fan bios of authors...

Much of King's early works were science fiction based, but because he lacked the scientific grounding, they tended to be a bit thin on detail, but still excellent for someone of his age

I love fan-boy bios of famous people. I want to start a new trend with them ...

"Much of Bundy's early works were not humanitarian based, but because he graduated up from eating other animals, they tended to be more on the cooked side, but still excellent for someone of his age."

Fragments of dreams I never had

Diving in the pool to
never touch the bottom,
wheels blurring as legs,
discarded training wheels rusting
somewhere down below.

A note refusing to expand into a song.
Silence. Silence, but for popcorn
being chewed once & yet again,
leaving nothing of ourselves behind.

A mirror thrown away for reflecting
only what was real.
A star pulled down from the sky
granting no wishes
only
begging to be spared:
it was eaten anyway.

Fireflies turning colours
only seem when hands
press into eyes, pleasure
for the blind.

In the end there is only flesh.

Going To The Bar

Pretending to have a life,
the 10 o'clock rush to leave gone;
getting plastered with complete strangers,
making friends with paychceques
as the loneliness of the stranger,
drunken, siddles up to mine, offering
a spot of relief and dash of forgetting,
saying that the throwing up in the morning
will just be nature's way of telling me
that I should never get someone pregnant.
I just buy it a drink instead and watch
from the place outside the drinking that
it never seems to reach, and my wallet
coughs up some more money with a sigh.

The Oracle at Dachau

The room was not the black hole
of Calcutta, but small enough
for all of that.
Large showers roomy for the living,
filled with ghosts of the dead.
The oracle did not need herbs,
nor chants, nor ritual words.
To those who came clear-eyed
only a sad smiled as shared;
to those who asked, the seer spoke
-- gas as transcendental smoke --
one prediction. Death.
And a slow, mounting sadness at God
and man, who made the predictions
far too easy but still sent an oracle
for all of that.

S-L 9

Bruises visible for months,
Dark wounds visible
Brighter than the famous red spot.
Two years of waiting and it falls,
Pieces of debris, less than a month of data,
And not enough water seen;
Even Shoemaker-Levy didn't go deep enough.

Reading about results is surreal,
Disturbing; destruction on a grand scale.
Satellites moving to take pictures,
Feeding wonder. But, ah - did any of them
Think to send a warning to Jupiter?
To tell people, if any were that, that the sky
Was going to fall, the comet collide?
Only the silence seems deafening.

The delight in destruction seems
A terrible kind of art. I wonder if silence
Will prove our undoing. a judgement
Cold and pitiless, for what we never did
And never once thought to do.
All true regret is for things undone.

Memory

The beauty of age
Lies in time, the creation
Of good old days lies in
Forgetting the pain.

And 'tis better by far
To forget and to laugh
Than it is to remember
And regret and to cry.

Just A Poem, You know?

There's nothing wrong with being dead
We're all dead in side so it's okay
We didn't land on the moon, go where we're led
And sometimes there's nothing to say
But we have too may words to say it with
That we can't find a single one of worth.

On Definitions of Entropy

Increasing disorder is
a child with a crayon,
But the scrawl is not
mixed-up-ness, but art.

Poem

Space serenades silence,
songs suffusing slipstreams;
sensation soaring steadily,
so sincere syncretic success:
sublime, strident - seeking
still supplications swath
shall sinecure, silent.

Rumination

To pay attention to that which can't be seen
Is a trifling matter -- to see what is really there,
Shorn of myths we invent and ways we deceive
Ourselves -- and others -- is the hardest thing.
It is easier to pay attention to what is not real,
But what is real is all that truly matters, even if
The unreal things are stronger and last longer.

Cyborg Porm: Epilogue

He never upgraded me
Bastard! -- still leaking
leavens, crumbs everywhere,
stuck in refuse of work.

Fit only for a museum,
piece of trash on walkways.

Now, when I power on,
I smell of burnt plastic
and see a future as nothing:
recycled; never reused.

Pleasure circuits never short.
Always wants burnt. Always.

[A note: Well. This was ALL Darusha's fault. I took the idea much further than I ever thought I could (or would), and it was fun. But all things end. So if you want to blame someone for Cyborg Porn, it's all her fault :)]

Personality Tests

I really should be working on finishing novel, but wqas reading a friends blog and came across a test, and took it.

This is, apparently, me. For anyone who was curious. And mostly for those who aren't.

Mind you, the test is pseudo-scientificial silliness, but still.

On Walls

Silent scream, voice of the silent
who don't read papers, and who
don't write letters home, don't
care about words, actions caring
Louder, scrawled voices - silent.

On Movement

There are hills where mountains no longer stand,
Tides that wash and dull all stone --
There is no thing that escapes being forgot:
In a universe bereft of stillness
There are no changeless truths.

Sfmuato

Blending, smoke into ashes, aye:
"Older than the rocks on which she sits"
And what of that? Between the here
and now, the silence and the waking,
we walk between all worlds, soft, silent.

