Knife Throwing News: the sports crap

Big deal, you might say, but this afternoon I stuck a 20 inch long throwing knife, with a throw from it's wood handle, thirty eight feet.     It stuck nice and firm, parallel to the the ground, protruding from the dead tree I've been using for a target.   It's a fortuitous dead tree, giving it's worm eaten self up for the cause of knife throwing, so it is one venerated motherfucking dead tree in the vacant lot behind the house.

Knife throwing mavens will already know that knife throws are discussed in 'rotations,' and the knife spun at least four times, maybe more, I haven't figured it all out yet.   I picked a flat spot on the hillside the tree bolts up from, over three feet wide, and tested a few throws, and it took only two tries.  Elated at the score, ran to the house, got the tape measure, and had an orgiastic reading.  Thirty eight feet.   Better, there is a flat spot another  twenty or so feet back away from the dead tree, so it will be possible to go for the rarely achieved fifty foot (pluss) throw, with the blade sticking in like a good throwing weapon should.

Will surely post pics and youtubes as new records are set.  For now, the pic below includes, top, the original machete from which the knives are made.  Next knife down is the one I threw 38' this afternoon.   The machete's are excellent steel.  The specialty here, for now, is circus knives.  These knives are made for sport, such as tournaments, and for stunt work and entertainment as how ever people have fun.

Lean Lovings

no reach for my wootsie-tootsie bag
don't attempt to force bruit my bamboo flute
it is not for you
that I am dancing the wootsie-tootsie

here I wait for the bus with my wootsie-tootsie bag
there's the camera from the internet
a hanky
some mute pencils and orange peel
and the book in which I record my new blue tootsie-wootsie
stencil in it meeting you, the altered beauty
we fit together 

everyone fits in the fiefdom

I'm making a slew of public service videos.

Advanced Whining and Moaning

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches factored into millions of people's lives.  As did the whole concept of a sandwich.  For some, a bologna sandwich better defines the layering and ordering of food, by purpose and desire.     Foods range from very good to very bad, thus it forces people to think.   And everyone has to eat.

 People are more advanced about it than dogs and horses.  Even Secretariat couldn't take food beyond it's most basic form and function, e.g. grain in a feed bag.   People are able to prove their superiority over animals by merely tossing  a slice of Dutch Loaf between two slices of Wonder Bread.  But this is about philosophy, as it orders itself, in layers, with the meat in the middle of two opposing yet identical slices of wheat, white, or rye.  The sandwich I'm eating at the moment has to do with having had a complex living arrangement earlier on, in the kid days.

It was a sandwich of arch political right, and polymorphous left.   A shit metaphor to bread, you may suspect?  No.  Identical people with differing views.  There were two major influences in Meadville, Pennsylvania in the 1950s through the 1970s.  There was Allegheny College, and the Talon Zipper factory.  In the former, there was a vigorous, polymorphous tradition in liberal intellectualism, and the factory employed hundreds of small town crackers, many of whom hated blacks, Jews and intellectuals.  Many of the people attached to Allegheny College looked down the proboscis at the blue collar folk who worked at Talon.  I am munching down in the present tense.   The opposing forces I grew up with are still piled up in mnemonic strata, turkey roll, pimento loaf, American Cheese, and some industrialized, educated ketchup.  In some ways, it was haute cuisine, and in other ways, it was a shit sandwich.  It made me complex and marginal.  There is an ineradicable conflict of lunch meats.  Lean resolutions.  A tough breaded cutlet to choke down.  And sometimes, I must regurgitate.  And yet it remains to  live with the sandwich within. It's some empty barfing.   But it's a livable  indigestion.

I'm a Closet Feminist, And Fucking Proud

Not all,  but some prominent feminists have been insisting that God be spoken of in terms of 'She' and not 'He.'   I'm immaculately pleased to conform.

  I've been doing just as demanded ever since I made a godawful mistake and used the word 'Him' when commenting on a most brilliant feminist comedian's facebook post.   It cost me.  I'm on the geo-political B-list for life for clumsily failing to move with the times, and for not holding up my end of social reform.  Sorry about that.  Trying like a one-armed union affiliated LBGT paper hanger to make amends.

So I'm making a divine proposal:  Who is the best archetype for a female God?   The old world of entertainment provided Charlton Heston and a few other scowling,  robust, notable actors, when God was a fella.'  Next time there's a contest to figure out who the new God most looks like, there will be plenty of  good options.

Gertrude Stein and Golda Meir are equally right for the part, but then I used to watch Xena the Warrior Princess, and Lucy Lawless would be excellent.  Beatrice Arthur would slay as God, while Iman would also be hunky dory.  Partial as I am to delta blues, though, maybe it's Ma Rainey who could best manage the universe.  Why should the world be anglocentric and male supremicist, too?  Too much fascism.    It's the pimply, pasty white northern European male that made the world a war mongering, misogynistic hell hole of monopoly capitalism.  Maybe Rachel Carson should be God.  Or Ayn Rand.  She'd make a good God.

But no matter which woman wins, I will never refer to God as 'He' again.   Hope She digs my sermons.

A Cheery Autumn Poem, And A Video Project

Mirror Smasher

who is in the glass pool of light?
won't know right away
hide and seek

blade the first penetrates  mid section
shower of splinters splay
like silver fruit flies at play
people file out of that sector
like a visit from the building inspector

throwing another knife
(I'm a collector)
at the reflection of my prominent throat
an evil contingent rows out of the mirror in a boat
and so goes  communities all
behind the mirror so tall
getting smashed to bits with knives

Spite Essay

I'm not naming the name of the late bastard who expired about two years ago.  He was pompous, pretentious, a glittering B-lister who happened, also, to be spiteful bully.   I knew this prick when he and I were kids.  He used to pick on me. He was bigger.  Probably better looking.  I was a goofy little kid.  People were pricks about it.   Then, as adults, this prick made a better showing in the art department at college.  Much ego bruising on my end, I must fess up to.  But he was a fake, and I'm the real deal.  I'm a late bloomer.  And he's mingling his moles and skin tags with sea life, as his ashes were dumped at sea.

The prick was a year older than me, and right now, I'm the same age he croaked at.  I have been hoping to live a lot longer than the prick, but I'll settle for a few merry years.  Most of all, though, I need to land a book deal.  To show the bastard.  I wanted to show the prick up while he was still alive, but now it's enough to outperform his life's work, which wasn't all that great.  He had a wider following than yours truly at the time of his croaking, so there is work to do.