Sunday, August 31, 2008


One day, Jim The Poet decided that poetry was no darn good.

He was glum and depressed all day and stared out the window of his stone cabin, looking at nothing.

Suddenly, a Jackrabbit hippity hopped past his window. Jim was filled with joy.

“Poetry might not be any darn good, but hunting Jackrabbits IS darn good!”

And so Jack put on his hunting jacket, a bright orange cap, hoisted a rifle over his should and slipped a little grey pen into his breast pocket in case there was anything out there that might be worth mentioning to somebody someday.

He was so happy that he was even whistling as he closed the door to his stone cabin, but–

Friday, August 22, 2008


OK. So sometimes the best thing in the world to do is just sit back and relax and enjoy the winter, should it be winter, and the summer, should it be summer.

If it is winter, you can curse the summer. likewise, if it is summer, you can curse the winter.

Never, though, curse a dog. They don't understand what you are doing. and they bite, very hard, your leg, which you deserve if your cursing finds itself misdirected towards them.

It's a great deal like people who work so they have a comfortable and air-conditioned place in which to complain.

It is the dog's job to bite. its place in the realm of reason is highly suspect

And so it is as well, in Persian poetry, stated in the following poem, and as metaphor, "The rough man entered the lover's garden."

I like this about the rough man. he enters. Next: he gathers roses, breaks their stems, and they are dry.

He is rough, but perhaps he too is a lover, a Persian lover.

Or a lover of Persian culture. Or a person who loves one Persian in particular: entering the garden like a lover

The poem states that the next person to enter the world is god who closes the crescent eyebrows of the lover

(implication here, nb: dead, rotten. 'we will rot, my beautiful one, 'the unnamed speaker’ speaks.)

Meanwhile the dog is looking for something to do as you sit and read persian poetry. he sniffs a rose, a fine violet shade, and then he chases a boy on a bicycle. Bad dog! Bad dog!

Once he peed on a Persian rug.

And we are not even sure if 'he' is a 'he'

If he (or she, and I prefer it) were to be writing, it would next say the following thing: "Whatever religion you are, I'll worship it too."

This is a dog of fine verse, written after the Persian fashion.

Hail to the rough man entering the garden of the lover, and to all forms, good and bad, and of anarchy in general

Good doggie.

Down boy.

Thursday, August 21, 2008


Buddy Holly stood 5' 11" tall and weighed 145 lbs.

Buddy Holly's last name was 'Holley'

Buddy Holly used to drink coke and play ping pong on his dates

Buddy Holly's speaking voice was soft and silky

Every day is going faster than a roller coaster

I don't care if I am late for work

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Wednesday, August 20, 2008

3000 BC

In the times of the pharaohs, the birthdays of children and the birthdays of women were not celebrated. But the birthdays of PHARAOHS were lavish affairs: servants, slaves and freedmen took part in the celebrations. Even prisoners were released from the royal jails on the birthdays of pharaohs. I would not care to be a

Pharaoh, but I would enjoy being released from jail. I like to think that I would listen to the cheering and joy with my own personal joy which would increase as the cheering grew softer and softer in the distance until I could not hear the cheering at all. My thoughts would turn to freedom as they so often do, and to the sound of the crickets if there are any in Egypt, or honeysuckle vines (ditto) and then of course to Babylon, which would come around and plop its big butt down around here eventually.

all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
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"I just can't imagine Bud with a fireball"

Thursday, August 14, 2008

FROM 1992

Gerald Asher says "Damask Rose"
vis à vis Vendage Tardives, Alsace
within the world of the accepted wine grapes.

If you must prefer words,
I prefer "Chasselas," which
"will never

fetch a high price"

"it's Chasselas." Like a kick
in the groin obligé

routinely, like something
straight out of something

Monet, "my apples hugging
the ground and hiding
their white blossoms under
pasasols of leaves"
becomes you.

Yes, it's nice to be loved.

And yes,
it's a nice thing

to marinate.
When you
for me

"Come to Basmati, your
queen of fragrance,"

I was ready, for both.
Enraptured by

I marvelled

& shut down


your breath, both to taste
al dente–

and fluffy.

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Monday, August 11, 2008


I never tap my pen
against my forehead
searching for inspiration
like that poet did in
trying to capture
the perfect image
that might immortalize
Hazel Flagg, beautiful,
young, sweet, and dying
of radium poisoning
although she really wasn’t,
she just wanted a trip to New York–

And when her doctor, drunken
but sweet, old, lively
misdiagnosed her as a victim
of radium poisoning she asked
“Why bother?” to tell anybody
“that I don’t have radium poisoning?”

Instead, she saw it as an opportunity
golden, like a gold nugget in a sunset
that is very golden, to visit

New York City, which she longed
to do, irrespective of a death, which
was not to be

And she would arrive to great fanfare
in New York City, and the fete
would begin and the people would cheer
heartily and the poets would tap their heads
mercilessly–oh inspiration! Whither, etc...

I think of this when I, too, write, or when
Carole Lombard dies, not a false death at all
not radium poisoning at all, no
unlike Hazel Flagg, played by Carole Lombard,
instead, still, and on a mountain top, in the snow,
her husband’s hands trying to find her, powder in
the air, much more inspired than a poet you might
find here or in the snow of

Radium poisoning–no. Death–not really.
But eventually, yes. Yes.

all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008
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