TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Altitude by Lola Ridge

I wonder
how it would be here with you,
where the wind
that has shaken off its dust in low valleys
touches one cleanly,
as with a new-washed hand,
and pain
is as the remote hunger of droning things,
and anger
but a little silence
sinking into the great silence.

 

by LOLA RIDGE (1873-1941)
Public Domain Poetry

CRACKED FABLES // The Ant and the Cicada

Imagine, if you will, a field in Boring, Oregano. It’s a blisteringly hot summer’s day–the kind that makes bark peel off trees to find shelter from the sun’s calamitous gaze.

Cicada is lazing about wearing his customary bling. He’s chomping down on stogies while flipping through the latest copy of Big Buzzo Jumblies. This is what you do when you’re young, dumb and full of hum.

Ant, meanwhile, is nearby, huffing and puffing with a heavy trolley load of corn ears and woodworking equipment. She’s taking these essentials back to her place. She’s got a big project in mind…

“Wassup playa!” says Cicada. “Haul ovah’n rap wit’ me ’steada toilin’ moilin’ tha whole dam’ day!”

“I beg your pardon?” says Ant.

“Holla at’cha, yo!” says Cicada. “Hang wit’ me ho, ’steada slayin’ biz wit’ da wheel whizz!”

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” says Ant. “You do realise you’re not a gangsta rapper, don’t you?”

“Dawg, I’s that’n a bag o’ potata chips!” says Cicada. “Badassical!”

“I see,” says Ant, not seeing. “Here I am trying to build a shelter and lay up food for the winter, and all you can do is waste time showing off your posing pouch and speaking gibberish.”

“Yo, winta ain’t no thing but a chick’n wing!” says Cicada. “Sitch is I’skin already gets me eats an’ alcamahol and tasty blo’ hos any time I want!”

“Ooohhh-kay,” says Ant, rolling her eyes. “Have a wonderful summer then.”

Ant goes on her way to begin preparations. She sets about converting her place into a cosy, fifteen bedroom tree house with a spacious observation deck and outdoor heating. It’s from here that she plans to spend the winter, kicking back with a hot toddy, warm muff, and popcorn to view the Pleiades in all its stellar goodness. She’s really thought this through, you see, and stocks her new home with more ears of corn than one can poke ears of corn at. When the renovation is complete, Ant names the revamped abode Lady of Patience.

Winter eventually rolls around like a dial on an oven set to ‘Off’ and, predictably, Cicada has no food left by this point. He’s dying of malnutrition in a gutter. His rudey dudey mags have blown away to more clement climes. Even his bling has lost its zing. Ant, on the other hand, is spending every day on her deck, nibbling hot buttered, microwave nuked popcorn from the stores that she’d collected in the summer.

Cicada looks up from his self-inflicted misery and sees this. He finally swallows his pride, drags his sorry, withered arse to Ant’s door… and knocks. It opens, and there she is, looking down at him. His mouth opens–as if to say something contrite–then, changing his mind, he pulls out a piece, guns her down and takes all her stuff.

The moral of the story? “Good things come to those that wait.” Sure. Why the hell not.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016

GUEST POST // Self Eat by Spahr Plops

Normally remedy
But today
decided eating myself
was more interesting

Melty brain
made the chair, air
surreal
Could feel
my body protesting
till weakening

I don’t meditate
though pretty sure
when I ate
from an empty gut
I was
traveling across
mood shifts
and hunger spikes
striking against
my being
curiously punishing

Skipping lunch
carries much
loosely, groovy
goings
throughout waves
without creative aim

Unfortunately
each trippy
relax
(before painful
relapse)
always stemming
from single source
screaming, “Feed me!”

Eventually
succumb
Don’t want to fall
down stairs
Then while ingesting
first thing (an apple)
I begin to feel dumb

Many others starve
due to evil
I experimented
(couple hours or so)
because I found meditation
unable…

 

by SPAHR PLOPS
© All rights reserved 2014

GUEST POST // An Unkindness of Ravens by Obsidian Visionary

Perched upon the branch of an elder oak,
Eyes brimming with hunger, ebony cloak
Talons sharp, a blood stained jaw,
Eerily beautiful but with many a flaw.

Wings of black, known to be nefarious
Whoever thought this to be all, must be delirious
Mustn’t judge a book by its tainted cover
Although dark, a brighter personality you may uncover.

Widely reputed for its malicious behavior,
And famous for its merciless demeanor.
But in those void less eyes of oblivion,
Traces of wisdom seek dominion.

Intellect and madness are both one handed
Words of insight not to be demanded
An endless swirl of a dual personality
All mixed up in a single feathered entity

These beasts of onyx despise cowards
Only to the brave, knowledge it shall pass onwards
Approach the deity only if you are not craven
For you might have to face an Unkindness of Ravens.

 

by OBSIDIAN VISIONARY
© All rights reserved 2014