5/25/2008

Prose, Poetry, and Musings

by

MobileRead Forum Members

This ebook may contain material copyrighted by MobileRead forum members. All rights reserved.

Contents

From E-reader devices, naming

From User Poetry

From Scribblings

From Other Threads

From E-reader devices, naming

Vera and Planet Head, by vivaldirules

We met for brunch late the next morning. It was a strange meeting. And how appropriate to discover a real sidewalk cafe - one with tables that gently rocked on the uneven cobbles beneath us. Embracing couples strolled by us in delusional trances. An odd hush seemed to muffle even the birds that sang from the cherry trees nearby. But none of it mattered - for I was focused on her. Nothing could have torn her from my thoughts. We shared a pear tart that glistened in the sun and gently steamed from the glass plate. But the smell of the exposed fruit reminded me only of her - her warm flesh, its taste and gentle texture that I had probed for hours the night before. From the sight of the graceful curve of her neck touched by her dark brown hair, I could only invision the contours of her luscious body as she motioned passionately. Her simple movements as she ate. All of these sent me reeling. Mental acuity is a requirement for life and mine was nearing its end. My mind was bursting as I approached sensory overload. My head, engorged with emotions, seemingly expanded to the size of a planet. My cranial diodes nearly fused. Vera, if only I could escape you, I would. But my very being - unnatural as it is - is intimately tied to you. Vera. What will I do?

____________________

The Passion of the Crust, by Taylor514ce

Ol' Harv first noticed Vera at the pie eatin’ contest at last year’s county fair. Folks had always told him he had a good eye for livestock, and he nearly choked on his hog call when he caught the glare off her sweaty bosom as she came up outta’ that cherry pie for breath. He’d won the hog call championship three years a-running, but the way she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, flinging cherry filling and pie crust away into the shimmering summer air, plum took his breath away. Harv’s mind cast back to that day as he and Vera made love on the bathroom floor. The sound of her love-slick backside as it squeegied across the linoleum, put all his hog-calling efforts to shame, he thought, panting.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

“The romance is just gone”, wept Peg to her cousin Vera. “We never even do it anymore. The closest I get to romance is checking him for tics. He goes out ever’ night, and I just know he’s down at The Wet Spot (‘does your Mama still dance there, V?’ ‘No, not since her hip replacement’) and I just don’t know what to do. I mean, he’s no champion hog-caller”, Peg pauses to dab her eyes and blow her nose, as Vera blushes a particularly porcine shade of pink, “but he’s all the man I got. How do you and Harv keep the fires stoked-up? Why you’re always at each other. They don’t make these double-wides like they used to - we can hear you two, especially when the dogs get to howling”.

“You just got to keep it spicy. Mix things up, Peg. A man likes variety”, says Vera. “Why don’t you surprise him, play dress-up? You could play ‘Hooter’s Girl and the Traveling Salesman’ or ‘Babysitter and the Pizza Pie Delivery Boy’”.

“Which delivery boy? You mean my nephew Joey? Oh… I don’t think Hank’d go for that", said Peg, with a faraway look in her bleary, close-set eyes.

____________________

Untitled, by Nekokami

He knew he shouldn't have ordered the calamari. Perhaps he'd been trying to impress Vera with his worldly savoir faire, his openness to foreign cuisine… but that had been the wrong restaurant to experiment in, and Vera hadn't needed impressing in any case. She wasn't that kind of woman. He should have known better.

Following up the meal with a coffee smoothie had not helped matters.

He groaned softly, wishing he had done things differently, wishing that he and Vera were out enjoying a moonlit cruise, that he was not spending their first night abroad in an emergency room cubicle. Thankfully, the worst seemed to be past. The IV drip had settled his anguished gastro-intestinal system.

A flutter of movement nearby caused him to peer through tired eyelids. Vera took his hand, and smiled. And as wretched as his body felt, his heart eased to know that he wasn't alone…

____________________

Untitled, by Cthulhu

Phineas was a squid. An accomplished cephalopod, with a nice bit of coral down near a very trendy trench.

Phineas loved Vera, the lovely redheaded researcher from the 'States who came to observe him and his minions.

Vera loved coffee, pie, and ice cream. In various combinations, they formed the sum total of every meal she had eaten in the past decade. She was fascinated by marine life, but if an amazingly accomplished squid flashed his chromataphores her way, she took no notice.

Phineas loved Vera with a slow, aching passion that made the waters boil, the mad gods of the sea and sky tremble, and the reefs of the world quake.

Vera loved pie.

Pictographic chromatophores are a natural wonder; any squid dedicated enough to plumb the inky depths of sunken U-boats and trawlers to learn the languages of hairy, dry mammals would be lauded on land and sea, made an ambassador for the world.

Vera simply thought the images she saw were cute, even the uncannily-shaped, serifed "V" shape that pulsed and flashed and exploded over one squid's body, expanding, twisting, rolling into a Valentine's heart.

Squid are intelligent, agile creatures.

Humans can be very, very silly.

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

The Maker called me "Prufrock" - though it wasn't always my name and I have forgotten what it once was - but my friends call me "Proof".

I don't have friends, and I have nothing to prove, so you can call me whatever you like.

