Spend the day with...

[Tathagata]

I am a petite 5'10

Jesus
why are all the women I lust after so friggin tall?

I knew another woman who was 5'10..I told her I was 5'6 and she said " Oh if we danced you'd be staring at my chest"
and I said
" I'd be doing that even if we weren't dancing"
yeah I know
smooooooooooooth

I'm off to the Red Sox Game!!
woohoo



oh and EE
" a large man"?
was my fly open?

 

[Tathagata]

0h and

I sorta wrote a poem about Eve a long time ago


Midspring Eve

Over spanish moss
and dead generals
the sun rises

plantation columns
lazy buzz of cicadas
air like karo syrup

you there in a chair
fan flutters
black silk lace whispers

and time crawls
for this boy from the north
looking for chores

too slow you rise
too slow the night
too slow my dreams collide

lemonade and death
on the front porch
you've made me a captive

 

[WickedEve]

I sorta wrote a poem about Eve a long time ago


Midspring Eve

Over spanish moss
and dead generals
the sun rises

plantation columns
lazy buzz of cicadas
air like karo syrup

you there in a chair
fan flutters
black silk lace whispers

and time crawls
for this boy from the north
looking for chores

too slow you rise
too slow the night
too slow my dreams collide

lemonade and death
on the front porch
you've made me a captive

Oh, I remember this poem. The last few lines are to die for.

In my eyes, you're the size of a god. One of those tall ones... or maybe a short one with god-sized man parts...

 

[Tzara]

My butt was sore from sitting on the hard wooden bleachers. It was cold, and I had been furtively pouring a nip of Crown Royal into my now tepid coffee, just to keep off the chill. She was still running around out there, in patterns God or someone who knew something about soccer might divine, but it made no sense to me. My pockets felt heavy from the loonie toonie load one carries around in her country.

At halftime, she ran over (ran!) to talk.

"Like it? Following the action?" She was sweating lightly, and breathing a bit. The shorts and knee socks were especially appealing—evoking slightly smarmy memories of youth—once I realized the thickness of her shins was because of the pads.

Rough sport.

"It's interesting," I said noncomittally. "I don't really know soccer."

"It's great," she said, "You run a lot."

"It's just," I tried to put my reluctance into words, "I don't understand the rules."

"Well, for one thing," she picked up my hand, which had somehow found itself comfortably settled onto her knee, "only the goalie can use her hands."

"I understand," I said. "She tries to keep me from scoring."

"Yes," she said firmly, sounding perhaps a bit cross, "She wants a clean match."

"I understand the goal thing. And that you kick or head the ball." I was really going now, showing that I had read the Wikipedia article on soccer, "But that offside thing. That always confuses me."

"Don't get beyond the defensive line unless you have the ball."

"That's it?"

"Well, that and move your knee," she said softly, "unless you want to lose a ball on a free kick."

I moved my leg. "You do write poetry, don't you?"

"Rules are rules," she said.

 

[champagne1982]

LOL! Tee-zed, you are a funny man.

 

[annaswirls]

perfect

..........................Tell me about

the Poisson distribution, I asked.
He began to talk in the flat, exact voice
of a dictionary—hands fluttering

as he wrote out symbols on a chalkboard
in his mind. I was lost after
Consider... which was his first word,

so when he paused I said Or maybe
a poem. After a moment, he cleared
his throat and recited a short one, by
Li Po, I think, and then was silent.

I looked out at the robin's egg blue
of the apartment's swimming pool, where
madrona leaves floated on the water.
And while I did not understand the poem,

I knew then why geometry.​

 

[hmmnmm]

To each poet his or her gifts I pay homage and come away bettered and blessed.

 

[wildsweetone]

Stocking up on Nature

There's no coffee cafe,
nor bar in sight.

Instead, forest
and river bends,
squirrels and skunks,
deer with antlers
and velvet banks beyond
apple tree orchards.

We'd sit,
listen,
laze under the sun's rays.

