On the Origin of Reese’s

by Means of Natural Selection, or
the Preservation of Favored Tastes in
the Struggle for Life

1—Variation Under Domestication

Peanut butter cups
are eaten in many different ways,
depending on the home in which the cup
is found.

2—Variation Under Nature

A peanut butter cup eaten
outdoors becomes soggy in the rain,
but melts if left for too long in the sun.

3—Struggle for Existence

The first cups were made by H. B. Reese back
in 1928, but he merged with
the Hershey Company in ’63.

4—Natural Selection

You might enjoy Big Cups, but your sister
might prefer Dark Chocolate, or even
NutRageous bars.

5—Laws of Variation

People do not enjoy
their preferred peanut butter cups by chance,
but due to some predisposed condition.

6—Difficulties on Theory

But then, should there not be an infinite
number of peanut butter cup types and
varieties?

7—Instinct

That’s my gut reaction.

8—Hybridism

There are indeed many varieties:
White Chocolate, Caramel, Inside Out,
the cute little mini-cups.

9—On the Imperfection of the Geological Record

It’s quite hard
to keep track of every single cup
you’ve ever eaten.

10—On the Geological Succession of Organic Beings

You may not know this,
but there are actually other types
of candy in the world, and some even
contain peanut butter and chocolate.

11—On Geographical Distribution

I hear those Cadbury guys make a mean
fruit and nut bar.

12—On Geographical Distribution continued

It is interesting
to note, however, that Hershey’s holds a
license to manufacture Cadbury
chocolate products in the USA.

13—Mutual Affinities of Organic Beings: Morphology: Embryology: Rudimentary Organs

Good chocolate is just good chocolate.

14—Recapitulation and Conclusion

Almost all confections today retain
a common sugary ancestor, and
many still claim direct descent from milk,
cocoa beans, and George Washington Carver.

Thin Ice

You slipped on the ice and I grabbed your arm, found myself falling with you. You were tiny, always you-sized, and though your heel should have acted like an ice pick, gravity always pulls us back down. The Reflecting Pool at the Christian Science Center had become a perilous tundra; it was probably about 7 degrees out—with the wind chill, somewhere negative, just like Boston Januaries often are. Still I braved the cold, like I always would for you, and we fell.

“I’m lost!” you yelled inside the bar. I could barely hear you from the couch at my apartment where I’d been waiting for you for the last 4 hours.

“Well, it sounds like you’re in a bar…” I said into that Bluetooth headset that my mother bought me for Christmas and you hated so much.

“But I don’t know where the bar is!” Yep. You were wasted. We had a date that night—we were supposed to have a date that night, anyway. We’d watch Heroes and eat Chinese, curl up, find warmth in one another, and finally spend a night together, a night just like the one we’d both dreamed of but neither could admit. You would come over after your Holiday party at work—you were only going to go for a few hours—but with all that free Champagne you were quickly whisked away. But you called, because you always call, and I swooped in to find you wandering the Back Bay streets in those pointy-toed leopard print heels that matched the silky slip you hid for me beneath your dress.

“No! I’m sorryyy I ruined our date!” you cried as I helped you get your balance again.

“No, you didn’t. It’s fine, we—”

“Yes! I did! We were supposed to—”

“I know.”

“—have a date tonight and we were gonna watch Heroes and—”

“I know.”

“—and eat Foodwall and-and then I got drunk!”

“It’s fine. Really!”

“I don’t want to be drunk anymore!” you cried and I pulled you close to me, kissed your lips with a passion I’d held in check for far too long; I didn’t know what to expect once I gave myself over to it, but a kiss like that was one that I had never had before, never have again. I wrapped my Angel coat around you as we held that moment close, and when our lips finally parted whispered, “Someone’s got to keep you warm” and discovered just how deep those auburn eyes could go. They smiled first, your eyes, and the stretch of the skin around them lifted your mouth upward into a crooked crescent moon.

“Listen,” you slurred—you start every sentence slurring, “Listen…” when you’re drunk. Something like tears welled up behind my teeth, a tidal wave of overwhelming elation, and I took my eyes off of yours for just a moment when the streetlight refracted off the ice below and made glimmer the Celtic Trinity that I bought you for Christmas (you know how I am with shiny things).

My pupils returned to settle in yours like a matching key, turning to unlock the thought you started eight heartbeats ago:

“I love you.”

Just lucky.

