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The Universe Waits

Take action to understand love.
Ask expectantly;
move boldly.
Search portals,
walls of flame,
gates of scarlet,
openings to a new dimension.
Discover the most powerful force in the universe-
infinite existence-
God

-Randy & Trena in Nebraska (search phrase “the universe waits”)

Sir Paul, poegler:

“I would pull some words out of a poetry book, do a cut up, stick it with some other words, make some other words up that went with them.” says McCartney. “And suddenly we found ourselves on this kind of exciting trail, where ‘Whew, it’s a song.’”

More: Paul McCartney Finds Freedom in His Alter Ego

A fine, noir-ish poegle from serial poegler Jamie B.  Enjoy…..

She Wandered the City

Slut Lick City, Utah. She had a real nice dress on, with heels and everything. She was pale. A small bit of notoriety.

“When you actually die, life goes on without you,” she said as we wandered the “healing” trails. “Like it does in Paris, when we’re not there.” We reached the square, our evening’s agenda still unknown.

They rode the train for over an hour, her and a certain pimp named Saint Gotthard. I thought, “After she has done these things she will return to me.”

Years ago, she was just another down-at-heel ex-prodigy. Earned the pity of an Acolyte. When she wasn’t dieting, she wandered around praying and burning calories.

Over to the park. The black velvet sky. The city suddenly green in exuberant welcome. “Kumquats,” she said. “I’m client Nine Lives.” She thought about getting two streaks of pink in her hair.

She spied police cars. A young man, scarcely more than a boy. Spent his last cent for a revolver. The place was crowded. It was the first murder of the year.

From Jamie B in the 718 (search phrase “she wandered the city”)

Season of Wants, by video poegler Ron Diorio.

Search phrase “a season of wants”

 

unknown and unseen
machines extend our intelligence
hybrids, gene engineered chimeras,
a symbiotic human-machine entity
of such infinite and subtle complexity

Welcome to the culture
will virtual life obviate the fear of death?
Welcome to the Machine
unbound and bound Prometheus

-By Ben in Connecticut (search phrase “human machine civilization”

John in Virginia has just sent in a packet of very sparse poegles- reducing the final product down to clean to the bone.  Here’s an example- more to come in the submissions archives later this week.

Soul Seeds

Weakness is natural
Time puts pressure
Or pain
Like blood
In your nerves

Fifty years
And the symptoms
Are spilt
Like little men
In the Buddhist condition

A stone in the groin
A natural-born travel

 

-John in Virginia (search phrase “Men are born to cause pain”)

 
Something Smells…

This story did not happen at Union Station. It was about four years too early for that. Something smells funny when you have to deal with a lobster putting the moves on year wife! In this situation, a smell that is like oil is something you can’t explain. I don’t know, however, if a sushi robot is really a necessity for the Los Angeles Unified School District. The only way aromatherapy can benefit the health and well being of your dog is by battering some fish and frying them up with a bit of dry humor. One must remember when a lobster is putting the moves on your wife, molecular structure predicts if something smells good, larger, flatter molecules tend to smell bad; smaller, more compact molecules, good.

 -Emily in Charleston, SC

 

Below is a poem composed in part through the use of poegling techniques by the poet Henry Hart.  Henry is the author of three books of poetry, The Ghost Ship, The Rooster Mask, and the forthcoming Rural Apocalpyse.  He is also the author of a critically acclaimed study of James Dickey, The World as a Lie.  He also has a new novel forthcoming, Changshin Mission.  In using search results to enhance a more traditional poem, Henry may have just invented the first ever poegle hybrid.  Thanks to Henry!

 

The Island of Misfit Toys

I was drinking eggnogs alone on Christmas eve.
In the TV’s static, I saw St. Nick kick an elf
named Hermey off the assembly line at his workshop.

“The little shit keeps yakking about wanting to be
a dentist,” St. Nick growled. I scratched the antler
stubs in my hair, called to Hermey moping in the snow:

“You think you got it bad? Fireball gave me a permanent
bloody nose when he head-butted me at the Reindeer games.
Now everybody uses my nose as a punch line.”

