The Dashing Dot & the Dotty Dash

When Dewey Decimal met Frances Fraction,
he was turned off by her getting mixed up with integers,
even though she was often half a woman
(sometimes even a third or a quarter),
even as she was turned off by his referencing
of word collections as numbers.
Then, during an evening constitutional,
while walking on opposite sides of the street,
they were accosted by Samuel F. B. Morse,
who robbed Dew of his dot,
& Fran, her dash,
proclaiming that it was for “The Greater Good.”
It was only through this violation of their middle parts
(& the regeneration thereof),
that Dew & Fran were able to meet each other halfway
& coexist in the field of mathematics,
where they realized that they were mere forms
of the same numbers,
subject to conversion.

Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life

Writer's Life

The Shutterfly Edition

Peyton’s Place
She wrote a book, writing what she knew.
What she didn’t know, she created,
but it was the truths,
prettied up as lies,
that led the ones
whose sins she confessed,
to stone her with tweets.

Newscasters=news analysts, not news readers
Endless spin cycle
Who, what, where, when, why, how, & what if?
Sensationalized for ratings

Nature enables us to see as far
as our eyes can see,
books beyond even that,
but books read out in nature,
bridges both worlds.

Haiku—if a person, not the most attractive proportions
Acrostic—a narcissist, horizontally & vertically
Limerick—witty when drunk
Ode—fetish poem
Sonnet—iambic pentameter hell

When Period met Dash,
it was a string of stops & starts,
until they learned to work together,
creating the Morse Code.

The Tube

Machines beep out a sporadic Morse code,
the waxy floors reflect bright rectangles of light.
The wheels of the gurney whir,
and there is an odd sort of smell—
cafeteria food and chemical.
As I am transported to the giant magnet,
the reflection of my entire body supine
seems less solidified in the black glass
on the ceiling.

Atvian trickles through my veins,
and I feel each piece of me is breaking down,
succumbing to its spell.

When I think I have awoken,
I am on a gray cloud in a fairyland forest;
paper pebbles are in my ears,
warm snowflakes cover my eyes,
but I can see through my pores…
flora from the year 802,701 are profuse,
and perfume the atmosphere.
The colors of the mountaintops
and the bottom of the sea
surround me.

Then my hand grazes an onion—
a giant pearl,
the moon of Lenore—
and all grows dark.
My eyes pop open,
and I whisper to the forgotten night forest
that has turned to a white plastic cell,
“I am afraid”,
but no one is there to hear.

My arms feel like broken wings;
I try to crawl on my back,
but then a voice from Elsewhere
tells me to stay calm
for a few more minutes,
and I know subconsciously
I am in a safe place.

Inhale, exhale,
my eyes closed,
I try to slow my heart like Paavo Nurmi—
The Flying Finn—
and then I am expelled from the capsule,
babbling about flowers and colors
whilst the forest grows dark again.