These work far better than my old improvisational methods: 1) breaking the neck off using a car bumper, or b) using a pencil or other object and hammering the cork down into the bottle. Image from Uproot.
---o0o---
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Opening a wine bottle with no corkscrew
Pablo Fanque, Beverage Editor
These work far better than my old improvisational methods: 1) breaking the neck off using a car bumper, or b) using a pencil or other object and hammering the cork down into the bottle. Image from Uproot.
These work far better than my old improvisational methods: 1) breaking the neck off using a car bumper, or b) using a pencil or other object and hammering the cork down into the bottle. Image from Uproot.
Poem: The Clock
By Jack Brummet
-1-
The fast hand sloughs seconds
Onto the clock dial, tugging
Hours and minutes along
As time burnishes our masks.
-2-
A paring of grey moonshell
Wheels over our shoulders,
Waltzing a sea surge
Across the ocean floor.
-3-
Under a red sun, night retracts its stars.
Starfish lounge on rocks,
The sun in Japan sinks
In water at sight's end,
Flares of light appear
In the opposing hemisphere,
And earth surrenders its heat,
Trading degrees with the shifting winds.
---o0o---
Onto the clock dial, tugging
Hours and minutes along
As time burnishes our masks.
-2-
A paring of grey moonshell
Wheels over our shoulders,
Waltzing a sea surge
Across the ocean floor.
-3-
Under a red sun, night retracts its stars.
Starfish lounge on rocks,
The sun in Japan sinks
In water at sight's end,
Flares of light appear
In the opposing hemisphere,
And earth surrenders its heat,
Trading degrees with the shifting winds.
---o0o---
Poem: The Painting
By Jack Brummet
He is tired of the dark sun.
He wants to lie down and rest.
No news comes from a far country.
The real estate around him —
A confabulation of blue and red stone —
Chills in an un-harbored sea.
The black sun was pushed, fell, or jumped,
To shine back upon itself.
He knows the sun will never set.
He cannot open his mouth to scream.
The oars will never move.
The island of color
Will always be eight inches away
And the boat
Will always be sinking.
The tattered sails hang in the wind.
The next day refuses to begin.
He clutches that blue banjo
As his ship tilts toward heaven.
---o0o---
Started 1997, finished 2013
The figure you brushed in,
Stuck
under static skies,
Wants off the canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing scumbled seas
Under impasto thunderheads.
Wants off the canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing scumbled seas
Under impasto thunderheads.
He is tired of the dark sun.
He wants to lie down and rest.
No news comes from a far country.
The real estate around him —
A confabulation of blue and red stone —
Chills in an un-harbored sea.
The black sun was pushed, fell, or jumped,
To shine back upon itself.
He knows the sun will never set.
He cannot open his mouth to scream.
The oars will never move.
The island of color
Will always be eight inches away
And the boat
Will always be sinking.
The tattered sails hang in the wind.
The next day refuses to begin.
He clutches that blue banjo
As his ship tilts toward heaven.
---o0o---
Monday, December 16, 2013
Drawings: Faces No. 576, 577,578, 579, and 580
By Jack Brummet
[Pencil and Sharpie on wooden box]
[Pencil and Sharpie on wooden box]
---o0o---
The IRT Subway, circa 1978
By Jack Brummet, NYC Metro Ed.
When we lived in NYC (1977-1982), this is what our local subway (the west side IRT, Lines 1, 2, and 3) typically looked like, although most often you couldn't see through the windows due to extensive tagging. . .
[photo marked 1978, provenance unknown]
.
When we lived in NYC (1977-1982), this is what our local subway (the west side IRT, Lines 1, 2, and 3) typically looked like, although most often you couldn't see through the windows due to extensive tagging. . .
[photo marked 1978, provenance unknown]
.
---o0o---
Sunday, December 15, 2013
I declare I have moon dust: the customs form for Apollo 11's return to earth
By Jack Brummet, Extraterrestrial Excursions Ed.
Like the rest of us with more terrestrial destinations, Apollo 11 returned from the Moon, and had to go through customs and immigration. And fill out the form.
Like the rest of us with more terrestrial destinations, Apollo 11 returned from the Moon, and had to go through customs and immigration. And fill out the form.
---o0o---
Poem: Dodgeball
By Jack Brummet
We play dodgeball,
But can’t see the ball.
We bob and weave
Through unseen hazards and shoals
And almost always feel less safe
Than we actually are.
---o0o---
We play dodgeball,
But can’t see the ball.
We bob and weave
Through unseen hazards and shoals
And almost always feel less safe
Than we actually are.
---o0o---
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Poem: Home Like A Salmon
By Jack Brummet
Crossing real estate lines
That mean nothing to him,
Coyote traverses the pale fog
Driven in from the sea.
He has a loan of time
To walk through his old salal tangled home.
Sneaking through nettles and Oregon grape,
He carries his battered canoe
Along magnolia darkened clay
Back where he grew from whelp to pup.
Down whitewater roiling over boulders
He feathers the current with his paddle,
Turning in the current like a leaf.
The spent river slinks into the sea.
Pipers spoon their bills in the sand for clams
And robins claw at earthworms.
A diving hawk sends smaller birds
Tumbling into hysterical flight.
His bones feel fragile as obsidian
As he watches the green Kalopanish stop
And they all come to the end:
The river, the creek, and God's old friend.
That mean nothing to him,
Coyote traverses the pale fog
Driven in from the sea.
He has a loan of time
To walk through his old salal tangled home.
Sneaking through nettles and Oregon grape,
He carries his battered canoe
Along magnolia darkened clay
Back where he grew from whelp to pup.
Down whitewater roiling over boulders
He feathers the current with his paddle,
Turning in the current like a leaf.
The spent river slinks into the sea.
Pipers spoon their bills in the sand for clams
And robins claw at earthworms.
A diving hawk sends smaller birds
Tumbling into hysterical flight.
His bones feel fragile as obsidian
As he watches the green Kalopanish stop
And they all come to the end:
The river, the creek, and God's old friend.
---o0o---
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)