Friday April 01, 2011

Snow for April 1, fine, but I want something crazier: egg thief in a tree, yellow dwarf for a sun, a message in lights from every false god.

11 Comments


  1. fart apodictically, abscissal flit tickled by tits, zonk-buffin’ glop twick, scraggly trapezoidal jigsaw, shittim thew, twiffler muzzle, dwarf bovine percolator, cylindrical eggcorn cheval, klatch of flouncing blowpipes, schmooseoisie wattle, hypoploid wrang-wrang sphericity, oniomania of the dischuffed loof suckling spurge-inducing vertigo, shades of drab fap fap fap zippy-zapped thru death’s blurry trill in the distance — nearby, a crazier pink hole


  2. There are so many egg thieves.
    It may be how we began
    our own career of rapine,
    and we still like to start our day
    with a stolen Icarus or two,
    some children of flight, yoked
    to our gratification.

    Something crazier?
    A yellow dwarf for a sun,
    who only hints at evening
    of her rage for destruction,
    how she intends to swell, and redden,
    and snatch us from the nest.
    Not now, but soon; soon,
    as she reckons it.

    Gods are never false. You can hear them
    intoning the lines of Polonius:
    “… as the night the day
    thou canst not then be false to any man.
    So there.” And then they hawk and spit,
    a bit of April snowfall for a joke.

    Still, there’s always someone
    cracked enough to climb
    the legs of Tonans, trembling in the dark.
    Crawl up and hide behind his eyes,
    (after leaving a terror-pile
    of steaming scat behind), thinking
    that in the morning, when the marketplace is full,
    he’ll think of something — something,
    somehow, for his god to say.


  3. Hey, Dave, is it okay that I copied the whole tweet/post over at mole?


      1. Thanks! I kinda thought it would be, but I thought I should model good manners for our studio audience :-)


  4. Letter to the Street Where I Grew Up
    (City Camp Alley, Baguio City)

    Dear alley bent like an L, shaped like an old
    god’s crooked elbow, decorated with clotheslines
    heavy with wash– Nearly thirty, I skidded down
    your last few meters in reverse, learning to drive
    a stick shift and nearly knocking over the island
    of trash bins swarming with tribes of blue-black
    flies. The neighbors came to their front steps
    to heckle and hoot, disturbing the chickens
    kept in rusted cages in each yard: the way
    they carried on with cackling, you’d think
    there was an egg thief in each tree. Almost
    a lifetime since I’ve left, but still I see the vivid
    verdigris of rusted roofs, the graveled lane
    where children sat in empty lading boxes,
    then tilted themselves into the wind–
    And so have I. Years later, I startle
    from sleep or wakeful dream, thinking
    the dwarf yellow sun brings artifacts
    from that other time: a map, directions
    written in code by unfaithful gods.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 01 2011


    1. Oh, man. If I’m very good, do I get to be a Luisa in my next life?


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