Posts
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Found Humor #2: [ed.]
After buying my ticket for a movie, I was given this advertisement for some shitty candy. However the original text used the incorrect participle in what I'm assuming was some attempt at ironic cleverness by some fresh out of keg stands marketing kid who watches too much Family Guy.
Luckily, someone at the movie theatre had been kind enough to correct the text and insert the proper participle.
Thank you, anonymous employee of Marcus Fox Theatres. You might be in high school. Maybe you're a girl. You might punch people. I don't know, but you did correct one of the immaturities of the corporate world, and you have made me believe in humanity again.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Icarus
by Hugo Carnavale
"Hi. I'm Icarus. I'm falling." He said this to me, his voice high and half breathless, in the way young people do when they are trying to overcome their nervousness about meeting someone new.
One arm was extended straight out in front of him, his hand presented for shaking. The other was held stiffly at his side. White feathers snapped up past him, spinning their orbits around him and up, a curtain of moving feathers through which I saw his sad, hopeful face. I remember those eyes filled with the purity that children have before they learn of teasing and insults, and bullies and enemies. There was some fear, some sad fear, but it was a fear of nothing in particular; of only doing something new. Wax swept up his skin like upside down tears.
Down.
He was gone. Gone bellow me, leaving a helix of feathers whirling a pillar towards the sea and ground.
I saw him again later.
It was at a house party at college. People milled around in their groups of friends, drinking and laughing because that's we did in those days. I was with some friends. Like everyone else we didn't mingle outside the people we knew and we drank "Hi, I'm Icarus. I'm falling."
He said this out of nowhere. He came out of nowhere. His hand was held out in a manner clearly displaying that he didn't care whether any of us took it or not. To enunciate this apathy he downed his beer; he didn't stop drinking, not even for social graces. That must have been his idea of displaying cool. I didn't take his hand because I didn't feel like encouraging this silly boy.
His skin was tanned. It was stretched across his lean muscles so we could see his strength bunch and stretch beneath his bronze. Wet feathers were stuck in his hair and on his limbs and torso. Dried wax dripped across that tight brown skin, defying gravity. It looked like it could either have been melted there from the sun or from some overexuberant lover.
I was interested in him. Because I remembered the child. I saw it somewhere in him. I saw its vague shape wrestling inside the ocean it had been confined to. My friends teased me for taking such an interest in a well muscled, half naked, winged boy at a party but I let them think what they wanted.
We did date for a while. But it was all the same as that introduction at the party. He put on his pretensions and his acts. I never got closer to him. He just rolled his eyes and downed his beer.
I saw him again during the war. He was an officer leaning over a table pointing at a map. I stood, behind him under the tent pitched in a crater, and waited. I listened to his strong, confident, powerful voice say, "We need the names," he nodded to his Lieutenant as he straightened and began to turn to me. "And dates, hi, I'm Icarus. I'm falling." His hand was already held out to me before he finished speaking. I could see in the way he held his arm that there was no meaning to this gesture for him. It was something someone did during introductions. It was part of a script to a play which he knew he was in. His voice had been breathless, but confidently breathless; just like a worker who puts down his hammer to speak.
He wore a smart officer's uniform and his hair was neatly cut. The only skin I could see was on his face and hands. It was weathered and I saw the tightness of where the sun had burnt deep. There were patches of skin unburnt, left healthy, where the wax had once been. The splotch and drip shapes of soft, light skin, surrounded by redness.
I shook his hand. As I did, I looked for the little boy I once met. All I saw was his skeleton, buried within the flesh of this man.
(inspired while listening to Regina Spektor's song Lacrimosa)
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Ok...
Pulling myself up from rest,
as though the weight of the ocean held me down,
I rise and prepare,
like Cthulhu awoken
and ready to gobble the world.
A landscape of squiggles and squares.
There's never a map for this place, only
the instinct of your feet can tell
you where there might be a restaurant
to gobble planets.
The menus there are as clear as the air.
When blind to the color clear
there is the never-ending fear that one is wrong
and has made an ass of oneself,
and yet we persevere.
Again no maps.
The first time I heard "Maps,"
by the (Yeah^3)s she dedicated
the song to her father and thus
I've loved the song forever.
It is not always the words that mean the most
but why they are spoken
and for whom.
