A crash course in changing the world.
The Second Bank of Evoke - Where Currency has no Currency
Okay friends and neighbors, we committed a grievous act over at the First Bank of Evoke and started (gasp) sharing jokes, poems, and such without exchanging EVs. To prevent such anarchy from undermining the capitalist principles of said bank, we are opening the Second Bank of Evoke.
Think of it as literary freecycling - so feel free to deposit or drop off your old poems, jokes, artwork, whatever for another agent to come across and take "home" with them. Frankly, you can't swing a cat around the quest description without hitting the phrase creative or does art or something similar (and no, I don't actually swing cats) so step up and leave something on the doorstep. Inspire your fellow agents or make us laugh.
And before anybody gets too in my face about this is off topic, this is the Second Bank of Evoke operating on the gift economy - so give.
Cheers.
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Comment by Mark Mulkerin on April 10, 2010 at 4:00pm -
Get your mildly used poem here!
Subway to the Suburbs
Her foot flexed,
only her toes touching dirty floor,
she dreams of dancing
as the MBTA sways its erratic rhythms.
Eyes closed, it conveys her,
carries her, takes her
to green catacombs
where Sisyphus weekly mows his lawn
and the skylark's song falls to the engine's roar.
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Comment by Ethan Walden on April 10, 2010 at 4:02pm -
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Comment by Ethan Walden on April 10, 2010 at 4:44pm
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This is Not a Book
It's a trap door, an ingress,
the last place you'd think
to look for saving grace
or a ticket to hell. It's a few
futile pangs of abstinence
and overindulgence bubbling
together in the same sacred pot.
It's a feast of evaporation
like a bad dream, a ream
of recipes for banquets only
the brave dare attend.
It's a room filled with doors,
a question mark wearing
a smirk on its lips one minute
and Mothers smile the next.
It's a last chance to gas up
before you attempt the long
drive between where you
wanted to be and home,
a secret so filled with itself
it's been leaking at its seams.
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Comment by A.V.Koshy on April 10, 2010 at 5:06pm -
wow ethan :)
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Comment by A.V.Koshy on April 10, 2010 at 5:08pm
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this joke is by slavo zizek:
A young schoolboy has to write a short
composition entitled “There is only one mother!,” in which he is expected
to illustrate, apropos of a specific experience, the love which
links him to his mother; this is what he writes: “One day I came
home from school earlier than usual, because the teacher was ill; I
looked for my mother, and found her naked in bed with a man who
was not my father. My mother shouted at me angrily:‘What are you
staring at like an idiot? Why don’t you run to the fridge and get us
two cold beers!’ I ran to the kitchen, opened the fridge, looked in
side, and shouted back to the bedroom:‘There’s only one, Mother!’”
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Comment by Ursula Kochanowsky on April 10, 2010 at 5:11pm -
Please excuse this joke..I do not mean to offend anyone..
Why do catholics cross themselves? To get to the other side.
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Comment by Ursula Kochanowsky on April 10, 2010 at 5:15pm
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Heres another one..
What do you get when you throw a bomb into a kitchen in France? Linoleum Blown Apart
Another:
Where does Napoleon keep his armies? Up his sleevies.
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Comment by Ursula Kochanowsky on April 10, 2010 at 5:24pm
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What do you call a weak old man who wanders around the forest barefooted with bad breath? A Super Calloused Fragile Mystic Hexed by Halitosis
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Comment by Ethan Walden on April 10, 2010 at 5:36pm
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This is Not a Confession
It is a definition,
a recognition,
a blue ribbon moment
in a first place day.
It is a conclusion
pleased to find itself
perched on a good idea,
a presumption preening
its discovery for all
the world to admire.
This is not a confession;
it is an acknowledgement,
a bright shiny pebble
on a gray sandy beach.
Don't expect regret
or repentance- look for
repetition and accolades
that rejoice each time
I take delight in being
an odd and original blessing.
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Comment by Sarah Shaw Tatoun on April 10, 2010 at 5:38pm -
Very nice, Ethan, but I think you should credit Fredrick Zydek.
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