"A Meerkat Murder Mystery"

Harsh cerulean dome & crawling cars
awaiting naught but fall's bright *ardor's chrism,
tethered by cell & radio, earth scars
go unremarked beyond each *flagrant prism.
Conveyor belt or cattle cars, what schism
wages a poet now who works & drives
alongside, with his words' snide symbolism
stashed on the internet; his verbal knives
whetted on conscience if at all such thing survives?

Yet task else surely eludes. I lose the impulse
a moment later, driven to numb despairing;
i load rocks into graceful fictive catapults
and wonder which one, were the redder herring.
Suppose from all this caring,
and reading blogs, and anxious inward cursing,
i forged instead a future's stalwart bearing:
making a virtue out of fierce reversing.
Would such thought build? --The Sphinx's lips are pursing.


Games that involve killing. How is that not like the real world? Suppose we make a game where nothing dies. That way we'd never get mixed up. The only thing more ephemeral than to do it with words, would be to do it with pure air. A vampire whose second choice is vodka.


In case of emergency. (via Dave Pollard)


"Frail as the shadow of an emerald..." (via Poetry Hut)