lundi 15 décembre 2014

The Roadrunner Philosopher

dimanche 14 décembre 2014

The Street Crier conducted by Jamesola Langola

As I was relaxing one Sunday afternoon trying to wash 2800 dishes with just one bottle of vinegar wild berries dishwashing soap that advertised such a feat was indeed possible, I could hear a small cry through my triple-paned windows. I immediately thought it was the firemen or the sanitation engineers who were passing to collect their Christmas collections.

I reached anxiously into my pockets forgetting to dry my soapy hands only to realise that the cry I heard was moving down my street. I opened the kitchen window and peered out to see the back of an old man walking sluggishly and holding up a small box in his hand and crying,
"fa-fii, fa-fiiii!!!"
With little time to digest the spectacle I ran outdoors in my slippers to ask the stranger an essential question. I caught up with him, cut off his advancement and barked:
"As an Oxford scholar of early Samoa" I proceeded, "do you proclaim to be an Afafafine, the group of Samoan thirds genderites long thought to have disappeared?"
The coloured man looked at me with dark, cloudy eyes. He then took a breath and whistled with such force that I thought I stood before a car alarm. Immediately a ruby feathered bird came fluttering as light as a petal and landed on his shoulder.
"I, I" he said.
"You are one of the Afafafine of early Samoa, aren't you? Did you weave that basket yourself?"
He looked at the basket and then to my face he said,
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm selling wifi connections. Want one?"
"Wifi?" I asked.
"Fast wifi. Fa-wifi. Fa-fi. Fa-wifi-fa-fiii!!!" And the bird went fluttering above and around his head.

I excused myself and went back to the kitchen, my cheeks had reddened from disappointment. I had never met an Afafafine and probably never would. But the old man had rekindled my interest. After all, 20 years ago I had written my thesis on male basket weaving and the refusal of hunting amongst the male Afafafine population in early Samoa. Still, there was that bird and that whistle and what was such a character doing down my street trying to sell wifi?

Perhaps I was overreacting. After all, only 150 years ago in the times of Dickens sellers used to abound in the streets of London. I remembered vaguely scholars of language had analysed how street vendors deformed the language by selling their art.
"Old clo, old clo" stood for old clothes.
"Rat trap, ra-trap, buhy a rahtap" or "Fresh cat meat a penny a toss! A slice ah cat fuhapenny!"

I went back to conducting my hand dishwashing experiment. I forgot if I was at 2010 or 2110. Regardless, it was a perfect Sunday to wash dishes and I always felt it was the best way to contemplate and plan my day; the steam condensed the windows and the bubbles were so thick they concealed all the dirty dishes.

I smirked an laughed to myself about the incident when I heard another noise approaching my house.
I opened the window.
""Fluffy, frosting, fondant, Cuhh-cakes! Fo-fo-fo caahkes!!! Fo-cahkes!"

I ran back out in my slippers to find myself face to face with the same man wearing a pink and white polka dot dress pushing a wooden cart. When he cried he looked towards the sky, blasted another whistle and the same ruby winged bird came fluttering round his head and landed on his shoulder.
"What are you doing on my street, first selling wifi and now cupcakes?" I enjoined.

This time he took a cupcake out of the cart and held it up to my nose.
"It's a seven minute frosting" he said, his upper lip curling into a smile revealing a golden tooth.
"Ok, how much?" I asked
"Seven minutes to frost but seven days to prepare. $7."

