We all know of letters that begin "Drear Mary" or "To My Sweatheart", giving deeper (perhaps truer) meaning to terms of affection. And so:
Misspelling For Poets
Sometimes creative misspelling
Can be literally compelling -
Then new coinages come to light
Because a word's not writ quite right......
For example, without intention,
I typed in place of mere "detection"
The more specialized "dirtection":
Or "To spot all dust upon inspection".
So, for hands that tremble in true terror
Of committing one more doltish error -
Recall, despite persistent perspiration,
That mistakes can stimulate inspiration;
The letter, like the person, which doesn't fit
Sometimes gives birth to great wit.
Monday, August 6, 2007
from the land of the gray
Every dog has his day
And in the dark, all cats are gray.
If the cat and mouse both are gray
How tell hunter from the prey?
By smell, of course. Mice smell musty, cats smell like rain-cleansed woods. And sound: When was the last time you heard a mouse purr? In the dark, in the night, in the land of the gray, present and future are defined by a squeak and a whiff.
And in the dark, all cats are gray.
If the cat and mouse both are gray
How tell hunter from the prey?
By smell, of course. Mice smell musty, cats smell like rain-cleansed woods. And sound: When was the last time you heard a mouse purr? In the dark, in the night, in the land of the gray, present and future are defined by a squeak and a whiff.
subspecies: broccoli artificialis (& nanotechnology trout)
Overheard comment: "In my daughter's kindergarten class the kids had an argument about whether there were two kinds of tomatoes, the ones that farmers grew and the kind that were manufactured in plastic boxes".
Tomato naturalis versus Tomato artificialis.
Ode to Health Food:
Give me soy bean burgers, unsalted rice cakes,
Tangy spinach for my midnight snacks;
Crunchy vitamin pill, when will power breaks,
Prized for the calories that it lacks....
Oh it's yummy, yummy, yummy
For a medi-coated tongue and tummy
Broccoli gurgles gaily in my guts-
Oh joy, oh rapture, I'm no blithering rummy;
I resist butter, beer and butts.
Tomato naturalis versus Tomato artificialis.
Ode to Health Food:
Give me soy bean burgers, unsalted rice cakes,
Tangy spinach for my midnight snacks;
Crunchy vitamin pill, when will power breaks,
Prized for the calories that it lacks....
Oh it's yummy, yummy, yummy
For a medi-coated tongue and tummy
Broccoli gurgles gaily in my guts-
Oh joy, oh rapture, I'm no blithering rummy;
I resist butter, beer and butts.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Surgeon General Warning: Eating Babes is Bad for Your Health
modest proposal.....
Nowadays, we're too health conscious to eat infants; all that baby fat would surely raise cholesterol levels. And, if we take a lesson from our ancestors, we could surely make use of the kids after only a few years of being drained by them - as menial labor in factories, screwing caps on bottles, or as house cleaners for working couples. Two, three, four houses per day, let them work from sun-up to moon-down. And when they keel over, kaput, dead, batteries drained, at age 10 - we can say that we've metaphorically eaten one child a thousand times, sucked all the juice from his flesh and soul until be could be no more.
Better yet, we could eat our golden oldies, a.k.a. golden moldies, a.k.a. senior citizens, a.k.a. social security leeches, a.k.a. Medicare moochers. Scientists would have to develop an especially strong tenderizer, to be applied before packaging, if their deltoids, biceps, trapezius muscles and untender-loins are to be sold as grade A steak to humans of discerning palate. If such a tenderizer isn't developed, the meat, gristle, osteoporotic bones and degenerate cartilage can be pulverized and served to cattle with the usual swill of manure peppered with antibiotics; prime cuts might be added to Alpo stew, with its "variety of meats for a canine's variety of nutritional needs". Then, in answer to the question "Whatever happened to Granny?", one can honestly answer "Granny, she turned into a real cow", or "She went to the dogs in the end". About the stocky grandfather, one may exclaim proudly "Yes, he was a real hunk" - as in "a hunk of meat".
Merchants and dieters might retort "Haven't you seen the latest version of Atkins? It's all the rage. One can gobble all the fat one wants, just stay away from that nasty pasta", followed by the jingle:
Baby toes, dipped in cheese -
Yummmm, they're finger-lickin' good;
Tender, more bound to please
Than greased chicken ever could.
When the price of beef begins to soar
And you must serve as host -
Lure kiddie to your kitchen door
And serve guests toddler roast.
Nowadays, we're too health conscious to eat infants; all that baby fat would surely raise cholesterol levels. And, if we take a lesson from our ancestors, we could surely make use of the kids after only a few years of being drained by them - as menial labor in factories, screwing caps on bottles, or as house cleaners for working couples. Two, three, four houses per day, let them work from sun-up to moon-down. And when they keel over, kaput, dead, batteries drained, at age 10 - we can say that we've metaphorically eaten one child a thousand times, sucked all the juice from his flesh and soul until be could be no more.
