Thought Balloon: The Past, Too Fast

thought balloon small asterisk

*Remember Future Shock? Too much change too fast? The future is no longer ahead of us. The future is now. The future is now the shock wave of the past; it’s the past that has got ahead of us. The faster we careen into the future the deeper into the past we’ll end up. What do you think, pilgrims–Are we back to the future, our ancient future, yet?

Filed under talking to myself, letting you listen.

Little Chickadee

 

A half-ounce
of chickadee
scissors up thistle seeds

slings
a raindrop
on its back

and flits away
lifting cloudy sky
with a tiny actinic flash.

 

 

 

 

 

Random Photo: Mother Hand, Having Writ

pbutt haul away 2 luck

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

I’ve been told this particular graffito, multiples of which adorn various surfaces in the urban landscape of Louisville, is called the “pig butt.” I never saw it as a pig’s rear end, and I still don’t; never made that connection. To me it reverberates visually with the many abstract vulvas scribed on cave walls in prehistory by our Cro-Magnon ancestors.

34vulvas

paleolithicvulva

I don’t have any information about the graffiti writer or writers who created this not-a-pig-butt with a spiral not-a-pig-tail but what I recognize as the ancient sigil of the mother goddess. I don’t need to know the intent or the meaning of it. The chthonic writ of the eternal feminine has been blazoned in spray paint all over this town.* Swine, my ass.

*Many have been painted over, and I haven’t seen any new ones recently. The writer(s) may not be active.

Happy Birthday, R. Mutt

Henri-Robert-Marcel Duchamp was born this day, July 28, in 1887. There’s quite a lot more to his work than a urinal and a mustache on Mona Lisa. Do an image search.

l-h-o-o-q-mona-lisa-with-moustache-1919

Elle a chaud au cul/There is a fire down below

Found Poem: Death of a Lady’s Mermaid

mermaid deep twk 1

The Mermaid And The Deep

Mermaid muscles were numbered
and mermaid style was obsolete
and all mermaid virtues hissing
in a steaming holocaust:

And the deep took unto herself
most everything her mermaid lover lost.

The deep beckoned to the sentry
of mermaid’s high religious mood.
The deep said, “I’ll make an ocean
between my legs, I’ll teach you solitude.”

Mermaid offered her an orgy
in a many-mirrored sea;
mermaid promised her protection
against the fishes of her womb.

The deep moved her body hard
against a sharpened spoon,
the deep stopped the rituals
of passage to the moon.

The deep took mermaid’s admirable
oceanic frame of mind,
and the heart-of-darkness alibi
mermaid hides behind.

“This mental ocean is occupied
and everything is mine.”

Mermaid tried to take a final dive
beside the sailor’s tack.
The deep said, “The art of longing’s over
and it’s never coming back.”

The deep took mermaid’s tavern,
mermaid’s shimmy-dance;
the deep mocked mermaid’s female fashions
and working-class moustache.

The last time I saw him
mermaid was trying hard to get
a woman’s education
but mermaid’s not a woman yet.

And the last time I saw her
the deep was living with a boy
who gives her soul an empty sea
and gives her body joy.

It’s like our voyage to the moon
or to that other compass star:
I guess you sail for nothing
if you really want to sail that far.

Note: After letting them rest for almost three months, I’m posting, one by one, the 27 found poems I wrote during National Poetry Month (aka April), and posted to the PoMoSco site for Poetry Scout “badges”, since Camp PoMoSco is now offline.

The Mermaid and the Deep earned the PMS Sub. Texter  badge. Earning the badge required replacing one to five frequently recurring words with words of my own choice, in a text of my choice. As my source text I used Leonard Cohen’s Death Of A Lady’s Man (New York: Penguin Books, 1979. Pages 30, 31, 32):

death of ladyI’ve owned this copy of Death Of A Lady’s Man for 35 years, and it looks it.

For she, I substituted the deep; for his, and he, I substituted mermaid; for space, I substituted ocean; for room, I substituted sea. There were a few additional tweaks, which I did not draw attention to when I posted it to PoMoSco. The result in my own judgment is more a play on Cohen’s original than a free-standing poem, but I like it anyway.

Random Photo

crow puddle

A crow drinks the cold
I feel in my bones
when I begin to love.

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

The Empty Chair

NYM cover cosby victims

The chair, as Nigel Tufnel has given the world to say, takes an already powerful image and cranks it up to eleven.