<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\x3d14711072\x26blogName\x3dThe+Crooked\x26publishMode\x3dPUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\x26navbarType\x3dBLUE\x26layoutType\x3dCLASSIC\x26searchRoot\x3dhttps://eandf.blogspot.com/search\x26blogLocale\x3den_US\x26v\x3d2\x26homepageUrl\x3dhttp://eandf.blogspot.com/\x26vt\x3d774902382055503500', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

Friday, March 30, 2007

Ad perpetuam rei memoriam

By popular demand some Nancy Hagen Yitmas classics, circa 2003:

Flagrant Cars

Penile retreating of flagrant cars
That disregard my works
And realize, with smirks
Fading, with the final slough
Bent upon a pensive brow
Oh, audio with written words?
How can it make a lisp
Of paper, smelling crisp
That realizes, oh this book
Written for impatient kook
That I am with the help of electricity
Miles of maiming serendipity
And equal visions of unique grandeur
That hides behind the coral spin
Of seabed writers, all within
Yes, the seabed writers
And unsurpassed lighters
To light this sinfull liquor net
And step upon this cigarette
Now, return to flagrant cars.

Four three five

Regardless of this internal travesty
The pandemonium that inward dwells
To seek forgotten frailty
That I had lived when thought so strong
Yet, sadly, moulded, all along

The whisper of the faintest shriek
Of wind and rain that, howling, cry
To wash away each heart-rent pain
And give the strength to once retry
Nevertheless, tossed to the sky
That never returned to my own eye.

This heartless, cruel frame of sand
That washes Pilate's bloody hand.
To sit and muse the scholar's writ?
What cancerous patient can understand?


I could enrich
With blended swabs
Of saturated cream
And Oreos
The fullness
And frivolity
Of your skinless rogue
And barbed-wire lips
Of peeling skin
And mangled smile.

Withersoever With Hearful of Washing

With the smarter wharf of with
That tried, with eyeing whistle fith
To spy the sleazy orange flute
That you claimed that wasn't yours as loot.
This morbid listy wishing-game
That found me harbouring your name.
A lish, and lots of laughing lips
To, forever in disguise
Reward with resource of hickled male
That making, liking, wanting, wise?
To, wanton, winding down to frail
A trickling drop that is my trail
To forever before the pale sunrise.

Of Straws

I am alone in this world
Because I guard my coffee
I esteem it higher than the companionship
Of empty human conversation.
I sit, surrounded by walls
That cannot be penetrated
By the strongest of straws.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Here, here, I got one, listen to this

Okay, funny story.
When I was younger (which means this is a story about the past, which should, by all rights, be forgotten), Steve, Dan and I wrote disgusting poems (mostly full of my big disgusting words) and sent them into poetry.com, which was some site that raved about themselves and how exclusive they are. All of our poetry got accepted into their books with grand congratulations and proclamations of honor airmailed to us. For example, the very first, The Chronicles of Yitmas:

Divided we are, thus, in our relations
Pasteurized we are within;
Rent like torn vines apart from the mother
Of vespulations unseen and unheard
Yet tangible, like thirty-some marnicles?
Masking, hording incomplete requests
To rectify with riptal sense
That harnessed, beats the chorus like
A wave of final fishing skills
Who possessed them? Who thought
He wrought the patience for such
A profession that couldn't be hallucinated.
Hearken honestly, originality comes frivolous.
Requisite harmonious bits of strategim
That cannot be replaced or harmed likewise.
Forevermore, lisping in the since of the synch.
Withersoever has with self-expression,
Withered marks of hapless trent-fulls?

How's your headache?
Basically, we thought it was hilarious, for some reason, and we kept poking fun at all the poets who were taking their honors seriously. We even went so far as to think up a background for her (the publishers requested a small blurb about her life to go next to her poetry), and a picture, incidentally, from Google, the mother of all things.
Nancy Hagen Yitmas soon evolved into the name that I automatically put down under things that I didn't want to take credit for. Something I'd written, didn't quite want to throw away, but didn't want anyone to know I'd had any part in. Like poetry that was too evil, or about some of the darker aspects of romance. Or...things. That should've never been written. (But anyway.)
Nancy Hagen Yitmas took on the role of my guiltless pseudonym, later on in life. Just the name I would put down when I wanted people's honest opinion. Or when I didn't want people trying to figure out why I'd written a song about people dying or a song about losing a loved-one. People never seemed to understand that they were just nice ideas. Like making a hippopotamus out of play-dough.
Now I write N. Hagen Yitmas as a special little inside joke for only Elaina to grasp. But I guess I don't deem the inside joke of much worth because I'm destroying it now.
So yes. That's who N. Hagen Yitmas is.

