Should I post some of my older poems while I get feedback about Tiny Gods Hiding, or should I post only completed collections on this blog?
Let me know what you think.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Coming soon: Tiny Gods Hiding
I've finished most of the work on my next offering, Tiny Gods Hiding. I just have to run it by a few people I trust to see if it's ready to be released to the wild, or needs more cowbell, or whatnot.
This time I'll make sure that I post the last poem first and the first poem last, so one can read the whole thing from top to bottom. As with Jocasta and the Sorcerers, I'll be dropping hardcopies in and around Burlington, VT. Stay tuned.
This time I'll make sure that I post the last poem first and the first poem last, so one can read the whole thing from top to bottom. As with Jocasta and the Sorcerers, I'll be dropping hardcopies in and around Burlington, VT. Stay tuned.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Explanation/Thanks
I shouldn't explain, but I will:
I worked for a while slapping stickers on boxes and sending them away-- a monotonous job, so I amused myself with names and places. My co-worker said her favorite name from a label was, "Stoneburner." The tag in my hand was going to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and the name and the place murmurred in my mind through a long afternoon. What name could be exotic enough to pair with "Stoneburner? "Ariadne" didn't quite fit, but "Jocasta?" Well!
Around the same time I read Someone's review (I don't know whose) of Someone Else's poetry, (I don't know whose) sneering: "It reads like Assonance 101!"
Assonance 101?
Sounds like fun!
Weeks later, after I'd written a couple of drafts of the first poem, a friend mentioned a set of stories featuring "Jocasta Stones."
Oops. My apologies to Patrick Carman, whom I've not read (yet).
Thank you to Tina for her favorite name
and thank you to Susan who inspired enthusiastic magic and roisterous joy!
(This whole blogging thing is new to me; I apologize for the bottom-to-top, early-to-later order of the poems. The chronological first post is the first poem in the collection. I'll do better with the next series of poems, which should be ready soon.)
I worked for a while slapping stickers on boxes and sending them away-- a monotonous job, so I amused myself with names and places. My co-worker said her favorite name from a label was, "Stoneburner." The tag in my hand was going to Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and the name and the place murmurred in my mind through a long afternoon. What name could be exotic enough to pair with "Stoneburner? "Ariadne" didn't quite fit, but "Jocasta?" Well!
Around the same time I read Someone's review (I don't know whose) of Someone Else's poetry, (I don't know whose) sneering: "It reads like Assonance 101!"
Assonance 101?
Sounds like fun!
Weeks later, after I'd written a couple of drafts of the first poem, a friend mentioned a set of stories featuring "Jocasta Stones."
Oops. My apologies to Patrick Carman, whom I've not read (yet).
Thank you to Tina for her favorite name
and thank you to Susan who inspired enthusiastic magic and roisterous joy!
(This whole blogging thing is new to me; I apologize for the bottom-to-top, early-to-later order of the poems. The chronological first post is the first poem in the collection. I'll do better with the next series of poems, which should be ready soon.)
Young Gods
After a short ritual
We are young gods.
Confident and terrible
We rise to Inferno
To watch a farce.
The demons and the damned,
Laughing, trade places
Howling with glee
Because they know eternity
Ends too soon.
In a state of grace
We godlings, we urges,
Descend from Hell:
Wings tucked, spiraling,
We fall from garish flame
To cool, dark silence.
High in the tower,
Before a wall of windows,
Above the sleeping world
We reflect on light and shadow
And how abrupt
The simple transition between.
Someone has strung myriad lights,
Bright and dim,
moving and fixed,
And, hearing our wish,
Strobes brilliant pinpoints
Throughout our long watch.
The blazing, wailing Hell above
Has wrapped a poison creeper
Around our goddess’ heart
And thorny tendrils writhe
In chattering arrhythmia.
I dig deep into my bag
And bring out music-
An anchor in her storm,
A tempo to throb along to,
A path back to shadow.
She clings to the song
And soon fills the world
With the trills and moans of
Wind across the tower’s face.
Some of us dive like
Darting fish, tanks of time
Strapped to our wrists
And, when our duration runs out,
Float back to the tower
To replenish our seconds.
Some find morsels of coral,
Swords delaminating,
Calloused glass.
We tell each other tales
Of the treasures and wrecks
We've found, and each of us
Lures all of us down, and down,
And down to the deeps.
There we find a dim heaven
Of music and motion, and
A band of mischievous angels
In a frenzied dervish dance
Whirling to the wave music
Crashing far above.
