Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.
DISCLAIMER: All poetry found herein is, like all poetry, based on true fiction.Thursday, July 13, 2006
I knew I had been truly healed
When I glanced into my email contacts list
And found I had forgotten yours entirely.
It's funny what a person knows and doesn't know
About the inside of their head.
I was certain that it was all so much a part of me
That of course I remembered everything about that time.
It was enormously fulfilling to realize that I didn't.
Musingly,
Kat
When I glanced into my email contacts list
And found I had forgotten yours entirely.
It's funny what a person knows and doesn't know
About the inside of their head.
I was certain that it was all so much a part of me
That of course I remembered everything about that time.
It was enormously fulfilling to realize that I didn't.
Musingly,
Kat
Friday, May 26, 2006
Dear Humanity,
Let's go to the fields,
Cain said to Abel, and
The concept of murder was created.
Murder can't be merely murder when the family is all there is on barren earth
It's fratricide, an ugly word
That few will taint their tongues with
And fewer still apply to their own selves
But Cain dared to do so
As Cain would always dare to do the disallowed
In the beginning out of initiative
Later simply out of habit.
Let's go to the fields,
He said, and
Abel went with him
To watch the wind on the wheat
And to stare at the sky
The last dregs of the grayish clouds like rotten milk.
Let's go to the fields,
Abel agreed, and
Thought as they walked of God and sheep.
Cain thought of sheep and why they pleased the Lord
He thought of smelling colors
Tasting sights, he touched the sound of his brother's breath
Until he crushed it out and
And and and and and and
Let's go to the fields,
I say, and
I say I want to talk to you, Cain
Because you who were the first brought into the world by the people
You were the first to stamp one of them out
Because I want to talk to you
Because of this, I do
Because of this because because
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
The vengeance of the Lord will know you yet
It will catch you
I don't know why you're running anymore, O Best Beloved of Eve
Adam doesn't want you anymore
They carried Abel's body to the grave, Cain.
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
And now the earth will not serve you, Cain
You are cast out
Say your goodbyes to the world you knew because you're never coming back.
"But now someone will try to take my life."
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground,
It isn't true, Cain, that you will be killed,
For whoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken upon him sevenfold.
Here, here is a mark
To wear on your forehead
And never to give away
And by this men shall know thee
And no one will hurt you anymore save your own self.
Cain became a wanderer of the world.
Love,
Kat
Let's go to the fields,
Cain said to Abel, and
The concept of murder was created.
Murder can't be merely murder when the family is all there is on barren earth
It's fratricide, an ugly word
That few will taint their tongues with
And fewer still apply to their own selves
But Cain dared to do so
As Cain would always dare to do the disallowed
In the beginning out of initiative
Later simply out of habit.
Let's go to the fields,
He said, and
Abel went with him
To watch the wind on the wheat
And to stare at the sky
The last dregs of the grayish clouds like rotten milk.
Let's go to the fields,
Abel agreed, and
Thought as they walked of God and sheep.
Cain thought of sheep and why they pleased the Lord
He thought of smelling colors
Tasting sights, he touched the sound of his brother's breath
Until he crushed it out and
And and and and and and
Let's go to the fields,
I say, and
I say I want to talk to you, Cain
Because you who were the first brought into the world by the people
You were the first to stamp one of them out
Because I want to talk to you
Because of this, I do
Because of this because because
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
The vengeance of the Lord will know you yet
It will catch you
I don't know why you're running anymore, O Best Beloved of Eve
Adam doesn't want you anymore
They carried Abel's body to the grave, Cain.
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
And now the earth will not serve you, Cain
You are cast out
Say your goodbyes to the world you knew because you're never coming back.
"But now someone will try to take my life."
Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground,
It isn't true, Cain, that you will be killed,
For whoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken upon him sevenfold.
Here, here is a mark
To wear on your forehead
And never to give away
And by this men shall know thee
And no one will hurt you anymore save your own self.
Cain became a wanderer of the world.
