Pulled into the sloping parking lot,
George Harrison, reminding me
of the wall of illusion I built:
No one else can make me change

... but peace of mind is waiting there.

Spotted two garbage men
wearing neon yellow
collecting rubbish
in a back alley

... we’re all so very small.

With heavy gloved fingers
they grabbed a canvas
colored in warmth
with a heart in the center

... with our love, we could save the world.

They threw the canvas carelessly
without a second glance,
without a second thought
into the garbage truck

... love has gone so cold.

As I emerged from my car,
as George stopped singing,
I heard the buzz of machinery,
the splintering of wood

... the world’s not worth the price of my soul.

But the garbage men didn’t hear
what I heard or see what I saw
their eyes were fixated
on my new high heels

... they don’t know, they can’t see.

I returned their bright smiles,
George still singing in my mind,
and I knew that we’re all one,
and life flows on within you

... and without you.

Waking up to a chill I pull the covers closer wishing for a warmth that will allude me for the next six months full of coats I don't own yet, sweaters locked in boxes, and gloves missing fingertips. Traipsing in circles, I spin my big wheels deeper and deeper til I uncover the roots planted here when I had a child's eyes.

The words stopped one day, like a pen out of ink scratching last attempts into paper that was already torn. I'm not sure where the words went, if they left me or if I left them. It wasn't a messy breakup full of harsh phrases and descriptive door-slamming scenes. No, our end was more like a silent drift. Our daily meetings became weekly, and our weeklies became arduous. Gone was the secret notepad open at all times on my desktop, hidden in a jumble of letters so the boss couldn't see. Gone were the lunch hours spent huddled over a legal pad in some parking lot surrounded by trees. Gone were the nights when I'd lose track and find myself clacking away at 2 a.m. To be honest, I only really miss the memories. Attempting the act seems unnatural somehow. Forced. Much like reading this must be.

Life is good in these days without words. My car is vacuumed. My checkbook is balanced. My workplace is well-organized and my laundry is done...well, mostly. I wake before dawn and prepare well-balanced lunches for my daughter any myself. I scrimp and save and track every penny in my spare time. I've become more fond of Excel than Word. I've got a relationship that actually seems quite real. I don't go to bars and make up stories about all the random people there. I don't scribble thoughts on the backs of receipts. I don't sit under trees losing track of time. I don't think I'll freelance once day. I don't think I've failed because of my legal gig. No, I'm realistic. I'm organized. I've got everything on a lovely schedule. There will be no more impromptu diner napkin poetry or matchbook haiku. No. No. No. Dreams must die with age or we'd be young forever.

The words were the first to leave me. What will be next?

So we heard a lot of back and forth last night during the second presidential debate in Nashville. Both candidates made accusations and trumped up their own plans for our country. But if you had no definite bias toward either candidate, who should you believe? What facts were true? Which statements were false or misleading?

The Annenburg Public Policy Center of the University of Pennsylvania has a project called the Annenburg Political Fact Check, that analyzes the candidates' statements and then gives us the facts. Check out what they discovered about last night's debate at FactCheck.org: FactChecking Debate No. 2 And if you've got a little time, check out all the site has to offer at FactCheck.org . I don't know about you, but in the sandstorm of these final days of the election, I think we could all use a little unbiased clarity.

Forget the law degree...if I follow the Palin plan, I could be the VP nominee in 2024.

Education:

We both have bachelor's degrees although hers in is communication and mine is in written communication. But if you want to get technical, she did transfer colleges five times and I only did once. Plus, I can cite that year as a political science/pre-law student at Drexel where I learned all the ins and outs of political polling.

Honors:

She won a scholarship through a beauty pageant. I won a scholarship through um...scholarship. And I was inducted into honor societies...guess I better keep that quiet or I might be seen as an elitist.

Extra-curriculars and Employment:

She did win a beauty pageant...so she's got me there. I always wanted to be valued for my mind, which really won't win me many Miss Congeniality titles...but perhaps the feminists would have my back?

Palin was a sports reporter on TV. I was an arts and entertainment reporter for print and then a public relations writer for print. She helped run her husband's business. I managed a business when I was 20 and I manage an office now. I've also been working in law for a while now, dealing directly with the Social Security Administration (that's a federal agency, you know) and county and district judges. I'm also cool with the support staff of three local congressman and Senator Spector. But...that could be played against me, making me look like too much of an insider.

Family:

I have an incredibly diverse family, just like Palin. Only I've got her beat because I'm a single mom so I know more about the struggle.

The next steps:

The way I see it, I need to run for some type of public office in Blandon. (Blandon, the tiny little town where I currently live has the roughly the same population as Wasilla did in 2000, (that's the "city" where Palin was elected to the city council). Hey, maybe I could even run for city council in Reading! It's the fifth largest city in PA and it has 15% more population than Wasilla. And my uncle is a former Reading city councilman...so it's doable.

After my stint in city council, I need to ruffle some feathers and start wearing more lipstick. I need to march into Harrisburg and tell them who's boss. But wait! Former PA governor/former head of the Department of Homeland Security, Tom Ridge, wasn't chosen as his party's VP nominee, even though PA is a key battleground in the election. Hmmm...I guess I need to move to a less populous, less important state.

And in between all of that, I need to have four more kids and then let them run wild and get pregnant at 16 so I can show them off to the media.

Watch out America...here I come!

He is a hunter.
He does not wield a weapon.
He does not seek out his foe in the field.
He sets the bait in the place he calls home.
He never traps or kills, but entertains his enemy.
He intermingles the foe with his family and friends.
He insists the foe lurks in my deepest desires.
He believes it will overthrow all that I am.
He knows I will become his fear.

But I'd rather be a daydream than a nightmare,
and my patience has all but unraveled.

The sun slinks slowly beyond the horizon,
and she knows that her time is nigh.
Pleadings emerge for water, tales, and music.

The water must be ice cold.
Any old tale will do, even old texts,
but only her favorite music will suffice.

I read to her of China's geography,
explaining the deserts and mountains,
the Plateau of Qing Zang.

Then we reach the rivers:
Heilong, Huang, Chang,
The Xi and the Zhu.

Her eyes, once riveted, begin to blink.
I ask if she likes the book.
Every ounce of energy fuels her nods.

So we move to the lakes:
The shallow Donting, Poyang in the north,
Tai and Hongze in the east.

Before we reach the Great Wall,
before we reach the Grand Canal,
the blinks have overtaken her.

Thumb resting in her cheek,
long arms and legs carelessly splayed,
she owns the peace of her infant past.

She slipped in through broken shards of glass,
sowing thistles and briers among our seeds yet sprung.

I, a novice gardener, did not know her spirit lingered
as I nurtured our plots with droplets of hope for harvest.

Our seeds soon sprouted, as did her tares.
Together they grew toward the sun, roots intermingled.

To uproot her seed is to uproot our harvest.
But left to thrive, her tares will choke our garden.

I ask you how to banish her spirit from our garden,
but she whispers to you in your own voice.

You believe that she and I are one.
You believe the fruit to be tares, the tares to be fruit.

I know not of the rituals to release her from this space,
but my spirit will not succumb to her power.

I trim the tares into stumps and swab each with vinegar,
with bloody fingers I replace the glass from whence she came.

On bended knee, I plead as I did in childhood until she is gone.
But how will you see it is she who whispered all along?