And later, maybe,
we'd write.

 

[Tathagata]

Oh, I remember this poem. The last few lines are to die for.

In my eyes, you're the size of a god. One of those tall ones... or maybe a short one with god-sized man parts...

oh i love when you sweet talk me

 

[Tzara]

Her painting was framed in dark wood, under glass of course, paper floated on hinges over a clean white mounting board. Finely executed in sumi ink, it was a deft rendering of a young pine tree and its prominent cones. The artist's red chop was both obvious and subtle, placed in the picture's lower left-hand corner.

I looked at the painting for some time, both because it was a good painting and because I wanted her to know I felt it was. My knowledge of sumi-e was limited, but I had seen work by Tsutakawa, an artist known for the grace and subtlety of his paintings, and I had seen images by his friends Tobey and Graves, who were both famous artists in conventional media and who both had experimented with the form. Her painting was, to my fond but skeptical eye, very good.

"It's on rice paper, of course," I said, showing off.

"Well, no. Not exactly. That is a common misconception." The British accent softened her correction just a bit, but only just. "It is on Xuan paper, actually, from Jing County, Anhui Province. The brand name is Purple Star. It isn't made of rice at all, but rather from mulberry trees."

"In any case," I said dreamily, "it's quite lovely. Such beautiful surface texture, combined with superlative form."

"Yes," she said with some asperity, "thank you. I did shave my legs this morning." I realized, embarrassed, that my gaze had drifted to the other lovely form in the room. Hers. She pointedly refocused my attention, saying, "My painting is on that wall over there."

Shit. I'd been caught looking at her ankles. Again.

"So, what kind of inkstone do you use?" I asked, clumsily.

 

[wildsweetone]

He's just another poet

I'd trip again,
I just know I would
whilst watching his eyes,
hands, feeling the cogs in his mind
ticking over
as he watched others.

People watched.

Female watched.

As if he could leap across the room,
write poetry on their limbs
using the condensation
from his whiskey glass on one wet finger,
then stand back, smiling
whilst they playfully slapped his face,
french kissed,
slinked off with him
to a room of their own.

Who needs poetry? he'd toss
over one shoulder.

I'd be left sitting.

People watching.

Again.

 

[Tzara]

I knew it was to be my moment. We'd been through a tough and close game, the lead changing amongst the three of us throughout the competition. My opponents were good, very good. The man had a European elegance of style and manner that was oddly reminiscent of the French existential writer and Nobel laureate Albert Camus. The jerk (he was a nice guy, actually, but game shows are war) completely aced the Joni Mitchell category. Hell. I knew those answers too! His finger was just faster on the buzzer, I swear.

The woman—nice looking, with long dark hair just hinting at gray—seemed almost preternaturally composed as she breezed through the jazz category, as if she were the reincarnated spirit of Billie Holliday or something. Her eyes seemed to become slightly wet on some question about Lester Young.

Still, I was close. I kicked their ass on Aleatory Music, and held my own on '60s Rock and Skiffle Bands.

When we got to the final round, the two of them were tied. I was behind, but close. Then, alleluia! The final category was named: Seattle Grunge.

There is no way they can win this, I thought. No way. I went for broke and wagered all. When the answer was revealed—This Montesano, Washington band was a major inspiration for grunge and drone rock, and once rejected Kurt Cobain as its bass player—I knew I had them. Effing home field advantage, thank you God!

I finished writing my response before that drippy music made its way through the first bar. They will never know this, they cannot know this, I exulted to myself. I have got them.

During the commercial break, I was very relaxed—smiling, chatting with the host. My competitors seemed nervous. They don't know the answer! I told myself.

Camera on. Alex approached me first, as I was in last place.

"Tristan, our third-place contestant, has wagered," he paused dramatically, "everything." I heard the intake of breath from the studio audience as they saw the wager, which was revealed on the monitor in front of me. Alex made a small gesture as he said, "And his response is..."

