Sunday, April 27, 2008

7:01 PM - Riddle Me This...

I lie ever still at the limit of sight.
I can never be reached, should you try.
Though plain in the day, I blend with the night
but remain where I last left your eye.

What am I?

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Thursday, April 24, 2008

9:26 PM - This Man I Detest

Roland Martin

Every word from his mouth brings tears to my eyes. But not the good kind. It's more of a primal rage sort of tear bringing.

Someone tell CNN to punt this guy out the door.

In other news, taking a step outside is like walking through a curtain of pollen. How does this relate to Roland Martin? The pollen makes me itchy and irratable as well.

FIN.

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Wednesday, April 16, 2008

1:13 PM - Quote 'n Poem - Value Meal for Yer Brain

"Of all the arts in which the wise excel, nature's cheif masterpiece is writing well." - Andrè Breton

To Villa-Lobos in Winter
by Diane Ackerman from Lady Faustus

Night falls: a panther
springing.
On a black branch
swarmed over by stars,
an albino moon
rigs its parrot wings
then glides away
while icicle vines
drip in the sweat and tremble of the night.

Reptilian waterfalls
twist and freeze,
drooling ice down each rock face.
It would remind an Aztec
of his white-bearded gods
Bochica or the ousted Quetzalcoatl
who, vowing he'd return, did as Cortes,
a blue-eyed apparition on horseback,
wild for booty and Christ,
this time drawn from a far darkness
to these pagan depths
ropy with gold,
croaking with demons,
hot with gem flowers
set in green bezels
and blood swilled from vein to sky.

Tonight creeps
like the black diamonds on a snake.
Out of gorges, tortured winds
shudder and moan,
then fill with the hideous
panting of the gods.
Silver amaryllises,
the streetlamps bud high.
Mudgore cakes the road.
Under the parrot moon,
soughing a pink eye as it planes
over farm and settlement,
like a knife-edged idol
so chaste, so delicate,
there will be no waking from
this oblique dream of night.

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