No lines, nor borders, just movement
so subtle it seems like nothing moves
but everything changes, water flowing
in a river, eddies blurring into each other
and for the change, nothing is lost.

G. Can

Hands. Oh Gods, the hands.
Rooting, digging inside, peeling
back treasures to find trashes,
Archaeologists delight, scattered
like refuse, insides laid bare.
The weeping is so very soft,
Unheard sobs of pain under
Curses at nothing of use.

Divorce

In those empty places,
Spaces where we used to be
I see only growing papers,
No prayers for another way.

If I'd been asked yesterday
I'd say, then, not in jest:
I'd trust we'd work it out
Now I doubt we ever will
But still...

And A Few Dream Into The Lonely Night

Even our islands are not self-contained.
Waves lap at the shores.
Even our hopes seem to be constrained;
We don't care anymore.

Introduction To Me

Not as old as I look, I
Writing with door open
Unable to see the sky,
Thinking of touching it.
Sad -- those who don't try
To reach out a hand,
Grasp clouds, and fly.

Samaritan

He is walking down the street
Throwing change at beggar's feet

She is telling them to walk again,
Following behind slow, and when

The change falls she scoops it up
Into a plastic holy-grail souvenir cup.

He is telling people to change the world
Telling how, but all he has are words.

And the beggars without feet -- bored,
having heard his kind often before,

Know he's not seeing cuz he's not staring
And trying, too hard, to be good and caring.

And his wife is cold and empty, a shell
And nothing more, and for all his well wishing

She's the reality walking behind, clean and
Unkind but would never think she was mean.

And the man drops coins and prayers and poems
But in the end he just walks back to his home

And leaves the streets as he found them
With empty promises to return and aid again.

Cave In

Head-lamps browse darkness searching for the dead,
Unnumbered ghosts mingle with vapours of soups,
Fog whispers of breath in cold places under the earth;
Jokes drift from mouth to mouth: "Hi ho!" "Hi ho!"
"Hi ho!"
Ritual call and marching feet: searching, searching.
The ghosts dance, play with the light and laughing
But the dead are silent in their cathedrals of bone.

Gnosis

Gnosis - resurrection before you die.
The truth of illusion made real,
Naked, dancing under the real, to lie
Freed of pain, under open skies.
"The fire given we never steal."
Name all the things that are only real,
Huddled under a too-bright sky.

World

Making undead all beneath them
Sexless glittering florescent
Whitewashed world of grey shadows,
& Permanently gloamed landscapes.
Until the sun dies out,
Until the sun dies;
Until then, we dream.

A Second Meditation

Find the hole inside the world
Where you fit snug, just so!
Stillness or noise, silence or joys;
The place is for you to know
Alone of all who walk the world.

Meditation While Waiting For People

Time falls to the wayside,
The definition of momentous: the single
moment that becomes forever, stretching
but never breaking, promising perfect days.

Dreams slip free of gaps, living
In the gaps between those moments,
Straining for what lies beyond
A perfect world and the death of time.

The understanding of infinity is
Terrible awe and the stars that go
On forever, and die, and are seen
Past death, until the ending of days.
       How can we think so small, in
       a universe dripping with endless
       possibilities?
                                                        Even death
Must seem a small, shallow thing,
For what is born or what can die?
Life continues, the universe is Life,
Our embodiment of ourselves,
Cosmic principles and waking dreams.

Just some thoughts....

I tend to think about religion a lot. It's an interesting hobby. Several years moderating a religious chat channel tend to skew my perspective, of course. (I tend to look to religion for amusement value these days rather than, say, Truth.) But one of the things that's struck me lately is, well, puzzling. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it was anyway. Just that when people say: "I want to tell you what I believe", they seldom want the same in return. Because they're often really saying: I want to convert YOU, not to be converted in return. It's not explicit, of course, but I think it's often an undertone.

And it makes discussing religion difficult. Few people really think that those who don't believe what they do REALLY understand what they believe. (Say, scientology...) Sometimes it's a safe bet: there's a perspective of any religion only possible to those who are in it. But there's also another only possible to those who are outside it -- not always those who used to be in it, since their views tend towards the extreme and bitter -- but both views, inside and outside, have validity. Is one better than the other?

I'd say no. But I'm not sure. There are aspects of some religions that only fanatics (martyrs) can really understand. In the meantime, let me tell you about what I believe . . .

Changing Spaces

I wanted to leave my life behind
To start out again, fresh, and new
I walked out the door one day
Without my keys or wallet or change
Of clothes, but it's still there.
The wife, and the kids; still there.
Dog and parents, still waiting for me.
I couldn't bring myself to burn it down
No, I couldn't bring myself to burn it.

Waiting for rainbows

It's spring, sun-clouded, rain-swept, tree-budded, and
in the smell of new things you ventured old ones,
questions needing answers, failing to find--the wind
was very loud, then and now, now and then.

The words come, have meaning, unfold themselves
too late to do us any good; not the ones you wanted,
no, but the ones under them, behind them--closest I
can come to truths I believe but do not know.

