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Quiddler poem

His favorite carnival act had always been the Geek Throw,

watching the bodies hurl into the maw he felt a Queer dizzyness,

not felt since finding spoiled Lox deep int the chin whiskers of his Goatee,

And found by his own upper lip, thinking it had found a Cutie morsel of Interr sweetness.

Now the Horde of Lib-tards, in awkward Quad piles; he imagined the Farms that bred them;

a land without Sun, with fitness of enforced Jigs and dinners of squirming Bug Pie.

He felt they were unlikely Kin, and himself a Cad;

he began a Yern-clawing of his beard, as if it were on Loan

from an Oaf; a Lein against his entire summer crop of golden Oat.

(Quiddler Poem of ED 11/24/2022)

Quiddler Poem: a single 7-round game of playing-card word-game Quiddler used as random generator for poem development. The final round of 10-card hands begins the poem, moving backward through to the first round of 3-card hands. Quiddler words are all-caps.

Thanksgiving 2021. Game #2.

Slung over the table lamp, an UNCLEAN PEEL

Held a heady memory of TIP-TOE SEX.

Over the chairback a CLEAN FROCK

Gestured toward an ebony BRAID, seeming

Disembodied from the slumbering blankets, yet

Somehow SEXY in its foreignness,

Allowing a HINT of SIN that NO amount

of WIT could allay his urge to EAT.

His hand began to ROAM under the cover, sightless

And a real GOER, in the elements

Without a GLOVE, to SET

upon what felt a PERM with an

unset EPOXY, seaming smooth a languid QUAD.

Where could his hand GO next and not

BE THINE, heraldic HEN?

though yesterday’s spent appetite had turned to ROT.

Thanksgiving 2021. Game #4

WHY, as

His OLDER eye would LUGE against

the slow LUG of his dying eye,

a SQUINTER would shudder his vision

to a STEAMY SEA

and a WIFEY shape

a HINEY contour

JAM through is mind’s eye with a thought of “OUR”

and for every NINTH breathe GREW a SOB.

In his vision of “our” is a LAD,

A himself that could DINE over

SAGE conversation where THE ANSWER was

never offered, and luminous TATA beckoned

as a dessert following dessert.

His hand of thinning bones under parchment skin, a sudden

sense of metallic FOIL wrapped around

her still-warm course, that he promises

not to pick at or BUG as they GET ON

the trolley; long since dismantled: to their apartment;

long since dismantled: and a sense of warmth

in his hand that is hers; long since dismantled.

Thanksgiving 2021. Game #3

Spying It, his brother had tagged It

“a rude little DITZ-PETER”,

Opening an inopportune door, a sister’s friend cast It

“SQUINGE-BURIER”

To his shrieked “no-knock CHANER-QUIFE!”

He was ever an OGLER of EARTHY bits

Of VOGUE. a WAN offspring

of effete WRITERS

who would DINE on words by the TON.

He was a stranded JINX-PUBE;

he never could DOUBT the TRUTH of IT,

never SALVE the HEATY

animal NORM that seemed his only GOAL:

to stow away to the CAN

and resurrect his CLOD.

Thanksgiving 2021. Game #1

THE NINTH DAZE

convinced her of a BOAT

beached in a GAUZE of mist,

a scrim of misremembered QUOTE.

Her mind; a wretched VOYUER-EYE,

a myopic WAIF’s HOPE searching

for a KEY that in memory

had opened a SEAL to YOU.

a PANG at A TRACE, a glimpse

of a TOE.

SOW NOW RAIN. SOW NO RAIN. SO NO RAIN.

FLOATING on JUNK, RID of passengers

she sensed a GIST of some dark thing that forever

ATE,

and her hand cut water like an OAR.

Quiddler Poem: This Toy Guy

IF a GUN is a LIE / then a PITHY CLIP is ME. / and if a hermit crab is a DREDGY CLAW HUT, / is HE able TO be RUDE about those BODY JAGS / and offer IT a TANNIN RARER even than LIFES CODE / GROVE within his triggered SON / THIS TOY GUY / so WHEATY he must be TRUE.

last night’s Quiddler Poem: Your Covid Quota

It was as DEATH TO LET HER WED / that USER, that TOE ROT / that GAZE into the LOO and never AIR IT / THINE ACE lost to class FEES for CLAY / as one might sip LAWN DRINK by the PINT / using a HAIRY GRATER to strain out the FLIES / your MOOD-CUBE could not MOP up the RUN / the over-run on your COVID QUOTA.

alotalotalot: aloft

A Lot, A Lot, A Lot, Aloft, / A Hex Storm of Piney firebrands, / Hiked over ridgelines branding into Quit Fur, / The river Bank, like a Queen In promotion, / A move from Pawn Jail to Nova, a trail of Dither-Goo transformed / to Boxing Day. / Sending the dry West Ute King into a Pouter, / his Twatty Lather the route to a Rebel Axis: burning.

