The Hourglass(Poem 11-updated)

            Blessed with ninety-two dollars, not many reach such a sum

              Spent the first nine in shining armor against villains

                   Who lay in wait on the dark playground.

                         Ten blown on a Marshall's tie

                             to appear less child-like.

                                But braces leave him

                               stuck in youth,

                                  alone with

                                     Clue Jr.

                                      Next-

                                Bar Mitzvah. 

                                Manhood gains one-hundred-fifty.

                         Electric guitar steals one-hundred gained

                             in order to woo lovely high-school dames. 

                          Tuxedo for prom and one special girl's corsage

                         Takes the cake with a whopping eighty-seven

                             Remaining thirty-six spent on senior pictures and vodka

                         But even alcohol cannot make him forget the impending future

                          Two hundred forty-two dollars- did he spend the money wisely?

      

                               

                        

                        
                        

                            

                           The Hourglass(Original) 

    Blessed with ninety-two dollars, not many reach such a sum

    Spent the first twelve on shining armor against villains

                Who lay in wait on the dark playground.

                     Six blown at the gentleman’s gym

                                In time for college tuition.

                                 Seven on solely textbooks

                                         Four for pens

                                            At office

                                                Job.

                                               Next

                                      Wedding Wagon

                                     Cost five greenies

                              Twins double that expense.

                          Eight on Little League practice.

                    Ten spent on expanding their knowledge

                Whopping twelve left for severe back injury.

              Eleven buys him golf and swanky country club,

           Remaining seven cannot pay for dying eyes- or heart.

        A whole ninety-two dollars-did he spend the money wisely?

                                

             

                  

                         

    

                                

Lessons I Learned from Kiki Petrosino's Hymn for the Black Terrific

Before reading Kiki Petrosino’s Hymn for the Black Terrific, the only poetry book I was really familiar with was Shel Silverstein’s Light in the Attic. Obviously, I wasn’t so experienced with poetry before this course. I chose Petrosino’s book because the name sounds particularly unique; like its title, the content of the book is unique as well. Petrosino divided her book into 3 sections: Oiseau Rebelle, Mulattress, and Turn Back Your Head & There Is The Shore. Since I’m unfamiliar with the format of poetry books, I always thought each poem was supposed to be read as a separate entity rather than relating to each other. In the first section of Hymn for the Black Terrific, the poems are separate from each other,  but in the next two sections, they are organized into a series of poems relating to one another. The first lesson of the book was that poems can be established as either separate or a series, or both.  

In the first section Oiseau Rebelle, which means rebellious bird in French, the poems seem to be separate from each other. Though the author explores different types of poetic forms in this section, the poems I found to be the most distinct were the prose poems. I really enjoyed how the speaker was able to tell a story in this format while still managing to maintain poetic language throughout the poem. For example, in This Woman’s Face is Your Future, the speaker uses alliterations such as “dumb as dommett”(Petrosino 6) or “Dulsome as Dallas ditchwater”(Petrosino 6). These alliterations are made up of some words I’ve never even heard before, yet they are still so musically pleasing to the ear. In another prose poem- The Terrible Test of Love- the repetition of the words “knife”, “loop”, and “scrim”  add a strong poetic element that make it clear that the poem is not just any story. I have yet to produce a successful prose poem in my poetry for the class, and the prose poems in the first section definitely gave me a few pointers on how to make a prose poem still sound like an actual poem. I hope to emulate her prose voice in my own poetry. Though I feel like I have come a long way in producing vivid imagery since the beginning of the class, I was even more inspired by Petrosino’s extraordinary descriptions in her poetry. In her poem Alverta, “smell of coins & salt”(Petrosino 15), “light hair twisting through a comb like speech”(Petrosino 15) and “stars drowned in her skin”(Petrosino 15) are only a few examples of her incredible descriptions. Alliterations, repetition, and powerful descriptions all come together to create model prose poems. Of course, prose poems were not the only poems in Oiseau Rebelle even though I feel that I learned the most from them. Hymn for the Black Terrific- the poem the booked was named after- has a particularly interesting controlling metaphor that is carried out through most of the stanzas in the poem. In the first stanza, “kayak” symbolizes a balanced grin, in the second it carries blood, in the third it’s in the ocean, and so on. I’ve never seen a poem in which the controlling metaphor is constantly changing its abstract meaning. This is definitely something I would want to experiment with in one of my poems, since I’ve only established controlling metaphors in which the meanings remain constant. Petrosino’s style made me really have to constantly question the meaning of the kayak, and I think the sense of mystery she builds in her poetry is what makes it especially unique.