One shout, we raise voice
In defiant heresy and dance,
One with our brothers and foes.
Dance ‘til our lungs burn.
Dance ‘til our feet blister.
Dance ‘til the waves
Wear away the drumhead of
The beach far above.
We climb back to the tower
And still the lights arc
And still the music of the wind
Across the tower’s face
Rings along the harpstrings of our nerves.
Periodically, a passing imp
Surrenders to a momentary impulse and
Possesses one or another of us
The rest of us giggle and
Snicker until the imps,
Bored quickly with the novelty
of puppetting apprentice gods,
Wander off with their
Stockpiled impulses,
Their bags of bad ideas.
Try as we might
To let go the godhead
And plunge to our pillows
And blankets of mortality,
Divinity has ideas of its own
And we bedspin through
Dawn and sunrise-
Gods at the end of eternity
Watching the last handful
Of worshippers wink out.
We are young gods.
Confident and terrible
We rise to Inferno
To watch a farce.
The demons and the damned,
Laughing, trade places
Howling with glee
Because they know eternity
Ends too soon.
In a state of grace
We godlings, we urges,
Descend from Hell:
Wings tucked, spiraling,
We fall from garish flame
To cool, dark silence.
High in the tower,
Before a wall of windows,
Above the sleeping world
We reflect on light and shadow
And how abrupt
The simple transition between.
Someone has strung myriad lights,
Bright and dim,
moving and fixed,
And, hearing our wish,
Strobes brilliant pinpoints
Throughout our long watch.
The blazing, wailing Hell above
Has wrapped a poison creeper
Around our goddess’ heart
And thorny tendrils writhe
In chattering arrhythmia.
I dig deep into my bag
And bring out music-
An anchor in her storm,
A tempo to throb along to,
A path back to shadow.
She clings to the song
And soon fills the world
With the trills and moans of
Wind across the tower’s face.
Some of us dive like
Darting fish, tanks of time
Strapped to our wrists
And, when our duration runs out,
Float back to the tower
To replenish our seconds.
Some find morsels of coral,
Swords delaminating,
Calloused glass.
We tell each other tales
Of the treasures and wrecks
We've found, and each of us
Lures all of us down, and down,
And down to the deeps.
There we find a dim heaven
Of music and motion, and
A band of mischievous angels
In a frenzied dervish dance
Whirling to the wave music
Crashing far above.
One shout, we raise voice
In defiant heresy and dance,
One with our brothers and foes.
Dance ‘til our lungs burn.
Dance ‘til our feet blister.
Dance ‘til the waves
Wear away the drumhead of
The beach far above.
We climb back to the tower
And still the lights arc
And still the music of the wind
Across the tower’s face
Rings along the harpstrings of our nerves.
Periodically, a passing imp
Surrenders to a momentary impulse and
Possesses one or another of us
The rest of us giggle and
Snicker until the imps,
Bored quickly with the novelty
of puppetting apprentice gods,
Wander off with their
Stockpiled impulses,
Their bags of bad ideas.
Try as we might
To let go the godhead
And plunge to our pillows
And blankets of mortality,
Divinity has ideas of its own
And we bedspin through
Dawn and sunrise-
Gods at the end of eternity
Watching the last handful
Of worshippers wink out.
Momentum
Late in the evening
(early in the morning-- time means nothing here)
we sorcerers and students
gather with Jocasta to pass around
a carafe of water.
"We're done here," (Jocasta says,)
the bash has reached critical mass
and will flare til the fuel
of their passion is exhausted.
Now we can let down our hair and
take off the nametags
and join the celebration!
"Gentlemen, you've done fine work
and controlled the flow of power
with intricate precision
and immaculate mastery-
a safe blaze fed with twigs
and ringed with stacked stone.
"It's time to let go.
"Time to bypass the governors and
let slip the mysteries and
let it flow out of control.
We've been slipping them sips;
let them drink and be refreshed.
"I know your fears--
unwatered wine maddened the Maenads--
but your wall is sound and
has waved away the nasty bastards
and will contain the chaos
if things fall apart inside.
"We've spent this timeless time
priming them for power.
Some have been dazzled and dizzied
but found their footing fast
and have advanced to dance with the magic.
Already the proficient look after the apprentices
and will scoop up any strays.
"Let go."
We glance at each other,
shrug as one,
and let go.
