafted as an homage to Chocodiles (the delicious Hostess cakes of my childhood, tragically now only available on the West Coast). I wrote this during my "I wish I was a black Adam Sandler" phase.

The Chocodile Rap

When I was a kid
I had a favorite treat
Chocolate-dipped goodness
I loved to eat.

Mmmm, Chocodiles
Spongy cream-filled cake
Gooey chocolate yum
I could appreciate.

Not a chocolate Twinkie
That's an insult you hurl
At the best damn snack cake
T' ever grace this world.

When Mom would bring them home,
Had to hide them from my brothers
To save the Choco-yummy
From those greedy mother-fxxxers.

But all good things
Must come to an end
So Hostess took my Chocs
And I'll never, ever mend

Hostess… why did you diss us?
Hostess.. why did you hurt us soooo?
Hostess… what were you thinkin'?
Hostess… where did my Chocodile go?

I heard they sent them West
To Californ-I.A.
The only place they're found
In the USA.

Da-amn, Chauncey
You said it'd take a while
But we never thought you'd leave
And take your Chocodiles.

Why can we get Chocs
Only out west?
We want them in the North, South, East
And all the rest.

Hostess…why did you diss us?
Hostess…why did you hurt us soooo?
Hostess… what were you thinkin'?
Hostess…where did my Chocodiles go?

It's a Chocodile dream
I can't let go
Gonna pack my minivan
And move West, you know.

Sure they got wildfires
Earthquakes and such
But in the 7-11s
I will finally touch…

The cake of my past
The cake of my dreams
Chocolate-coated sponge cake
Filled with cream.

Hostess…why did you diss us?
Hostess…why did you hurt us soooo?
Hostess…what were you thinkin'?
Hostess…where did my Chocodile go?

How can those two pieces possibly be written by the same person? I am either a creative juggernaut or borderline psychotic. At any rate, you now see why Brain needs the occasional vacation - or a nap, at the very least.

Shhhhhhhhh. Brain's sleeping. Let's be quiet lest we wake it because honest to goodness, the one time it stirred today, Brain wanted to write a piece about bikini waxing. No one needs to read that.


  1. sad thing is... not much has changed since you wrote poem one nor poem two:(

  2. Nicely done.

    And really,there's no shame in being borderline psychotic. At least that's what the Philipino Shea in my head tells me every time I hear the theme song from Charles In Charge.