The second section of the book is Mulattress, which is defined as a woman with one black and one white parent and also derives from French.  Mulattress is made up of ten fifteen-line single stanza poems. The poems cover multiracial identity and its relationship to beauty. This is the first time I was introduced to “series poems.” This is also the first time I’ve seen a cut-up poem in action, used by a professional poet. At first, I thought that the phrases that were italicized at the end of each line throughout the series were meant to stress the words, but in the notes at the end of the book, the author reveals that the italicized phrases were taken from a line in Thomas Jefferson’s Notes on the State of Virginia, Query 14: “They secrete less by the kidneys, and more by the glands of the skin, which gives them a very strong and disagreeable odor”(Petrosino 55). This line is a statement that is generalizing the whole black population in a negative way, yet Petrosino cuts up the line in her poem and redefines it as positive through her poetry.  The cut-up poem was one of my favorite exercises this semester, so I appreciated getting to see such a clever one in an actual poetry book. This series exemplified how to insert cut-up phrases into poems in a way that seems unforced. Although the end-words were repeated in the same order, the form of the poems still reminded me of the form of a sestina. The author demonstrates that brilliant poetry can emerge from non-traditional forms of poetry as well as fixed forms, such as the sestina.

Unlike Mulattress,the Turn Back Your Head and There Is The Shore series of poems are all in prose form. The series contain a narrative of a character named “the eater”, as her desires push her to continuously turn to eating. For example, in one prose poem of the series- Eating House- desires to have a baby causes “the eater” to eat; in another poem- Destiny Comes Together As A Cold Plate- loneliness is the drive behind her constant eating and in the next poem- Top Of A Dumpling, Top of A Temple- the eater’s mind is dark, so she eats. Apparently, Petrosino chose the names of the poems in the series based on dishes served to her on her trips to mainland China. We have established in class that titles play important roles in the poems, and I think this was an extremely creative way to decide on titles for the poem. The titles are especially fitting, as they have to do with food and the main character of the poems is “the eater.” This particular section taught me that anything can be significant in relation to poetry, even the names of dishes on a menu.

Hymn for the Black Terrific definitely broadened my horizons on different ways in which poets can experiment in their writing. I personally think Petrosino is an extremely brave, creative poet as she experiments with different poetic forms and unusual imagery to establish a very unique voice. I definitely plan on emulating her style in my own way in future poems. The next poetry book I plan on reading is Fort Red Border, Kiki Petrosino’s first poetry book, to compare how her poetic style has changed since her first book.

What Lies at the End of the Tunnel(Poem 10-updated)

Knees lurch forward with the train,
Elbow someone in the eye
as I grasp for the chilled pole.
Growling eyes pierce mine sharply
in response to my unintended elbow.
None on this train are kind- nor am I.

Red-lipped woman cackles softly while
the tall man beside her shifts back and forth.
A pug-nosed child rolls his eyes at both.
Men, women, and children-none exempt from this train
we were all once urban dwellers of the night.
Villains that haunted the streets as the saints slept.

The next stop is Grand Central. 
Where our train crosses paths with
the glowing train heading uptown.
Only saints ride the uptown
to the grandest destination in all the city.
Doomed to downtown since the beginning,
we watch their train whoosh past us. 

Yanked back to the reality of our train,
silence captures each of our throats.
Our hearts are far too frozen or proud
to converse with one another.
This is our chance to reflect,
but too late to repent.

"But I was born into this cage of crime"
is what I plead to anyone who will listen.
The screeching of the wheels against the track
drown out my voice.
Whether we were influenced by nature or nurture- 
no matter, once we're on this train. 

My mind drifts back to the uptowners,
upright citizens in their day.
Members of the creme de la creme,
it was from their pockets I drew.
Giving to others rather than me, myself, and I-
that's something I never knew.

Even when the end of the tunnel is near,
we are still unable to form bonds.
The unions we may have shared before-
for no one's benefits but our own.
That's how it was, how it will always be
Criminals always work alone.