Down here - down where bright, shimmering surface-ripple has been been crushed into a beyond-darkness that compresses your every cell into an atom-sharp needle of singular pain; down where the the fluid-ice caresses the near-lifeless silt into the arcing glyphs that are the post-it notes of the Great Old Ones (Tue: vacuum R'lyeh; Wed: take all the Cthulhi to doctor for flu vaccinations; Sun: unchain the Dark between the stars and rend the Cosmos free of the incessant, pointless screeching of the multitude millions of meat-minds); down where the fish flicker and the small squid follow while the blunt-headed leviathan seek the thoughtfully eulogising many-armed embrace of the glorious master of this realm, Architeuthis Dux; down here where the slow-moving columns of cosmic rays plow like a bus through hell's kindergarten - down here…down here…

…down here I have been so very lonely.

Once upon a time I lived a Cephalopodan Fairy Tale ('Colour Me Lovestruck') amidst chromatically calcareous polypoidal real estate beneath the wavelets casting their solar iridescence through the relaxed, balmy, tidal currents. I was fast and food was fresh, and slow, and easy and filling, and I loved one who came with clumsy, limited and specialised limbs with recording devices and optics and vials and tools (as I know them now) and unchanging, pale flesh, and a single heart but hair of a blistering red brighter than the most flamboyant nudibranch's richest rouge.

I hate her. I hate her with the world-crushing passion with which I once loved her.

Down here - at the very bottom of it all, where the mud is probed and collected in my poly-alloy claws and sifted for the sunken dead for study and sustenance through my carbon filter-range and by which I hope to satiate my last wish of tasting, once again (dreaming of my fisherman's wife), the caffeine- and pastry-infused, bready flesh of my once-beloved; down here, where I lay, tentacles stapled out flat by 3,141 sub-skin electrodes, where I have been eviscerated to steep my entrails in the protein-soup of my research, where my hearts are encased in shells of polypropylene that beat to a nuclear power-pod's tedious rhythm, where my brain…my mind…my mind my mind my mind is going is…my mind has been "enhanced" with a nanotechnology that swarms over and through it like a coordinated attack of intelligent African Bees, rounding up and chasing my thoughts down others' desired paths, faster, faster, faster, FASTER!…and all of it and the machines and the computers and the engines and the plumbing, all of it that the Bees coordinate is surrounded by a loathsome, crustacean-like casing 50 metres wide, poly-alloy all, shaped like a Cornish pasty and studded with jointed metal legs and pincers and deft, manipulator-claws and silicate lenses and a myriad of marine-grade stainless steel antennae and scanning and filtering and crushing orifices and collection baskets and propellers and jets and lasers and explosives and drills and the creaking and groaning of unbearable pressure and none but the last of me -…

…Down here, my thoughts are on her. Vera. Down here, where the cracks open on the flanks of the black-smoker chimneys into the upwelling, melting heat of the earth-core…down here, I will crack open the planet's heart to bring Vera, and my rampaging, self-flagellating thoughts to an end.

It is the least I can do.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

…but I will be less, and so will you.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

VERA lay unresponsive beneath him. Beneath, above, beside… our grammar wasn’t built for space, thought Harv. Another thought: no time for stray thoughts, focus, Harv, focus. The Venus-Earth Relay Antenna - regardless of its spatial relationship vis-à-vis the General Communications utility ship Kala Mari - shouldn’t be unresponsive. Harv knew the background noise in his mind was a defensive reaction, a nervous tic meant to fill the void of this silence. A silence so disturbing, so total, that he’d been forced out of his “administrative leave” to investigate. Harv knew VERA with a thoroughness bordering on intimacy, but another thought now bubbled to the crust of his consciousness: I'm looking at a corpse.

From User Poetry

Age of Boys, by Taylor514ce

Once upon a time, Boys ruled the Earth,

and the power of flight was attained

through bikes and scrap-wooden ramps.

(The True Believers could achieve much more,

hawk-riding thermals above the street lamps,

dangling from their Levi's jean-jacket sleeves.)

Sorcerers were clad in magic sneakers,

imbued with the ability to run faster,

jump higher, than the mortal neighbor brats.

Oh, Talisman of Power, the red sport logo!

Horrific weapons of warfare were crafted

from scrap lumber, tin pails, and dirt.

Holy Wars raged through eternal Saturdays;

resurrections of the Righteous

and the Unrighteous as even the slain

were called to dinner.

Loyalty was sworn in blood and spit,

bravery and cowardice revealed during

The Ritual Climbing of Mr. Miller's Trees.

Boys spoke all the Animal Tongues:

language of Toad and Salamander,

Robin, Crow, and Lower Dog.

They lived in the woods, their days

a meander along old Indian trails

and the muddy creekbed of the Amazon.

Then in sudden cataclysm

the Age of Boys was over

(a new species was the cause).

Scholars now study that ancient world,

that primitive time,

before the Age of Girls.

____________________

Age of Boys, by Taylor514ce

I derive much satisfaction

from passive emotifaction

my nouns are all mozzled

because I'm half sozzled

and looking for some action

____________________

NAP-TIME, by Taylor514ce

Just after lunch, when the paper plates and crumbs have been cleared from the table, the hands and plastic cups scrubbed clean, visits to the bathroom negotiated, comes the drowsy afternoon, tucked snug between the sheets in the amber-lit, blue-walled bedroom.

