Fishin'Methinks the fisherman has caught himself a shark -A fish his nets can't keep and boat cannot support.Yet he he maintains the line. Hooked firmly to his bark,The beast is tethered tightly and the line is taut.What use has he for her? A stew, a steak, a dishWith spice and wonder or is she but testamentTo skill and courage of his crew, meant to distinguishMen from boys as women brim with wonderment?A shark! The whispers gather on the deck like smoke,A haze of fear and pride, they savour their rewardWhile their night's catch fights vainly 'gainst unyielding yoke -The sun picks out staccato splashes overboard.Beneath a full white sail, the plunderers of the seaDebate their options: cut it loose or keep it snared?Under their captain's caustic eye, they all agree:The line cannot be hewed, it holds a catch too rare.So they return to port, the wearied beast in tow,Dragged by determined boat t'ward hungry waiting lips,Ready to feast and praise and drink and sing 'bravo,'A cro
La vie. i-5She tests the tepid waters of her fate,first with a toe, then, hems in hand, she wadesthrough deep uncharter'd waters and createswhirlpools and waves and finds her life unmade,the surface rippled and unsteady byuncertain steps and inexperienced gait,smooth liquid parted with a faltering thigh-thus some years pass, her life still inchoate.She grows but more unsure with time, thoughts thick,her faith is thin and hollowed like old boneschilled by a wind of ennui, she pickswarm company, yet feels herself alone.But why is she unsettled? For in truth,too young to be concerned with aging andnot old enough to mourn a fruitless youth,she's yet unmarred by time's unwelcome hand.Still, she observes each day the dying hours,afraid to know how many might remainclean, waiting to be soiled, fresh, to be souredlike autumn fruit under the winter rain.She prays that they might pass her by unheard,with winged whispers: drowned, coccooned and hushed.She prays by night in tears with f
How to prepare a meal of...How to prepare a meal of those you loveTake your mother, wash and quarter her,Season with pepper and sterile insouciance.Submerge in warm milk, roll in seasoned flourand yell mixture into satisfaction.Fry in one inch of melted lard and spend2-3 minutes remembering long November road tripsWith half a country crawling through the window.Serve with finely chopped corrianderAnd a side of steamed seasonal vegetables.Bring a generous pot of salted water to the boil.Skin and cube seventy pounds of pre-marinated father.Place raw meat carefully in boiling water andAdd sliced beetroot, chopped onions, a bouquet garniand a handful of dissatisfied questions.Simmer on a low flame, stirring sporadically.If a thicker consistency is desired,Leave to stand in shock for several hours.Infuse with distilled hope to taste.Import slightly stale lover, allow thirty days for shipping.Consider momentarily the two-for-one discountBut decide against complicated condiments.Wash thorou
morning 3Scene: A few hours past midnight. Digital clocks flash numbers that are strangers to all but a few insomniacs. A blonde girl, nude save for a pair of resonantly bright blue shoes stands on the sticky metallic floor of an elevator, its perfume of nausea and rain made pleasantly rare with the approaching aurora. An exposed back catches shadows in galvanic light. Looking up at the steely ceiling, her mouth open like an orchid, optic nerves abuzz with afterglow, she begins to spin on her toes, drawing perfect trigonometric functions with her arms. The elevator plunges skyward. Its sleepless gears bellow down its voided spine in dissonant groans.Light on 12. Doors dissect. This is her stop.The wind on her skin reminds her of the time she went to a museum, an exhibition of bare walls with a sign at the end of a maze of white, reading "Now Go And Draw Your Own". She could have laughed for hours but the guard coughed and motioned her out with a fingered dumb-show of silence. The wind blows a
Muse in verse.You charmed me with your wit, though you did playA pun upon that very word. Forsooth,Unjust your verdict was, and so I stayedTo offer judgement closer to the truth.Through you, I've seen the world anew, my friend,Your quick and honest tongue has often shownA truth that did my ignorance amend,Revealing literary joys 'til now unknown.Your virtue can't be summed in fourteen lines,Nor brilliance done justice in quatrain.Both optimist and pessimist in timeHave lodged in tangled creases of your brain.I'm glad to be acquainted with your mind,For I, with Witt, found my wit refined.