violin

as if a love had long been lost,
passion flickers under her breath.
she never played the violin for him,
he never asked her to,
and the regret surfaces.
now she remembers playing;
her fingers delicate on the strings,
fine and quick to the note.
the bridge collapses and strings snap
until the fade completes.
she thinks of picking it up again.

goodmorning capt'n

when i was a youngster one of my fav. cereals was always capt'n crunch. not just because 'you and the capt'n make it happen' but because i had and still have a ritual for eating a bowl of crunch berries.

first i eat out all the little yellow bits (they're oddly enough, my favorite part). when capt'n crunch with crunch berries was first brought out the crunch berries were all red round balls of goodness. i would, after eating all the yellow, eat all the red crunch berries three at a time. three red circles in my spoon wading in a pool of lightly tinted pink milk. if there was an exact multiple of three in the bowl i won. i didn't win anything in particular, just the self awarness and pride that i could pour a bowl of cereal in perfect threes.

when capt'n crunch got more complicated so did the rules for eating the crunch berries. they introduces blue crunch berries and the rule for eating three berries at time was piggybacked by the rule that out of the three crunch berries, they could not all three be the same color. so i'd have to eat two blue and one red or visa versa. if i was left with all red or all blue then i didn't do a very good job on guessing the proportions of blue to red.

yet again the crunch berries morph. they added purple and called it mixed berry. there were green and red berries in the shapes of santa hats and trees for christmas capt'n crunch, and today capt'n crunch is out of control.

now when you got to pick out some capt'n crunch with crunch berries you get stuck with this oddly unnatural trick. instead of a pinkish purple unaccounted for effect of your morning breakfast cereal milk turing a pink or light purple because of the dye in the crunch berries, now they prurposfully impliment a dying agent (edible of course) that turns your milk blue... yeah blue. yet, there are no blue pieces. there are green, purple and even red pieces in the cereal, but none blue.

it's a change enough not to have standard round berries, these ones are in the shape of characters from a kids cartoon i've never watched (which means it mustn't be very good, because i watch all the best while i'm at work).

the crunch was fabulous, and the blue milked bowl of cereal this morning served a three day craving. i even followed the rules of the ritual (though i'm out of practice, i ended up with two remaining red peices). but blue? call me old fashioned, but i'd take the pink milk over the blue any day.

here's a happy link with a historic list of mostly unsucessful crunchy endevours... http://www.lavasurfer.com/cereal-quakeroats.html

cheburashka

went to an eels gig last night (absolute tops). my second sight of eels, but ryan's first. i saw them on tour with shootinanananany a year and a half ago, much different stylee and vibe witch was ace.

anyhow, this blog of a post isn't about the concert so much as what went on before it... at the somerville theartre in davis square they showed a reel before the gig, an opening act i suppose you could call it... and what else should they play but a stop motion, antique children's show... from Russia.

i'd heard about Cheburashka (which is pronounces chip oo rashka) from my russian-born girlfriends, dina and bunny and their click of russian party-going amigos from the brookline area. from what i did know about Cheburashka was that you sing a song about him as a toast when you're seriously far gone on the vodka river of love. a particularly unique american mate of mine, Keith, the inderterminant and ever hair colour changing, was and is a huge fan of singing Chepurashka with a glass of something or other to support his intonation.

Keith spent some exciting time in japan where he was, unavoidable, a big smash. could part of the reason for his success in japane be because he knew all the words to the Chepurashka song?

what i learned from the stop motion flick was that the Chepurashka is actually an adorable little monkey/bear hybrid of a creature who's fond of oranges and making friends with carocodilles (sound it out) named Gena (gee na).

and of course... because he's little and strange and fuzzy, the japanese *love* Chepurashka. check out the title link.

i should not have been surprised.

all in all an educational evening in bean town and a happy internet breakfast.

two moon stroll

my two moon stroll
started in a mobile home
hussed and fussed it's way
down to a motor bike
and some sharp gloves.

the american highway
saw me two moons
one in the sky
and another attached
to a black pole, backlight
with the words "Burger King".

