The Cat’s Meow:

Photo / graphic by Roman.

A life performed before
Entities that were never there
Regardless of Shrödinger
I’m here

Yip

At Space Station Omega

the force fields are fully engaged
to send any and all
circling a wormhole drain
around a realm of imagination
where nothing and everything
is down the drain
including the drain

Photo / graphic by Roman.

Stair Noir

No exit and no return

From these imprisoning shadows.
A rustling creak creeps above
From a dread dimly seen
Thrills a chill of loosened bowels.
You really don’t want to know…

–Yip

Photo by Roman.

UniVerse

i am but an imaginary number
carried away on a wind of neutrinos
like unto a swirl in the turbulence
of a murmuration of starlings

it’s one of those things
you cannot know
by just kicking the tyres

–Yip

Photo by Roman.

Morning

One lone bird at
Dawn calls in the silence
Without reply.
Why do I hear the word
“Survivor”?

— Yip

Santa on Vacation?

Photo by Roman

— Santa Claus!

The fat man whirled with a finger to his lips.

— Shush! If Mrs. Claus finds out I’m here, there’ll be hell to pay. She thinks I’m in contract negotiations with the Elves Union. Not another word, not to anyone, or you won’t even get coal in your Christmas sock. There’ll be coal ash under your tree and your home will be an EPA superfund site.

— Will there be a strike?

— Of course not! We settled-up in an afternoon. It was mostly a matter of the elves trying to figure out what the elves wanted; they’re never prepared.

— What did they get?

— Anything they wanted. They’re elves for Pete’s Sake! You don’t mess with them when they’re on a solidarity kick. And, anyway, it’s for Christmas; why would anyone deny them? Now if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got tickets to see Elvish Pressley and I gotta go.

— But what are–

— Not a word! Remember!

— Yip

Back when I was some 40 pounds heavier, “Santa!” was a typical wise-guy cry, at least seasonally, though my impression is that it was as much the beard and the coat as it was the weight because during the warm months of the year “ZZ Top!” would take the lead.

But I have indeed threatened coal ash when fingered as Santa. “ZZ Top” usually just got a denying shake of the head with a smile but on one occasion, the bloke was serious. That was creepy.

Before the COVID, these encounters would happen several times each year, mostly in good humor though repetitious. Even so, children, be careful what you wish for when you wish to be a star.

Post Script: It hadn’t happened in a while, but this last Sunday I was fingered as Jerry Garcia. But wait, Garcia is gratefully dead. Do I look that bad?

If You Can’t Complain, Come Fancy

Ageing makes the mundane laborious.
Pretending to be a poem,
I pace for exercise…

–Yip

Night Lights 6

Photo / graphic by Roman.

Where am I? My situational awareness is absent, reduced to warmth… comfort… bed… and as I begin to awaken I seem to rotate within some delimited space, falling toward a maximum probability until: I fit! That’s right. It’s night. I’m in bed and not at all ready for the day, which it is not. If you love me, I will sleep.

Yip

In the Time of Feeling Fragile

Photo by Roman.

I became ill several days ago. Oh no… I’ll not burden you with a mantra chant of symptoms: coincidental or otherwise, imaginary or all too real, amusing or gross.

So what is wrong and what of it?

How can I tell you? I mean… I do not know. Could be one thing. Could be another. Could be several things. A label would be idle speculation.

And so what of it…

Simply that it slowed me down… Yet that only made a small difference in what I’ve accomplished. No, this is not a triumph. Rather it is that I was already moving that slow.

–Yip

As If Shading Its Eyes

Photo by Roman.

This was back in the paleodigital…

The volunteer coordinator briefed me: “She’s odd; she’s a medium.”

When I called for Madame N., there was a long silence on the line.

Then she replied: “Don’t worry. Someday you’ll find her.”

Alas. I wanted only her vote.

–Yip