Pen Head Press

I made this... sort of

2012-02-14T00:43:00.000-08:00

Written on the Job at Seattle Door and Window

2012-02-12T07:30:00.000-08:00

Maw of Tomorrow

I don’t know what this new sun will bring Brad

I can’t read these tealeaves in my cup
They are scatter-shot up to the rim to that place
Where hot lips join smooth porcelain

“The future is not the fate we make
the future is the past
the past is now the now
the now just is…” Brad asserts

I’m living on the ledge smiling into the gaping maw of tomorrow

I can hear a trickle in the distance

It is dark

I drink

Dated Friday, February 12, 2010. This poem was composed on the Job at Seattle Door and Window in the morning around the time I got the news that the business owner had quit and we all had lost are jobs.

Transparent Secrets By Carla Blaschka

2012-02-10T19:46:00.000-08:00

"You sent it on?" said Grandad. Grandad had been hunched in the corner, repairing a shutter box in this cramped shed halfway up the tower.

It was my favorite place, why I bought the house after I become Director of Medical Research at SnoDaiz. I had fixed up the shed as my office. Granddad came to hear about my adventures in medical research every Saturday. Why he thought mine were exciting, I don’t know. He had been in the protest that took over the BIA Building in Washington, D.C. He told me that one old Grandfather, a victim of the BIA throughout his life, took a fire ax, jumped up on the BIA commissioner's big mahogany desk and split it in two!

I didn’t have much to report this week. It had snowed and kept a number of our researchers at home. The ones that came in were the more gung-ho types like Tom, who wanted to be invisible. He was already waiting when I arrived on Wednesday.

"Ready to roll?" Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. "Got a box ready?" He had set up the experiment the day before and I felt the need to be there. I didn’t want him to go off half-cocked and do something stupid, like try his formula on himself.

He was supposed to use a rat. That was the plan. The rat’s name was Jenny and I was rather fond of her. He covered her head with a little hood and shook up his mixture in its aerosol can, the balls rattling around like a precursor to graffiti. He was prepared to spray when Leslie, our resident Drama Queen slammed open the door and shouted -

“He’s dead!”

and started to sob.

Startled, Tom turned halfway around and his finger jerked on the trigger. He was very apologetic about it later but the blast caught me full in the face and I breathed it in. I started to cough, Leslie was sobbing and Tom was in distress. He tried to wipe me down but that merely spread the liquid more evenly on my skin.

By the time Leslie came out from behind her hands and looked up, I was a goner. She looked shocked. “Where are your feet, your shoulders, hands, complexion, Your - all of you? Why not transform me also? She appealed to Tom. “How can I live if you’re all gone? She started to sob again.

“Who are you talking about?” shouted Tom.

“Dick,” she said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s Harry, I can’t keep track, they keep changing.” At Tom’s still baffled face she shouted, “Our receptionist! Our receptionist! The guy at the front desk! He was in an accident, and his mother called to tell me he wasn’t coming into work. He’s in the hospital - he may not even live!” She wailed and started to sob again.

“Hmmm, excuse me!? Can I get some help here?” I was transparently annoyed about their lack of concern and rather see-through as well. Both pairs of eyes looked right through me, like I wasn’t even there.

“Where are you?” they chorused.

I had moved over to the desk in the corner and sat down. “I’m right here.” I tilted back. Their heads swiveled. “I’m sorry about Harry, remind me when you see me to send flowers.” I addressed that to Leslie, and then asked Tom. “Do you have any idea when this will wear off, if ever?”

After a clearing of the throat and an “er, well” he admitted he wasn’t sure but assured me it should be soon. So while we waited we played poker. I won, since they couldn’t see me when I leaned over and looked at their cards. I figured Tom owed me the $10 bucks.

It did wear off after an hour or so, but gradually, with bones showing first and then the muscles and veins. There was much ooh’ing and aah’ing and pointing of fingers until my skin covered it all. After we feed Jenny and put her back with her own kind we each headed to our own burrows. I left a note about Harry on my admin’s computer.

Back at my home desk in the tower I read over my weekly report.

“It is clear that the small blood vessels of diabetics are subject to accelerated degeneration.” Crystal really, maybe the invisibility spray should be used to show people the damage a poor diet and lack of exercise will do. I nibbled on a chip, my drug of choice in times of stress.

Should I send it on? Would admitting to being invisible hurt my career or make it? Would it help patients or brand me a crazy? Human trials were years away. Could I hide my transparency? Should I?

What would you do?

