Mark Hoback: FGAQ: Poetry Corner

Sun, 08 Feb 2004 15:39:58 GMT

[search phrase]:
Fried Beaver (Google poetry cut-up #6)

Fried Beaver Tail - MMMMM

This recipe came from my grandpa, Marci.

MM...
1 small beaver (20 lbs.), cleaned and skinned, cut into 1 inch cubes.
Elk Pepper.
1/4 c Butter.
1/4 c Sherry.

Fried Beaver Tail - A Marvelous Beast.

[E-mail FRIED BEAVER recipe to a friend]

This one has been cleaned and skinned, Chicken-Fried inside the box.

This one has been Fricasseed!!!

“Paw's Chicken Fried Beaver”
- From "Northern Cookbook" edited by Eleanor A. Ellis, Indian Affairs and Northern Development, Ottawa 1973.

Sat, 07 Feb 2004 15:32:17 GMT

World

We only speak in code.

The way of our ancestors.
Sun, moon, stars, stripes.
Remember the time?
We remember the time before the deluge. Remember the world?
We remember a world beyond accounting.
Let not our words betray us -
We only speak in code.

Less than fleet, we flee in droves.

Oh yes. I'm the great pretender. Pretending that you haven't gone.
There is nothing left in this world.

Long Tall Shorty, remember?
Could crack a room in two with just one look. When the rains came, they found him floating and
feverish.
But still with a song on his lips.
Then they wiped the song.

"Sir! Sir! Let me try one of your beefsticks. The ones with the pig on them."
Oh, how we laughed.
Seems so..…
We talk in code now.
Nothing is safe.
God bless America.
The order is out - now set those bleachers in the sun.
Move along people,
there's nothing to see here now.

There is nothing left in this world.
Let's not think about goodbye.

It's just a cool world these days.
That's all.
You put these thing out in the open where
everyone can steal them and you gloriously live
forever in ever differing reproductions.
Forever in ever differing reductions.
Forever and ever in diminishing seductions.

We are legion. Don't it hurt to say goodbye?

Fri, 06 Feb 2004 16:56:40 GMT

So Long to All of That

A comprehensive statement is needed.
A comprehensive statement shall be made.

Whither, flourish, it's all about the guessing.

In the first stages of miscorrelation there is water earth
air fire.

How about the time, unbeknownst to you, that you
were followed?
You had not an inkling, not a tingle.
Second sense?
Not when the first is still swimming 'neath the surface.
A long smooth stalking.
Luxury.

Jimbo bangs his head,
    bangs the door,
    gone before you see the blood spot.
Must be the wind.
Good sport Jimbo, and he did make for good sport.
You were there and you should know.

No statement comprehensive enough for stealth purposes,
   and stealth purposes are all that matter
   after you take earth out of the equation,
   after you drain the water out,
   after you double the air and half the fire.

James (as he prefers to be called) takes a long drag off a
short life and holds it indefinitely.
Lighter than air, even given the mass quantities of air that
seem to be accumulating without anyone's notice. Anyone who counts at least.
Jimbo/James doesn't count,
And doesn't feel that you should feel that you do either.

Aristotle - what a clown - Archimedes slapped him down.

Jimbo,
On the first guess of his first waking in the night,
Guesses right on target.

And it was a guess
   not an intuition
   not a foreshadowing
   not a second sense
   just a guess
   and not even a lucky one at that.
Too bad for the bagman.

Here it comes now,
   the return of the earth
   the flooding of the water
   the doubling of the fire
   the slow dwindling of the air.
Hit the light hard, it roughed him up.
Left a bright spot on the quiet thoughts of a dozen
   no-bodies who thought that they were watching.

Comprehensive? So long to all of that....

Mon, 02 Feb 2004 17:12:07 GMT

My dad was a jarhead, through and through.

He came home after a long tour of duty during Nam and attacked me.

Didn’t even say hello. Just rammed my head into the living room wall.

I had long hair, maybe two inches, but the bad thing was those two inches were bangs.

He grabbed a razor and just kept hacking.

He eventually got it all off.