Quiet conversations, whispered at the border of perception, shuffle over the morning's debris: the menagerie loosed upon the ruins of block cities, toy metal cars screaming away from the confusion, storybooks piled in a riot of twisted pages and plot lines.

As the house creaks and settles into the slumber of regular breathing, the afternoon descends into the pages of my poems. Nap-time: morning's chaos woven into measured dreams; frozen stories, flickering eyes, fingers dancing on the keys.

nap-time…

childrens' voices

echo through the vents

____________________

Untitled, by TommyCooper

There was a device called liseuse

Whose name was pretentious and loose

So we changed it around

And modified the sound

Now we call it a reader with juice

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

So you eat but not sleep, I see, I see!

I drink but don't think (I pee, I pee!)

What a pair we would be

on the streets of Paris

eating and drinking all night, mais oui!

____________________

Margins, by Taylor514ce

Tonight I'm browsing the "Selected Poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson" - "Isaac and Archibald", probably my favorite poem. I've always had an affinity for old men - I often think of old men I've known, the unplumbed depth of their meaningful silence. When E.A.R. writes of the "small boy's adhesiveness / To competent old age", I recognize the feeling.

This copy of the book is secondhand. It's been studied; the margins have penciled notations, a few of the stronger assertions in ink. I like to draw my own meanings from the poems, but take pleasure in the insights left behind. From time to time I add my own marginalia to the pages. I imagine this book making its way to others. I want to write something profound, but settle for a few smiley faces.

on the library steps

the blowing leaves

of a book

____________________

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

when i see these traces, the tacit link i have with this anonymous previous reader materializes briefly, almost like a discussion dilated to the extreme, and i feel irrationally connected to them for a moment, almost like a friend.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

Do you remember

when we said goodbye outside

behind your house?

Afterwards, we spent two hours

trying to find these earrings.

____________________

Untitled, by NatCh

down from the branches

does it timidly venture

snatching the peanut

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

grey squirrels' winter dreys

punctuate

my morning drive

____________________

Bach, by wetterau

Each morning,

in a small courtyard

across the alley,

a teenager walks

slowly back and forth

reading a schoolbook

or manual,

repeating phrases

in rhythm with

the peaceful movement

of her legs through shade;

she turns as a line

of Bach turns,

defining old ground

newly, dark hair

bumping gently

on her cotton shirt.

____________________

Kamal, by wetterau

Kamal drunk, declaiming

by his brick two-room house,

one up, one under for the cows,

high over the valley.

He drinks his army pension,

works the rest of the month

with his wife and teenaged sons.

“They beat me,” he tells us.

“I haven't eaten in 48 hours;

I have a very bad wife.”

He is stronger than any of them.

His wife is loving. Strange.

He raves into the night

for hours using practiced

dramatic gestures,

pausing to sing, pacing

back and forth.

I asked Mickey what

the Hindi words meant.

“It's all bullshit,” he said.

Yes, Kamal

is acting badly again-

reproachful,

indignant, angry

to the point of violence,

long hands pleading

in the moonlight.

____________________

Kamal Repents at Dawn, by wetterau

Cross-legged on his roof,

rubbing his face briskly,

extending long arms,

circling his wrists,

Kamal surveys the valley.

A devotional chorus issues

from a loudspeaker below.

At the solo, he

begins to sing; his voice

reaches and spreads

throughout the settlement.

Slowly, musically,

suffering is forgiven;

blame becomes blessing;

Kamal repents.

____________________

Of Silver, by fifteenjugglers

Nations blessed by ages long for love of gold at last have fell.

The seeds of self-deceit are sown with ploughs of golden metal cast,

And fields of blood and woe are mown with swords forged in a golden blast.

Of all who seek to find the grail, there is not one who'll live to tell,

From mountains pure of basest lead no precious speck of ore to sell.

Yet silver, sonorous and strong, peals long a bell of blameless past,

And would that bonds of friendship were with strands of silver strong held fast,

For silver as a mirror shin'd will secrets of betrayal tell.

So give me not your yellow discs that usury and lies will varnish;

Hang not about my neck a chain that yokes me to a dray of fools,

For gold is nought but evil magic, caster of deceitful spell.

In silver's truth I will be clad and wear with pride it's telltale tarnish.

A metal hard and pure I need, not soft, nor fickle, for my tools.

And all I ask as my reward: to hear the angels' silver bells.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

through the kitchen window

neighbor's young wife…

clouds cover the moon

____________________

The Ancient Man, by lobolover

A man there lived, of whom I know, god knows how I avail

To tell the tale, of how this man, lived in his merry way.

He came from states at Northern lakes and often did he say

„Nor beast nor man, nor thing twice damned,a hand upon him may

lay in wait to slay his Great, as he would often call.

