Toadboy went to visit design studies.
I'm not sure what he thought.
The Epic of Toadboy
Like, when you face a challenge and you have to like, choose? Between two choices? And you don't like, want to choose either one? That is like, terrible.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Saturday, July 12, 2003
Toadboy samples another poet's form*
The Sorrow of Food
Morsels of morning we eat you at dinner
we eat you at lunchtime we eat you at night
we eat and we eat
We eat in the air there so you won't go so hungry
I'm behind him he is walking
He is holding it close to his body
He is big in the shoulders.
His food is small on his small plate.
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
One sudden start and it could go flying.
One trip up; a bag, a book, a shoe, a bike tire
in the way
a day gone down the wrong path.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we eat you at night
we eat and we eat I'm behind her she is walking
she is holding it close to her body
she is small in the shoulders.
Her morsels are heavy
There in the air we eat so you won't go hungry.
The driver could surge on the pedal as she eats on the bus.
He could remember the past when he needs the present
like the woman needs the food held close to her face
A day gone by.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we eat it at night
we eat and we eat
I'm behind him she is walking
She is small in the shoulders
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
He balances his plate on his knees
She mashes her food on the roof of her mouth
another day.
Eat in the air or else you'll go hungry.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we cut with our fork and our knife
we eat it at night we eat and we eat.
She mashes her tongue on the roof of
her mouth as we surge, engine winding.
She is mashing and mashing.
The man on the bus is cutting and cutting
the food on the plate balanced close on his knees.
The one in the truck will surge on the pedal
The woman will eat.
*Apologies to Paul Celan
The Sorrow of Food
Morsels of morning we eat you at dinner
we eat you at lunchtime we eat you at night
we eat and we eat
We eat in the air there so you won't go so hungry
I'm behind him he is walking
He is holding it close to his body
He is big in the shoulders.
His food is small on his small plate.
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
One sudden start and it could go flying.
One trip up; a bag, a book, a shoe, a bike tire
in the way
a day gone down the wrong path.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we eat you at night
we eat and we eat I'm behind her she is walking
she is holding it close to her body
she is small in the shoulders.
Her morsels are heavy
There in the air we eat so you won't go hungry.
The driver could surge on the pedal as she eats on the bus.
He could remember the past when he needs the present
like the woman needs the food held close to her face
A day gone by.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we eat it at night
we eat and we eat
I'm behind him she is walking
She is small in the shoulders
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
He balances his plate on his knees
She mashes her food on the roof of her mouth
another day.
Eat in the air or else you'll go hungry.
Morsels of morning we eat it at dinner
we eat it at lunchtime we cut with our fork and our knife
we eat it at night we eat and we eat.
She mashes her tongue on the roof of
her mouth as we surge, engine winding.
She is mashing and mashing.
The man on the bus is cutting and cutting
the food on the plate balanced close on his knees.
The one in the truck will surge on the pedal
The woman will eat.
*Apologies to Paul Celan
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Toadboy edits his poem
The Sorrow of Food
I'm behind him
He is walking
He is holding it close to his body.
He is big in the shoulders.
The food is small and precious.
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
We are on the electric train.
One sudden start and it could go flying.
One trip up - a bag, a book, a shoe
a bike tire in the way
a day gone down the wrong path.
Grandmother popping little puffed vegetable things
in her mouth - green and orange things
on the bus.
She’s mashing them with her tongue on the roof of her mouth as we surge,
engine winding loud, through the dark.
She is mashing and mashing she is
crushed in, we are mashed in the
packed bus with the smell of vinegar
and the insistent gnashing of the engine
and the light inside makes the bus surge
through absolutely nothing and nowhere
with lights bobbing worthless in the distance,
no matter how much we eat.
The old man driving the little white truck
could surge on the pedal.
He could look right when he needs to look left
He could remember the past when he needs the present like
the woman next to him needs the food
held close to her face, like the guy on the train
needs his little plate, balanced on his knees
as the train glides into action, as he cuts with his plastic
fork and knife, like the old granny needs her puffed veggies
and all the salt she can get, like I need all these sorry people to have and have and have and to understand and not to want.
The Sorrow of Food
I'm behind him
He is walking
He is holding it close to his body.
He is big in the shoulders.
The food is small and precious.
The food could be gold.
The food could be a miracle.
We are on the electric train.
One sudden start and it could go flying.
One trip up - a bag, a book, a shoe
a bike tire in the way
a day gone down the wrong path.