The next stop is Astor Place. 
We've already run out of street numbers;
this must mean my minutes are numbered.
The train rattles our skulls to and fro
but we were already shaking.
The monster that awaits us at the end
knows we are fast approaching.

Fluorescent orange and yellows of the seats
blind me as impending infinity looks bleak.
The pug-nosed boy weeps quietly
into his sleeve so none of us can see.
The emotion  we lacked above ground
only overcomes us now.

The subway pole is my only companion
as we descend further into the darkness.
Grip it in a tight embrace,
try to convince myself the final descent will be painless.
Tap my shoes together rapidly,
Wish to be anywhere but here.

The stop before our clock halts entirely.
Sinners to the core,
finally about to discover the punishment
that inevitably follows the crime.
We all know the truth about the 6 train:
it transports us straight to the 666.

The train shrieks to a stop,
the harsh signal that we have arrived.
Whether or not I'm ready,
the devil may care.
Brace myself for whatever beasts await,
the subway door swiftly opens-

I fall into the dead.


What Lies at the End of the Tunnel(original)

The next stop is 59th Street. 
Knees lurch forward with the train,
Elbow someone in the eye
as I grasp for the chilled pole.
Growling eyes pierce mine sharply
in response to my unintended elbow.
None on this train are kind- nor am I.

The next stop is 51st Street. 
Red-lipped woman cackles softly while
the tall man beside her shifts back and forth.
A pug-nosed child rolls his eyes at both.
Men, women, and children-none exempt from this train
we were all once urban dwellers of the night.
Villains that haunted the streets as the saints slept.

The next stop is Grand Central- 42nd Street. 
Where our train crosses paths with
the glowing train heading uptown.
Only saints ride the uptown
to the grandest destination in all the city.
Doomed to downtown since the beginning,
we watch their train whoosh past us gracefully.

The next stop is 33rd Street. 
Yanked back to the reality of our train,
silence captures each of our throats.
Our hearts are far too frozen or proud
to converse with one another.
This is our chance to reflect,
but too late for to repent.

The next stop is 28th Street. 
"But I was born into this cage of crime"
is what I plead to anyone who will listen.
The screeching of the wheels against the track
drown out my voice.
Whether we were influenced by nature or nurture
does not matter once we're on this train.

The next stop is 23rd Street. 
My mind drifts back to the uptowners,
upright citizens of society in their day.
Members of the creme de la creme,
it was from their pockets I drew.
Giving to others rather than me, myself, and I-
that's something I never knew.

The next stop is 14th Street- Union Square. 
Even when the end of the tunnel is near,
we scoundrels are unable to truly form bonds.
The unions we may have shared before
were for no one's benefits but our own.
That's how it was, how it will always be
Criminals always work alone.

The next stop is Astor Place. 
We've already run out of street numbers;
this must mean my minutes are numbered.
The train rattles our skulls to and fro
but we were already shaking.
The monster that awaits us at the end
knows we are fast approaching.

The next stop is Bleecker Street. 
Fluorescent orange and yellows of the seats
blind me as impending infinity looks bleak.
The pug-nosed boy weeps quietly
into his sleeve so none of us can see.
The emotion we lacked above ground
only overcomes us now.

The next stop is Spring Street. 
The subway pole is my only companion
as we descend further into the darkness.
Grip it in a tight embrace,
try to convince myself the final descent will be painless.
Tap my shoes together rapidly,
Wish to be anywhere but here.

The next stop is Canal Street. 
The stop before our clock halts entirely.
Sinners to the core,
finally about to discover the punishment
that inevitably follows the crime.
We all know the truth about the 6 train:
it transports us straight to the 666.

The next stop is City Hall. 
The trains shrieks to a stop,
the harsh signal that we have arrived.
Whether or not I'm ready for my judgment,
the devil may care.
Brace myself for whatever beasts await,
the subway door swiftly opens-

I fall into the dead.

Perfect Chemistry ( Updated Sestina- Poem 9)

Every atom on this earth
aspires to reach its full potential. 
Yet atoms will never be complete, 
without forming that one special bond. 
Noble gases are their ultimate goal- 
Broken bonds of the past leave them weak. 

Chlorine atoms are at first not weak, 
Bonds seemingly limitless on earth. 
Pursues lithim to reach the goal;
Failure to share destroys their potential.
Chlorine drifts to covalent, a similar bond. 
Will bonds with an identical face leave chlorine complete? 