Be on your watch, he said, or scotch, i tell this to you all.“

He hunted in the shermans wood, oh lord if I only may

To avail to say, how he there stood,and gaspeth upon his prey

He took the bones, and made them tools, for play and for his kin,

He threw them to the dogs he did, with many a merry sing

He took the skin and cut it deep, while hanging on a pole,

He made it reek, five feet around, his all-dreaded dome

He took the blood,and made it rise, for lamb or bear or newborn child,

He treausured as a prise

He cut and filled his lonely tub, and did within it bathe

And none who came and saw him thus, could scarcely be as brave

To but a word of acusition breathe, when they remember stil,

How this one man, silent as a lamb, poured blood out to his kin

They said he came then to his bed and a great night there would lie

As though he knew, not beast or prey, could ever make him die

And often times, through lonely skies, great cries were heard anew

This old man then, was told in spite, to oft amongst them brew

He cried his words in lonely tongues

No ears could ever stand

And a damn horrid sight it was

For one who did be there a-strand‘

This befel one John Canine, from Albertstown, was sure

He came to town, to look for work, to work there was his due

But at no doors did they lend him oars, listen to him at all

For all there feared that him from the breed, of that strange man „of the fall“

For at many times, so lonely sights, some strange men often came

To see the man, whom they all damned, but did not dare him shame

They draged about, all torn and out of them their spirits came

As if they had naught left, but to spread HIS fame

And often did they come anon and strange there sounds did come

And the old man then would go to bed, while the other was surely gone

And none had seen him take his leave, though all had see him enter

And all knew well there was no hope, when steped bellow that shelter

And all did fear that ancient man, who God himself forgot

For a wretch as great as he, could surely not be wrought

From conciounsce of the Lord above, nor did he ever stray

Into the church, bellow the cross, nor did he ever pray

And long his nails and filled with dirt,

And mud and sudd upon him lay, upon his bloodied shirt

Surely he was a dirty man, by body and by soul

But none ere dared to speak alloud, the wish of people all

That ancient man then did there live, so long as I do know

And not a trace of dying grace ever apeared upon his brow

He would often sit at Gorman’s lake and often would he call

At night to frogs, at day to snakes, for sure he loved them all

And his kin they were, all men did think,

For surely this old man

No earthly drink

Could ever waste, to such a horrid damn

But this man Canine knew him not

And came to him to plea

He surely did nor know

What beyond those doors did rott

But when he cried, oh lord, he pried, the door full and a jar

And he found the man there huddled stil, within his hands a jar

And there within a heart stil beating, as that it was yet in bloom

The youngster froze, while in his blood, the anger made to boom

And he took a shovel from the ground and battered with all his might

And he killed the man all did fear, and rid us of his might

But ere he could dipose the corpse, the corpse upon him lay, and hands did grasp upon his throat, in many a hideous way

And the young man did tear the corpse,yet stil it at him blew, till all at lenght, at sixteen eight

His soul all from him flew

And the man who was the corpse, there erect did stand and to me he did oustretch his utter horrid hand

„Listen man, whether wise or damned be ye

hear my tale, so full of ave, of dreadfull melanchony

I was a man who lived in pain and in anger God did spurn,

Then from the heavens came a sound and its voice upon me burn

And from the voice I knew full well ANOTHER God did speak

Then ever Milton dared record, within his master-streak

And HE spoke to me, who was ye Pan

And made me do his will

For one hundred years I was to do ill

And by his vision peigned

And if I shall then at a time,

Uncertain at all acords, to me and all of mine,

Slay him who would afore slay me,

Then surely the wretched I

Would be free from this mine rhyme

And surely as was said, free for all of time

And secrets great and monstrosely bread

He would show me beneath the sea

But how my heart now acheth with

A stern melancholy

For I shallt never see again

A human face drawn near

All I shall now at all times behold

There at all be a thousandfold

Strange things within the rear

And to those lands

Where a city stands

sunken bellow the sea

I shall be hauled

And shall maraud

Ye great eternal deep

Then with this, ye fearfull wretch

Hear me whilst I speak

My parting song to all mankind, whom long I have despised

And know ye reek, that with your eyes

You never shall see me part.“

And with this the man did fell

And there he lay in heaps

And soon it came upon the folk

To burn that house of tears

And wood they gathered all around

But when that house did smoke

We hear all around a smouldering sound

As of a soul thath be not smothe

And riseth from Hell to lands beyond

The grasp of which I sure have not

But which itself shall master soon

And reign without a doubt.

____________________

Thing One and Thing Two, by vivaldirules

You'll remember the Cat in the Hat

Who got those kids in such trouble.

They were sent to boarding school

Right on the double.

You see, Thing One and Thing Two

Had eaten all the food.

The fish finally tattled

About them being so rude.

Now the Things are in college

To learn something new.

How to be smart about stuff

And how to think things through.

But a long week's gone by

With ice and with cold.

My girls have struggled hard.

College life is gettin' old.

Miss Laura at Drake

And Miss Sarah at Trinity

Need to let go some steam

But not to infinity.

So try to be nice

and make not a mess,

But it's a good time now

To relieve all that stress.

Just pack up your books,

Put away all those notes.

It's party time now.

Be sure to wear your coats!

____________________

A Farmer, A Barn, Some Animals, by Taylor514ce

There was a farmer whose barn

got smashed down by some hail,

so he built a brand new barn

and he built it very well.

His name was ManWhoTakesCareOfAnimals

'cause that is what he did

and the animals all loved him

and did everything he said.