(early in the morning-- time means nothing here)
we sorcerers and students
gather with Jocasta to pass around
a carafe of water.
"We're done here," (Jocasta says,)
the bash has reached critical mass
and will flare til the fuel
of their passion is exhausted.
Now we can let down our hair and
take off the nametags
and join the celebration!
"Gentlemen, you've done fine work
and controlled the flow of power
with intricate precision
and immaculate mastery-
a safe blaze fed with twigs
and ringed with stacked stone.
"It's time to let go.
"Time to bypass the governors and
let slip the mysteries and
let it flow out of control.
We've been slipping them sips;
let them drink and be refreshed.
"I know your fears--
unwatered wine maddened the Maenads--
but your wall is sound and
has waved away the nasty bastards
and will contain the chaos
if things fall apart inside.
"We've spent this timeless time
priming them for power.
Some have been dazzled and dizzied
but found their footing fast
and have advanced to dance with the magic.
Already the proficient look after the apprentices
and will scoop up any strays.
"Let go."
We glance at each other,
shrug as one,
and let go.
TimeSpace Maze
Too much dancing? (asked Jocasta,)
Out of breath?
Come with me.
Grab a tumbler of water from the table
as we plunge into a rainbow maze of
colored cloth hanging on invisible filaments-
-through the maze of shifting silhouettes
grappling, coupling, scrumping, cuddling, tickling.
-through the maze, startling-
but not interrupting--they continue, smiling-
three writhing lovers.
-through the maze to the outer wall
lined down its length
with doors.
Come with me through this door
to the haze of smoke hanging over the crowd
in an old British pub, where four mop-topped boys
are singing up-tempo songs about love,
and Margaret is there, front row, center,
singing while the other girls scream.
Come with me through a door in the back
with a big red sign:
"Warning! Zero Gravity Beyond This Point!"
and into a long, transparent tube,
the thinnest layer of
what-we-hope-to-be-much-stronger-than-glass
separating us from vast Nothing
and the stars so far beyond.
Come with me, freefalling for just under a minute
to the door at the far end,
then through (stumbling now
under full weight) and into a casino
bizarre in that the tables
are brilliantly lit
by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Olivia is here, toying with the boys
as singlemindedly gleeful
as a cat scampering after a pen cap,
and a man you've seen before only in monochrome
(and then with a sword in his hand)
keeps the women riveted
on other things than envy.
Come to the edge with me
and look down, down, down
at rolling hills and glimmering lakes
and the tops of clouds
lit from above and almost solid-looking.
Look up to the ribbed curve of fabric
stretched over a frame a thousand feet long.
Come with me through more doors-
-to a workshop which smells of welding slag
and molten metal, where Cassandra and
some old guy from New Jersey
whip up the finishing touches on a go cart.
-to a library where Zia and a psychiatrist
and an expert at the short con
compare and contrast their
observations of the depths of self-delusion.
-to a domed arena where everyone is
six times as light on their feet
and Elizabeth is cheering on one of the teams
competing on a floor of grey dust
in a bastard child of
hockey and lacrosse
where a flick of a stick
with a curved basket on the end
can send a ball two hundred meters effortlessly.
-to an auditorium where Emily hacks her way
through a bloody slapstick play, leaving
the audience roaring and wincing.
-to a muggy Memphis evening
where a cowlicked boy
with a spastic grind of his hips
assures us: "It's alright, Mama."
-to the kitchen where we can grab a snack from Fiona,
who rests on a barstool, munching fresh carrots
with a look of pure rapture.
-to a circular room at the top of a tower,
the periphery ringed with windows and doors...
...now, you.
You choose a door
and take me through.
Out of breath?
Come with me.
Grab a tumbler of water from the table
as we plunge into a rainbow maze of
colored cloth hanging on invisible filaments-
-through the maze of shifting silhouettes
grappling, coupling, scrumping, cuddling, tickling.
-through the maze, startling-
but not interrupting--they continue, smiling-
three writhing lovers.
-through the maze to the outer wall
lined down its length
with doors.
Come with me through this door
to the haze of smoke hanging over the crowd
in an old British pub, where four mop-topped boys
are singing up-tempo songs about love,
and Margaret is there, front row, center,
singing while the other girls scream.
Come with me through a door in the back
with a big red sign:
"Warning! Zero Gravity Beyond This Point!"
and into a long, transparent tube,
the thinnest layer of
what-we-hope-to-be-much-stronger-than-glass
separating us from vast Nothing
and the stars so far beyond.