Love,
Kat
Monday, May 15, 2006
Dear Humanity,
It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
The Lord knows that it will, or he would
If he existed,
The barber says.
He's quoting wiser men
He's hiding all his terrible knowledge
Behind his tight white smile.
The lady with blood black hair is smiling
Smiling and wandering in lands she barely knows
Stumbling confidently in desert places
She knows herself
She holds the world in thrall.
Her confidence will be her own mistake
As she grinds the meat and smiles.
The lady in the alley way is dreaming too
Her yellow hair all tangled in garbage
She smells the smoke but cannot trust her throat
To bring forth what her mind is screaming
She clutches a bundle of rags
And murmurs words of love.
The man untainted walks a line thin and invisible
He doesn't know the danger in the depths
He laughs and loves his lady
And he trusts his elder mentor
Even as the blood collects on the old man's sleeves.
The loveliest of our deathly nontet
The root of their obsessions and sweat filled dreams
Listens to bird song at the window
And ignores the yearning, tortured moans of her fathers.
She's stroking all the hatred
That she's holding to her breast.
The troll beneath the bridge, white wigged and robed in black
Cries for the lovely women of his temptations
And passes judgement for all, although he does not know himself.
He tries forgetting all between a woman's thighs
Forgetting all his shame
Ashamed of all his women, his paradoxical wound and antidote.
And in the lighter places waits his lackey
A man made up of fat and grease
Who knows that he believes in himself
Who knows that all men are the same.
He does the Devil's work
And bides his time.
Out in the streets a man is hawking wares
With every breath blessing his own depravity
He holds his servants to their task
And knows his moral code:
"What works is right and moral,
'Till you're caught out."
The last of all of them, the youngest of the nontet
Is the white faced boy, tender in his new skin
Curled like a paper shaving by his chosen mother
Ignoring the fangs and claws
Behind her lovely face.
He watches for the danger in the dark.
The last of them observes from outside
Other dimensions, where the lost are found.
He watches as the silver razors fly,
And sometimes whispers his name,
"Benjamin."
To clarify matters, the Benjamin in question here is neither my brother, nor the Ghost Host, nor my stalker from the Theatricum, nor the lobster, nor Jenny's exboyfriend, nor my grandfather. It is Benjamin Barker, Sweeney Todd's past identity, my present fixation and subject of novel writing. (Can I be bothered to tease out all the Freudian symbolism involved in writing a novel about someone with the same name as my brother, my ex, my grandfather, etc.? No, I cannot.)
Facing the sea at dawn, I found eternity
In the lonely sands. I knew there was a poem there
But it evaded me, and all my writing sounds like a less talented Ginsberg
Pretending to be William Blake.
I may have lost my mind.
I have bad writers block.
The characters are frozen on the page
The dialogue’s absurd
And the result is the ever-so-clever writer’s block poem.
Haha.
How original.
Poets are the original BS artists.
Well,
Put not your trust in princes.
Go away now, please.
I want to watch the dust melt off the door
When I blow on it
A dust storm in my own domestic desert.
MISSING: Kathlyn Catalina Eleanor Elizabeth Jenny Elymas Cashwell Lovett Bening Todd Kire
By Association in Search of Kat K. (1-800-PLEASE-SEND-MONEY)
In search of androgyne erstwhile known as Kat.
Of moderate height,
Large (ish) curves, flabby thighs,
Hair in embarrassing places
And very little shame.
Blue eyes of indeterminate beauty.
Lips: Scarlet.
Hair: Usually brown, but
Ocassionally bright puce.
Profession: None, or “starlet.”
Position: Standing or sitting
When not lying down.
Last seen wandering the streets of London
Dressed entirely in flourescent cobwebs (green)
Searching for a decent tailor’s.
(Nobody works on cobwebs any more,
Disgraceful, that’s what it is.
Young people these days,
I don’t know.)
We would like to find her as soon as possible,
In case she happens to anything.
Will be officially declared deceased
On Stephen Sondheim’s birthday, circa 2099, so
Keep an eye out.
(And send money. Por favor.)
