—Artwork by Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN
THE TAXI
One night in the dark I phone for a taxi. Immediately a taxi crashes through the wall; never mind that my room is on the third floor, or that the yellow driver is really a cluster of canaries arranged in the shape of a driver, who flutters apart, streaming from the windows of the taxi in yellow fountains...
Realizing that I am in the midst of something splendid I reach for the phone and cancel the taxi: All the canaries flow back into the taxi and assemble themselves into a cluster shaped like a man. The taxi backs through the wall, and the wall repairs...
But I cannot stop what is happening, I am already reaching for the phone to call a taxi, which is already beginning to crash through the wall with its yellow driver already beginning to flutter apart...
One night in the dark I phone for a taxi. Immediately a taxi crashes through the wall; never mind that my room is on the third floor, or that the yellow driver is really a cluster of canaries arranged in the shape of a driver, who flutters apart, streaming from the windows of the taxi in yellow fountains...
Realizing that I am in the midst of something splendid I reach for the phone and cancel the taxi: All the canaries flow back into the taxi and assemble themselves into a cluster shaped like a man. The taxi backs through the wall, and the wall repairs...
But I cannot stop what is happening, I am already reaching for the phone to call a taxi, which is already beginning to crash through the wall with its yellow driver already beginning to flutter apart...
THE LIGHTED WINDOW
A lighted window floats through the night like a piece of paper in the wind.
I want to see into it. I want to climb through into its lighted room.
As I reach for it it slips through the trees. As I chase it it rolls and tumbles into the air and skitters on through the night...
THE HALF-AND-HALF MAN
A man had two feet. One was a woman, the other a man.
Appropriately one wore a woman's high-heeled shoe, the other a rough work boot.
And this was true of his hands and his nostrils and eyes. And this was true of his testicles, one of which was an ovary...
THE PHILOSOPHERS
I think, therefore I am, said a man whose mother quickly hit him on the head, saying, I hit my son on his head, therefore I am.
I think, therefore I am, said a man whose mother quickly hit him on the head, saying, I hit my son on his head, therefore I am.
No no, you've got it all wrong, cried the man.
So she hit him on the head again and cried, therefore I am.
You're not, not that way; you're supposed to think, not hit, cried the man.
...I think, therefore I am, said the man.
...I think, therefore I am, said the man.
I hit, therefore we both are, the hitter and the one who gets hit, said the man's mother.
But at this point the man had ceased to be; unconscious he could not think. But his mother could. So she thought, I am, and so is my unconscious son, even if he doesn't know it...
But at this point the man had ceased to be; unconscious he could not think. But his mother could. So she thought, I am, and so is my unconscious son, even if he doesn't know it...
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
Now the house of earth was not always a house. There was a time when nothing rotted. A time only of sanitary atoms. There were no smells, no blood clots, no flowers, no mice. And the earth was with egg or sperm.
Death arrived with life. They were lovers from the beginning. They fed each other. Life fed death, but death also fed life. It was their habit, they could not live without the other.
The God said, let there be life, but let it be guarded by death...
THE FLOWERPOT
An old woman was examining one of her shoes, turning it over and over again in her hands like a spider wrapping a fly in its web.
What is that thing in your hands? cried her husband.
My womb, she sighed as she held it out to him.
Oh, no, he cried.
But wouldn't the nice gentleman like to drop a seed or two into an old lady's flowerpot?
An old woman was examining one of her shoes, turning it over and over again in her hands like a spider wrapping a fly in its web.
What is that thing in your hands? cried her husband.
My womb, she sighed as she held it out to him.
Oh, no, he cried.
But wouldn't the nice gentleman like to drop a seed or two into an old lady's flowerpot?
THE TOY-MAKER
A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child. He made a toy house and some toy years.
He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying toy.
The toy-maker made a toy heaven and a toy god.
But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WITH SINCEREST REGRETS
—Russell Edson
for Charles Simic
Like a monstrous snail, a toilet slides into a living room on a track of wet, demanding to be loved.
It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace ...
The toilet slides away ...
__________________
No one speaks of life and shame and birth and death like Russell Edson, Master of the Metaphor. And many thanks to Norman Olson for his artwork today—a perfect match to Edson's work!
For more about Russell Edson, go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/russell-edson/.
__________________
A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child. He made a toy house and some toy years.
He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying toy.
The toy-maker made a toy heaven and a toy god.
But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WITH SINCEREST REGRETS
—Russell Edson
for Charles Simic
Like a monstrous snail, a toilet slides into a living room on a track of wet, demanding to be loved.
It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace ...
The toilet slides away ...
__________________
No one speaks of life and shame and birth and death like Russell Edson, Master of the Metaphor. And many thanks to Norman Olson for his artwork today—a perfect match to Edson's work!
For more about Russell Edson, go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/russell-edson/.
__________________
—Medusa
Russell Edson
A reminder that Cal. FreeThought Day
happens at the Capitol today, and
Davis Poet Laureate Julia Levine
will read briefly, starting at 12:15pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
