Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Random Poetry Found While Packing -- 11


Red Sky Sun won't shine
Blue sky follow me


Girl, girl where are you
My life seems so bleak

Girl, girl come back home
I wanna hear your voice

Girl, Girl where have you left
you've been gone an age and a half

Girl, girl I drempt 'bout you
you sang sweet words to me

Girl, girl the rains came again
Blue sky won't shine on me

Girl, girl life ain't the same
Are you ever coming back to me

A slow blues chant found in a note book dated to November 2007.

Monday, November 28, 2011

What Elephants Are For & Spring Trimetrics


                      Spring Trimetric

        the Door to Spring putting away the
                Ghosts and all of the
                        Enchantment of the burgeoning blossoms came.
The Door swung open to the hint of warmth and
        the Ghosts of Winter were laid to rest, while
                the Enchantment of the flowers overtook
                        the muck and mire that had come with the latest rain.

---Purple Mark 11/26/11a


                      What’s The Elephant For?

“What’s the Elephant for?” he inquires as he sees her pendant.
        “Memory and perception. Though Ganesha is primarily
                the remover of Obstacles,” she answers.
The sounds of Billie Holiday drift out through the doors
        of the House of Richard Hugo while
                his dark hair shines in pale porch-light.
Casually, like she was calling over a waiter,
        Alice summoned a tiny songbird to her wrist.
                Now that he was here, it would be all right.
He inhales the wild, salty scent of the sea.
        and discovers Lovecraft, marveling at his propensity
                to use big words like Eldritch and Cyclopean.
“I come out here every night.” Alice said breaking the quiet,
        He wished that he could just stand here
                a little longer and look at the pale light on the dew.

---Purple Mark 11/16/11b


Purple Mark's Prompts: The books                                                                         

  1. The name of Alice is exchanged for that of Julie in this passage for continuity. Lev Grossman. The Magicians. (New York: Viking/Penguin, 2009). pages 67, 288, 319.
  2. The Preview. Lev Grossman. The Magician King. (New York: Viking/Penguin, published August 10, 2011). Page 4.
  3. The crucial title passage refuses to be pinned to any page along with the next passage about Ganesh. Anjali Banerjee. Haunting Jasmine. (Berkley Trade, 2011). pages ?,?, 116, 203.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Machine Language (A Video Poem)

The poem Machine Language was published in Hoarse, Issue #4: Field day. It's available for sale at the University Book Store in Seattle.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

A Feast Of Words At The Seattle Public Library


A Body's Feast

        The lecture had been a feast for the senses. One wonders if the presenters really understood all the information they were providing the public.

        I was gazing at the great central elevator shaft of the Seattle Public Library building sipping on dark chocolate and raspberry cocoa. I had just come from one of their free lectures and was enjoying all the images and sensations it had brought. A little curly-headed blonde tyke had her nose pressed to the coffee bar's fridge and was demanding to know what a pile of plastic wrapped cheese logs were. She was just to scrumptious for words. A whole meal in herself.

        Seattle was sure different from the South where I grew up. I hadn't once been asked if I'd been saved and there seemed to be different churches here, not just different Baptist denominations. It had got a little uncomfortable down there, people had started to ask questions, so I decided to try new fields and Seattle had such an excellent reputation in certain circles for the quality of its serial killers.

        The lecture on forensics had given me goosebumps. I wasn't interested in anything like that. It was great the popularity of the CSI programs kept generating so much information.

        Feasts. Things to feast on. Dahmer liked liver, but until today I'd never thought of the succulent delights of your basic big toes.


---By Carla Blaschka 11/19/11

     Written alongside Purple Mark & Philip Bernier-Smith at the Seattle Public Library.
     Our only prompt was "feasts."

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The Feast by Purple Mark

“We’re not going down that, are we?” Carolyn asked.
The slope of the street was quite severe
and the black ice potential was quite high:
the snow could be hiding nearly anything.

“Yes, here we go!” and like a bobsled run
the vehicle began its descent down Columbia.
There were few other vehicles out on the roads today
and we made it down to the Viaduct safely.

The snow was enough to discourage the locals,
but for us mountain state dwellers it was easy.
The trick was not to go too crazy with turning
and to be light-footed on the brake and the pedal.

