A few years back I saw the photograph of a woman who was chewing her way through a wall. Why? Because she was an artist— a “Conceptual Artist.” This chewing action (on gypsum board, I’m supposin’) was her way of expressing her art. (The wall, by the way, on which she was chewing, was not in her own apartment, but in that of a friend’s.)

That led me to wonder, “Does she charge people to watch her as she chews her way through walls?” The answer, it turned out, was, “No.” She does not. Why? Because, she explained, that would make her a “Performer,” a lower category of artiste to which she obviously does not aspire.

This woman’s chewsy occupation has inspired me to become a “Conceptual Humorist.” I’m even thinking about having business cards made:

“Jim Lamb, Conceptual Humorist.”

No telephone number. No address. Just name and title. That way when people ask, “ Can I hire you for a wedding or birthday party or bar mitzvah?” I can reply, “Oh, I’m not a Performer; I just do Conceptual Humor.”

For example, the concept I’m working on now is about an out-of-work guy who’s self-loathing and wishes he were dead — but he feels death is too good for him. (Imagine a cross between Lee Harvey Oswald and Woody Allen.) Turns out this fella hears that stand-up comics describe their worst nights as “dying on stage,” and, frankly, that appeals to him because it seems both appropriately humiliating and ongoing.

The problem is he has no jokes — and no money to hire a joke writer.

What to do?

One day, at a convenience store, he sees a box of Bazooka gum. He remembers from his youth that not only is there a hard, pink, gummy square inside, but that each individual piece is wrapped in a colorful, glossy comic strip featuring delightfully pithy jokes.

The guy buys the entire box …

That night he goes to an “Open Mic” at a local comedy club, puts his name on the sign-up sheet, and nervously sits at the back of the room, bubbling with a new-found confidence that can only be produced by two full pockets of as yet-unopened jokes.

Finally, the owner of the club calls his name; he steps up to the microphone, grabs a Bazooka from his pocket, unwraps it, puts the gum in his mouth and proceeds to read the joke.

He gets a nice, respectable ripple of laughter.

His ego lifted, he grabs a second single-pack of Bazooka, takes off the waxy wrapper, pops the gum in his mouth, and — with some effort — manages to chew his way through another joke.

This time he gets both laughs and applause!

Along about Bazooka number five or six, the poor guy’s mouth is so full that what comes out is a garbled mumble.

The audience loves it.

He continues.

By Bazooka number 10, our funny gummy guy is having trouble breathing, but he’s determined not to stop as long as the audience is enjoying his performance.

With Bazooka number 13, disaster strikes. (“Houston, we have a problem.”) The fella begins choking, but the audience thinks it’s part of the act. He points to his mouth, waving his arms like a sausage-winged windmill, trying to act out his problem with erratic, impromptu sign language.

Nothing works.

His face turns blue, his body goes numb, his vision blurs. Bazooka man collapses on stage; his large body produces a pronounced “thud” before going lifeless — a performance that elicits a standing ovation from a grateful crowd …

… if only the guy had been a “Conceptual Artist” …

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He’s been known to re-cycle old stories when he’s too busy to write new ones. For more about Jim, visit www.jslstories.com.

It floats through my brain all of the time.

Its rhythm, its variation, its beauty.

Yes, I'm in band.

Yes, I'm in choir.

I give up my study hall time just for the sake of music.

It has the same effects as painting a picture, or writing a story. One event flows directly and perfectly into another.

Music.

My life.

My sanity.

Me.

A lot of my friends are tied to it.

Band. Choir. Both.

Even if they're not in either, they still get music class.

Music.

Food for the soul.

Love.

Hope.

It could mean anything.

Even if all of today's music is about mainstream love, sex, and awkwardness.

The old stuff is the gold.

The good music.

The true music.

Its definition.

Music.

My soul.

Me.

First and Foremost, I must reference the title of this article. A vote for Democratic presidential candidate Bernie Sanders is a promise, a pact, a commitment to a movement we are calling a Political Revolution. Bernie starts most of his speeches with this:

“Let me tell you something that no other candidate for president will tell you. And that is, no matter who is elected to be president, that person will not be able to address the enormous problems facing the working families of our country. They will not be able to succeed because the power of corporate America, the power of Wall Street, the power of campaign donors is so great that no president alone can stand up to them. That is the truth. People may be uncomfortable about hearing it, but that is the reality.”