Better yet, we could eat our golden oldies, a.k.a. golden moldies, a.k.a. senior citizens, a.k.a. social security leeches, a.k.a. Medicare moochers. Scientists would have to develop an especially strong tenderizer, to be applied before packaging, if their deltoids, biceps, trapezius muscles and untender-loins are to be sold as grade A steak to humans of discerning palate. If such a tenderizer isn't developed, the meat, gristle, osteoporotic bones and degenerate cartilage can be pulverized and served to cattle with the usual swill of manure peppered with antibiotics; prime cuts might be added to Alpo stew, with its "variety of meats for a canine's variety of nutritional needs". Then, in answer to the question "Whatever happened to Granny?", one can honestly answer "Granny, she turned into a real cow", or "She went to the dogs in the end". About the stocky grandfather, one may exclaim proudly "Yes, he was a real hunk" - as in "a hunk of meat".
Merchants and dieters might retort "Haven't you seen the latest version of Atkins? It's all the rage. One can gobble all the fat one wants, just stay away from that nasty pasta", followed by the jingle:
Baby toes, dipped in cheese -
Yummmm, they're finger-lickin' good;
Tender, more bound to please
Than greased chicken ever could.
When the price of beef begins to soar
And you must serve as host -
Lure kiddie to your kitchen door
And serve guests toddler roast.
dream Dad
from a dream:
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.
"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."
I stared back, speechless.
"It's a letter. From your father."
I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.
"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."
I paused a long time, thinking.
"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."
I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.
"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."
The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?
"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."
"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."
"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."
The dean motioned me to sit before his sturdy mahogany desk.
"Claire, We have a little problem," he paused and fingered a single piece of folded paper. "Not the usual problem we have with students."
I stared back, speechless.
"It's a letter. From your father."
I frowned; my father couldn't be writing letters to the Dean.
"To Dean Emory," he began. "Let me read it all to you, it's not long......dean Emory, I'm writing in regards to my daughter, Claire Kuvok, who currently attends your art school. I am her father, I know Claire well, her personality and her talents. Her gradeschool pictures were scribbles; her junior high pictures continued to be eyesores. Claire is not an artist. She is an engineer; she hould be studying chemistry, physics and math. She shoudn't number among your students, unless you accept every student who applies."
I paused a long time, thinking.
"We don't pay too much attention to parental complaints," the deam continued. "But I thought that you should be made aware."
I coughed, rubbed my hands together, then spoke.
"I'll just remind him that he's dead," i said. "That'll keep him quiet. He hates to be reminded of the fact." i paused and shouted. "Dad, you're dead. D_E_A_D! Remember that - dead! Out of the letter writing business."
The dean gasped. You mean that your father is not alive?
"He's been dead for years. Eight years to be exact. Who the heck wrote this? Let me see it. Oh god! It's my brother's handwriting."
"Well, that explains it then. It's a practical joke."
"Only one problem. My brother lost both of his hands in a land mine explosion in Iraq."
longing
And when the royals are feeling stressed
By popparazi and the press,
They long to be like average Joe
Who can freely come and go.
That Joe breathes sooty factory air
And strains in pain to pay the fare
The royals would not want to know.
For if the mundane doesn't glow
Where could blue royals long to go?
By popparazi and the press,
They long to be like average Joe
Who can freely come and go.
That Joe breathes sooty factory air
And strains in pain to pay the fare
The royals would not want to know.
For if the mundane doesn't glow
Where could blue royals long to go?
Soul Jam
"I promise not to hide my face, if you promise not to suck up my soul."
But the inside of this camera is already filled with too many souls - souls packed too closely together to writhe and wriggle; souls sweaty and gagging from the stink of so much perspiration, souls deaf from one another's screams. You couldn't squeeze another soul in, unless you let one of the prisoners out. But that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Not when the freed soul is also deaf and mad. Not when its muscles are cramped from such long crowding and its hot wet skin is overgrown with mold; such a soul might seek vengence, punitive damages from any photographer for the years of freedom it can never reclaim. Best, then, to let rotting souls rot; best to keep trapped souls in their cages.
Photography will be safe as long as imprisoned souls stay shut in, and picture takers don't buy new cameras.
But the inside of this camera is already filled with too many souls - souls packed too closely together to writhe and wriggle; souls sweaty and gagging from the stink of so much perspiration, souls deaf from one another's screams. You couldn't squeeze another soul in, unless you let one of the prisoners out. But that wouldn't be a good idea, would it? Not when the freed soul is also deaf and mad. Not when its muscles are cramped from such long crowding and its hot wet skin is overgrown with mold; such a soul might seek vengence, punitive damages from any photographer for the years of freedom it can never reclaim. Best, then, to let rotting souls rot; best to keep trapped souls in their cages.
Photography will be safe as long as imprisoned souls stay shut in, and picture takers don't buy new cameras.
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