I possess enough common sense to call
Myself fatidic and know that it’s a lie.
Image is from Denys Arcand's Jesus of Montreal
Relating to or characterized by prophecy; prophetic.
[Latin fātidicus : fātum, prophecy, doom; see fate + dīcere, to say; see deik- in Indo-European roots.]
I take umbrage to Aeolus’ fan
When the ensuing clouds disrupt my tan.
Another simple play on words.
Are you quixotic, squirrel?
What urgent quest compels you
To keep blurring my photos
When I try to pin you down?
Is it for love or adventure?
Is it for justice or fame
Or to battle armed windmills,
My heroic Don Squirrel?
It was just for food.
You’ve ruined my poem.
A silly poem I wrote for a Berkeley squirrel that was bounding around my bench while I was contemplating the word quixotic.
In dreams I wander through the realms
Of convex mirrors, breaking glass
To find the shattered remnants pull
Together forming a flaneur
Like me who only wants to write
His name in water. Hand and hand
That feel like glass, they smear their sweat
And trace the letters of their self—
But one of them writes it backwards.
Read John Ashbery’s poetic ekphrasis of the painting above here.
\flah-NUR\ , noun;
1. One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.
I saw red gerberas, and as always
I suffered from recidivism; slid
Down, down a snake of board games on the lawn
And kisses in the creek and freezing nights
On an old cot beneath the twisting stars.