She eyed him up and down, saw him trailing the bags that he’d lugged three stories up her walk-up steps, and he thought he might have really blown it.
“Are you planning to move in?”
“I-”  And he had nothing to say.
Not that it mattered.  “Get in here,” she said, and she pulled him – pulled him – by the shoulder into her apartment.
Good thing, too.  The commute back to the coast was such a long one.  He had it down to a science, of course – he just had to make it to the eight-fourteen from Penn Station.  That got him into Trenton at nine-forty-five, which gave him enough time to make it over to the SEPTA track for the nine-fifty-eight to Philly, which got him there just after eleven.  After that, he’d only have a half hour to kill until switching back onto New Jersey Transit for the eleven-forty-two – the last train of the night – for the coast.  If she’d tossed him – well, crap.  He couldn’t go back to Parnell’s not after already heading out.  He’d either have to sleep in a station or spring for a motel.  And at some of those stops along the line – Elizabeth, that cold armpit along the Jersey Turnpike that existed only to play host to chain outlets and Ikea, or Metuchen – it was hard to say which one would be worse.
But she hadn’t.  She had him over for dinner.  She let him stay.

invitations…

I am sliding phrases

built along drifting analogies of suffering sophomoric-

 

I am as complicated as your breaths,

And as easy as the girls my friends all lay-

 

I am decisions to be made,

times to adhere to,

and things to be respected-

 

But I am juvenile,

and your hand tastes better than any dish you ever plated-

 

So forgive this era of ours

and the leaders my head elects-

 

They make beautiful platforms,

full of promises as they are rot-

 

I wanted to take you along,

but this ribcage said it only held space for one-

 

And he doesn’t even like me that much…

Awake

arest afar away
aloft alie not yet aground
await amass acongregate
arranged amongst asilent crowd

atouch awish awell adressed
amotionless awaxy speech
awake although astill abed
but definitely not asleep

The Truth is In The Bottle

Alan shifted groggily as the first ray of sunlight slipped through the cracks in his blinds, its luminescence clawing at his eyes. A threat to face the day. As with any afternoon like this, he thought he would roll from his left side to his right, his body a sodden, rotting log, curved like an “S” that somehow insinuates cutlery, but when his left arm tried to lead him there and shield him from the sun, it was faced with some resistance. Not much, but still enough to startle his body to a slightly higher form of consciousness than that booze-induced coma he was in. He aware of his flesh, and his flesh now aware of its surroundings, Alan felt something sleek and smooth, cold and curved, held tightly against his body like that terrifying clown he used to cuddle with as a child. What was his mother thinking when she gave that to him, anyway?

The crack of dried saline and gunk compounded with the thudding in his head as he peeled his eyelids up, opened just enough for him to make out the shape of things beside him: an empty handle of Evan Williams bourbon. He’d crammed enough forensics knowledge into his head during that semester that even despite the horrific hangover he was still able to deduce that said hangover was likely due to the presence of said bourbon absent from said bottle and even more likely being processed somewhere between his liver and soul. Content with solving the mystery of the missing bourbon, and discovering the identity of the mysterious shape asleep beside him, Alan felt accomplished enough to complete his turn away from the window and fall back to sleep.

He closed his eyes before his bourbon-slowed mind could fully comprehend the significance—or even the presence—of the used condom sprawled on his hardwood floor like the sad and lonely shreds of the balloon that Jesse Hird popped at his 6^th birthday party. Not that Alan was bitter or anything. The thought of this childhood trauma was finally enough to shake him from his slumber, and Alan sat up more abruptly than he likely should have. Blood rushed to his head with the thud of an angry fist against an oak door. Or maybe a baseball bat.

Once he was able to think again, Alan realized that perhaps the night’s conspiracy reached deeper than he previously thought. Especially since he was still wearing pants. Was he living in an episode of Californication? Alan had always idolized David Duchovny, but more for Fox Mulder than Hank Moody. The X-Files was his inspiration for moving to Washington, D.C., and pursuing a Forensics degree, in hopes of one day becoming an FBI Agent, and discovering for himself if the true was really out there after all. But if life should imitate art, he wondered, then perhaps his life was changing along with the career of the artist whom he imitated.

This threw him into a panic. A crisis of faith. What had he been doing with his life? He had only ever seen the Series Premiere. He would have to catch up on all the seasons on DVD. How many seasons had there been so far? The X-Files had nine! How many more would they have by the time he caught up? And when would he find the time, now that he had to leave George Washington and transfer to some school in California to pursue an English degree. What the hell was he going to do with an English degree?

For a moment, he wished there was still bourbon to drink, but the mere thought of it made his stomach churn and sent him hurtling towards the bathroom. Perhaps Californication would have to wait.

procedures…

There is a brilliant art to dancing in your underwear.  It is important no matter which gender you may occupy, to wear something supportive.  Nothing will make this joyous activity travel to the other extreme like the damage ones genitals can suffer from insufficient protection.  So buckle up…it’s the law.

The next tip to remember is not to get dressed.  Clothing will give you the impression that you should act according to its mandate.  A dress suit and air drums do not mix, they are the oil and water of underwear dancing. There is an animalistic freedom in the lack of covering that will give your limbs the go ahead to perform actions they may not think themselves possible.  Underwear Dancing has the power to transform a Frankenstein into Mary Lou Retton.