Even the same atom won't compel chlorine complete. 
Chlorine's efforts for its partner become weak. 
Roams in circles in search of the bond-
left nowhere on this minuscule earth. 
"Perhaps I'm not meant to fulfill my potential, 
Maybe I shall give up on this hopeless goal." 

Decides to persist, obsess over the goal. 
Are boron, barium, or bismuth the elements that complete- 
or do flourine and francium have the potential? 
Alas, the bonds between them are weak. 
There must be a bond for every element on Earth! 
Continue to journey for the bond. 

Desperation ensues for the bond,
Goes through all categories to grasp the goal. 
Must be an undiscovered element deeper within earth, 
as alkali metals and halogens too cannot complete. 
All elements doomed to be weak
if chlorine lost its once firm potential. 

Chlorine begins to wither without its potential- 
Sodium suddenly appears, that one special bond. 
Electric touch- chlorine no longer weak!
The one meant to help chlorine finally reach the goal, 
together in harmony, they are complete. 
Na and Cl finally link as they wander the earth. 

Every element could find that deep bond on this earth, 
though we may become weak until we are complete. 
Trust in the potential to reach the distant goal. 


Perfect Chemistry(original)

Every atom on this earth

aspires to reach its full potential. 

But atoms will never be complete,

without forming that one special bond. 

Noble gases are what they desire to be, 

but broken bonds of the past leave them weak. 

Chlorine atoms do not begin weak-

its bonds seemingly limitless on this earth. 

Pursues lithium at first to reach the final goal, 

but they fail to share and lose their original potential. 

Chlorine shifts to covalent, in hopes of finding a more similar bond. 

Would bonding with an identical atom leave chlorine complete? 

Yet even the same atom cannot compel chlorine to be complete, 

chlorine's efforts to find its partner become weak. 

Roams in circles in search of that unique bond- 

is it nowhere to be found on this minuscule earth? 

"Perhaps I'm not meant to fulfill my potential, 

Maybe I should give up on this hopeless goal." 

Decides to persist and obsess over the goal. 

Are boron, barium, or bismuth the elements needed to complete- 

or do flourine and francium have the potential? 

The bonds between them prove to be weak. 

There must be a match for every element on earth! 

Continue to journey for the bond. 

Desperation ensues for the bond, 

chlorine tries almost every category to grasp the goal.

There must be an element undiscovered that lies deeper within earth, 

as alkali earth metals and halogens fail to make chlorine complete. 

Every element must be doomed to be weak, 

if chlorine no longer has its once strong potential. 

As chlorine begins to wither due to no more potential, 

Sodium suddenly appears; that one special bond. 

Electric touch- chlorine no longer weak! 

It's the one meant to help chlorine finally reach its goal, 

together in harmony, they are both complete. 

Na and Cl are finally linked as they wander the earth. 

We see that every element can find that deep bond on this earth, 

though we may become weak until we are finally complete. 

Believe in the potential to reach the distant goal. 

Chronicles of Bowser(Poem 8- Monster Poem-updated)

Mane of fire zooms as he stomps through his den

matching eyebrows etched in rage forever. 

Every player dives to avoid the 

razor-sharp metal daggers of his shell. 

Not only his size, but also his brute 

leave his prey in constant disarray. 

His knifing nails and horns can- 

and will- claw their limbs apart. 

Only object that makes his cold heart soften: 

the blonde bombshell of the land, Princess Peach. 

But his fair maiden belongs to Mario- 

mere mention of that name makes his eyes blaze. 

The two share a history that began close, 

before the Italian ruffian rose to fame,
kicking the beast to the curb

for his green counterpart known as Luigi.  

Bowser alone without even one brother 

in the world of Super Smash Brothers. 

Soul now as hard as his shell 

he turns to Super Smash everything in his path.

One belief ingrained in his mind 

serves as his drive for the scheme: 

'Peach must be blinded by celebrity status

to remain loyal to the villain in red.'

Princess sticks up her nose at Bowser's black magic,
teleportation and shockwaves fail to surprise her.
Fire breathing, physical prowess- all child's play.
His powers right out of a fairytale in her eyes.

Desperate to impress royalty,
Bowser signs up to rival Mario in Mario Kart.
Alas, even with his Koopa tribe and flying Spiny Shells,
Mario shoots right past him into Peach's delicate arms.