And I saw the light go out of his eyes. He said, sadly, "The Melvins. That is correct, of course, but not phrased in the form of a question. I'm sorry Tristan, but that is an incorrect response." On the monitor I saw my winnings flip to $0000. The red light on the camera before me switched off, and I was left—isolated, humiliated—just off the edge of stardom.

I don't recall which of my competitors won. I think they tied, but of course it didn't matter. I was crushed—left, finally, with one nagging, insistent question:

Do it in fact mean a thing, if I ain't got that swing?

 

[normal jean]

Her painting was framed in dark wood, under glass of course, paper floated on hinges over a clean white mounting board. Finely executed in sumi ink, it was a deft rendering of a young pine tree and its prominent cones. The artist's red chop was both obvious and subtle, placed in the picture's lower left-hand corner.

I looked at the painting for some time, both because it was a good painting and because I wanted her to know I felt it was. My knowledge of sumi-e was limited, but I had seen work by Tsutakawa, an artist known for the grace and subtlety of his paintings, and I had seen images by his friends Tobey and Graves, who were both famous artists in conventional media and who both had experimented with the form. Her painting was, to my fond but skeptical eye, very good.

"It's on rice paper, of course," I said, showing off.

"Well, no. Not exactly. That is a common misconception." The British accent softened her correction just a bit, but only just. "It is on Xuan paper, actually, from Jing County, Anhui Province. The brand name is Purple Star. It isn't made of rice at all, but rather from mulberry trees."

"In any case," I said dreamily, "it's quite lovely. Such beautiful surface texture, combined with superlative form."

"Yes," she said with some asperity, "thank you. I did shave my legs this morning." I realized, embarrassed, that my gaze had drifted to the other lovely form in the room. Hers. She pointedly refocused my attention, saying, "My painting is on that wall over there."

Shit. I'd been caught looking at her ankles. Again.

"So, what kind of inkstone do you use?" I asked, clumsily.

Tzara

did you ever consider writing a romance novel?

you'd probably make a killin'

just saying...

 

[bogusbrig]

[*]Find yourself comfortably seated in Rotterdam, having twisted up a healthy doob with (after two or three puffs) your lifelong friend and fellow poet bogusbrig.

What happens?

in the bar Zen
tucked into the haven
along the walk of fame
which is neither famous
nor a place of meditation

there
a beautiful Chinese waitress
sports pig tails
schoolgirl and innocent
all five foot of her
working the tables

she smiles and serves
takes your money
and promises dessert
which never arrives
but who cares?

the promise was served
with Hoogarten and Kriek Lambiek
the beers on which
her lisp falters
into a breathless accent

he will leave
lovelorn and incomplete
her troublesome tongue
struggling as though
she was on the edge
of climax

 

[bogusbrig]

OK I admit I was in the Zen this lunch time and had rather too many Krieks which is the reason for the work of genius. Now for a doob and some more drooling.

 

[Tzara]

OK I admit I was in the Zen this lunch time and had rather too many Krieks which is the reason for the work of genius. Now for a doob and some more drooling.

I remember walking past Zen, probably because I really remember the Walk of Fame. I was always puzzled why Bob Feller was there. Does anyone in Rotterdam know who he is? You guys watch American baseball?

 

[Tzara]

Tzara

did you ever consider writing a romance novel?

you'd probably make a killin'

just saying...

Or maybe not.


Miss Maria O'Hara clenched both of her pretty little hands into fists. "Oh, fiddle-dee-dee," she vented in frustration, "I do declare, Rhett Tzara, that ever since you've come to Tara that you've done nothing but eat." She stamped her foot attractively.

"Whol mn dhur," mumbled the object of her ire, a bearded, gray-haired man who was trying to talk with his mouth full, "Uhye..." He held up one hand, which happened to be holding a piece of fried chicken, and shook his head, indicating that he needed a minute to finish chewing his food. After several seconds of determined mastication, he ostentatiously swallowed, then took a long pull from the bottle of Carolina Blonde Ale on the table in front of him. "Sorry, m'dear," he finally said, smiling raffishly, "but this southern cooking is just divine."