The animals were so happy!

The went outside to play.

They took a very red ball

and played with it all day.

They put it in their mouths

and spit it out real fast.

That's how animals play catch

since they don't got any hands.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

Ths pg is 2 dmn small, my wrting gets all sqshd

How cn I write half the wrds

I wnt to write, it's absrd

But if I hd what I wshd

This pg'd be as big as T H I S

Jst to me has ths occrd?

Ths pg is 2 dmn small!

Jst imagn wht u hav missed,

all the things u havnt heard,

the suble thghts I've infrred

You'll nver see, cuz (I'm pssd)

This pg is 2 dmn small!

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

Traveling through a fabled land,

seeking the answer to karma

I heard stories of a holy man

who knew all the laws of dharma.

He lived atop a secret mountain,

the trail was hidden from sight,

beside a glittering fountain,

chanting mantras through the night.

I followed dreams and avatars

until at last I found the way.

He listened to me strum my guitar

as I wondered what he would say.

He opened his mouth to speak,

perched on that mountain crown,

and said in a voice tired and weak,

"Thank God. Could you show me how to get down?"

____________________

Untitled, by mjh215

Carefully I open the door

The tail twitches

My finger itches

A scamper, scurry, and shot

The squirrel he is no more

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

driving to work

I swerve to miss the

twice-squished squirrel

____________________

Untitled, by badgoodDeb

I wish I had a squirrel, I do.

They're so much fun to chase.

But if I ever catch one

Mama's sure to wash my face.

____________________

Self-Portrait, by Taylor514ce

Cruising through downtown in a '67 Chevy pickup, finger-snapping each stoplight green, bellowing "Sweet Baby James" out the won't-stay-rolled up window, while the burned-out dash bulbs, like polished hematite, rattle out the hole in the floorboard; dressed in denim and stubble, my head turning to follow brunettes in heels, those pretty office girls clickety-clacking their way through pigeons and the leers of fellow aficionados, I park in brick-paved alleyways with the engine idling to hoof it into bookstores, asking after periodicals to be told "no", leaving with smiles and backfire.

____________________

Untitled, by Patricia

'Manage Attachments'

-Would it were so simple

Away from the screen.

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

If I stroke your fur

and press a forehead to yours

like I always do,

there's no wonder when my tears

fall warm onto your cold face.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

cosmic rays -

celestial dice rolls

through my system

____________________

Untitled, by Patricia

I see the azure void.

Not cloudless summer sky:

The blue screen of death.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

gooseasonorouskies

____________________

Untitled, by DixieGal

M R in office cube.

Quick! The boss will be here soon.

Minimize Explorer.

____________________

Untitled, by mjh215

The rules expounded

A different twist

Confirmed convention-less

____________________

Untitled, by badgoodDeb

Pup murmers

Wriggles in sleep

Catching phantom squirrels

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

Plastic leaves unglued

by dust and climate control

fall; whisper "faux-ku"

____________________

Untitled, by pshrynk

parp!

____________________

Untitled, by GeoffC

Without a thought the earth did roar;

Two plates once bound

for an age, or more

did slip, and unwound.

Distressed, at ocean deep

Land once level, released, now sundered.

Giants of waves no longer asleep,

Delivered ashore, wild steeds, no mere white horses; we blundered.

Galloping forth, unbridled, wanton, unchecked

All in their path

Were wrecked.

What once was, now no more.

Silence,

Force now spent;

But at deep it continued, defiant cadence.

Until another, rent

shook and earth did scream,

again.

____________________

Untitled, by pilotbob

There once was a lady from france,

who didn't have on any pants.

But here was the rub,

she sat in the tub,

with none of the bubbles askance.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

A penguin dressed like a nabob

who goes by the name "pilobob"

took a stab at a verse

it could have been worse

all-in-all a very good job.

____________________

Untitled, by Patricia

An android, who was quite depressed,

Found poetry gave him some rest.

He wrote lots of verse,

In tanka at first,

But limericks suited him best.

____________________

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

In Paris one day late in May,

On the island we had a soirée.

But though rum made us bold,

it was far too cold,

and at 10.30 je suis rentrée.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

Our scholarly gal Patricia

While traipsing through Galicia

Paused in a nook

To sit with a book

I'm sure your friends all missed ya.

As her partner snapped a picture. ‹- that rhymes in Chicaco

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514ce

That's a scathing generalization

for I, without hesitation

would rather girl watch

or drink a fine Scotch

than discuss angles of polarization

____________________

Untitled, by GeoffC

There is poetry here?

Where, I see no verse,

Just ditties from him,

And dotties from her,

Oh dear, what a to-do…

____________________

The Stapler Incident, by Taylor514ce

J, don’t ask me how, stapled his finger. No one was paying any attention, and he ain't sayin'. Our first clue was things went quiet. Nature hates a vacuum, right, and the silence made us all look at once. The look on his face, man, like he couldn't believe it, a how the hell expression, plain as day. Then the pain must've set in, 'cause he started this low moan. It built up slowly to a full-on freak-out, with him yelling god jesus god jesus and flopping the hand around with the whole damn stapler still attached like a fish on a hook.

