fatty matty. get on. the sun's still shining --skype, me
Welcome back to America. Where everyone speaks Spanish. –Nate
Nothing more vulnerable than finding no toilet paper in the bathroom –Focker
I got my mom a plant and a cake. It was good –Phoung
Can you tell I’m proud of me? –Matt
Yeah, you’re better at moaning than I am –Matt
Alright I got ta get to work. I can’t be jawin’ wichoo –Mom
He did cute –Mary Beth
I don’t want to screw you, I just want to play with it. –Danny
All this rain, is god angry? Nah, just purifying the earth—like a colon cleanse. –Mom
Smells like dead
It’s your move mirror man –Matt
My little brother has special needs and we still love him –Little girl
They’re sitting down eye-to-crotch level –Chris
Go real or go home –KBR
It’s hard to work the fucker –Matt
You had lotion stuck in the crevice of your nipple- Chris
I know it’s hard to be relaxed when she’s rubbing on your nipples –KBR
Overkill is always underestimated –Ateam movie
See what’s wootin’ for me –Chris
Oriental is a rug, asian is a person –KBR
no, I don’t want to watch you play with it –KBR
My foot will kick your foot in the face-K
Um, I probably got it from scrumping
I’m already dying alone, I don’t need your bad juju on top of it. -Rachael
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Beautiful
When you list me, as all men must,
do not call me beautiful
first. No, list intelligent or impatient,
generous or unconfident. Perhaps
detail the ruts of my chin or that harsh slope
of my lower legs, that bathtub scar
in the cleft of my back, or
recite line by line the time
I named you foolish.
do not call me beautiful
first. No, list intelligent or impatient,
generous or unconfident. Perhaps
detail the ruts of my chin or that harsh slope
of my lower legs, that bathtub scar
in the cleft of my back, or
recite line by line the time
I named you foolish.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Toombs 4
There are many clues to where
we are: Pine trees lined like corn stalks,
onions and pecans fed on sand.
Cotton fields colored like cranberry, flecked harsh
with childhood memories. The people—white,
withered—trail to baptisms and sermons,
pray for harvests. Pumping
wells and frying corn, they gaze at the
minstrels chained to wall, watermelon
wallpaper unthreading. They recite
Little Black Sambo for grandchildren,
after the town library banned it.
I pick the porch cracks under my feet,
imagining those vidalia fingers reaching
from ground to Toombs, Georgia.
I too was grounded—in grade school
for letting black girls braid my
hair, traipsing fingers
past cheeks and ears, dipping
through the strands of my
mother’s interjections. Those girls
later told me, white people
only learn the chorus of the song.
we are: Pine trees lined like corn stalks,
onions and pecans fed on sand.
Cotton fields colored like cranberry, flecked harsh
with childhood memories. The people—white,
withered—trail to baptisms and sermons,
pray for harvests. Pumping
wells and frying corn, they gaze at the
minstrels chained to wall, watermelon
wallpaper unthreading. They recite
Little Black Sambo for grandchildren,
after the town library banned it.
I pick the porch cracks under my feet,
imagining those vidalia fingers reaching
from ground to Toombs, Georgia.
I too was grounded—in grade school
for letting black girls braid my
hair, traipsing fingers
past cheeks and ears, dipping
through the strands of my
mother’s interjections. Those girls
later told me, white people
only learn the chorus of the song.
Mutiny 4
Two years since I’d spoken to a father,
too discomforted to tell him
I don’t call you dad. His
voicemails landed like birds,
irritated with the branch
flailing between talons,
grooving smooth between grasp.
He taught me to fry onions
and season venison, but not
to balance checkbooks or marry
once. When younger, I thought
cheating was hereditary, but I’ve settled
for social conditioning, and set to break
habits too like him. Once, my boyfriend, folding
bed sheets beside me, asked, Why won’t you call him?
(Okay, seriously. Help!)
too discomforted to tell him
I don’t call you dad. His
voicemails landed like birds,
irritated with the branch
flailing between talons,
grooving smooth between grasp.
He taught me to fry onions
and season venison, but not
to balance checkbooks or marry
once. When younger, I thought
cheating was hereditary, but I’ve settled
for social conditioning, and set to break
habits too like him. Once, my boyfriend, folding
bed sheets beside me, asked, Why won’t you call him?
(Okay, seriously. Help!)
Lullaby 4
I’m starting to figure me out, starting
to whisper, lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
on the steps of this house, where I played
jacks with girls of the long ponytail
and absurd name, like Tami or Treni.
Absurd always ends in i, which is the end
of lullaby, and the beginning of irises,
which bloom this year with a fierceness.
I’m starting to hate my shoes, toe worn through,
and their scruff on the concrete in that open
vowel way, while the sinking sun splits
the roofs of houses into geometrics, trails
the iron fence like a tin cup along the ribs
of a jail cell or monkey bar. I watch it dip
into treetops, graze my thumb over the concrete
where, even now, I swear I see the chalk.
Who really remembers how to play outside?
to whisper, lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
on the steps of this house, where I played
jacks with girls of the long ponytail
and absurd name, like Tami or Treni.
Absurd always ends in i, which is the end
of lullaby, and the beginning of irises,
which bloom this year with a fierceness.
I’m starting to hate my shoes, toe worn through,
and their scruff on the concrete in that open
vowel way, while the sinking sun splits
the roofs of houses into geometrics, trails
the iron fence like a tin cup along the ribs
of a jail cell or monkey bar. I watch it dip
into treetops, graze my thumb over the concrete
where, even now, I swear I see the chalk.
Who really remembers how to play outside?
Euthanasia 4
When cancer grates and livers fail, when dogs fight
and clients don’t pay my sister, the executioner, arrives
with her intra-muscular Telazol, her smock of bright colors.
In my dreams she leans over the meek, the old, the lame
of paw, pierces the skin of their hindquarters soft
as the belly of a mushroom, injects what she calls
the pink juice—Euthasol—a drug with too much
earnestness, too much enthusiasm, too much
ease. In my dreams, she grabs the splintered foot,
cold stainless steel already sticking, and shaves patterns
from the toes. People pay, and good, for private cremations
and paw molds. And in my dreams, my sister the executioner
never overheats the kiln, never breaks a mold.
But in this life
she breaks a mold, grabs some boarding dog, parts fur to phony.
In this life, she tosses the body into the fridge next to Tuesday’s
sandwich and Cerenia, which, she tells me is the color of raspberry.
She tells me of Bob, the pudgy cremator, how, with each bagged body,
he quips It’s a dead dog in a feigned British accent. She laughs
every time. She laughs because, in this life, there’s no playing God,
no mechanic husband crying on examination tables over
an HBC (hit by car), no doubt when they find tire marks
between shoulder blades. Afterward, she scrubs the table
with Roccal-D, signs condolence cards. Last week, she
brought me three, asked me to weigh them carefully, pick the best.
and clients don’t pay my sister, the executioner, arrives
with her intra-muscular Telazol, her smock of bright colors.
In my dreams she leans over the meek, the old, the lame
of paw, pierces the skin of their hindquarters soft
as the belly of a mushroom, injects what she calls
the pink juice—Euthasol—a drug with too much
earnestness, too much enthusiasm, too much
ease. In my dreams, she grabs the splintered foot,
cold stainless steel already sticking, and shaves patterns
from the toes. People pay, and good, for private cremations
and paw molds. And in my dreams, my sister the executioner
never overheats the kiln, never breaks a mold.
But in this life
she breaks a mold, grabs some boarding dog, parts fur to phony.
In this life, she tosses the body into the fridge next to Tuesday’s
sandwich and Cerenia, which, she tells me is the color of raspberry.
She tells me of Bob, the pudgy cremator, how, with each bagged body,
he quips It’s a dead dog in a feigned British accent. She laughs
every time. She laughs because, in this life, there’s no playing God,
no mechanic husband crying on examination tables over
an HBC (hit by car), no doubt when they find tire marks
between shoulder blades. Afterward, she scrubs the table
with Roccal-D, signs condolence cards. Last week, she
brought me three, asked me to weigh them carefully, pick the best.
Em Dash
—That yellow heel that clumps on the
sidewalk, but not in that inexperienced way
when toes are lightly lifted and slender sole
crammed to cracks, but in that yes, I know
manner. Sally is a name for any children’s
story writer who forgot what a y means.
Sally is the name of the left leg striding
down the center lane, straddling yellow
lines in shoes that scream impractical and
fresh, somber and reclamation. Recurring
as swift as punctuation is the clack of
bipedalism, Sally’s knees creaking. No one
told her, when she stood, her heart would fight
gravity, would block and bleaken with each
upward stride, each horizontal beat. No one
told her pulses and women should walk on knees.—
sidewalk, but not in that inexperienced way
when toes are lightly lifted and slender sole
crammed to cracks, but in that yes, I know
manner. Sally is a name for any children’s
story writer who forgot what a y means.
Sally is the name of the left leg striding
down the center lane, straddling yellow
lines in shoes that scream impractical and
fresh, somber and reclamation. Recurring
as swift as punctuation is the clack of
bipedalism, Sally’s knees creaking. No one
told her, when she stood, her heart would fight
gravity, would block and bleaken with each
upward stride, each horizontal beat. No one
told her pulses and women should walk on knees.—
Of Attics and Pleas to Lovers 4
For me, no garret, no loft, no sky parlor. Only
some space below pitch. Fill my space
to slanted roof. I am known for being
awkwardly shaped. I bare rafters and
am difficult-to-access. To assess. To accentuate.
Convert me. I can be your window, your staircase,
your neglected, hard-to-get storage. I am no
mass of unmoving air. Rise from lower floors,
get trapped, compound my reputation: Inhospitable.
