Sunday, June 19, 2011

from a free online psychic reading, the makings of a poem?

In Your Public Life...
Words that embody your presence are "Misadventure, Retribution”
Words that embody things that may be a part of you are "Abandon, Demon, Falcon, Feline, Forge, Libido, Limbo, Mars, Metal, Silk, Urge, Wave, Wine"
Words that embody people or things in your periphery are "Ballet, Bliss, Cage, Community, Devil, Door, Earth, Ebony, Elegance, Fame, Fertility, Finance, Flood, Funk, Gem, Giraffe, Heart, Immunity, Infinity, Ingenuity, Kaleidoscope, Linguistics, Magenta, Mist, Monolith, Pearl, Platinum, Pope, Pride, Profanity, Pursuit, Puzzle, Rabbit, Riddle, Rum, Sculptor, Sea, Ship, Staff, Stage, Steel, Strategy, Technology, Temptation, Trance, Ugliness, Virility, Voyeur"

In Your Private Life...
Words that embody your presence are "Hand, Dance, Job, Red"
Words that embody the people or things that you interact with are "Amulet, Bullet, Cathedral, Despair, Failure, Fashion, Lover, Lust, Money, Pilot, Reason, River, Rocket, School, Sweet, World"
Words that embody things that you may be a part of are "Syzygy"
Words that embody people or things in your periphery are "Obsession, Porcupine, Spotlight, Stability, Torture, University"

In Your Spiritual Life...
Words that embody your presence are "Encyclopedia, Mathematics, Stonehenge, Unknown"
Words that embody people or things in your periphery are "Attraction, Car, Cube, Fall, Fulfillment, Hard, Industry, Luxury, Mercury, Poverty, Rage, Revelation, Satellite, Splendor, Television"

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Let's not get too literal about it, but...

...here is the poem from Wonderbender inspired by this X-Files episode Quagmire....

A Ptarmigan

These two—they have such a pale understanding
of each other—not pale in a washed-out way but pale
as in understated, fine, subtle,
like a pale wine-stain that becomes part of the fabric's design
and would be missed if removed. And here they are,
two people on a very small island (the size, let's say,
of a 1950's convertible), in the dark, in the fog,
with the silken waters lapping
all around, and they are not afraid
exactly, just weary. They've brought with them, as always,
flashlights; one even has a lantern. They have
jackets, waterproof ones, and they have
conversation of an interesting type and they have bright,
bright eyes
in the darkness. They do not touch, for they do not
know each other well, but you can tell they will touch
at some undesignated future point, or would touch
if circumstances demanded it—would touch in a minute—
to save themselves, say, if the water rose too high,
or to huddle together if the wind became too fierce,
or the rain. Or they would touch if the conversation,
now at another interesting juncture—clever, you might say,
although never sarcastic—turned to reveal that one of them
suffered pain. What are they saying? In the cool drift
of the water and the night, delicate words can be heard
on the brine-scented air. One mentions a book, the other pretends
to have read it, but knows enough about it in fact
to be able to ask a fair question. This goes on for some time
and they are growing somewhat cold
and wearier, and although they do not like to admit it,
a little afraid. A ptarmigan dips down through the fog
to look at them, yet they do not kiss. The expressions
on their faces are kind, if puzzled, if bemused. What they do
not know is that the land is just nearby
beyond where the fog drops off and their line of vision
dissolves. They can hear the frogs on shore
beguiling their mates in deep voices,
yet their weariness stops them from believing
they could stretch out their four hands and touch them.

(for Mulder and Scully)

Thursday, June 9, 2011

poem of the day

the disgusting night

door opens across the hall

or the window, perhaps, left pushed up an inch
and then the lunatic across the path

and you’re worried about his beagle
the dog too loud for its skin

the flattened is-it-a-squirrel
next to the green lidded bin

mercy a watch running down all etched in glass
and worth half a million

an enormous bear in the childhood yard
by a rock by a stream in a shed

this is uncalled-for i know.

let it end here.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

another poem from Wonderbender (available at www.1913press.org and amazon.com)

perished gadabout

i asked him what the problem was and he said:

i have been reading. i have been reading the most dismal accounts of vacations in sunny places. also i have this feeling, unaccountably, that there are people i do not know who wrote these accounts and who i will never be able to like. i do not know about their hats, their parents, or their moral habits, and yet i am sure i will not like them. i do not like them now.

he said:

the priest came in and showed us the relics: sixteen toes of saint glossolalia,, nineteen arms of saint anapestus, saint poblermane's twelve white breasts, three precious foreskins from the baby jesus, nine whole and complete bodies of saint wally (though his corpse had been cremated), and one petrified tonsil of mary the mother of god—the only piece left when her body ascended to heaven. he told us that relic-seekers were an especially interesting breed.

and he said: i have perished as a gadabout

i am no longer who i thought i was or would be but i am my own puzzle. everything i say is a surprise to me and an albatross. i have no wingspan nevertheless. the best things i say are flown in an instant and the worst tag behind me. i drag them everywhere.

he said he was sorry. that there was no news.
that he would not be good company today.

I Don't Pray

I Don't Pray

let me in, let me out

Reading -- March 1