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March 17, 2005
......
Ugh. Still sick.
Still got fuzz for brains.
Is anybody out there?
Eek! There is!!! There's a man swinging outside my window on a rope! I'm not kidding! He's washing the windows and swinging like Tarzan! Should I smile and wave?! Helllloo window washer man!
I wonder how many people they see naked every day by accident? Hm. Window washing. Could be an
interesting career possibility, what with the swingy ropes and all. And who doesn't like using a squeegee?
Since I can't seem to write anything pleasing today, here, for your viewing pleasure, or pain, a bit of what I do best, without further ado, ladies and gents, madames et messieurs, I present
And the big big bonus, poetry by special guest, our very own inimitable J. Egghead Smith praises the noble horse. Personally I like any poetry that mentions Hyderabad.(I believe its untitled) ~
But lo, I have yet to praise the proud, tall horse,
Lord of Eurasia,
Who snuffleth up the Zephyr
Through volcanic nostrils
In his desire.
Desire for what?
A far-off battle,
Or anything that sounds like one,
Like skeet-shooting, yea, or traffic.
Or for a mare,
And the restlessness differs only in this:
That as he leaps over crag and crevice
Toward her who’s provoked him,
He leaves behind a scattered trail of residue
That the ancients call ‘horse madness’.
And the peasant girls will come along,
And collect the droplets of hippemania,
And mix them in bowls together with
Life-giving leaves only they know,
And the leaves and the seed will feed the corn,
For the ancients say the corn comes from the dead,
But those more ancient still say it comes from seed.
And if you wish to know how it all got started,
And who is the most ancient of all,
Look for that forest that once kept Scythia in shadows,
And now is radioactive.
Or look just north of Hyderabad,
Where Agni has taken on the form of a missile.
Or to a defunct polyclinic on the outskirts of Ufa.
There they all know horse, and they all know corn.
And there all the other words derive from ‘horse’ and ‘corn’,
There it is always ‘horse this’, and ‘corn that’.
There, indeed, they will tell you
That the cosmos itself is a giant horse.
This they will demonstrate, point by point,
By carving one up, before your eyes,
For crop fertilizer, dog food, and glue:
The sun is his eye, they will tell you,
The wind his breath
The fire that is in all men his open mouth,
The year his body.
When he yawns, it lightens,
When he shakes himself, it thunders,
When he urinates, it rains,
And speech, they will tell you, is his voice.
Thus, ends the weird sick-brain Knit-A-Log, with promises of knitting content to come.
Posted by at March 17, 2005 12:04 PM
Comments
What a beautiful painting. Those wing-ed creatures could really exist somewhere. I can see them actually moving. Everyone I read online seems to be suffering from a virus. I just got over one. I hate that point in the midst of a cold when you get the sinking feeling that it might never go away. But it will. Don't worry.
Posted by: Elizabeth at March 18, 2005 07:29 AM
hello dear
how are you?
m
Posted by: mike at March 20, 2005 09:17 AM