Don’t insulate, decrease my cost. I have no
boarded floor, no ceiling. Windows and skylights
pale to my chester drawers and failed projects—
copper etched trophies, holidays,
a briefcase bulged with Kennedy newspapers,
three generations of shoes, those pieces of
the carousel you had begun to build, wooden
tops creaking in stale whirls of fans.
Remember how they glimmer in filtered light.
some space below pitch. Fill my space
to slanted roof. I am known for being
awkwardly shaped. I bare rafters and
am difficult-to-access. To assess. To accentuate.
Convert me. I can be your window, your staircase,
your neglected, hard-to-get storage. I am no
mass of unmoving air. Rise from lower floors,
get trapped, compound my reputation: Inhospitable.
Don’t insulate, decrease my cost. I have no
boarded floor, no ceiling. Windows and skylights
pale to my chester drawers and failed projects—
copper etched trophies, holidays,
a briefcase bulged with Kennedy newspapers,
three generations of shoes, those pieces of
the carousel you had begun to build, wooden
tops creaking in stale whirls of fans.
Remember how they glimmer in filtered light.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Week 16, Improv 2
In conversation with the spirit of Chad Davidson’s (who’s that weirdo?) poem, “A”
Some -sshole once told me -ll letters f-ll
-w-y. He thought only vowels could be sexy,
succulent. Conson-nts -nd educ-tion
-re pouting, disconcerted. Disconcerned.
I wish I could h-ve known the “T” before
you double crossed it, topping it like some
Greek pedest-l. Or the “Y” before it le-rned
h-ndst-nds were for im-gin-ri-ns. I thought
“S”s were some dropped pretense, -nd would
stick to fingerprint cr-cks like sp-ghetti noodles.
Those letters were -lw-ys my f-vorite, but not
so much -s the “B” th-t lends to both bitch
-nd benevolence, to the best hump in the word -lph-bet.
Some -sshole once told me -ll letters f-ll
-w-y. He thought only vowels could be sexy,
succulent. Conson-nts -nd educ-tion
-re pouting, disconcerted. Disconcerned.
I wish I could h-ve known the “T” before
you double crossed it, topping it like some
Greek pedest-l. Or the “Y” before it le-rned
h-ndst-nds were for im-gin-ri-ns. I thought
“S”s were some dropped pretense, -nd would
stick to fingerprint cr-cks like sp-ghetti noodles.
Those letters were -lw-ys my f-vorite, but not
so much -s the “B” th-t lends to both bitch
-nd benevolence, to the best hump in the word -lph-bet.
Week 16, Improv 1
From a selection by A.J. Collins
"But to say"
first something about the shoes wouldn’t be right.
The whole thing started with sunrise, getting there,
a broken fog sifting birch limbs, an owl tucked, full of shrews,
-----
But to begin a story with the end
wouldn’t be right. Sure, it would smell
of tangerines, and you could imagine
your own fingertips circling those peels,
your tiny tips dipping to dents. But no
manner of strength of knuckles during
ripping could satiate that frenzied bloodlust
as you pop that first peel between teeth,
your tongue bobbing it to mouth-roof.
Your family physician warns of pesticides
and congeniality, but nothing quite says
Fuck you like licking fruit tendons off
the underbelly of your wrist, trails of that
sickening yellow-orange rivering your cheek.
"But to say"
first something about the shoes wouldn’t be right.
The whole thing started with sunrise, getting there,
a broken fog sifting birch limbs, an owl tucked, full of shrews,
-----
But to begin a story with the end
wouldn’t be right. Sure, it would smell
of tangerines, and you could imagine
your own fingertips circling those peels,
your tiny tips dipping to dents. But no
manner of strength of knuckles during
ripping could satiate that frenzied bloodlust
as you pop that first peel between teeth,
your tongue bobbing it to mouth-roof.
Your family physician warns of pesticides
and congeniality, but nothing quite says
Fuck you like licking fruit tendons off
the underbelly of your wrist, trails of that
sickening yellow-orange rivering your cheek.
Week 16, Freewrite 2
The Egyptians used crocodile dung
as birth control two thousand years before
Jesus. I was afraid my IUD would set off
airport security, as I inched between
metal detectors and tasers. My doctor told me,
in the Stone Age, women shoved pebbles
to keep from getting pregnant. But what’s one
more mouth when you’re a scavenger? It’s
nothing like being some child-slave
in Africa, wading through marsh to hunt
for piles of dung, rolling it between fingers
test for freshness, for impurities. Nothing
like juggling agendas and asps, exams
and trials. Nothing like my grandmother,
who in the fifties, used Lysol to purify
and preserve, to secure her husband.
as birth control two thousand years before
Jesus. I was afraid my IUD would set off
airport security, as I inched between
metal detectors and tasers. My doctor told me,
in the Stone Age, women shoved pebbles
to keep from getting pregnant. But what’s one
more mouth when you’re a scavenger? It’s
nothing like being some child-slave
in Africa, wading through marsh to hunt
for piles of dung, rolling it between fingers
test for freshness, for impurities. Nothing
like juggling agendas and asps, exams
and trials. Nothing like my grandmother,
who in the fifties, used Lysol to purify
and preserve, to secure her husband.
Week 16, Freewrite 1
Lethologica
It’s this big, I whisper, parting hands
to frame air as large as a loaf of bread. It starts with a
B, or an D, or an E--the soccer part of the alphabet. It means
to see me the way you see me and I see me, and how
no one sees me. Double consciousness? you cried, and I
exclaimed, YES! That’s it. and I run to some table
of a nearly empty library, and pick for scraps of paper
that are too short to hold my loaf of bread—which is,
now that I think about it, more like the size of a Volkswagen.
It’s this big, I whisper, parting hands
to frame air as large as a loaf of bread. It starts with a
B, or an D, or an E--the soccer part of the alphabet. It means
to see me the way you see me and I see me, and how
no one sees me. Double consciousness? you cried, and I
exclaimed, YES! That’s it. and I run to some table
of a nearly empty library, and pick for scraps of paper
that are too short to hold my loaf of bread—which is,
now that I think about it, more like the size of a Volkswagen.
Week 16, Junkyard Quotes
I don’t know if I’m hot on that. –Trista
My mind’s everywhere. –Ryan (common, I know, but I’d never really thought about the phrase void of meaning).
If you’re gonna be broke, it’s a great place to be broke. –Davidson
Don’t think I don’t think about it. –Darius Rucker
Don’t forget you’re only the top of the pedestal. –John von Eschenbach
These kids have a war-sense. --Kamal D.
I wanna leave you with that stoned-third grader ending. -Hipchen
Why do people spoon-feed each other? There's no need for that unless you have cerebal palsy. -Kayla
My mind’s everywhere. –Ryan (common, I know, but I’d never really thought about the phrase void of meaning).
If you’re gonna be broke, it’s a great place to be broke. –Davidson
Don’t think I don’t think about it. –Darius Rucker
Don’t forget you’re only the top of the pedestal. –John von Eschenbach
These kids have a war-sense. --Kamal D.
I wanna leave you with that stoned-third grader ending. -Hipchen
Why do people spoon-feed each other? There's no need for that unless you have cerebal palsy. -Kayla
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Week 15, Improv 2
Once again, a brief improv in the spirit of Brigitte Byrd
--
On steeping a single-serving bag of tea
Sure, your self-consciousness dips and pours as easily. But no hot water could boil something useful from you. Your herbs were never primed for the picking, never dried or sun-baked. No, your sap and genetics rebuke any healing, any aromatherapy—hell, the only therapy you ever heard of came at two-hundred an hour.
--
On steeping a single-serving bag of tea
Sure, your self-consciousness dips and pours as easily. But no hot water could boil something useful from you. Your herbs were never primed for the picking, never dried or sun-baked. No, your sap and genetics rebuke any healing, any aromatherapy—hell, the only therapy you ever heard of came at two-hundred an hour.
Week 15, Improv 1
Improv, in the spirit of Brigitte's two-liners
On folding a towel
Crease edge to ruffled edge, shaking wrinkles from middle as easily as composure, as an affectation, as an amusement. Smooth those filial, finicky fibers—to the left—and impart your measures like some archaic journaling, like some river will bore your colonialism from bank. Fold in halves or thirds? you ask, as if closet space will also evaporate. As if your efforts, like water, will part to air and in part, air.
On folding a towel
Crease edge to ruffled edge, shaking wrinkles from middle as easily as composure, as an affectation, as an amusement. Smooth those filial, finicky fibers—to the left—and impart your measures like some archaic journaling, like some river will bore your colonialism from bank. Fold in halves or thirds? you ask, as if closet space will also evaporate. As if your efforts, like water, will part to air and in part, air.
Week 15, Freewrite 2
My mother came home to peel shoes
from worn feet, to sink to bed, to water
her county-fair roses. Rather, she stumbled
on a dead bird in the living room, right wing
swaddling left should across belly like some
bow, some retreat, some submission. Had
it fingers, I imagine they would be graceful
and smooth, slightly curled at the last knuckles.
Did it fly in through window or basement door,
through your carelessness or mine? Whose
fault to blame for some feather-wearer’s
trepidation, trespass? Trace your steps to
Tuesday last, when you heard some peeps in
the chimney, some bleeps or beeps, cell phone
or smoke alarm? No kamikaze mission, this one
must have flown from door to window, living
room mantle to bookcase lined of all those
classics mom told me to read. Where was it, that
crown met end? Where feathers did not shield,
yet carpet muffled, like some interjection, intervention.
from worn feet, to sink to bed, to water
her county-fair roses. Rather, she stumbled
on a dead bird in the living room, right wing
swaddling left should across belly like some
bow, some retreat, some submission. Had
it fingers, I imagine they would be graceful
and smooth, slightly curled at the last knuckles.
