The Contradictite

A cyclops is a cyclops. A biclops has two eyes. A triclops has another (Which should come at no surprise). The children in the schoolyard   can tend to be asses When they declare that a quadroclops   Is just some kid wearing glasses.

The right hand says to the left   "What are you doing?" "Nothing," it replies.

El me dice,   "Ten cuidado. Nosotros tenemos   Un piso mojado."

I will not eat potato chips Unless I have a dip. A crispy spud ne'er passes my lips. I will not eat potato chips, Not even just the tip. Past the chips my hand slips. I will not eat potato chips Unless I have a dip.

A haiku is this: A poem about nature With seventeen bits.

I have two I's. She has three, But we're both winners, 'Cause she has me.

% ls -la % ps -fu % cp -ir % mv; su #

Your mama's a llama. Your dada's an alpaca. Oh, and I don't very much like your sweater.

[Author's Note: This was a story I wrote either as part of my Creative Writing class or else as part of my school's writing group, a product of the class. It's a black comedy about Christmas.] “Season’s Greetings” said the Christmas card. It featured a painting involving a white mother sitting in a snow-covered barn, holding a white baby in her arms. Her white husband sat next to her, admiring the glow coming from the baby’s head. To the right of the barn gathered a flock of white shepherds. To the left stood three white men in fancy silk, holding a chest, an incense ball and some burial spices. Above the barn was a bright star, centered above an Aryan angel. Matthew Waine held the card in his hand. He shook his head at it. “I never knew there were so many white folk in the Middle East,” he said to his preoccupied cat as he set up the Christmas card on his fireplace mantle, to show off all the Christmas cards he had received, in hopes of adding to the Christmas décor t

[Author's Note: This was written for my college Creative Writing class, in which we were to write a story that had ten detailed objects in it. The story itself is loosely based off of real events that happened near where I grew up.] Immaculately ordered, yet covered in a fine layer of dust, the mausoleum-dark room warded off visitors. Serena Valicek, known on her Internet journal as “Lady Sanguine,” abbreviated to “LS” by those who do not know her, sits at her computer within her darkened room. She taps the keys, making a slight clicking noise as she updates her Internet journal. She writes about how her parents don’t understand her, and how she is made fun of at school, and how one of these days, she will formulate a hex so horrid, so powerful, that they will be talking about it for generations. Her current song is VNV Nation’s hit "Solitary." She has never purchased a VNV Nation album, but has an entire spindle of their CDs, burned, using her off-white chop-shop model

A child in Rome is like an ostrich in parliament, The house of lords and the house of god. Understanding, with an eye larger than a brain, The child, cooked medium well has a texture like beef. The emperor gazes at the feathered boy; The lords feast on Ambrosia, Boiled, and covered in cheese. They sip tea while debating, As the right and left squabble for squab. He is an ostrich, Hatched from an egg the size of a human head. Worshipped in the temple As a Deus Ex Ovum. Only in Latin, For the child was in Rome, Disrupting the proceedings. The representation for the queen. The child squawked and fluttered about, Causing a ruckus among the lords. Causing a ruckus among the gods. Jupiter restrains Mars from killing the boy. He is just a figurehead, holding back the true power. Venus and Pluto laugh together at the child’s innocence, Lust and death far from the boy. Mercury sees something, and then runs off quickly, The courier gone to seek out a listener. The templ

[Author's Note: I wrote this poem in ten minutes as part of my college Creative Writing class, and tried to make it as confusing as possible.] As a needle throws steeds to stead or seeds to the wind (or wind) of the clock, A voice drolls from the closet, a robed ward with a voice. Freely a plague upon the teeth (avoid such a mishap) surely Will put you in need of deconstructive registry. ‘Tis better to have lathered, rinsed and repeated and then to get Dirty and stained, swimming amongst blackberry bushes, Than to have never washed at all. Mother tells me stuff and she sells me tough, For cannibals don’t enjoy skin & bones (bins and stones), Aside from to lick the marrow, and use the remainder as a spoonerism.

Jordan Stiles sat in the chair, overlooking the central chamber of the space station Mastock. He made a few remarks with his pen upon his notebook. Setting down the pen, he spoke into a nearby recorder. “I am speaking with the creatures known as BEK-102, alias Becky. Today, we are going to discuss the creature’s past.” He flipped on the intercom leading into the central chamber. “Good morning, Becky. How are you this fine day?” A voice, sounding like many voices, ranging from male to female, young to old, connected to detached, human to animal: “I am doing well, Doctor Stiles. And yourself?” Jordan looked at the giant eye staring back at him through the glass. “I am doing well. Nothing to speak of.” “It is good that you are doing well.” Jordan made a few notes. “Becky, in our last conversation, you mentioned that you were a Demon. Would you please elaborate on this?” “In my world, Doctor Stiles, there are creatures slanted towards good and creatures slanted towards evil. Th

[Author's Note: This is a tripartite triolet based on the painting Peasant Wedding  by Peter Bruegel the Elder. It's about the dog on the right side of the painting.] At the wedding, the dog sits under the tables, Hungry and excited and looking for attention It is the member of a popular fable: “At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Always ready, always able, Awaiting a bit of crust’s descension. At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Hungry and excited and looking for attention.” There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. Like a dog, it’s constantly pining, There it sits, growling, whining, Beady dog eyes always shining, Up until it’s dead. There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. That it likes people, to lick their hands, To sniff them, to know them Shows that from many, it demands That it likes people, to lick their hands, Or lay about in the floor’s sands, To haw or to hem That it likes people,

