Joke Sonnet

    It's hard being so dazzlingly luminous
    when the rest of the sky looms so darkly above
    an earth hammered flat.  To deny yourself love
    and dwell with the abstract and numinous,
    hoard troves of strange and voluminous
    kenning, as if, thereby, to offset the shove
    of knowing your hands will someday be gloved
    and your eyes will fog, all misted with rheuminess.
   
    What comfort it is, then, to show
    that though I can't find any rhymes for "orange", I am
    able to float on this lexical flow
    and deduce from the sum of the little I know
    that I'd have better luck with "sporangium"
    to fashion this sonnet .  Like so!    :

How This All Began, by O. Solovieva.

Parts one and two of a series of pieces by Olga Solovieva on the rise of religious visions of governance in the U.S.A..

All copyright (c) Olga Solovieva.  Published in printculture, 2012.

The Rise of the Religious Right, part I.
The Rise of the Religious Right, part II.

( last post )

"The Post-Mortem Life of Music."
By V. Fan, printculture, December 2008.
((c) V. Fan, 2008, please attribute and don't alter.)

i's

They never forget, you know?  Nor forgive.

Is

"Is this to be an 'empathy' test?  the capillary dilation of the so-called blush response, fluctuation of the pupil. Involuntary dilation of the iris."

"We call it Voight-Kampf for short."

                            "Mr. Deckard, Doctor Eldon Tyrell . . . "

"Demonstrate it.  I want to see it work."

                                                            " . . . Where's the subject?"

"I want to see it work on a person.  I want to see a negative before I provide you with a positive."

                                                             "What's that going to prove?"

"Indulge me."

                                                             "on you?"

"Try her."

(eyes)

The eye is the window to the soul.  False.

The eye is part of the brain, exposed.  True.

(i just do eyes)

Some things are too terrible to be true.  That was Bob Dylan, or Robert Zimmerman; the absence of quote marks was a device.  As is this:

Standing in the dry cold at one in the morning, breathing, slight, unhurried, misting in the air.  The moon and streetlights reflecting from the railroad tracks cracking the dark under the bridge into crazy endopsychedelian geometries.