Imagine Poem

This verse is the work of Carson Culpepper. Carson is in first grade and loves that she can defy the oppressive rules of language in order to create a thought or an image. She has other poems, but I’m afraid the language is much too blue for this blog.

Imagine going to space
and jumping from planet to planet
and playing basketball with bubblegum
and a cow jumping over the moon
and eating a sandwich with my
friends
can you imagine it?

Get Your Melon Away From My Grapes!

So al Qaida wants street vendors to keep the tomatoes separated from the cucumbers. It seems that these two vegetables/fruits are different genders, and they can't have the cukes looking up the skirts of those tomatoes. Really, people, what's going to happen here? Are we going to have illegitimate cucamatoes? Tomumbers? Will those willful and public whore tomatoes offend Allah? I would think al-Qaida guys would cover the female foods in veils and gowns or at least place them in the back of the fruit cart. But there's one problem: tomatoes and cucumbers are neither male nor female. The al-Qaida guys have placed sexual identities on these foods. Or somebody just made up a really bizarre story.

The -ness He Made

He put on his shoes
They slid on with a familiar shoe-ness
He then put on his suit
It hung with a particular suit-ness
He then drank a cup of coffee
It tasted warm and had a distinctive coffee-ness
He then went outside to see things
The air had a particular air-ness
He then stepped in mud
It gushed with a mushy mud-ness
He then sat down and was sad
It felt like a sad sort of sad-ness

Belly Dance

She says that the dance is not for men
But all those hip shakes, smiles, and skin
Makes me think of lust and sin
They can’t be as innocent as is claimed
But I can’t argue the point all the same
I know that I’d never win
Besides, the dance is mightier than the pen

Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote about a time when he gave a eulogy at Isaac Asimov’s Funeral. Isaac Asimov was the president of the American Humanist Association, and Vonnegut was a member, too. For those who are unaware, humanists do not believe in supernatural beings, such as gods. Therefore, they do not believe in Heaven or Hell as many Christians do. So Vonnegut stands before a large crowd, honoring Asimov, and he had this to say as he began to speak: “Isaac is in Heaven now.” Vonnegut claims that this had the crowd in stitches and for good reason—it’s Goddamn funny.

I loved reading Vonnegut’s books. His stories, characters, and social commentary are hilarious. Vonnegut is accessible and easy to read, and that’s important. He was a hair shirt for religious quackery and institutions that are wasteful, shortsighted, and dehumanizing. He laid out some complex ideas and critiques, always thinly disguised by absurd and entertaining storylines.

Kurt Vonnegut is in Heaven now.

Create Your Own

(Appendix A)
What you will need:
Several scattered moonbeams (on the floor preferably)
Six voices from the street below—two singing, two laughing, one screaming, and one asking too many questions
A comfy chair large enough for a luxurious woman
One short skirt (be sure to place your hand on her thigh; linger)
(don’t think about baseball!)
Include rambling discussion of why you failed your metaphysics exam
Two narrative concoctions about the time you immunized poor people in Spain
One clever exposé revealing how kissing makes you unbelievably wonderful (be sincere)
Place lips where needed (an extremity works best: fingers, breasts, where the neck meets the shoulder, and so on)
Place contents in highball glass with ice
(Add bourbon)
Enjoy

Doctor's Notes

—Symptoms
The doctor mentioned
a feeling of malaise
with
despondency
dreadful cough
nervous debilitation
burning sensations
liver complaint
genital lesions

Those carbuncles,
round as a young virgin's breasts
mixed with
catarrh of the lungs
profuse expectoration
bulging goiter
loss of eye motion
blue-tinged lips

Diagnosis—
wasting away
reduced to a skeleton
and
completely wrecked

Scent of Night

The Countess trailed the scent of a poker game
beside her bed of coral she knelt
and opened her sachet to unfurl
airy musings
meandering monologues and
words taken from dead poets

Her plan was schematically arid
her hyper falsetto
an undulating escalator
I glanced askance
the funhouse mirror showed
all legs and soul

The Sex Issue

Ahh, secretaries . . . and typewriters. What! Typwriters? Yes, the sex issue is here, and you are no doubt as excited as I am. Apparently, someone long ago thought that typewriter erotica was the wave of the future. In some ways it was, and although some of these pictures remain erotic, they somehow seem quirky, too. Let’s all thank The Virtual Typewriter Museum for this bit of fun. For more, visit the site. go to