At my nearby Cupcake Emporium I was used to dishing out $5 for the banana-oyster gluten-free special of the day. $7 would have mother rolling in her grave.
"$6?" I tempted.
"The fluffy frosted fondant has secret message inside." and he turned to get on his way.
I bought the cupcake and back in my kitchen I took a butcher's knife and split the cupcake with the skill of a lumberjack.
The message in the cupcake had filled me with anxious expectation. Before me I beheld a silk thin crimson crumpled paper.
With a sense of urgency I took the vinegar wild berries dish washing soap and undoubtedly added more than a few drops of detergent than would have been necessary to free the paper of its encrusted gluten-free environment. The lettering was small and there was a drawing on the back. I decided to blow dry the document before examining it in my study.
It seemed like old English but I wasn't sure.The message went like this:
"You are in Henri Rousseau's painting "The Dream". You have a safari hat and a snake necklace. The jungle is so thick that you can  barely advance with a machete. Giant lotus leaves cover your boots. You come across a naked girl, a tiger that has its belly planted in the bushes, a snake and a snake charmer playing a flute. You open your camera case to take a picture with your Leica but you realise there is no film in it. The naked girl points a finger at you and says,
"What are you doing?"
"Taking pictures" you reply.
"But your camera has no film"
"I know but I'm a photographer"

That was the cupcake message. I flipped the paper and i could roughly make out the details of the drawing. It was all adding up but in the wrong way. What did this mean? Who would believe me if I told them. Was I going mad?
I ran back to the kitchen. There was the stack of dishes that I had washed and rewashed for the past 4 hours. I had noted 2136. Each stack of 10 dishes had an X on a sheet of paper. I had 210 X's and 3 lines.
I rubbed my gums to check whether I was thinking straight. Yesterday my dentist had pulled a tooth and there was the space that my tongue kept seeking. And what about the Afafafine guy selling wifi connections? And what about that bird? I went  to my computer to check the veracity of the trans-gender tribe. No connection. I looked again at the drawing of Rousseau's Dream. On the nude girls's arm there was a tiny tattoo barely visible.
It said, "Fa-fi".

vendredi 5 décembre 2014

December 3, 2014, December 3, 1926

On this day 104 years ago George Claude, nicknamed the French "Edison",celebrated his invention of neon lighting at the Paris Motor show. Neon,went on to change the face of the planet. In the states it was embraced everywhere and people would drive from afar to see the first road sign advertisements that used neon. Neon has seen its heyday but many light artists employ it rather successfully.

It is also the day at 9:25 pm in 1926 when Agatha Christie disappeared for 11 days. Reading into the event I have learned it is far from being completely elucidated. Was she plotting to interfere with her husband's plans (Archibald Christie) to spend a weekend with his mistress or did she suffer from a rare form of amnesia or fugue syndrome or was she planning a publicity stint to promote her next book. She was eventually found in the St George Hotel and spa in Harrowgate.

The Radiant Elephant Community sent Ashley to investigate on Agatha Christies' tragic 11 day disappearence and he has come back with an incredible finding.
“In the St George Hotel and Spa” related Mr Peterose, "I found an elegant work desk in the room formally occupied by Mrs Christie. The tapestry of cats on the walls made me feel at home and the easily accessible ironing board and wifi service made my stay most enjoyable.

Mr Peterose recounting his stay in Harrowgate as Mr Graves holds his chin.

I kept looking around but had found nothing. (Something, I had a feeling might turn up.) I went down to the hot tub and ordered some calming treatments for my visage when I remembered a corner of the room under the ironing board that I had not investigated. I rushed out dripping wet, running past Betty's tearoom to eventually reach my suite. There it was, in a dusty cupboard: I found a needlepointed pillow with the message "Time is the best killer", skillfully executed.

However, on the rear or flip side of the pillow I could read, “I will marry an archeologist because the older I get the more he will be interested in me.” This was the famous missing pillow, I held it against my thumping heart and I deduced that the verb in the future must have indicated her desire to marry Max Mallowan, the celebrated archeologist at the time of her fugue and not after."

The rare needlepointed pillow, recto-verso, by Agatha Christie

Furthermore Mr Peterose uncovered a thimble, the thimble used by A.C. which was a gift from Mr Mallowan who was all knowing of Agatha’s love for needlepoint.