[Author's Note: This is a poem about a fictional location, which was the subject of an abandoned story. I have recycled some elements from that unpublished story and used them in different stories (which I'll publish here). The poem is intentionally strange.] There is a landmass that is orthogonal to reason. It exists between the aether and phlogiston. To get there, one must have been there before. To return home, one must have never left. The land is called Dimpus by none, But is loved just as much. The creatures who do not go are Humans, Clinkebeans and Koepans, Who would instantly fall apart due to Interdimensional instability. They are the only three three-dimensional sentient beings. Common denizens of the land called Dimpus by none Have six 14.721-dimensional parents Which all love their children equally as much With the exception of the anti-lunreght, Who is incapable of love. The Jesuits are an organization holding Beliefs handed down to them by Thos

[Author's Note: For this story, we were split up into teams. We had to come up with a concept: A man or a woman is burning down a house for some reason other than to collect insurance money. Tell that story. My team decided that she'd burn down the house because it was haunted, but not by a ghost, exactly. What follows is my part of the assignment.] There were a million things on her mind as she drifted into sleep. Her manager scheduled a meeting with her in the morning and she was trying to think of what to say before she let herself fully enrobe herself in slumber. “Why did you want to work for us?” she imagined being asked. Her mind flew to Hugh. She wondered what would have, could have happened from that relationship. She felt a tinge of regret, like the aftertaste of a lemon, lingering in the back of her mind as she remembered all the happy times they had spent together, before the move. Yet much like a leaf drifting in the wind, she was rustled from her peace by a sha

[Author's Note: During my college creative writing class, we had to try some different poetry styles. I chose pantoum, which involves repeating lines. I challenged myself to give it a sort of narrative.] How many times must I write this tale? Every time I finish, I feel the need to recreate, And when I think about it, I want to do it too. Sometimes I leave things out, and need to add them later. Every time I finish, I feel the need to recreate, I formulate religions, worlds, political hierarchies. Sometimes I leave things out, and need to add them later. No story is ever finished with me. I formulate religions, worlds, political hierarchies. Kingdoms rise and fall, sometimes disappearing entirely. No story is ever finished with me. With me, I always see room for improvement. Kingdoms rise and fall, sometimes disappearing entirely. Kings and queens vanish, sometimes given facelifts, showing that With me, I always see room for improvement. I am hypercritical to an

[Author's Note: This is what remains of a story I wrote in my college creative writing class. I had lost part of the middle, so I did my best to replicate it.] Harold McEwan drove to the store one fine day. It was a corner convenience store, the kind open twenty-four hours every day, seven days every week, three hundred sixty-five and one fourth days every year. He made his purchase, slightly larger than the usual. He bought a case of Coors Silver Bullets, several bags of Doritos, Fritos, Tostitos, and other –itos brand snacking chips from Frito Lay, and some Oh Boy! Oberto brand beef jerky. There was a game this weekend. He needed to make sure he had enough on hand so he wouldn’t miss a single moment of the action He paid the clerk, receiving ninety-eight cents in change. As he left, case of Coors Silver Bullets under one arm, plastic bag laden with various bits of processed corn or animal product in the other, the clerk said, “Must feel so horrible.” His voice filled the ot

[Author's Note: This story was written for a college course. I attempted to blend poetry and prose and distract the reader from what is really going on. The tiger is a McGuffin. There are no two ways about it. The tiger is a McGuffin. The boy sits at McDonalds with his father. They enjoy an early-morning breakfast among the other 6.5 trillion served, including truckers and high-school students with too much ambition, or not enough sleep. Kyle. That’s his name. Kyle. He sits at McDonalds with his father. The tiger is a McGuffin. They have a conversation about life. They talk about life. They eat their food amongst the mass of humanity. Caution: Hot. Cuidado : Caliente . I don’t speak French, or Russian, or German, or Japanese, so I do not know which warnings are which. The coffee burns the tongue as it journeys down the esophagus. That’s the right path? Right? The tiger is a McGuffin. Kyle’s father looks at him across the table. He munches on a hashbrown. His fingers glisten

[Author's Note: This was a poem I wrote for a creative writing course in college. It is inspired, thematically, by Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark .] There was a time I thought to hunt a boojum, It having caused my friends to disappear, Die, have inverted colors. We asked Alice, anonymously, to lead us To this land of wonder that contains the boojum And other frabjuous things. Alice grabbed a darner, ready to impale. I sharpened and honed my blade, a vorpal affair, As I honed and sharpened my skills, running through the forest, Slaying that which fell into my path. Packing provisions, we found a flat-tailed accomplice Who was ready to leave the dam, giving nary a damn To his home, ready to help me gain my revenge. Grabbed he his cleaver and told me thus: “Beware the snark, my friend, His guise deceits, his snorm fossy. I shall snicker him in the end, with my cleaver, frubulent and gossy.” We went there thus from his house on the river And found the

[Author's Note: A JAPH is a practice among Perl programmers where they write a bit of code that outputs "Just another Perl hacker," (comma included). Additionally, there's a practice among Perl programmers known as Perl Poetry, in which one writes a readable and poetical bit of Perl that does something. I combined both of these concepts] my $name = "Pearl"; tell; $me = "it"; time; sub another { $night=shift; for ($me) { $tonight = $night; print $tonight; } print shift for ($me, $tonight); } my $judge = "Just "; $another = "another "; $name =~ s/a//g; another $judge, $another, $name; $another =~ tr/a-z / "then kicks had racecars",/; another $another;