Platypus of Truth

Oedipus cut out his eyes and placed them On a table So he could see himself Oh tell Artaxaca that his bridges are broken down!

November These are the days when I feel It would not be sad to die; My hopes and dreams add up To so little. Does life go on there In cities under grey skies? In places I know not? Tell me all your ways and stories: Men in heavy coats and caps, Coffee held in hands wrapped in finger-less gloves, Who breathe the air in plumes of smoke. I dreamt I wandered through the cities of the North And loved them. Their seasons' beauties were beautiful to me Who knows only hot and hotter. If you care to know, here is the thing that I am saying: Can our sorrows be sharpened to a sweetness and what Kassandra said come true? What is the weight, then, of one dead Irishman In a world that belongs to Swedes and Anglos? We died in droves an no one noticed except To hang signs saying "No Irish need apply". (God make us kind to Mexicans!) Can I reach across the ages and make meaning From their deaths? The only thing that matters here is service And the Iliad of...

See the Lilith of the Waste Place Stand beside her spouse the Dragon

October October is The return of the world To the way it should be. Days grow short -even this far south. Slate grey skies Agree With a head held together By Cymbalta And too much tobacco. The Sibyl of Cumae Writes her books on Autumn leaves, Carving strange signs In outlawed pumpkins. The Sphinx stands in my way, Corpses beneath her feet Glow strangely In the fading light. There are things in that smile That only heroes know, But I am no Oedipus, And there are questions Not worth answering. (Though one is free to ask.) Hippias stood upon the Shores of Athens Coughing out pieces of his Head. Is there a coffin in Egypt For my tooth? The Sphinx smiles on. I turn away.

A while ago, I posted about an imaginary pitch I composed with my study hall students called Bad Nun . It was a sort of swan song for a position I was leaving after six years. While working with Clip Art the other day, I decided to go back to one of my old concept pieces and dress it up a little. Just a reminder that while things can be misplaced, they are never really lost...

We have been watching some of Jim Henson's quintessential productions this past month: The Storyteller, Labyrinth, and The Dark Crystal . Looking back, there are things these films share in common. There is a sense of gentleness, wonder, and wisdom about them that speaks to the best creative impulses in late 20th century pop-art. These films strike a blow for the world of the imagination without being anti-intellectual, despairing, angry, or escapist. There is instead a true sense of "escape" in the way in which J.R.R. Tolkien envisioned it: they are dreams of a better world. When each is finished, we return to the primary world refreshed and enlightened; ready to carry on the battle. I don't know if these films will last -many younger people I've met don't like them- but for a generation of us, they have done good yoeman's labor. For that, I am thankful.

September September is The Legend of Zelda Link running through the forest Shield in hand A spreading oak tree A cave Broken memories and the effort that goes into forgetting If I forget thee oh Jerusalem May my tongue be cut out May my right hand lose its skill The white girls sat in a row of Deracinated messy buns And drank the PSLs Which they purchased with their souls Paltry things Worn white in women's work Handed down by a post-war committee Oh you cannot buy a soul Not at Target or at Walmart Though you took a trip to Selma Or you stood at Standing Rock I stood upon the rock I stood upon the rock But the memories slipped Through my hands And shattered