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The theme of this spot-welded image and acrostic poem is that it’s a crying shame when evangelical parasites use deific archetypes to bleed believers dry. It is an old, old message, but it still needs to be told, based on what I saw on certain TV channels when I was working graveyard this year. I hope I have told it in a new, engaging way. I hope also that it is not viewed as a slam against any particular creed–just of the ghouls who use the faith of innocents to further their base ends.

The iambic-septameter double acrostic goes like this:

Decisions made by A will leave B’s dreams unrealized
Incentivizing dalliance so often proves unwise
Suspension of one’s disbelief seems currency for bliss
Propinquity of doom will shrink contentment to a wisp
Upending some unending preconceptions on a dare
Takes chutzpah and charisma and a messianic flair
Alliterative declarations guarantee a yea
Tumultuous extravaganzas untrue a parfait
Inside insane aquaria there’s no need to be koi
Osmundium earth’s rarest when it’s found in an arroyo
Unctilio if left unchecked defrauds the citizen
Sedition-sanctified denial scratches up the lens

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Less than an hour ago “In a relationship” became “In a domestic partnership” in my Facebook settings. Some hours earlier my partner, Denise, made a lovely blog post, about our trip to the Pinetop-Lakeside area, in which she referred to “My partner, Gary.” (Here’s a link to that post: http://aintnoninny.wordpress.com/2014/10/25/autumn-in-the-white-mountains-apache-country/ ) So we have made our partnership semi-online-official.

I liked the idea of slicing Relationship into Relation Ship. Sometimes there is a ship to steer, and for sure there will be chopwater, sandbars and squalls to navigate. Much depends on choices of battles or compromises, the rheostat setting of respect, and the prioritization. Denise and I have a long way to go. But we have come a long way together as well, and love is there.

Here are the words to the double acrostic:

Retro-fitting tastes & likes
Efforts, ventures, dips & spikes
Leaves a couple mixed to match
Applesauce with kaffeeklatsch
Tenderness & tetrazzini
Intimacy conjures djinni
Offline lovers loop the loop
Nestled in the Primal Soup

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A duodecahedron is a twelve-faceted figure, each facet of which is a pentagon. It is one of five volumes possible in our Universe that has sides made up of the same “regular polygon” (sides of equal length and interior angles all equal). The other four “Platonic solids” are the tetrahedron (four facets), the octahedron (eight facets), the ocosahedron (twenty facets) and the hexahedron (six facets). The hexahedron is much more commonly known as the cube. And the duodecahedron is much more commonly known as the dodecahedron.

HEY, WAKE UP!!! That goes for me too. Sorry to throw such dense Solid Geometry into the mix so early, when the subject really is Testicles.

Testicles occur mostly in males. They are responsible for the manufacture of DNA-headed wiggling bioforms known as spermatozoa. Figuratively, Testicles are a symbol for male bravery, integrity, and effrontery. The word testimony is rumored to derive from the notion that in Roman courts, witnesses swore, not on their honor, but on their manhood. The hand that in American courts goes on the Bible went, so the rumor goes, elsewhere when a witness was sworn in.

In my drawing, the fellow in the tuxedo standing on one of the facets of the duodecahedron, looking somewhat like Antoine Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, only with a goatee and a number of girls clinging to him, is Valley of the Sun poet and impresario Ernesto Moncada. He is also known as “Ernasty.” I have drawn him to metaphorize the idea that he is a Chick Magnet.

Ernesto showed up on my drawing unexpectedly, but as it turns out he is absolutely essential to this image/text. Some years ago at a poetry reading I saw Ernesto recite and perform a lengthy Paean of Praise to, of all things, his testicles. Cojones. Huevos. Balls. He rang many changes on descriptions of his testicles, and you could almost hear them clang. He had the audience laughing, gasping, and OMGing uncontrollably. His performance compelled me to do a page on him with the double acrostic ERNESTO MONCADA/THE POTENT FORCE. Interested parties will find the page in my chapbook LIVES of the Eminent Poets of Greater Phoenix, Arizona (Vol. I).

Years later, this morning in fact, I imagined a remake of Sam Peckinpah’s BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA starring my colleague in poetic ribaldry. It would be called BRING ME THE BALLS OF ERNESTO MONCADA. You might say that with this page I have brought them to you, and to the world. World, you’re welcome.

Words:

Difficult whilst dining on a plate of fresh Fatoosh
Underwriting policies & playing Scaramouche
Omnipresence brings with it a need to act unscripted
Dune & Brashstreet now require a qualified encrypter
Evangelicals still YES! as skeptics NO! NO! NO!
Custom-facet everyone & all will be très bon

Today Laura, the human owned by Lena Furbena, gave me another picture of her. I used it to fiddle with an old nursery rhyme. Part of the fiddling was to remove the reference to a fiddle, replacing it, sort of, with a ukulele.

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I’m delighted to report that Lena has accepted my Facebook friend request.

Here are the words to the retooled rhyme:

Hey dilly daily,
The moon’s ukulele
No-handedly played for the spoon.
The little dog’s distance
Due to nonexistence
Was deemed by the cat quite a boon.

What did the uke play to the spoon? Why, “Some Enchanted Evening,” of course. [smile]

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Yesterday I was behind the desk at the Independent Living Retirement Community where I work, and Laura, the Pet Visit lady, offered me any of the three photos of the pet, one Lena Furbena, she’d brought to visit. I selected one and asked permission to use it as a photo source for an illustrated poem. Laura kindly granted permission, and here we are.

