by Rich Villar

And to those

who defend poetry

against all foreign tongues:

Love.

And to those who believe

a dropped clause

signifies encroachment:

Love.

And to the bullies who need

the musty air of

the clubhouse

All to themselves:

I am a brick in a house

that is being built

around your house.

—Cornelius Eady, from "Gratitude"

Recommended: John Legend's "Save Room," if ever you find yourself driving in Western Massachusetts. It is fluffy enough to distract the pensive driver from the severity of winter-brown countryside, upbeat enough to keep the foot on the gas pedal.

Also recommended: Amherst, Massachusetts; where I was able to find reasonably-priced flowers, Emily Dickinson's grave, and three independent bookstores, each within walking distance of the other.

Not recommended: sour looks of disdain. That is, of the sort a brown guy might wear upon arriving at his girlfriend's graduation, roses and candy in hand, and being asked by a white staff member, "Is that for student or faculty?" Accepting a tip, or punching said staff person in the spleen, is neither recommended nor suggested.

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My brother-in-law and I often find ourselves wading deep into the waters of unpaid punditry, at the expense of dinner or dessert at my mother's house. What is missing from shows like Hannity and Colmes is the presence of a short Puerto Rican woman admonishing the guests on the folly of political wrangling. Neither I nor my brother-in-law can be pinned easily into paradigms of conservatism or liberalism, so the arguments can get interesting. But this Christmas Eve, the Doña of the house has made it plain: she hates politics; because what's the point, boys, if all you do is trickle out the same garbage at the same annoying voice level, every time the President gets on television? We disagree with my mother. I vehemently assert my right to code-switch and write about Noche Buena. Eventually everyone shuts up and eats their pasteles in peace.

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