Anyone with further information advised to contact Elaine Stritch
Who won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
Love,
Kat
It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
The Lord knows that it will, or he would
If he existed,
The barber says.
He's quoting wiser men
He's hiding all his terrible knowledge
Behind his tight white smile.
The lady with blood black hair is smiling
Smiling and wandering in lands she barely knows
Stumbling confidently in desert places
She knows herself
She holds the world in thrall.
Her confidence will be her own mistake
As she grinds the meat and smiles.
The lady in the alley way is dreaming too
Her yellow hair all tangled in garbage
She smells the smoke but cannot trust her throat
To bring forth what her mind is screaming
She clutches a bundle of rags
And murmurs words of love.
The man untainted walks a line thin and invisible
He doesn't know the danger in the depths
He laughs and loves his lady
And he trusts his elder mentor
Even as the blood collects on the old man's sleeves.
The loveliest of our deathly nontet
The root of their obsessions and sweat filled dreams
Listens to bird song at the window
And ignores the yearning, tortured moans of her fathers.
She's stroking all the hatred
That she's holding to her breast.
The troll beneath the bridge, white wigged and robed in black
Cries for the lovely women of his temptations
And passes judgement for all, although he does not know himself.
He tries forgetting all between a woman's thighs
Forgetting all his shame
Ashamed of all his women, his paradoxical wound and antidote.
And in the lighter places waits his lackey
A man made up of fat and grease
Who knows that he believes in himself
Who knows that all men are the same.
He does the Devil's work
And bides his time.
Out in the streets a man is hawking wares
With every breath blessing his own depravity
He holds his servants to their task
And knows his moral code:
"What works is right and moral,
'Till you're caught out."
The last of all of them, the youngest of the nontet
Is the white faced boy, tender in his new skin
Curled like a paper shaving by his chosen mother
Ignoring the fangs and claws
Behind her lovely face.
He watches for the danger in the dark.
The last of them observes from outside
Other dimensions, where the lost are found.
He watches as the silver razors fly,
And sometimes whispers his name,
"Benjamin."
To clarify matters, the Benjamin in question here is neither my brother, nor the Ghost Host, nor my stalker from the Theatricum, nor the lobster, nor Jenny's exboyfriend, nor my grandfather. It is Benjamin Barker, Sweeney Todd's past identity, my present fixation and subject of novel writing. (Can I be bothered to tease out all the Freudian symbolism involved in writing a novel about someone with the same name as my brother, my ex, my grandfather, etc.? No, I cannot.)
Facing the sea at dawn, I found eternity
In the lonely sands. I knew there was a poem there
But it evaded me, and all my writing sounds like a less talented Ginsberg
Pretending to be William Blake.
I may have lost my mind.
I have bad writers block.
The characters are frozen on the page
The dialogue’s absurd
And the result is the ever-so-clever writer’s block poem.
Haha.
How original.
Poets are the original BS artists.
Well,
Put not your trust in princes.
Go away now, please.
I want to watch the dust melt off the door
When I blow on it
A dust storm in my own domestic desert.
MISSING: Kathlyn Catalina Eleanor Elizabeth Jenny Elymas Cashwell Lovett Bening Todd Kire
By Association in Search of Kat K. (1-800-PLEASE-SEND-MONEY)
In search of androgyne erstwhile known as Kat.
Of moderate height,
Large (ish) curves, flabby thighs,
Hair in embarrassing places
And very little shame.
Blue eyes of indeterminate beauty.
Lips: Scarlet.
Hair: Usually brown, but
Ocassionally bright puce.
Profession: None, or “starlet.”
Position: Standing or sitting
When not lying down.
Last seen wandering the streets of London
Dressed entirely in flourescent cobwebs (green)
Searching for a decent tailor’s.
(Nobody works on cobwebs any more,
Disgraceful, that’s what it is.
Young people these days,
I don’t know.)
We would like to find her as soon as possible,
In case she happens to anything.
Will be officially declared deceased
On Stephen Sondheim’s birthday, circa 2099, so
Keep an eye out.
