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Saturday, December 01, 2001

This is something I wrote for Bob, the Rocket Scientist, whose own poems are powered by a such a weird mix of jet fuel and carnal obsession that I figured he needed a break... The Threaded Blaze The moon shines down on trees prolific Treacherous fate in the pallid limbs lies, Night long, the rusty slate Pacific Knits charms 'neath still expectant skies. At once, an everywhere of gold reflecting Up the banks of Beltane fire, Trails ramp the foxglove miles, injecting trough and leaf with butterscotch spires. How read these lights by stretch of all the stars Or mists that warehouse after night became, How tick these plumes that chalk and dazzle To nestle hard by heaven's shantied fame? To noon the night is the endeavor, Sweet and sometimes cold, yet we must see, To dine on light left in our way most clever, Tossed by steel, but baked with fur, and beak, and thee. Also, in a boldly non-sequitorian transition (from rocket science to bad science?), I must recommend the 2001 Ignobel Prize Awards broadcast. Who knew you could still patent the wheel at this late date?

Wednesday, November 28, 2001

"Don't spoil it all, I can't recall a time when you were struck without an answer." -Janis Ian ...Yeah, well, the same can't quite be said for me, but when Locke issues a call to action who am I to shun the challenge? So, it's my blog and welcome to it (I can't be the only one around here with a latent Thurber fetish, can I? see The Bear). As the wise Mr. T(h). observed, better to fall flat on one's face than to lean over too far backward. And yet, as the makers of the Superman costume are quick to point out, the cape does not (necessarily?) enable the user to fly. So I'll aim for the troposhpere, humbled and inspired by those of you streaking by (both meanings intended) above.

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