The key part of that statement is "...no president alone can stand up to them." We, as a nation have to rise up and tell those in office that they work for us, not for corporations. The reversal of The Glass-Steagall Act and the passing of Citizens United has been extremely detrimental to our country's democracy. Giving the power to the extremely wealthy by allowing shady dealings in Washington D.C.

Our campaign finance system in this country is now corrupt. Purchased by millionaires and billionaires, like the Koch brothers. Bernie Sanders is the only candidate without a super PAC. He has a detailed tax plan laid out that would increase taxes only 2.2% for 98.5% of the American people, except for the 1.5% of Americans that make more than $250,000 a year. This small increase will pay for healthcare for all citizens in this county. A tax on wall street speculation would allow as to make public colleges and universities tuition free. The American people have been complacent and complicit for too long in the face of corporate greed. The United States of America is the richest country in the world. A fact that the average American is unaware of thanks to a massive redistribution of wealth in favor of the top one-tenth of one percent of people in this great nation.

Many on the "right" like to cite Welfare as a problem in this country. However, the largest recipients of Welfare in this country are big banks and multinational corporations. After the crash of 2008, the big banks needed to be bailed out to the tune of $4.6 trillion dollars having been paid out. With our help, Bernie Sanders will break up these banks that are "too big to fail."

A related issue concerns the working poor. The Federal minimum wage is $7.25, a starvation wage which Wal-Mart pays most of it's employees, in some cases new hires even receive state welfare paperwork with their employee packets. Should someone who works 40 hours a week struggle to feed their family? Right now, in this country you can have two parents working 40+ hours per week barely getting by, one emergency away from financial ruin. This affects White, Latino, and Black people across this nation though, undoubtedly the minorities are more hard hit.

Bernie has been on the front line of Human and Civil rights activities. He marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. and staged a sit-in to protest segregated housing at the University of Chicago. He was arrested during this protest. At the same time Hillary was working for the Goldwater campaign, which was pro-segregation. While the Clinton's were promoting DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act) in 1996, Sen. Bernie Sanders was one of the few legislators that opposed DOMA and voted "no" to discrimination against our LGBT brothers and sisters.

Bernie has a knack for seeing the big picture, the effects that passing or not passing a bill might have.  He uncannily predicted the outcome of the Iraq war and the destabilization that followed and, rightly, voted "no" to the War in Iraq when it was an extremely unpopular view.  He knows that war is a last resort, not the first option.

In most cases if you are going to be of voting age before the November Presidential election, you can participate in your states Primary (look up specific rules for your state). I beg you to become involved politically, don't be apathetic to what is going on in our nation. Research any candidate that interests you and get involved in your own Political Revolution.

We are sitting in a sunlit café. The aroma of coffee wafts its way up my nose and, into my brain, seeping into my thoughts. He sits across from me, his beer belly kissing the sharp edge of the table. He burps, wipes his greasy fingers on the napkin and stretches his hands out.

I try to quell the rising waves of nausea; try to stop pictures of crisp paper wilting under the weight of lard floating across my mind.

He clears his throat and looks at me pointedly. I will have to hand it over to him eventually.

I take a deep breath in to prepare myself then push through my sternum, reaching deep into my chest. My heart scuttles about, dodging my searching fingers, hiding behind one lung then behind the next. It knows it’s about to come up under inspection, and is quickening at the thought. I manage to catch it finally; there is a tug of war: I win, and pull it out.

The excruciating part is just about to begin.

Carefully, holding it in both hands, I lean across the table, and place it in front of him.

Please don’t get grease stains on it.

He tilts his head side to side: looking at it from every angle. He lifts it, bounces it up and a down a little: checking its weight. There is silence, then a “hmm” of consideration from him. My nerves are tingling, burning; restless, they want their companion, my heart, back, and quickly. I try to not let the ache show. Stoic, professional.

He places it back on the table; takes out a microscope; polishes its lens. Examines its quickly beating surface, spending time over every crevice, considering every scar. A gem cutter analyzing the raw material he has to work with. Every time he pauses at a fault line, a river of panic bubbles up inside me.

A quick look of disappointment flicks across his face. He shakes his head: no.

We do not exchange words. He places it back on the table; quietly. Gets up, swings his satchel over his shoulder; and walks out of the café without looking back. On to the next.

I pick my heart up again: it feels heavier, more leaden than before. I slip it back into my chest: it’s eager to go in; almost rushes out of my hands in its haste to get back behind the protection of my ribs. I sew my chest back together, get up, walk back out into the bright sunlight. Another ordeal over.

You would have thunk

I’ve drunk enough tea

to drown my self loathing

by now.