(And send money. Por favor.)
Anyone with further information advised to contact Elaine Stritch
Who won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
Love,
Kat
Friday, April 21, 2006
Dear Humanity,
In my infinite procrastination for updating my crossovers, I'm back on the poetry.
Nature
I'm going out behind the shed
Where there's a fountain flowing from the gutter when it rains.
I like to watch the tiny lumps of green that form there, under water,
'Till another rain rips them from their place
And they drip down the shed's wall
A greenish, gangrened wound.
Behind the shed there are no flowers
I've yanked them out, the ground is bare
I like to watch the stinkbugs and the ants, sometimes the rats
'Till those who own the shed put out the poison.
I always know when they do
Rat families come to be for support.
Under rocks behind the shed
There is the offal of the earth, the slums, the projects,
Worms, stretched pink and long, the carcass of a road killed squirrel I buried,
'Till it rains, and the gutter floods like Noah's world
And the blood of the road killed squirrel turns clear
And all is washed away.
This, then, is nature -
My nature.
Mold, dead things, worms, insects are my nature.
I guess you say they stink.
I say, I guess they do.
I may just give this to my English teacher for out Poetry journals. Something tells me he won't like it very much. That's why I want to.
Love,
Kat
In my infinite procrastination for updating my crossovers, I'm back on the poetry.
Nature
I'm going out behind the shed
Where there's a fountain flowing from the gutter when it rains.
I like to watch the tiny lumps of green that form there, under water,
'Till another rain rips them from their place
And they drip down the shed's wall
A greenish, gangrened wound.
Behind the shed there are no flowers
I've yanked them out, the ground is bare
I like to watch the stinkbugs and the ants, sometimes the rats
'Till those who own the shed put out the poison.
I always know when they do
Rat families come to be for support.
Under rocks behind the shed
There is the offal of the earth, the slums, the projects,
Worms, stretched pink and long, the carcass of a road killed squirrel I buried,
'Till it rains, and the gutter floods like Noah's world
And the blood of the road killed squirrel turns clear
And all is washed away.
This, then, is nature -
My nature.
Mold, dead things, worms, insects are my nature.
I guess you say they stink.
I say, I guess they do.
I may just give this to my English teacher for out Poetry journals. Something tells me he won't like it very much. That's why I want to.
Love,
Kat
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Dear Humanity,
I blame this officially on the good folks at PPN. You know who you are, damnit. :) In other words, a thousands thanks to the Papen people. Ghostwritten, Polly Moopers, who seems to show up in my blog over and over and I don't know why, and of course Skeleton Horse, who made the manip that pushed the Irish fairy over the edge in terms of writing the Charlie Brown/PotO madness.
Attention: I do not own either of these adorable tales. No I don't. Also, please don't take this story seriously.
Please.
Also, the references to a "Faust brand," are jokes on some of the older Peanuts comics, in which Charlie Brown was obsessed with the popular Davie Crockett franchise. (It was big in the 50s, apparently.)
Dramatis Personae
Erik Brown, a sweet young Phantom who can't seem to do anything right. He resides beneath the elementary school auditorium in a small town.
Gingersnap Giry, his friend and confidante, who tends toward the sensible and straightforward - sometimes to the point of rudeness.
Linus "Daroga" van Pelt, the student council representative determined to change Erik's antisocial ways. His nickname, daroga, meaning "policeman" in Farsi, comes from his somewhat inexplicable fascination with the Persian culture, as well as his tendency to keep Erik in line.
Carly van Pelt, the loudmouthed fussbudget of the block, determined to grab the spotlight in every possible situation. She also might have the teeniest crush on Erik, constantly leaning on his organ when he's trying to play.
The Little Yellow Headed Girl, or is she The Little Brown Haired Girl? It's certainly odd the way it seems to change. The girl Erik admires and adores from afar. What is her name? Perhaps Erik can find out from Carly - if she ever stops talking.
And who could forget. . .
