Thursday, November 16, 2006

Reading Poems in Strawberry Fields

Ritual is important.


Once a day, visit Strawberry Fields.
Read poems.
Write grocery list.
Remember John Lennon.
Remember to pick up dry cleaning.

Remember that old poetic form in the Irish tradition called the dinnseanchas or "lore of place" poem?

Strawberry Fields. Mosaic lore. Mosaic place. Mosaic sacred site, of sorts.
This place in the park is bathetic and so full of

straw and berry and spirits

(may I pour you another, chum?)

Is there a term in the World language for mosaic-lore-flash-photography-tourism poem?

Strawberry Fields

Welcomes flash travelers.
Welcomes flash photography.
Welcomes flash fiction.


Three hippies sit on a bench singing the "Casper the Friendly Ghost" theme song, way out of tune.

Over there, an aspiring musician lowers to his knees next to that word:


Another friend snaps another shot snaps. Flash. Flash. Snaps. Snaps.


(you and I might come here to "pray" more than a thousand times a day, chum.)

"Have you ever seen a rock and roll man looking so contemplative?" Asks hippie #1.
"Would you give me a dollar for each story they'll tell their friends back home?" Asks hippie #2.
"Don't you think something ought to be done about Darfur?" Asks hippie #3.

The birds whistle the Casper ghost tune.

A lone woman with wild hair, face covered in pigeon poop, moves in sneaky ways,
hopes these strangers will unintentionally photograph her.

She's scaring up
anonymous celebrity.

(would you ever date her?


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