"The thimble was the most exciting thing" continued Mr Penrose who got up to pace a few steps, his thick corduroy pants going "thumpa, thumpa", my fingers were literally trembling as it rolled onto my hand" There were some curious epigraphic signs inscribed on the thimble that Max Malawian must have used perhaps inspired by his UR site findings in Syria where he eloped with Agatha."

The symbols etched into the inside, have been translated as follows,

“Anno domini 1926 consacratum my heart Agatha Christie, my love, Poirot is chill, Max.”

Agatha Christie's thimble, circa 1926

The suspense and tension in the lounge area of the New Hotel in Versoix was palpable. Everyone had their eyes riveted on Mr Penrose as he reached into his deep pockets to extract the thimble.
But the thimble wasn't there.
To make a long story short the police was called, nobody could leave the hotel, because the thimble of Ur was listed as one of the most precious thimbles in the world. Sewing enthusiast described it a priceless.

A big rock smeared with epigraphic symbols

Finally John Sheehy was found to have had the thimble in his jacket pocket. The Versoix cops had put him in a chokehold but the Elephanteers decided to grant him a pardon and he was let go.

To conclude, this thimble was purchased last week for the dignified sum of 18,400 dollars by this very Elephant Community. However, having already defaulted in payments to Parabank,our Azerbaijani bank,their collection agency will retake the thimble tomorrow.

Max Mallowan and Agatha Christie contemplating archaeology in Syria

mercredi 26 novembre 2014

mercredi 12 novembre 2014

The Rosetta Landing on 67P

"After 10 years 5 months and 4 days of space travel
I can finally stretch out my legs"

Tweeted Philae, the lander of Rosetta.

It has the drama of a Hollywood film
The world is a buzz
Nothing may be the same ever again
67P has imbibed us
Absorbed Humanity like a Holy Intergalactic Sponge

It is, after all, a place of peace 
A place disease  and conflict free -for the moment!
And just like a 19th century explorer
It set out to harpoon that comet like a giant whale.

But what happened to 46P? It was dumped, scratched off ESA's methodical planning
like one scrapes hot cheese off a raclette
(46P was the Original comet Rosetta had a date with!)
And oh, only 230 million miles or 6.7 years of travel compared to 67P's 300 million miles.

But that's ok. Philae (pronounced Fileh) has landed!
Rosetta shall escort her little lander up until the perihelion

A point of orbit closest to the sun and where, some scientists believe the periwinkle originates.

Few, however know that the Rosetta mission was sponsored by Comet
America's #1 scrubbing cleanser that is known to have enough cleaning power to
Effectively remove grease, scum and rust stains. The ESA accepted Comet's 
10,000,000 $ 
Donation on condition that Rosetta transport a sample of its new gel-mildew remover. 
A simple brush was devised and attached to one of Philae's legs.
For the first time ever it will be seen

If a mildew remover can brighten what is otherwise considered a rather
Grey aspect of the comet 67P
(Already many tweets have expressed worry that the bottle is upside down letting the precious gel
seep out during the longish 6.4 billion mile journey. Experts at the maker of Comet have reassuringly been confident that their patented silicone valve will only release the gel when Philae enters into forceful contact with comet 67P at 5 meters per second.)

A very rare and recent image of Comet anti-mildew cleaner on Comet 67P

Another experiment that has already been performed by Philae is that a modern art work has been deposited on one of the less angular surfaces of the comet. The work by Judith Scott was made in 2004 just before the Ariane launching. Called "Bound and Unbound" it is a fiber wrapped 3-dimensional sculpture made out of discarded hoses, wires, reels and other assorted plastic trash that has been methodically woven together into an egg-shaped ball. 

Not only does this work celebrate an idiosyncratic and complex form, a bundle or bindle of human inspiration, but it has a harmonious effect on the duck-shaped comet 67P.

