Poet's Korner

I can't find my house

it seems to be missing 

Can I borrow yours?



My bike is gone, too

How will I go places?

How will I crash into things?



You're lucky with your

house and your bike

you make me jealous.

-Peebles, Chris

Kommentary Korner

Hello, ladies and pigs. I, Marilyn, have taken it upon myself to write about an issue that I think has been clouding our vision for far too long. As most of you know, I am what some chauvinists would call a feminist. I find that term loaded with negativity and misinterpretation, but I have not yet come up with a sufficient alternative. Anyway, on to the topic at hand. Anyone with a brain has realized the true extent to which male-centric ideals have permeated our society and the way we think. From models of healthy families that encourage a submissive wife and a dominant husband to the current state of professional sports, the examples abound. But one of the grossest examples of penis-influenced misconduct I have yet seen concerns those heavens to which we gaze for inspiration, to which we have often assigned the meaning of our lives. Doesn't it seem a tad bit too convenient that the planets of our solar system bear a striking resemblance to testicles? Ours is a society founded on symbolism, and what stronger embodiment of a sexist regime than a physical world dominated by gigantic balls?!? Would it really have been that hard to instead create a vaginally-inspired celestial body in orbit of a star or stellar remnant? Whatever misogynist pig designed our cosmos needs a serious reality check. Hello, it's the 21st century! Get with it! That is all.

Kommentary Korner

I don't mean to boast, but sometimes I'm much too overcome with disgust by the folly of others to remain silent. I am speaking, of course, about my impeccable fashion sense. An embarrassingly small number of individuals I encounter any more seem to have a concept of the chic nuances of worldly threads such as the ones draped over my lissome physique. Take my shirt, for example. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than your conventional pique cotton saffron-colored polo, but, to the more discerning eye, my shirt is a symbol of sophisticated, exotic taste. What these uncultured neanderthals wandering the streets of America don't realize is that my polo shirt was handcrafted deep within the jungles of Cambodia by workers dedicated more to producing a quality garment than to receiving a decent wage. Look at any other component of my vast wardrobe: my Malaysian houndstooth trousers, my Indonesian woven belt, even my Vietnamese plaid unmentionables. Each of these is the very definition of style and a testament to craftsmen who endure appallingly inhumane working conditions for the cause of high class. Until America awakens from its unfortunate fashion funk, my highly refined garb will remain unnoticed by the ignorant masses. Call me when you learn how to dress yourself, America. I'll be at the Gap. --Peter Doe

Awareness Korner

A message from the Foundation for Fuhrer Prevention, a Kreation Korner-approved public service organization.

Lost and Found

Salutations, Korner devotees. I know the question that has plagued you so for the past 14 days: why no new contributions to this most wondrous Korner of Kreation? Well, I'll give it to you straight. It's been pretty dry around here lately. Gregory Fork has been working on exciting experiments in silence and inactivity, but the subtle nuances of his performances are unfortunately lost when translated to our world wide web format. Cindy Blankenstead was slated for an upcoming feature but chose instead to participate in a 13-day Dada get-together in the Mojave desert. In light of this recent kreative dry spell of sorts, I have taken it upon myself to forge new ground in the realm of the spoken word. I have come across a novel idea, one that I hope will spark an entirely new way of looking at everyday conversations. By taking a fragment of an unscripted situation of interaction between humans and placing it out of context in poem form, I have transformed something once commonplace into anything but. Enjoy.

jackson's

what are you getting?
i don't know, how much is that jerky?
59 cents.
maybe i'll get the doritos instead.
can i borrow a quarter?

Poet's Korner

Today, The Korner is honored to present Chris Peebles' inaugural foray into the controversial field of visual poetry. His piece, entitled "Submerged," reflects Peebles' knack for stepping right up to the edge of conventionality and diving headlong into the unknown abyss. Behold:

Kommentary Korner

As usual, I’m baffled by this wacky country we call the U.S.A. The other day, an afternoon of tenpin bowling sounded delightful so I hopped in my car and drove to a nearby bowling alley. As I entered the establishment, I was hit by a most sudden and disturbing revelation. Although never having stepped foot in that ramshackle bowl-porium before, I felt as though I’d been there many times. I’ve been in dozens, perhaps hundreds, of bowling alleys in my life, and I realized on that fateful day that they are all identical. The Bowl-shevik Revolution Lanes and Lounge, as it was called, was merely a clone of every other bowling joint I’ve visited in my life. All bowling alleys in America share identical sensory stimuli, particularly to the eyes and nose. They look as though they haven’t been redecorated since about 1966. They all have the smell of cigarette smoke and stale Miller Genuine Draft imbedded into the walls. They all possess a stratified layer of unidentified grime on every surface. These common characteristics of American bowling alleys have led me to a conclusion with unsettling political implications. I have a theory that, sometime in the 1960s, the Johnson administration declared a moratorium on the construction of new bowling alleys as well as the maintenance of pre-existing alleys. This explains the outdated and dilapidated conditions we are forced to bowl in today. Mysteriously, however, any records of President Johnson’s bowling alley nonproliferation executive orders have been erased. The truth has been concealed from the American public, for whatever reason, leaving us to bowl in tacky squalor. But, in spite of all this, I am optimistic that the future is bright for disgruntled, unsatisfied bowlers like myself. One day, a person will be able to freely hurl a 6 to 15 pound sphere along a greased wooden lane at a formation of neatly arranged blunt, ironically-named pins in a clean, sanitary, freshly scented environment decorated in a tasteful, contemporary fashion. Whoever is preventing bowling alleys from entering the 21st century can’t hideout for long. Soon, the cries for new and improved bowling alleys will be too loud for the architects of this oppressive conspiracy to ignore. --Peter Doe