Tuesday, April 29, 2008

My Dream Foretelling the Death of Sun Wukong (A Coming of Age Tale)




When it began, we were swinging over the ocean. Cameryn and I hung on fine line, strung from a great piece of driftwood that arced hundreds of feet above the water. With each long stomach-dropping plunge, we gathered speed. Our final arc carried us up and over the driftwood, stretching the line to its limit, and, with a pinging hum and a pinprick of pain, the line broke, sending us soaring inland, away from the ocean. We flew high above the ground, our speed slowing gradually, until we landed easily on our feet at the outskirts of a nameless town, on a road that disappeared into a wood. Night was drawing shadows together among the trees. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and wind was blowing grey clouds across a dark blue sky.

We found ourselves among teenage girls. Beautiful, ugly, tall, short, fat, thin, dark and blonde, they walked silently along the darkening road with us. A gust of wind blew my hair into my eyes as I heard a chattering sound overhead. The girls fled to the edge of the treeline, some of them pointing toward the sky, others crouching. A black cloud was swirling high above us, gathering itself into a point which reached down toward the ground. As it came closer, I saw that it wasn’t a cloud at all; it was monkeys, hundreds of them. The girls cried out, and I heard one of them say, “They’re coming for us. They take the girls.”

The girls? I thought. What about the adults? The first monkeys landed and I saw that, somehow, they had been flying without wings. They wore tiny black bodysuits that had white skeleton bones printed on front and back. Their hairy little heads jerked back and forth, searching. Their black button eyes widened when they saw the girls. Soon there were hundreds of them covering the asphalt surface of the road. I saw a flash of color in the midst of the black throng and I was transfixed by the sight of a small monkey with a painted face and colorful clothing, howling and dancing in the very center of the crowd. This monkey could only be their king. I turned at the sound of screams and saw that two girls had been surrounded by monkeys. They were being dragged into the center of the screeching crowd. The girls cried and batted at the monkeys’ tiny hands, but the monkeys pinched and bit at the girls, until the girls were finally overcome by the sheer number of monkeys pulling at them, and they fell to the ground where I could no longer hear them above the shrieks of the monkeys.

I snatched Cameryn to me and pulled the nearby girls further into the trees, but the underbrush was high and the trees were low and close, and we couldn’t get very far off the road. Cameryn suddenly broke away and deliberately waded into the monkeys, slapping their little butts and elbowing their faces. I cried out in fear for her and tried to reach her, but the monkeys nearest me closed ranks, hissing and scratching, and I could not get close enough to grab her. The monkeys shrieked loudly at Cameryn, but they didn’t try to bite her. She turned back toward me and I could see tears of laughter streaming down her face. She mouthed, “They’re monkeys, Mom!” She held her stomach and rolled with laughter at this, then turned back and made a little swan leap into the monkeys, smacking and elbowing them as she went, and they carried her, without harm, toward the Monkey King.

When she reached the Monkey King, Cameryn pulled herself to her feet and the throng drew back. The Monkey King leaped into Cameryn’s arms and she held him there, his face inches from hers. They stared at one another in the sudden silence that fell around them. Cameryn was no longer laughing, but a tear slipped down her face.

The Monkey King gave a great shriek and lifted his paws over his head to strike Cameryn, and she dropped him, at the last minute catching his paws and his head together between her hands. His hind legs kicked, trying to grasp Cameryn’s clothing, but she held him out away from her body by his head, his paws still trapped beneath her hands on either side of his face.

Cameryn looked at me and took a big breath, then turned back to the Monkey King and slipped her thumbs over his eyes and, squeezing, popped each one out of its socket. The Monkey King shrieked and kicked harder, and the crowd of monkeys around us jumped into the air and flew away screaming. Cameryn pressed her thumbs even deeper into the empty eye sockets, grimacing with effort and disgust, and the Monkey King shuddered in her hands and died.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Schipperke

Another blast from the past - busy again today.
























