found here

Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing
with fleas, in rock-cleft or building
radar bats are darkness in miniature,
their whole face one tufty crinkled ear
with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing.

Few are vampires. None flit through the mirror.
Where they flutter at evening’s a queer
tonal hunting zone above highest C.
Insect prey at the peak of our hearing
drone re to their detailing tee:

ah, eyrie-ire; aero hour, eh?
O’er our ur-area (our era aye
ere your raw row) we air our array
err, yaw, row wry—aura our orrery,
our eerie ü our ray, our arrow.

A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.

(found at Centre For Public Christianity);
hear the poet read this poem)

Over at In The Balcony on Facebook, the question was raised:

Who are your favorite lead
and supporting characters in
feature-length animated films?

And my answers are:

this guy

and these guys

…and I thot, geeze, put ‘em together and you’re half way to a great sci-fi novel.

These guys ordering breakfast would be epic.

Someone asked me what was so difficult about being called away from one’s muse.  To them — and they weren’t being mean-spirited — writing a story or drawing a picture or composing music was the same as baking a cake or hanging wall paper:  You can always start any time you feel like it.

Well, yeah…if by “any time” you mean “whenever the muse calls”.  As Charles Bukowski famously observed, ”…it comes out of / your soul like a rocket / …being still would / drive you to madness or / suicide or murder”.

Every creator I know is nodding at this (and, yes, there are creators who manage to harness themselves to a steady work schedule; I contend for them the faucet is always on and they don’t know how #%@&ing lucky they are to be able to fill their buckets on their own timetable).

For the rest of you, I’ve made a little simulation after the jump that will give you the barest inkling of what it feels like to be a creator denied access to pen / paper / pixels when inspiration hits.

Hold your breath, follow the jump, and don’t inhale again until you scroll down to “10“.

Read the rest of this article »

On April 10, 1963 the USS Thresher (SSN-593)
was lost at sea with all hands, including civilian
workers assigned to observe her sea trials.

they must have known

those last few moments
those last few heartbeats
those last few breaths

they must have known it was the end

did they count them?
did they count each one?
wondering how many before –

the boat tilted sharply, bow up

mocking them

a desperate lunge for the surface

but science failed them

nature failed them

(failed them?  not hardly
they were the ones who
spat in the face of reality
expecting physics to
magically bend to
accommodate their
petty wants and desires)

later,  much much later,
men sitting safe and warm and
dry and miles away from the cold Atlantic

would harrumph and theorize and
decide there had been moisture in the emergency valves

and that freezing cold water and super compressed air allied

to form a perfect ice blockage that kept the crew from blowing the tanks

and resolutely dragged the doomed sub backwards backwards backwards

the crew must have known
they couldn’t have not known

this is one big goddamn clusterfuck
we are all going to die goddamnit

(don’t cuss, don’t cry, pray)

did their minds race ashore?

to family, to wives, to children?

did they ask what the fuck am I doing here?

oh, yeah, it’s good money, making subs for the navy

but did I have to take this job?

the car needs an oil job

shoulda told the wife

we were going to go shopping next week

we –

metal groans, creaks

it’s coming

now thoughts are less organized, less focused

the captain and crew tried everything they could to restart the reactor

power the engines
blow the tanks
drive the boat
back to the surface

there’s nothing left now

but impotence

one of them laughs hysterically

thinks:  “When it’s inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.”

no one asks why he laughs

why would they?

how could he explain it if they did?

the metal groans more loudly
rising in pitch until it becomes
a shriek

and the sub telescopes in on itself

as if God Himself had cupped
bow and stern in His mighty hands

and clapped

the bulkheads collapse on themselves

two high speed freight trains colliding head on

their actual end is mercifully swift

a wall of ice cold water hits them

as gently as a sleet slick sidewalk

after stepping off a skyscraper

in-rushing ocean pulverizes soft, frail flesh

like a spider caught between a concrete floor

and a ball peen hammer

not even time for a blink

and they’re dead

just food for the sea

 (c) Buzz Dixon

“I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals.  I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.”

– Brendan Behan

(out of an old NatLamp, IIRC…)

To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.
To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?
What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet — and the junction be Eternity?