Did it fly in through window or basement door,
through your carelessness or mine? Whose
fault to blame for some feather-wearer’s
trepidation, trespass? Trace your steps to
Tuesday last, when you heard some peeps in
the chimney, some bleeps or beeps, cell phone
or smoke alarm? No kamikaze mission, this one
must have flown from door to window, living
room mantle to bookcase lined of all those
classics mom told me to read. Where was it, that
crown met end? Where feathers did not shield,
yet carpet muffled, like some interjection, intervention.
Week 15, Freewrite 1
In a bed of the Mountain Valley Inn in Missoula, Montana, reading the Fire Safety manual.
When you check in…
• Find fire exits in your corridor. Make sure they are not locked or blocked. Count doorways between your room and exits.
• Learn layout of your room and know how to unlock your door in the dark.
• Put your room key closest to where you sleep.
When the room door is not hot or there is no smoke in the hall…
• Check if the hall is clear of smoke. If it’s clean, it’s probably safe to leave your room. Grab your key.
• Walk down to the ground level holding on to the handrail to protect yourself from being knocked down by someone in a panic.
When the room door is hot or there is smoke in the hall…
• Stay calm. You can stay in your room and still survive a fire.
• Fill the tub with water for wetting towels, sheets, etc. The tub water might also be needed for cooling down the walls. An ice bucket or wastebasket can be used for bailing water.
• If the phone works, call for help.
When you check in…
• Find fire exits in your corridor. Make sure they are not locked or blocked. Count doorways between your room and exits.
• Learn layout of your room and know how to unlock your door in the dark.
• Put your room key closest to where you sleep.
When the room door is not hot or there is no smoke in the hall…
• Check if the hall is clear of smoke. If it’s clean, it’s probably safe to leave your room. Grab your key.
• Walk down to the ground level holding on to the handrail to protect yourself from being knocked down by someone in a panic.
When the room door is hot or there is smoke in the hall…
• Stay calm. You can stay in your room and still survive a fire.
• Fill the tub with water for wetting towels, sheets, etc. The tub water might also be needed for cooling down the walls. An ice bucket or wastebasket can be used for bailing water.
• If the phone works, call for help.
Week 15, Junkyard Quotes
Oh melt my heart, I love this song! -Kayla
You should get a fish and put it in their car. That shit will smell up in three hours. -Mom
My bed looks like a lumpy woman. It has the muffin top and everything. -Kayla
I'm really good at suffering. -Kelsey
My heart is hummingbird. -Mary Kay
You should get a fish and put it in their car. That shit will smell up in three hours. -Mom
My bed looks like a lumpy woman. It has the muffin top and everything. -Kayla
I'm really good at suffering. -Kelsey
My heart is hummingbird. -Mary Kay
Week 14, Response 1
I found Melanie Jordan’s poem, “Parenthetical,” absolutely fascinating and daring. I have never encountered a poem quite similar to its style—a commentary piece about punctuation and its role within language, writing, and thereby, society. My fascination with the poem began with the title and structure of the poem as a text within parentheses. The poem begins and ends with the particular punctuation marks that namesake the poem, and the inside poem functions as I imagine text within parenthesis (when normally outside the context of a poem). The small affectations of the punctuation marks and not capitalizing the first word—as if the poem were a continuation of some larger work—provides some elaboration of a social construction, a scenario, where the action described is muted or whispered to the reader. The effect provides a more intimate reading of the text, and the content depicts a slight movement almost unnoticed or unrelayed to readers—an afterthought. When I created my improv with the em dash, I attempted to attribute the same perceived characteristics—by describing details that, to me, seemed to serve as appositives to some unknown material.
Week 14, Improv 2
A really awful improv in the spirit of Jordan's "Charlie Brown in the Dead of Night"
Ariel
No one told you the truth. The song.
You may have heard I was unruly, disrespectful.
They may I have said I wanted legs or the right
to shave. Some squabble over fires and loves.
No, I just wanted the damn salt out of my hair,
to comb the grit and krill from locks untrimmed.
They may have told you of forsaking friendly
fish and turtles—no such thing. They’d rather
groom themselves and sculpt rock formations.
No games of tag or political debates. No musical
endeavors or warfare tactics. Us, we’re lower class,
some trash—One Fins, they call us. It’s not that
I disregarded my home, my waters. I just wanted
to feel the dryness of wood beneath toes and to
throw wishes to the dregs of ocean bottoms.
Ariel
No one told you the truth. The song.
You may have heard I was unruly, disrespectful.
They may I have said I wanted legs or the right
to shave. Some squabble over fires and loves.
No, I just wanted the damn salt out of my hair,
to comb the grit and krill from locks untrimmed.
They may have told you of forsaking friendly
fish and turtles—no such thing. They’d rather
groom themselves and sculpt rock formations.
No games of tag or political debates. No musical
endeavors or warfare tactics. Us, we’re lower class,
some trash—One Fins, they call us. It’s not that
I disregarded my home, my waters. I just wanted
to feel the dryness of wood beneath toes and to
throw wishes to the dregs of ocean bottoms.
Week 14, Improv 1
Improv from Melanie Jordan's “Parenthetical” (the style, not a particular line)
Em Dash
—That yellow heel that clumps on the
sidewalk, but not in that inexperienced way
when toes are lightly lifted and slender sole
crammed to cracks, but in that yes, I know
manner. Sally is a name for any children’s
story writer that forgot what a y means.
Sally is the name of the left leg striding
down the center lane, straddling yellow
lines in shoes that scream impractical and
fresh, somber and reclamation. Recurring
as swift as punctuation is the clack of
bipedalism, Sally’s knees creaking. No one
told her, when she stood, her heart would fight
gravity, would block and bleaken with each
upward stride, each horizontal beat. No one
told her pulses and women should walk on knees.—
Em Dash
—That yellow heel that clumps on the
sidewalk, but not in that inexperienced way
when toes are lightly lifted and slender sole
crammed to cracks, but in that yes, I know
manner. Sally is a name for any children’s
story writer that forgot what a y means.
Sally is the name of the left leg striding
down the center lane, straddling yellow
lines in shoes that scream impractical and
fresh, somber and reclamation. Recurring
as swift as punctuation is the clack of
bipedalism, Sally’s knees creaking. No one
told her, when she stood, her heart would fight
gravity, would block and bleaken with each
upward stride, each horizontal beat. No one
told her pulses and women should walk on knees.—
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Week 14, Freewrite 2
Parasites like Oestroidea
Hold housefly or rodents firmly. Rotate
to advantageous position. Deposit eggs.
Eggs will stimulate from warmth, drop onto
skin, will burrow underneath. If licked, egg
will fester in digestion. They feast on rodent
population control. It must be that ovarian
crunch that drives them. Later, when dropped,
they turn pupal in soil.
But freedom is not with
flies and rats, not with the manure of cows and
horses. No herds for you. Squeeze spine to
painful sub-epidermals. Avoid raw meat and nail
polish—that’s removal, reversal, regression.
I watched them suffocate mine, some sap.
Matatorsalo was never simply ‘bot killer.’
Rather, it’s the fading of Costa Rica, some
colonial conquerment, some parasitic endeavor.
Hold housefly or rodents firmly. Rotate
to advantageous position. Deposit eggs.
Eggs will stimulate from warmth, drop onto
skin, will burrow underneath. If licked, egg
will fester in digestion. They feast on rodent
population control. It must be that ovarian
crunch that drives them. Later, when dropped,
they turn pupal in soil.
But freedom is not with
flies and rats, not with the manure of cows and
horses. No herds for you. Squeeze spine to
painful sub-epidermals. Avoid raw meat and nail
polish—that’s removal, reversal, regression.
I watched them suffocate mine, some sap.
Matatorsalo was never simply ‘bot killer.’
Rather, it’s the fading of Costa Rica, some
colonial conquerment, some parasitic endeavor.
Week 14, Freewrite 1
Attics (based off a wikipedia article)
For me, no garret, no loft, no sky parlor. Only
some space below pitch. Fill my space
to slanted roof. I am known for being
awkwardly shaped. I have exposed rafters and
am difficult-to-access. To assess. To accentuate.
Convert me. I can be your window, your staircase,
your neglected, hard-to-get storage. I am no
mass of unmoving air. Rise from lower floors,
get trapped, compound my reputation: Inhospitable.
Don’t insulate, decrease my cost. I am no boarded
floor; I have no ceiling. Windows and skylights
pale to my chester drawers and failed projects.
Those pieces of the carousel you had begun
to build, creaking in stale whirls of fans. See
how they glimmer in the filtered light.
For me, no garret, no loft, no sky parlor. Only
some space below pitch. Fill my space
to slanted roof. I am known for being
awkwardly shaped. I have exposed rafters and
am difficult-to-access. To assess. To accentuate.
Convert me. I can be your window, your staircase,
your neglected, hard-to-get storage. I am no
mass of unmoving air. Rise from lower floors,
get trapped, compound my reputation: Inhospitable.
Don’t insulate, decrease my cost. I am no boarded
floor; I have no ceiling. Windows and skylights
pale to my chester drawers and failed projects.
