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| Author |
Message |
cloud
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Signs of the Beast
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Feb 19 03:36 UTC 1999 |
The old man is laughing again.
He waves to the people walking by.
The are talking on cell phones,
linked up, connecting,
to a web of unidarity.
But the old man knows.
He stands on a porch, like a
nutcracker, tall, thin, erect.
He points up, and at least
a half dozen eyes follow
to Brilliant Gold
Searing Across the
Morning Sky.
Arching double rainbow,
the color of the gold at the
end above the words
"Over |9|9| million served!"
Fast food junkies,
livin' in the fat lane,
too fast for better,
too rich to go home.
He giggles and stomps a little foot;
A little cloud of dust jumps up,
Does a little gig.
By now, the man is too old to die,
He knows it.
His gaze wanders.
A dozen high school students light up
his face as they walk by.
The girls wear jeans,
flared at the ankles,
the boys wear khakis,
too long and too sagged.
There is a golden "O" on
their visor-like sunglasses.
They wear sweatshirts and polo.
The are the Gapped.
The old man, delighted,
Spins haphazardly,
Points accusingly,
to a high-rise,
glittering windows,
Mirrors in which
a hundred cubical slaves sweat the heat.
The widows are one way;
The old man can see in,
but the worker bees can see only themselves,
reflecting into a swarm that
reflecting into a swarm thats just like them.
The old man sits down,
mission accomplished.
--Cricket (a.k.a. Josh L!), 2/17/99, 11:44 P.M.
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| 14 responses total. |
toking
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response 1 of 14:
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Feb 19 09:03 UTC 1999 |
I'll get back to this one...but well done
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cloud
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response 2 of 14:
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Feb 19 21:15 UTC 1999 |
The third line of the second to last stanze should read "The windows are one
way;", not "widows". "windows". Sorry about any possible confusion.
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orinoco
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response 3 of 14:
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Feb 19 23:14 UTC 1999 |
"Brilliant Gold Searing Across the Morning Sky" - good, I needed my daily
Excess Capitalization fix :) No, really, though, that's a nice touch.
I don't know if I get it, but I kind of like it.
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lumen
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response 4 of 14:
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Feb 22 23:04 UTC 1999 |
oooh, isn't crass commericalism creepy sometimes? For all the excess of
the 80's, commercialism is much worse nowadays. People can look like
walking advertisements.
I love the analogy of a swarm of bees-- a very interesting fit since I
hear more often about lemmings.
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cloud
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response 5 of 14:
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Feb 23 02:44 UTC 1999 |
Yeah, I just had this poem workshoped, and one of the teacher's suggestions
was that I just simply title it "Bees". While I like the idea of a insect
thing, I'm not really a fan of that idea, for some reason. Does anyone have
any other sugestions?
Other suggestions were that I clairify what's up with the old man, and
make the ending a little less ambigous. What do you guys think?
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bookworm
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response 6 of 14:
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Feb 23 05:24 UTC 1999 |
I like the title as is. So call me a lemming.
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lumen
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response 7 of 14:
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Feb 24 00:24 UTC 1999 |
No. Don't clarify the old man. I see deception fitting very well with
his character, and it would be better not to reveal him or his
machinations.
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arianna
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response 8 of 14:
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Mar 14 00:59 UTC 1999 |
re #3: Dan, that line reminded me of a newspaper headline. (;
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orinoco
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response 9 of 14:
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Mar 14 22:05 UTC 1999 |
Oh, I would like to see that in the papers.
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cloud
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response 10 of 14:
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Mar 17 03:25 UTC 1999 |
I did a re-write...
The Bee Keeper
The old man is smiling again.
He trundles his Mejer cart down the sidewalk,
Waving to the people walking by.
They are talking on cell phones,
linked up, connecting,
to a hive of unidarity.
The old man knows.
He stands like a nutcracker;
tall, thin, erect.
Abruptly stooping, he harvests a cup,
puts it in his cart.
Looks up where it came.
An arching double rainbow,
brilliant gold across the morning sky.
"Over |9|9| million served!"
Here the fast food junkies
hum along in the fat lane,
too fast for better,
too rich to go home.
The old mans gaze wanders.
A dozen high school students light up
his face as they walk by.
The girls wear jeans,
flared at the ankles,
the boys wear khakis,
too long and too sagged.
There is a golden "O" on
their visor-like sunglasses.
They wear sweatshirts and polo.
The are the Gapped.
The old man takes the fruit of their passing;
a single roach.
His daily rounds take him to a dumpster
he digs around, comes up with a wad of paper
Photo copied paper,
It (he knows) came from a high-rise,
glittering windows.
Mirrors in which
a hundred cubical slaves sweat the heat.
The windows are all one way;
The old man can see in,
but the worker bees can see only themselves,
comforting infinite numbers
of a swarm thats just like them.
The old man puts the paper in his cart
treadles off.
--Cricket, 2/17/99, 11:44 P.M.
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lumen
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response 11 of 14:
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Mar 17 06:18 UTC 1999 |
"Mejer" cart? Hrm, I don't like that addition, Josh, since those of us
outside the Mideast may not know about Mejer's. They don't have them
out here.
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cloud
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response 12 of 14:
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Mar 18 00:22 UTC 1999 |
How about "supermarket cart?"
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orinoco
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response 13 of 14:
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Mar 18 04:14 UTC 1999 |
"shopping cart" would be my vote. Did you have it that way the first time
around?
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cloud
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response 14 of 14:
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Mar 19 00:05 UTC 1999 |
no, I added the shopping cart stuff after writing a couple paragraphs about
who the old man was and what he did. Then I re-wrote the poem to be a little
clearer, I think. I don't know if the poem hangs together very well now,
'though.
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