"It will be the first comet to exhibit a work of art", says Madelaine Zukerburg, the inspirational curator from the Art Growth Orbit Zenter in Berlin, Germany.
"Bound and Unbound will be viewing across the universe for hundreds of billions of miles."

samedi 25 octobre 2014

The history of the Pouf

At the end of this October we are privy to communicate with the those who have passed to the other side, as promised I wish to bring to your attention a very close friend of Marie Antoinette and whose presence we can feel is here. It is the inventor of the Pouf. 

We are all familiar with Marie Antoinette’s coiff, years later also immortalised by Dinah Washington or Amy Winehouse. Yet few are aware that it was Leonard Autié, not to be confused with his younger brother Jean Francois, who was Marie Antoinette’s favourite hairdresser. 

So how did the Pouf come to bee? Leonard, or Monsieur Leonard as he was called, in fact was upstaged by Antoinette’s dressmaker, Rose Bertin, who in 1774 invented the “ques-a-co” (translated what is it?).

The “ques-a-co” consisted of 3 feathers stuck in the back of the lady’s head forming a question mark. (Un point d’interrogation.) The ques-a-co became incredibly popular in Paris, it is alleged that one of King Louis’ mistress disarmed him with the power of her feathers.

Monsieur Leonard had trouble digesting the ques-a-co and it was reported that his jealousy unnerved him greatly. One day in Versoix/Versailles, he couldn’t take it any more (il ne pouvait plus supporter) and in a fit went storming up and down the Galerie de Glaces (the hall of mirrors)
screaming “que-ce que c’est ce “ques-a-co? que-ce que c’est ce “ques-a-co? Bordel de merde!!!”

Monsier Leonard had been huffing and puffing, he was jumping up and down and was red in the face when he looked into a large mirror with a golden, floral frame. His golden hair was reaching up to the crystal chandeliers and he marvelled at his Pouf.

Despite the late hour he rushed into the King and Queen’s boudoir, ignoring the notice on the doorknob saying “interdit d’entrer, seance public à 8:20”, pulled Marie out from her royal bedding and performed the first coiffure à la Pouf before a half-snoring king.

Marie was enchanté and her Pouf quickly became the talk of the town. So much so that Monsieur Leonard (not to be confused with his brother who now opened a salon under the same name) decided to retire his snippets and consecrate his energy to the théatre.

Indeed in 1780 he opened, with the help of Marie-Antoinette, the first French opera house with an italian repertoire. Afraid that his brother would again steal his name he called it the “Theatre de Monsieur”. Not surprisingly many female divas performed sporting Poufs before packed and admiring audiences.

History took a dark turn for Monsieur Leonard, the French Revolution abridged an already very successful career. Marie Antoinette amongst many others went “Pouf!” as did one of the Leonard brothers -we are not sure which. What is known is that the real Leonard didn’t have any will and all he left his wife and 5 children were a couple of a hundred francs and a bird of paradise brooch given by Marie Antoinette with an estimated value of 3 francs.

Ladies should should thus be assured that if they wish to do  the Pouf or other more or less decorous hair styles they should remember to wear it as if  the Revolution were tomorrow. Et Pouf!

jeudi 23 octobre 2014

A modern Van Gogh

They were coming from all directions
Waves of hamburgers swallowing everything in their path
Hambergers bumper to bumper in the narrow Dutch streets
Cheese and ketchup oozing over sesame casings
I thought I discerned babies being swallowed up
With no salt

And then nothing.
I could see in this Amsterdam
Old brick buildings tilted in their quirky foundations
Along my canal a row of girls quickly cycled
While singing "My Sharona"

A giraffe walked over a bridge cutting them off
But they cycled under its tall, spotty legs.

From the outdoor cafe where I was sitting
I found a mirror and glimpsed at my missing ear.
"How would it heal?" I asked

Brush strokes.
Thousands of little brush strokes.
Tapping with the speed of a keyboard artist

Brush on brushstrokes in
Colours, widths
Movements, directions dancing in the wind of my brushes
Brushing the canvas, the linen, the very pants I wear

If I stop the world goes dark
Women look at me and say, "Vincent, Vincent?"

