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The Holy Grail Press is dedicated to promoting work that standard publishers... you know, those with standards, might be reluctant to publish, which pretty much leaves poetry.  And let's face it:  No one publishes poetry.  So in the end, we’re left with a lot of free time.

 

 

 

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Thursday, October 19, 2017

I Take Pictures of My Shoes

I go places like city parks,
ball games,
art shows...
just about anywhere,
and I take pictures of my shoes.

I usually sit,
but sometimes I stand,
because it's easier.

You see,
here you can tell I'm at the ballgame,
because of all the peanut shells.

And here,
I'm at the beach.
See the sand?

I've framed a few of my favourites.
On the bus to the top of Pike's Peak.
And here I am,
at the top,
standing next to those nice people from Japan.
Those are some of my favourites.

But it's all digital.
I can watch them on my flat screen,
all in a big loop,
one picture of my shoes,
followed by another picture of my shoes,
each following another,
forever.

 

10:43 am pdt 

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Birdseed and Sex

There's nothing exceptional
about a sparrow named Stanley.
All sparrows are named Stanley.
It makes things easier.

Scientific fact:
Sparrows can't tell one sparrow
from another, either.

Therefore, whenever any sparrow sees another sparrow,
which is all the time
because they always fly around together,
either of those sparrows ...or both,
or for simplicity's sake -
Stanley always assumes whatever thoughts
that other bird may be having are his own,
however fleeting those thoughts might be,
and a sparrow's thoughts do fleet so.

Humans call this schizophrenia.
Sparrows call it normal.

So when a fully grown cat
flew over Stanley's head
in what was otherwise a perfectly good day,
there were many thoughts that went fleeting fleetfully through all the Stanleys' heads.

A flying cat
must be the most superior cat.
And that would make it
the most superior being
anywhere,
even here.
God had just flown by Stanley,
and paid him no never mind.
And that was a good thing.

The cat wasn't flying at all.
It was falling,
along with everything else -
even Stanley -
all plummeting to the pavement below.
And there was nothing Stanley could do about it,
except to ignore it.
For if we all are plunging to the pavement below,
then all that matters is how gracefully we fall.

The cat alone was falling
but falling with grace,
with the wind going tippity-tippity-tip through its tail.
Falling,
as in not being able to successfully prove,
that all it takes is desire,
for a cat to fly.
But showing,
through its grace,
that dying isn't nearly as bad,
as never having tried.

But it's all academic.
Every Stanley knows a cat can't fly.
A flying cat is impossible.
However, there is a flying cat.
Therefore, all things must be possible.
And if all things are possible,
then it is just possible
that how Stanley is,
exactly right now,
is exactly good enough.

8:19 am pdt 


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