Macbeth Does Not Remind Me of Pasta

I walked 40 minutes to stand in line for a coffee and confetti

sprung to my mind.

I never think about confetti, or spaghetti, or yeti;.

Perhaps it is the last two syllables…

An unusual allergy for which there is no remedy.

No remedy for love, or lust, either, one of them most of all.  Ah,

Those things for which there’ll be no remedy, no cure, no surcease,

Until the last two syllables of recorded time…for instance,

That enchanting young girl with the big shoes,

It is the shoes which cause despair, all else

Endurable if it were not for them.

To live is to embrace what you cannot endure, and, therefore,

Tread water frantically,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing.

I think that, unfortunately, a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars,  just as

I can no longer use a three-hole punch…

The little bits all look like confetti,

Impossible to vacuum—thus, I avoid weddings.

Yet, (or yeti) all things being unequal in nature,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables

Just in case, recorded somewhere on mp3 or granite

Desperately twirling the spaghetti about the great fork of existence,

Knowing you shall soon be spat upon by a vagrant noodle end;

Life is pasta sauce on a clean shirt,

Only noticed at its most embarrassing…

I think a wookie is really a yeti,

So I can no longer watch Star Wars.

Nor can I use a three-hole punch,

The little bits all look like confetti.

I spurn weddings, therefore.

Yet, or yeti, all things being somewhat unequal,

I am driven to confront those last two syllables,

Of time, recorded on mp3 or granite slabs on Sinai,

Just in case the end of the world is spaghetti;

I must, therefore, devise a sauce.



Another from Anais Nin

Quoted in the novel   he’s gone….by Deb Caletti,  this great quote from Anais Nin:


We don’t see things as they are, but as we are.


Anastasia’s song

Upon reading 50 Shades of Grey, I decided to rewrite a verse I penned some time ago.  By the way, I do not feel 50 Shades is great literature, possibly not even good literature, but, it is important literature, in that it shows elements of  human relationships before this confined to porn pages.

We tend to forget that in the 19th century, there were brothels devoted to the exercise of sado-masochism.  Spanking, or birching…these were known as the ‘English vices’.   People as diverse as T.E. Lawrence and Percy Grainger were devotees of the cane.  It is just a choice we make, some of us, anyway, those not bent that way by childhood abuse.

(By the way, for those interested in the literary aspects of s/m, Sophie Morgan’s ‘Diary of a Submissive’, is a stirring document.  Do prepare a cold shower, if you are going to read it alone.)

Actually, my only firm objection to 50 Shades is its unreality.  Let’s face it, most dominants are not billionaires like Grey, able to give their subs or bottoms top of the line Audis, most are folks just like you.   Ana, however,  is replicated in the male and female everywhere.   I await eagerly a male version of something like ‘Diary of a Masochist.’

I became fascinated by the whole business very early in my adult life, but, was far too chicken to explore deeply.  But, I thought about it a lot.  What is the zing, the fascination with accepting pain and humiliation?  Is it possibly that the infliction of pain on one causes an awakening of the ‘fight or flight’ feeling, there is a release of something like pheromones when the body is pushed to the limit?

I do not know.   Of course.   But, out of that came this poem.  I decided to write a poem from the point of view of the bottom, or submissive.   I called it:

The invulnerable

Do you wonder that I seek,

The keen edge of pain welcomed,

The service of that other beauty?


There is no light without darkness,

No pleasure that does not begin or end in pain.

Do you marvel that I reach out thus,

To deny the loss, take hold of the losing?


That is how to take command:

When the doors to pain are opened

Fear is all that is lost.


As in the body, so in the soul.


When I am before you, an offering,

I am triumphant.

When the sacrifice is taken

I am victorious.


Come.  Inflict.

Your command,

It is mine.

In truth

My hand holds the whip.



Would you taste my wisdom?

Come then,

Lie here.


