Join forces with Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of May (aka 05.03.17) at 8:00 SHARP as we continue to swirl up our mic madness at our mad mic-ness home, Dallas’ City Tavern! This month we will be hosting the 2nd Annual Dr. Googily-Eyes Healing Circus & Mad Swirlin’ Medicine Show: Inciting the Rise of YES and[read more]
"Caress the detail, the divine detail." ~ Vladimir Nabokov ••• The Mad Gallery ••• “Throb & Ween” (above) by featured artist David Ross. To see more of David’s mad illustrations, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we sojourned in suburban splendor; we[read more]
"The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding." ~ Leonardo da Vinci ••• The Mad Gallery ••• “MOS” (above) by featured artist David Ross. To see more of David’s mad illustrations, as well as our other featured artists, visit our Mad Gallery! ••• The Poetry Forum ••• This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we increased utterance; we made[read more]
These are the days we dread, the days of unknowing. Life is fragile as an egg. You never know when a crack will appear and the yolk will spill away. Your test came back—wrong. We wait, more tests are done, more waiting. The longer we wait the more scenarios we concoct, dreaming about dark tumors flooding organs, masses teeming with life waiting to erupt. We google, we ask, we read, still we wait. Your smile has left as you turn your light inside searching for answers, questioning what you ate, drank, or smoked in the past. “I am healthy, or so I thought,” the sadness in your voice apparent. You feel betrayed. You run, you do yoga, eat sensibly, watch your weight and drink in moderation, but now this organ inside mocks you. You can’t see or feel it. You only have heard of it and its rebellion. The phone doesn’t ring today.
The creek water was milky after a full mornings rain. The song birds singing their tunes in the rising humidity of the afternoon sun. Shelly yawns and stretches her arms up high and looks at me. I can feel her. I’d kiss her again, but I’m afraid. How long before she gets bored and moves on, I wonder? Plenty of boys in the school yard wishing they were me right now. They’d gladly hand over their own Mommas to take my place and be all too giddy to lean across and kiss[read more]
Into a nondescript cardboard box, they packed what remained of her life since she wasn't one for owning things and due to her great age, although she would argue that there wasn't much great about living ninety-six years, she didn't really need much more than her prayer books, her many and ornate crucifixes that she worshiped and even kissed as if they were secret idols, her myriad votive candle holders, useless and come to think of it cheap religious knickknacks that others sent her when she entered into those last[read more]
What sparked the Big Bang? Should we give a dang how the experts debate as to what might predate it or seemed to exist? Speaking for myself, I cannot resist a fantasy spree of drifting away in reveries vast about our fabulous, fathomless past. Utterness whereabouts always were there, and singularities melt in thin air, when we consider an alternate plan of how life began—the yin and the yang—how galaxies sprang—before the Big Bang… For what if in fact the notion is cracked, and in Big Bang’s case it didn’t[read more]