Snip from a lipogram musical

…a total WIP.

Boss: Kayla! How’s it going? Anything wrong with our forms?
Kayla: No, that’s all good. Do you still want a guy to fill Colin’s spot?
Boss: I might. Who’s this?
Scott: I’m Scott. I’m from out of town.
Boss: Out of town? And you want a job fixing up this school?
Scott: If it’s alright.
Boss: Do you know how to build buildings?
Scott: Um…no, can’t say I do.
Boss: Do you want this building to look a particular way?
Scott: As long as it’s sturdy, no.
Boss: Will you contradict my plans for it?
Scott: No way! I don’t know how to do it on my own.
Boss: Sounds good!
Scott (turning): Thank–
(but Kayla didn’t stick around)
Boss (smiling broadly): Guys, this is Scott—who knows how to shut up!

Guy 1:
I can show you all I know about construction
How to look at plans, and follow such instruction
Just try to avoid outright contradiction
Of our boss—a good guy, who just can’t stand friction.

Chorus (all, bar boss and Scott):
Just follow this pithy quotation
It’ll hold up in a long haul
If you don’t know anything good to say
Don’t say anything at all.

Guy 2:
I am not familiar with a craftsman’s training
But part of it has to focus on abstaining
From conflict. For I know that any artisan
Cannot say too much, and can say nothing partisan.
(Chorus)

Guy 3:
Any job will ask for a distinct ability
But any job also will ask for humility.
Going on about my humility’s bragging.
So I’ll just stick to my policy of gagging.
(Chorus)

Guy 1:
Now it’s okay that I’m showing all this to you;
Showing and not saying is a good thing to do.
Scott: I must ask to satisfy my curiosity
Guy 4: I must sing to show off all my virtuosity.
(awkward looks around)

But follow this pithy quotation…

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More things change

(As mentioned previously, I’ve been pushing myself in unfamiliar directions poetry-wise, so you might see a little more free verse from me. There were several “triggering events” for this one, and maybe they deserve separate poems, but I’m not interested in doing too much with this form just yet. 😉 Some big, or at least medium-sized, lipogram updates are on the way, but that’s for later.)

Dance partners for this blink
I clutch your frigid hand
Through the digital whirlwind
Flecks swarming all around
Under the ideal gas law
We can assume they’re moving in every direction equally.

In real life, gravity wins
And the roof falls in.

Half the lessons unteachable
Would and rightly meet
Only ridicule–if you’d been there
Gone through it, hated the going through

Tears spawning tears, two layers
Of blankets, one above and one beneath
Pain lancing through darkness,
A desperate pride inching
Sideways on a tightrope

You wouldn’t believe either, what might come
From such a storm.

And he was wrong, it was not his
Hall of Fame. It’s no one’s.

We belong to each other.
We cannot pull away.

We are children suspended
between two flags.

Hockey Muse: Revenge of the Sieve

…or not.

The Buckeyes’ niche in my memory is fond; seeing them lose, I first listened to providers of pep music shout their ridiculous insults. Time went on, but seeing them get destroyed reminds me; some cruel insults, to my gleeful delight never get old. (Though this time, some self-censorship occurred during the concluding line. No problem. I know how it should go.)

The pep yells weren’t completely de rigueur; this competition, unlike previous ones, included them extolling whichever food (i.e. pretzels) they were enjoying. Plus, when the guy in the booth told us “One minute left in this period, one minute”, they responded by giving responding yells which prompted him to tell them “You’re welcome.” Fine, except they didn’t begin the proceedings by inquiring, “Hey, “ref”, how much time is left?” Silly omission. Oh well.

But the competition itself kept us interested. We scored quickly, the scorer’s eighth of the winter (to put her in first for our side). Then, one of the others served two minutes for hooking. She returned to the ice without incident. Concluding kills would be simple, one of ours duly went to the box.

Turns out, we scored then too. The scorer moved to the net by herself for her eighth of the winter (thus tying her for first). Soon enough, “full strength!” The pep crowd points out our strength is consistently full, five on the ice or six.

We scored the third time to begin the second; this, plus the netminders switching ends, prompted yet more snicker-worthy insults. Closer to the end of the second, I didn’t think the puck crossed their line, but the guy in the box thought it did. So, it’s someone else’s eighth for us, tying her…well, you get it by now.

“FIX” is how the reverse of one ref’s jersey looks. The result is predetermined? Oops.

The third begins with less excitement. Oh well, we don’t need to score twice in every period. Or do we? There’s our fifth, with five minutes left…

“One minute left,” once more, with no preceding question. But it’s fine. With forty-two seconds left, we score once more.

The insults write themselves sometimes.

e rigueur

Carrion Comfort

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, giving up, not claim you;
Not untwist, slack as it is, this last strand of man
Within my mind, or cry I cannot go on. I can;
Can…what? Wish it was day. Or not stop living, too.
But ah, but O thou monstrous, why would you hurtfully do
All this–wring out my right foot? attack with a lionlimb? scan
With a malicious look my bruising body? and fan,
O in turns of whirlwind, my form frantic just to avoid you or fight through.
Why? That my chaff might fly, my grain stand, straight and bright.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, for (right?) I kiss a rod,
No, a hand, I wasn’t strong, looking for joy, caught sight
Sight of whom? That champion by whom I was flung–his foot trod
On holy ground–or his rival? O who? Is it both? That month, that night
Of dark that’s past now I worm lay struggling with (my God!) my God.