Come with me, freefalling for just under a minute
to the door at the far end,
then through (stumbling now
under full weight) and into a casino
bizarre in that the tables
are brilliantly lit
by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Olivia is here, toying with the boys
as singlemindedly gleeful
as a cat scampering after a pen cap,
and a man you've seen before only in monochrome
(and then with a sword in his hand)
keeps the women riveted
on other things than envy.
Come to the edge with me
and look down, down, down
at rolling hills and glimmering lakes
and the tops of clouds
lit from above and almost solid-looking.
Look up to the ribbed curve of fabric
stretched over a frame a thousand feet long.
Come with me through more doors-
-to a workshop which smells of welding slag
and molten metal, where Cassandra and
some old guy from New Jersey
whip up the finishing touches on a go cart.
-to a library where Zia and a psychiatrist
and an expert at the short con
compare and contrast their
observations of the depths of self-delusion.
-to a domed arena where everyone is
six times as light on their feet
and Elizabeth is cheering on one of the teams
competing on a floor of grey dust
in a bastard child of
hockey and lacrosse
where a flick of a stick
with a curved basket on the end
can send a ball two hundred meters effortlessly.
-to an auditorium where Emily hacks her way
through a bloody slapstick play, leaving
the audience roaring and wincing.
-to a muggy Memphis evening
where a cowlicked boy
with a spastic grind of his hips
assures us: "It's alright, Mama."
-to the kitchen where we can grab a snack from Fiona,
who rests on a barstool, munching fresh carrots
with a look of pure rapture.
-to a circular room at the top of a tower,
the periphery ringed with windows and doors...
...now, you.
You choose a door
and take me through.
Magic Mixology
Dexter and Sinclair
the twins behind the bar
are mixing magic margaritas
phantasm enhanced daiquiris
and juiced-up gee-and-tees
Everyone gets a drink and a trinket
a string of beads
or a tiny kaleidoscope
or a crackerjack ring
all of them touched and charged,
a gift of the mystical
to turn box wine to ambrosia
or to render denim diaphanous
or to scale up a quartet to an orchestra
and, for everyone,
a nebulous suggestion of dream, more felt than seen;
a misty ambiguity just beyond their periphery.
Of course, start ordering shots
and the magic becomes, shall we say,
a bit more insistent--
The twins will run any eager thrillseeker
through the Lands of Paradox and back again
but the bored and jaded amuse the twins, and
present a special challenge;
a "Freak Me" gauntlet thrown at their feet.
Can you handle three-dee graffiti?
a psychotic cartoonist's delirious daydream?
The boys can turn your night into
a spatter-painting of reality,
and the less you let
your self assurance slip,
the more they'll twist and torque
the stable right angles of your psyche.
the twins behind the bar
are mixing magic margaritas
phantasm enhanced daiquiris
and juiced-up gee-and-tees
Everyone gets a drink and a trinket
a string of beads
or a tiny kaleidoscope
or a crackerjack ring
all of them touched and charged,
a gift of the mystical
to turn box wine to ambrosia
or to render denim diaphanous
or to scale up a quartet to an orchestra
and, for everyone,
a nebulous suggestion of dream, more felt than seen;
a misty ambiguity just beyond their periphery.
Of course, start ordering shots
and the magic becomes, shall we say,
a bit more insistent--
The twins will run any eager thrillseeker
through the Lands of Paradox and back again
but the bored and jaded amuse the twins, and
present a special challenge;
a "Freak Me" gauntlet thrown at their feet.
Can you handle three-dee graffiti?
a psychotic cartoonist's delirious daydream?
The boys can turn your night into
a spatter-painting of reality,
and the less you let
your self assurance slip,
the more they'll twist and torque
the stable right angles of your psyche.
Dream Palace
Just a short time ago--
when some sliver of sun still
gleamed golden above the valley--
the frisbee golfers had played here, with
lawnchairs and hulahoops and beach umbrellas
to serve as holes on their course.
(One modern mystic smiled, delighted
as people played a game with solid holes.)
Now, as shadows fill the bowl of the valley
like ink dripped into water,
a palace sits where no palace sat before,
embellished with spindly spires and crystal casements.
Chalk this one up (again)
to the sorcerers of Sheboygan.
When Jocasta's invitations found their way
to their towers, the boys took on
the extracurricular mission of
whipping up a party crib,
with copious help from Jocasta's protégées.