Those pieces of the carousel you had begun
to build, creaking in stale whirls of fans. See
how they glimmer in the filtered light.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Week 14, Junkyard Quotes
I am a plant cell and molecular biologist. -SRAP paperwork
My timeline's a little jiggly. -Jazzy Focker
He voluntold me. -Kayla
In an asymptotic fashion. -Gordon
Don't tell me if I'm dying. -Thriving Ivory
My timeline's a little jiggly. -Jazzy Focker
He voluntold me. -Kayla
In an asymptotic fashion. -Gordon
Don't tell me if I'm dying. -Thriving Ivory
Week 13, Response 1
In Jillian Weise’s poetry collection, The Amputee’s Guide to Sex, she typically refrains from formal structures. However, she seems to prefer certain stanza formats—usually two, three, or four lines. In several of these pieces (“Notes on the Body (1),” “Below Water,” “Notes on the Body (2),” “During the Reign of the Alter Ego,” “The Old Questions,” and “Ode to Agent Orange”), the majority of the poems fall under couplet forms, but the last line is single. This maneuver simultaneously salutes the poetic cannon of couplets, while also subverting and refuting those traditions. Weise alters the traditional, base form of couplets to support a non-regulated, imperfect (by traditional poetic stanzas) format in a contemporary fashion. This structure also forces the reader to place emphasis on the last, resounding line, a tactic Weise uses to further hone political importance. Her political avenues are multi-layered, but focus on altering contemporary society’s opinion of perfection. Though largely about the body, these directions may focus on the political perfection, as referenced before. Weise utilizes the single line in a couplet form to reflect the content of the collection that concerns the body. The couplets begin reflecting two people or partners (most often lovers), and then trail down to a more introspective, singular look into the narrator’s voice and physical representations. Furthermore, with several references to being half a body, or only having half the limbs necessary, Weise demonstrates her poetry masterfully with half-stanzas.
Week 13, Improv 2
Selection from “Laundry”
I do not need much: Someone
to kill the scorpion hiding
under the cabinet, someone
I do not need much: Someone
to scrub baseboards and showers,
to proofread papers, someone
to wobble on a stepstool,
reach with both arms to
fixture, swipe bulbs and lint,
return both to me. Fall to carpet
for earrings and runaway pens.
Someone to call to waiter,
This steak’s underdone. This
list’s underdone like women
and films and doctor exams.
Like exotic vacations and the faint
bruising alongside the left ribcage
like last years checks and
the philosophies of next.
I do not need much: Someone
to kill the scorpion hiding
under the cabinet, someone
I do not need much: Someone
to scrub baseboards and showers,
to proofread papers, someone
to wobble on a stepstool,
reach with both arms to
fixture, swipe bulbs and lint,
return both to me. Fall to carpet
for earrings and runaway pens.
Someone to call to waiter,
This steak’s underdone. This
list’s underdone like women
and films and doctor exams.
Like exotic vacations and the faint
bruising alongside the left ribcage
like last years checks and
the philosophies of next.
Week 13, Improv 1
Selection from “The Arrangement” by Jillian Weise
Why are you writing what you are
when you know I do not like it?
--
Why are you what you are,
when you know I do not like it?
You like to find abandoned schools,
rip toilets from walls, expose pipes
like questions, shatter porcelain.
I prefer to drive to corner country,
find a half-bloomed tree, swerve to
roadside and snap pictures, my face
grooved to ground for better angles.
When you threw desks to ceiling, a
tile fell to sear your back. I disinfect,
say, you deserved worse. You cringe,
but whisper, you remind me of home.
Why are you writing what you are
when you know I do not like it?
--
Why are you what you are,
when you know I do not like it?
You like to find abandoned schools,
rip toilets from walls, expose pipes
like questions, shatter porcelain.
I prefer to drive to corner country,
find a half-bloomed tree, swerve to
roadside and snap pictures, my face
grooved to ground for better angles.
When you threw desks to ceiling, a
tile fell to sear your back. I disinfect,
say, you deserved worse. You cringe,
but whisper, you remind me of home.
Week 13, Freewrite 2
My city suffers from penis envy
and renovations. All I’ve had
lately is a bad idea.
Nostalgia seeps like Italian oil,
like orthography, like oafishness.
Ghost résumés fill with nominations
and almost there. Almost, like a
double darkness, like the lost art
of loafing. It was, always and everywhere,
the same. They think all I do is
drink and whore around. They’re
overly neglected. They’re no less real.
Imaginary is no number, no value.
I just need you to fight it for a minute,
just need you to move your life. We’ve
all been on that sketchy bus ride
through down-and-undertowns.
and renovations. All I’ve had
lately is a bad idea.
Nostalgia seeps like Italian oil,
like orthography, like oafishness.
Ghost résumés fill with nominations
and almost there. Almost, like a
double darkness, like the lost art
of loafing. It was, always and everywhere,
the same. They think all I do is
drink and whore around. They’re
overly neglected. They’re no less real.
Imaginary is no number, no value.
I just need you to fight it for a minute,
just need you to move your life. We’ve
all been on that sketchy bus ride
through down-and-undertowns.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Week 13, Freewrite 1
I wonder if it’s time for a woman
like I wonder at the fullness of cabbage and
calenders, and if one can ever be learned
in the ways of birds. Snakes never were
evil, merely coveted for new skins, like I
for long legs and etymology. I found ants made in
my likeness, thoraxes bending to my will,
to my crumbs. My friend, once young, tried
to train a tick to eat cookies. The tick kicked
leg from chocolate chip, like some dog urinating.
Days later, we found it suffocated or starved,
that leg plucked from body, towering from a
pile of sugar like some Dido, some deity, some
sacrifice. Between my thumb, it flailed like
some snake in the wind, until I dropped
my last crumb to ground.
like I wonder at the fullness of cabbage and
calenders, and if one can ever be learned
in the ways of birds. Snakes never were
evil, merely coveted for new skins, like I
for long legs and etymology. I found ants made in
my likeness, thoraxes bending to my will,
to my crumbs. My friend, once young, tried
to train a tick to eat cookies. The tick kicked
leg from chocolate chip, like some dog urinating.
Days later, we found it suffocated or starved,
that leg plucked from body, towering from a
pile of sugar like some Dido, some deity, some
sacrifice. Between my thumb, it flailed like
some snake in the wind, until I dropped
my last crumb to ground.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Week 13 Junkyard Quotes
All you've had lately is a bad idea. -Kayla
Old elephants limp off to the hills to die. -Fear and Loathing
They're smell-fucking me. -Mom
There's no man on his face. -Matt
Baby, you ain't old enough to pull my hair. -Aunt B (to her one-year-old grandson)
Old elephants limp off to the hills to die. -Fear and Loathing
They're smell-fucking me. -Mom
There's no man on his face. -Matt
Baby, you ain't old enough to pull my hair. -Aunt B (to her one-year-old grandson)
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Improv 1, Week 6
"5 AM" -John Poch
People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
--
People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
The fourth is for that man on the side of the
street to stop yelling Shakespeare at car windows,
fudging through distilled pentameter, swaying to
monologues of Ophelia and Portia, comedies
soon becoming some sick tragedy. His
fingers are wrapped in shreds, his hat greased.
We could call his memory good, his performance
just shy, but he skips the third Act as a rule.
He found a great volume of Billy’s sonnets
and plays in the dumpster on 3rd.
With a sense of literary morality, he
memorizes lines before burning pages over toes.
But one page, he tucked into the fold of this thirty
pocket coat—one page crinkles it’s warmth to
his chest. Though shredded, he slips it out to read
I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
--
People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
The fourth is for that man on the side of the
street to stop yelling Shakespeare at car windows,
fudging through distilled pentameter, swaying to
monologues of Ophelia and Portia, comedies
soon becoming some sick tragedy. His
fingers are wrapped in shreds, his hat greased.
We could call his memory good, his performance
just shy, but he skips the third Act as a rule.
He found a great volume of Billy’s sonnets
and plays in the dumpster on 3rd.
With a sense of literary morality, he
memorizes lines before burning pages over toes.
But one page, he tucked into the fold of this thirty
pocket coat—one page crinkles it’s warmth to
his chest. Though shredded, he slips it out to read
I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Freewrite 1, Week 6
In my father’s kitchen, perched on the checkered, cigarette burned tablecloth, perches a glass rooster, won at a local fair. The rooster stands two feet by one, two glass talons glazed to one another, softened by air and artist. Base to breast, the rooster is filled with spiced peppers—bell or habanera—each color bleeding like feathers to the next. When planting peppers in Georgia, plan two to three months to mature. Like me, most peppers require a fair amount of space. They need room to blossom and set fruit. Groom to ward disease and wireworms. They won’t tolerate frost and bell produces less fruit than hot, but look like kindergarten finger-paints. When raising a rooster, provide a few hens—no more than eight. Allow plenty of feed, water, and space. Stuff with bell peppers to soothe indigestion. Pride on kitchen counter as morning lights the kitchen. Eat around centerpiece during Salisbury and corn--roosters are social creatures.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Week 8, Response
I enjoyed the couplet form of Trethewey’s poem, “Theories of Time and Space.” The physical space between each couplet allowed a bit of breathing room for the reader, or a slight subconscious pause or slowed pacing that allows the somber reflection necessary to commemorate history and homelands. There are two hard stops at the end of the couplets—one at the end of the first stanza, and one to conclude the poem. These moments present the only hard reflections or slammed effects of stopping—when the poet first identifies her argument (“there’s no going home”), and then later supports or depicts her argument with the other stanzas. These two hard stops frame the poem as metaphorically as the photograph “waiting” for a reader’s “return” to the poem and the nostalgia. The two hardstops are further reinforced when juxtaposed by the other eighteen lines that intentionally spill content to the next line or stanza with mid-phrase enjambments or softer punctuation. These softer lines allow for a motion of the poem that rapidly reflects the motion of the piece (i.e. “mile markers ticking”).
Improv 2, Week 10
“Womb to Tomb Pantoum” by Kathy Fagan
She was born, like so many of us,
with slightly webbed feet, three
freckles to right wrist , and her
mother’s preference for wheat bread.
