Today is 12.19.16.4.11 7 Chuwen 9 Pohp

1349 shopping days until 13.0.0.0.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.

America Visionary Arts Museum, Baltimore, March 2007

Have a very shiny Eostre Egg Day.

COMPOTE

Life is a plum circus, replete with sorrows. A feast of mallow, and scorn. A hyperbolic paraboloid of concrete poured on form of straight timbers. Life is:  a swatch of sun, abandoned by insect beetling through the loam. A quest for Ultima Thule,  Kontiki–only to find walking nosehead gods carved of native stone.  A Sunday stroll past pickets ringing a nudist colony–at the pace of Foyt lapping the Brickyard. Mangoes and papaya–dripping lackaday typos and sticky addenda.  Purple mountain’s majesty–beyond the vehicular haze of Quivera. A straight blast down the gunbarrel road of Colorado’s South Park, while overhead lazybones sculls down his gruesome spiral to gorge on curdled meat of tire’s victim. A lubricious compound, stardust and swampwater. Pleasure targeted by Peenemunde, a zero sum game. Peignoir over chastity belt.  Jolt of Tesla at tip of glans, bon voyaging Mongol horde of sperm–“there died a myriad” that one might live. Plasticity humbled, the juggernaut of flesh reduced to a chassis of bone, to a float reclaimed from wilted flora on day after parade, the flowers wirra interred as mesh and bar to reinforce that other flesh, earth. Sweet cream Venus in her teens forgetful of Psyche so black and blue. A turbojet engine, ear-mulching bagpipe, its spin snuffed on mere peck of grackle. Tickling pinkies of April giggling over scorched October, that old wives’ tale of Midas’ touch, all gilt and russet. The love song of J. Alfred Humpback, pitching woo to his diving partner until they press like palms together in lewd and vertical expulsion from depths of Eden; meanwhile other whale parts get skived for sushi. All is spoil.  All is plush.  Life but paint spattered on drop canvas while idled mind departs, now voyageur to Neptune. Life but Pacmen in muck under mechanic’s nails, eating at the quick, while other sediments beget wetlands. Pogroms plucking up multitudes while penicillin saves greater tribes, one by one. The discouraging score barely tallied as the next deck gets shuffled and dealt.

This life is sorrows, replete with a plum circus.

And always, the egg.

Eugene Zandler ©2003

Speaking of eggs, my Grandmother collected stone eggs. Shaped and polished alabaster, travertine, and the like. When she died in March 1999 at age 90, I got a new egg for her. My family is Baptist, at least for the purpose of burying loved ones, and there is embalming and the viewing of the meat at the funeral home. While no one was looking I slipped that new egg under her thigh. Placing that stone egg under my Grandmother as she lay in her coffin was my own personal pagan act of “rebirth” for my Grandma.