Archive for the '1' Category

Finally We Have a Way

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Finally we have a way to efficiently
deliver genome-editing proteins.
I have been ranting about this for years.
How, you ask? Good question. By
using bioreducible lipid nanoparticles!
Can you believe the solution
has been staring us in the face
like a hungry dog for seemingly ever
and none of us noticed? I mean,
who hasn’t recognized the inefficiency
of delivery of protein cargo across
the mammalian cell membrane,
including escape from endosomes,
as a challenge whose solution could
only advance therapeutic outcomes???
Certainly I did. My boyfriend did. And
if you didn’t, you’re an arse-hole.

• • • 
 

The Answer Was Right In Front of Us All Along

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

cyiuppvxcaa6s1h

Lovesong

Monday, November 28, 2016

How dumb are you? Well let’s see.
Let’s start with how dumb I am,
and I can answer that simply
by pointing to my garden.
It’s fruitful. I’m not dumb,
nor, despite your fondness of me,
are you. You’re brilliant, sweet;
if the world’s a vegetable stew
you are its best little pea,
and I mean that sincerely.
I don’t love stew, Marjorie.
Maybe I’m good not with words,
but then again neither are you,
I’d wager, based on your verbal.
Oh, you don’t like bringing
that up? Haha, math whiz.
You auto-outperform a quadratic
equation scholar in your head
but don’t know where Bath is.
You know where the bath is,
and so do i. So do we. How cute
are we, padding from the ensuite
all damp and betowelled? Well
I’ll leave that to the crowd
to determine by its applause.
Meanwhile we’ll be in the loveseat
kissing and trading old saws.

• • •
 

The Poet Blooms

Monday, November 28, 2016

When I touched the page
it bloomed into a poem,
and then into many
poems it blossomed:

poems about love
and poems about loss,
poems about the body
and about time and wonder.

When I stopped touching it,
it turned back into a page
with no poems on it—
like a bonnet with no bees

in it, or a shawl with no fleas
throughout it, or a dog who’d
barked all its barks and then
gotten eaten by sharks.

I walked back into the kitchen
to find myself a snack. All
there were were Ding Dongs,
so I ate one of them.

• • •

My Best Friend’s Wedding

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

What if you watch all but the last 30
minutes of My Best Friend’s Wedding, so
you don’t know who he ends up with—

or “up with whom he ends,” as it were—
does it matter? It is less a film, in any
case, than a parable of the good life

gone horribly better, with one too many
statuesque divas cavorting in and out
of Victorian doorways and filigreed

elevators, shushed bellhops and tailors
backing carefully out of frame, gala
proceedings only a handful of the millions

who’ve flocked to giggle at this flick
could come close to affording, and for what?
To descry, if distantly, men and women

so articulate and elegantly appointed
as to draw attention away from our so-called
lives, here, in the mud of clerical serfdom,

where nothing ever ends well, or in fact,
even ever ends. It just keeps going;
you don’t quite know what’s happening.

• • •

Drink to Me Only

Friday, November 18, 2016

Drink to me only with thy likes
     On Facebook, and I will pledge
My likes in turn, a small exchange
     For all the love thou’st shown to me

Via social media such as pokes
     And mentions. Text to me pics
Of thy cute self in various places
     Posing in different outfits,

And I shall text to thee my bald-
     Erdash poetic bits, fey regards,
Observations odd and otherwise,
     Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope that there,
     Haloed in retina HD light,
Our likes might grow into a love
     Half-realized, deletable, divine.

• • •

Frustration

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Trying to understand my neighbor.
I can’t. She is super weird, like Babar.

Me, on the other hand, I am normal.
I wear blue jeans and a sweater. Nothing formal.

I check sports scores on my phone.
She, however, sits eating peanuts alone

looking across the yard at me.
Well what is she expecting to see?

Fine so I don’t have much of a social life.
At least I don’t wander around with a knife

whispering the names of neighborhood children
like some sort of incantation.

At least I don’t wear a chandelier on my head
and answer the phone “Is this Fred?”

every time. Like, yes, that is my name,
but why does she answer everyone the same?

Her back yard resembles a dump,
and I’m guessing she even voted for Trump.

I’ll never be able to sell this place
with her walking around with that look on her face

carrying a sleeping bag full of slippers
and penguin flippers.

Plus, she’s never willing to lend me milk.
So tired of her and her ilk.

• • •

When I Was a Poet

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

When I was a poet
I didn’t walk, I strutted.
My two holly bushes
didn’t touch; they “abutted.”
Now that I’m a priest
I mostly stay seated.
My words aren’t so great,
but at least they’re repeated.
When I become king
I will carry a sword
that will be sharper
than any human word.

• • •

The Importance of Self-Care During the Apocalypse

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

In other news, handbasket sales are skyrocketing,
and so are skyrocket sales, reported skyrocket
and handbasket sales reports earlier this month.

Silver lining? Think again: DriClime® polyester
lines a rugged but breathable shell putting this
all-season cagoule at the top of your handbasket

for years to come. “What’s in your handbasket?”
goes the popular slogan, though silver and gold
have we none, such as we have we give you—

credit. And the Apocalypse. And a word to the wise:
Take care of yourself. Take a walk, give a hand
job (or jobs), count to 500. You know, Botany 500.

Breathe. The 700 Club. Mile High Club. Fight Club.
Club Med. Breathe (in the air). It’s politics
qua politics—it’s politics during the Apocayplse.

• • •

I Derive Joy

Monday, November 14, 2016

I derive joy from music—and
from art. And also from visiting
large, old buildings of historical

significance. I derive joy from food,
the eating thereof, and from
watching Will Ferrell acting

the horse’s ass on a TV screen
late at night—and I like to board
aeroplanes early in the morning.

I derive joy from driving my car
through rain to points unknown,
or hitherto unknown, and getting

out of my car and walking
around in said rain, provided
I am adequately outfitted for such

activities. And I generally am.
I am generally ready, on time,
adequately clothed and shod

for whatever lies before me. Are you?
From what do you derive joy,
and are you prepared for it?

• • •