DeSnoopy, Erik's drama king faithful dog and sometime rival for The Little Yellow/Brown Headed Girl's affections, and of course Philstock, DeSnoopy's bird friend. Some say they're almost like brothers.
Chapter One
Good Grief
Erik Brown found himself in a difficult situation. He sat, hands neatly folded in his lap, in the dugout, watching Joey "Pig Pen" Bucket foul tip ball after ball after ball. He knew he would have to go up to bat soon, and there was a terrible problem with this. Poor Erik Brown. He was a mere seven years old, and having to deal with such complex problems as he did troubled him greatly. Erik lived, you see, beneath the elementary school. It had occurred to him soon after beginning elemenaty school himself that other people might find this remotely odd. Erik did not find it odd in the least. For as long as he could remember, he had lived alone in his little lair, dressed in his yellow striped shirt and black cape, cloaking one side of his face with a white mask.
Every morning, Erik Brown would wake up from his Louis Phillipe bed and make his way to the kitchen, where he would devour his favorite Faust brand cereal before taking DeSnoopy and his bird friend, Philstock, for his morning walk around the labyrinths. From 8:30 to 9:30, he practiced his organ playing. Erik loved to play the organ. He had a small organ, for his small hands. At 9:45, Erik popped through the elementary school floor to arrive at school. School was a sore spot for Erik. He couldn't seem to concentrate. Whenever he tried to focus on the board, the white letters would turn into musical notes, and he would hear music in his head.
At 12:00, he would proceed to his special seat at Lunch Table 4 1/2, where his friend Gingersnap Giry, the lunch monitor, and sometimes her little cousin, Megsy, who always called him "Monsieur," would talk to him. Gingersnap Giry was nice to him, he guessed, if a little unsubtle. Sometimes he let Daroga L. Van Pelt the student council representative sit with him, but Daroga L. was a bit too moralistic for Erik's tastes. The way Erik saw it, it didn't really count as doing something wrong if no one really minded, did it? It couldn't, could it?
And besides, mostly no one minded.
Also, Daroga L. had the misfortune to have a sister, Carly, who was determined to take the floor and then saw it open so that everyone else fell through. She kept fluttering her eyelashes at Erik and saying things like, "If we ever got married. . ." Erik wondered what she meant by that. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of "marriage." He was sure that he didn't like Carly.
Now, however, the idea of marriage was becoming more appealing. And yet Erik Brown feared that he'd mess everything up if he couldn't get a hit at bat. Why? Well, you see, there happened to be a little girl watching the game from behind a tree. She looks shy, thought Erik. Boy! I'd like to be her friend! I wonder if she wants to be my friend? He was about to call out to her, but then his mouth was full of sawdustyness and his legs felt like strawberry Jell-O. Erik thought for a moment, and decided that this, then, was the "love," thing he'd heard the grownups talking about. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He decided to call her The Little Yellow Haired Girl. Or - was her hair brown and curly? Somehow, it seemed to change. It was cute anyway, Erik thought.
So firmly, firmly did Erik Brown vow, as he stepped up to the batter's box, that he would knock this one out of the park. He tried to knock the dust off his sneakers, like Joe DiMaggio, but succeeded only in hurting his feet. He tried to tap the bat against the plate to produce a menacing sound for the pitcher's benefit, but misjudged the distance of the plate, and made no sound at all. He heard a giggle from The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl. He felt a little piece of himself die. Behind him, from beneath his catcher's mask, he heard the encouraging, reasonable voice of Daroga L. Van Pelt.
"Don't worry, Erik. You'll hit this one a mile." Erik was suddenly full of confidence. He hefted his bat and swung once, for practice. It felt good. He hoped The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl had been watching. Then the pitch came, and Erik Brown swung with all his might.
WHOOF. BIFF.
The sounds of a ball blowing by and hitting a catcher's glove. Erik suddenly realized that he had closed his eyes. The second strike came before he could anticipate it, and he had to restrain himself from ducking. I didn't even swing, thought Erik, mortified.
Okay, he'd do it this time. Erik could feel Daroga L.'s encouraging eyes on his back. He shouldered his bat, full of pride, and then - he saw the pitcher's face for the first time.