I can't eat this bowl of spaghetti
The sauce should be on my palette
The pasta on my canvas

I hear a voice, it's the waiter now saying,
And I see him in my next painting besides
The girls speeding on their bicycles
The boats rising and falling
The tilted, pointed buildings tilting
The sun filtering a murky yellow at the end of
an autumnal day.

My painting finger is tapping on the café table
I hear the girls riding, singing "My Sharona"
I want to give them my ear but
They are riding too fast.

mercredi 22 octobre 2014

Potato Eaters in the Potato House

I have had to return to the potato fields
After absorbing the irregular energy of 
Criss-crossed Polke bulbs
Experienced within the confines of 
Only now
Seen through the eyes of Van Gogh
This cannot be overlooked:
The potato eaters in the potato house!

Their hardened views burn through the opaque light
Their boney knuckles reflecting the spuddy nobs
That Earth so nonchalantly delivers

Yet in this confined air
Where hope and despair are a marrying pair
Like a hard alloy moulded to an icebreaker's bow
The human spirit defied being crushed

Today it unworms those who have never tilled
How could they?

However, we do work within different confines
With Potato Planes jetting potatoes
Across the continents
'Em tubers barely know the land where they'll be eaten
And our borders, our confines are now defined 

By the carry-on template
An ingenious device that
Lets every passenger carry only so many potatoes
Above his perfumed head

The Earth and the pitchfork have not a worry
Their laborious love has
Long been forgotten in the enclosure of the plains.

mercredi 1 octobre 2014

The Secret Service's Bear

Sitting in my cave
waiting by the fire
staring at the great stars
I kept wondering
In this honey-den of mine
A world of total safety
I kept wondering
How un-manlike  am I?

In my bearskin black
My claws still kept sharp against the bark
Going back to my cave
Thought I: I don't care about being rich
From my claws to my teeth
So I walked upright following my old tracks
Weaving between highways 
Depositories of bountiful trash
I wondered

The way it is and the way it was
The Secret Service had called me
To bear witness
Was it a dark moment? Should I swim away?
"The White House needed me" 
(An agent boasted)
I was needed urgently

Living in the woods and now
The White House.

Teddy Roosevelt told my Grandpa
We bears were all right
And Clinton said something about not asking or telling
To avoid any type of same sex fight

Today and every day
It's like being in love for the first time
My heart is proud to shadow that of the President

From organised terror to
Fanatically driven incursions
Here I am to
Bear the brunt of our nation's security
And drive my claws like a Christian sword
For the greater good of mankind

And if you cross my path
No grudge shall cometh upon me for
I am the King of Animals
Over centuries Man has wished to liken to me
And even King Arthur waited for my waking to
Pull out Excalibur
The deed was done

True you say the days are getting shorter
And Isis is nearing our quarters
So I shall hibernate a good while
To let the stardust compile
Just remember when I wake
To give me a hug
And not care if I smell vile.

dimanche 21 septembre 2014

samedi 20 septembre 2014

Popeye Talk

An infinx apologiky is no humiligration
Tis not neskessary for exploitification
Once only adopicated me mind is set
Thwart all depressiagan feelings
That me oxbrain do it.

Twas that revolvigating plumber
A misfit of a donor
Disgustipated the kitchen owner
Till she put the infix in a hydrogen

Under the Whale, 1986

jeudi 11 septembre 2014

The Jewel and the Microwave

It was a mild Soviet Transcaucaucan afternoon
And Nakivechka pulled herself out of her bubbling jacuzzi
She put on her robe and swung a black scarf over her head
Revealing only her dark, eager eyes.

Her two children came running to meet her.
“The microwave is broken” they cried whilst the older sibling, Yesmut,
held on to a bag of unpopped microwaveable popcorn.
“Yesmut, Yilma! Go see if Alkisenko has a microwave and return this to the video store.” said Nakivechka, handing over a cassette and touching her upper brow that she had electrolysed that morning.