Reams and rolls of paper
blushed with color as they wore away
kilometers of crayon, one decimeter at a time,
scribbling out their dreams
of salons and boudoirs,
of hidey-holes and rumpus rooms,
of secret passages and hidden panels.
Come into the palace, where time and text are fluid
and the mundane graces, Jocasta's collaborators,
hover near the hearth in the foyer
to greet their guests. Blarney and banter
duly distributed, they swing open the doors
revealing a long hallway
with classical statuary ranked in recesses
converging at the vanishing point
of a vast double doorway
which opens into the ballroom.
From the ballroom, a door can lead anywhere.
Be careful what you wish for.
when some sliver of sun still
gleamed golden above the valley--
the frisbee golfers had played here, with
lawnchairs and hulahoops and beach umbrellas
to serve as holes on their course.
(One modern mystic smiled, delighted
as people played a game with solid holes.)
Now, as shadows fill the bowl of the valley
like ink dripped into water,
a palace sits where no palace sat before,
embellished with spindly spires and crystal casements.
Chalk this one up (again)
to the sorcerers of Sheboygan.
When Jocasta's invitations found their way
to their towers, the boys took on
the extracurricular mission of
whipping up a party crib,
with copious help from Jocasta's protégées.
Reams and rolls of paper
blushed with color as they wore away
kilometers of crayon, one decimeter at a time,
scribbling out their dreams
of salons and boudoirs,
of hidey-holes and rumpus rooms,
of secret passages and hidden panels.
Come into the palace, where time and text are fluid
and the mundane graces, Jocasta's collaborators,
hover near the hearth in the foyer
to greet their guests. Blarney and banter
duly distributed, they swing open the doors
revealing a long hallway
with classical statuary ranked in recesses
converging at the vanishing point
of a vast double doorway
which opens into the ballroom.
From the ballroom, a door can lead anywhere.
Be careful what you wish for.
Benediction
Look in your hearts, (Jocasta says,)
where Gods and Goddesses live,
and know that God is not a
daddy-with-a-strap,
tossing the rooms of your souls
to find your stash
of girlie mags and cigarettes!
Today we've turned away
the people who like to
scowl and point; who say,
"You must," or, "You must not;"
who warm their hearts with
thoughts of souls roasting.
Today we've turned away
the greedy people who
have picked up these scowlers,
these pointers, as pawns;
the slick salesmen who want
to dampen our passions
and replace them with things.
Today, we slow.
We will give our nerves time to explore,
to compare silk with skin,
and baking with barbecue,
and dutiful with deranged.
Today is for
sweat and sunshine,
ground-in grass stains
and freshly washed cotton,
old leather baseball gloves
and red rubber playground balls,
harmony and cacophony
and the shush of the stream
over a million river-worn pebbles.
Let no one scold or shame you into behaving!
Savor every sense!
Revel in the real while the sun shines,
for tonight, illusion rules!
where Gods and Goddesses live,
and know that God is not a
daddy-with-a-strap,
tossing the rooms of your souls
to find your stash
of girlie mags and cigarettes!
Today we've turned away
the people who like to
scowl and point; who say,
"You must," or, "You must not;"
who warm their hearts with
thoughts of souls roasting.
Today we've turned away
the greedy people who
have picked up these scowlers,
these pointers, as pawns;
the slick salesmen who want
to dampen our passions
and replace them with things.
Today, we slow.
We will give our nerves time to explore,
to compare silk with skin,
and baking with barbecue,
and dutiful with deranged.
Today is for
sweat and sunshine,
ground-in grass stains
and freshly washed cotton,
old leather baseball gloves
and red rubber playground balls,
harmony and cacophony
and the shush of the stream
over a million river-worn pebbles.
Let no one scold or shame you into behaving!
Savor every sense!
Revel in the real while the sun shines,
for tonight, illusion rules!
Tentative
So many trickle in; by ones and twos
The not-so-tiny people find the place.
They wear fantastic masks, or painted face
and whimsical diguises to confuse
The stern and disapproving, dogma-bound
Who hunt the higher nail and squeaky wheel.
They seem to ask permission, please, to feel,
And seem prepared, til then, to mill around
And watch Jocasta's friends and pupils play.
Elizabeth approaches like they're wild
And frightened animals, and they, beguiled,
Think: "I should dash away, but, no, I'll stay."
She smiles. "Come play. Be wanton or be coy.
