Steal This Meme: Fuck Yeah, Steal Them All

america fuck yeah arial black twk Coatlicue tonatzin

trump emphasis fuck

republican hold a reptile today

karl marx repress meme text cent gothic

little sister eye text watching

stranglove hope

As Clay Shirky, author of Here Comes Everybody, puts it, “The stupidest possible creative act is still a creative act.” Words to live by in the latter days of the Internet Age. Steal this meme.

Found Poem: Seven Oils

seven oils egyptSacred Oil Palette

Seven Oils

Remember you are manifest in form
often with a mantra.
Tap the thymus. Breathe deeply.

Through angelic realms
into the next body

and contain frequencies,
frequencies of the star code,
frequencies of the devic kingdom.

Seed your ascension
with a translation of the emerald,
A thousand petals

on parchment.
Works with Thoth.
Works with the devas

of the spheres
sold separately.

Note: I’m posting, one by one, the 27 found poems I wrote during National Poetry Month (aka April), 2015, and posted to the PoMoSco site for Poetry Scout “badges.” Camp PoMoSco is now offline.

Seven Oils earned the PoMoSco As Advertised badge. As instructed, I went to the nearest bulletin board, at my local branch library. On the board, one flyer, THE SACRED SEVEN OILS, caught my eye. It was so rich a source that I used it exclusively to build the poem. The Seven Oils flyer is on the bottom on the left in the picture:

library bulletin board seven oils

Random Photo

ky state fair wild mouse

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

The rattle of limerance
against blue sky and clouds
cheap midway thrill.

Found Poem: Both Locks and Keys

locks and keys twk crop

Both Locks and Keys

In what intimate room
do the horns of other days
still reach us, and leave indelible marks,

marks we prefer to deepen?
And what is underlining
but engraving while we write?

To go more deeply
still into legend,
should we not wait,

before using them, for them to be,
as they say in France,

How can one enter,
one who is the mountain,
one who is tall stone altered by sky?

Who will come knocking
At the door of the house
of all houses in which we found shelter,

the concrete isolate
secure as an absolute casket,
of all houses we have dreamed we lived in?

Does there exist
a single dreamer of words
who doesn’t like both locks and keys?

Note: I’m posting, one by one, the 27 found poems I wrote during National Poetry Month (aka April), 2015, and posted to the PoMoSco site for Poetry Scout “badges.”Camp PoMoSco is now offline.

Both Locks and Keys earned the PMS Interrogator  badge. Earning the badge required constructing a poem out of questions found in a chosen text. As my source text I used Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, Beacon Press, 1969.


Random Photo: See Them Now

see them now ort twk crossp

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

The Kentucky State Fair is open. The weather is unreasonably fall-ish. I will go and walk among them.

I will hire on with a traveling sideshow
as Dogboy,
and search for her
among the crowds of prey.

From The Werewolf in Love

Bonus Dogboy:

who will love me dog boy crop

Random Photo

fmarket sunflowers back

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

In August the glory
of summer
begins to turn its back.

When I wake up, I am Ignatz


In these latter days, on mornings when I wake twitchy with mania, lunatic lucidity crackling from my fingers like static electricity, I reach for my iPhone or Chromebook. BTI*, I used to write poetry. The panel above, from George Harriman‘s Krazy Kat expresses exactly how I think and feel as my fingers touch screen or keyboard:

Every day my mind grows keener–my good arm stronger … my silly enemies more futile …

I am Ignatz the Rat. I sling virtual bricksbats in this singular delusive rapture that is the Internet.

I also think you love me, my dearest enemies.

*Before the Internet