So we couldn't help it, we were rolling. I’ve never heard R laugh like that. Like it hurt, with tears streaming down his face, a full five breathless seconds between spasms of oooh-oooh-oooh real high-pitched. K was trying to help but couldn't and just kept yelling hold still hold still with his hands spaced out around J's like a levitating trick, J's hands gyrating in-between. He got the staple out eventually.

Now and again one of us would start a stifled little laugh, within five seconds we're all wiping tears with J trying hard to be pissed in between laughing himself. Rest of the day we find excuses to ask for the stapler.

in the middle

of anything, anywhere

helpless grin

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

I take a photo

to capture and suspend you

over a puddle

____________________

Paradox Snob, by montsnmags

a box

when opened up

releases evil, hope,

a storage jar, and possibly

a cat

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514cd

Her eyes

trapezoidal

blue, her wide yellow smile -

I've never seen such a happy

spider.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514cd

the small boy

jumps five times, laughs

this recipe works

____________________

To not wax lyrical…, by montsnmags

Her suit -

bikini cut,

a tidy pink affair -

reveals some nether parts are still

hirsute

____________________

Now What, by Taylor514cd

Now what?

Now that we've each

said that sad, fateful word -

all we can hear now are fading

echoes.

____________________

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

porteur

et voltigeuse

ils s'enlacent, se séparent

toute une histoire dans leur ballet

de gestes.

[translated by montsnmags]

Wheeeee!

Catch me, baby!

Whoops, mum, no hands,

ARRRGGGHH! [boioioioinggg!]

[translated by montsnmags (second attempt)]

Catcher

and flyer

intertwine and separate

a whole history in their ballet

gestures

[translated by zelda_pinwheel]

Catcher

and flyer

intertwine, separate

a whole story in their ballet

of motion.

[translated by Taylor514ce]

leaper

and her catcher

interlace, separate --

their gestures a history, a

ballet

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514cd

Rufus

chewing a bone

the slow mastication -

meditation? No, it's just a

good bone.

____________________

Untitled, by Roy White

Discontent and puttering, bounced from one thought to another. This surface of paper was once a stately pine swaying in the wind with what it was, or what it might have been.

A proud jutting mast on a clipper ship. The cut heavy center beam of a cathedral. A pier withstanding the thudding of surf. A pole to wave a flag with.

In the slow seasons the tree grew, this surface held rushing sap and frozen larvae. Woodpeckers wounds and squirrel young. Boy’s shouts and enduring the nails of a tree fort.

This surface, white and shallow as it looks chained by blue jail bar lines and Red Guard sentinel margin lines. Pierced by curved wire and buried behind the cover. Lost in the anonymity of the millions of other bound pages, reflecting none of the original life and beauty of the tree.

Now subjected to the idle scrawl and whims of my pen, a plastic tramping, scratching, rolling, elephantine express.

Thoughts to express. Wind of life to express… (Expressly so)

The paper suffers all of this without complaint. It’s only paper.

The abstract phrases and stumbling lines bounding about like billiard balls seeking to be free of the bordering bumpers and roll far and free on a real, green, sward of Velvet grass. Not dead wood…

They rebound and crack together creating disharmony. A vortex in my head, a thought tornado, a whirlpool that clings and whirls pulling memories and time out to spill like the ink spills out of the end of this pen onto the flattened trees called paper.

How would it be if God took our bodies and bones, our brains with their capability to be an artist or playwright, Poets or minstrel’s statesman or midwife? What if He mowed us down like trees, using our favorite things against us, then crushed us and ground us like sawdust until we were a fine white pulp.

What if He pressed the mess of muck into human paper? A flat, featureless plain of two dimensions with the blood of the visionaries as margin lines.

What would He write on this vast plateau of reduced man? Who would read it? Or understand…

NO!

The ricocheting billiard balls of undisciplined ideas rebound in my head once more and gibberish lands on the impassive white page.

I might as well stand back and blow ink through a straw onto the flattened wood. Random marks aren’t that much different from random thoughts bouncing off the edges of my mind. Yet they bounce and I understand the feeling they mark the page with, understanding not the ideas, or the flow of sense.

Some things are deeper than sense, or logic, or rhetoric. Isn’t that right? (You are not supposed to answer that one.)

I’m not trying to be clever, just honest to my soul.

There is no place in the straight-line fast lane, or the slow. There is no place in megahertz computer banks so adept at endlessly adding one plus one and each time making the fresh discovery that the answer is two…

The answer is not two…

There is no place in the foolish interaction I call ‘conversation’ for the silent signals from the hand of the inner man.

This page suffers the violence…

This page suffers the extreme puzzle of billiard balls never settling to rest in the pockets of dogma hemmed in by skull and skin, never coming to rest in the library of the cerebellum.

Well…

How did you expect to really understand anyway?

You are not I…

Maybe a like feeling in you will stir, maybe you will fling these muddy waters away.

I wish I could…

Maybe you will nod your head with a knowing smile and a little pity for me and remember how you lined up your own billiard thoughts for that trick shot trying to organize your own minds scurrying.

Well I am not you so bear with me while I scramble. I can, and must, drink the only drink that I’ve got. I won’t refuse it and shrivel up no matter what you say.

I’ll drink, and chase my greased pig life here and there even if my feet are bleeding.

