Yahoo answers is useless for getting information but sometimes it works for mild humour and/or found poetry. A comic going by the internet handle of Clint Westwood wrote:

There are 17 types of Avocado in London alone – mostly situated in the Borough of Hackney where residents have an Avocada identification competeition every Thursday morning . People are blindfolded , lined up and then pelted with avocadae and must distinguish between various densities , skin crinkliness and of course taste . During the Second World War , when avocados were rationed , they used bananas instead , but , having only one type , this became tedious and they went back to singing songs down the underground . Other options included grapes and stale bread the latter a complete failure .

Cut ups.
An exercise during the last Tree Seed Workshop had us chopping apart magazines as poetry fodder. Don’t read, don’t think. Don’t plan. Cut.
Yet order arises. Makes me wonder: Is there no randomness for the unconsciousness? It’s a superstitious brainstem we have, imposing meaning willy-nilly. It’s a wonder that we can even perceive nonsense or surreal or mystical realism and don’t just subsume theme into the flatness of what is.
Sometimes they come together really tightly and sometimes less so, like any other compositional method. Each thing we create is partway to and from somewhere.
Mine looked like this:

(My “getting” fell off the last line en route home.) Given a couple more minutes to shuffle, I’d shift the components like this:

betting on an ad for HIV that was positive?
I adopt the role which requires a lot.
stuttering wasn’t a strategic tiling.
we are caretakers of what happens.
this run from the tricked out verbatim
is patched real straight.
when you weigh efforts to mitigate
some scientists, hands go to their guns.
yesterday was just a last minute idea.
getting the visas will be difficult through dovetails.

Jim said, “If you’re prouder of today’s version and a bit embarrassed by yesterday’s, you’re walking forward.” I like the optimism of that. I’m not sure whether I fall to agreement or against.
The next workshop is this coming Tuesday, also under L.M Rochefort.
And soon we’ll able to announce the fall/winter season facilitators.

This Sunday I venture to Perth again. There’s a  Sunday matinee reading for First Edition Reading Series, a special event called Readings on the Tay with Holly Luhning, Catherine Graham, Susan Gillis and myself at the Ecotay Education Centre, 942 Upper Scotch Line.
Raised in rural Saskatchewan and now living in Toronto, HOLLY LUHNING holds a PhD in eighteenth-century literature, madness and theories of the body. She has received a Saskatchewan Lieutenant Governor’s Arts Award, and her collection of poetry, Sway, was nominated for a Saskatchewan Book Award. Her first novel, Quiver, was released in January 2011 by HarperCollins Canada to much critical praise. Of the psychological thriller, the National Post boasted: “Fast and wicked and dark. The writing in this novel is as clean and slick as a stiletto between the ribs.”
CATHERINE GRAHAM, a poet and educator, was born in Hamilton, Ontario, and educated in Canada and the United Kingdom. She is the author of four critically acclaimed poetry collections: Winterkill, The Red Element, Pupa, and The Watch. Her poetry has appeared in literary journals in North America, the United Kingdom and Ireland and has been frequently anthologized. Graham earned an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University in England. She now lives and writes in Toronto, where she teaches creative writing and designs and delivers workshops on creativity for the business and academic community. She is Marketing Coordinator of the Rowers Pub Reading Series and Vice President of the non-profit organization Project Bookmark Canada, which works to place fictional text in our everyday geography.
Ottawa poet PEARL PIRIE’s chapbooks have been published by above/ground and AngelHouse Press. Her book been shed bore came out from Chaudiere Books in 2010. Her poems were included in ditch, anthology 4. Her poems have been published in places such as dandelion and This Magazine, and in small press including gar, unarmed and 1cent as well as in chapbooks and broadsheets of Haiku Canada and Haiku North America. She has coordinated the Pre-Tree Poetry Workshops since 2009 and does chapbooks phafours. Her manuscript Thirsts won the Robert Kroetsch Award for Innovative Poetry in 2010. This, her second collection, will be released this fall by Snare.
SUSAN GILLIS has lived on both the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, and now divides her time between Montreal and the Tay Valley. The Rapids, her third book of poems, is forthcoming from Brick in 2012.

Erin Moure posted a link to Translation Telephone where the online app takes your text and runs it thru 20 randomly chosen languages of google translate and see, like the telephone game, what comes out the other end.
Even when the word you have are not your own, more than usual, that is, when translating, there is this pivot of choice as you curate ideas to move them forward, and are mute about other ideas.
Accuracy is the bogeyman of translation; for what can be accurately paraphrased is not the “poetic” content of the work. Almost a decade ago, Charles Bernstein said in a duration press chapbook on translation,

Translation can be a goad to invent new forms, structures, expressions, textures, and sounds in the (new) poem being written. This is to acknowledge, but also go beyond, Walter Benjamin’s famous comment that mark of the translator should not be made invisible, or inaudible, in the translation. A certain strangeness from the original must necessarily be embodied in the new poem.

for morning exercises I’ve been playing with translating John Donne to modern English, keeping the form but culturally translating it to my point of view, it’s amusing, absorbing. It’s a dialogue. You acknowledge what you heard but say your say.

This short is embedded in NPR story about an excerpt of Mark Doty’s recent book debating words with Yusef Komunyakaa. Do we impair our ability to see when we label? Do we impair our ability to perceive once we’ve settled on a label? Once we think we know it’s an uphill to get back to the state of knowing less.
Does a word make a distance? Can we magically think that we can step out of scene so much to not create an observer effect, a bias, and curate what is, what isn’t subjective, if we just don’t say a word? To communicate is a decision. A poem is the result of decisions of drawing close enough, if not to whisper than within that range in which we greet one another with a bow, handshake, hug, punch, or knife slash. What you do within that distance, approach closer or leverage further apart is not the domain of the word or wordless but the choice afterwards.
Words allow us to understand what we see, a short-hand for all the knowledge behind that word or retrievable with that word. If we see arch, we see stone or architecture, but if we recognize something more particular in Qanatir. That identifier allows us to go deeper into context, history, significance. The shape of the word alone with a Qa to start indicates it can be Arabic or Inuktitut, or a misspelling. Once we have a word, we have a indication of how to focus search for more. Arcades of recycled Roman artifacts, near and around the Dome of the Rock. A word is a skeleton key to all kinds of locks that an unlabelled scene or image doesn’t have. With that word, one can dismiss, shrug away as not one’s domain and be done with communicating and perceiving.