My head was bleeding from thirty places.

Yeah, now I understand.

Sun, 01 Feb 2004 17:32:17 GMT

Celeste

I was rolling down a mountain,
I was riding on the storm,
With the ghosts of Natty Bumpo and Celeste
   to keep me warm.
I was flying like an eagle,
I was swooping like a dove,
When vertigo –
    sudden, knife sharp, paralyzing reality,
    mind grown numb with organic fear.
Yeahhh – Motorcrash.
The server is down.

Picture: Ancient jewelry reconstituting, shaking free from the earth. Diamonds swell up like blisters on a newly gilded gold tiara, popping their way through, the white light suddenly startling as it breaks into crystal.

There was this jazz cat,
    looked like Gato played like Trane.
All the right changes but no charisma.
Wrong name.
Wrong attitude.
Maybe the wrong body.
Now the horn hides in the attic, taunting him from above.
Cat never goes to the attic.
The attic itself has a magnificent vibe –
    bright corners, dramatic angles –
A small but intimate juke joint with the right stroke of
    imagination….

Tonight we take this mountain.
Tonight we weather this storm.

The Mary Celeste sails on, captain tossing wood chips onto the waves, trying to gauge the speed. Natty is below deck in a purple satin cape embroidered with tiny rosaries, his tiara reflecting the candlelight. The crew is belligerent but afraid. The horn he is playing is unlike anything that they have seen, neither brass nor reed, but an unholy union of the two. It squawks and yet sings, and the crew, bolstered by the extensive liquor stocks, gradually mellows.

Motorcrash.
The server is down.
It’s almost time to depart.

Wed, 28 Jan 2004 19:08:59 GMT

Wed, 28 Jan 2004 16:48:47 GMT

If you believe,
how can you tell me that I'm wrong?

I expect a great reward.

Not in this time,
Not in this world.
But I expect a great reward in heaven.

I am glad to heed the call, to fill the void,
to cause the fall,
of those who would destroy the souls of those too young to hear the call.

I look forward to the glory,

I have no need for remorse.

You don't understand the words. "Justifiable homicide."

You don't understand The Word.

People ask me, quite politely,
if I would do it yet again;
If I ever had the courage,
I would do it all again.

I will live a life unburdened,
in the garden of the Lord.

Tue, 27 Jan 2004 15:01:28 GMT

The Corn Gods

The government owns these thoughts.

Would you like to learn to read?

Like bees at dawn, these are the days of our life. These rings require a finger.

The corn gods long ago were angry,
but now, like us, they’re just confused.
Believers now crumbled to dust and the festival
of the harvest <fade> just a memory.

They are largely impotent, their very genetic
makeup having been rewired,
And in a few short generations they will be
vegetables.
No lingering looks,
Just the odd colored finger of an ear popping up
for a twist in the sun.

Is it always a conspiracy, the end?
Well, what else?
Do you expect an intellectual uprising, warriors
willing to break their glasses and to scatter their
research?
Do you expect workers uniting in unguarded
night?
And who would notice if indeed they rose?

Who wouldn’t?
These things require a ringer.

Curly’s lament –
we can’t forget it –
Curly’s lament.
Whoo whoo whoo.
For all the sense you hope to make.
For all the hearts you hope to break.
Thank you Moe. May I have another?

“Done spewed my mouthful out Lord, ain’t goin to
   town no more”.
The blues abound.
Blue spotlights slice the stage.
The audience, they moan as one.
“Don’t call me up no doctor, just nail me to the
   killin floor.”
The killing floor as metaphor.

A better metaphor for pain and boundless sorrow
   might be the human body by itself.
The very embodiment of violence –
   teeth,
   eyes,
   fists,
   feet,
   bellies,
   bones –
So many weapons, so many targets.

The glory of meat comes undone somewhere in the Prussian night.

<Sighs> Chauncey, you're a victim.
Schedule a follow up.
Maybe call out for the glories of your forefathers.
Yes it's true, nobody's perfect.
Only the past is permanent.
The name of each and every sorrow shall be
tattooed to your skull.

The government owns these thoughts.