Trying to speak in squiggles and squares,
something will undoubtedly be lost
in translation, here and there.
Later, later,
the color clear can be consumed
until it is clear.
But lost among abstracts, wandering warm,
mapless and friendfull, it is wonderful,
this serendipitous momentous
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Glee
A wanderer in a desert
robed and sword
hanging from his belt,
hooded and scarved.
They walk along and she
says she is a storm.
He pulls aside the cloth of
his robe to show the screaming
lightning and rain, shot like bullets
by the wind, that swirls within him.
His teeth grin
since that is the god that watches him
from the looming body.
His god has four faces.
His god is named Rampancy.
Its faces are named
Rage, Sorrow, Jealousy, Euphoria.
They listen to a bard in an oasis
tavern, his god turns to hear the bard
better and a new face looks down.
Whispering to each other,
he hears the surf
of sorrow crashing against
his heartbeats. He will share the bard's
fate some day, a secret
he keeps folded on a paper
near his chest. He does
not reveal it often.
She whispers to him but
he is silent.
In the desert, the sun turns about
the earth and the god turns its head again.
He throws his head and laughs his saber out,
slashing poetry into the sands, and she
joins him with a rapier whisking rhythms
from the dust flying in the air.
She whispers to him
and his words are not an answer
since a different face heard and a different face spoke.
In the valley of the heroes
he screams against the statues of great men
lining the walls of cliffs,
cutting gashes into his flesh with the sword.
He walks, dragging his robe and sword
through sand, his god sleeps, eight eyes
closing, head atop a looming body, lolling.
In the twilight colors comes an imp,
an elf, a sprite, a giggler, a not-a-god,
a child of Rampancy.
Small and smiling it skips nearby
on cool rocks with moss,
panning pipes.
He dances, laughing high
and lightly as he throws off robe and sword
and hops.
His robes gone, it can be seen
within him is a storm of spring blossoms
and autumn leaves. He spins and kicks,
his eyes are closed, his grin brighter
than the daylight sun.
She whispers to him and he can only respond
by joying a smile at her
their footsteps running into future forests,
lost and wine sodden.
robed and sword
hanging from his belt,
hooded and scarved.
They walk along and she
says she is a storm.
He pulls aside the cloth of
his robe to show the screaming
lightning and rain, shot like bullets
by the wind, that swirls within him.
His teeth grin
since that is the god that watches him
from the looming body.
His god has four faces.
His god is named Rampancy.
Its faces are named
Rage, Sorrow, Jealousy, Euphoria.
They listen to a bard in an oasis
tavern, his god turns to hear the bard
better and a new face looks down.
Whispering to each other,
he hears the surf
of sorrow crashing against
his heartbeats. He will share the bard's
fate some day, a secret
he keeps folded on a paper
near his chest. He does
not reveal it often.
She whispers to him but
he is silent.
In the desert, the sun turns about
the earth and the god turns its head again.
He throws his head and laughs his saber out,
slashing poetry into the sands, and she
joins him with a rapier whisking rhythms
from the dust flying in the air.
She whispers to him
and his words are not an answer
since a different face heard and a different face spoke.
In the valley of the heroes
he screams against the statues of great men
lining the walls of cliffs,
cutting gashes into his flesh with the sword.
He walks, dragging his robe and sword
through sand, his god sleeps, eight eyes
closing, head atop a looming body, lolling.
In the twilight colors comes an imp,
an elf, a sprite, a giggler, a not-a-god,
a child of Rampancy.
Small and smiling it skips nearby
on cool rocks with moss,
panning pipes.
He dances, laughing high
and lightly as he throws off robe and sword
and hops.
His robes gone, it can be seen
within him is a storm of spring blossoms
and autumn leaves. He spins and kicks,
his eyes are closed, his grin brighter
than the daylight sun.
She whispers to him and he can only respond
by joying a smile at her
their footsteps running into future forests,
lost and wine sodden.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Meander
"Hugo, my poet and fool,
tell me what message you spy,
you've sat long enough on that stool
beneath the tower so high."
"Then my lord I tell you of hair,
it falls from high up above."
"Is it hair then, or her, that your stare
has caught like a hawk caught a dove."
"A fool I assuredly am,
but cannot be fooled by my eyes,
it's her as surely it's ham,
this stuff that falls from the skies."
