Today's exercise: write a George Carlin memorial poem, using the famous seven words: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits

Ikkyu, my favorite zen lunatic
wrote poetry about his cock
and about kissing his lover's cunt
he would wear his priests robes when he went to the brothels to fuck the whores
shocked many, enlightened some -
for his sins they made him abbot of one of
Kyoto's great temples

was he a wise man? or a profane motherfucker?

another zen master once said that buddha is
a stick covered in shit
this doesn't make much sense
out of context:

monk and master walking by the outhouse
maybe overwhelmed by the smell of piss
monk asked what is buddha
master points at first thing he sees, a stick for stirring ashes into the shit to make fertilizer,
says a shit-covered stick

sacred? profane?

when you were a baby
you and your dad both liked your mother's tits
but for different reasons
and if your sainted mother wasn't a cocksucker
then I feel sorry for your dad

sacred? profane?

if you think there's a difference
you miss the mark
hell has two versions
one full of filth
one antiseptic and dead and lifeless

life is dirty and squishy
sex and childbirth will both
make the sheets a mess

I am an expert in belief
I can believe six impossible things before breakfast
I believe in
the essential goodness of man
the Easter Bunny, the Mothman,
six different theories about UFOs
the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum theory
the forgiveness of sins
the existence of honest politicians
that light is both a wave and a particle
astrology, palmistry, the Tarot, the I Ching, angels, auras, cosmic vibrations, mystical visions
the headlines of the New York Times
and the moral purity of rock and roll music

So when she said she loved me
Yes
I believed

George Carlin's death has been in the news all week. Rightly so - as Jon Stewart said, I'm tired of people we need leaving us.

I remember when I was 16 or 17 and had my wisdom teeth out, my mom brought me home a couple of Carlin videotapes (remember those?) to help take my mind off the pain. (My mom, I should note, rules - a very nice lady who would never use the sort of language Carlin was famous for, but is still hip enough to get his stuff.) I had seen his stuff on Saturday Night Live reruns, but this was the first time I'd seen him all uncensored. Maybe it was the pain drugs, but gods, it was funny.

A few weks ago - a few days before FSG - I was sitting zazen one night before going to bed. Pretty tired, I was almost nodding off, then catching myself to stay awake. And in one moment, just as I started to fall asleep and caught myself, I heard the weirdest phrase inside my head:

"I'm not here to defend the bookmobile."

I have no idea what that means. I hadn't seen or thought about a bookmobile in ages. And why would one need defending? Against whom or what?

Zelda's Inferno exercise for June 22: freewrite on the phrase "She told me God spoke to her and I believed her"

She told me God spoke to her and I believed her. But then I try to believe six impossible things before breakfast, so I've had lots of practice. I believe in the essential goodness of man, the Easter Bunny, the Mothman, six different theories about UFOs, the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum theory, the forgiveness of sins, the existence of honest politicians, that light is both a wave and a particle and something emitted from the eye, astrology, palmistry, the Tarot, the I Ching, angels, auras, cosmic vibrations, mystical visions, Bigfoot, the headlines of the New York Times, and the moral superiority of rock and roll to country music. So God speaks to you? Sure.

She told me God spoke to her and I believed her. God spoke to me, in the wind, in every sunbeam, in the mingled scent of sea air and piss, in the dance of trees before the thunderstorm, in the dusting of freckles on the shoulder of the pretty redhead ahead of me in line for coffee...and why would She speak only to me?

She told me God spoke to her and I beleived her. 'Cause I'm a sucker like that. She told me God told her I needed to give her $5,000 in small unmarked bills, and I believed her. She told me God spoke to her of a great tribulation, of the fire to come, and how only a few would be spared, and I believed her. She told me God spoke to her of death and destruction and the salvation of True Beleivers who Gave All for The Cause, and I believed her. Sucker.

I saw the luckiest deer in the state of Maryland today, on the way home from FSG. Saw him run from the median strip across four lanes of traffic into the woods and was unscathed. (And I suppose he must have run across he other four lanes to get into the median in the first place.)

Tonight's Zelda's Inferno exercise: a free write on "why don't you have a Christmas tree?" (random phrase from today's New York Times)

I don't have a christmas tree because it's june. But I don't have a christmas tree in December, either - cutting down a tree just doesn't seem celebratory to me.

And of course I don't have a Christmas tree because I don't do Christmas, don't do the whole Christianity thing.

Why don't you have a Christmas tree? Why don't you have a cup of tea? Why don't you have an orgasm? Why don't you have a better idea? Why don't you have a heart attack? Why don't you have a six foot tall blow-up Godzilla doll? Why don't you have a nice day? Why don't you have chills up and down your spine? Why don't you have a photograph of your own gall bladder? Why don't you have your homework? Why don't you have a birthmark shaped like the letter Z in 16 point bold Helvetica? why don't you have a cup of tea? Help yourself.

I spun fire!

Just back from FSG. Got to light up my fire poi and spin at the bonfire last night. Yay.

An interesting night - a strong storm came through and knocked out power. Our scheduled performance was a magic show with Jeff and Abbi McBride (a.k.a. Magnus and Spinner); being troupers, they offered to do a show by candlelight and flashlight. But someone came up with a generator - just enough power to run stage lights and sound - and the show was a blast.

Today's Zelda's Inferno exercise was pretty open-ended: take something unfunny and write a funny poem, or vice-versa, or write about you relationship with an inanimate object. This is what came out for me...

She died in a bizarre vibrator accident. There was a power surge - what a way to go.

The undertaker couldn't get the grin off the corpse. So her family thought about making it a closed-casket service, but decided that this would raise more questions and speculation.

the memory of pain fades quickly

the mother giving birth for the second time
in the throes of labor thinks
If I remembered it was like this, I'd never have gone off the pill

the fighter in the ring thinks
as his opponent's glove finds his chin
I've never been hit like this before!
but seconds later the blow is forgotten

Today's exercise was to write a poem suitable for use on a mobile: a list poem, with lines that can be read in any order, on the theme of motion or movement. I scrambled the order of the lines; the numbers give the original order, starting (in good C hacker fashion) with 0.

1 a child waving out the back window of a schoolbus
0 no electron
     remains the same
       from moment to moment
3 trees pre-thunderstorm
    lifting skirts to show
       silver underside of leaves