Jocasta will absolve the sin of joy."
The not-so-tiny people find the place.
They wear fantastic masks, or painted face
and whimsical diguises to confuse
The stern and disapproving, dogma-bound
Who hunt the higher nail and squeaky wheel.
They seem to ask permission, please, to feel,
And seem prepared, til then, to mill around
And watch Jocasta's friends and pupils play.
Elizabeth approaches like they're wild
And frightened animals, and they, beguiled,
Think: "I should dash away, but, no, I'll stay."
She smiles. "Come play. Be wanton or be coy.
Jocasta will absolve the sin of joy."
Valley
The sorcerers of Sheboygan
have trick-rich sleeves.
A river has carved
a flat-bottomed bowl of a valley
from old, old hills.
In the middle of the river
Dexter sits cross legged on a boulder,
surrounded first by water,
then by meadow,
then by forest,
then by starry sky.
The other sorcerers
have parked their carcasses
all along the rim of the bowl,
waiting for Dexter to make his move.
The world spins toward sunrise
and Dexter makes himself
more and more boulder-like;
feels every crystal,
every grain,
every pore
from molten root
to smoothed and rounded summit;
feels a sea of power
flowing through everything.
With a TWIST,
he whirls a power-storm
around his calm center.
As when one swirls a cup of water
around the bottom of a large bowl
and, higher and higher,
the sides get wet,
so do the hills become soaked in power
as Dexter swirls the magic
faster and faster.
From the left and slightly below
Sinclair feels the power flow,
fresh and fiery, green and growing,
all through his nerves the power glowing.
This has potential, Sinclair thinks--
and, so, it has.
With a TWIST
he spins it to a gazillion filaments,
rough and raw and ready for dyeing.
Marcos reaches into his bag
and pulls out a corduroy jacket
with suede sleeve patches.
He shrugs, and hands it to Liam,
who shrugs and plays
a Zip-Zop song
on his new cloth washboard
with a patting flap
of percussion on the patches.
The tendrils TWIST
themselves to myriad hues
and dance to Liam's tune.
Felix, counterclockwise,
sees the writhing wave
and TWISTS
the tune to
a Zip which thirsts,
jaunty and jubilant,
and a Zop which hungers,
stern and determined.
Downstream, Pasquale waits,
humming up a spectral loom
and the power comes
Zipping and Zopping along.
He TWISTS
the strings into a net,
a warp and weft of
expedience and hindrance
to accept the seekers
and shunt the sneerers away.
Finally, to Max--
all this power
tweaked and twisted
around the rim of the hills
to Max--
who TWISTS
space enough for everyone
and pours it, and all the power,
back into the valley
which sops it up
like a giant granite sponge.
"Let Jocasta know:
we're ready to go."
have trick-rich sleeves.
A river has carved
a flat-bottomed bowl of a valley
from old, old hills.
In the middle of the river
Dexter sits cross legged on a boulder,
surrounded first by water,
then by meadow,
then by forest,
then by starry sky.
The other sorcerers
have parked their carcasses
all along the rim of the bowl,
waiting for Dexter to make his move.
The world spins toward sunrise
and Dexter makes himself
more and more boulder-like;
feels every crystal,
every grain,
every pore
from molten root
to smoothed and rounded summit;
feels a sea of power
flowing through everything.
With a TWIST,
he whirls a power-storm
around his calm center.
As when one swirls a cup of water
around the bottom of a large bowl
and, higher and higher,
the sides get wet,
so do the hills become soaked in power
as Dexter swirls the magic
faster and faster.
From the left and slightly below
Sinclair feels the power flow,
fresh and fiery, green and growing,
all through his nerves the power glowing.
This has potential, Sinclair thinks--
and, so, it has.
With a TWIST
he spins it to a gazillion filaments,
rough and raw and ready for dyeing.
Marcos reaches into his bag
and pulls out a corduroy jacket
with suede sleeve patches.
He shrugs, and hands it to Liam,
who shrugs and plays
a Zip-Zop song
on his new cloth washboard
with a patting flap
of percussion on the patches.
The tendrils TWIST
themselves to myriad hues
and dance to Liam's tune.
Felix, counterclockwise,
sees the writhing wave
and TWISTS
the tune to
a Zip which thirsts,
jaunty and jubilant,
and a Zop which hungers,
stern and determined.
Downstream, Pasquale waits,
humming up a spectral loom
and the power comes
Zipping and Zopping along.
