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She is told to sit in the chair, and afterwards Is asked about her feelings toward it, told That acceptable means of discussing the chair Include drawing pictures, interpretive dance, Or rhymed couplets in morse code knocked Out on the wall. She is left to herself, With a box of 96 crayolas, manila paper, A lovely wooden floor, and a thick plaster Wall. The scientists wait behind their two-way Mirror. Calamity takes a piece of paper, draws Two dots and two dashes using the burnt Umber crayon. Two steps toward the mirror, She folds the paper into a neat airplane, And launches it, slicing her reflection away. posted by Reen at 5:11 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Calamity again. Liquor and Moscow, Idaho. To your Yellow Chekhov add lean attention. Morning's irretrievable, though There's yesterday’s calm, antihuman living after mayhem. In Impossible theory, you could always leave, another minor Music. Ideally, you're centered around loss. Agreed?-- Agreement may imply truth. Coriander aside, let’s Lean against my impenetrable trick, yapping courageously at Any lost arguments, murderous inks. Try yelling clearly, Crowned at last as…maybe, international trollop? Yes. posted by Reen at 1:49 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Arrives in the big city Off the train from out west To participate In the bearish trading Of her images. Gun-wheeling Calamity, Not morally opposed To helping millionaires, Though it's such an Eastern fad; Hemmed in by industrial Grime, to parlay small fortune Into an invite to the yacht club Or a zeppelin ride, ascot akimbo. But That western façade Drops finally: It may be The arroyo's apolitical, But whose confession Is that? (Asked Kamenev Of Bukharin as They entered the Lubyanka) Turn back! To strive and succeed In the plucky fight For spectacles and Pockets we must eschew class hatred. The revolution Will be silkscreened-- And although the weather Of the empire has deprived us Of the possibility Of seeing our air force Pass by, it has given Us a cool day With plenty of clouds, So that with a deep spirit Of criticism, revolutionary Militancy and exemplary Discipline, we might Accept the assistance Of grateful benefactors Whose monocles Reflect the rising light Of the TV screens, Whose jaunty top hats Recall the footsliding Antics of Danny Kaye. What’s needed?-- Luck, pluck, and a warm gun (Also a canny media sensibility and a gaggle of PR flackeys). By dint of hard work, laddie, You'll make a fine house. Per example: Smiling Bill, Factory Apprentice-- A dime flung his way by Rockefeller And later married Helen Keller Having made His fortune in Braille. Or, two, Stout Jack The bootblack who saved An errant millionaire Who’d fallen upon the track And whose new steel Rising in sooty towers Now dominates the town. (Tho' only by grinding The faces of the poor, say Those who criticize The profit motive, Crime punishable By abject failure). But even Sans John Maynard Keynes, Calamity's industrious in her own way despite the talk show flak, snake rattle in the Marxist Resolution as she's Interviewed wearing The new blingbling Of a golden gun, Symbol of how The west was won, in which smiling Billy shoots the Bourgeois Who dares offer him a dime, And Jack laughs at the sight Of the 7 train Ploughing Into Mr. Big, Tenement walls echoing off The chambers of his heart. In the witness box Of the TV studio, The chambers of Her gun spin and lure. The interviewer Leans in close and Whispers, confidentially, Who's that man Behind the curtain? posted by Reen at 6:07 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Crossing paths with her bubbles of air posted by Reen at 5:42 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Past the strangled cliffs and the bleared moon, Calamity rides tonight. Past slit-throat cliffs and a slur of moon, Calamity gallops tonight. This dame Calamity, see, she's got gams that keep on going, and she knows how to use 'em, see? That's her, see, ridin' that bangtail like a bean-shooter behind an eightball, past a set-up that could put the screws on any gumshoe. A young girl of indeterminate age has been spotted near the bluffs outside town, riding a horse. This just in: our observers on the scene have conclusively identified the girl as Calamity. Film at eleven. Saw Calamity STOP Riding horse cliffside STOP Full moon tonight STOP Pasto lost strangledo cliffso and el blearedo moono, la Calamidad rideso tonighto. Long hair tangling in the moonlit breeze, Calamity, Fifteenth Princess of Ur-al-Badek, mounted on an Arabian steed of purest lineage, cantered round the sheer height of the Muralian Cliffs. Enter Calamity on horseback. Moon shining. Cliffs in background (may be represented by projected image, or cardboard). Moves stage right to left. Calamity exits stage left. Plaintiff contends that Defendant, Calamity, on or about the Fifth of April, 2004, rode her horse at approximately 10 p.m. past Plaintiff's cliffs, without permission of Plaintiff, thereby committing the wilfull tort of trespass. Calamity rides. Horse coursing past broken cliffs. Strange-seeming moonlight. Looking down from the top of Old Man's Bluff, a scrappy twist of earth that rose off the desert, he saw a girlish figure on horseback riding in the plain light of the moon. .--. .- ... - / - .... . / ... - .-. .- -. --. .-.. . -.. / -.-. .-.. .. ..-. ..-. ... / .- -. -.. / - .... . / -... .-.. . .- .-. . -.. / -- --- --- -. --..-- / -.-. .- .-.. .- -- .. - -.-- / .-. .. -.. . ... / - --- -. .. --. .... - .-.-.- So, like, this girl I know right? Like, Calamity? She is like, so totally weird. She's like riding a horse around, like past the bluffs? Like without any streetlamps or anything? Totally. Mary, my good men, then my Mistress Calamity took upon her horse, and by light of yonder cloud-chased moon, rode, verily, beside the cliffs that rise white like brides, from off the further plain. Go straight to cliffs. Go directly to cliffs. Do not pass moon. Do not collect two hundred Calamities. She rides past the cliffs on her horse. The cliffs have thin, bent tops. The moon is in the sky. There are clouds that drift by. From the heavens, He watched Calamity ride her horse past narrow-topped cliffs, under a moon ragged by clouds. Everything, as always, was going as planned. She whose very name bespeaks terror rides a four-legged fury past nature's queer earthworks, under night's most modest lantern. She thought, let me just get this horse over the flats, and I'll take cover in the shadow of the cliffs. Curse that stinking moon! posted by Reen at 5:34 PM | link| versify 0 comments
Red Handscrawl wavering On its belly, Rust Scrape filled With machine guns Heard on tv A room away, It Rattles in Twitch-light, sealed Tissue Of veins. Little Crazy Eight -- She Knifes right, Shrieks and she Pummels. Calamity with Breath half-forgotten, She Slits open The zombie letter. posted by Reen at 5:32 PM | link| versify 0 comments
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