Another half hour found us at the house I had a room in
with dinner preparations going ahead at full tilt:
the kitchen had four cooks in contention to use
all the available space in a flavorful symphony of scents.

Two of my housemates were in the Chef programs at South Seattle
so we were in essence a household of Cooks Versus Chefs here.
PJ put his efforts into the mashed potatoes and I assembled an oyster stuffing
for a Northwest twist and we left the rest to the almost Pros of the household.

I also made my first try at a chocolate blackberry pie on the dining room table
for want of prep space. Meanwhile, the other three cooks took turns chopping,
adding, stirring, and checking on their dishes in the kitchen. While PJ did his hosting
duties for a dinner that was estimated at twenty eight celebrants.

Thus the food preparations were truly on the order of a huge feast
and from just what we were preparing a whole platoon could be fed.
As the hour approached, so too our guests. The food cooking reached
its peak and the whole house was full of people and an super abundance

of anything one could want in a Horn of Plenty-themed Thanksgiving dinner:
two types of Turkey, Ham, Salmon, 3 types of stuffing, mashed and sweet potatoes, steamed
vegetables, a relish tray, cranberry sauce, rolls, bread, two types of gravy, beer and wine.
A loud and merry time was held by all:

Chefs, Drag Queens, Bears, Leather-Men and Leather-Women, People in Transition,
Carolyn who had moved here after me from Montana and myself
in my very early color changes and purple lightning bolt Cellophaned hair.
It was quite the crowd that had assembled for this Harvest Feasting

and all twenty eight had made it here despite the winter weather.
Toasts were made and soon our bellies were filled to bursting
with a dinner that afterwards people were moaning in appreciation of
if not a little overindulgence laying on all available horizontal surfaces

as all that gluttony made itself felt: the carbs plus the tryptophan kicked in,
but that wasn’t the end of our grand feast. No, we had still more to eat.
To Carolyn, I said, “I hope that you saved room for the desserts.”
She and others groaned, because even though they had been present

everyone had forgotten about them. There was a brief siesta and after
naps and other diversions, it was finally time for our just desserts.
There were three other pies besides mine: Pumpkin, Pecan and Apple, Gianduja,
a Tort, something else delicious and then there was the Coffee Diablo:

Brandy-laced coffee ran along a clove-studded orange peel into coffee cups below
in a magic show of orange and blue flames as the cloves caught.
The whole feast had pushed people into areas of uncomfortableness
which hadn’t been thought possible before this, even if was all so divine.

There was a second resting up and then a gradual departing of celebrants
though some were still there when I returned from taking Carolyn home.
It had been a feast to remember and still remains the feast from which
I can compare all the others to and find them not quite in the running.

Purple Mark 111811 11:38 PM


CACOETHES: A Text Phone Game

Here we go! Cacoethes. You will enjoy this one Bill.

Here’s mine: It was next to 10 in the A.M. William sat staring at the company expense reports, trying vigilantly to focus on the numbers at hand. As he stared into the numbers, his mind would traverse to his cacoethes of the pen.

Every morning it was the same. Pauley had an irresistible urge to "cock-a-doodle-doo," in his wife's ear when he woke before the alarm. The one time that he did do it, he wished he hadn't. Loraine, who grew up on a farm, hated chickens. As a girl of ten, she was once attacked by a rooster when she entered the coup. The rooster gored his long talons into her arm, which poisoned her blood with a rare avian infection. Loraine, in an unconsciousness state, grabbed Pauley by the balls and squeezed. She had no control over her own cacoethes.

That was fun Peter. I’m going to spread your word around.

Could you write me a short narrative using the word: "cacoethes," and text it back to me?

What does it mean Bill?

Cacoethes, Song Jay, is defined as an irresistible urge to do something inadvisable. Or you could make up your own definition within the context of your narrative.

