Poetry Challenge #20: SOUL TALK

Hello, everyone!

Today’s Poetry Challenge is to re-write Frank O’Hara’s Lines for the Fortune Cookies.



The ideal fortune is a one-liner. Please send me your ideas for fortune cookies!

Here are my offerings:

Which came first the fortune cookie or the egg?

The future starts any minute now.

When I look into your eyes I see a Do Not Disturb sign.

Your dream is still to be claimed by you.

Run your own marathon race don’t walk a mile in my shoes.

If you’re going somewhere over the rainbow take an umbrella.

Instead of taking the stairs two at a time live on the ground floor.

Every picture tells a story so where’s yours?

Invisible ink is no reflection on you.

The next person who asks you to dance will understand you.

Enlightenment for Dummies? Be Zen for the hell of it!

If you want to meet me in person leave your gun home. 

You can take a horse to water but don’t expect the horse to pay for the drinks.


One Lovely Blog Award

Yesterday, I received a wonderful surprise from the handsome and gifted Scott M. at Gnostic Bent! http://gnosticbent.wordpress.com

Scott nominated my blog for the One Lovely Blog Award, and I feel deeply blessed. I truly appreciate the nomination and wish my fellow bloggers luck in winning this prestigious award, too.

Now for “The Rules.” Anyone nominated for the One Lovely Blog Award must do the following to keep this unique prize rolling:

  • Thank the person who nominated you and link to them in your post.
  • Share seven unknown things about yourself.
  • Nominate other bloggers and blogs you like or admire… 15 or so if possible.
  • Contact the bloggers you nominate to let them know and to link them back to your post so they can read “The Rules,” too.

The second “rule” demands that I share seven unknown things about myself, which will not be easy as many of my quirks are better left unspoken…

  1. I founded a Secret Society.
  2. I used to be called Fred.
  3. I married a Ghanian cinema projectionist in my Gap Year.
  4. When I spent the night in the town where the civil war started in Sierra Leone, I dreamed of Stanley Kubrick.
  5. My first job when I was seven years old was teaching elementary ballet to four and five year-olds.
  6. My favourite number is 107.
  7. When I had no place to stay in New York City I spent my nights in the business library of  Columbia University.

And now for the blogs I admire and want to nominate for the One Lovely Blog Award. These are some of the people who inspire me and make a difference to my life. Thank you.

Words in verses & verses in ≈ motion ≈ by LauraLME

Flashlight City Blues by Brice Maiurro

The Writing Corp Official Blog by Vergielyn Cubol

bottledworder – Words in a blogule!

Rebecca Youssefi – Visual Artist

The Engineer of Himself, pt. 5: Appropriate Voicing
by N Filbert


To Be Aware by Ido Lanuel

Project 365 by Kenneth Todd

We’re all on our way home by Sarah Silver

Unbound Boxes Limping Gods by Cheryl Moore

Heaven 4 Earth by MonaD’E

Jus Naturale – Fictions by A.S.J. Ellis

clotildajamcracker – The wacky stories of a crazy lady.


Thanks again for the wonderful honour and I wish all of you well. Good luck, nominees!

The Electric Palace

Scars of a whipped slave (April 2, 1863, Baton...
Image via Wikipedia

Here I sit in the house I was conceived in. If I am mistaken, I go about it quietly. Fastidious as I am in matters of delicacy. My great grand-mother Alice (the one with the long tail) never tired of telling me that sin is for the mind with pinhole capacity.

“How are you my darling petal?” I say giving Alice an impromptu kiss. A line coruscates her forehead. She waits. She frowns. She tumbles into the other world. (How impolite!)

A whirl of dervish motion re-appears as a tail of shimmering blur. And a halo. Her ghost hallucinates a four-inch wide balance beam and wields a striking pose in this dark recess of our Elizabethan household empowering the landed occupants to set sail to the New World. With her easy grin she mocks her hosts… their skins a landscape of polished claws. For redemption. For forebearance. For blessing the tides to ease their rugged ways: my Light forebears are an elite gang with a charcoal-coloured ship. Each morning brings examination of our black prisoners. The mortality rate of our inferior cargo is rising…

My grief is not measureable not like equations. Room temperature. Wind speed. Daylight. Dusk. Dawn again? Oh darned self-desultory dawn. Self-illusory dawn. Self-flagellation dawn. No! No! I cannot bare another dishonest dawn. Ignoble. Divested of sweet honesty. Who am I? A distant ancestor, whip in hand, shouting orders to his second mate. Wither embarrassment. Wither shame. She thinks I bare a charcoal grin, I’ll show her destiny does not appear in vain.

The Museum of Fictions – extract.

A woman with her feet unwrapped
Image via Wikipedia

The Museum of Fictions is a book about the nomadic museum in Paris. In this section of the book, a guru called Monsieur Hightowers initiates Michele, an Afro-British visitor to Paris, into the arcane ritual of how to wear a museum on one’s body.

We’re all extras, Michele: we live, we morph, we die. Did you fulfill your promise, today? Paris changes with every new wave of gentrification.

So how will I blend in with the Parisian decorators?

You will build a nomadic museum in your studio apartment in Auteuil. Because the museum is nomadic… you will pick yourself up, put yourself down, walk the streets of Paris and take your nomadic museum onto the Paris metro.

That’s the way to blend in around here?

Yes, the museum will be powered by your persona of a woman nomad who, in order to bring her museum to the people, chooses to carry her museum on her body: she then adds extensions to her frame by trailing clothes lines from her limbs. The clothes lines are filled with washing pegs from which hang the pages of the museum’s catalogue. The catalogue is called The Museum of Fictions.

On page one we have maps of pre-sand Egypt; page two: joined up walking with minimal independence due to foot binding; page three; flying yogis, flying. And so it goes on…

Great! Got that! And how do I support myself?

Monsieur Hightowers peels off magic maintenance from a handful of carpet fibers and gives the gift to Michele.

And you just show up like a companion genie.

I envy the fact that you have no family.

I walked from away from them. Are you prepared to do that?

Michele, weren’t you the lucky one who shot your parents?

Luck has nothing to do with it; I just saw a window of opportunity and climbed through it. Don’t let anger lapse into long-held resentment. Finish the task. Blow the whole fucking bridge up if you have to.

Precisely Michele, and reproduce images without pondering unduly. Imagine if you were to do this and nothing else, you would never lack motivation, would you? Either get on with what you came here to do, or continue on like the marionette who never advances beyond the paper finger exercises to the piano. The leader of the pack or should I say the reluctant leader? Willing to let everyone else show their hand before stepping forward and saying … Truth, Knowledge, Ascension, pick a card. And God said:

Ahem, you know how I feel about the words G.O.D.

Okay Buddha, feel bitter about him, too?

Look, could you just tell me how I operate this bloody museum? Do I have a team or do I go it alone?

Nomad open architecture, we each improve the other. There’s madness in Paris that is spiritual. Do you have any doubts? If not, I should leave.

Where do I begin?

Begin where you stand. In the Museum of Fictions, the welcome is only temporary.

Where have you been all my life?

I went to the end of the road.

And what was it like at the end of the road?

You tell me, your body is now a visionary factory.