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Marcus Bales 08-01-2007 08:59 AM

Fish Thoughts: The Boread
...ruit alto a culmine... -- Vergil
Nick Humez

Seattle dreads the humble gribble,
said to be boring through its piers
while heroes rant, and sages quibble,
enlivening this vale of tears.

A humble fishy thing to cobble
together verses apt upon!
Though earth upon its axis wobble,
and shysters shy, and con-men con,

and toil us fret, and taxes trouble,
let's pause a moment to admire
as gribbles efforts small redouble:
Seattle topples; Troy's on fire.


Zebra Mussels
Marcus Bales

In Cleveland it's the zebra mussel
Clogging intake mesh and flows,
Where water-users had to hustle
As the water-level rose.

Desperately from each house lunges,
Dressing scrambling through each door,
The citizens go fish for sponges
Up and down the civic shore.

Fierce with plain determination,
Wresting sponges from the nets,
They slowly halt the lake's inflation
Then pause to light their cigarets.

Then "Out! All out!" the word is shouted.
CEI and Muni Light
Have every volt and amp re-routed,
Checked and re-checked til they're right.

All at once they throw their switches --
Erie's bathed in eerie gleams
Til every zebra mussel twitches,
Dead in bright electric dreams.

Saved at last! The flowing water
Rushes through the pipes to pass
Into hoses where it ought to
Change to green the lawn's brown grass.

brightpearl 08-08-2007 09:00 AM


brightpearl 08-29-2007 09:08 PM

I love this book. Each chapter is an exploration of one of the many ways space-time might behave.

From Einstein's Dreams, by Alan Lightman:

11 May, 1905

Walking on the Marktgasse, one sees a wondrous sight. The cherries in the fruit stalls sit aligned in rows, the hats in the millinery shop are neatly stacked, the flowers on the balconies are arranged in perfect symmetries, no crumbs lie on the bakery floor, no milk is spilled on the cobblestones of the buttery. No thing is out of place.

When a gay party leaves a restaurant, the tables are more tidy than before. When a wind blows gently through the street, the street is swept clean, the dirt and dust transported to the edge of town. When waves of water splash against the shore, the shore rebuilds itself. When leaves fall from the trees, the leaves line up like birds in V-formation. When clouds form faces, the faces stay. When a pipe lets smoke into a room, the soot drifts toward a corner of the room, leaving clear air. Painted balconies exposed to wind and rain become brighter in time. The sound of thunder makes a broken vase reform itself, makes the fractured shards leap up to the precise positions where they fit and bind. The fragrant odor of a passing cinnamon cart intensifies, not dissipates, with time.

Do these happenings seem strange?

In this world, the passage of time brings increasing order. Order is the law of nature, the universal trend, the cosmic direction. If time is an arrow, that arrow points toward unison, intensification; the past, randomness, confusion, disintegration, dissipation.

Philosophers have argued that without a trend toward order, time would lack meaning. The future would be indistinguishable from the past. Sequences of events would be just so many random scenes from a thousand novels. History would be indistinct, like the mist slowly gathered by treetops in evening.

In such a world, people with untidy houses lie in their beds and wait for the forces of nature to jostle the dust from their windowsills and straighten the shoes in their closets. People with untidy affairs may picnic while their calendars become organized, their appointments arranged, their accounts balanced. Lipsticks and brushes and letters may be tossed into purses with the satisfaction that they will sort themselves out automatically. Gardens need never be pruned, weeds never uprooted. Desks become neat by the end of the day. Clothes ont he floor in the evening lie on chairs in the morning. Missing socks reappear.