Nah, that's perfect. I'm so happy to discover that there is a word for that. Ok let me work on it…

CACOETHES - In retrospect the squirrel cop should never have consumed the entire Snickers bar all at once. Officers -well- citizen now Roger J Squirrel skulked in the back of the squad car aware of the discomfort building in his shoulder as the tiny handcuffs stretched his little squirrel arms into a weird angle behind his fluffy back. The blue and red lights cycled outside overwhelmed his still dilated eyes. Shame welled up in his psyche with the notice of his former peers; Officer Mallard and exchange Officer Wallaby conferring in hushed tones in the front seat. Unable to grasp the entire picture all at once, RJ retreated to the least disturbing memory from among the fragments still hoping that, that poor kitten would recover all of his claws intact. Secure in the fact he would never again be allowed in proximity of the Halloween candy jar let alone asked to guard it, he gave up on further reflection and sat hunched in silence. (Composed by S. W.)

That’s a great phone flash fiction piece Song Jay!

Writing is a passion of mine. Some might say it is a cacoethes. However, I prefer to think of it as my lifeline. Writing helps me stay sane in an unpredictable world. Writing makes me happy and my heart smile. I am sure others have their own cacoethes; they just don't want to admit it. It is easier to judge others urges instead of looking deeply into one's inner-self and identifying their own unadvisable actions they inflict upon others. (Composed by S. M.)

Thanks Shazza, for playing the game.

Note: This post is a collaborated work created by four people (including myself). The word "CACOETHES," was texted to me by Paul N, a classmate from Willamina Elementary & High school. All the action contained herein occurred between the hours of 5:56 AM and 10:59 PM on November 8, 2011. Some of the players/characters names were changed to protect their innocence

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Thanksgiving is a Feast of Misgiving


Fallen leaves smell festive like thanksgiving
Vibrant colors set the table for the coming feast
But for too many, this is only a holiday of misgiving

Little people who’ve been fractured by life’s woes and are grieving
Starving for understanding it’s like their heart has been fleeced
Yet falling leaves still give them festive reminders of thanksgiving

Reddish gold’s and browns are colors of pleasant endings
They heap up like stars on the ground in the East
But for too many, this is a sign of a holiday misgiving

The greedy few have raised for the many the cost of living
Unleashing inside the little people a brutal beast
But when leaves fall people can see the approach of thanksgiving

These days are maddening when people are broke and no one’s forgiving
And it is hard to be giving when love in our world appears to have ceased
These realities for many Americans are reminders of a holiday misgiving

Thanksgiving is an opportunity to forgive, give thanks, and start living
And let our open wounds heal and become like the ideal holy priest
Breathe deeply, because fallen leaves still smell festive like thanksgiving
But cry a tear for those who are isolated in a holiday of misgiving

---William James, a 11/19/2011 Freewrite


Thursday, November 17, 2011

6-Words Randomized Into A Poem


Demented sounds
Radiated from a tower of speakers
Shaz put on his goggles
Loaded the bait
Into a vibrant pink floral envelope
She would like it
He licked it closed
Twisted out a smile
Mailed it
In a few days
His sweet
Darling ex
Will be sick


On 9/28/2011 Shazza SweetCheeks submitted these 6-Words: Bait, Speaker, Envelope, Lick, Goggles, and Sick. You too can do this by going to the 6-Words page above and filling in the blanks on the form and I'll create you a poem.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Pocket Book Stanzas Penned By Purple Mark


A Poem For 111211 in 11 Stanzas

I missed my chance to write with everybody today,
it seemed that my plans had all gone astray.
I had been fooled by a listing on FB
for an annual event that began at 6 in the morning.

The Glitter Sale beckoned for me get there early
as it was even better attended than in previous days
and my nearest friends were near the corner
nearly a whole block away from the entrance.

We tried to keep warm before the doors were opened
and avoid coming to the attention of the Warm Fuzzy.
At last it was 9 and the line began moving, we learned
it was only the first line of many for the morning.

The second line was inside the building winding through
house-wears and that was an additional hour and a half,
before I finally gained access to the Glitter racks along with the
throng who also sought out their treasures here.

It was fully 11 before I found my first scores: there was
A daffodil-colored 60s frock, then a grass-green gown.
My searches revealed many things which intrigued
my eye, but they were made for much smaller beings

or came at a too rich price for my pocketbook.
In the end, I only found one more thing among the dross:
an oddly constructed purple shirt which dared me to alter it
and remove its black elastic half.