If only he had the princess in his grasp, 

would she see Bowser has what Mario lacks. 

He kidnaps poor Peach back to his lair

in hopes of becoming Beauty and the Beast. 

Who will save the princess from his clutches? 

The Italian dynamic duo- 

Mario and Luigi, of course! 

Spring into action, they begin their quest. 

Face to face with the monster himself, 

the pair battle for Peach in this epic duel. 

Bloodshed ensues, Bowser left for dead

as the power couple rides off into the sunset. 

All the characters of the land clap and cheer, 

grateful that order has been restored. 

No longer must they fear Bowser's wrath, 

now that he is defeated for good. 

Little do they know he survived the battle,  

lying in wait when they least suspect it. 

None are aware of the songs he wrote of Peach, 

Or the tears that shed from his burning eyes. 

Pretty in Pink was almost his, 

her baby blues nearly one with his own. 

All snatched away in an instant- 

and every citizen of Super Mario World will pay. 

They will be gone. 

Princess Peach will be his.

Chronicles of Bowser(original)

Mane of fire zooms as he stomps through his den

matching eyebrows etched in rage forever. 

Every player dives to avoid the 

razor-sharp metal daggers of his shell. 

Not only his size, but also his brute 

leave his prey in constant disarray. 

His knifing nails and horns can- 

and will- claw their limbs apart. 

Only object that makes his cold heart soften: 

the blonde bombshell of the land, Princess Peach. 

But his fair maiden belongs to Mario- 

mere mention of that name makes his eyes blaze. 

The two share a history that began close, 

before the Italian scoundrel rose to fame

and kicked the beast to the curb

for his green counterpart known as Luigi.  

Bowser alone without even one brother 

in the world of Super Smash Brothers. 

Soul now as hard as his shell 

he turns to Super Smash everything in his path. 

One belief ingrained in his mind 

serves as his drive for the scheme: 

'Peach must be blinded by celebrity status

to remain loyal to the villain in red.'

If only he had the princess in his grasp, 

would she see Bowser has what Mario lacks. 

He kidnaps poor Peach back to his lair

in hopes of becoming Beauty and the Beast. 

Who will save the princess from his clutches? 

The Italian dynamic duo- 

Mario and Luigi, of course! 

Spring into action, they begin their quest. 

Face to face with the monster himself, 

the pair battle for Peach in this epic duel. 

Bloodshed ensues, Bowser left for dead

as the power couple rides off into the sunset. 

All the characters of the land clap and cheer, 

grateful that order has been restored. 

No longer must they fear Bowser's wrath, 

now that he is defeated for good. 

Little do they know he survived the fight,  

lying in wait when they least suspect it. 

None are aware of the songs he wrote of Peach, 

Or the tears that shed from his burning eyes. 

Pretty in Pink was almost his, 

her baby blues nearly one with his own. 

All snatched away in an instant- 

and every citizen of Super Mario World will pay. 

They will be gone. 

Princess Peach will be his. 

Note: The poem is based on Bowser, the villain of the Super Smash Bros video-game. For more context on the video-game and Bowser's role, click here: http://www.mariowiki.com/bowser

Seasons of Haiku and Tweet Poems(Poem 7-updated)

Lost at sea, just blue
rays on sunshine pierce my face
into my white skin.

Books back in session
our tight-knit clique of five girls
dance through pile of leaves.

Shoulders clenched in frost
His lips on mine revive- whoa!
winter wonderland.

Driving past the house
fuchsia gardens in full bloom!
Rain tears through dark eyes.

Warm air of the night
golden fireworks boom and pop-
could that be magic?

Two exchange faux smiles
eerie pumpkins grin right back
'tis sweater weather.

Owl hoots across dusk
snowflakes swoosh and suddenly
owl cries no longer.

We fall into step
as green blankets conquer white-
our hands intertwine.

Toes sink deep in sand
Horizon sets no limits
Whoosh! goes a harsh wave.

Pumpkin Spice Latte
The basic white girl anthem
Glug. Warm scents of pine.

Imprints of angels
Embalmed in the wet snow-oh!
They have come to life.

April showers bring
certain glow to the soft scene.
Wow! Drink in the drops.