Jet Lag Poetry

take your poem on trip around the world using babel as your literary guide and this is what you may find happens, under the fatigue of travel, your meaning is muddled and words are lost, or in some cases, duplicated beyond recognition.

JET LAG POETRY

Original:
my hair is in shards
and the wax trees are dripping over themselves
suffocating the green lawn.
Shirley Bassey sing your heart out
he'll never hear you, no matter how long the party
or regal the host.

Thru Italy:
my hats are in shards
and the trees of the wax are dripping over
if same that suffocaring the bassey green of shirley
of the Prato sing your heart outside
that it will not never feel them,
it does not import as it wishes the party or regal the host.
or regal the host.

Thru Greece:
my hats are in the shards
and trees of candle are sta'zontas if the same thing that suffocaring
the bassey green of shirley Prato
tragoydi'ste your abroad of hearts
that them will not feel never,
this imports since wishes the contracting part or vasjloprepi's
the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.
or vasjloprepi's the house-holder.

Thru Japan:
As for my hat there is a fragment,
the wood of the candle the green of bassey
of tragoydi'ste of Prato of suffocaring your shirley,
asks this to central foreign country which sta'zontas under any condition is not felt
and ever since it is the same thing which imports the household head of part
or vasjloprepi which tightens.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.
Or the household head of vasjloprepi.

Thru Russia:
As for my helmet there will be part,
the wood of the candles the green color bassey
tragoydi'ste Prato suffocaring your shirley,
ask this to central zarubezhnya of the country
they are not felt which sta'zontas under any condition
and ever since will be the same thing it imports
the head of the household of part or vasjloprepi it involves.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.
Or the head of household vasjloprepi.

Thru France:
As for my helmet there will be the part,
the wood of the candles the tragoydi' ste green
Prato of bassey of color suffocaring your shirley,
ask this the central zarubezhnya country
which they are not felt which sta' zontas under any condition
and since are the same thing it imports the head of the household of the part
or of the vasjloprepi he implies.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.
Or the chief of the vasjloprepi of family.



One of most interesting aspects of this piece is the transformation in punctuation and the generative repeats.

in the news

.

.

saviour

hello,
this is not a poem.
this is a post.
there is a difference.
the difference is in this: i did not type this in my word pad, then correct this in my microsoft word. this was composed and uncorrected in the little post box.
this post is about poetry--even though it is not poetry.
this has been done before.
i've been blocked, so today i went for a bike ride. after 2 seconds of biking i realized it's way to bloody hot to bike, so i went up and down some hills then came home (the entire ride lasted, oh, 5 minutes). the bike ride did not inspire me.
i finished up my chores around the house for today and decided to subject my mind to the hum and clank of my electronic type writer (sears model, very cutting edge and all that). between the typewriter and i, we produced two oversized pages of text. the first of the two seems somewhat sucessful. this text will be shared here in due time. it deserves some jestation and some editing before being exposed to the internet--it's young.
i may be tempted, after talking to my ship mate kilgannon, to tranfer some of my recent dreams into poetry; however, i will have to edit out some of the dr who references in order to purify the dreams.
when "the first long page" (the name of the peice i typed today) is revealed, perhaps i'll include a footnote or two for those of you interested in the origins of the poem (because i'm am stupidly eager to do such torturous things to my readers).
in the mean time, my hairy spider friend and i are going to continue our battle of wits and gestures (i'm only winning because i'm 300 times bigger than him).
-katy

Robot Boy Tries

robot boy tries to be punk
a green and black striped wrist band
various colours of dome out of a spray can
even though he knows what he's doing
he draws over his clear reflectors
with crayola markers
neglecting attention
he thinks he wants to want something
but the kids at school don't communicate clearly
frustrated, he finds the meaning
in trying to find the meaning
trying to be punk, he succeeds graciously
but when he gets home
he goes back to his consol
for a game of mario tennis
and drinks oil from a coke can