She whistles Let It Be
when squeezing cantaloupes to
check for their ripe, springy countenance.
Her nose, once broken in a grade school
frisbee tragedy, had that swift decline
of empires. But her fingers were her
glory, shaped for pianos and carpentry,
campaigning for the propriety of
spools, myths, and exposures.
She was born, like so many of us,
with slightly webbed feet, three
freckles to right wrist , and her
mother’s preference for wheat bread.
She whistles Let It Be
when squeezing cantaloupes to
check for their ripe, springy countenance.
Her nose, once broken in a grade school
frisbee tragedy, had that swift decline
of empires. But her fingers were her
glory, shaped for pianos and carpentry,
campaigning for the propriety of
spools, myths, and exposures.
Improv 1, Week 10
“Darling,” by Kathy Fagan
You were just that
gone, the taper of your
coat whistling louder than
fish from my youth—wriggling
past worms and bubblegum,
cause Wrigleys always works
better than Doublemint. Your
loaf to wood thrashed to me like
my father, his ear pierced in
rust. His tetnis almost stung more
than you, his net wider and
better arched. When I dove
into the wake of another
putterboat, eyes and toes
spread, my father’s voice as
muddled as concertos, I
saw the infinity of my craft.
You were just that
gone, the taper of your
coat whistling louder than
fish from my youth—wriggling
past worms and bubblegum,
cause Wrigleys always works
better than Doublemint. Your
loaf to wood thrashed to me like
my father, his ear pierced in
rust. His tetnis almost stung more
than you, his net wider and
better arched. When I dove
into the wake of another
putterboat, eyes and toes
spread, my father’s voice as
muddled as concertos, I
saw the infinity of my craft.
Response, Week 10
I’m interested in Fagan’s indenting form for the untitled “No cakes for us…” piece. The form follows sets of unrhymed tercets, where every other line is heavily indented. Due to the tercet format, this creates a structure where the middle lines of odd stanzas are indented, and the first and third lines of even stanzas are indented, presenting an alternating or continually inversing form. This structure of the poem forces readers to physically mimic the movement described on stage (passing the “lampblack,” filing “the claws down,” “les rats” dancing and “huddl[ing]). The falls to indented lines (with capital letters) offer a harder impact, like the thudding of steps on the stage floor, whereas the following backtrack to a longer line emphasizes the violent move of the history or the forced reflection on the historical art. The slamming is also emphasized with short lines and heavy punctuation (“Still. / I prayed only / Once.”). The motion of the form also aids in juggling the material of the opera house—rats, performance, luck, Hades, science—and also mimics the indecisiveness of the speaker as she contemplates the peridition of her fellow performers (“Doll. Whore. Clown. Corpse.”). Finally, the alternating forms as the indentions move from 121 to 212 forms demonstrate the alternating persona held by the forms of the poems, and by the characters within.
Freewrite 2, Week 10
When younger, I thought bubbles
were like crystal balls. Each held
another dimension, a different future.
With each pop on tongue or asphalt,
another you disintegrates to soap.
Blame this fancy on Cinderella,
with her carmines and azures glossing
over stepmothers and mop water.
With one light skip into a sphere,
you could become a watercolorist,
a techno master, opera singer, or
gourd carver. With each cat swipe,
you returned as a divorce lawyer,
a mechanic, an administrative assistant.
My younger cousin couldn’t blow bubbles,
his lips to closely perched to wand,
juice dribbling cheeks. Our parents never tried.
were like crystal balls. Each held
another dimension, a different future.
With each pop on tongue or asphalt,
another you disintegrates to soap.
Blame this fancy on Cinderella,
with her carmines and azures glossing
over stepmothers and mop water.
With one light skip into a sphere,
you could become a watercolorist,
a techno master, opera singer, or
gourd carver. With each cat swipe,
you returned as a divorce lawyer,
a mechanic, an administrative assistant.
My younger cousin couldn’t blow bubbles,
his lips to closely perched to wand,
juice dribbling cheeks. Our parents never tried.
Freewrite 1, Week 10
When younger,
I imagined aliens
watching our world
like TV. They would think
cars the higher life forms,
with so many colors and sizes,
weaving across old sentiments.
We’re proud to serve a world
in motion, I once read on an
interstate advertisement. How
strange to think of our
motion in a car’s motion on a
globe’s piteous rotation.
The image too boring to
liken to ants. How those aliens
would shriek when awkward
shaped lumps would lumber
from metal specimen.
Symbiotic or parasitic?
they would ask, and I,
though young and insightful,
would not know the answer.
I imagined aliens
watching our world
like TV. They would think
cars the higher life forms,
with so many colors and sizes,
weaving across old sentiments.
We’re proud to serve a world
in motion, I once read on an
interstate advertisement. How
strange to think of our
motion in a car’s motion on a
globe’s piteous rotation.
The image too boring to
liken to ants. How those aliens
would shriek when awkward
shaped lumps would lumber
from metal specimen.
Symbiotic or parasitic?
they would ask, and I,
though young and insightful,
would not know the answer.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 10
Alcoholics are sad and not interesting –Kim
Do you ever look at a kid, and know they won’t be able to read? –Kim
Nuns lie a lot. –Hipchen
Babe, give me your knife and strippers! –Chris (in reference to emergency construction)
Why have intercourse when you can have outercourse? –Kayla (aka K-Bizzle)
Do you ever look at a kid, and know they won’t be able to read? –Kim
Nuns lie a lot. –Hipchen
Babe, give me your knife and strippers! –Chris (in reference to emergency construction)
Why have intercourse when you can have outercourse? –Kayla (aka K-Bizzle)
Response, Week 9
Estes's first line indentation in “Nevers” serves several purposes. First, like many other pieces in the Tryst collection, the form creates a more violent typewriter effect for readers when they reach to read the next line. This violent effect often mimics or reflects the harsh content that has otherwise been subdued (the Hiroshima bombing in “Nevers” or the fratricide in “Via Sacra”). In this particular piece, the indentation is not as severe as many other pieces, and appears the standard half-inch indentation used in prose writing. This creates a visual effect of a fictional elaboration or a critique of the matter discussed, well suited for the historical rendition of the operas and the Hiroshima bombing. The physical effects of reading also reflect the wistfulness of regrettable history detailed in the poem—lost loves and wartime efforts—as readers are forced to physically move their heads further back (or left) than they originally began. This motion creates an almost reluctant revisiting to the “past” of the page.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Freewrite 2, Week 9
Yesterday I saw a street sign for a speed limit—8 ½ mph.
Today, my brother glues a knife to a spork,
calls it a sponoof. He whispers over dried
glue strings, Smart people have more
zinc and copper in their hair. I Google it—
it might be true. Our parents played
Egyptian Rat Screw, slamming King David and
Charlemagne. Whoever wins will know
the binder of travels is called an aglet. Just like
our frenula restrict us. Just like you will wait
two weeks of your life at a traffic light. Truckers—
truckers need more cards and utensils and zinc.
Enough with fossil fuels and those damn aglets.
Today, my brother glues a knife to a spork,
calls it a sponoof. He whispers over dried
glue strings, Smart people have more
zinc and copper in their hair. I Google it—
it might be true. Our parents played
Egyptian Rat Screw, slamming King David and
Charlemagne. Whoever wins will know
the binder of travels is called an aglet. Just like
our frenula restrict us. Just like you will wait
two weeks of your life at a traffic light. Truckers—
truckers need more cards and utensils and zinc.
Enough with fossil fuels and those damn aglets.
Freewrite 1, Week 9, Euthanasia Part II
Oh shuga, you just don’t understand. She’s my
baby. She was there for two miscarriages, car
crashes, when I lost my job, went in the nut house,
came back for tea. She’s never had fur above her nose,
bless her heart, but she always let me kiss that spot.
She always smelled a bit like that, yes. Sure, she
dropped that weight months ago. Oh honey, I don’t
think so. She can’t be… well, ya know. Movin’ on,
so to speak. I’ve had her since she was just a little
runt. She always snuggled between my feet, and she
still squeezes there durin’ a lightnin’ storm. No,
you’re wrong. Just plain wrong. You mixed up the
chart. My baby’s just not ready to die. Besides, you
think I should kill her? That’s not my decision. If the
Lord wants to take her, He can. Bless her poor little heart.
baby. She was there for two miscarriages, car
crashes, when I lost my job, went in the nut house,
came back for tea. She’s never had fur above her nose,
bless her heart, but she always let me kiss that spot.
She always smelled a bit like that, yes. Sure, she
dropped that weight months ago. Oh honey, I don’t
think so. She can’t be… well, ya know. Movin’ on,
so to speak. I’ve had her since she was just a little
runt. She always snuggled between my feet, and she
still squeezes there durin’ a lightnin’ storm. No,
you’re wrong. Just plain wrong. You mixed up the
chart. My baby’s just not ready to die. Besides, you
think I should kill her? That’s not my decision. If the
Lord wants to take her, He can. Bless her poor little heart.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Improv 2, Week 9
“You Can Tell” by Angie Estes
if fish are fresh by the way
their bodies arch, tails flipped up
--
You can tell it is Monday, or Tuesday,
Thursday. A quick bike to the corner
Backerei, curving streen signs and chain links.
Order an Oma, bitte. An Oma. A pastry of
powder, or better, a chocolate Opa.
They mean grandparents, his and hers. My
favorite words, how their names
plump a mouth to the surprise of fingers and
assonance. Plump like granny’s biscuits
when she still handmade them, before
frozen Pillsburys and Atkins. Plump like
Germans over ice cream and frites plump.