Carly Van Pelt.
She fluttered her eyelashes, and in that moment Erik knew that he was doomed. He shut his eyes and counted to three. When he opened them, he was lying huddled on the ground of the batter's box, sobbing. Daroga L. Van Pelt was looking rueful and patting him on the back. "I really don't think you have anything to worry about, Erik Brown. Here, have some of my sandwich. It's foie gras on rye, your favorite. Gingersnap Giry made it."
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Erik took a bite.
"You'll be okay, won't you, Erik Brown?"
Erik sniffled. "No. I know nobody likes me. Especially not The Cute Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl." He blushed a bright red under his mask.
"Who?" wondered Daroga L.. "Oh, the shy girl. I think she went off for a stroll with DeSnoopy. She seems to really like him."
Erik's eyes got big, and he felt the foie gras on rye stick in his throat. "I. . .I. . .oh no, Daroga L.."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing takes the taste out of foie gras quite like unrequited love."
Daroga L. sighed. "Good grief, Erik Brown."
Phew.
Much love,
Kat
I blame this officially on the good folks at PPN. You know who you are, damnit. :) In other words, a thousands thanks to the Papen people. Ghostwritten, Polly Moopers, who seems to show up in my blog over and over and I don't know why, and of course Skeleton Horse, who made the manip that pushed the Irish fairy over the edge in terms of writing the Charlie Brown/PotO madness.
Attention: I do not own either of these adorable tales. No I don't. Also, please don't take this story seriously.
Please.
Also, the references to a "Faust brand," are jokes on some of the older Peanuts comics, in which Charlie Brown was obsessed with the popular Davie Crockett franchise. (It was big in the 50s, apparently.)
Dramatis Personae
Erik Brown, a sweet young Phantom who can't seem to do anything right. He resides beneath the elementary school auditorium in a small town.
Gingersnap Giry, his friend and confidante, who tends toward the sensible and straightforward - sometimes to the point of rudeness.
Linus "Daroga" van Pelt, the student council representative determined to change Erik's antisocial ways. His nickname, daroga, meaning "policeman" in Farsi, comes from his somewhat inexplicable fascination with the Persian culture, as well as his tendency to keep Erik in line.
Carly van Pelt, the loudmouthed fussbudget of the block, determined to grab the spotlight in every possible situation. She also might have the teeniest crush on Erik, constantly leaning on his organ when he's trying to play.
The Little Yellow Headed Girl, or is she The Little Brown Haired Girl? It's certainly odd the way it seems to change. The girl Erik admires and adores from afar. What is her name? Perhaps Erik can find out from Carly - if she ever stops talking.
And who could forget. . .
DeSnoopy, Erik's drama king faithful dog and sometime rival for The Little Yellow/Brown Headed Girl's affections, and of course Philstock, DeSnoopy's bird friend. Some say they're almost like brothers.
Chapter One
Good Grief
Erik Brown found himself in a difficult situation. He sat, hands neatly folded in his lap, in the dugout, watching Joey "Pig Pen" Bucket foul tip ball after ball after ball. He knew he would have to go up to bat soon, and there was a terrible problem with this. Poor Erik Brown. He was a mere seven years old, and having to deal with such complex problems as he did troubled him greatly. Erik lived, you see, beneath the elementary school. It had occurred to him soon after beginning elemenaty school himself that other people might find this remotely odd. Erik did not find it odd in the least. For as long as he could remember, he had lived alone in his little lair, dressed in his yellow striped shirt and black cape, cloaking one side of his face with a white mask.
Every morning, Erik Brown would wake up from his Louis Phillipe bed and make his way to the kitchen, where he would devour his favorite Faust brand cereal before taking DeSnoopy and his bird friend, Philstock, for his morning walk around the labyrinths. From 8:30 to 9:30, he practiced his organ playing. Erik loved to play the organ. He had a small organ, for his small hands. At 9:45, Erik popped through the elementary school floor to arrive at school. School was a sore spot for Erik. He couldn't seem to concentrate. Whenever he tried to focus on the board, the white letters would turn into musical notes, and he would hear music in his head.
