Heat wave, UCLA:
skirts going up,
eyes going down.

Sunny noontime walk

Holy shit!
I just saw the fattest fucking chihuahua!
It clearly had trouble
managing its own inertia.

Haiku contest. For reals.

No, really, for Japan's national newspaper, Mainichi (perhaps the equivalent of USA Today), there is a haiku contest.

There are 3 categories. Category 3 is for haiku in English or French. There are no monetary prizes for Category 3, but there will be certificates awarded.

Two haiku can be submitted per entrant, deadline is August.

I think we can take this fucker down.

P's Comments on my Dinner Tonight

"No, it's not that it tastes bad!

It's just that it's a medically unsafe amount of pepper to breathe in!"

An Ode to Odes

Thanks poetry! In Friday night hunting
I drip wit now (instead of just grunting).
It finds class 'mongst the crass,
turns sass into ass,
exchanges my cunning for cunting.

Found haiku: the essence of David

From a gchat:

"Home is in chaos,
but a more livable chaos,
which is a positive derivative."

A found (actually collected) semi-sonnet from the Internet to me today

heartless, ignorant shithead
Fuck you, and fuck you hard
slave to sociopathic impulses
stupidest fucking Ron Paultard
heartless, ignorant shithead
the biggest robot of them all
you're a sociopath
you are an agent of harm
Go to hell.


(This was actually all from a single poster over the course of an hour. Yes this was directed at me!)

What poems did people carry in their pockets today?

Drunk women on the street,
telling everybody:
"Moses was bald!
He was bald!"

My poem for the day

Is that a poem in your pocket?
Or are you just iambic to see me?

Back from the Dentist's.

Neglect: good for colonies.
Not so good for teeth.
Behind both: sugar.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

A challenge to each Snatcher-of-the-Band:
1) Keep, Read, Recite one poem in your pocket
2) Write another.
2a) You're allowed to write the poem outside your pocket. (Doing otherwise is difficult; probably dangerous).

And on a related note, http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/04/16/bloomberg-the-poet-did-you-know-it/

"Bold intensity and brooding bittersweet character."
Not, it's not me.
It's my coffee.

Courses

Iced carpaccio, served with the idea of hot green tea;
Banana milkshake, served with the idea of a fireplace.

sickness

I feel like
raped dogshit.

A Birthday Clerihew

Stephen Ritter
can woo a girl but can't fit 'er.
Cause she's green he says "eco."
But in bed though he's micro, she's pico.

A morning Double Dactyl

In Vino Veritas
Cambridge's Harvard U
thinks that one's Latin's a
positive trait.

Revelatorily,
those winos' motto makes
even more sense after
their fav'rite state.

-D"in vino die luft der freiheit weht just doesn't have the same ring"an

On regrets and ex(-girlfriend)communications

It's not that I want what we had.
It's that I want we *could* have.
Or is it "could have had"?

Variations on a theme

David, I really don't think you need to worry about the frequency of high quality tit-poems that you're currently emanating. I mean, it's just the first stirrings of your soul. You've been through a tough time, your soul is worn down to a nub, things are finally on the up, and the love of breasts is just the first thing to come back. Roll with it. After depression, a lot of times the first thing I can manage to enjoy is a computer game, or a fantasy novel. You're digging tits. It's perfectly normal.

After a grey winter -
the first sapling.

It's Enough

I met a girl today between the ground
And fifteenth floors. She smote me with her sweet
Soprano voice and her spiced smell, like a treat
Of sage and cinnamon I’ve never found.
But ding the elevator stopped, and out
We went, our separate ways; we didn’t meet
Again. Of course, I looked for her from street
To street, and even on the bus looked ‘round.

But home alone I went, without her name
Even, to slowly lose the sense, the thrill,
The memory of her. Already, (shame!)
I can’t recall enough twelve lines to fill!
Then David’s voice in whisper to me came,
“To capture Woman, sing about the hills.”

In reference to David's clarity after tits (Cf. the comments on the previous poem)

At the titty bar, the stripper says:
"Is your friend here for a lapdance?"
"No, I'm here for a lapdance.
My friend's here for inspiration.
Inspiration vis-a-vis lapdance."

on filling forms for the doctor's receptionist

If you're going to wear no bra,
and a nontrivial neckline,
you may want to place that neckline carefully.

But then,
perhaps,
you are.