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Thursday, April 16, 2015

What do you think?

Buckle the seatbelt of your mind: we’re blasting off.

            Nod to Charles Stross

Physical encryption in linguistic
code—books and the like—obsolesced within
six millennia. Pressings of music
took a century and a half between
becoming and becoming extrinsic.

A microgram of matter may contain
the complete recorded works of Mozart.
We send our abstract designs in advance
of ourselves: when more matter is made smart,
we will be data; and protoplasmic

expression can recycle as an art.
Physical selves will be irrelevant,
but we—our biomass long discarded—
can stretch out in a spacious petabyte,
recombining to the edge of finite,

expanding the boundaries of “the present,”
surviving our sun’s fated extinction.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

"A meterioc place." Here's a little crowdsourced dada for yiz.

In a place where people expect their dreams to come true, I’m China street glucose, and you’re endless grass and a huge, flat moon.
In plaster and wood on the other side, I’m the cardturner, and you’re writing in my sun room.

In a Rocky Mountain city, Denver or Salt Lake, I’m naked in the street, and you’re gazing into a green valley from a peak.
In the arms of my love, I’m gloriously broken, and you’re a nap to Fremont and back.

In my favorite bakeries and places to hike I’m Nebraska, and you’re sprout palm welcome.
In invitation, in difference, in membership, in suffering, I’m mother, diamonds, life, and you’re home.

In this studio, part monster, I’m petite fours made into a city, and you’re silver curls like a crown.
In wabi sabi dance party, I’m golden lush shrouded jewel, and you’re black lava blue water brown.

In the most expensive, beautiful, confuzzled place on the planet, I’m $6 Great American, and you’re the same….
In a particular spot I’m ears like cabbage leaves and a big grin, and you’re conversation in liquid form.

In Wyoming boulders upon boulders upon boulders, I’m sapphire eyes, and you’re honest in every way.
In bed…or water… I’m clouds with mustard, and you’re drive scents birthday.

In lacy grey with black undertones, I’m solitude, and you’re standing up in New York.
In a bit of a bumpy place I’m a muggy August morning, and you’re Donald—no—David Duck.


This poem is compiled from responses to an online survey I created for the purpose. You can see the survey at the poem's first place of online publication.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Madame Rowley’s Face

First—the claims made
Second—the grounds on which it is recommended
Third—it does not come asunder
Fourth—it has been analyzed by Eminent Scientists
Fifth—its VALUABLE PROPERTIES never become impaired
Sixth— it is recommended by Eminent Physicians and Scientific Men
Seventh—its use cannot be detected
Eighth— it may be desired

Ninth— hundreds of dollars uselessly expended may be saved
Tenth— it is safe, simple, cleanly and never injures
Eleventh— it may be applied WITH EQUALLY GOOD RESULTS
Twelfth—by its use impurities vanish
Thirteenth—it is harmless, costs little and saves money
Fourteenth—ever vouchsafed to womankind, famous ladies use it

from Jones, Edgar R. “1887 Print Advertisement for Madame Rowley’s Toilet Mask or Face Glove.” Those Were the Good Old Days; a Happy Look at American Advertising, 1880-1930. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1959. 41. Print.

I am participating in Poetry Month Scouts, hosted by the Found Poetry Review. So this month: lots of found poems. This one is also posted where you can link to and comment on others of mine throughout April.