At 12:00, he would proceed to his special seat at Lunch Table 4 1/2, where his friend Gingersnap Giry, the lunch monitor, and sometimes her little cousin, Megsy, who always called him "Monsieur," would talk to him. Gingersnap Giry was nice to him, he guessed, if a little unsubtle. Sometimes he let Daroga L. Van Pelt the student council representative sit with him, but Daroga L. was a bit too moralistic for Erik's tastes. The way Erik saw it, it didn't really count as doing something wrong if no one really minded, did it? It couldn't, could it?
And besides, mostly no one minded.
Also, Daroga L. had the misfortune to have a sister, Carly, who was determined to take the floor and then saw it open so that everyone else fell through. She kept fluttering her eyelashes at Erik and saying things like, "If we ever got married. . ." Erik wondered what she meant by that. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of "marriage." He was sure that he didn't like Carly.
Now, however, the idea of marriage was becoming more appealing. And yet Erik Brown feared that he'd mess everything up if he couldn't get a hit at bat. Why? Well, you see, there happened to be a little girl watching the game from behind a tree. She looks shy, thought Erik. Boy! I'd like to be her friend! I wonder if she wants to be my friend? He was about to call out to her, but then his mouth was full of sawdustyness and his legs felt like strawberry Jell-O. Erik thought for a moment, and decided that this, then, was the "love," thing he'd heard the grownups talking about. She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He decided to call her The Little Yellow Haired Girl. Or - was her hair brown and curly? Somehow, it seemed to change. It was cute anyway, Erik thought.
So firmly, firmly did Erik Brown vow, as he stepped up to the batter's box, that he would knock this one out of the park. He tried to knock the dust off his sneakers, like Joe DiMaggio, but succeeded only in hurting his feet. He tried to tap the bat against the plate to produce a menacing sound for the pitcher's benefit, but misjudged the distance of the plate, and made no sound at all. He heard a giggle from The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl. He felt a little piece of himself die. Behind him, from beneath his catcher's mask, he heard the encouraging, reasonable voice of Daroga L. Van Pelt.
"Don't worry, Erik. You'll hit this one a mile." Erik was suddenly full of confidence. He hefted his bat and swung once, for practice. It felt good. He hoped The Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl had been watching. Then the pitch came, and Erik Brown swung with all his might.
WHOOF. BIFF.
The sounds of a ball blowing by and hitting a catcher's glove. Erik suddenly realized that he had closed his eyes. The second strike came before he could anticipate it, and he had to restrain himself from ducking. I didn't even swing, thought Erik, mortified.
Okay, he'd do it this time. Erik could feel Daroga L.'s encouraging eyes on his back. He shouldered his bat, full of pride, and then - he saw the pitcher's face for the first time.
Carly Van Pelt.
She fluttered her eyelashes, and in that moment Erik knew that he was doomed. He shut his eyes and counted to three. When he opened them, he was lying huddled on the ground of the batter's box, sobbing. Daroga L. Van Pelt was looking rueful and patting him on the back. "I really don't think you have anything to worry about, Erik Brown. Here, have some of my sandwich. It's foie gras on rye, your favorite. Gingersnap Giry made it."
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Erik took a bite.
"You'll be okay, won't you, Erik Brown?"
Erik sniffled. "No. I know nobody likes me. Especially not The Cute Little Yellow/Brown Haired Girl." He blushed a bright red under his mask.
"Who?" wondered Daroga L.. "Oh, the shy girl. I think she went off for a stroll with DeSnoopy. She seems to really like him."
Erik's eyes got big, and he felt the foie gras on rye stick in his throat. "I. . .I. . .oh no, Daroga L.."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing takes the taste out of foie gras quite like unrequited love."
Daroga L. sighed. "Good grief, Erik Brown."
Phew.
Much love,
Kat
Monday, April 17, 2006
Dear Humanity,
For the longest time
People have been telling us
That so many things are irrelevant.