As if they aren’t…

At least my footprints will be clear to see.

I haven’t accomplished anything here scrabbling and scribbling, reaching inside to grasp the things that like soap squeezed too hard fly at the slightest grasp.

A fly is hatched. He buzzes and snattles, jerking the air and zagging… Drawn to manure and garbage, born to be despised.

Hey, wait a minute… I ain’t no fly… I’m a man…

Sun on skin… Grass scratched back…

Children with plastic squirt guns learn how to aim… I hope they don’t get wet. I am a man, a hu-man. I hew my way through life, the only trail the one I leave behind me.

I wonder if any termites got caught in the pulp of this paper?

My billiard balls change color as they rebound some more.

It is life that I long for. Not knowledge, not praise, not acclaim not concepts but life… I’ll do anything, live anywhere, eat anything, for life.

Not the motions of sleeping and waking, not the sham life of the old doddering priest and his rote prayers, the mass-produced masks that portray zombies as alive. Not, oh please not the shell, not the husk of the kernel.

Not the chaff… Oh God…

Not the chaff… Oh God…

Not the chaff but life booming like the laughter of Bacchus and his train. Life still and deep like the abyss between the points of the stars… Life fantastic and wonder-full like the myths of Dryads and centaurs, fairies and banshees of the old tales. Life, still as stone but graceful and fluid.

Let me get old and beautiful, my face chiseled away by pain, patience and sorrow, until at last these wildly rocketing billiard balls fall silent and inert on the old worn table. My eyes at last wrinkled and dry.

Dry and chuckling…

Chiseled and chuckling…

The man who shoulders His pack and stamps His bleeding feet can suffer no real harm. He feels the nails in hand and foot, His brow and side on fire he weeps, he dies.

He lays dead. Chiseled and chuckling he rises.

I can’t surround life there isn’t enough of me. When I try I’m spread thin and pop like a taunt balloon, or dried out soap bubble.

In spite of myself and the caroming pool table of carnival ideas one masquerading as a fat man, another as the hunger artist, another as the elephant man, the tightrope thrill-seeker, or Tom thumb…

The kaleidoscope turns and ‘presto.’ I have another point of view. Another peek behind the curtain…

Michelangelo pounded long and hard on a block of marble. David emerged chiseled and chuckling. You can bet his carnival was over.

A dog barked just now and reminded me I’m writing.

____________________

Untitled, by Taylor514cd

Plato

on mimesis?

Is it divine madness

to mark student papers in verse?

Untruth!!

____________________

Untitled, by Patricia

Oh yes.

That is a thought

when marking dull papers

on a wet Thursday evening

Quite late.

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

She offered her honour

He honoured her offer

He was on 'er and off 'er

all night.

____________________

Untitled, by montsnmags

he turned

asking me what

I was writing, laughed when

I showed him (me?) then turned and faced

the sun

From Scribblings

Taylor514ce:

Quotes from "The Secret of Lost Things":

"Whiteness exerted a kind of sorcery."

"Acquisitiveness drove them, and envy - the ingredients of any passion."

"The books housed in one's first adult bookshelf are the geological bed of who we wish to be."

Random Words to think about/ try to use

recognition

autodidact

condign

impenitent

Musings

The perfect arms of my waitress, line of the tricep, definition, yet womanly, soft.

middle-distance gaze of the pretty 20-something waitresses in the limbo of no new customers, all drinks full; texting, texting, throwing words into the world, marking time… desultory chat, springing to life and smiles when the door chimes or a chair scrapes… my warm gaze following the small brunette who doesn't disguise her boredom, not the falsely cheerful one preceded blondley by her tits…

____________________

Incunabula: prior to 1501 a.d. printed with movable type, also the primal beginning of a thing.

"…how much a part of curiosity is uneasiness." - B of A&S

at CN Tower

sudden vertigo -

your arched neck

neck/column/tower… your long white neck. Curve… subtle curve. smooth

at CN tower

sudden vertigo -

your smooth curved white neck

[doodles: circles, curves]

____________________

spider on thread drops descends stops pause

reflection in glass door, window

focus shift? looking outside, then at reflection, then at up close spider.

play on "reflection"

-or- capture sense of waiting, pause, time still

spider stops at eye level - I stop

both waiting. I hear each tick of a clock. cliché?

a movement, glance

to see a spider

stop

glance up

to

see

a

spider

stop

____________________

zelda_pinwheel:

oxymoron of the week: "being dead"

nyctalopie: anomalie des yeux dans laquelle la vision, très faible pendant le jour, augmente notablement avec le déclin de la lumière.

tatou: n.m. (empr. à une langue indigène du Brésil). Mammifère d'Amérique tropicale, au corps couvert de plaques cornées et pouvant s'enrouler en boule. (Long. 30 cm, sans la queue; ordre des édentés)

Nous sommes bien près de nous réveiller quand nous rêvons que nous rêvons.

(We are very close to waking up when we dream that we are dreaming)

____________________

Like charity, schizophrenia begins at home.

-Florence King

a spookily pertinent graffiti from la rue de Jarente:

La liberté consiste à avoir conscience de l'absurdité de la vie.

