Ovals Are

Blog post # 207:
(207 = 3*23*3.)

Paradox Of Failure


Mind Unforeseen


Unrealistically Cater-Cornered


Algorithmic Amber


(I like "Mind Unforeseen" and "Algorithmic Amber" best.)
-------------------------

The anagrams for today:


Okay, as circles woke me;...
=
yes, see, I am a clockwork.

--

As a lover,
=
ovals are.

-------------------------

Poll results:

Estimate your own IQ:

1 person said his/her IQ was between 86 and 115.
3 people said their IQs were between 116 and 150.
And 1 person said his/her IQ was greater than 175.

(Hmmm... I doubt that last person was being very honest. Oh, well.)

No one said their IQs were less than 50, between 50 and 85, or between 151 and 175.

--------------------------

Two poems today. (Yowza.)

(Written yesterday and today. The first is a better poem, in my opinion.)

As In This Egg
-----------

As in this egg, in this sac,
within this yolk
Of amber sap
becoming such a fetus of
Its forgotten mind, oh;
that flower descends
And is wrung inside
its looping. But the egg
Is oddly spherical,
and it is a droplet yet
Ellipsoidal.
And it is an orb of
its sufficiency, yes; but
It impedes its
crescentic ascent, ha. Yes, it
Is to be the
very counterintuition of
Infantile failures each beloved,
is to be the
Very paradoxes of this
honey we never suffer.

Oh, as in this egg,
that algorithm of biology
Is our pondering;
it is our containment
Inside a faulty truth
within an eggshell,
Within the solitude of
our stupidity, within
The loneliness of
our incorrect malignity
Therefore tasty,
therefore alive.

------------------------

Cater-Cornered Strangeness
-------------------

Art-deco stalactites
drop twice from this rod.
And they enforce their
doubling quite singular,
Quite halved. Yet
unto the left, a tapered loop
Is held upon that endpoint.
And it is thin but
Wide; it is devoid of its
opaqueness, yes; but
It surely is an oval
of excretion, of air.
Ah, it surely is as the rod
within its existence.
They both rise sideways
unto those cusps.
They both are metallic
and rested and not
Of spirals. Oh,
from such stalactites, the
Loops endure our negations.
But again
They are cones and spikes
within us. Yes,
Again, these things are
contradicted via
Their cater-cornered
strangeness, via the
Obliqueness of cylinders
each overlapping,
Each art-deco and
unrealistically encrusted.

-------------------------

Leroy