Plump. Sounds like the pigeons on my
windowsill, too admiring how it folds to
me, top leaning over to plump a
kiss to forehead. The wind, shrieking of bikers
below, curl to edge my Opa to pieces, the
crumbs thudding on the floor, loud
enough for neighbors to hear.
if fish are fresh by the way
their bodies arch, tails flipped up
--
You can tell it is Monday, or Tuesday,
Thursday. A quick bike to the corner
Backerei, curving streen signs and chain links.
Order an Oma, bitte. An Oma. A pastry of
powder, or better, a chocolate Opa.
They mean grandparents, his and hers. My
favorite words, how their names
plump a mouth to the surprise of fingers and
assonance. Plump like granny’s biscuits
when she still handmade them, before
frozen Pillsburys and Atkins. Plump like
Germans over ice cream and frites plump.
Plump. Sounds like the pigeons on my
windowsill, too admiring how it folds to
me, top leaning over to plump a
kiss to forehead. The wind, shrieking of bikers
below, curl to edge my Opa to pieces, the
crumbs thudding on the floor, loud
enough for neighbors to hear.
Improv 1, Week 9
“Ole” by Angie Estes (form from Tretheway)
My grandmother wouldn’t
sit near the eel that spit its grease
from the frying pain, said she’d
seen them come back
to life.
My grandmother never learned to
swim, fretting on cruise ships and in
river tubes. She cried when my mother
threw me in a pool without
floaties. At fifteen, we circled a birthday
table. My mother took the ring he
gave her, but closed the box. It’s in her
third shelf, carats still glinting stockings.
He murmured in her ear When the youngest is
eighteen, I’m gone. A joke. Get it?
You have to say Get it? or people don’t, my
sister told me—nineteen, in our
father’s basement. She makes less sense than my
phone, that tells me whore is misspelled.
Should be shore, snore, where, whorl, or whole.
At the bottom, it lists whores.
My grandmother wouldn’t
sit near the eel that spit its grease
from the frying pain, said she’d
seen them come back
to life.
My grandmother never learned to
swim, fretting on cruise ships and in
river tubes. She cried when my mother
threw me in a pool without
floaties. At fifteen, we circled a birthday
table. My mother took the ring he
gave her, but closed the box. It’s in her
third shelf, carats still glinting stockings.
He murmured in her ear When the youngest is
eighteen, I’m gone. A joke. Get it?
You have to say Get it? or people don’t, my
sister told me—nineteen, in our
father’s basement. She makes less sense than my
phone, that tells me whore is misspelled.
Should be shore, snore, where, whorl, or whole.
At the bottom, it lists whores.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 9
They think all you do is drink and whore around. –Hipchen
Life is a bitch depending how you dress her. –Kanye West, “You Can’t Tell Me Nothin’”
It seemed almost a double darkness. –Roots
Lent is like a mirror. –Random church sign
Ties are like man-jewelry. --Katy
Life is a bitch depending how you dress her. –Kanye West, “You Can’t Tell Me Nothin’”
It seemed almost a double darkness. –Roots
Lent is like a mirror. –Random church sign
Ties are like man-jewelry. --Katy
Improv 2, Week 8
“Southern History” by Natasha Tretheway
Before the war, they were happy, he said,
quoting our textbook. (This was senior-year
history class.) The slaves were clothed, fed,
and better off under a master’s care.
--
Before the war they were happy. They
were fed, housed. At night their beds
warm and bellies full on more than
meatloaf. Their hair pressed in morning
they dole biscuits and bacon, newspapers and
lunch bags wrinkling louder than
thought. The thoughts of today ring,
clamber, clatter. My dress hugs empty
hips, their plump lips, pinched cheeks.
Gardens oiled as well as a
factory, self-sufficient as a consumer’s
profit. War. No war worse than his
backhand, runways sparking the
scruff of his beard. He refused to shave,
knew if chafed, knew why I burned his
eggs each morning. Why my children don’t
ask my help with their homework.
Before the war, they were happy, he said,
quoting our textbook. (This was senior-year
history class.) The slaves were clothed, fed,
and better off under a master’s care.
--
Before the war they were happy. They
were fed, housed. At night their beds
warm and bellies full on more than
meatloaf. Their hair pressed in morning
they dole biscuits and bacon, newspapers and
lunch bags wrinkling louder than
thought. The thoughts of today ring,
clamber, clatter. My dress hugs empty
hips, their plump lips, pinched cheeks.
Gardens oiled as well as a
factory, self-sufficient as a consumer’s
profit. War. No war worse than his
backhand, runways sparking the
scruff of his beard. He refused to shave,
knew if chafed, knew why I burned his
eggs each morning. Why my children don’t
ask my help with their homework.
Improv 1, Week 8
“Myth” by Natasha Tretheway
Form of, and the line: “I was asleep while you were dying.”
I was asleep while you grew, your toes
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking, scars
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
women, their bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
no wider, but bigger in the morning said, No, not again.
No wider, but bigger. In the morning, you said, No. Not again.
Women. Bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own,
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking. Scars.
I was asleep while you grew.
Form of, and the line: “I was asleep while you were dying.”
I was asleep while you grew, your toes
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking, scars
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
women, their bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
no wider, but bigger in the morning said, No, not again.
No wider, but bigger. In the morning, you said, No. Not again.
Women. Bodies like politics. Your new eyes,
hips spreading to me. I never understood
eight and nine a.m., splitting, splitting. You grew,
chin, bottom lip. They cracked between
shin. Fingers long, you grazed your own,
sinking from calf to ankle, still hiding from
buckling tips of shoes, knees creaking. Scars.
I was asleep while you grew.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Freewrite 2, Week 8
In the South, blacks are killers. Wasps,
scourging for bodies. Chemicals clinky as
aphids banter them. That whore has hundreds.
Hundreds of eggs injected like missiles
into pre-carcasses. They don’t scream, but
eat and eat themselves, gorging on a last meal
of chlorophyll. An egg, seductive as pheromones,
bulges beneath the belly of another. Bastard, you
may call, but this surrogate won’t live. No, like so many,
this sphere explodes your limitations, implodes your
intestines like dinner-time. Abandoned by the mother
in nature, it crunches lungs as easily as thoraxes.
Ready for the bright, it hollows fight or flight and
pringles its way towards another assassination.
scourging for bodies. Chemicals clinky as
aphids banter them. That whore has hundreds.
Hundreds of eggs injected like missiles
into pre-carcasses. They don’t scream, but
eat and eat themselves, gorging on a last meal
of chlorophyll. An egg, seductive as pheromones,
bulges beneath the belly of another. Bastard, you
may call, but this surrogate won’t live. No, like so many,
this sphere explodes your limitations, implodes your
intestines like dinner-time. Abandoned by the mother
in nature, it crunches lungs as easily as thoraxes.
Ready for the bright, it hollows fight or flight and
pringles its way towards another assassination.
Freewrite1, Week 8, Euthanasia Part III
Wake up, lick my mother, warg a little tail for her,
run outside, sniff pine and bird feather dust, graze a muzzle
to bark. Lift a leg to the hot salute of the morning. Run inside,
beg for kibble, get heartworm treats instead. Lick my leg, floop
a wonk midair, kamikazi style, chew a shoe, crawl in bed, nibble her
ears again, window light chops her face blue and brown, breakfast time,
they call hers cereal, too cold to plink, and slucks like cardboard.
Lucky day, maxi pads and coffee grinds, the munch of my kennel.
Lick my leg, craw a bone (tastes like chicken), run outside, scruff the yard,
crawl behind sofa with a sock, chew a shoe, thud car keys. Color flashes—
gray. Lick her toes, lick my thigh, run outside. Chase Milla down the
street, her tail bobbing in shadow. Wake up, creak to stand, pee outside,
hobble in, that thigh still hurts, water moots and her buttons splint between
teeth. Mattress grains, lick her hand, nuzzle her tummy to sleep. Clink to
the vet, the whirs stink of sweat and shaved hair. Pricks, pricks, gruffs,
that whore they call a muzzle. That thigh still hurts. Fingers poke and peel,
slicing fur from skin. I’m skened to a table. They amble, amble, whisper cancer.
run outside, sniff pine and bird feather dust, graze a muzzle
to bark. Lift a leg to the hot salute of the morning. Run inside,
beg for kibble, get heartworm treats instead. Lick my leg, floop
a wonk midair, kamikazi style, chew a shoe, crawl in bed, nibble her
ears again, window light chops her face blue and brown, breakfast time,
they call hers cereal, too cold to plink, and slucks like cardboard.
Lucky day, maxi pads and coffee grinds, the munch of my kennel.
Lick my leg, craw a bone (tastes like chicken), run outside, scruff the yard,
crawl behind sofa with a sock, chew a shoe, thud car keys. Color flashes—
gray. Lick her toes, lick my thigh, run outside. Chase Milla down the
street, her tail bobbing in shadow. Wake up, creak to stand, pee outside,
hobble in, that thigh still hurts, water moots and her buttons splint between
teeth. Mattress grains, lick her hand, nuzzle her tummy to sleep. Clink to
the vet, the whirs stink of sweat and shaved hair. Pricks, pricks, gruffs,
that whore they call a muzzle. That thigh still hurts. Fingers poke and peel,
slicing fur from skin. I’m skened to a table. They amble, amble, whisper cancer.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 8
I never had an inkling before, I didn’t know what to do with it. –George Lopez
It was always and everywhere the same. –eCore history lesson
The snowman’s thorax. –Davidson
It’s the lost art of loafing/you don’t know how to loaf. –Charles
Did you see that cow that just jogged by? -Kayla
It was always and everywhere the same. –eCore history lesson
The snowman’s thorax. –Davidson
It’s the lost art of loafing/you don’t know how to loaf. –Charles
Did you see that cow that just jogged by? -Kayla
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Freewrite 2, Week 7, Pet Euthanasia Part IV
The skin wrinkles like paper planes or Sunday shirts,
bulging between my fingers. It feels warm, like a
mama cat nuzzling folds between teeth on a morning
run. It licks my knuckles as my thumbs press tighter,
tighter. My eyes in its eyes blaze brighter as it
whimpers, and paw pads scurry against the dirt road.