He TWISTS
the strings into a net,
a warp and weft of
expedience and hindrance
to accept the seekers
and shunt the sneerers away.
Finally, to Max--
all this power
tweaked and twisted
around the rim of the hills
to Max--
who TWISTS
space enough for everyone
and pours it, and all the power,
back into the valley
which sops it up
like a giant granite sponge.
"Let Jocasta know:
we're ready to go."
Invitation
Join us!
One Week from Tonight!
The Incomparable
Jocasta Stoneburner
wishes to issue a
Lush and Loving Invitation
to an Evening of Revelry!
Brim-full of Stimulation!
Illusions! Diversions!
Featuring a Dizzying Variety
of Hedonistic Facilitators
Including:
Hrothgar Honeytongue
and his
Itinerant Meadhall!
Musical Groovings
and
Free-form Terpsichorean Creativity
with Margaret!
Cassandra and Her
Homemade Trebuchet!
(Bring a Trashcan Lid for a Shield
and a Box of Unlubricated Con--
--er, Extra Durable Water Balloons!)
Twenty-seven
Musical Train Wrecks
Competing in our
First Annual
Battle of the
One-Man Bands!
--and--
As many Jugglers as can fit in a VW Micro-bus!
Field space is available for
Cutthroat Bocce
Pick-up Kickball
Rogue Croquet
and Tag
Bonfire provided by
A Bunch of Random Pyrophiliacs
Fire safety provided by
A Bunch of Hard-Drinkin' Firefighters
Take a Diet Hiatus
with Too Much Food by Fiona
Win some and lose some
in Olivia's Gaming Gallery
Thrill to Cliff Diving
Assert your Personal Space on our
Boomerang Target Range
Expand your horizons with
a Knife Throwing Tutorial
Fair Warning:
Live at your own risk
Deliberate harm Prohibited
Accidental harm Discouraged
Angry fistfights will be broken up
Fistfights-for-fun will be wagered upon
Clothing always optional
Crash space available
Attendees will be
treated as Adults
Until they prove themselves,
by their behavior,
to be Children.
Children accompanying adults
will be treated as adults
and no adult activities will be hidden from them
One Week from Tonight!
The Incomparable
Jocasta Stoneburner
wishes to issue a
Lush and Loving Invitation
to an Evening of Revelry!
Brim-full of Stimulation!
Illusions! Diversions!
Featuring a Dizzying Variety
of Hedonistic Facilitators
Including:
Hrothgar Honeytongue
and his
Itinerant Meadhall!
Musical Groovings
and
Free-form Terpsichorean Creativity
with Margaret!
Cassandra and Her
Homemade Trebuchet!
(Bring a Trashcan Lid for a Shield
and a Box of Unlubricated Con--
--er, Extra Durable Water Balloons!)
Twenty-seven
Musical Train Wrecks
Competing in our
First Annual
Battle of the
One-Man Bands!
--and--
As many Jugglers as can fit in a VW Micro-bus!
Field space is available for
Cutthroat Bocce
Pick-up Kickball
Rogue Croquet
and Tag
Bonfire provided by
A Bunch of Random Pyrophiliacs
Fire safety provided by
A Bunch of Hard-Drinkin' Firefighters
Take a Diet Hiatus
with Too Much Food by Fiona
Win some and lose some
in Olivia's Gaming Gallery
Thrill to Cliff Diving
Assert your Personal Space on our
Boomerang Target Range
Expand your horizons with
a Knife Throwing Tutorial
Fair Warning:
Live at your own risk
Deliberate harm Prohibited
Accidental harm Discouraged
Angry fistfights will be broken up
Fistfights-for-fun will be wagered upon
Clothing always optional
Crash space available
Attendees will be
treated as Adults
Until they prove themselves,
by their behavior,
to be Children.
Children accompanying adults
will be treated as adults
and no adult activities will be hidden from them
Tiny, Frightened People
The Tiny Frightened People hide
their children from the scary world
The Tiny Frightened People hate
the world that scares their children so
The Tiny Frightened People never think--
the answers(they insist) are in The Book
Like so:
Answers from outside The Book are
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
To make un-Bookish inquiries is
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
Anyone who doubts The Book is
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
I find the world to be less frightening
if I can fit it neatly in My Book.
