Fatboy Slim - Demons .mp3
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What a Young Man Learns from KW

Kanye said, "Why don't we play something these hoes would like."
and I think that's thoughtful of him
'Cause you know hoes, bitches and shorties,
they like to dance
they all shake ass and give good head
And Mr. West's concerns don't just stop there,
like: "Is it raining hard enough on them bitches?"
"What can I do to make it rain on them bitches?"
"Can I do more?"
and I think that's fair.
He doesn't want a gold digger
which makes sense 'cause we know
hoes bitches and shorties like money
and everybody knows the only way you give
a girl some money
is you throw dolla dolla bills at her
after drenching her with cryst-all.
It sticks better.

It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp

Cause at night, I was 'tasty' or 'bitch'. . .
but my real name is Carolina,
said a beautiful girl
almond eyes,
brown skin, wavy hair
never once
fully
realizing her potential
I didn't like being in
jail
for some dick-head
said a lonely girl
named Carolina

It must be hard, I told my husband,
for Milton Bradley to market
those same games.
Every year, a new commercial for
Monopoly.
Family Fun Night?
What about fathers who must be banker?
Mothers who shout from the kitchen:
"Give your sister her hotel back!"
My husband says that these issue
might just be mine. . . only.
I think it must be hard though.
Making a purse out of sows ear,
is what my mom would call it.

Things disturb me

my habit today is
watching
train wrecks

I don't even say
a thing
when they derail

"If you could only eat three foods for the rest of your life
what would they be?"
The adorable vacancy in Om's eyes told me that Tip
had fibbed about the English proficiency in this class.
He smiled.
"Three foods," I held up three fingers and
spooned imaginary soup in my mouth.
For all Om knew,
I could have said three favorite
General Mills Cereals
or three most despised Jello flavors.
His neighbor translates my question in Thai.
"Chicken. . ." he started.
It was hopeful. I sat on the edge of my seat
nodding like an eager child. Come on. That's it.
"Rice . . ."
Yes. . . Here we go. . . you got it.
"Coconut."
I let out the heaviest sigh and thank God he knew
three.
I didn't give a shit if they didn't make a wit of
sense. Or if Om wouldn't be able to make too many
combinations out of the three ingredients. OR
how much diarrhea poor Om would get from
all the coconut.
My dear sweet Om knew three foods in English!

The brother and sister duo

He runs everywhere and blows spit bubbles because he likes organic creation.
He spins around and arms spanning and knocking into things
He climbs on things and makes unintelligible noises with his lips and hands
She holds open the door for him.

Unsuspecting Things about Charish Roderick

I might be one of the worst dancers I know. I depend on a lot of standby moves in my arsenal. "Reckless Arm Flailing," "Aimless Shimmying," and "Awkward Shoulder Shaking." When I'm at home alone, I will "dance" to Bjork's Earth Intruders until I get a headache and the police are called because my next door neighbor thinks that there is a domestic dispute just beyond the wall.

My mother bought me a recorder when I was ten. I learned how to play Taps really well. I performed it everyday in a long somber key. No one told me it was a song for military funerals.

I write newspaper headlines on my hands so I can use them for conversation starts later. "Johnson Boy Falls Down Abandoned Mineshaft for the Second Time." I find it gets the ball rolling and gets people excited. That's how I got through the first few dates with my now unsuspecting husband. He talked with his hands and I read from mine.

I never proof read my work. My hope is that people will think I'm a literary genius that refuses to adhere to the rules of grammar. Though I feel like this will never catch on . So I feel a little embarrassed when people say, "You've spelled Tuesday wrong." or "this is the wrong usage of the word derby."

Someone said that you shouldn't make fun of people's smiles. Laughs, however are fair game. I'm working on making mine a little less wheezy. When I'm really going at it, I sound like I suffer from smoke inhalation. I'm actually thinking of taking up smoking to cover it up. And then I can finally be the first front woman for a Pearl Jam tribute band--- "Freeeeeezin', rest his head on a pillow made of concrete."

When I was a child, I lied compulsively, stole only what could fit in my pocket, and broke what I could fix later. I told my third grade teacher that I got a new dog, a mixed breed of mutt and mongrel and that I named him Trigger. When my parents found out, it .didn't help my case in getting a dog. I was six when I stole a pack of Juicy Fruit, when my mother found out, we drove back to the store so I could be scared straight with the threat of incarceration. I broke a kitchen cabinet door by swinging on it. I could not fix it.

I lose gloves all the time and I'm okay with it.
I lose pen caps and find it too devastating to live with. I usually take a moment out of my day to mourn the missing half a perfectly useful pen.

As a writer I am more than willing to whore myself out to the highest bidder in hopes that one day Oprah will endorse my books with a sticker and ask me how my writing pertains to her life. I want to walk on her stage, give her a hug and talk honestly to her about my ill fitted bras, my fear of food and how I too pretend to read Faulkner. I will make the suggestion that multi-colored cashmere sweaters from the Gap need to be on her list of favorite things.