---By Carla Blaschka, 1/14/12. Written at Richard Hugo House alongside PurpleMark Wirth,
Jennifer Reed, and Liza. Performed at Richard Hugo House’s Open Mic 2/7/12

Prompts:

"Where are your feet, your shoulders, hands, complexion, Your - all of you? Why not transform me also?" P. Ovidius Naso translated by Rolfe Humfries. Perseus In Metamorphosis. (Indiana U Press, 1983)
"'You sent it on?' said Grandad. Grandad had been hunched in the corner, repairing a shutter box in this cramped shed halfway up the tower." Terry Pratchett. Going Postal. (HarperCollins, 2004)
"It is clear that the small blood vessels of diabetics are subject to accelerated degeneration." Jimmy Gutman. Glutathione: Your Key to Health. (kudo.ca, 2008)
"One old Grandfather, a victim of the BIA throughout his life, took a fire ax, jumped up on the BIA commissioner's big mahogany desk and split it in two!" Leonard Peltier. Prison Writings: My Life is My Sun Dance (St Martin's Griffin, 1999)
"'Ready to roll?' Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. 'Got a box ready?'" Diane Mott Davidson. Tough Cookie. (Bantam Books, 2000)

Chinese New Year: The Year Of The Dragon

2012-02-06T23:05:00.000-08:00

A suggestion was made to take in the Chinese New Year Celebration as part of our writing group instead of the usual Hugo writing room. I was up for it and so was John, so we planned to meet at noon at the Panama Hotel as our beginning point. Phillip had bowed out, even though it had been his idea to attend the Lunar New Year Food Walk. I had thought of it as an excuse to investigate some of the places I had walked by before, but had never gone into.

The Panama Hotel was an out-of-the-way Tea House whose already harried crew dealt with a line which were here for the Mochi Mini-cupcakes and green-tea maple leaf-shaped shortbread cookies and the tiny stamp on their cards in order collect at least four stamps and win some no doubt fabulous prize when all these cards were collected and a winner chosen. While in line I spotted a trained bamboo that was half My Favorite Martian and half vegetative antler rack. Larry who had mentioned he might show up, did. Waiting for him, we saw that in the windows were a line of Luck Cats on either side who had their left hands raised except for one who bravely had raised it’s right hand in defiance.

The Sugar Bear Bakery was our next stop and it was fairly deserted and unlike most bakeries it had none of the smells associated with the baking of their goods. Here we got 3-ham Vietnamese sandwiches, which only had, 1-ham as far as I could tell along with mayo, cabbage, carrots cucumbers and a slightly sweet and peppery sauce on a baguette wrapped in white paper and held together with a rubber band. It was okay, but somewhat uninspired and rather too filling, but a good deal for 2 bucks.

By this time the hordes had descended and every place had a lengthy line waiting for their chicken wings or whatever little tidbit that was being offered up in order to get another stamp on their cards. After trying to get into 2 more places, Larry left us and we decided that getting another two stamps was a silly pursuit in the face of hordes. So we sought out the places which weren’t part of the Stampede, only to find that every table was full or waiting to be filled all over the International District.

Walking around I saw lots of tots in their Chinese Best in colorful silk costumes and wearing animal hats. The surprising thing was the amount of mixed races of their parents who herded or more usually carried these kids. There was a Dragon false alert with firecrackers and a cloud of smoke which drifted in along with percussive groups whose intent was to get enough people to stand and block any late-comer from seeing what everyone was gathered for in seemingly random locations to witness.

After I grabbed some shots, we found that we had walked completely around the Old Uwajimaya building and found a table at Henry’s Taiwan beside the North side of the Dragon Gate. Taiwanese was a cuisine that hadn’t tried before, so. It was a very small place, but the mirrored wall made it seem that there was more space than a place about the same size as my living room. It was close enough Chinese that I thought I knew what I was ordering, but it was odd stuff indeed. We got an odd flan-like thing, which couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to be a dessert or a strange savory. What I ordered turned out to be sort of an Asian burrito in reverse. In the plastic wrap was a mix of mostly white rice with a few grains of purple rice around a crispy egg-roll with hard-boiled egg yokes and an odd curry mix in there. Our second choice of soup: the Shanghai Wonton instead of the Oyster with Ginger came in huge bowls with chrysanthemum stems in it as well as cilantro, scallions, pork-filed wontons, squares of Nori seaweed and so much clear broth that I couldn’t finish the soup. We paid up and John went off to catch his #73.

I went to Uwajimaya’s to get some purple rice, ginger tea and chili sauce with garlic while something had burned and filled the whole store with a smoky starchy miasma which made me wish to get what I needed and get out of there. I managed to catch part of the Dance of the Dragons though once again it was difficult to see and this time photograph. By this time the drizzle was beginning to fall and I took the tunnel bus back to the Convention Center stop and walked back home from there to capture in words the various impressions of the day upon the page.

---Purple Mark 01/28/12

A Disastrous Cutup Poem

2012-02-01T00:32:00.000-08:00

I Made This—

We know about the power of

space in time

smashing

your rubber soul.

Those stories you’ve heard,

about the myth

of the impossible,

they’re true.

Who knew?

A possible mission

behind the saint and

thirteen topless dancers

was

a pregnancy?

Well, pimps

we’re all puffed up now.

Eat, drink, smile, keep partying —

the cows aren’t coming home.

We want to join with you in

the ocular concern.

The giant

at the end of the world,

it was the best thing I ever

saw!

—sort of

---William James, 01/22/2012

A Poem Written As A Text

2012-01-30T00:59:00.000-08:00

My mother is ill.
She hasn't been able to talk right
for 20 hours.
Strained squeaks fill the kitchen
every time she does try.
My thoughts drift too…,
it's not time yet for that…
eventually, though,
all systems wind down
and stop.