It trembles, or I tremble, or the ground quivers
beneath its thrashing legs. I climb behind, straddling its
back and we flip like a sun-burnt beetle in supplication,
its belly stretched, my legs crossing its legs.
Now, with forearms indenting it into my chest,
it creaks and gurgles. Its tongue flops like the
nonchalance of my father, and I pant. Shifting, I stand
over it, its fur worn around the collar, and ease my toe
into ribs, easing, easing my father’s vodka and fists away.
bulging between my fingers. It feels warm, like a
mama cat nuzzling folds between teeth on a morning
run. It licks my knuckles as my thumbs press tighter,
tighter. My eyes in its eyes blaze brighter as it
whimpers, and paw pads scurry against the dirt road.
It trembles, or I tremble, or the ground quivers
beneath its thrashing legs. I climb behind, straddling its
back and we flip like a sun-burnt beetle in supplication,
its belly stretched, my legs crossing its legs.
Now, with forearms indenting it into my chest,
it creaks and gurgles. Its tongue flops like the
nonchalance of my father, and I pant. Shifting, I stand
over it, its fur worn around the collar, and ease my toe
into ribs, easing, easing my father’s vodka and fists away.
Freewrite 1, Week 7
I’m starting to figure me out, he whispered,
sitting on the back steps of the house, his
right shoe (worn on the toe) scruffing the
concrete. I stood over him, watching him
watching me, and noted how the sinking
sun split his face into geometrics. His cigarette,
unpuffed, extinguished and the smoke that
trailed his left leg, untrailed. He glanced to the
woods shading that sun, and told me about
Jenny—that grade school friend that died,
her lips not yet blue for their first kiss. His
hand extended, I joined him on the steps,
my hand trailing the rail like jail cells or
monkey bars. We watched the sun dip into
treetops, and as his thumb grazed my thumb,
he said, I wish I remembered how to play outside.
sitting on the back steps of the house, his
right shoe (worn on the toe) scruffing the
concrete. I stood over him, watching him
watching me, and noted how the sinking
sun split his face into geometrics. His cigarette,
unpuffed, extinguished and the smoke that
trailed his left leg, untrailed. He glanced to the
woods shading that sun, and told me about
Jenny—that grade school friend that died,
her lips not yet blue for their first kiss. His
hand extended, I joined him on the steps,
my hand trailing the rail like jail cells or
monkey bars. We watched the sun dip into
treetops, and as his thumb grazed my thumb,
he said, I wish I remembered how to play outside.
Improv 2, Week 7
“Grounding” –Sandra Meek
By morning,
we’d mutinied, abandoned that broken plane
for a city I’d known only as a small
window of night, a bracelet of white lights
dissolved now by dawn.
--
By twenty, we’d mutinied, forsaking
parents and pastors, twining homework
with minimum wage and shower quickies.
Two years since I’d spoken to a father,
too discomforted to tell him I’m angry,
I don’t call you dad, I can’t love you. His
voicemails landed like birds, irritated with
the branch flailing between talons. He
taught me to fry onions and season venison,
but not to balance checkbooks or marry
once. I used to think cheating was hereditary,
but I acquiesced to social conditioning, and set
to breaking habits like knuckle cracking and
thumb suckling. Folding bed sheets beside me,
my boyfriend asked, Why won’t you call him?
By morning,
we’d mutinied, abandoned that broken plane
for a city I’d known only as a small
window of night, a bracelet of white lights
dissolved now by dawn.
--
By twenty, we’d mutinied, forsaking
parents and pastors, twining homework
with minimum wage and shower quickies.
Two years since I’d spoken to a father,
too discomforted to tell him I’m angry,
I don’t call you dad, I can’t love you. His
voicemails landed like birds, irritated with
the branch flailing between talons. He
taught me to fry onions and season venison,
but not to balance checkbooks or marry
once. I used to think cheating was hereditary,
but I acquiesced to social conditioning, and set
to breaking habits like knuckle cracking and
thumb suckling. Folding bed sheets beside me,
my boyfriend asked, Why won’t you call him?
Improv 1, Week 7
“The Mechanics of Failure” –Sandra Meek
beneath those noosed trees now
too easy to read in curling photographs
as caution, as remember’s thread
wearing each swelling trunk to that familiar
arc of pain.
--
The Klan, I told him, began with white men
protecting their families—from wifebeaters,
from Jews and immigrants, from blacks. They
invited my father, a Stone Mountain invitation
to retrograde. It must have felt like a social
noose, the Dragon’s breath bulging on his neck,
sweat swelling to the decency of good ole boys,
as my father curled in dissent. Was is the
bureaucracy of the Klan that drove him away,
the men’s wistfulness burning bright as a 50’s fire?
Or was it that, while pining for the slaves our ancestors
couldn’t afford, he realized he didn’t care for
robes or Christian values, or for protecting families?
beneath those noosed trees now
too easy to read in curling photographs
as caution, as remember’s thread
wearing each swelling trunk to that familiar
arc of pain.
--
The Klan, I told him, began with white men
protecting their families—from wifebeaters,
from Jews and immigrants, from blacks. They
invited my father, a Stone Mountain invitation
to retrograde. It must have felt like a social
noose, the Dragon’s breath bulging on his neck,
sweat swelling to the decency of good ole boys,
as my father curled in dissent. Was is the
bureaucracy of the Klan that drove him away,
the men’s wistfulness burning bright as a 50’s fire?
Or was it that, while pining for the slaves our ancestors
couldn’t afford, he realized he didn’t care for
robes or Christian values, or for protecting families?
Junkyard Quotes, Week 7
I wish I remembered how to play outside. –Matt
Sober me hid the cigarettes from drunk me. Sober me’s a tricky little bastard. –Texting While Intoxicated
I’m starting to figure me out. –Matt
The whisperings of the devil. –Dallas
We ate at the Mexican restaurant. Land of the green cards. –Kayla
Sober me hid the cigarettes from drunk me. Sober me’s a tricky little bastard. –Texting While Intoxicated
I’m starting to figure me out. –Matt
The whisperings of the devil. –Dallas
We ate at the Mexican restaurant. Land of the green cards. –Kayla
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Junkyard Quotes, Week 6
It’s overly neglected –Dr. Gordon
“I” is no less real –Dr. Gordon (In this case, originally referring to the imaginary number, “i”)
You’re cell phone service blows, next time you talk to the reps, tell them they’re adopted. –Matt
You go in your piece of shit gas guzzling fucking yellow car. –Matt
If that’s how you park your car, I can’t imagine how you move your life. –Jazzy Focker
“I” is no less real –Dr. Gordon (In this case, originally referring to the imaginary number, “i”)
You’re cell phone service blows, next time you talk to the reps, tell them they’re adopted. –Matt
You go in your piece of shit gas guzzling fucking yellow car. –Matt
If that’s how you park your car, I can’t imagine how you move your life. –Jazzy Focker
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Improv 2, Week 5
“Meditation at Lagunitas” –Robert Hass
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous.
--
My sister and I watched The Butterfly Effect
last night, watched Kutcher kill himself,
twining cord to neck like some highway bridge.
Shocked and pleased, she guttered, How hard
to know everyone’s life would be better
without you. Her voice a thin wire of grief,
her eyes as yielding as a pendulum. Those eyes
like ice, So penetrating, everyone said. Of our
family they can spot souls through corneas.
We heard that at Johnny’s funeral, where everyone
questioned the OD. Suicide? they whispered behind
pews and widows, as his children chiseled
his picture and tried not to think of heroin or God.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous.
--
My sister and I watched The Butterfly Effect
last night, watched Kutcher kill himself,
twining cord to neck like some highway bridge.
Shocked and pleased, she guttered, How hard
to know everyone’s life would be better
without you. Her voice a thin wire of grief,
her eyes as yielding as a pendulum. Those eyes
like ice, So penetrating, everyone said. Of our
family they can spot souls through corneas.
We heard that at Johnny’s funeral, where everyone
questioned the OD. Suicide? they whispered behind
pews and widows, as his children chiseled
his picture and tried not to think of heroin or God.
Improv 1, Week 5
“Meditation at Lagunitas” –Robert Hass
There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
--
When I make love, I feel the bones
beneath or above, pressing my inner
thighs like an airplane landing on
Eisenhower’s strip, every fifth mile the
alarm as pungent as sweat. How violent
this convulsion, this ramming and
ramification. The ease of holding shoulders,
hips, and wrists between cupped palms
waiting for that skin-breaking bite
and squeezing just a bit too hard. How
small this feeling of wonder, how small
the memory of fingers and floodlights, of
families crying for comforts.
There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
--
When I make love, I feel the bones
beneath or above, pressing my inner
thighs like an airplane landing on
Eisenhower’s strip, every fifth mile the
alarm as pungent as sweat. How violent
this convulsion, this ramming and
ramification. The ease of holding shoulders,
hips, and wrists between cupped palms
waiting for that skin-breaking bite
and squeezing just a bit too hard. How
small this feeling of wonder, how small
the memory of fingers and floodlights, of
families crying for comforts.
Freewrite 2, Week 5
Digital skins caress and stimulate,
too virtual for my physical programs.
Alter yourself for me, stream your
images throughout Boston for my
algorithm. Do you feel lonely or
liberated, without the scratch of brick
and glass against your cheek?