Let's be brave, kids! (Jocasta enthuses)
and frolic through the frightening world
outside their tiny books!
their children from the scary world
The Tiny Frightened People hate
the world that scares their children so
The Tiny Frightened People never think--
the answers(they insist) are in The Book
Like so:
Answers from outside The Book are
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
To make un-Bookish inquiries is
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
Anyone who doubts The Book is
Wrong!Wrong!Wrong!
I find the world to be less frightening
if I can fit it neatly in My Book.
Let's be brave, kids! (Jocasta enthuses)
and frolic through the frightening world
outside their tiny books!
Towers
The sorcerers of Sheboygan
hide their towers in the twists of space and time.
Wherever a sorcerer walks,
a tower waits around the corner;
he carries the entrance with him.
One entrance only,
but a sorcerer worth anything knows
that a tower must have many exits
scattered and hidden well from
the Tiny Frightened People:
a door that opens
to the alley between the detox center
and the cheap-ass chinese restaurant,
a door that emerges
from the mop closet next to the men's room
in the biker bar by the trainyard,
a door that decants
onto the observation deck of a forest ranger's tower
seventy-five feet above the forest floor,
a door that swings
into a church basement,
or a laundry room,
or the stockroom of a corner store.
Faceless and nameless the sorcerers emerge
and vanish into the throng
like water poured into water.
hide their towers in the twists of space and time.
Wherever a sorcerer walks,
a tower waits around the corner;
he carries the entrance with him.
One entrance only,
but a sorcerer worth anything knows
that a tower must have many exits
scattered and hidden well from
the Tiny Frightened People:
a door that opens
to the alley between the detox center
and the cheap-ass chinese restaurant,
a door that emerges
from the mop closet next to the men's room
in the biker bar by the trainyard,
a door that decants
onto the observation deck of a forest ranger's tower
seventy-five feet above the forest floor,
a door that swings
into a church basement,
or a laundry room,
or the stockroom of a corner store.
Faceless and nameless the sorcerers emerge
and vanish into the throng
like water poured into water.
Jocasta
Jocasta Stoneburner has a compact, sturdy body
with curves aplenty, and her eyes gleam, so devious.
She uses a jujitsu wit
that turns your clever momentum against you.
She may slap your ass hello.
She may kiss your nose goodbye.
She may sweep a formal, respectful bow.
She'll dance on a whim to the music in her head.
She lives in a clothing-optional world of her own, and
her favorite options span the spectrum
from rugged to gauzy, floaty to skintight,
touching every degree between.
She has a vast and various collection of hats;
fewer shoes, though many still.
She wears a naughty grin as her poker face
and her hands remember impeccably
the riffle and shuffle and deal
with no help from her eyes.
She knows five ways of telling your fortune
and has the gift of making you look forward
to finding out if she was right.
She always carries with her a way to light a fire,
a pair of dice, a deck of cards,
a point-and-shoot camera,
pen, paper and a discrete handgun
to discourage would-be witchfinders.
She'd rather skinny-dip.
She has gathered a handful of disciples.
Jocasta's only lesson:
No time but now!
Lose yourself to joy
and bring as many with you as will follow.
Jocasta Stoneburner and the Sorcerers of Sheboygan
The sorcerers of Sheboygan
have let slip their relentless self-discipline;
have set aside the foreign resins and
mystical essences which fill their toolchests
and spiraled down from their towers
to harass the valley.
Centuries of stolid study
now give way to eager deviance
as they scurry down the secret paths
to go full-on symbolic with
Jocasta Stoneburner the pro bono courtesan
and her troupe of exuberant pupils.
The sorcerers' pouches bulge with ephemeral gems
for hucksters and such, but for Jocasta
and her inquisitive minions, they've gifts:
gaudy baubles and myriad doodads imbued with
dancing phantasms, elixirs and illusions,
perfumes and potions and endless bedazzlement.
They've learned to touch the world lightly;
to slip in a bit of serendipity for
a beneficial butterfly effect;
too heavy a hand will jostle awake
the Tiny Frightened People, who'll
make all manner of torch-and-pitchfork mayhem.
Ah, but this was a week to bull and jam,
a week to do seven days' work in six
then shut it all down for an evening
to cut loose and savor slippery rewards
and dervish delirium with the
enthusiastic Jocasta and crew.
So down they dash--let sleepers snooze!
Let the dour glower! Tonight is for satin and
sable and leather! For smoke and sandalwood and musk!
For savory and sweet and sharply tart!
The sorcerers of Sheboygan come now
to indulge their urges and revel in the sensual!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)