Small changes become permanent.
Her mother woke up with a closed throat.
Four days later she passed away.
The dog tap dances across the floor.
He doesn't want to go out.
He can't tell us what he wants.

Last night,
I dreamed of the Emerald City.
I was approaching a steep hill in a car.
I was excited.
I started to drive up the hill
to see what lay on the other side.
It was my last day in the city.
This was my last chance.

Rain fills the sky.
Water seeps up
from the depths of the ground.
The atmosphere
is filled with danger.

---William James, 01242012

A Request for Potted Meat

2012-01-26T23:59:00.000-08:00

Let me put my poem in you
Open wide accept its girth
Let its length dazzle you
Squeal in delight upon measuring its depth
Breathe its odor into your fertile nostril

The crier bawls in my head
sobbing tin characters from a printing press
verbing the sins of his father into black yells

Let me put my poems in you
Let me whisper loud words
Let me stroke your feathered quill
Let me caress your smooth papery skin

An anonymous reader submitted these two lines: The crier bawls in my head; Let me put my poem in you. August 28, on my last full day as a Seattle resident was when this poem was composed.

Do Words Go Bad by Purple Mark

2012-01-26T11:32:00.000-08:00

As they were riding through a lengthy puddle

the Olsten twins hit an unseen pothole in the middle

and were thrown into the melting snow and murk,

which goes to show that nothing good can come from

riding an epiplectic bicycle as a quirk.

After returning home drenched and dripping,

a quick bath, the furplay of their cat and the sipping

of their hot chocolates cheered their spirits enough

to pursue a favorite hobby of looking up new words.

They consulted the Thesaurus Rex only to learn it was

considered extinct, ended, terminated, over, gone and Vanished

“What percentage of those old words were rotten?”

to which there was no answer. The wind outside caused

the branches to scrape glass and they were glad to be

in where it was warm and dry.

---Purple Mark 012112

Prompts Utilized:

“As they were riding through a lengthy puddle...”Edward Gorey. The Epiplectic Bicycle. (Harcourt Brace, 1969).
“Furplay: n. semi-illicit feeling you get when a cat rubs itself against your leg.” Rich Hall. When Snigglets Ruled The Earth. (Collier MacMillan Publishers, 1989). Page 37.
“Thesaurus Rex: 1. extinct, adj. ended, terminated, over, gone, vanished 2. obsolete, archaic (see kaput)” Dan Piraro. Bizarro. (Chronicle Books, 1985 & 1986). Page 46.

Time For Another Transformation by Purple Mark

2012-01-21T23:23:00.000-08:00

“Where are your feet, your shoulders, hands, complexion, Your -

All of you? Why not transform me also?” Tom pleaded

with the other for a like miracle for his aging self.

The other man stood in an outpouring of light transfixed between

the extremes of agony and ecstasy in his transformation: it was

the death of one self and the birth of another.

When it was complete, the new man asked, “You sent it on?”

Tom had been hunched in the corner, repairing a shuttered box

in cramped shed halfway up the tower.

The other was a younger man now, whereas he had been old,

old enough to be mistaken for Tom’s brother though they

looked nothing alike as he was an Indian or had been one.

“Remember when you took that fire ax, jumped up on the B.I.A.

Commissioner’s big, mahogany desk and split it into?”

“How could I forget? You had to rescue me from jail.”

“Ready to roll?” Tom covered in snow halfway through the door

asked the other. “Got the box ready, are you?” The other nodded.

Sometimes these transformations were unstable for awhile.

“We’ll have to find you new clothes. Since you’re not an Indian

now, you can hardly wear those old things.” The old things were

a battered hat that the Hopi favored and a beaded fringed jacket.

Another life beckoned, it was time to leave the remains of this one

and go. Soon, he would be gone from here to travel on the wind

and only the wind would be able to guess his next destination.

---Purple Mark 011412

Purple Mark's' Prompts:

“Where are your feet, your shoulders, hands, complexion, your - all of you? Why not transform me also?” P. Ovidius Naso translated by Rolfe Humfries. Perseus In Metamorphosis. (Indiana University Press, 1983).
“'You sent it on?' said granddad. Granddad had been hunched in the corner, repairing a shutter box in this cramped shed halfway up the tower." Terry Pratchett. Going Postal. (Harper Collins, 2004).
“One old grandfather, a victim of the B.I.A. throughout his life, took a fire ax, jumped up on the B.I.A. Commissioner’s big mahogany desk and split it into!” Leonard Peltier. Prison Writings: My Life Is My Sun Dance. (St. Martin’s/Griffon, 1999).
“'Ready to roll?' Tom covered with snow, was halfway in the front door, 'got a box ready.'" Diane Mott Davidson. Tough Cookies. (Bantam Books, 2000).

A Porcelain Tale by Purple Mark

2012-01-17T22:38:00.000-08:00

The puppet-boy hurried down the staircase of the palace as did Byron and Shelley,
and like them found the secret entrance into Palazzo Scarlotti, in its mirrored halls,
in the tapestried pavilions, he was profoundly alone. There were no others here in
all the palace.

Botwobbles were known to live around porcelain fixtures of certain houses. They
were cheerful, winsome balloonlike animals playful as otters. Their play attracted
the puppet-boy who clicked in to just below the edge of the tub and was drenched
for his curiosity.