I'm thinking about advertising, the world neon-washed,
not you (should I be?) (ah--perhaps), and magic, for
in spring magic is more real; the power of repetition,
naming of names, is the magic of advertising, of words.

Or lies. I could not say them. They are not lies, no, but.
But to say things too often robs them of meaning,
just as to see the holy makes it mundane; weak reason,
strong fear: so I never said--I love you--and never, ever shall.

Ephemera

Suns rise to set, birth to death,
The moment as life, jfirst breath
To last -- each sunset a moment,
Short lived usefulness, beauty
Seen and lost -- day is gone.

Close To The Maddening

Wanting to tell them only this one thing --
That courage had been only this:
Doing what had to be done when
There was nothing else to do --
But the crowds wouldn't stop cheering.

Marvel Civil War Storyline Comments

<alcar> Yay! Speedball didn't die.
<alcar> and that's all I need to know about marvel's civil war thing.
<Gemm> LOL!
<Gemm> alcar, you're priorities are at times funny.
<alcar> yes :)

Sacred Executioners

Rain does not disperse the blood
Sacrifice of the god to the god for --
Ah! for? The future is ridicule:
Nothing to say - be said - anymore.
The god is dead - and what of it?
Good riddance? False flood of tears?
But no. Sacred their death and
Sacred their executioner.
We do not pay prices alone.

Cyborg Porn Part XI

Power cut off, a wealth of fame
Fleeting; jacked, juiced into a wall
Wondering how long we last - touching
Together; love the moment between
Being; drawing together, unconscious,
Uncomplicated -- yearning to fall
Free -- Song slowing, body
Become heavy. You just an
Appliance, I just a fool.
-- But, now, once: Free.

James

There are no challenges now, and
Finish lines become meaningless,
Crowds cheering mundane things
--
A true race, the step
Beteeen moments
To vanish &
appear again.

The world, this: not solid enough,
Falling to pieces with a thought.
Steps are to anywhere, and I
Alone am free, unheld, walker
Through the idea of the world.
What is there that holds me?
Laws od reality -- broken.
Laws of man -- a joke.
And I walk, float, jump
Fly! --
Wish only not to fall.

Lost Boys

The lost boys
Prance on leashes,
    never growing up.
Domesticated by Wendy, John,
    and Michael, no longer
Howling at moons or riding
Wild night winds with wings.
But Peter picks new ones from
    back alleys, the discarded:
    Always there are dogs
    hungry to become wolves.

Mythopoeia

Hope is sunshine behind clouds,
Prayers raised with sparkling eyes.
The place where words become stories
Is the only place to be alive.
Despair is forgetting only this,
Not that: -- that others have
Names and more, stories named as
Their own and myths to call them home.

Zombie Horror Films

Zombie horror films are embalmings,
Trying to walk devoid of organs,
Dribbling formaldehyde from wounds;
Slow death from fire, twitching limbs
Trying to pull together in slow-motion
Moans filling the auditorium
In place of laughter or tears.

All My Dreams

All my dreams are astral journeys
To another life where I am rich
And famous and glamourous and
Loved and feared and respected
But I never talk about these dreams,
Of the current life I lead, never
Talk about one-room apartments,
Deadbeat lives and fears I pretend
Are strengths. Sometimes, when
I dream, I really hate my dreams.

Full Of Nothing

We are so full we are empty.
Only following roads on maps,
Wanting dreams we can make real
In silence where we cling to words.

Dog's View Hiking

Hurry hurry hurry!
Come on on on!
I'm waiting / NEW FRIENDS / Territory!
Let's go go go / Water! / Drink and run.

Leg sore / Expectations / Run
Two-leg madness day
Calling / Calling / Calling / Mustn't disappoint
Thirsty / Tired / Hot
Hot / Tired / Thirsty
Tired / Thirsty / Holy

Panting in shade
Pantage more more
They're holding out on water
I know it
Be good dog / Follow

Downhill / Water? Water!
Three waters / Leap
Have to leave / Territory /
Nap on sidewalk / Home
Drink / Eat / Sleep.
Squirrel dreams.

Good dog.

Still

The fall of time like rain
Told to come another day,
A simple rhyme, a few words
To destroy tomorrow and
Yesterdays all in a row.
The present a sea without shore:
Open windows and closed doors.

POEM ROUNDUP FOR JUNE

Number of Poems written: 42
Average number per day: 1.4
Days I didn't write a poem: 23
Revised average: 1.4
Longest poem: 32 lines (Final Smoke Before Fire)
Shortest poem: Haiku Bless You (3 lines)
Total wordcount: 2,670

Happy Canada Day!

Celebrating our independance from democracy one democratically elected government at a time.

Like, This Poem, Right?

There is a poem I will not write
Time's lack denobles meager skills
To write, to write, but naught is new
Even underneath the solemn hills
And the must finds fair little voice
In such stories or such verse - until
It seeks a single wish - only to be still.