"Well shout to the top of the tower,
we search for a Hero, by name,"
"I hate to cause such a row, sir,
is it for hero, or Hero, or Hiro, we came?"
"My fool, do not fool with phonetics,
they sound all identical, spoken,
(oh look, a book on genetics,)
now, smooth out your communiqué, broken."
"A hero 'tis valiant and brave
who rescues princesses and pets.
Hero hid in a tower-like cave
whom with Leander did have her some sex.
And Hiro is a time traveling fellow,
from Heroes a show that runs on TV,
he's asian and therefore quite yellow,
go watch it on tonight's NBC."
"Desist with this nonsense you yammering poet,
you know which is the one that I seek,
if you've skill then this is the moment to show it,
raise your voice and to the tower now speak."
"I would, lord, but now I hear from the top
the name Tadzio coming right down."
"That sounds like a name to be said by a mop,
but what could it mean and how?"
"Wikipedia, not I, lord, would know,
perhaps you should ask there."
"Encyclo-democrato, what can you show,
the mystery I cannot today bear."
"Tis I wikipedia! for whom many are smitten,
I base this entry on a book that was written,
and after brief deliberation my study's completed,
Tadzio represents perverse sexual obsession, citation needed."
"What a strange conclusion
to draw from that name."
"That digital book's in delusion,
I do not conclude the same.
But, oh! how to continue
when petals and leaves tumble down!"
"My poet, is this the right venue?
Am I overdressed in my gown?"
"My lord, I know not,
if this tower be right,
I threw in with your lot
because I was drunk that one night."
"Perhaps this place is for us
perhaps it is not."
"Perhaps we should just,
slow down or stop.
Whatever you yearn,
enough for now."
"Poet and fool, I concur,
whatever the case, enough for now."
tell me what message you spy,
you've sat long enough on that stool
beneath the tower so high."
"Then my lord I tell you of hair,
it falls from high up above."
"Is it hair then, or her, that your stare
has caught like a hawk caught a dove."
"A fool I assuredly am,
but cannot be fooled by my eyes,
it's her as surely it's ham,
this stuff that falls from the skies."
"Well shout to the top of the tower,
we search for a Hero, by name,"
"I hate to cause such a row, sir,
is it for hero, or Hero, or Hiro, we came?"
"My fool, do not fool with phonetics,
they sound all identical, spoken,
(oh look, a book on genetics,)
now, smooth out your communiqué, broken."
"A hero 'tis valiant and brave
who rescues princesses and pets.
Hero hid in a tower-like cave
whom with Leander did have her some sex.
And Hiro is a time traveling fellow,
from Heroes a show that runs on TV,
he's asian and therefore quite yellow,
go watch it on tonight's NBC."
"Desist with this nonsense you yammering poet,
you know which is the one that I seek,
if you've skill then this is the moment to show it,
raise your voice and to the tower now speak."
"I would, lord, but now I hear from the top
the name Tadzio coming right down."
"That sounds like a name to be said by a mop,
but what could it mean and how?"
"Wikipedia, not I, lord, would know,
perhaps you should ask there."
"Encyclo-democrato, what can you show,
the mystery I cannot today bear."
"Tis I wikipedia! for whom many are smitten,
I base this entry on a book that was written,
and after brief deliberation my study's completed,
Tadzio represents perverse sexual obsession, citation needed."
"What a strange conclusion
to draw from that name."
"That digital book's in delusion,
I do not conclude the same.
But, oh! how to continue
when petals and leaves tumble down!"
"My poet, is this the right venue?
Am I overdressed in my gown?"
"My lord, I know not,
if this tower be right,
I threw in with your lot
because I was drunk that one night."
"Perhaps this place is for us
perhaps it is not."
"Perhaps we should just,
slow down or stop.
Whatever you yearn,
enough for now."
"Poet and fool, I concur,
whatever the case, enough for now."
Monday, May 25, 2009
Found Humor #1
WHAT?!?!
Who is this guy? Why is he angry? Who drew him? Why does he appear on page 301 of my library's copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls? Who does he think he is!?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Dancing towards Marathon
Bees use honey as a source of energy,
and a green— err— yellowhouse to trap the heat of the world
to warm their lives and larvae.