Well I thought it was funny.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

I wonder why Michael is singing by himself in the next room

Don't quite know why I'm here
Just woke up this morning and found myself hearing your name
And it happened like some of the time
When it feels like I'm stuck in a snowstorm in my mind again

I know that you're proud of me, I'm sure that you know
How hard it is, baby, just letting go
I ain't getting any bolder, even as I'm getting older
It still takes these little moments pulling over
Onto the shoulder

Will I ever forget you? I think not.
Cause you're my inspiration, don't ever stop speaking to me
And once I get over my crying
It's a joy to realize that I'm lucky I got your smile forever in my mind

I know that you're proud of me, I'm sure that you see
How hard it is, baby, to remember to breathe
I ain't getting any better, at driving in this weather
And it still takes these little moments pulling over
Onto the shoulder

Well most of the time, I have every reason to live
And I can't thank enough, the Father above for the love that I've still got to give
I'm coming to grips with the things that I miss
And I realize I'm blessed that He loved me enough
To loan you at all

And I know that you're proud of me, I'm sure you remember
How hard it is being alone in December
And I know that you're proud of me, I'm sure you still see
How hard it is, baby, to keep my heart singing
I'm learning it slowly, but honey, you know me
It still takes these little moments pulling over
Onto the shoulder

--Pulling Over Onto The Shoulder (c) 2007 N. Hagen Yitmas

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Loincloth is a word that comes to mind

Here's another post of the sort that I hope to make a trend of. Those posts with no criteria for anything except sentences. And maybe phrases. Like this.
Most everyone in the house is sick (again), except for me, which is definitely odd. What I DO have, on the other hand, is an ouchy foot and a weird nerve problem in my neck, which is slowly getting better, but still renders it difficult for me to turn my head to the side.
I like the kind of pain that is pushing it just to the limit. Like playing with bruises. And stretching sore muscles. And turning my head to the side when my nerves are getting a little nervous and telling me that I'd better stop soon.
Today I am wearing a weird fangly white shirt (that shows too much cleavage for the OC boys to handle) and a big colorful skirt. My hair has remained in an oLIMPus state since morning, and it hangs sorta-straight-but-wishing-it-was-wavy until past my shoulders. (I could say "to my breasts", but I can't say "breasts" on my blog. Too naughty.) I told someone I was going hippie, and he said it was an insult to hippies.
Well it was MY personal sort of hippie, anyway. I lease my inner hippie on a lonnnng tether.
Also my inner pervert.
This post will self-destruct in five.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

A smile for a frown

Because of Aich's delicate reminder, I am going to post...something.
Here it is. Even though I haven't written it yet, I have already suppressed the side of me that wants to write something clever and concise, and have reckoned writing a serious mumbo-jumbo of many things. So I can foresee. And I foresee that this post will go the way of all clumsy, badly construed posts. May you not care at all. Pax vobiscum.
The other day (day before yesterday?) I went to a soccer game. Although I did not watch any soccer actually happening, I attended, I was sociable, and I saw many people.
For several days we had some visitors from Tommyville who were delightful and filled my days with joy. Which is not difficult to do. But still. They were nice to have around. Real nice.
I have caught myself a friendly cold (again). I wish wearing a mask could actually make me breathe like Darth Vader. Instead I breathe warm, moist air all over my face and my burning nose. NOT PLEASANT.
I am challenged+excited+pleased+healthy(sorta)=happy to the hundredth power. See you on cloud 10! (Haha! Check out those losers on cloud 9!)

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Little bit of appreciation

Funny. I like "You Are Alive". More I listen to it.
It pricked me from the beginning, but now I actually lean back and smile when I hear it.
Haven, I appreciate you.
Yes, that did elicit a blog post.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Some may appreciate.

I see my soul in you
Like a Leiden jar of words
Precious few, that dance like gold
On a pedastal

I feel my flow in you
Like fingers of satin
Combined like macrame

Actually mutually
Souls in combined religion
Free admission
Perfect permission

I feel my hand in you
Touching your heart
And the graceful electricity
Still flows

I see my soul in you
Permanent marker
Smudges of artful

Actually mutually
Souls in combined religion
Free admission
Perfect permission

The liquor comfort
Of this syncronized pulse

(c) F. H. McNair.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

super exciting

If Masa had a blog, he would post this.
Instead, I will just give him credit for it, and post it on mine, since Elaina deserves to see it. Right, Moff?


Why was I not aware/told that there is a statue of a huge sperm very near my house?
Why have I grown so cold?
Although Elaina and I could not take a picture in front of it (because my genius brother forgot to recharge his batteries), I found the next best thing. A google image! How hard can it be to find a match to "chiba sperm"?
This prompted a thrilling discussion about fertility and reproduction in the McDonalds across the road.
It was super nice to see you, El, and your husband, and your brood, Smelly and Bob. We'll come back to this sperm place one day and do it again!

Saturday, March 03, 2007

ducky ducky

After throwing around a few work e-mails, Joanie attaches these pictures to a message that was entirely non-related.
It really tickled my spazzy nerve that likes random and embarrassing things.

Aha! Look which of my relatives made her way into that picture and is wishing I never posted it!!!I can explain this. I will begin by denying its existence and then I will deny the existence of every article of clothing that I am wearing. I can also claim that I've never stood in that position nor made that face to any living soul in my life before, and certainly not to the camera that took this photo. This is an outrageous attempt to make me look...well...strange!!! And I've never wanted to appear strange in my life!
No so I guess I can't explain it. But you can enjoy it.

Now THIS one, I cannot explain. Joanie? (Yes, I understand the resemblance to Mike, but why?)