Everything else, I either had a close approximation of
or would hurt too much even if I found something to fit.
In my usual hour I had gathered my choices and then waited in a
third line to pay. Another 10 minutes

and then I found out my 3 items cost 66 plus dollars,
but I was on my way at last: 12:15, the time which
I had suggested as the beginning of our writing
for this week, only I was 2 miles walking time away.

It was also raining fairly heavily, it was windy and
the traffic bad and no buses that were of any
help to me were on their way. By the time I attained my goal of
the Richard Hugo House, I was a half-hour late.

When I entered it, there was no evidence that our
group had been there at all, as it was full with a class that had
computers and notebooks at the open
though it was hard to tell if anyone was actually writing.

Since I was cold, wet, tired and quite hungry, I went home, had
lunch, a nap and at last I write my poem.
Was it worth the time and effort I put into getting those
3 items? We shall see, at least I got a poem out of it.

---Purple Mark 11/12/2011


Randomly Accessed Poetics is now taking submissions for short stories and poetry of any style including explicit language pieces. Stop by randomlyaccessedpoetics.come for details on where to send your polished piece(s).


Found in the Mensroom at Rancho Bravo on Capitol Hill 4

How could I not be disappointed with myself. I am after all a class "A" shithead.

And a class "A" shithead needs to shit with a shit eating grin.

When you're done eating shit, serve it up with a sanctimonious shovel!

And then squeeze a few drops into the goblet of Mother Earth.

Another earth will hang in the sky on the hearth of Asgard. Thor thundered down from the stars on a sled to slay the beast.

And the gods decreed that shitheads will shit where there is shit to be shitted

The decree was written on the golden fleece worn by Thor in his own shit to be handed down from one shithead to another.

The man in the magic shop walked to the end of a long dark hallway [with a comic book stained brown from a greasy bean burrito.]

He headed out the door and up Pike's Street to Babes in Toyland to purchase the latest jumbo sized butt plug.

Found on paper napkin on Wednesday, August 23, 2011 in the mensroom of Rancho Bravo's on Capitol Hill. It was initialed WL, CM, AK, & TR.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Detached Hotel Lobby Conversations

Hey, just wanted you to know,
We just arrived.
While you’re gambling,
We’re gonna get something to eat.
We’ll get a table for five.

Hand check.
It will only take a minute!
There’s nothing going on down there.
My hands are sticky.
I smell gas.
It’s a safety thing.

Don’t know… it’s hard to explain.
I think I put it in my wallet.
I always leave my keys in by accident.
I’m not saying soon,
I’m saying at some point in life.
I smell gas too.

---William James

   These conversations were gathered at the
   Spirit Mountain Casino on 11/11/11


Thursday, November 10, 2011

Yesterday's Poetry Affects Purple Mark's Tongue


Statue in the Sand

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
tell that its sculptor well those passions read
with head rounded by the driving sand.

Figure with lion body and head of man,
a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun
stands guard over this abandoned city
somewhere in the desert’s sands.

The traveler found a brief respite from uncaring winds
within its shadowed presence,
its lingering dread like a balm for his many cuts
here at the end of the world.

What had driven him here: Madness, he supposed
or the words of his former master who spoke,
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall
looking as if she were alive, I recall.”

Believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving
had set him on this trek here for this truth
which lesser men dare not look for: the Statue
was the marker for his yearning need.

There stood the door in the Statue’s lee,
he had arrived and so took out the key,
his heirloom had led him to the secret
that lay beneath these sands: his legacy.


The key undid the lock and the door unsealed,
steps led into darkness, blindly counting the steps
in his descent, he caught an echoing tread behind him,
something followed him though he was alone.

Something has ceased to come along with me,
something like a person: something very like one.
In the darkness, he knew who it was by the tread:
the one he sought, but should not be seeking him.

His father followed him, his father who was dead.
His father who wanted him to follow the familial footsteps
was here to make sure he did his duty
to the ancient ones forgotten by nearly all.

The Pact had been signed and blood passed
to insure one of each generation would take on this task
which had come to him at last
to offer obeisance to that which oversaw the family.