Long gone cultures gave honey
to their warriors, filling them
with energy and courage.
Other long gone cultures
used honey to embalm their dead.
Some people put honey in tea
to flavor it up.
Giving warmth or
giving energy,
honoring those you care for,
making bitter things taste sweet:
these are all good uses for honey,
and i have heard of none that are bad.
The need to run
to run and not stop
no matter how it hurts
how much wind is knocked out of you
how much energy has leaked away
each step
brings you closer to the end.
And here the end has two meanings;
there's two ends you are running towards
just like Pheidippides (although he didn't
know about the second end of his race,
he had no honey to keep him going).
The end you can choose to stop chasing
is the one you should never stop running for
ever
except to take a breather.
Take a breather.
It will hurt a while more before things stabilize
before your heart starts beating normal
before your throat stops burning,
and once the symptoms pass
we all run again
and on until
we reach the end we were going towards
since the beginning.
But that's the end that doesn't
really matter.
Bees telling each other where they've been,
where they're going,
where they are,
by dancing.
They spin about each other,
never touching,
dancing towards Marathon,
and neither of them
will fall to the Persians,
they'll both watch each other's
backs. After all,
what is the best offense:
escape or attack?
Friendship.
I lit my arms on fire,
"Warm arms" I quote.
"mmmmm... perhaps too warm," someone says.
I put the oceans into a thermos.
"Drink," I say.
"No one is going to drink that. It's salt water," someone says.
Forks and sporks pop out of my knuckles
like Wolverine I war growl-scream,
"Kitchen UTENSILS!"
*sigh* goes someone.
So, instead I put on a sweater
and a blanket,
mix up a couple of hot cocoas,
and put a spoon in each
to stir the marshmellows with.
"Someday," I say to you,
"we'll have to look back at all this
and tell what we thought it meant
and explain
what it precisely meant,
because I have the feeling I only got
half of it, for sure,
no matter how clever and quick you think
I am."
and a green— err— yellowhouse to trap the heat of the world
to warm their lives and larvae.
Long gone cultures gave honey
to their warriors, filling them
with energy and courage.
Other long gone cultures
used honey to embalm their dead.
Some people put honey in tea
to flavor it up.
Giving warmth or
giving energy,
honoring those you care for,
making bitter things taste sweet:
these are all good uses for honey,
and i have heard of none that are bad.
The need to run
to run and not stop
no matter how it hurts
how much wind is knocked out of you
how much energy has leaked away
each step
brings you closer to the end.
And here the end has two meanings;
there's two ends you are running towards
just like Pheidippides (although he didn't
know about the second end of his race,
he had no honey to keep him going).
The end you can choose to stop chasing
is the one you should never stop running for
ever
except to take a breather.
Take a breather.
It will hurt a while more before things stabilize
before your heart starts beating normal
before your throat stops burning,
and once the symptoms pass
we all run again
and on until
we reach the end we were going towards
since the beginning.
But that's the end that doesn't
really matter.
Bees telling each other where they've been,
where they're going,
where they are,
by dancing.
They spin about each other,
never touching,
dancing towards Marathon,
and neither of them
will fall to the Persians,
they'll both watch each other's
backs. After all,
what is the best offense:
escape or attack?
Friendship.
I lit my arms on fire,
"Warm arms" I quote.
"mmmmm... perhaps too warm," someone says.
I put the oceans into a thermos.
"Drink," I say.
"No one is going to drink that. It's salt water," someone says.
Forks and sporks pop out of my knuckles
like Wolverine I war growl-scream,
"Kitchen UTENSILS!"
*sigh* goes someone.
So, instead I put on a sweater
and a blanket,
mix up a couple of hot cocoas,
and put a spoon in each
to stir the marshmellows with.
"Someday," I say to you,
"we'll have to look back at all this
and tell what we thought it meant
and explain
what it precisely meant,
because I have the feeling I only got
half of it, for sure,
no matter how clever and quick you think
I am."
Monday, May 18, 2009
JumpBox: The Game!
So, I've finally uploaded my first flash game, JumpBox, over at the Kongregate.
The link should take you to the page.
I'm very excited.
Update:
I am disappointed. No one understands it. Everyone thinks I'm being a jerk.
:(
http://forums.tigsource.com/index.php?topic=6297.0
But, that's okay. This is the way things roll sometimes.