There was a little chicken
His name was Schipperke
He spied a green bead in the grass
But thought it was a pea


He plucked it out between the blades
And dropped it in his craw
He didn’t know how blind he was
It was a tragic flaw


Several hours later
It flew from out his ass
It shot across the chicken yard
And killed the farmer’s lass


It hurt our little Skipper
In body and in mind
He liked the girl with golden curls
So glossy that they shined


But poultry can be mean and they
Cared not about his hurt
The other chickens thought that they
Had finally hit pay dirt


Now you can witness, any day
With many squawks and clucks,
The chickens loading up our Skip
If they point him at you, duck!

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Fear






















In the ladies room at the office today, I idly picked up an issue of AARP Magazine and read a charming little essay, wherein the author was describing playing with her grandson, the first boy in her family. She writes that she is learning about men from this little tyke. He is teaching her to view the world from a man’s perspective, for the first time in her life. I enjoyed the article very much.

Then I noticed the author’s name: Erica Jong.

Oh, my god.


Friday, February 22, 2008

Savior




When you sit down to eat
Prepare to say grace
For the food
For your life
Don’t look upward
Look down at your plate
At that slice of roast beef
That filet; that chop
A life was taken
A sacrifice
So you may live
And though not
Given willingly
It would be
Insulting
A sacrilege
Blasphemy
To direct
Thanks elsewhere
When the giver
- The real Savior -
Sits right there
On your plate


Thursday, February 21, 2008

J&Y
















He loved her so much
He thought the world would, too
Writhing with jealousy

The world turned its face away
Hating her
How could he love her more
- Damnable ugly shrieking bitch -
Sucking him dry

Years passed
The world finally looked up
Saw her through his eyes


. . .

Oh


Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Spiders

Busy today, so one from the grab-bag.


















Spiders climbing
One, two, three.
Like most creatures -
Hes and shes.
Take a look, though
Carefully.
Tell me what it
Is you see.
Which one is

what? - You tell me.
Nature likes
Androgyny.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Shining














Shining like a half moon in deep night
Pale light skims along a leg
Deepening shadow at the cleft
A finger of light touches a rise
Not light like a feather
Strong like a human finger
The illusion of pressure
A current of air whispers past
Fine hair rises, electric

Friday, February 15, 2008

A Man












Sarah got herself a man
A man to work her land
He plowed the fields
He improved the soil
He planted some seed
That man worked hard


Thursday, February 14, 2008

Lust and Love



- Gustav Klimt


Lust is honey, cloying, sweet
Kept at its height when incomplete
Similar to lust is love
But one's a goat and one's a dove

Lust cries out - hot blood replies
Quench it and away it flies
Love’s lips whisper words like this
And tickle past lust’s dark abyss

A tender bloom to be enjoyed
Fragrant, fat, and soon destroyed
Love’s at its richest, best reward
When met just once . . . and once adored.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Psyche Sausage

A blast from the past (2002), as I must skip lunch to work and have no time to primp what I had begun to prepare.















The lover waits impatiently
for what love will reveal.
A prestidigitator, it
conspires to conceal.

The author of his own deceit,
he writes while in his passion
a fictional accounting that
can brook no close inspection.

Averting eyes, he graciously
accepts what is not offered
and disregards just what makes up
his lover’s psyche sausage.

Assisted by its audience,
love focuses attention
on objects of no consequence
- a competent magician.

Hair and lips and sweet incense
eddy in the mind
but these belong to youth and will
someday be left behind.






Thursday, February 07, 2008

Bugged





Bug Eyed Earl mocks me
Even he is writing
Then again
What else would he do?
Don’t tell me-
I don’t want to know.

If I hold my breath
And push
Maybe I can force
A poem out.

Nnnnnnnnnnnn

I’m trying.
Nothing seems to be coming.
I’m way out of shape.
I’ll just do one lap today.

If I hold my breath
And push
Maybe I can bug
My eyes out.

Nnnnnnnnnnnn

Are they out?
They feel out.



http://www.redmeat.com/redmeat/2000-02-08/index.html