I see happy,

grinning women

on the cover of

cheap magazines.

The ones that feature

stories of

extreme weight loss

and crock pot recipes.

They have all lost

over 100 pounds.

They are happy

and airbrushed.

Healthy and glowing.

All fully clothed,

or holding out the

huge waistline

of their old pants

like a damn clown.

No one talks about

the loose skin.

The arms.

Thighs.

Belly.

Tits.

All a sagging shell

where a woman used to be.

That is me.

I have lost 150 pounds.

In the best health

of my life,

and I hate my body

more now

than I ever have.

What kind of calories

do I burn to end

anxiety?

The self doubt eats

holes in me.

Internal struggle with

never being enough.

Looking to men to

assign my worth.

Like I can’t survive

without someone

thinking I am beautiful.

It goes against the

beliefs at my core.

But,

I airbrush myself.

Present a pretty cover,

while the pages inside

are empty.

A fashion magazine

full of ads.

All filler where

the words should be.

Where my words

should be.

Altering the maps; the rifts and valleys in my mind

Setting candles of consciousness ablaze

with a spark from your own wick

In their luminance now

Mine self is easier to see

Quick fingers on the violin

I dance to the melodies you create

With the rhythm of the tabla now

The cracks beneath my feet

Are easier to feel

A flow of fabric

Silk

You clothe my imperfections

The candle light glitters

Reflected in mirrors

In the resplendent hallways of your mind

I too gleam

I am terrified of wasting my life away. Anxiety, depression, and insecurities are all but a few of the things that hold me back.

I am scared that I'm wasting my life away, here in this too-tight-a-bubble of a comfort zone. It leaves little room for experience.

All the opportunities and chances wasted, simply because I was uncomfortable with trying something new- being judged, mocked, ridiculed.

I need some confidence.

I've blamed my depression on these things. And I've tried to fix it. I joined the color guard team, becoming the first 'male' on the team in my schools' history. That's a big feat, but why go I feel like I'm still worthless? Wasteful and useless?

I wish I wasn't afraid of taking chances.

Tonight I walked.

I walked for hours over cold stones.

My feet shuffled from fatigue.

I’m tired.

I’m tired over you.

You invade my thoughts, my dreams, my bed.

I can still taste you.

I need to taste you again.

Bitter.

Sweet.

Never again will you allow it.

Your sober mouth sings lies.

These lies suffocate us.

Trapped in an oxygen cage.

The air knows.

It knows our secrets, our truths, our desires.

I desire you.

All of you.

I want you inside me again.

You dipped your fingers ever so slowly, pushing your way deeper.

Reaching, you touched my soul.

Remnants still remain underneath your fingernails.

I seeped into your skin.

I now linger in your pores.

But you ignore it.

Easy as pie and what a delicious dessert you serve.

Creamy.

Warm.

You melt in my mouth and I swallow, choking on your poison.

Infected, your sex is my disease.

I yearn for a cure, but there is none.

My fingertips are wet.

My breath heavy.

My heart aches.

I moan naked in the dark for you.

I wait for your return, but you never come.

You came once, do you remember?

The feeling of you jerk and tremble as you reached for my hand, it haunts me.

Holding it tight, you relaxed.

​Your smell in my sinuses soothed me so and I fell.

I’m still falling, so I walk.

I walk to rid myself of feeling.

I walk to ease the pain.

I walk, yet I am I tired.

I’m tired over you.

I’m tired over love.

I’m tired and I’m sick.

Still, I never walk away.

I'll use the knife that's in my back to carve a smile on my face

I'll soak my wounds in bleach to cleanse my flesh of this disgrace

Inhale the lies she breathes to me that tear my lungs apart

And throw away the antidote to cure this broken heart

These wings are clipped & ankles chained to stay forever bound

As she rapes me of my sanity, my voice cannot be found

She's taken all she can from me, but still returns for more

A garden rich that flourished once is now a garden poor

Her fingernails are wearing down from clawing at my spine

You're a cancer & you're spreading killing everything that's mine

I could douse myself in gasoline to burn it all away

But in death, you'd seek me out for all the debts I've yet to pay

Your tongue is sharp & slices through my lingering self-doubt

My lips are sewn together so your truths I cannot shout

But when she holds me close & whispers pretty little lies

I ignore my intuition then I fall into her eyes

Blood has boiled over, staining everything that's white

Deceitful dancing with the Devil, she consumed me in one bite

Now the past is tense & everything I thought I knew is dead

I am drowning in your poison from our toxic love like lead