The darkness lessened till he reached the last step of the hundred: there the eternal flame
stood as a man might:
time to make his sacrifice, for in what distant deeps
or skies burnt the fire of its eyes.

His sacrifice was his left hand which he offered,
as it was accepted by the flame there was only a little pain.
“Fear no more the heat of the sun, nor the furious
winter’s rages; thou thy worldly task is done.


“Grasp and remember these words to console you
in bitter misfortune: those living near will offer your bones last ritual appeasement
for the remainder of time
that site will be named Palinurus.”

All his sorrows are driven away from his heart,
sad and aching, pain is, for just a moment expelled,
he delights in the land’s name for it is the name of his family.
It would now continue, he had done his part.

He turned from the eternal flame and made his way
back to the world of the living and its sand-filled sky.
The Statue seemed to wink at him as he locked the door, it could’ve been just a
trick of the light in this desolate realm.

Nothing beside the statue remains. Round the decay
of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
the lone and level sands stretched far away
erasing his footprints as though he never had been there.

---Purple Mark, 11/05/2011


Purple Marks' Prompts:                                                                         

  1. "Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, tell that sculptor well those passions read." Percy Bysshe Shelly. Ozymandias. (Hoopoe Books, 1999)
  2. "That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall looking as if she were alive. I call..." Robert Browning. My Last Duchess.
  3. "Somewhere in sands of the desert a shape with lion body and the head of a man, a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun." William Butler Yeats. Second Coming.
  4. "Believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving." Ezra Pound. Hugh Selwyn Mauberley.
  5. "Fear no more the heat o’ the sun nor the furious winter’s rages; thou thy worldly task hast done." William Shakespeare. Cymbeline (Act IV, Scene 2)
  6. "Grasp and remember these words to console you in bitter misfortune. Those living near- driven far, driven wide, by celestial omens, city to city - will offer your bones last ritual appeasement: build you a mound and they’ll send to that mound solemn, annual tributes through the remainder of time that site will be named Palinurus. All of his sorrows are driven away. From his heart, sad and aching, pain is, just for a brief moment, expelled; he delights in the land’s name." Frederick Ahl (translator). Virgil: The Aeneid. (Oxford University Press, 2007) pg. 140.
  7. "Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away." Percy Bysshe Shelly. Ozymandias. (Hoopoe Books, 1999)

Randomly Accessed Poetics is now taking submissions for short stories and poetry of any style including explicit language pieces. Stop by randomlyaccessedpoetics.com for details on where to send your polished piece(s).


Tuesday, November 8, 2011

A Pantoum Texted To A Friend


If this screen could blush, I would be blushing.
I would be shining so red, this red vine would look pale.
A thin black haired Irish woman would be ghostly translucent.
And the page upon which I am writing would burst into flames.

I would be so flamboyantly pink this strawberry liqourice would look blue.
I am blushing through the keys of this phone.
And the page upon which i am thumbing letters would burst into a raging fire in the backyard.
The moon rising red in the sky would be my face telegraphing to the world my feelings.

I am blushing out this color from fingertip pores staining the keypad.
And the page upon which i am not writing has burst into flames.
Luna hanging red in the sky tells the story of me and what i did.
if this screen could blush you would see me blushing.

---by William James, 10/19/2011

Monday, November 7, 2011

Write By The Park With Purple Mark: "Carla's Con"


A Pro Considers a Con

       When they had two it worked just fine. Norman would do all the hard work, suss out the area until he found a likely store front, closed but just right for their new business. She picked a yarn shop this time, at least she knew how to knit. He had all the right patter about leases and triple net and she didn't know what all. Trying to pull this off on her own, talking as if she negotiated the lease and knew about business was going to be difficult. Maybe when she brought the marks to look at the store front, "forgetting" the key, of course, she would just say her lawyer was handling all that, if they even asked. She backed up to note down the address, 1753 Hugo St. It wouldn't do to get that wrong.