Yes it's true, no body's perfect.
That in and of itself is the beauty and the banality.
It's an old concept, old as civilization itself. Control the symbols to control the thoughts to
control the masses.

Would you like to learn to read?

Sun, 25 Jan 2004 15:20:38 GMT

Change

Structure is a temporary thing.
Form coalesces like Madonnas on an oil slicked road
Every moment that more distant
Every viewer needing stronger faith to see.

If I could reach out farther, farther,
In the direction of the constant buzz
Shut off the sound and make time crawl again
I would not do it even if you begged

Faster, time must gain momentum,
And dirty beasts like you must fall down stairs.
It's only right you know,
It's only right.

Sun, 25 Jan 2004 14:34:44 GMT

[search phrase]:
Minivan of Fools (Google poetry cut-up #3)

Man, what you jibberjabbrin about now?

Minivan, Sports Car, Bumper Car:
What Should Be Major in my Minivan?

The April fools practical jokes received a $0.000001 million grant,
but what fools these mortals be.

A community site dedicated to the alternative style of life?
Time to Buy a Minivan.

Nikki’s hiding in a closet, and indeed, she almost fools Harry
"oooh ooh ahh ahh ahh - Come again!"

Drivers that are not likely to suffer fools barraged the offices of Esquire magazine with phone calls, "Yo let da monkeys out!"

Fools for Love,
What can you do?
In a better place their spring arrived in a minivan.

Sat, 24 Jan 2004 23:47:27 GMT

Could This Be My Lucky Day?

Could this be my lucky day?

A spider crawled across my back.

My good luck coins, they jingle in my pocket.

A bee has flown into my house. Prepare for the visitor. I feel volatile. I cannot kill the bee. At last it flies out on it’s own accord.

I saw that she had laid her hat upon the bed…

Thirsty, I leaned against the screen door of the back porch, trying to fit into the little spot of shade. Work, a little work, there was still a little work to be had, and I leveled the weeds on the northern bank of the Bartleson house, fifteen minutes it took me, maybe twenty, but it was plenty hot in the unprotected sun.

Will Work For Water.

And I get so lucky July twelve, Misses Bartleson, she gives me a case, and dried fruit as well.

The old man’s passed on and she’s ready to move on out herself, just hadn’t had the energy to make the effort.

There's an old saying that you teach what you need to learn. Good fortune comes to those who ask for it by name.

Sat, 24 Jan 2004 17:20:57 GMT

Excuses I Haven't Used, Yet

Inertia in my fingertips (I cannot find my Poly-Grip)
My SansaBelt Pants will not zip, and I am late for work.
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another.
Shout out to the Holy Mother, I am late for work.

Take a quick look at the news, the Palestinians and Jews,
The president is hiding clues, and I am late for work.
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another
Mail an excuse to Big Brother, 'Why I am Late for Work.'

"I was working on my blog, and then I had to walk the dog,
(A special breed - he comes from Prague - that's why I'm late for work)."
Take a pill and then another
Then another
Then another
"Tortured thoughts of Tina Yothers made me late for work."

Sat, 24 Jan 2004 17:10:31 GMT

You, Seeking Me

A few bits and pieces.

A few words in seemingly random order.

You found me. Did you want me?

I think you did.

Everything is accident,

Coincidence,

Right on time and wrought with meaning.

Did you catch it?

Sometimes you google on my name.

Hi! Hi! Hi!

That's when I know that you want ME.

We have a special bond, you and I.

You get to poke around my place

And sometimes even see my face,

And me,

I know I'm loved.

Everything is accident,

Coincidence,

Right on time and wrought with meaning.

Sat, 24 Jan 2004 17:09:11 GMT

WheelsFallOff

When the white shows up in their eyes.
When the sun stands still in the sky.
Joshua and Gold and Ruin.

When the words run far beyond us
not set free,
but
when the words cease to work our will, and only pull us down.

That is when we ride, chaffing our thighs on the backs of unknown animals, embarrassed by our shabby clothes, and in our shell of mottled blues and aqua tone and reds

we place our bets, knowing we will lose.