Grandmother popping little puffed vegetable things
in her mouth - green and orange things
on the bus.
She’s mashing them with her tongue on the roof of her mouth as we surge,
engine winding loud, through the dark.
She is mashing and mashing she is
crushed in, we are mashed in the
packed bus with the smell of vinegar
and the insistent gnashing of the engine
and the light inside makes the bus surge
through absolutely nothing and nowhere
with lights bobbing worthless in the distance,
no matter how much we eat.
The old man driving the little white truck
could surge on the pedal.
He could look right when he needs to look left
He could remember the past when he needs the present like
the woman next to him needs the food
held close to her face, like the guy on the train
needs his little plate, balanced on his knees
as the train glides into action, as he cuts with his plastic
fork and knife, like the old granny needs her puffed veggies
and all the salt she can get, like I need all these sorry people to have and have and have and to understand and not to want.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Toadboy works out a poem draft 1
The Sorrow of Food
eating on the bus
an old woman eating in a car
-a small burger pinched, bun broken
a young man with a cinnamon roll
on the electric rail. I'm behind him.
He is walking.
The roll is on a small plate with
a plastic fork and knife. He is holding it
close to his body. He is big in the shoulders
and in contrast the food
is small and precious. It could be gold.
It could be a miracle.
One sudden start of the electric train
could send it flying. One misplaced step
on the way to a seat - a bag, a book,
a shoe, a bicycle tire in the way could
ruin the whole thing - steal a few hours
of energy, send a day on a downward spiral.
The old man driving the old woman
could surge on the pedal. He could look
right when he needs to look left. He
could remember the past when he needs the present
like she needs the burger, like the young man needs
the cinnamon roll. Like I need all these sorry people
to have and have and have and to understand
and not to want.
A grandmother eating Pirate's Booty
on the bus. She's mashing it with her tongue
on the roof of her mouth. It's night. The bus is packed
She's packed in. She's insane and there's nothing to be done for her.
She's mashing and mashing and the engine is so loud and the light inside makes the bus surge through absolutely nothing and nowhere. We get nowhere, no matter how much we eat.
The young man balances his roll between his knees and begins to saw at it with the plastic knife. I'm worried for him. He looks up at me, a little annoyed at the watching.
The Sorrow of Food
eating on the bus
an old woman eating in a car
-a small burger pinched, bun broken
a young man with a cinnamon roll
on the electric rail. I'm behind him.
He is walking.
The roll is on a small plate with
a plastic fork and knife. He is holding it
close to his body. He is big in the shoulders
and in contrast the food
is small and precious. It could be gold.
It could be a miracle.
One sudden start of the electric train
could send it flying. One misplaced step
on the way to a seat - a bag, a book,
a shoe, a bicycle tire in the way could
ruin the whole thing - steal a few hours
of energy, send a day on a downward spiral.
The old man driving the old woman
could surge on the pedal. He could look
right when he needs to look left. He
could remember the past when he needs the present
like she needs the burger, like the young man needs
the cinnamon roll. Like I need all these sorry people
to have and have and have and to understand
and not to want.
A grandmother eating Pirate's Booty
on the bus. She's mashing it with her tongue
on the roof of her mouth. It's night. The bus is packed
She's packed in. She's insane and there's nothing to be done for her.
She's mashing and mashing and the engine is so loud and the light inside makes the bus surge through absolutely nothing and nowhere. We get nowhere, no matter how much we eat.
The young man balances his roll between his knees and begins to saw at it with the plastic knife. I'm worried for him. He looks up at me, a little annoyed at the watching.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
The vow was rather obtuse, like a trick drawing. The ends seem to meet, but meeting is impossible in three dimensions.
"Commitments are for strangers, I vow to meet them
Desires are contemptable, I vow to love them
Emotions are inscrutible, I vow to understand them
Selfishness is understandable, I vow to not go there."
Toaboy was napping in the sun.
Toadboy was imposing sanctions on his internet tourism.
Toadboy was afraid of structure.
But these things are in the past.
"Commitments are for strangers, I vow to meet them
Desires are contemptable, I vow to love them
Emotions are inscrutible, I vow to understand them
Selfishness is understandable, I vow to not go there."
Toaboy was napping in the sun.
Toadboy was imposing sanctions on his internet tourism.
Toadboy was afraid of structure.
But these things are in the past.
Friday, May 09, 2003
"Give it time," the author says.
"But nuba nuba dl;asdf;lkkhe. SHHHHHeeeeei..." Toadboy says, kind of flailing on the floor.