Update 2: Some people are starting to get it.
The link should take you to the page.
I'm very excited.
Update:
I am disappointed. No one understands it. Everyone thinks I'm being a jerk.
:(
http://forums.tigsource.com/index.php?topic=6297.0
But, that's okay. This is the way things roll sometimes.
Update 2: Some people are starting to get it.
Caduceus
Conversation Reflected:
"Is this a helmet or a
bucket?"- "Whatever
it is, make use of it."-
"But if I use it like a
helmet then the bucket
will break, and if I use
it like a bucket I will
never be able to carry
the treasure inside of the
helmet."-"But a decision
has to be made."-"This is
bogus."
the dance: two dancers,
limbs twisting sweat
glistening in steps and
sweeps around each
other like snakes about
a wand. sometimes the
spinning makes it hard
to see what's going on
but doesn't make the
dance less beautiful.
the daughter of the sun wonders if the dance will bring a
blizzard and he does not know, Prometheus' words are
muted by the eagles beak, and he is the son of Orpheus
so how can he not plunge forward.
Hazard: At the edge of
the snowstorm I stood,
waiting. "what are you
waiting for?" There was
something left among
those snow flakes amidst the vapor, perhaps i can get it
back. "Does anyone want you to?" I look towards the snow.
the search: the last few nights i stalk the kitchen trying to
find what i want to eat. not chips, not fruit, not sandwiches.
i want something soft, something whole that will comfort
my being. then each
night i realize what
i'm looking for is
banana bread
muffins
"Is this a helmet or a
bucket?"- "Whatever
it is, make use of it."-
"But if I use it like a
helmet then the bucket
will break, and if I use
it like a bucket I will
never be able to carry
the treasure inside of the
helmet."-"But a decision
has to be made."-"This is
bogus."
the dance: two dancers,
limbs twisting sweat
glistening in steps and
sweeps around each
other like snakes about
a wand. sometimes the
spinning makes it hard
to see what's going on
but doesn't make the
dance less beautiful.
the daughter of the sun wonders if the dance will bring a
blizzard and he does not know, Prometheus' words are
muted by the eagles beak, and he is the son of Orpheus
so how can he not plunge forward.
Hazard: At the edge of
the snowstorm I stood,
waiting. "what are you
waiting for?" There was
something left among
those snow flakes amidst the vapor, perhaps i can get it
back. "Does anyone want you to?" I look towards the snow.
the search: the last few nights i stalk the kitchen trying to
find what i want to eat. not chips, not fruit, not sandwiches.
i want something soft, something whole that will comfort
my being. then each
night i realize what
i'm looking for is
banana bread
muffins
Friday, May 15, 2009
Ambassador
prologue.
someone else's voice
speaking the words of my heart
this momentary mirror
is it destiny
or accident
1.
A king, questing, came to a castle.
He hesitated, holding a hand
over scars scored in sieges
and ripped during routes.
He proffered his poet to probe
the defenses and to divine if destiny
was written on the walls.
The bard bawled out ballads bellow at the base
and awaited an answer from anyone above.
2.
inked lines form
Rorschach tests
ink reflecting my own past
like light on the mirrors of a telescope
like Narcissus I see myself
in every blotch of light
that took so long to travel back.
is it because i am there
or because i want to be
as the light hits the ink does
it spell out "this is for you"
or form the shape of an ink spill
I will only reach for it with metaphor
just to be safe,
to buffer the heat of the stars
3.
I tried to grow a cafe
but, sneakily, it grew into a temple.
do i drink tea and never pray,
pretend the windows aren't glowing colors
and the pillars don't hold up the sky?
does drinking tea and chatting about proust
ever turn a temple back into a cafe?
no
epilogue.
a voice in a cage
two sets of lips
sip on the lip of a tea cup
against the softness that filled the air
with warmth and itself
being held by holding
the king of hearts: "my king's heart throbs at the cards you put down"
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Zogatar visits flattop grill
Once, back in the past, I went with some friends to a restaurant place. The comic is the only good thing that came of that day.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Happy Lords #29-35
The painting in the above comic is partially a copy of an actual humorist painting by my friend Gavin Bunner. You can see more of his paintings on his blog:http://hatercolorsdaily.blogspot.com/
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