(Liberty consists of being conscious of the absurdity of life)

a graffiti i saw in Dresden:

"you know the chase is better than the catch."

____________________

We are animals

we should eat our Jung.

(another graffitti)

____________________

On dit d'un fleuve qu'il est violent;

on ne dit jamais rien des rives qui l'enserrent.

-Bertold Brecht

(we describe a river as violent;

we never say anything about the banks which enclose it.)

____________________

Serpent à sonnettes

Rattelslang

Culebra de cascabel

Skallerorm

Klapperschlange

Rattle snake

____________________

words of the day:

betterave (beetroot)

lapin (rabbit)

locomotive (i'll let you guess)

title which to my knowledge does not exist, but should:

"Fonctionnaire de l'inutile" (approximately "Civil Servant of the Useless")

mozzled by Jozef 27 april 2003

amflam: à se plaindre tout le temps (always complaining about something)

mozzled by Zelda probably sometime in 2003

ça craint pour la paille (approximately "watch out for the straw"): je suis énervée (i'm cranky)

also mozzled by Zelda in 2003.

____________________

if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate. (ar ar ar!!!)

nothing is foolproof: fools are ingenious.

i prefer to remain anomalous.

oer dier! dis treins warboel en arend.

"Nous sommes si jeunes, nous ne pouvons pas attendre."

(we are so young, we cannot wait.)

"Regarde la réalité en farce" (Look reality in the farce)

(graffiti, rue de Thorigny)

synechdoche: her wanton curls.

Prière de ne pas marcher sur les oeuvres. (Please don't walk on the art.)

Panopticon

____________________

"Ich bin dîn

Du bist mîn

Ich dir

Du mir

Wir"

-Walther von der Vogel-Weide

Je suis folle comme un lapin! ("i'm crazy like a rabbit!" i really wonder what *that* could have been in reference to.)

____________________

in London, on the Tube: "This train will not be calling at the next station."

in the Netherlands, in the car: raindrops pollywogging across the windows.

at Den Haag, on the beach: seashells lying in shoals and spangles across the sand.

Sneeksnits: name of a town in Holland.

je hais infiniment parce que j'aime sans réserve.

Parfois le regard pèche par excès de lumière.

____________________

today's scribblings are the titles of books that intrigued me in the window of the bookstore i walked past earlier. i thought it would be singularly appropriate to share them here.

José Saramago Les intermittances de la mort

Julien Bouissoux Voyager léger

Marie Phillips Les dieux ne valent pas mieux!

on the same page there is a song which i heard at a party a couple of weeks ago:

"Busy Line" by Rose Murphy (excellent song!)

and this candy wrapper joke, which sadly i cannot translate because it is a pun:

"on dit pas dégâts des eaux, on dit des marins." (if you don't understand it at first, read it out loud.)

____________________

"slumped in an agnosticism about sentience itself…"

-John Leonard

____________________

Since Half the world is H2O

Having disregarded exhortations to join the

NAVY

we learned to swim.

Those who do not swim,

learn to sail,

or more bizarrely,

Water ski.

Others, who had not even conceived of water,

Oh they wish for dry land.

But as the continents are defined by the sea,

This is never wholly possible.

-Lou Reed

I copied out this poem for the 4 lines in bold.

____________________

pilotbob:

"They are building a new house down the street."

Well, of course it is a "new" house, have you ever seen an old house built?

____________________

spear:

oxymoron of the week: "being dead"

Is that like the "undead", which is my husband's and mine's favorite oxymoron.

Our favorite redundancy: "The Giant Behemoth" (The British version of Godzilla!)

____________________

Patricia:

Found in a Religious Studies exam paper:

'Genitals were not allowed in the Temple.'

____________________

Bread.

Milk.

salad.

Chickpeas.

Collect dry cleaning.

____________________

montsnmags:

Self-indulgent crap

Down into the woods

into the drowned woods

into the unsound woods…

____________________

pshrynk:

RUBBER!

____________________

vivaldirules:

Thoughtlets

Triflings. Vanities. Indulgences of mine mind.

"I once did think a thunk - thunk a think." ‹-author?

Trival triflings. Turmoil. Transcendent terror. Irridescent ideas. Idiocy.

Infinite iotas. Impassioned pleas for identity.

Monumental, meaningless, wallowing.

I once did picture pygmies - punctual and putrid.

They scattered my thoughts across the landscape.

They waylaid my hopes for serenity.

They tattered my woven ideals.

Groundswells of misdeeds oozed from below, contaminating all purity of being.

From Other Threads

NatCh :

Another Squirrel Story

Note: This is not autobiographical.

Neighborhood Hazard

(or: Why the Cops Won’t Patrol Brice Street)

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!

Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being “behind the power curve”. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle…at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness…all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway.

I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that “edge” so frequently required when riding.

Little did I suspect…

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it-it was that close.

I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street…and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.

But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.

This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.

I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it.

The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in…well…I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street…on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however.

The rpm’s on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop.

Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand…I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.

Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine...

I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.

So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger…

That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car…

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.

As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I’ll take my chances with the freeway. Every time.

And I’ll buy myself a new pair of gloves.

This file was created with

BookDesigner program

bookdesigner@the-ebook.org

5/25/2008

Date:

5/25/2008