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Far Out Factoids
Did you know that a pig’s orgasm lasts thirty minutes? Or that each year more people are killed by teddy bears than by grizzly bears? How about that 83% of people believe in a perfect day? Welcome to the wild world of factoids! Using a different factoid as the starting point, and title, for his musings, award-winning poet Neil Carpathios offers up thirty poems in this unique collection that explores sexuality, relationships, culture, metaphysics, and many other corners of our universe. By turns humorous, irreverent, intimate and thought-provoking, Carpathios takes full advantage of the mental springboard that is the factoid. As an added treat, included are original drawings by artist Carole Carpathios, the poet’s wife. These whimsical and beautifully rendered images complement the poems to take readers on a journey through a palpable factoid galaxy. Laugh out loud. Scratch your head in thought. Fasten your seatbelt. Enjoy the ride.
78 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 2017
1 person is currently reading
268 people want to read
About the author
Neil Carpathios
17 books8 followersNeil Carpathios earned an MFA from the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He has been awarded various grants and fellowships, including three Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Awards in Poetry. He currently teaches at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
March 14, 2018
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:
GOLDFISH HAVE A MEMORY SPAN OF THREE SECONDS
He glides in and out
of a hollow blue castle
eyeing flaky dust
my god-like hand dropped
still floating on the surface.
Am I really hungry?
Or did I just eat?
I can hear him thinking.
Is he angry bumping his head
every third second
against the invisible
wall of time
the way I’ve walked
into sliding glass doors
after too many martinis?
How did I get here?
Where is my mother?
Was I ever kissed?
Or is he grateful
to escape
the baggage I carry—
the son hugging his G.I. Joe with grape jelly stains
on the plastic cheek, the daughter
looking down at her feet
as the man tries to explain
divorce, saying they’ll have two houses
now, two Christmases, two birthdays,
double the toys,
like a used car salesman trying too hard?
He is the only pet
I’ve had with two
names I alternate:
Today is Monday—he’s Lucky.
Tomorrow, Tuesday—he’s Cursed.
He looks out from his glass prison;
I look at the sky.
What does he think
circling the toy diver
whose oxygen tank never empties,
who swims forever
suspended in the same spot
by the castle?
GRASSHOPPERS HAVE AS MANY AS 400 DISTINCT SONGS TO WOO A MATE
They are the poets who during their human lives
made a deal with the devil,
agreed to one day be trapped inside
the little green bodies
in exchange for even greater genius.
They are Shakespeare, Dante,
Shelly, Keats,
Dickinson, Whitman, Neruda.
And the others.
They died, were reborn.
All they can do is sing, sing, sing
their hearts out.
I see one in the grass just sitting.
I study his tiny face.
Byron? I whisper.
Ezra? Tu Fu? Sappho?
He looks as if he’s trying so hard to remember.
GOLDFISH HAVE A MEMORY SPAN OF THREE SECONDS
He glides in and out
of a hollow blue castle
eyeing flaky dust
my god-like hand dropped
still floating on the surface.
Am I really hungry?
Or did I just eat?
I can hear him thinking.
Is he angry bumping his head
every third second
against the invisible
wall of time
the way I’ve walked
into sliding glass doors
after too many martinis?
How did I get here?
Where is my mother?
Was I ever kissed?
Or is he grateful
to escape
the baggage I carry—
the son hugging his G.I. Joe with grape jelly stains
on the plastic cheek, the daughter
looking down at her feet
as the man tries to explain
divorce, saying they’ll have two houses
now, two Christmases, two birthdays,
double the toys,
like a used car salesman trying too hard?
He is the only pet
I’ve had with two
names I alternate:
Today is Monday—he’s Lucky.
Tomorrow, Tuesday—he’s Cursed.
He looks out from his glass prison;
I look at the sky.
What does he think
circling the toy diver
whose oxygen tank never empties,
who swims forever
suspended in the same spot
by the castle?
GRASSHOPPERS HAVE AS MANY AS 400 DISTINCT SONGS TO WOO A MATE
They are the poets who during their human lives
made a deal with the devil,
agreed to one day be trapped inside
the little green bodies
in exchange for even greater genius.
They are Shakespeare, Dante,
Shelly, Keats,
Dickinson, Whitman, Neruda.
And the others.
They died, were reborn.
All they can do is sing, sing, sing
their hearts out.
I see one in the grass just sitting.
I study his tiny face.
Byron? I whisper.
Ezra? Tu Fu? Sappho?
He looks as if he’s trying so hard to remember.
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