Joshua Kronengold

When I was young, fantastic films were dead.
It was in Disney's drought, their budget low.
And Even with the Force, the arrows led,
To one poor dictum: "Write that which you know."

Technology, too, limited our work.
Imagination on the printed page,
Might show a starship fly, or spider lurk,
But theater would leave them far off-stage.

But that's all in the past, our hands hold tools,
That let us show whatever we conceive,
And from that cornicopia, we fools,
Have drawn a feast of fantasy and make-believe

Kalidescopes of wonder blind our sight,
Look where you will, and let it bring delight.

I'm well aware that this has been done before, but I wasn't satisfied with how, so having had an idea of doing a thing, I feel compelled to finish.

I'd be sorry, except I'm really not.

( Click here to read the thing )

This could probably use some more work, as I wrote it straight and didn't bother editing it aside from one line rewrite. But I've found that if I do that, I never go back to things -- so here you are.

(update: and, just to normalize the lines a bit, I've done a quick rewrite...and another rewrite).

The Bad Snail

-- for batshua
Copyright 2012, Joshua Kronengold

I'm a very bad snail.
I like land more than water.
Sand bothers my skin.
My slime's more like sweat.
I have too many limbs.
I'm developing language
And outgrowing my shell.

Maybe it's the salt water.
Or the color of my skin?
It's enough to make you sweat.
Why does anything need limbs?
I wish I knew more language.
So I could describe my shell
And how to be a snail?

I wish I could scratch my skin,
Or at least wipe off the sweat.
I suppose that's a use for limbs...
And complaining one for language.
Maybe I should leave my shell?
Though that's bad for a snail.
Like a fish out of water.

Though I make water -- sweat.
I could stretch out my limbs.
Yet, to use stronger language,
I don't want to lose my shell!
I could be a better snail--
And snails live near water.
Don't want to dry out my skin.

Still, there's pain in my limbs.
I will make up bad language.
And struggle in my shell.
Could I not be a snail?
Except that makes my eyes water.
And tingles up my skin.
It scares me. I sweat.

Why can't a snail use language?
I could come out of my shell,
An articulate snail,
With stories about water,
And no itch on my skin,
Only just a little sweat,
Though they'd all hate my limbs.

Which push out my shell,
I am just an awful snail.
But I want to leave the water,
Feel the air on my skin,
The thought of it makes me sweat,
Puts a shiver through my limbs,
Fills me with hopeful language!

I will always be a snail.
Even though I like fresh water.
But not water on my skin.
Except, of course, for sweat.
I can walk--stretch out my limbs,
And sing out joyful language.
For I've broken my shell.

I'll be at GaFilk, arriving on Friday afternoon (and leaving on Monday). See all of you who'll be there.

I need to be bugged to put my writeup of tnatj's housefilk last month.

Finally, something that amused me -- I was sending email tests to myself (to diagnose an issue that turned out to be my spamblocking my own messages -- oops), and felt the need to insert some content. So I wrote this:

This mail is a test.
It is only a test.
If it were a real mail, it would be better word word-
ed, would start with a hail, contain words that allured.
So it's just for the best.
That this mail be a test.

Enjoy. Or don't, as you please.