With undisclosed sources of funding, our project was going quite well. The objective was to develop a secret society of super-ants which would combat terrorism, cause humans to hide underground like sand dogs. Within a large container supplied with piped in air, we grew several colonies of mutated ants. We observed and noted their daily behaviors. They built cities and highways, erected small pyramid-shaped monuments. Over a period of time, many grew bigger, stronger, could even stand upright. According to Heiseman, Fletcher, et. al., a scenario was outlined.
The ants rose from their cities, climbed along the walls of the glass and ate their way through the black rubber tops, which they must have mistaken for a betrayal of sky. Several must have hid in the back rooms of the lab and it was theorized that one of these killed the night watchman and escaped. The night it happened to me, I was in a sound sleep. Perhaps it located my whereabouts by gamma-Ga radiation.
I heard the clomping, something climbing up the steps, a slow, heavy rhythm, the sound, I imagine a serial killer makes to let his victim know what is in store. I awoke to the giant ant, pinning my arms to the bed with its virulent pincers. This mutated ant, I remembered, was one of my most fascinating subjects and we spent hours studying each other from either side of the glass receptacle. Staring into my face with its gleaming marble eyes and in a low, clear voice resembling my own, it now asked, Who is your god?
i said wing dings, junior,
& no bugs in my bugles
… and if he just created an artificial intelligence that was able to create an artificial intelligence
below all the snow
an old dream
my balloon is free
I let it go
the air between us
Grass springs from cracks. Leaves scrape on stones. Wire creeps up a wall. A child holds out her hand.
welcome or farewell heart’s shadow
(inspired by Graffiti claimed by Banksy South Bank London – photo Kathy deWitt
Shovelling in the last of the potatoes, I push back my chair and undo my belt. My gut is round and loose. It’s been a good summer. No amount of winter will cut through me now.
slap shot …
I burrow in
my man cave
Ekphrastic haibun inspired by:
‘House on the Hill’ by Helen Garrett
Oil on board (80cm x 70cm)
Victoria Art Gallery exhibition: Towards the Unknown
(24 November – 13 January 2008)
What’s left of the Lucky Charms I mix in with a little bit of Life creating a tincture a serum a salve what-have-you that just might cure okay staunch I mean plug this feeling of being lost at sea this soupy blue milk is all I’ve got to slurp down dribble out so derelict have I become at prayers.
whiteout conditions signing my will
The house is empty. It looks plagiarised. Can you mail it some poems, words, with the right stake of grammar? Maybe some love poems because it has suffered enough of oppressed poetry on politics, wars, homelessness, economy, all that bloodlessness captured in words.
she hums his favourite
The world is an act of monomania. We are drawn towards definitions, standard synonyms like without them the whole entirety of a thing will be plainly lost and never found. In this act we forget that we discover the best when we don’t bind, don’t compel, when we just refuse to label.
the strung words that never