Lena has her own Facebook page. Here is a link: https://www.facebook.com/lena.furbena?fref=ts She claims study at Yavapai College and work at Bossa Rosa. Apparently she enjoys moonlit walks and dirt baths.

I don’t know her well, but from the vibe I got from my brief visit with her, this emerged:

Love-Kitties often loll & paw & goof
Lick sharpened claws & blink & blink at you
Enjoying your discomfiture, they purr
Enjoined, they do a thing that lacks a verb
Now Cat & Human share a warmth serene
No discord interferes with what they glean
An afternoon in Harmony’s corona
A Love-Cat LIVES in Northern Arizona

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Half a Secret

If there were such a thing as half a secret
There would be such a thing as half aloof
So goes the half aloft and closet peeklet
Entangled in the clothing of the proof
Less entropy prevents a leaky roof
Ferality unmeeks the meekest meek pet

Reveiled

In veils we find
The mystery
Sought by the blind
Encounter. We
Leave type and kind
For History.

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As with a good deal of other human endeavor, this text-based image is a happy-accidental cacophony of One Thing Leads To Another, with an overlay of a consciousness trying to make sense of it all. What luck it was that “Psychosis” is choppable into equal three-character strings, and hey! so is “Symphonic!” And Wow–“Psy” names a pop star of Korean roots, and so does “Cho!” A lookup of “Sis” yields–WOW!!! “Secret Intelligence Service,” aka MI16!!!! And so forth.

Early on in this image I’d intended to ask a musically-gifted friend to compose the three ending bars of the Psychosis Symphony–but the crazy-minded flavor of my acrostics made the route I took here suit the subject more fittingly. There is just enough musical notation to frame the elements, and that is another happy accident.

“Psychosis” words:

Paste-effacement is no basis
Prawn-bowl cause could lead to stasis

Shown shorn wraiths of Anasazi
Sphagnums guest heat into ziti
Spared a tool with Luca Brasi
Scarfed aphasic Nefertiti

Yet heard echoes of glissandos
Yaw pitched metaphoric rondos

“Symphonic” words:

She’ll help with a hum/bello piñon
Suppress an oppressivish minion

You might hear from Lauper, Cyndi
Yearn & search for Don’t Bee koi
Yes, & werebeests’ hoped-for chindi
Yet may garnish fresh bok choi

Might need to enshroud a Jung maniac
Moo, Zeke! It’ll get downright zany, Mac

Here is a sloppy, silly, having-fun one that started serious: What does it mean to “Act your age”? What age are cigarette smokers acting? How about Fred Astaire–working killer hours to make it all look easy as pie? How old was Tom Cruise when he jumped backwards onto Oprah Winfrey’s couch? And does the acting age of a hotel-user plummet when she or he succumbs to the impulse to use the Mini-Bar, and thereby get overcharged for killing brain cells?

So here is a baby addressing Parlaiment, a rock putting on lipstick, a tree forgetting he isn’t the sapling he used to be, the poor Sun suffering a Gout/Flareup, and your humble author proudly displaying his Duncan Yo-Yo. There are five badly-drawn images, but the label Figure 4 is used twice. There are two triple acrostics, hereinafter referred to as Dumb & Dumber. SOMEBODY needs to Grow Up!

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Thanks to Bram Stoker and Anne Rice, Christopher Lee and Frank Langella and Gary Oldman, Bob Kane and Christopher Nolan, and who knows how many others, the public perception of Bats is of a fearsome, bloodsucking creature of evil. Consider, then, Myotis lucifugus, the Little Brown Bat, who swoops away swarms of REAL bloodsuckers, the Mosquito, and keeps us from being eaten alive.

All the words to “dusk bats” were written while sitting on a lawn chair in a public park in Clarkdale, Arizona, waiting with my Sweetheart for a bluegrass band to set up and perform in the park’s gazebo. It all unfolded as written, the bats doing their stochastic swooping, maintaining a respectful distance above us in a sort of punk ballet. The air cooled, and peace and harmoniousness filled the park.

Here are the words:

dusk bats

the pink leaves the overhead cloud

but there is still lavender up there

and some commuting bugs are getting

c a u g h t

in bat-mouths working for bats
whose funeral-umbrella wings
dart and dip them around

in constantly-broken trajectories that

m a i n t a i n

an above-head distance of thirty
to
twenty
feet

they are not spooky
nor ugly

just u n f i l f u l l e d

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One reason there are lots of instruments in the cockpit of an airplane is that sometimes pilots cannot rely on their senses. Their semicircular canals tell them one thing, the view out the window another, and the instruments contradict both. To stay alive, a pilot often has to literally fly in the face of what the body says.

In life, a sense of well-being may just mean that the brain chemistry is literally on the high side of the manic-depressive cycle. Ingesting alcohol or other drugs often imbues the user with undeserved confidence. If you don’t have instruments, like a penlight for the Nystagmus test or a Breathalizer for the measurement of blood alcohol, when in doubt, don’t, no matter what wonderful sense it seems to make, whether it be calling that lost love at three in the morning or shaving/tattooing  your head or entering the wonderful world of amateur day trading. (Sorry to be so parental.)

Here are the words:

Fate denied me being pharaoh
And you say, it’s best that, Gair-O
Lap up your courvoisier
Lapdogs may include Sharpei
Salvage peace/shalom/La Paz
Serenity is no palazzo
Eternity by daw-do-zen
Ernest earnestly got bent
Rovers flying o’er alfalfa
Race past baffleds on El Al