“Get with it mom, Alkisenko moved to Tadzhikistan and now sells fax machines.” retorted Yilma, the younger one, intently looking at his mom who was dripping from the jacuzzi. 
“Ok, forget it” she said, patting Yilma’s flattop haircut. “Tonight we will have Bokehra. Yesmut, you will go to Nagorno-Karabach and find Allilev. Here is some money. Take your motorcycles and be back quickly!”

“But Allilev is Crimean!” The two protested.

“Crimean, Mylastokian, Bylorussian or Semjem, you will go to Allilev and get the bokehrá.”

The children left quickly without looking back. Nakivechka sat down on her red bean bag and picked up an issue of CosmoRussia. She indexed to the article on “Careers for single Aberbaijanis” and she smiled thinking of what a surprise Yesmut and Yilma were in for.

(An "Under the Whale" reading circa 1986)

mercredi 10 septembre 2014

The Potato House

There is a house where only potatoes grow
On the walls and roof
The spuds thrive

A schoolhouse needs a teacher
A patio house needs a pool
a prefabricated house needs premeditation
And the potato house potatoes

If you sit in this patchless, sober space
And meditate myriads of 
Potato possibilities

Their forms so irregular yet in need 
Of being held in a hand
With dirty fingernails

Over time
The potato energy will collect
And as the lights of the sky dim
Bulbs will flash with the low intensity of fireflies
Crossing the horizon 
With the lightness of a dance company

samedi 6 septembre 2014

The Knee Defender

A snail has its shell

A tiger its teeth

A Samurai his sword
But the knee
That articulation
Capable of taking us 
up the Empire State Building or
Across the English Channel
The Knee, hath no defence. 
In life your knee can be in deep trouble, so much you 
get down on your knees
And when you're not well 
It's the Doctor's hammer that will fell

Slamming the knee cap

On a pretence to test the jerk
A sensitive galvanic reaction
That would lend envy to any stiff frog

Finally, a knee Tsar, a knight, has been invented

The Knee Defender has been crowned
Take it on an airplane
Whip it out at 30,000 feet
Clip it to your tray
Wait - don't grimace until the passenger in front makes a foray
To recline, I said recline, his stuffy airplane seat
And then your knee will feel like it's in a hotel suite!
Some of you hear the Knee Defender may be banned
Canned from airspace

Where except for first class, passenger proximity is the rule of the land

Fret not world travellers, the Perdu chicken company has made an offer to purchases 2.7 million knee defenders
On a trail basis: Indeed by clipping chicken legs together one saves 25% of space, translating into an 
additional 15,000 chickens per 3000 square feet of coop.
Studies are underway to identify other applications that the Knee Defender may have.

samedi 16 août 2014

Vocabulary Poem

Her name was lesson 12
She was congruently annoying
being opaque and fallacious
A naturally man-made allusion
In murky waters
Sea-life stood still.

If she jaunts or tantalizes you
with an apathetic repast of lies
Tell her with your eyes
You were born to swat flies

It is not this aquatic circus that is
Hindering my incandescent attention-span
I have a light bulb to parley and I hold it high!

If she blows in search of a short answer
without irredeemable insouciant clamor
No credit shall be given
Praxis, more praxis and scroll.

dimanche 1 juin 2014

Why the Burnt Toast Sings

A hommage to Maya Anjelou and her poem "Why the Caged Bird Sings"

A toast cries out:
"You may come and spread your butter,
Your canola oil
Your margarine
Your vegetable oil in lard spray

You may stand on me and smear
Smear your jam and honey"

For years the toast, the butter the honey cry out:

"You knew and knew nothing"

For years polyunsaturated fats, GMOs
Have been milled and tilled
In to our food chain

The papaya, the olive, the linseed, the corn, the pomelo, the breadfruit, the melon, the grapefruit, the avocado, the tomato, the banana the zucchini

If you will no longer spread the rot on thy surface
If you will bury the past of your chemical infested soil

Come, stand on me!

