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The Many-Splendored & Infamous P l o t m e i s t e r of Love & Doom
can be seen in her natural habitat, Procrastination, counting angels on pin heads.
"She sits all night at her computer, drinking lots of dr pepper, looking for an answer, to it all..."
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A professor once told me that I am like someone who climbs the proverbial mountain
to ask that infamous wise man what the meaning of life is; and when he tells me,
I'm the girl who says, "Bullshit."
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Poetry is like making a shamble. You just do it.
(With or without Nikes.)
Because, when I say magic, I mean
real magic.
The most difficult thing in the world
is to be a witch by noonlight.
Know what I mean?
[Fact: "Life is not reductionist. Life is holistic."]
Check it out:
from the
Strangers poetry contest.
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We want so much to offer. To be able to hold out, trembling and uncertainly smiling,
the final fruits of our consummated labors.
But where is the continuity of action? The singleness of purpose, the drive of inspiration?
The cold and final bell of the funeral service resounds night and day in our heads.
The impossibility of being confronts us each day in the silent mirror.
So we learn to avert our eyes. Conditioned like laboratory dogs, the interminable repeat
cycle of bell and steak and light in the eyes blinds us not with tears, no joy or savage
frustration, no absurd and breaking laughter, but humdrum, timber-dry familiarity.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth during the keynote speech at the fancy dinner party,
and lassitude plants its sighing and impotent flag of victory. All hail, King Mediocrity.
Bastards. You've taken even the language of revolt from us. The dead words fall empty
and vague from our mouths. We are so used to seeing the villain inside we no longer
give chase, and he has forgotten to worry a sudden struggle might ruin his sleek black
suit. A jailer who needs neither walls nor keys.
We reach inside our hearts for gifts to offer and, finding only cob-webbed shadows and
old, unused furniture, we shape the emptiness into pleasing rings of illusion, diamonds of
would-be, rubies of faded and reluctant lust. We twist, we writhe, we bring them out--our
shriveled hearts, an offering for the metal desk altar of Art. Praised be the god of our failures.
Hey. We tried.
Postmodern ingenuity abounds and we cannot save ourselves from nightfall. The earth turns
its back on the sun and we blame His Golden Majesty for setting; even now.
Behold the dark face of the city. The burnt offering.
(To whom? And why? But wait...?)
Sacrifice accepted.
More mistakes and promises to follow.
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