We decided we’d fit in better on the Island of Misfit Toys
so Hermey jumped on my back, steered the handlebars
on my head through the northern lights to an igloo

made of blocks of Yukon gold that belonged to Cornelius,
the Alaskan wildcatter. I was so cold when we landed,
I could only say “hello” in Morse code with my teeth.

Cornelius shook my hoof: “Welcome to Palin Land.
I’m the First Dude here. That winged lion over there
pretending to guard the air space is just a big pussy cat

in drag who pinched his wings from a griffin.”
A voice like Palin’s crackled through loudspeakers:
“I resemble that remark. If you want to stay in my kingdom,

it’ll cost Cornelius his sled dogs. I’ve got to feed
my Abominable Snowman who’s running out of Polar Bears.
Now don’t Gore me with a lecture on global warming.

Polar bears are just big fuzzy eatables.” “Take ‘em all,”
Cornelius barked. “Those mutts are holding on by shoe string
anyway. And I’ve got plenty of snowmobiles.”

Inside his igloo, Cornelius whispered: “I’ve had it
with that Palin clone who thinks he’s King of the Cats.
Tonight we’ll knock off the Snowman and get the dogs back.

Hermey, old pal, you find some dental pliers in the warehouse
of misfit toys. Rudolph, you climb the cliff and roll
a snowball on the Snowman’s head when I draw him out

with some pig squeals. When he’s lying there like a glacier,
Hermey—you defang him with pliers and pick the locks
on the dog cages. Then we’ll all make a run for it.”

“We’d hoped to hide with you in the great Alaskan wilderness,”
Hermey whimpered. Cornelius sighed: “Look—ever since Palin
started shopping at Niemen Marcus and winking at Sean Hannity

things have gone south. My oil wells dried up. Palin’s plan
to smelt black gold from icebergs didn’t pan out.
It’s time to hang up the oil drills and follow the snow geese.”

Flicking on a flashlight in the warehouse, Hermey grumbled
we’d be homeless forever. We wandered past bins of Palin pins
scuttling like roaches smeared with lipstick, robotic cowboys

firing red VICTORY flags from six-shooters, models of Straight-
Talk Express trains jogging on square wheels, nails
from amputated fingers playing patriotic songs on Victrolas,

Mickey Mouse clocks with hands circling in different directions.
Finally we found dental pliers in a box labeled “TOP SECRET—
ONLY TO BE USED ON BARACK OBAMA’S WHITE TEETH.”

I opened the box with an antler. Hermey grabbed a pair
and we fled. Cornelius waited outside with snowshoes,
which we used to climb to the Snowman’s cave.

Cornelius did his suckling pig squeal better than the mountain
man in Deliverance. Perched on a Styrofoam cliff, I rolled
an ice boulder filled with rocks on the abominable head

of the Snowman when he quaked from his cave.
Hermey pulled out his teeth faster than any dentist,
then unlocked the caged dogs like a professional burglar.

Everyone piled onto the Abominable Snowman’s sleigh.
I flew it to the coast where we hopped on an iceberg.
Luckily, the tide turned in our favor before the Snowman woke,

spit blood, saw red auroras, hurled chunks of a calving glacier.
We surfed the tsunamis until our prospects warmed,
became a new climate, and the sky filled with the TV’s static.

 

By Henry Hart

 

Leaving Alaska

After almost twenty years of living in my Alaska, the time has come to move on. If anybody from the Buckaroo there in Spenard reads this, I have relocated.

I returned to Point Adolphus, where, a week earlier, I had fallen in love with a whale. Whales have been known to stop a song when leaving Alaska for the warmer waters of the south, and then pick up on exactly the same note. I just remember looking out from the ferry. The Wickersham sailed on.

The trek continued with a stop in a seaside town whose name is lost to memory. Amber, running a fishing boat under her dad’s company, decided she too had had enough of Alaska and was planning a revolt to leave. Cultures clash as a fishing season ends.

I kept moving: jet-ski, skim boards, snowboards, more ATVs. The sun warmed my forgotten heart. Despite the wanker border guard, it was a wonderful experience. For you who are staying, good luck and you can have my share of the Alaskan Dream.

By James B. in New York (search phrase “leaving Alaska”)