The Turk, the French, the North American, the Peruvian, the Pole, the Samoen, the Russian the
transgender, the gay the straight,
If you have no shame
Eat my toast
My butter, my honey
Where no bees longer nest
Eat my butter
From antibiotic-treated cows
Eat my fiber
Containing azodicarbonamide
(Used for yoga matts to make my bread more spongy)

Come, spread your crap on top of me
I will not move nor hunker
I will receive you teeth
To chomp down
From the time of dinosaurs
Chomping, chewing and swallowing

If you fear not and dare
Gaze into my lightly burnt surface
Look into your husband's, wife's and baby's
And say
With all sincerity:
"Bon appetit "

mercredi 14 mai 2014

Godzilla is coming

The Japanese capital was under red alert
Every road was swamped
Cars trying to leave could have been
Statically stacked on top of each other

37 Izukuma Street Chiyoko
On the 22nd floor of a 1960's high-rise
Was in his bath
The water
Hotter than usual
Was there to take him away from thoughts of
Concentric ripples flowed to

The pink extremities of his toes.

Ryuunosuke was running in her
Clumsy platform high-heeled pumps
to the nearest metro

She had been to her elderly parents but
No pleading would have them leave.
Through her thick glasses her mom
Said she had seen Godzilla before
She squinted and a tear ran to the tatami

Rushing through the turnstile her dress
Got caught
People were pushing her from behind
She felt pain and then went cold

An ambitious 28-year old reporter photographer for Reuters was
Running in the opposite direction of the crowd
From Afghanistan to Syria
He had seen conflicts, gunfire, skirmishes
His hand was so steady friends would shake
his table while he ate soup to see some spill
In vain: Hoshikomury slurped his soup without

Missing a drop
The reporter looked up and up
Feeling the hot air of his breath.


Manami was an 8-year old lost
In the streets of Tokyo
The swarm of people pushed her away from
Her parents
Her cries were invisible in the
Mounting panic
The streets were empty
Manami picked up a small rope near a lamppost

She started to jump rope on one foot because the other
Lost its shoe
The sound shock threw her to her knees
She thought she was crying but
She could not hear herself

Making transactions buying and selling
Copper, silver and even lithium was all
Sakurako was about
He was a smart talker in his smart shark-skinned
Suit, knitted eyebrows and a phone so pronounced

His left ear
Was flatter than the right one
His fingers flashed over his keyboard 
Somehow the empty open space office didn't affect him

"Ah-huh, ah-huh, ahhhhh, ah-huh" he said

Sakurako was never a genius for words yet
He always went to the point

"2,000,000 Yen is too much, you must do betta, betta, ah-ha."

Suddenly his screen went black and the lights went out
He quickly swiveled in his executive chair
Another light
Deeper, more terrifying than any light he had seen
The light of Godzilla's eye!
Illuminated pearls of sweat on his forehead


mardi 22 avril 2014

Vintageable beauty

Who said it was vintageable beauty?
Perhaps it had been transformed after birth?
From Under the Volcano

Or delayed in its inception
It became so precious due to assimilating forces

Forces that flip-flopped
Evil on its belly

Forces that screened
Carcinoma out of the skin

If I were to have a vitageable
Hour or day -forget the year

I would deem it semi-hard like
A good goat cheese

I would look at it
Through the flakes of raw salt

I would listen to it as
The bread knife streaks across the crunchy crust.

Then, I would spin my body in front of a
Decomposed mirror

Reflecting puzzled, conflicting parts just
Like the Continents at strife

I would invite a gymnast to do an Olympic
Beam routine

Backbenders and flips on an abandoned
Submarine torpedo

Reaching for a volcanic Mexican bottle

With a dated black and white boney Frida Kalo
Image on its etiquette

I would take a vintage swig to
Cool and numb the burning of my spine

Laid out in a desert
Over a sloping sand dune.