The Botwobble eyes shone down like beads. They saw a small boy with a
porcelain head, hands and feet wearing a now wet sky-blue suit beneath them.
“Have you seen anyone or anything like me?”
The Botwobbles gestured with their tiny snouts: up and to the right.

She sat in a curiosity case elegant in burgundy. “My lovely creature, you should
play with more spirit!”Her Maker repositioned her hands and mallets over the
strings of the harpsichord, bent over, kissed her, “Let us begin once more.”
The Puppet wondered at her playing.

At one point she seemed to peer at him during her performance.
Yet her eyes were closed. She was so beautiful, he stood entranced.
He was spotted by the Maker. “You have an admirer, Josephine!”
“Come in, little man. Care to play with us? It can be arranged.”

The puppet-boy nodded his head. His strings had led him here.
He had not wondered how he had become lost, but upon seeing her beautiful
porcelain face done with the finest strokes of the brush,
in his empty head he could not imagine anywhere else as his home.

Papers were signed and the trunk which contained Gainsborough when he was not
being operated brought in. The boy in blue was now in the household of his new
Maker; Giuseppe Fantomas and his Fantastic Phantasmagoric Circus of
Mechanical Arts and Sciences.

All that remained was for Gainsborough to become animated by
wire and gear, not the string which had held him up for so long.
The puppet-boy would miss the freedom of the strings, but while he was within
sight of Josephine, he would be content to play with her.

---Purple Mark 010612

Prompts:

"I have walked down the staircase of the palace as did Byron and Shelley, and like them I found the secret entrance into the Palazzo Scarlotti where the nightly debauches are still being carried on by the sons of Fottia, in the mirrored halls, in the tapestried pavilions. All of the city was open to me, and I was profoundly alone.” Samuel R. Delany. Driftglass. (Signet Books, 1971). page 196.
"Botwobbles were small, balloonlike animals that surfaced in bathtubs. They were cheerful, winsome creatures, as playful as otters, delighting small children whose parents would never have been able to get their progeny into a tub were it not for the prospect of playing with these good-natured water babies." Zod Wallop. by William Browning Spencer, (Borealis/White Wolf Publishing, 1995). page 122.
“'My lovely creature, you should play with more spirit.' He repositioned her hands and mallets over the strings of the harpsichord, bent over, kissed her. 'Let us begin once more.'" Allen Kurzweil. A Case Of Curiosities. (Ballantine Books, 1992). page 109.

A Disasterpiece Compiled By Texters (in my phone)

2012-01-15T13:42:00.000-08:00

I wanna wear a thong

Cause you're gonna be free-on

crying to the TV singing Giligan's song

all day long dripping tears in golden pond

I just wanna be-long

Watch TV Singing this Chong song

Cheech is here and we're smoking your big bong

sitting around trying on your grass thong

(whatever)

I wanna wear a thong

'cause you're gonna be wrong

looking at me like I'm your bone bong

I'm smoking ass like you're a little dong

you're a Geriatric ding dong

playing with your ping pong

zipping around like you're king kong

all day long it's just bing bong

(whatever)

I wanna wear a thong

'cause my toes are little schlongs

stinking in their shoes like little Miss flong

drinking tea with a klingon named Klang Clong

Smoking more pot than Ceech & Chong

Not 'membering what I've sung all along

I wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna, wong

I wanna, wanna, wanna, wanna, fong

(this is beyond retarded)

Face in the Water by Carla Blaschka

2012-01-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Genesis 1, Verse 1: "And the spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters."

I wandered down the staircase of the palace as did Byron and Shelley, and like them I found the secret entrance into the Palazzo where the nightly debauches are still being carried on in the mirrored halls, and tapestried pavilions. As I moved down the halls I could hear stray comments from the side rooms as I peaked in.

"My lovely creature, you should play with more spirit." He repositioned her hands and I went on my way. I heard a harpsichord. What a lovely tune! It made my heart glad. I drifted along, on an exhale in search of life, of a connection, amid this cold dry marble. All of the city was open to me, and I was profoundly alone.

But let us begin once more, as my mother said when she was teaching us the secrets of our clan. I was a Botwobble. Botwobbles are small, balloonlike animals that surface in bathtubs. They are cheerful, winsome creatures, as playful as otters, delighting small children whose parents would never have been able to get their progeny into a tub were it not for the prospect of playing with these good-natured water babies.

That was our gift. The way we survived so we could serve a higher purpose. We give you life, we give you the very oxygen you breathe in every bubble you see. We are there, creating life with our own bodies, and every cell in our body is connected to every other Botwobble on each. It was in learning to be an individual that is the secret our parents teach us. How to be apart from the whole and not fear it.

I was scared being alone. How did humans stand it? In great big sacs that could not meld into one and sometimes didn't touch each other for days on end, at least that was what my mother told me, but I couldn't imagine that could be true, surely they would die if that were true.

Our purpose, given to us by the creator of all things in the beginning, was to breathe life into the world. Parents trained us in bubble baths and as giggling children sculpted white foamy hats and long drippy mustaches we learned to breathe until we could breathe the oxygen out of every drop of water, anywhere, that dripped, splashed and broke. Its body broken for you, so that you may live and have air to breathe.