(You must understand, sometimes it is difficult to write the character, especially in these times. The news, you know. The things that have been happening in the news are sometimes too much for those like me - sensitive types. Types that have an emotional connection with things like war.)
These damn kids always wanted to be soldiers. They play, "You go that way, while I'll go this way. Shoot smart. Go. Now! I hate how dead people smell in the noon day sun."
Their voices are so high, some of them crack. Stick guns in hand, they run past the library and dive behind bushes. They look at pictures of World War II, spread out on tables with awe.
"But nuba nuba dl;asdf;lkkhe. SHHHHHeeeeei..." Toadboy says, kind of flailing on the floor.
(You must understand, sometimes it is difficult to write the character, especially in these times. The news, you know. The things that have been happening in the news are sometimes too much for those like me - sensitive types. Types that have an emotional connection with things like war.)
These damn kids always wanted to be soldiers. They play, "You go that way, while I'll go this way. Shoot smart. Go. Now! I hate how dead people smell in the noon day sun."
Their voices are so high, some of them crack. Stick guns in hand, they run past the library and dive behind bushes. They look at pictures of World War II, spread out on tables with awe.
Gravel kicks up from under Toadboy's tire as he pedals across the unfinished road. Up here about half of everything is paved, the rest is rutted and bumpy. If you're driving, go slow. The ruts are so deep you'll lose your tailpipe. Toadboy is nor-mal adj. a) free from disease, disorder, or malformation; specif., average in intelligence or development b) mentally sound.
(function north
rustle ME ruth
Russian Roulette style
stupidity
touch-and-go
totem pole
virtuoso
virgate rod shaped violet hitch
Ho Chi Minh
any white Rhine wine
hock extraction of good stock.
Not good enough.
Eyebright eyebrow pigs eye out now marbling marigold never grow old. All told marinade parallel phosphate stay up late.
2 2 1 1 1 1 3 3 2 1 1. 1 1 3 3 2 1 1 1.
pho to-gram-me try n. the art or process of surveying or measuring, as in map making, by taking photographs, esp. arial photographs
Phosphor once more resuscitate.
Sanskrit two bit solicitude.
Hopeless third kiss tachometer.
tab-la-ture n a method of notation for guitar or ukulele in which vertical lines represent the strings, horizontal lines represent the frets, and dots on these lines indicate finger placement.
2 1 1 4
2 1 1 4
2 1 1 4
ackly back nack akalacka
oblo rock nock noodalooda
ludo blick block tudalulo)
Meaning, for once, he felt normal.
(function north
rustle ME ruth
Russian Roulette style
stupidity
touch-and-go
totem pole
virtuoso
virgate rod shaped violet hitch
Ho Chi Minh
any white Rhine wine
hock extraction of good stock.
Not good enough.
Eyebright eyebrow pigs eye out now marbling marigold never grow old. All told marinade parallel phosphate stay up late.
2 2 1 1 1 1 3 3 2 1 1. 1 1 3 3 2 1 1 1.
pho to-gram-me try n. the art or process of surveying or measuring, as in map making, by taking photographs, esp. arial photographs
Phosphor once more resuscitate.
Sanskrit two bit solicitude.
Hopeless third kiss tachometer.
tab-la-ture n a method of notation for guitar or ukulele in which vertical lines represent the strings, horizontal lines represent the frets, and dots on these lines indicate finger placement.
2 1 1 4
2 1 1 4
2 1 1 4
ackly back nack akalacka
oblo rock nock noodalooda
ludo blick block tudalulo)
Meaning, for once, he felt normal.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
The now emaciated Toadboy sat down under the sycamore tree seeking enlightenment.... (the author pauses. He's not sure this is the right story to be telling.)
Empty Buddha Girl sits down under the shade of the tower in which she works, seeking enlightenment... (the author understands that Empty Buddha Girl is enlightened, as are the other characters, but that she does not seek enlightenment in the way those guys do. Maybe it is better to say "Empty Buddha Girl relaxes in front of her work while on break and doesn't want anything.)
The Thinker meets her and offers her some soy milk which she drinks.
Empty Buddha Girl sits down under the shade of the tower in which she works, seeking enlightenment... (the author understands that Empty Buddha Girl is enlightened, as are the other characters, but that she does not seek enlightenment in the way those guys do. Maybe it is better to say "Empty Buddha Girl relaxes in front of her work while on break and doesn't want anything.)
The Thinker meets her and offers her some soy milk which she drinks.
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