    


Seasons of Haiku and Tweet Poems(original)

Lost at sea, just blue
rays of sunshine penetrate
into my white skin.

Books back in session
dancing through the pile of leaves-
tight-knit clique of five.

Shoulders clenched in frost
His lips on mine revive-whoa!
winter wonderland.

Driving past the house
fuchsia gardens in full bloom!
Rain tears through dark eyes.

Warm air of the night
golden fireworks boom and pop-
could that be magic?

Two exchange faux smiles
eerie pumpkins grin right back
'tis sweater weather.

Owl hoots across dusk
snowflakes swoosh and suddenly
owl cries no longer.

We fall into step
as green blankets conquer white-
our hands intertwine.

Toes sink deep in sand
Horizon sets no limits
Whoosh! goes a harsh wave.

Pumpkin Spice Latte
The basic white girl anthem
Glug. Warm scents of pine.

Imprints of angels
Embalmed in the wet snow-oh!
They have come to life.

April showers bring
certain glow to the soft scene.
Wow! Drink in the drops.

Note: the hashtag in the first twitter poem is referring to Macavity the Cat, a character in the musical "Cats."

Loser(Poem 6- updated performance poem)

Transparent against the locker room walls,
I was always one of the ghosts lurking, unseen.
Short, weak, small fry, not worth a second glance,
easily concealed in cracks and corners of the school.
My brother wasn't born a ghost,
rather, he was one of the gods.
Built bulky and better looking than I,
born in the spotlight, meant to be worshipped.

Constant glances and stares flung in my direction,
cannot recall a day without whispers.
As I stroll down the halls, the guys whoop and high-five,
sly smiles from girls whose names are minor.
But these are people who don't see me,
blinded by my height and football jersey.
Long for the silence my brother enjoys,
forever authentic to chemistry and comic books.

The gods skip through the ghosts obliviously,
mere peasants in their eyes, if they even notice us at all.
As a lowly ghost, I was never on her radar.
I observe as her silky hair glistens behind her,
as she throws her heart-shaped face back in a laugh.
Those emerald eyes capture every poor sap in her gaze,
her tan, taut legs bounce across the glossy floors.
Ladies and gentlemen- my brother's girlfriend.

She rants about the latest faux drama,
her loud mouth increases intensely as she speaks.
My focus is on what lies behind her-
distracted by his eyes crinkling as he grins at a joke.
The leather-bound journal hugged to his plaid chest
makes something inside my abdomen stir.
Only exchanged a few words, but I'm captivated by
my brother's best friend.

If only she could she me as more than a creeping shadow,
my fantasy could become tangible.
As a ghost, I'll always be a
Loser.

Wonder if he sees me in the same light,
but with the false image I uphold,
I'll always remain a
Loser.

Loser(original)

Transparent against the locker room walls,
I was always one of the ghosts lurking, unseen.
Short, weak, small fry, not worth a second glance,
easily concealed in cracks and corners of the school.
My brother wasn't born a ghost,
rather, he was one of the gods.
Built bulky and better looking than I,
born in the spotlight, meant to be worshipped.

***
Constant glances and stares flung in my direction,
cannot recall a day that has passed without whispers.
The guys whoop and high-five me as I stroll the halls,
sly smiles from girls whose names are minor.
But these are people who don't truly see me,
blinded by my height and football jersey.
Long for the silence my brother enjoys,
forever authentic to chemistry and comic books.

***
 The gods skip through the ghosts obliviously,
mere peasants in their eyes, if they even notice us at all.
As a lowly ghost, I was never on her radar.
I observe as her silky hair glistens behind her,
as she throws her heart-shaped face back in a laugh.
Those emerald eyes capture every poor sap in her gaze,
her tan, taut legs bounce across the glossy floors.
Ladies and gentlemen, my brother's girlfriend.

***
She rants about the latest faux drama,
her loud mouth increasing intensely as she speaks.
Yet, my focus is on what lies behind her-
distracted by his eyes crinkling as he grins at a joke.
The leather-bound journal hugged to his plaid chest
makes something inside my abdomen stir.
Only exchanged a few words, but I'm captivated
by my brother's best friend.

***

If only she could she me as more than a creeping shadow,
my fantasy could become tangible.
But I'm just a
Loser.

***

Wonder if he sees me in the same light,
but with the false image I uphold,
I'll always remain a
Loser.