31 December, 2005

Happy Same'Ole.

...but if this ever changing world in which we live in /makes you give in and cry....

It's New Year's Eve, and somewhere, someone is about to do something incredibly stupid.

Therefore, I'm off to donate blood. Some asshole's gonna need it.

Actually, I'm mean enough to hope that my blood goes not to the asshole, but to the poor meekling the asshole hit with his veering vehicle, and that the asshole bleeds to death at the scene.

I'm realistic enough to know that this is probably not what will happen.

As for me, the blood I shed tonight will all be Zesty Mint Flavoured, and difficult to wash off. And my outfit? The stockings alone are to die for.

So to speak.

(Live And Let Die; Paul McCartney)

(Aside: I had always hoped that the lyric was 'this ever changing world in which we're living', instead of the actual grammatic awkwardness that appears above, but this seems to not be the case. The year's not even begun, yet filled with disappointment already.)

26 December, 2005

Looks A Lot Like...

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

People are throwing money away left and right. Everywhere, neon lights flash green, red, blue and gold. There's a blow up doll on every lawn. Vegas? No, just Christmas.

Cheers, everyone.

20 December, 2005

Name That

...I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping...

Three vertical clouds slash across the moon, as though some great thing had tried to claw it from the face of the sky.

Tomorrow, I will be at the Baltimore County Public Library, Pikesville, reading poetry at 1 PM. Join me if you like. You'll know me; I'll be the one without the beret.

Resigned, I listen to Christmas music on the radio, thinking that I'm not sure I can tell the difference between Harry Connick's voice and Harry Belafonte's, simultaneously wondering whether this is the sort of thing I should even waste any brain energy on.

I hear the first seven notes of a Beatles song, played on piano. I know the song, and it makes me smile. George Harrison sings While My Guitar Gently Weeps. It makes me think of Billy Joel's Piano Man, which is remarkable for its opening riff on harmonica.

I'm fairly certain Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man doesn't open with a tambourine, either.

(While My Guitar Gently Weeps; George Harrison)

13 December, 2005

Bio Feedback

...Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble....

Update on The Book, which is written by a man with three first names, no last name. Perhaps his family couldn't afford one. Now I am not so much desperate to not finish as I am reluctant to continue. The library is going to love me, I'll owe them so much in overdue fines.

I've been asked to participate in a poetry reading, which may or may not mean that I need a bio. So once again, I find myself talking about me in the third person. Tell me what you think.

In addition to placing third in CityPaper's annual poetry contest in 2005 and receiving an MSAC award for her quartet of playlets View Thru Quarter Pane in 2003, Cybele Pomeroy, writing as Cybele Churches, won a prize for her poetry and performance art in French, not her native language. A Junior High School project was a filmed mock commercial, in which Ms. Pomeroy (nee Churches) invited the viewer to attend a (fake) school of poetry, L'Ecole des Poets, after reading a poem of her own composition. Her efforts were rewarded with a prize of a vinyl LP of songs in French, which she may still have. She's not sure. She doesn't remember. In fact, she doesn't remember much from her junior high years, as they occurred in the same temporal space as vinyl LP records. She does, however, remember the poem.

Je t'aime beaucoups
Quand tu marche la rue
Tu est ma vie
Femme de nuit
Les otres sont betes
Pour te laizer, Collette.
Tu n'est pas mechant
Mais je n'ais pas d'argent.

-Cybele Churches, circa 1980something.

Cybele resides in Baltimore city where she finds plenty of inspiration. Her poem City Plows, Broken Or Not, appears in the next edition of Scribble literary magazine.

(Michelle, The Beatles)

10 December, 2005

Frozen OutPost

...the weather outside is frightful....

(As though there were weather inside which might be better.)

The frozen ground is somehow harder than the concrete walk that runs beside it.

I expose as much of me as I dare to the elements, trying to inure myself against the coming months.

It probably was not my best thinking, washing my hair this morning when I knew I was going out, not knowing where (if) I have a blowdryer, which I hate and refuse to use anyway.

It's warm here in Red Emma's, and there's a jazz trio playing. A woman with adorable punkrock hair sits nearby coaxing a tiny kitten to drink frothy milk from a tinier cup. I'm drinking something called a Molotov. It's a shot of espresso in a mug of dark roast coffee, and life is good. Good, with a capital G and more than one o, Gooooood.

(Let It Snow; Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn )

07 December, 2005

Observational Quintet

You can observe a lot by watching. --Yogi Berra

1. No one thinks funerals are fun. And yet many people find it necessary to state "I hate funerals." Nobody goes to funerals for the food and booze. On this topic, Yogi Berra says, always go to other people's funerals, otherwise they won't go to yours.

2. Dogs and cats are not supposed to be alike, however there are dogs that are more like cats and dogs that are more like dogs. Also there are cats that are more like dogs and cats that are more like cats. This is not logical, but it is often true.

3.I think it unreasonable that to open a new cello-wrapped box of tea I need to actually resort to using a knife.

4. Disappointment lurks around every corner. The trick is to keep expectations fairly low and be prepared to be amused by the mundane.

5. The grocery store is only very slightly more entertaining after a few beers.

04 December, 2005

Wrong Number?

...give me the number if you can find it....

He follows me around the block, and when I pull into the lot, okay not exactly in a spot, but the lot's empty fer chrissake, he flips on his lights. I am already halfway out of the car at this point, and just stand there in the open car door as he gets out, flashlight in hand.

I'm not sure what he's expecting, but I, evidently, am not it. I figure he's going to give me grief over the whole back- windshield -replaced -by -opaque- plastic -and -duct -tape issue, but he approaches after giving me the once over and looks at my license plate.

"You know what," he says, looking down from his considerable height, "I think I put in the wrong letter when I ran your plates. The number I put in came up as not registered, but I think I put in an F instead of an E."

What are you running my plates for, I wonder, specifically not mentally adding 'asshole.'

So everything's okay with my license probably?

"Probably everything's okay, yeah." He’s young, and not bad looking. I give him the once over. It takes awhile because he's so tall. He shifts a tiny bit, gives the faintest hint of a blush.

"Everything okay, Mama?" Fuzzy pokes her head out from the back seat.

I think so, honey. The officer thought there was a problem with my license plate, but now he thinks maybe he ran the wrong number and there's not anything wrong after all. Isn't that right, Officer?

"Yes, ma'am. You all have a good night. Uh, they're closed," he adds helpfully as I head towards the liquor store.

I only wanted a CityPaper.

"What was that all about?" asks Fluffy.

I'm not sure. He said he ran my plates, but that was just kind of an excuse to stop me. But when I got out of the car, he was surprised, I think. I think I wasn't what he expected.

"What did he expect?"

Who can know? I mean, considering how battered the car looks, maybe some drug running greaser punkass with pot instead of lollipops in the back seat.

"We don't have any lollipops, Mama."

You got any pot?

"Uh, no."

Well, then.

(Operator; Jim Croce)