Apropos of Nothing Alphabet Primer

AA beast abuzz amidst the clovers: A is for Always Anxiously

Bees besieged in Beelzebub’s circles: B is for Bunched Bop

Ceding the bee’s sting: C is for Cut Care

Denuded dazed drone doodle: D is for Drilled Daffodil Dust

FlowerEach easy flower glowers, going crazy: E is for Eating Earwigs

Felled flies found in forged gyre: F is for Flounder Flour

Grease hopping aground bottom: G is for Goaded Garlic Gear

Heliotrope: H is for Standing Erect at High Noon

M ss ng  n Act on: I is for Idling Slowly Down the Mississippi River

Jived, joed, and jellied: J is for Jump to Comments

Kitchen kelp: K is for Krilling

Los Angeles lovers afloat: L is for Lost in Ballona Creek LowlandsCAPE

Moneyed, honeyed, and schooled: M is for Marriage

Nonesuch wiser the nuncio nun: N is for Nauseous Napkins at High Tide

Only one occupied optative mood phone booth: O is for Obnoxious Ontology

Peeing peregrine on ice plant spears: P is for Pilled Paper Piece Work

Queued quacks: Q is for Quick Quiz

Read in rows: R is for Rubric Rust

Sew seven scarves: S is for Subsumed Existential Snow

T is for Tremulous Titbirds Telling Mother Father Will Be Late

Undertow: U is for Until Unction Snore

Vexed voice: V is for Verisimilitude

Waiting for FatherWho When What Where Why: W is for Wasted Window Father Watch

X’s not and no O’s

Yellow harrow and black and yellow bumblebees: Y is for Yielded Yelp

Zonked zone: Z is for zooming in and zooming out, buzzing, zooming, walking, talking, doodling at poems, scratching names with dates in wet concrete, riding the bus to the metropolitan zoo


  1. Gosh, you lived dangerously :) Reading the post of the link, I’m full of admiration – retrieving the axe is nothing short of heroic.
    Our lake, Starnbersee (recalled by Eliot) froze solid at times, forming a lid from coast to coast. You could drive a car 4 km across and along the lake’s 25 km length. In one particular bay, protected from winds, the ice froze smooth. We would clear the powdery snow with a broom and skate soundlessly on the even, black surface, creating geometrical patterns in our wake. You could even see carps shimmering down under. I wrote a poem about this, must dig it out.


    1. Joe Linker says:

      Sounds cool. I’d like to read the poem.


    2. Joe Linker says:

      btw…just to be clear as ice: that was Thoreau rescued the axe. I stayed up on the bank watching him.


      1. Uhps. Sums up Thoreau, and your admiration for him… I stayed up on the bank watching him … Ha ha, I can see it. This morning I read a little in ‘Wild Fruit’ a late manuscript of Thoreau, edited by Bradley P Dean. Thoreau’s passion for contact with nature is catching.

        Just a snippet of the skating poem mentioned …

        I cut a giant loop
        on soft black ice,
        gliding to the figure eight.


        1. Joe Linker says:

          Sounds good, I like the movement, I like the g’s – I was just thinking of what letter might best represent (as in concrete poetry) the figure 8. A capital B, maybe, an s or an S, a q but one with the tail swept up right, but the g might work most effectively. Nothing to do with the meaning, or would it? Anyway, I’ve not read “Wild Fruit” (is it fruit or fruits?). Found this at Cabinet magazine. I’m going to start a search for the book – thanks for the recommendation!


  2. Great fun.
    And i like this irresistive image … I is for Idling Slowly Down the Mississippi River


    1. Joe Linker says:

      Thanks, Ashen. I had thought of doing something with “riverrun,” (liverrun after dr nk ng the riverdry) but decided on the Great Muddy, more specific. I can remember crossing it when we moved out west when I was a kid. I can remember how brown and muddy it looked. But “irresistive” riverrun would have worked. And I was concerned the tone might take in this letter. It was February, and the roads were freezing when we headed out early in the dark one morning. A milk-truck slid on the ice and crashed into a car, and we were not even out of town yet, yet I seem to remember seeing bathers on the shore of the river as we crossed over it on a bridge. There’s that elus ve my th mak ng aga n.


      1. Quite likely. Where I grew up the lake froze over during occasional winters. Die-hards used to cut a round hole into the ice, with a saw, I recall, and take a dip each day – meant to be good for the circulation. Kids, ducks and swans looked on, shaking heads.


        1. Joe Linker says:

          One year, we lived on a cliff above a lake, and the lake froze over, and I walked out onto the ice, and Susan snapped my photo. Later, the little town nearby posted a notice in the local newspaper telling people to stay off the ice, that it would be a stupid thing to do – walk out on the ice. The ice was like a lid over the water, and the lid floated up and down, with air pockets between the ice and the water, and a walker or skater could easily fall through. No one ever fell through, that I heard of, but what did I know about ice, newly from the warm waters of the South Bay? You can check out the photo of me out on the ice here.


  3. Geannie says:

    Cleverly creative Joe.


    1. Joe Linker says:

      Hey, Geannie! Trust all’s well… Thanks for reading and commenting.


  4. Dan Hennessy says:

    I consider this propos .


    1. Joe Linker says:

      P is for Purpose, forth to pose.


  5. Most excellent :)


    1. Joe Linker says:

      T is for thanks for reading and comment.


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