---by Carla Blaschka, 1/7/2012

Written alongside PurpleMark Wirth and Jennifer Reed Schonberger at Richard Hugo House

Purple Mark's Prompts:

"I've walked down the staircase of the palace as did Byron and Shelley, and like them I found the secret entrance into the Palazzo Scarlotti where the nightly debauches are still being carried on by the sons of Fottia, in the mirrored halls, in the tapestried pavilions. All of the city was open to me, and I was profoundly alone." Samuel R. Delany. Driftglass. (Signet Books, 1971). page 196.
"Botwobbles were small, balloonlike animals that surfaced in bathtubs. They were cheerful, winsome creatures, as playful as otters, delighting small children whose parents would never have been able to get their progeny into a tub were it not for the prospect of playing with these good-natured water babies." William Browning Spencer. Zod Wallop. (Borealis/White Wolf Publishing, 1995). page 122.
"'My lovely creature, you should play with more spirit.' He repositioned her hands and mallets over the strings of the harpsichord, bent over, kissed her. 'Let us begin once more.'" Allen Kurzweil. A Case Of Curiosities. (Ballantine Books, 1992). page 109.

Imaginary Friends And Beasts by Purple Mark

2012-01-12T19:02:00.000-08:00

The scholars sat in their circle like some Victorian Men’s Club
of Explorers, though few had done any significant amount of
traveling except through their dusty books and philosophies.

“I recall a monster frozen in the ice of a Mongolian glacier:
half mammal, half lizard, one hundred feet from head to tail,
equipped with teeth like steel doorposts,” said the youngest.

“Did you see it with your own eyes?” asked a second scholar.
“Well, no. Yet I believe that it was quite real to my friend.”
“As real as us?” A third and the oldest scholar questioned him.

“Yes or rather more real because it was evidence of a world
not available to us. Whereas we are only real in our imaginations.”
“Do you also have imaginary friends whom no one else can see?”

“No. I never have had them, not even when I was younger.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re missing,” said the second.
“So, what did you do with your imaginary friends, if I may inquire?”

“Oh, the same thing one would do with the real ones: explore,
play games, have parties, that sort of thing for hours and hours.”
“Were you so isolated then that you had no real friends?”

“Yes, we moved so much as a child, that I had no friends for the longest time. My
imaginary friends had no problems with moving with me from place to place. Real
ones wouldn’t have done that.”

“How about imaginary beasts?” asked a fourth... “Surely along with your
imaginary friends there were other almost seen things which scampered about. Do
you deny these when you profess the other?”

“Yes, I will confess that I had a veritable menagerie of invisible beasts at my beck
and call when I was much younger. Yet they were something a child believes in,
not an older, wiser grownup.

“Are grownups wiser, though?” the first one brought up to get
back to his original topic: the existence of a fabulous beast within
the daily dullness of a mundane and unfulfilling existence.

“Doesn’t imagination count for more than a dusty factual world?” the first scholar
inquired. “Yes, imagination does count, but not at the cost of denying what is
within and constitutes the real world.”

“I believe that the child is smarter than the grownup, then. He or she is still open
to the world, whereas the grownup is isolated by the facts and figures which crowd
out all the teeming possibilities.”

So, when this meeting of the Scholars like most of their discussions which in truth
were their attempts to reclaim their lost childhoods or rather those things which
kept them young of mind and heart.

---Purple Mark 010812

Prompt:

“I recall a monster that could have done this to armed warriors...it was discovered frozen in the ice of a Mongolian glacier half mammal, half lizard, one hundred feet from head to tail, and equipped with teeth like steel doorposts.” Barry Hughart. Bridge of Birds: A Novel of an Ancient China That Never Was. (Del Rey, 1984). page 156.

Page Ninety Three --- From the Fire To Carla's Pen"

2012-01-10T20:22:00.000-08:00

Boogie oogie oogie till you just can't boogie no more. The dog’s whines and yips for treats accompanied the song thundering over the PA system until the night closed in and exiled the sun. We were at the military camp in Yellowstone.

Grumbling, Frazer shoved me over to a chair, the seat was metal and very cold. Apparently, I was the enemy.

“You were captured trying to get into our camp. Why?” My interrogator was a total hard body, a clean-cut young man, very fuckable but not, alas, for an old woman like me.

I gave him a bright smile. “It’s so nice to be with you,” I said. “It can’t be wrong with you at my side, you’re such a magnet and I am,” I batted my eyelashes at him, “I am the steel.” The song ended about then and his expression got dark. I guess he didn’t like being laughed at when he was being a tough guy. Probably one of those men who never asked their partner what they wanted in bed, he just did it his way. A pity.

“She’s not cooperating”, he remarked to Frazer, who was leaning up against the tent post. I noticed he was looking a little thin. I’d have to have him over for dinner soon. The two other soldiers were guarding the entrance from the dark.

“That generally takes some time,” interrupted the Gryphon. A man I knew intimately strode in and filled the tent with his presence. He always had a knack for taking over a room.

