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Uncle Walt Wrote a Novel!

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Who knew the multitudinous poet had it in him?

Apparently a grad student named Turpin did.

And apparently everyone does…now.

As noted in the New York Times, Whitman once wrote in 1882, “My serious wish were to have all those crude and boyish pieces quietly dropp’d in oblivion.” Later, when he heard someone was interested in publishing his past fiction, he said, “I should almost be tempted to shoot him if I had an opportunity.”

Clearly, Whitman hadn’t expected Turpin…

Nasty enough for Waugh?

A diligent striver at an office seeks to rise through sheer effort, despite the lackadaisical behavior of his fellow team members. He does great work, but the hours spent covering for everyone else’s sloth cause him to develop serious carpal tunnel syndrome. As a result, he is unable to grip things without considerable pain. The boss takes notice of his tremendously good work, and calls him in to congratulate him. But at the end of the meeting, the man’s handshake is, of course, painfully weak (and also just painful to the man himself, who winces visibly). The boss, who had been thinking of promoting the guy, begins to wonder if he’s really management material. For that matter, maybe it’s not him who’s doing such great work. Maybe it’s that fellow he works with, who always appears so fresh-faced and cheerful…

I’m glad Mika cleared that up for us

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Now I can sleep at night, gin-scented tears running down the side of my nose and all…

More Violent Protests by Angry College Students

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Sure, they’re not overturning cars yet – but just you wait until they get their rosaries in women’s ovaries. Then it will be all over!

Full story about these anti-women, anti-choice terrorists here.

(And watch that sassy Barbara O’Brien lassie in particular (yeah right – that’s her real name!) – she’s probably hiding a pressure cooker bomb behind that placard she’s holding – and getting ready to set fire to cop cars to boot!)

Sylvia

They blame the weather, they blame your sex,
They blame the fox, the hawk, the panther on the stairs,

The demons in your box, the angels that rushed ashore;
They blame whatever black and white they read

And I blame you – not for dying but for the remnant love
You left upon the table. Selfish. I knew one like you

And she too could love, she too, eyes aware, would look
Beyond her abilities although her abilities were

Enough to keep her grounded in fame and excellence.
Your lips curled at such words. Hers softened

Into a heart, fleshy, wanting kissing, wanting words.
I see her picture as I see yours, her sun-reddened skin

Like peppermint candy as she sits in her bathing suit
And soaks up an open field amid the mountains,

The naked light pouring down and trying too hard
To match beauty for beauty, each blade of grass a lash

From her eyes as wild flowers flush the press of her breasts….
Those were yours, too, the pictures I saw, the words

I heard you say. I wasn’t afraid of your darkened light.
I would love to carry on a love affair with you

But you are dead; pushed away from your mother,
Your children, a whiff of gas escaping through

The cracks in the linoleum. The zoo could not hold you,
The forest knew you but not your spirit. The yew

Alone is no forest and yes, I know, the forest fell
In winter, the wind cracked in winter, the spring

Divorced the worst winter ever – and you are dead.
I blame the weather; I blame the sex we never had.

And a table top candle holding proud its teardrop flame.

Thought Experiment in the Making…

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How close is Webster Parish to West Feliciana Parish and is there something funny going onsuch as wives presenting themselves rearward – in that parish too?

Images: one of these things is not like the others…

…one of these things/ doesn’t belong…

WARNING: Graphic, unpleasant images after the jump…

[Read more…]

Gerasene Farm

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– for D.F.

“What do you want with me…?”
“We pigs are brainworkers.” – Napoleon
“Who is going to save me?” – Wilbur

Sundays during slaughter time, when work and days
Are a matter of acres and seasons, pink flesh
And exposed blue-white bone

Are surely signs of progress—satisfaction—fertility.
And when autumn begins to spit snow from its mouth
We’ll fire up the fifty-gallon drums for boiling skin

From the herd. With our blue knuckles now scalded red
We’re allowed to pretend we know Odysseus’s swineherd.
He’s a neighbor, say, who might need to borrow a pritch,

Lend his spare block-and-tackle or resharpen a bell scraper
On our millstone.
                             And that’s when Monsignor comes by to bless it all
One bullet at a time. It doesn’t take long after we call

And he’s there almost immediately.
                                                        There’s no dying soul,
No family grief; it’s all just business. “Tail
To snout” he likes to say, quoting from some other good book.