If one visits a city in spring, one sees another wondrous sight. For in springtime the populace become sick of the order in their lives. In spring, people furiously lay waste to their houses. They sweep in dirt, smash chairs, break windows. On Aarbergergasse, or any residential avenue in spring, one hears the sounds of broken glass, shouting, howling, laughter. In spring, people meet at unarranged times, burn their appointment books, throw away their watches, drink through the night. This hysterical abandon continues until summer, when people regain their senses and return to order.

rapscalious rob 08-30-2007 04:36 AM

“One day, when I came home from work, I accidentally put my car key in the door of my apartment building... I turned it... and the whole building started up.... So I drove it around.... A policeman stopped me for going too fast... He said, 'Where do you live?'... I said, 'Right here'... Then I drove my building onto the middle of a highway, and I ran outside, and told all of the cars to get the hell out of my driveway.”

- Jack Handey

rapscalious rob 08-31-2007 05:16 PM

“…‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.’…”

-Lewis Carroll, The Walrus & the Carpenter

lapietra 08-31-2007 05:38 PM

Björk
Riding on my bicycle
I saw a motorcrash
A proper motorcrash
Lots of spectators
I rushed to the center
Saw the injured parents
Cuts on the children
An awful motorcrash
So dangerous motorcrash
So terribly bloody
Motorcrash
Destructive motorcrash
I took the mother
Sneaked with her secretly
All the way to my home
And nursed her gently
I put on her bandages, gave her
Milk and biscuits
She sighed pleasantly after this
Awful motorcrash
So dangerous, dangerous
Motorcrash
Motrocrash
Destructive motorcrash
Einar
That girl on that bicycle
Showed great interest
In all the motorcrashes in the neighbourhood
She look quite innocent
Björk
Then we disguised ourselves
Took a taxi to her home
When her husband answered the door
She introduced herself
He said "Where have you been all this time?"
Einar
Believe you-me
I know what innocent looks like
She showed great interest
After she got that bicycle

rapscalious rob 08-31-2007 06:17 PM



Embed
Mark Jenkens, Washington, DC, 2006

brightpearl 08-31-2007 06:21 PM

^That site is awesome, so much good stuff...but I think my favorite thing is the stork/tumbling baby on the home page background.

brightpearl 09-17-2007 11:20 PM


accompanied by immaculate parasites, Santa Claus allows
himself from afar to be controlled by means of lateral appendages

giaisnthere 11-02-2007 07:08 PM

what if this isn't my life, what if i keep falling into other worlds, living other people's lives. is that why i feel a stranger in my own house, like i am seeing everything for the first time, and some voice keeps repeating, this one we bought in 1999 and this one we found on the way from school as if to fill the voids in my memory cycles as if i were a computer and the task is yet to be completed, the task of who i was before and was to become?

Pixie Cherries 01-10-2008 03:32 AM



The Windhover

by Gerard Manley Hopkins
(1844-1889)

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
.....dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
.....Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
.....As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
.....Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
.....Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
.....No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
.....Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


You can find it here:

http://poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=173667

Odbe 01-10-2008 04:45 AM

^ I keep seeing that one pop up around here, and I think I posted it myself once. It's special to me because it's one of the few poems I've found whose beauty was not dimmed for me by my being made to 'study' it.

Angry Kid Hoyt 01-10-2008 03:28 PM

The Smokers
by Steve Martin


He lit the cigarette and smoked it down to the filter in one breath. He silently thanked the Winston Company for being thoughtful enough about his health to include a filter to protect him. So he lit up another. This time he didn't exhale the squeaky-clean filtered smoke, but just let it nestle in his lungs, filling his body with that good menthol flavor. Some more smokers knocked on his door and they came in and all started smoking along with him.

"How wonderful it is that we're all smoking," he thought.

Everyone smoked and smoked and after they smoked they all talked about smoking and how nice it was that they were all smokers and then they smoked some more.

Smoke, smoke, smoke. They all sang "Smoke That Cigarette" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." Then the smokers smoked one more cigarette and left him alone in his easy chair, about to relax and enjoy a nice quiet smoke. And then his lips fell off.

brightpearl 04-16-2008 03:17 PM

give it a second look

brightpearl 07-29-2008 06:08 AM



I had to look at this for a long time, hahahaha. :D


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