I smiled at the newcomer. “Why, Lt. Lyon, I do declare, I never thought to see you here.”

He gave me an amused look. “She’s always been difficult,” he assured the butch young man. To me, he asked, “What are you doing here, Evangeline?”

“How could I stay away? I was reflecting on the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers in your lovely terrorist camp and I just couldn’t resist, the smell was too strong.” Even in here, the stench of slaughtered animals was overwhelming.

“We’re not a terrorist camp, Evie,” he countered mildly.

“Well, you are certainly terrorizing all those buffalo and deer out there.” I said. I bent my head sideways to indicate the wide open spaces beyond the tent flap. “How do you like it? More, more, more, that’s all the government thinks of in what is laughingly called our democracy. We don’t need another missile silo launch site, and even if we did, it doesn’t need to be here.”

Gryphon leaned over me, placed both of his fine strong hands on the back of my chair, just behind my shoulder blades and got his face within inches of mine. “You know the threat, it’s got to be done and we’re relocating the big animals as humanely as possible, and we’re as sorry as you not all make it.”

“As much as I don’t want to upset our happy home, husband, you should know me by now.” I stretched my neck up to kiss him.

“You can ring my bells anytime, love, but I have a job to do and I will stop you and your bunch of crazies by any means possible.”

I smiled at him with steel. “You can try, honey.”

He stood up and addressed the two guards. “Take her back to the entrance of the park and drop her off, she can find her own way home from there, she’s used to it.”

I regretted to see his mouth tighten at that. We were going to have to have a conversation about that soon.

The two young men, ooh, no, my mistake, the young man and young woman lifted me up with a hand under each armpit and I waved goodbye with my free forearm. They walked me to their jeep as another Hit of the ‘70’s paraded by our eardrums and were as good as my husband’s word, dropping me just outside the park entrance, where the protesters were encamped.

I could hear my colleague, Bryan, doing his nightly speech. I always enjoyed it, as he usually paraphrased Shakespeare. Tonight he had chosen Hamlet.

“To vent or not to vent, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler for the U.S. to drill down and vent the Super Volcano, thereby potentially blowing us all to kingdom come, NOW, or to raise our voices in protest, and by our protests, stop their dangerous plans, and wait. Wait and hope that this sleeping volcano rests in peace for another 100,000 years, NAY, if not forever as this ball of rock we live on cools.

They cannot guarantee their plans will work, or even assure us it is necessary. The changes they chart in topography may be normal, they can’t be sure. But what we can be sure of is that they are risking all our lives, and not just ours, here in the U.S.; but the entire world’s with this mad scheme of theirs.”

He continued and so did I. I was exhausted and needed to lie down. I had gotten what I went for and we were going to need another council of war soon. Bryan was just appealing to the popular reason for what the army was doing at Yellowstone, but there were more important issues at stake.

---By Carla Blaschka, 1/2/2012
Written alongside Purple Mark Wirth, Philip Bernier-Smith & Jennifer Reed Schonberger at The Bauhaus.

Prompts: Page 93:

"Grumbling, Frazer shoved me over to a chair, the seat was metal and very cold."John DeChancie. Starriggers. Page 93
"'That generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon." Lewis Carroll. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Page 93.
"On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers." Henry Wadworth Longfellow. Evangeline. Page 93.
Various Hit’s of the ‘70’s heard while we were writing.

Overwhelming The Mastodons by Purple Mark

2012-01-07T02:33:00.000-08:00

“The molasses in the gingerbread is overwhelming the mastodons,”

she said over the first necessary cup of coffee of the day,

her head still half-stuck in her morning’s dreamings.

While across the room a man had the reverse thing:

all of his dreams had faded and all his hopes had vanished,

all his life henceforth was a dreary and tenantless mansion.

She wondered at this point in her life perpetually half-awake

between the world of her dreams and the so called Real world.

Why only yesterday she had been beneath the trees,

“After being so hot, to get into the -- into the -- into what?”

she went on rather surprised at not being able to think

of the words for the trees, the woods, the forest or even leaves.

Meanwhile, the man was thinking of obscure facts:

the coiled cobra over the third eye of Egyptian Initiates

shows that it can reach out and strike at what it perceives.

Reality was a curious condition full of seemingly pointless

diversions and facts and it all depends on one’s perception

of its nature to find one’s place within its scene.

---Purple Mark, 01/02/12

Purple Mark's Prompts:

“The molasses in the gingerbread is overwhelming the mastodons.” Karen Elizabeth Gordon. The Deluxe Transitive Vampire: The Ultimate Handbook of Grammar for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed. (Pantheon Books, 1993). page 107
“All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, all his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Evangeline and Selected Tales and Poems. (Signet Classics, 1964). page 205.
“The coiled cobra representations of the third eyes on the foreheads of Egyptian Initiates shows that it can reach out and strike at what it perceives.” Mark Booth. The Secret History of the World. (Overlook Press, 2008).
“As she stepped under the trees. After being so hot, to get into the - into the - into what?” she went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word.” .Lewis Carroll. Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland & Through The Looking Glass. (Signet Classics, 1960). page 155.