Valkyries at Save-On

I am constantly returning to tales and visions of the gods of my distant ancestors in northwest Europe…the spiritual ways of a people before the shadow of the cross fell across our hearts.  It is a constant.  (witness my page:  Asatru proverbs)  I am drawn also to the literary spinoffs of those old visions…like the vision of the god Crom in the Conan stories.  From time to time, in this blog, I will settle into that groove.  Like now.  This one is kind of funky.  I saw three blondes in a Save-On parking lot, and immediately thought of Valkyries…I often think of valkyries when I see blondes.  I thought about taking something for that, but decided the disease was more fun than the cure.  Apocolypse Now and the Ride of the Valkyries!  Yes!  Remember their song, their war cry:  Ho-yo-to-ho!

I have often wondered where Wagner got that for their song.Three Blondes in the Save

Murshida 2

For a moment, walking hand in hand

I felt we ceased to be.

Passers-by saw not two, but one.



For a moment,  my love for you

Was no more, for I was not;

For a moment,  even you were not;

For a moment,  what remained

Was love without an owner,

Without a source, without an object.

For a moment, what remained

Was all that really is,

For a moment.


My friend, when this had passed,

I felt the touch of your hand

And we were smiling

In a still, warm day.


Murshida 1

Years ago, I had a magical affair with a young woman who was into the sufi traditions.  In those traditions, a murshid is a teacher.  I think i coined the term murshida, to refer to a female teacher.  Maybe it is for real.  She certainly was…is.  I composed my Murshida poems over a period of some time, after our relationship changed form.  I will feed them into this blog a bit at a time.  I felt they needed a place other than a notebook on a shelf.   Murshida 1

Mt. Tolmie: the Rut

Been looking again at flash fiction.   I am particularly interested in postcard stories.  I like the challenge of getting a story/vision/dream/whatever down in about 250 words, about what would fit on a postcard.  I will file a few in posts to come.  I am setting myself a challenge of  100 days of postcards.  Nothing like aiming high!

Anyway.  I wrote a postcard story earlier today, but, this afternoon penned the following, largely while sitting in Starbucks.  Mt. Tolmie Park is only a few minutes from where I live, and I did, indeed, see a fine buck this morning, while walking the family beagle.

Mt tolmie

Litany Against Fear

I will not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over and through me.

And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

……………from “Dune”  by Frank Herbert

Noman’s footgear

As Noman walked a long and dusty road, his right sandal strap broke.  He looked back the way he had come.  Then ahead.   Nothing.  No sign of human habitation, and most certainly, no sign of either a sandal-seller, or a cobbler.  Noman squatted by the side of the road, and tried to tie the broken ends together, but, it just wouldn’t do.

So Noman threw aside his sandal, and continued on his way.

As the day wore on, Noman found himself becoming more tired than usual, for the time of day.  He guessed it was because he was wearing only one sandal.  So, he took off his left sandal and threw it aside.  Pointless carrying it.  Again, there was no sign of a cobbler.

Noman strode on, rejoicing that he had divested himself  of yet another encumbrance.

An hour or so passed, and Noman stopped, mopped his brow, and looked at the side of the road..

He saw a sandal.   Someone had cast it aside, perhaps because the other sandal had broken, and he had no further use for this one.  Noman looked again.

It was a right sandal.

Noman was certain there was something to be learned from this.  Or not.

Noman the Stylite….1.

The stylites were early christian saints, who spent their lives sitting on top of pillars.   Usually they had a platform of sorts.  I first encountered Noman the Stylite when I was writing a surreal foofurah called Hunting Tygers out of Injah.  In that strange concoction Noman was accompanied by a mongander, my term for  a male mongoose.  The name Noman comes from the Odyssey, it being the name Odysseus gave to himself when dealing with Polyphemus the Cyclops.  Anyway…I have, from time to time, written little spliffs about Noman, in the style of sufi tales.   Here is one.  I shall produce more, as the spirit moves me.

Noman the Stylite had many critics.  He dealt with them all the very same way.

One would come to him, and say,   “Hey why don’t you get a regular job?”,  and Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written.”  And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.

Another would say: “Found the meaning of life, yet, holy man?”  and Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written.” And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.

Another would say: “Why do you not shave your head, like other holy men?” to which Noman the Stylite would simply smile and say “It is written”. And the questioner would walk away, satisfied.
To all such questions, Noman the Stylite would answer with a smile and “it is written.”  And the querrents would walk away, satisfied.

Noman would watch them go, and smile, and shake his head, and say:  “They never ask Where?”