The handrail is set, it took 20 pilot holes to find two studs- the wall needs replacing anyway as it is under the leaky spot from last post.
This spot, in case you forgot seeing this mess.
It is mitigated; drywall over the blow-in section to L, and the adjacent gable roof with new drywall panel. The water catchment saw a few more drips as things dried out, but we have had days and days of rain and it has remained dry. Still drying out.
This area had damage from a leak starting at the chimney, coupled with two planes of roof meeting and ice dams forcing down through the joint and bursting out under the soffit- all prior to the metal roof. I fixed the collapsed soffit a few summers ago, but in removing this damaged bit inside I could see a gap in my fix out there- about a thumb’s worth of hole, and behind the panel were massive paper-wasp nests from prior seasons. So I foamed the hole closed from the inside and set the new drywall panel.
The wind is gusting at 50mph, and the old pink bedroom breathes heavily as those gapped planks are the skin of the house, covered outside by clapboard and the roof. Enormous wasps walk in and out of the gaps with the wind. Sprayfoam. I’ll tidy it up at some point.
The pink board is a manufactured plaster/lathe board, quite a few generations from drywall. The white paint may be “fixes” from holes in the board (water damage) when the room was still occupied. Just going for envelope right now.
In the big upstairs bedroom above the cold parlor / guest bedroom. Long standing water damage to the plaster and lathe, with areas of bare lathe board and loose plaster. On the ladder is my oscillating tool with a cutting diamond horseshoe fitting. It cuts through the aggregate plaster endlessly. I cut away the bad sections to fit drywall.
Peeling off the dead plaster and chucking it in a steel bucket, but mostly it crashes to the floor (onto a thin padded sheet).
One big hole filled with drywall, and little holes to the L and center still needing fill.
This keystone section above the door has five planes. It had been a disaster.
Disaster training.
Already so much better.
Next I ground down to the plaster along all the cracks in the wall, then cleaned the crack itself by grinding along it with the wafer edge of the diamond tool. Next I wiped it clear with a big sponge and discovered that these rooms aren’t painted, they are colored with a tinted plaster/lime topcoat. It dissolves when wet. This also means that if I ever want to paint these rooms, I’ll need to find a plaster/lime solution. Or make one.
Prepped and ready for plaster.
First coat of plaster. Everything is sealed up tight and secure. Uneven and wonky, but no gaps = no bugs and less upstairs funk.
I left this picture from the tear-down, cut-away, and drywall step to show the ceiling lathe board section.
Here is the ceiling and wall with drywall and ready for plaster. The “pie pan” on the wall is a special fitted cover to the old chimney shunt, as this room had a stove at one time. I took a look inside the chimney, and it is full of old honey bee honeycomb (empty of honey). The chimney was unused since at least the 50’s, is enclosed at the ceiling down below, and capped at the roof when the metal roof was installed decades ago.
Mid afternoon rainy darkness, chilly up here, but done. For now.
The other side of the room with all the cracks prepped; and last summers refurbished window.
Cracks plastered. Still the worst bedroom of plaster/lathe trouble- the one with the access panel shown a few days back. I’m low on plaster board screws, as I tightened up the lathe panel boards in the large bedroom with the fixed/drying leak, and that ate quite a few. I’ll clean up in here, bring up the rest of the drywall, and have it ready for next time. There’s always other projects…

Quiddler Poem Generator: Bean Hoax

The FAX default was Aqua / A Meer step from Rain, We Ran / Closer than a Rat scrambling to Get / the COVID Puke Jab / we would Taxi around the Shoddy square / we would Cling like Tiny Bees / Ooh! Dueling / We fell for every Bean Hoax / every Junker Alien craft.

6 am and things are blue.
6:10 a.m. and the blue is toning out.
6:30 and we are on to white. The fire is started and the cats are fed, and the back porch is shoveled. A quick tour of the yard while the coffee brews.

For some evening fun, E and I have modified the card game Quiddler into a poem generator, as follows:

Ten Inner keggles / An hour Put The / Lean on the backside of her Glute / Her Divine Toy / could Quack, press Oat milk, with Club-Core gusto / Her Lady-Gear Aped / a hard Box to the Jaws / Paid Zero Wages / offered No Mix of blind Scent / and gave men the Doey-Vue of a Cow.