       God, this was difficult without him. She couldn't stop though, he needed some rest after his heart attack and that took real money and time. He couldn't protect them anymore and she needed to take up the slack. They worked it out years ago, a little accent, and she was Balkan royalty, dispossessed, a refugee with nothing when she came to this country. Her family were all killed trying to defend their city and save others. At least that's what Norman murmured to marks on the side to get their sympathy going. As far as she knew, her only brother John was still in their home town of Duluth selling insurance. The money they got came from unused accounts left with the state. A little research, some new identities and you could pick up some careless person's unconsidered trifles, plus some credit. Even with the economy, credit cards were still trying to give it away. They got their BMW that way. They couldn't even be charged with theft for that, since they were given the keys after filling out a credit app and handing over a down payment. Fraud maybe, but not theft. But it was never enough.

       To establish themselves, they were using the stranded travelers con. They usually could get away a month, a month and a half at a hotel before leaving. Their cover story was that they were waiting to receive a baby from Vietnam. Their friend had been killed and they had been asked to adopt. When they got the word, they warned their new "friends" that they would have to leave immediately to pick the child up from LAX. They would leave a few items of clothing to convince the hotel they were coming back and delay suspicion. When to leave was always the question, the rush. It was living on that knife edge, between safety and getting caught.

       But it took two. Telling people yourself that you were foreign royalty just made you seem crazy. It was a real problem.


---By Carla Blaschka, 11/5/11

     Written along side Priya Keefe, PurpleMark Wirth and Philip Bernier-Smith
     at Richard Hugo House.


Priya's Prompts:                                                                         

  1. Quickly write down the plot of a book or movie.
  2. Look it over and choose 3 lines that stand out, and then rewrite the lines.
  3. Fill in the blanks between the 3 lines
  4. The prompt sentences were culled from Water Witch by Connie Willis & Cynthia Felice
    1. "She tries to do the con on her own and nearly fails"
    2. "He was told that his job was to protect and serve the princess"
    3. "She saves the city"
Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal I am building up called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open for short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. I am featuring more polished literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will cobble together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Random Poetry Found While Packing -- 10


I was cast into the deep
Enveloped by the heart of the sea
Breakers and billows swirled
Passed over my head

The abyss poisoned my life
Seaweed clung to my ears
I disappeared from your sight
Will I ever gaze on you again?

Down, down, down I fell
Past the roots of the mountain
Spinning through the gates of hell
the bars clanged shut behind

I remembered when my soul despaired
I sang out the unnamed name
I cried hot tears of shame
you came and embraced my heart

Chorus 1

Take my hand, I'll lead you
'Cross the sea to a new land

Chorus 2

Down, down, down I fell
To the gates of hell

I found this song in a journal on 8/16/11 while I was packing up my Seattle apartment. These lyrics are dated to the fall of 2007. It was the second song I ever wrote with words and everything. The guitar was tuned to an open Dm7 chord and capo-ed to the 5th or 7th fret.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Thursday, 7:31 AM

I sit on the edge of the bed. Stare at the dresser. There is something over there that I want.

I get up. Walk over there. Open a drawer. Reach inside. Grab a pair of black socks. I look down at my feet. I am already wearing socks.

I walk back to the bed. Sit down. Pick up my phone. It is Thursday, 7:26 AM. Put the phone down. Stare at the dresser. There is something over there that I want.

I get up. Walk to the dresser. Focus eyes into the mirror. Touch fingers to hair. It is already styled.

I go back to the bed. Sit down. Pick up the phone. It is Thursday, 7:28 AM. Put the phone in pants pocket. Stare at dresser. There is something over there that I want.

I get up. Walk to the dresser. Grab a razor. Smooth the skin flat with fingers. I already shaved. My face is clean.

I walk back to the bed. Sit down. Stare at the dresser. There is something on it I want. I vocalize: hair products, tooth brush, razors, Old Spice, drafting ruler, clutter, cards, envelopes, cologne, coffee.