Music.  While it is inherently the most integral part of the event, there are only certain artists, which are currently cleared by the board for use in the sport.  They are as follows:

Journey                        Bon Jovi

Def Leppard                        Poison

KISS                                    Joan Jett

Guns and Roses            The Scorpions

Rush                                    AC/DC

Heart                                    Twisted Sister

Queen                                    Alice Cooper

Foreigner                        REO Speedwagon

…and Styx (You know damn right well if Mr. Roboto comes on and you’re in your tighty whities, you’re singing.  So shut it.)

 

While there are many other artists who will certainly make you want to “rock out”; unless the band’s career was marred by chemical excess, hair with the volume equivalent to my chest cavity, massive sexual exploits, and not a single unprocessed sound on their album; they are posers.

The final thing to remember when engaging in the craft is to be aware of your surroundings.  Take into account that when your reenacting Slash’s guitar solo at the end of ‘November Rain’, you will most lieky care more about hitting that high E than the location of your scissors, paper cutter, or sharp pointy things box.  Realize that no one wants to go to the ER looking like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.  Stick near beds or couches, they make for great places to crowd surf, while offering little risk of puncture wounds.

So get out there and enjoy.  Support, Starkness, Soundtrack, and Safety…these are the four ‘S’s…say them the next time you feel a session coming on, it may make the difference between magic and misery.

‘makes you think ‘m not fuhck’d up

don’t need no liquor.  got m’ head.  beats

m’ brain till some-uh-whut it said falls

out m’ fingers.

don’t peck m’ liver, plugs

m’ gut.  don’t kill

m’ lungs, pouns m’ chest.  pulls it

out, looks at it, plays

it, looks at it, puts it back; makes

prom’s liver a lyre.

it begs fr th’ luck

th’t’s left it.

i got vices for vices.

s’pose i use em ta shake

off just a little

skin.  i’m only

go an’ forget

nuthin but m’self.

ain’ a snake.

that cover

‘ll change

and

hang

on

me

’til

it’s pick’d up where i’m put down nd done.

Reasons Why I Think God Is NOT A Panda

For years now, God has been plotting against
the dragon, and wants to usurp his throne
as the national emblem of China.

God does not establish permanent dens.

God is not as cute as his tiny red
cousin.

God’s tail is not as long as that
of the sloth bear.

God’s hands have six fingers.

Scientists have recognized only two
subspecies of God.

Teddy Roosevelt
hunted God in the ‘20s.

When captive,
God loses His interest in mating,
and takes Viagra, or watches God porn.

God knows kung fu, but only in movies.

God has recently filled an important
role in China’s global diplomacy.

God is not a native of India,
Israel, Italy, the United
Kingdom, or Utah.

God is black and white.

Unlike most bears, God does not hibernate.

God is often caught in traps set for deer.

It is illegal to own pelts of God.

Dead Clouds

Left hand rested on the right, pointing ahead over your own, you throw body in a dive, pushed off at the legs, quickly tucked into a curl, into a ball before you SPLASH! hit the surface with a crackle, with a crunch, sending fiery waves crashing over the curb, flooding on the sidewalk. You could have incited a brushfire if you’d cast away your cigarette closer, but perhaps today’s your day.

“WATCH OUT FOR THE…pavement…,” she starts to shout with a wince, then she looks away when you make impact. “…or that homeless guy,” she quips when she returns her sight to you. She watches you swim with a look between endearment and embarrassment and ignores the crinkling cacophony you’ve made of the previously still autumn air.

“C’mon in!” you cry out. “It’s a beautiful night!” and she raises her left eyebrow in that incredulous way you find so irresistibly alluring.

“I’m pretty sure you’re swimming in hobo piss,” she counters straight-faced as you back stroke through the leaves. You stop, you shrug, you smirk and you keep swimming.

And you stop. Stuck. Frozen. Petrified like prehistoric insects trapped in amber. A look of sheer panic washes across your face. She thinks you’re kidding for a moment but you freeze your breath and suddenly it’s serious.

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m stuck,” and that frog in your throat snaps and croaks when you exhale.

She quickly looks around, confirms there’s no one else in the park, and offers her hand. “I told you to watch out for those creepy crazy homeless guys. They’re ever being homeless—everywhere that’s not a home, I guess.”

She shrieks only briefly through that bright, startling smile when you pull her to the ground and she thrashes through the leaf pile for a moment like the victim of a shark attack before that gorgeous laughter overcomes her and she breathes again.

“Now I’m caked in hobo piss. Thanks for that,” she groans, her eyes rolling into the ethereal arch of a brilliant crescent moon.

“Don’t blame me,” you say and stroke her hair behind her ear. “You don’t often get to float on dead clouds.”