mwotw

By silent speculations of the oar,
(I row a gainless line, just as before
the hardness of the stone returns the strike.
The waters of my passing run alike,
unvaried to the constance of my prow.)
I seek among the ice flows. He is now
too near! A quarry fleeting from my sight
advances with the swiftness of the night.

But Winter’s dearth inspires a hunger mad,
(Oh startled loon, you dove but soon were glad
I’d driven sullen silvers to your beak
in frenzied schooling flight) among the weak
whom memories of the hunt alone sustain
upon the road of death. For all my pain,
I fear that I may never catch you. Still,
I know that I have touched you with my will.

27 November, 2001

I was up too late, and loose-of-word, when I tossed these few up on kblogger one night:

I must thank Raven for putting that blog in my hands. Though I had built impoverishedNOOBS on Wordpress, I hadn’t really appreciated the power of the blog…until I heard the Raven’s gentle rapping, tapping… nevermore.

My concerns for the Pornbiz have expressed themselves in urgent tones, in sarcastic tones, in pleading tones, in humorous tones… This one’s short, sweet, not un-funny, and arguably poetic. You decide.

Damn, these metaphors will be the death of me, but WTF… Euphemisms, by any other name, are i n e v i t a b l e when the attending physician and a patient must discuss a prognosis such as this.

If it were me in the doc’s tough spot, I think I’d go the philosophical route…

“You’ve had a wonderful run, Old Boy…”

Nah, the truth of the matter is it’s not so much “death” as having to decide (on your death bed, unfortunately) whether or not you believe in re-incarnation. If you do, then you shall succumb to the Fog for only a brief instant, and then all will be aglow, again, and brighter than ever — smile

But, do nothing, yet.

I am convening opinions at DOTxXxBLOG — and nothing is decided.

The Lazarus Problem

If I have bid you “Rise, and make all human haste!” I really must apologize (for such a human waste), then turn a Father’s cheek. I was surprised to find at such accomplished heights (however bright and vanishing) the headway of my Earthly Tribe. It seems but yesterday that I first gave you leave to fly beyond the Garden’s harboring Green. What can it mean when all my favored progeny, and all the very best I’ve sent (to look and seek among the stars), return to me but cindered things? Of course, I wish alive again the very, very best of me, that I might prove a deity deserving of such offerings. But I prefer to re-invent, and make of cinders promises: Another band of reckless men, of singularly cunning sight, must rise and come and try again to find Me in the Night. 09 February, 2003 (For Columbia’s Seven)