So Monsignor takes off the blacks and Roman collar
This Sunday, leaves them back at the rectory
And dons red buffalo plaid and tattered bibs.

“Scares the devil out of the herd,” I once heard him explain
“Don’t like black or maybe they just know.”
                                                                  Flexibility
Is one of his strong points.
                                            This day is full of a sky

Afflicted with a tin-foil glare from broken clouds—
It’s the day he’s chosen to come help because
He generally likes the business

And specifically on a Sunday. “Not unnecessary work.
A form of relaxation, I would call it.”
He grew up downwind of a giant swine operation

And of course raised his own and has some opinions on swine.
He knows his pig flesh, alright, the way
A horse trader knows teeth and hoofs.

Monsignor lowers the blue-barreled gun,
A pistol without history – it knows neither wars nor duels
But only a resting place between hunting seasons.

He stares the hogs down, and anoints
Their lives with purpose, cruel
For business, and kind but for no kind of fun.

Afterwards, he walks back to his car
To clean the muzzle and chamber.
                                                       Throats cut, they wait
With us for his return.
                                    We don’t let him near the boiling pot.

He’s no good at that part.
                                           But he has a great eye
For parting flesh with a .45.
                                          And maybe for that reason he was made a Monsignor,

But when he scalds the flesh he scrapes too much flesh with the hair
And very little hair with the flesh.
                                               We politely
Put him off to visit with the children

Or maybe put a beer in his hand and tell him to rest a bit,
Though rest isn’t in his nature anymore than
It is in the clouds that scud like corpuscles across the sky.

He was born on a farm and to hear him tell it he fought
Half the day with earth and flesh, the other half,
All blood work.
                                If given half a chance he could shine

Like the best of rural vicars and squires.
At any rate, his place in literature
May one day be secure—

Interpolating experience and innocence
With marksmanship and common sense:
“Pigs are a good investment—nothing wasted if you do it right.

Efficiency is in the nature of swine.”
“Why else,” Monsignor would add, “would the desperate demons
Of Gerasene plead with our Lord. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’

You can almost hear them say. It must have been a favor,
Well, maybe not a favor; more a false mercy, for our Lord
To provide that herd, that cliff, the sea beneath.

But there’s no mercy for demons, of course. That’s a figure
Of speech is all. Literature is full of them. But Scripture
Only uses it on purpose. No levity with that sort of business.”

Literature, indeed, I nod. Napoleon and Wilbur
Might talk past each other among the cold clouds
That gather and disperse in winter configurations above our heads.

But also in the sense that fictional pigs make of life and death.
It’s all fantastic friendships for nostalgia’s sake
Or a drudging work detail

To serve as footstool for naked power—
Pink flesh and blue-white bone for them—and sometimes for us.
But Monsignor? He doesn’t even bother to say–

And he gives it no more thought
Than a man of the cloth ought to be
Expected to do:

We watch him hold the pistol like an aspergillum.
And he anoints them both—Wilbur and Napoleon—
With one shot.

KORREKTIV 2017 POETRY CONTEST: “Pop Sonnet 2017” (or, “Iamb in the Place Where You Are!”)

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I found this somewhere online and thought it would be a great idea for a Korrektiv Poetry Contest. We haven’t had one of those in a while, so why not? Winners (1st, 2nd, 3rd and two Honorable Mentions) will be announced on Shakespeare Day 2017 (April 23). Each will receive – well, something Shakespearey, I suppose.

Rules:

  1. Each participant may submit up to three (3) sonnets each.
  2. Each submission must be a Shakespearean sonnet (Shakespearean in form and in style: archaic Elizabethan language and all (see Gaynor example above)—the more clever the better chance the submission has of winning).
  3. Each submission must retain the title and composer of the original pop song (again, see above).
  4. Each submission must be a reworking of a recognizable pop love song (not something your sister’s best friend wrote and composed on a kazoo)—with a theme of either love desired (e.g. “I Want Your Sex”), love gained (e.g. “You Light Up My Life”), or, like Ms. Gaynor’s immortal work, love lost.
  5. All poems must appear in the comment box for this post for consideration.
  6. Winners will be notified in advance of the official announcement here at the Korrektiv.
  7. And, yes, the contest is decidedly open to all members of the Korrektiv Kollektiv.
  8. DEADLINE: April 1, 2017

Any questions?

Then get scribbling!

Rejected New Yorker cartoons dept.

Photo on 8-11-14 at 4.39 PM