"Oh, Rhett," Maria wailed, "what is supposed to be romantic about this?"

He put down the chicken leg and reached for a biscuit. "I thought you were the one who announced you'd never go hungry again," he said, expertly splitting the biscuit and beginning to slather it in butter. "It was quite dramatic, as I recall. I assumed you meant I shouldn't either. Go hungry, that is."

"But all this!" She gestured at the broad table, laden with all sorts of deliciously high caloric foodstuffs. "This is not hunger, Rhett—it's gluttony."

"Frankly, my dear," he paused and belched softly behind a politely raised fist, "I don't give a damn."

 

[normal jean]

OMG!!

I have talents otha than cookin' Rhett-Tzara dear

you're so cute

how bout some nana puddin' for dah-sert?

 

[bogusbrig]

I remember walking past Zen, probably because I really remember the Walk of Fame. I was always puzzled why Bob Feller was there. Does anyone in Rotterdam know who he is? You guys watch American baseball?

Aah Baseball. When I lived in England my daughter's friend's father who was a head teacher, he came from New York and he always used to fly over to Rotterdam for baseball tournaments. I wouldn't say it is a big sport here but there is certainly a sizeable cult following. Enough to put on display matches anyway.

 

[Tzara]

I have talents otha than cookin' Rhett-Tzara dear

I describe those in a different story. But that one isn't exactly romance, if you get my drift.

 

[normal jean]

Aah Baseball. When I lived in England my daughter's friend's father who was a head teacher, he came from New York and he always used to fly over to Rotterdam for baseball tournaments. I wouldn't say it is a big sport here but there is certainly a sizeable cult following. Enough to put on display matches anyway.

a head teacher?

 

[Tzara]

It was a small car, a MINI Cooper. Built by BMW, she told me. I said, "It's a small car."

"Big on the inside," she said. "Comfortable, even."

"It looks fast."

"It is fast—zero to 100 in just over seven seconds."

"Zero to 100?!"

"KPH," she said soothingly, "Kilometres per hour. You're in Canada now, eh?"

That last syllable seemed to be slightly mocking of my naïve Americanliness. While I got into her car—it was like crouching on the effin' ground, the seat was so low—I was still wary. "So where are we going?" I asked her.

"Bar," she shouted over the engine she'd revved up to a screaming 6000 rpm. "Stanley Cup game tonight."

"Hockey?" I asked hysterically.

She popped the clutch and left my spine bouncing and lost upon the pavement. So this is what it's like to be an astronaut, I thought, as the G-forces crushed me back into the seat.

 

[Angeline]

I knew it was to be my moment. We'd been through a tough and close game, the lead changing amongst the three of us throughout the competition. My opponents were good, very good. The man had a European elegance of style and manner that was oddly reminiscent of the French existential writer and Nobel laureate Albert Camus. The jerk (he was a nice guy, actually, but game shows are war) completely aced the Joni Mitchell category. Hell. I knew those answers too! His finger was just faster on the buzzer, I swear.

The woman—nice looking, with long dark hair just hinting at gray—seemed almost preternaturally composed as she breezed through the jazz category, as if she were the reincarnated spirit of Billie Holliday or something. Her eyes seemed to become slightly wet on some question about Lester Young.

Still, I was close. I kicked their ass on Aleatory Music, and held my own on '60s Rock and Skiffle Bands.

When we got to the final round, the two of them were tied. I was behind, but close. Then, alleluia! The final category was named: Seattle Grunge.

There is no way they can win this, I thought. No way. I went for broke and wagered all. When the answer was revealed—This Montesano, Washington band was a major inspiration for grunge and drone rock, and once rejected Kurt Cobain as its bass player—I knew I had them. Effing home field advantage, thank you God!