Thursday, November 3, 2011

Found Today On Okcupid


"She Told Them I Was Lonely"

I made a deal with my mother---
She's probably biased though,
having given birth to me and all---
In exchange,
she will stop
giving my phone number
to random strange men
she and my stepdad
meet at the dog park
Sadly, I do a lot more
daydreaming than doing
I'm a sucker for a period melodrama
because sometimes a girl just wants
a little smut dressed up in kilts
I'm the classic absent minded professor
vegetating with the cats
I spend my days
help[ing] people improve
their paddling skills
staring at a computer screen
Photoshopping jars of baby food
[this] probably says more about
what's next in the life plan
the plots I am hatching
my imaginary musical boyfriends
but it gives me something to work on
which usually keeps me pretty busy
and out of trouble
at least
until the beer garden opens


Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Found in the Mensroom at Rancho Bravo on Capitol Hill 3


She looked like she was dressed in changing flora with snowy mountains tinted with pink snow and a wisp of cloud.

Ethereal existence weighted down by the dark spiderwebs in her eyes.

She would toss her hair about like a rockstar and her formidable pheromone aroma would draw in wolves from the hills.

All the boys in the neighborhood grocery would instantly grow mighty redwoods in their pants that reviled the cedars of Lebanon as she shopped for juicy cantaloupes.

And she would toss her hair around laughing at them as she knew all men and laughed at them.

They will succumb to where they no longer belong and then they will challenge her need for freedom.

And all men shall become monks for her and will never know the taste of a woman.

A woman like her who was been haunted by the tangy taste of a flowering bride.

Yet, she is Geia and she knows all men and women and their taste in her mouth is good.

---The paper was found on August 24, 2011 signed with the initials CM, TR, AK, and WL

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Write By The Park With Purple Mark: "Millwright"


The Millwright and
     the Thought-Eater

“I am He who howls in the night;”
“I am He who moans in the snow;”
The Thought-Eater stood in the twilight
with the Autumnal wind blowing cold.

Around the park, people scurried away
from its unseen but noticeable presence;
they fled from its vampiric sway
as though from some horrible stench.

The millwright paused in his babbitting
preparing with care the journal bearings;
his thoughts had left him like a rabbit
suddenly woken from its sleep and dreamings.

There was something that lurked in the shadows
which robbed him of his energy and purpose;
his work forgotten and his mind hollow,
he struggled to get out of his mental morass.

Then it was gone. Whatever had snatched
his thoughts had passed and with some distress
he sought to remember to check the castings
as if he had fallen out of his working man’s bliss.

Like the Soma had worn off and now unburdened
of its effects, he was left mindless
However his autopilot had finally returned
and he was able to complete his task.

---by Purple Mark Wirth 10292011


William James & Purple Mark's Prompts:                                                                         

  1. I am He who howls in the night; I am He who moans in the snow... H.P. Lovecraft. Collected Poems ---by H P Lovecraft: (includes: The Ancient Track; The Eidolon; To Klarkash-Ton, Lord of Averoigne; Fungi from Yuggoth; Psychopompos, Antarktos, etc). (Arkham House Edition, 1963) pg. 95.
  2. Thought Eater: Thought eaters are dwellers in the ether. Their senses, however, extend into the physical plane, and any psionic or psionic-related energy use in either area will attract their attention (range of ability or magic equals attraction range. The thought eater appears to be something like a sickly gray, skeletal-bodied, enormous headed platypus to those who are able to observe it. It’s only desire is to feed on the mental energy or prey…“ Gary Gygax. Monster Manual: An Illustrated Compendium of Monsters: Aerial Servant to Zombie. (TSR Games, Lake Geneva, WI, 1978). Page 94.
  3. When preparing journal bearings, for babbitting, two very important points should not be overlooked, viz: to see that they are clean and dry. All dirt and dust should be thoroughly cleaned from the cavities in the castings, after which the casting should be dried by being placed over a forge fire, or it too heavy to handled in this way, it may be dried by pouring a small quantity of gasoline into the spaces to be babbitted and then set on fire.” Calvin F Swingle, M.E. Swingle’s Practical Hand-Book for Millwrights. (Frederick J Drake & Company Publishers, Chicago, 1910). Page 164.
  4. ’The Savage,’ wrote Bernard, ‘refuses to take soma, and seems much distressed because the woman Linda, his m---, remains permanently.” Aldous Huxley. Brave New World. (Perennial Classics Harper & Row Publishers, Inc, New York, 1932) Page 108.
Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal I am building up called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open for short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. I am featuring more polished literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will cobble together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.