Pinpricks By Carla Blaschka

2012-01-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

Trapped in love. Like butterflies on display, pinned for the pleasure of the owner.

She kept track of his travels on a map on the wall in the kitchen, one pin for each city. It was colorful, that map, as colorful as his stories. With his stories he always brought back souvenirs. Proof, she assumed, of where he'd been.

The soiled panties in his suitcase were also proof. as was the phone number written on a napkin from a downtown hotel.

Here, in town. Not, just to be clear, in the town he said he was in this past week.

He got looks, she knew he got looks. "Ladies all love him, so beautiful he is," a quote she remembered that fit him perfectly. But she thought he loved her, only her. How stupid not to see that the very charm that won her heart came from lots of practice. There had been other incidents, but he'd always talked them away.

She listened to the high-pitched squeal and sent her transmission. Finished by fax, on one of his own sales order forms. She ordered him out, with a guilt upgrade, if he had any in stock.

She stared at the map and felt the many colored pins sticking out of her heart.

---By Carla Blaschka, 12/23/11

Written alongside PurpleMark Wirth at the Elliott Bay Cafe.

Purple Mark's prompts:

"If you'd like, you can start your transmission after the high-pitched squeel (sic) that will be your cue to make a statement about yourself..." Antero Alli. The Akashic Record Player. (Falcon Press, 1988).
"Her skin is white cloth, and she's all sewn apart and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart." Tim Burton. Voodoo Girl: The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy And Other Stories. (Rob Weisbach Books, 1997).
"Then comes at speed Margaris of Seville, who holds his land as far as Cazmarin, ladies all love him, so beautiful he is." Translated by Dorothy L. Sayers. The Song Of Roland. (Penguin Classics, 1964).

Random Poetry Found While Packing -- 15

2012-01-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

Eight Seconds

I found myself staring at her fingers and lips
while she spoke. Words faded in and out my ears
lips and fingers phases out and into my sight
possibilities danced through my body.

I desired to taste her gleaming supple lips.
Glancing at her hands then her fingers, I noticed
no ring on the ring finger. Hmmm.
My eyes lingered a little longer before gazing into her eyes as

John Carter did when he firs spied the “Moons or Barsoom.”
Wetting my lips, I sized up the strength of her digits.
lithe and knowledgeable. My ears wandered back
to the softness of her voice. Her words came into focus

As I listened intently of dreams, goals, and family lineage,
when and how her people came to America. She spoke
of quietness and simplicity of living in the ever present now.
I savored each word like drips of honey off a wooden spoon.

Her tones warmed the emptiness of my eardrums.
Words faded in and our as I touched her with my mind
Her fingers twined through my fingers.
I feasted on her words with tongue and teeth.

I think I wrote this poem in 2005. I found it (8/27/2011 while packing up my apartment at the Manchester Arms, 1412 Summit Ave) in a rejection letter from poems I submitted to a Poets West reading series at the Frye.

Roy Street Coffee Phone Poem

2011-12-31T23:59:00.000-08:00

I hate it when I start to compose
and the pen runs dry.
It makes me wonder, sometimes
if this universe speaks
in conspiratorial metaphors,
but I could just be paranoid.
You see, I was just trying to write a sestina.
The title was going to be Mr. Happy's Fly Swatter.
It was going to utilize six prompt words
I scavenged out of my favorite Big Poppa E poem.
The girl, she had a big nose.
She was engrossed in a conversation
with a kinky haired guy at the bar.
They were drinking red wine
from fat snooty glasses.
Coke bottle lenses covered her eyes.
Her smiles were magnified across the room.
He said that there was no normal.
She agreed.
I was just standing there eavesdropping
while I waited for my coffee to finish its drip.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I broke in like an unwanted car fart.
I said, “I was the icon of normalcy in America.”
My name is Mr. Happy.
I have a fly swatter.
I love the sound maggots make
when they swim through a tub of honey.
I got a hot water bottle.
I screwed the hose
into to a wet-dry vibrator I found in the laundry room.
It worked great on Ms. Honey’s hole.
She liked it more than the cat did.
So, I dug a shallow grave.
I buried the cat
along with the cat food
I didn’t need anymore
in the back yard.
I threw in the flyswatter
and that empty tub of honey
and smoothed the hole over
with ink that exploded
into my hand from a worthless pen
I bought at super Wal-Mart mega-store.

---William James, 12/31/2011

A Disasterpiece Found Between Pages In A Book II

2011-12-30T23:29:00.000-08:00

I live

Breathe

Through the we

A single plop drops into the sea

This body lives

Vicariously

Through the we

Liquefy

Illusions of

The day to day grime

Breathe

Through the I

Live

Vividly

Become a single drop of water

Raining into the sea

Experience

The meaning of we

I feel you so intensely

I could swear

You must encounter me

There

Too

---William James 3/30/2008

A Disasterpiece Found Between Pages In A Book

2011-12-29T23:12:00.000-08:00

...Odd Bark

Shep sprints---

up hill,

'cross streets,

'round bend,

down again,

---after a bus.

Little legs pump,

feral hair thrashes,

nostrils flare,

breath catches fire

blood ruptures his veins.

Shep,

bites at tires,

howls,

scratches at the door.