I finished writing my response before that drippy music made its way through the first bar. They will never know this, they cannot know this, I exulted to myself. I have got them.

During the commercial break, I was very relaxed—smiling, chatting with the host. My competitors seemed nervous. They don't know the answer! I told myself.

Camera on. Alex approached me first, as I was in last place.

"Tristan, our third-place contestant, has wagered," he paused dramatically, "everything." I heard the intake of breath from the studio audience as they saw the wager, which was revealed on the monitor in front of me. Alex made a small gesture as he said, "And his response is..."

And I saw the light go out of his eyes. He said, sadly, "The Melvins. That is correct, of course, but not phrased in the form of a question. I'm sorry Tristan, but that is an incorrect response." On the monitor I saw my winnings flip to $0000. The red light on the camera before me switched off, and I was left—isolated, humiliated—just off the edge of stardom.

I don't recall which of my competitors won. I think they tied, but of course it didn't matter. I was crushed—left, finally, with one nagging, insistent question:

Do it in fact mean a thing, if I ain't got that swing?

Thoughts of Lester can bring tears to my eyes, and yknow I'd share my winnings with you.

 

[champagne1982]

It was a small car, a MINI Cooper. Built by BMW, she told me. I said, "It's a small car."

"Big on the inside," she said. "Comfortable, even."

"It looks fast."

"It is fast—zero to 100 in just over seven seconds."

"Zero to 100?!"

"KPH," she said soothingly, "Kilometres per hour. You're in Canada now, eh?"

That last syllable seemed to be slightly mocking of my naïve Americanliness. While I got into her car—it was like crouching on the effin' ground, the seat was so low—I was still wary. "So where are we going?" I asked her.

"Bar," she shouted over the engine she'd revved up to a screaming 6000 rpm. "Stanley Cup game tonight."

"Hockey?" I asked hysterically.

She popped the clutch and left my spine bouncing and lost upon the pavement. So this is what it's like to be an astronaut, I thought, as the G-forces crushed me back into the seat.

My lil car can go faster than that Tee-zed! And, btw, it's "klick's": we can't get our mouths around all those syllables either. I've met and chatted with two of our Canadian Astronauts! We talked about ... well, about our common ground. Namely, the airfield at Cold Lake.

You'd like it here. The climate is a cross between hawk-sized mosquito infested boreal swamp and polar glacier. We drive fast and drink beers faster than .. no that's not true, I suspect a newfie can drink screech faster than I can drink a beer.

I wish the NHL would down-size. Do people in California really care who wins the Stanley Cup? Do they even know that it's a left-over relic from the days of patronage and feudal levvies that GB (not the georges! Great Britain) and the monarchy imposed on its colonies of the Commonwealth? I doubt it.

Anywho, I know you like rye. Crown Royal's okay, but you should taste the smooth warmth of a 15 yo Shenley's Premium. That's nice liquor. I could almost wax poetic; especially when combined with a Grey Cup game in the nosebleed section of Commonwealth Stadium in Edmonton. Imagine! Football at 20 below!

We could drive to get there, too: three-ish hours in my speedy lil mini... wanna? As a note to all, lest the incorrigible m'sieu Tee-zed has mislead you: you can adjust the passenger seat over six axes of movement; so the seat is not low to the floor, but the car is low to the ground.

I'd take any of you for a ride.

 

[Under_Sun]

Loose

I imagined you more condensed
tight in the chair with all extras trimmed
and swept into metal cylinders
with a lid that pops up
when you step down

I imagined you with more
contradictions
like the can
but your toes press into mud
your chin remains fixed

"Quite a storm we got last night, wasn't it?
I don't know where we would hide if it got really bad
I mean there are windows in every room of the house
like, every wall there is nowhere to hide, do you get weather
like that where you live, where was it you lived exactly
I can never keep track of these things."

I had imagined your moreso in your lessness
but once it flows over the banks hold on
no high ground for miles
we dissolve