Unlike a lot of Jewish women I'm not angry about my upbringing.

Also unlike a lot of Jewish women, I'm not Jewish. Or a woman.

How much for the Viking funeral?

What if I bring my own Viking?

I'm an optimist. When I get a loose tooth I go to the dentist to get it pushed.

The nominator goes on top, the denominator goes on bottom.

 oldviolin wrote:

I know they are, but what are we?

Don't forget to drop by the Fruit Of The Loom hospitality tent for your free soul patch and butt floss sample grab...

how many woodchucks would a chicken cut in half, if a chicken could cut woodchucks in half?

science says three. but that's science for you, taking all the mystery out of the irrelevant.

every New Year's Eve, I wonder the same thing; do we really have to do this again? it always ends with me looking for a 24-hour dentist and a lawyer who's passed the bar in Senegal.

the last time I was here, you
were indelicate; lively, wicked,
and savage - a cat hissing fire,
a demon with reading glasses and a
"Logan's Run" tattoo in bright ironic scarlet.
you told me you loved three things;
epic haiku,
abrupt transitions,
and the singular feeling of being
the only one who knew the joke.

I went on a quest once. it was not bad; dragons, treasure, a princess.

I probably should have read the manual, though. I wound up bringing home the dragon after slaying the princess. If I'd read the manual, I could have fireproofed my home and saved a lot of trouble.

my favorite pencil is the one that has the best eraser, because that's the one that tells the truest tale. every first draft is a lie, a gesture both pointing toward and distracting from the central truth. we are all guarded fortresses, and writers more than most.

when we talk about poetry,
we talk about rhythm, meter -
artifice, cold and airless.
but then the breath of god enters 
from the mouth of man,
and this bland confusion
finds its lost clarity,
as the tuning fork guiding to the note.

if you can imagine such a thing? of course I can. I'm ten times the thing you imagine I'd imagine, and that's on a dark and dreamless night of fever-sweat and sleepless sheets.

think of it as a lighthouse, screaming "here be monsters!" and "here be safety" in a single photonic howl.

think of it as a broadcast, because the narrow beam only finds what it's directed at.

think of it as mourning, because of what was that never got to be.

and think of it as almonds, lemons, and bitter iron at the back of the mouth. 

you can pretend not to know the way to San Jose, but you can't pretend not to know where San Jose is. it's Roy Kent, and that's the struggle for you.

once in a great while
the universe is 
a poet;
the triadecametrical thrum of the galaxies,
like the throbbing of some vast engine
delivering power to the arcade of the gods.
(imagine the pinball they must play! tilting Olympus)
the counterpoint of the endless abyssal silence,
all that Nothing the lyric of the great symphony Something.
like a jazz combo learning to work together,
finding each others' groove, hearing each others' soul.
and that is us, bounded in Hamlet's nutshell,
bounded by infinity itself.

I know you think it's Christmas. and, to be fair, you have a right to think that. this is Meldorica, after all, and even thought potted plants are sentient and most end tables are political operatives, you still get a fair day's wages for a half-weeks' work.

or at least that's what the pope says, when he's not running into the woods with a roll of toilet paper and the August 2004 Maxim.

I keep turning right but I keep returning to my starting point.  

Can the ubiquitous segues, hoss. You're scaring the innocent bystanders...

A snow job is better than no job, or is it?