Metro number seven halts.

On all two's,

Shep crawls

aboard.

---William James, 3/2/2008

An Unseen Friendship by Purple Mark

2011-12-28T23:03:00.000-08:00

“If you’d like, you can start your transmission

after the high-pitched squeal that will be your cue

to make a statement about yourself.”

After this announcement, I was at a loss as to how

I should answer this query. It seemed that an enigmatic

or Surrealistic response was required from me.

Since I had The Song Of Roland on my person, I answered,

“Then comes at speed, Margaris of Seville, who holds his land

as far as Cazmarin, ladies all love him, so beautiful he is.”

“Squeal,” came the message’s endnote. What he would

make of it was hard to know. I had no clue as to what

his work entailed, but I had been told to be bold in my query.

Just when I was about to ring off his equally odd response

came back: “Her skin is white cloth and she’s all sewn apart

and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart.”

So began our strange friendship with neither of us seen

and it was only our words which we relayed that connected us

in a Stream-of-Consciousness sort of give and take away.

---Purple Mark 122311

Friday Prompts:

“If you’d like, you can start your transmission after the high-pitched squeel (sic) that will be your cue to make a statement about yourself...” Antero Alli. The Akashic Record Player. (Falcon Press, 1988) page 40.
“Her skin is white cloth, and she’s all sewn apart and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart.” Tim Burton. Voodoo Girl: The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy And Other Stories (Rob Weisbach Books, 1997) page 51.
“Then comes at speed, Margaris of Seville, who holds his land as far as Cazmarin, Ladies all love him, so beautiful he is.” Translated by by Dorothy L. Sayers. The Song Of Roland. (Penguin Classics, 1964) page 89.

Perihelion Blinks (A Video Poem)

2011-12-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

Poem For A Christmas Card

2011-12-24T23:20:00.000-08:00

This has been a year of transition:

violence,

poverty,

hardship,

destitution,

hunger.

Who are the wise

in a place where no one behaves

like human beings?

Rich Americans

coveting others’ money,

where is the outrage?

People of opulence—

the poor and the vagrants

gather the fallen

fruit of your vineyards,

to feed their starving families—

You shall not pick your vineyard bare!

—Leviticus 19:10a, 9b

Advent,

our hope is not lost—

Jesus’ birth promised:

a voice for grace,

knowledge,

peace,

love,

community.

—The word for life is always plural.

Merry Christmas.

Five Bottles Along Side The Road

2011-12-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

As I passed the debris of Occupy Seattle, I saw five bottles lined up on a ledge and considered the problems of being homeless.

Besides the cold and hunger,

Besides being wet or frozen,

Is what to do with that bottle of pee.

How do you keep clean when your hands get splashed and the bottle isn't clean. How do you keep from smelling of urine all the time?

Cologne and perfume is a prized commodity among the homeless still trying, it will mask some of the smell.

And how much can you carry, all the time? It's cheaper to buy big bottles of shampoo and soap, sure, but how can you carry those around with you?

Where can you get rest?

Hit the road, Jack, is a constant song heard by the homeless.

Get a job is another.

How?

How do you get computer time to do it?

How do you get clean clothes to wear or the money to get there?

It can be cheaper to buy new clothes at a thrift store than wash what you have.

How do you get to the interview?

How do they make contact with you?

For most homeless, if they are lucky enough to have some income, their cell phone is the only home they have, and they are often scorned for having that.

But the homeless have friends

and family,

and pride.

When their social credit has been used up or their pride forbids asking for more they still need to keep in touch,

with family, friends, agencies that can help,

their lawyers.

To be homeless in most communities makes you a criminal. To sit in the street, to beg, to sleep on someone's property can all land you in jail.

We, the comfortable, protect ourselves by saying its their fault. If only, we say, they weren't...they hadn't...

And why are we helping them? If they weren't...if they hadn't...they wouldn't need our help.

And I, the good person, the one who has followed society's rules should get the reward, should get it all.

If only...

If only they hadn't gotten sick

and lost their jobs and their benefits

If only they hadn't been abused as child

they wouldn't have landed in juvey and been a criminal

If only they were strong enough to never reach for relief from life's problems

never drink

or drug

or have sex with strangers

If only they were perfect, like me.

And didn't waste their resources on dinners and drinks and casinos, like me.

If only the never quarreled with their family over things past or get fired, like me.

They wouldn't have any problems, just like me

So why should I be told to care?

---By Carla Blaschka, 12/10/11
Written at Richard Hugo House alongside PurpleMark Wirth and Zoe Omega.

Write By The Park Prompts:

Things seen on the street
Songs being played

6-Words Randomized Into... Something

2011-12-22T22:48:00.000-08:00

In the war

of good and evil,

angels compete

for diamonds

of crack cocaine.

Demons flex

their beautiful wings

while positioning

and repositioning

the players

on a chess board.

In the fray,

an abundance

of cunning

waits

to be unleashed

against

an innocent

pawn.

On 12/8/2011 Andre submitted to me 6 Words: Competition, Abundance, Good, Evil, Angels, Demons. Andre found this website through me. I met him at a Thanksgiving feast at my aunts house in Salem. I hope you like what your six words became.