But we say,
"Why don't you look at the woman next to you
The woman in the red dress
Her white teeth are trying to tell you something
Why don't you turn and listen to them?"
A glance from a woman in a red dress had a chance at changing your life
Forty seconds ago.
That's poetry, because it's true.
And when that is true, nothing is irrelevant.
I turned on the TV last night
And a comedian said "Maybe they just have short legs and long arms."
And then everyone laughed.
I don't think I get it.
Cookies,
Kat
For the longest time
People have been telling us
That so many things are irrelevant.
But we say,
"Why don't you look at the woman next to you
The woman in the red dress
Her white teeth are trying to tell you something
Why don't you turn and listen to them?"
A glance from a woman in a red dress had a chance at changing your life
Forty seconds ago.
That's poetry, because it's true.
And when that is true, nothing is irrelevant.
I turned on the TV last night
And a comedian said "Maybe they just have short legs and long arms."
And then everyone laughed.
I don't think I get it.
Cookies,
Kat
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Dear Humanity,
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
Pleased to report, Polly isn't my father.
My soul hurts. I have a villianelle to post, and several rondels, but I'm lazy.
Traveler's Lodging - Accompanying Rondels
The Traveler Spoke:
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
The sleet rain's coming down like frigid fire
These are the consequences of desire
But I've somewhere to run, and I don't care.
What was the phrase? Beauty without compare?
Without compare's my lady, lovely liar.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air
I lost myself in a beautiful mire.
Did I come to her that night? Did I dare?
I did, and now we're fleeing from her sire.
My lady trips, her cloak's snagged on a briar.
I'll leave. Frostbite will take her, or a bear.
A snowflake flickers in the brittle air.
The Lord's Daughter Spoke:
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
Lips to full of warm red for just a child
Put wanting into men, and made them wild
And I covered my face, for Mama's sake.
I ne'er knew men could give, but only take
Or have two eyes so blue, or nails so filed
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake
I'm running, with my lover, undefiled -
My cloak's snagged. And the briar will not break
Stop your mad dash, my love, all snowflake styled!
Come back! Am I not fair? Have you not smiled?
Oh love, I see you were a snow storm snake
My mama said I was our Lord's mistake.
And ski lift poetry, that is a metaphor for. . .um. . .I don't know. Something, prolly. My first free form for a while. Whee, alliterative.
You wait in line
Then shuffle frantically forth
And you're swept up by the cold leather seat
All scattered over snow.
You tumble upward, but the ride soon smooths
The rhythm of machinery a soft constant.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
It's one great mechanism at the top of the mountain
You're not a part of it yet
So you pull down the bar to still
The frantic feeling in your stomach
That comes from soaring unsupported on the soft snowy seat
Put up your skis (That's a load off, thankyoujesus)
And watch the white landscape running by
It's undefined and virgin, never touched.
There's something sweet about it
But too cold to be truly sweet.
Ch-ch-ta. Ch-ch-ta.
The machine-song is coming closer now
You put up the bar, straighten your hat
And put your ski tips up
And wait.
You disappear into machinery
An instant of assimilation
And then, in that embraced moment
The ski lift spits you out.
"I wasn't ready!" your mind screams
But no one ever is.
And a villianelle, possibly to act as a preface to a novel that might get written.
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades
Tapdances over my old memories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
Her wares were of a thousand different grades
Shd had a mind that buzzed like stores of bees
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She danced, stained her mouth red with sweet Kool-Aids
And brought exuberance to histories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She said she danced with Krishna, his milkmaids
She said she loved our speed, our vainglories
A changeling child, hair dyed a thousand shades.
She her folly late, and now she bades
Big folk to avaunt from fairy stories
God, she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
She was a fool to trust, no human aids.
Fell victim to Kool Aid, late night Maury's.
A changeling crone, hair in a single shade
Once she was beautiful, with eyes like blades.
KITTY WRITE SO MUCH ANGST OH NOES.
Love,
Kat
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