Polshek shaved its legs for you first
but I understand your need for
human space—a chatroom nonchalance
feeds the partnership you desire.
You construct your maps and
material performances from simulations.
But my simulacra told me to wait, to
watch, to question. But no INTP can
resist the future space of form and radio.
Curvilinearity seeps from your consciousness
as readily as development from mine.
too virtual for my physical programs.
Alter yourself for me, stream your
images throughout Boston for my
algorithm. Do you feel lonely or
liberated, without the scratch of brick
and glass against your cheek?
Polshek shaved its legs for you first
but I understand your need for
human space—a chatroom nonchalance
feeds the partnership you desire.
You construct your maps and
material performances from simulations.
But my simulacra told me to wait, to
watch, to question. But no INTP can
resist the future space of form and radio.
Curvilinearity seeps from your consciousness
as readily as development from mine.
Freewrite 1, Week 5
Iwatake, sing to my of ukiyo-e and
harvests. Your skirts are as beautiful and
foul as a geisha. I twirl myself to your
rock ear and dream of your delicacies, as
I scent the smell of Kiwa on you. Kumano
embraces you now for reparations. Will
you recover from the slices of the
Kishu-Tokugawa? You peel yourself from
cave to basket, pleasing, pleasing. I
wish to taste you, Iwatake, you and your
wooden prints, full of the color you
never knew. Hiroshige abandoned you
for the supple curves like mushrooms, and you
wilted –out of season. Rest now, and I
will whisper tales to you of lichen,
mountains, and the west.
harvests. Your skirts are as beautiful and
foul as a geisha. I twirl myself to your
rock ear and dream of your delicacies, as
I scent the smell of Kiwa on you. Kumano
embraces you now for reparations. Will
you recover from the slices of the
Kishu-Tokugawa? You peel yourself from
cave to basket, pleasing, pleasing. I
wish to taste you, Iwatake, you and your
wooden prints, full of the color you
never knew. Hiroshige abandoned you
for the supple curves like mushrooms, and you
wilted –out of season. Rest now, and I
will whisper tales to you of lichen,
mountains, and the west.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 5
I’m masticating a sad cow. –Kimberly
How open is your asshole? –Kimberly
Do not fuck with the erect hair. –Random person
Cause we've all been on that sketchy bus ride. –Amanda
I don’t have faith in my pen or in my orange juice. –Kimberly
How open is your asshole? –Kimberly
Do not fuck with the erect hair. –Random person
Cause we've all been on that sketchy bus ride. –Amanda
I don’t have faith in my pen or in my orange juice. –Kimberly
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Response 1, Week 4-Adrian Matejka
I find “Tyndall Armory” narrative, yet the language poetically challenging and interesting enough to avoid a prose sensation. The poem largely describes a scene of a Public Enemy and Terminator X performance in 1987 at the Tyndall Armory in Indianapolis. The details remain vivid and interesting, including “graffiti spray-painted jeans” (9) and “one night / after amateur boxing and one night / before bingo” (5-7). The poem details the cultivation of a new anti-establishment sect of rap music coined and supported by many of the black youth. This revolution constructs an empowering movement later to be reflected and influential to other rap sects (and thus imperative to the chronological evolution meshed within Mixology), strong enough to rebel against bureaucracy and whiteness, or to “make / any Tom reconsider his friendships” (34-35). I particularly enjoyed how well Matejka utilizes details and alliteration to swirl the language around tensions and cultural references, such as the lines, “refused wine coolers and wee, / white woman and white lines” (22-23) and “The Wop like the black maître / at the Highlands Country Club refused / to seat black people” (18-20). Matejka balances the passive language to contrast the otherwise volatile subject matters portrayed.
Improv 2, Week 4
“Haters” –Adrian Matejka
What have you done, Cornelius?
Never mind. We know what you’ve done:
marrying white, creating a child
of stuttered pigmentation from disco
and chalk.
---
My father once told me
he’d rather I were a fag
than a nigger lover. Without
passion or prejudice, I heard
tales of Indian hair and
blue gums, spiders crinkled
in scalps and calf muscles. I
was grounded in grade school
for letting the blacks braid my
hair, traipsing their fingers
past cheeks and ears, dipping
through the strands of my
mother’s injections. Those girls
later told me, white people
only learn the chorus of the song.
What have you done, Cornelius?
Never mind. We know what you’ve done:
marrying white, creating a child
of stuttered pigmentation from disco
and chalk.
---
My father once told me
he’d rather I were a fag
than a nigger lover. Without
passion or prejudice, I heard
tales of Indian hair and
blue gums, spiders crinkled
in scalps and calf muscles. I
was grounded in grade school
for letting the blacks braid my
hair, traipsing their fingers
past cheeks and ears, dipping
through the strands of my
mother’s injections. Those girls
later told me, white people
only learn the chorus of the song.
Improv 1, Week 4
“The Monticello Graveyard” –Adrian Matejka
It would be easier not to bury
the dead at all. No need
to round up wayward sisters,
---
My father once described how
Americans have a responsibility.
For the world, communism,
aerobics, and microchips. World hunger
could be solved if we canned the dogs and
cats sent to kill shelters every day. Jonathan
Swift couldn’t amuse an audience of
non-smilers. Pounds and tons of curried
flesh to feed the impoverished mouths
of poor economics, yet I read of Irish babies
and satirical British covers. But the British
smote too many countries and their pet bellies.
It would be easier not to bury
the dead at all. No need
to round up wayward sisters,
---
My father once described how
Americans have a responsibility.
For the world, communism,
aerobics, and microchips. World hunger
could be solved if we canned the dogs and
cats sent to kill shelters every day. Jonathan
Swift couldn’t amuse an audience of
non-smilers. Pounds and tons of curried
flesh to feed the impoverished mouths
of poor economics, yet I read of Irish babies
and satirical British covers. But the British
smote too many countries and their pet bellies.
Freewrite 2, Week 4
Your deadline chameleons to shallows and steel,
no self-righteous dandelion slipping to theories and
imitations. Hazards of famine and tapestries eye your
collisions and dine above fantasies of allies and cream.
A slipper booms to the immunities of mites and hypothermia.
Their pools chisel into shrubberies and offend headlines
and muscle scripts. Twigs and twinges savor the pacifism of
whaling and children, coiling of casts and canopies.
Sodium taints the mirrors of your smack and crack
and bribery. Stipulations bop the exorcism of your
excitabilities and clamors. Ports and oxygen cajole
consonants and hobbles through the doorways of your palate.
no self-righteous dandelion slipping to theories and
imitations. Hazards of famine and tapestries eye your
collisions and dine above fantasies of allies and cream.
A slipper booms to the immunities of mites and hypothermia.
Their pools chisel into shrubberies and offend headlines
and muscle scripts. Twigs and twinges savor the pacifism of
whaling and children, coiling of casts and canopies.
Sodium taints the mirrors of your smack and crack
and bribery. Stipulations bop the exorcism of your
excitabilities and clamors. Ports and oxygen cajole
consonants and hobbles through the doorways of your palate.
Freewrite 1, Week 4
Memories of my childhood char with
Barry the Blades and Private Downeys.
Your you can’t handle the truth cringed
with echoes of car keys and my father’s
invitation to the Klan. Code reds and red pills
rabbited through lawyers, legislation, and
Louisiana beer cans striking the ten year old
flesh of your nuisance. Nothing squelched like
military leather as Southern twangs curved and
punchbuggies dissatisfied. I bleet of homemade
meringue, riddles, and your retribution, filing
riffles and beetles behind bedskirts. Your
addiction baits and flounces harmonies and
continuity as wisps of favors wrench courtesy
and cigars. That’s our code, sir.
Barry the Blades and Private Downeys.
Your you can’t handle the truth cringed
with echoes of car keys and my father’s
invitation to the Klan. Code reds and red pills
rabbited through lawyers, legislation, and
Louisiana beer cans striking the ten year old
flesh of your nuisance. Nothing squelched like
military leather as Southern twangs curved and
punchbuggies dissatisfied. I bleet of homemade
meringue, riddles, and your retribution, filing
riffles and beetles behind bedskirts. Your
addiction baits and flounces harmonies and
continuity as wisps of favors wrench courtesy
and cigars. That’s our code, sir.
Junkyard Quotes, Week 4
I have been re-hymenated. –Supernatural
He’s got a hodgepodge. –Davidson
What police officer would dare ticket Death’s minivan? Burroughs, “Magical Thinking”
Every church I’ve been in has erasable pens. –Classmate
Sex is the biological Russian roulette. Eventually, one will hit. -Hipchen
He’s got a hodgepodge. –Davidson
What police officer would dare ticket Death’s minivan? Burroughs, “Magical Thinking”
Every church I’ve been in has erasable pens. –Classmate
Sex is the biological Russian roulette. Eventually, one will hit. -Hipchen
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Improv 2, Week 3
“Colloquialism” by Adrian Matejka
Being a color in Texas is to wake stressed
from being. To wake in a panhandled lethargy
of dust and heat, a mishmash of hazards
flashing a downpour.
Bad to be black,
worse to be a mixed indetermination.
--
Being a color in Germany chills like
mosquitoes in amber. I knew three
blacks, all from Africa. Most thought as
Americans, we were racist. They
didn’t know it’s hipper to be racist
over nights of broccoli and condors, behind
javelin glances and incomes. The only
whiteface I ever found was at Barnums.
It’s savvier to hate gypsies, Turks, and
the Mexicans of thirty different countries,
their eyes stewing in your diaphragm. For
Christmas a friend sent us a card with a
black baby Jesus, no Sol Invictus for your
felonies and chuckles of niggers
born in barns. Why hate a black, when
a black can hate itself? Verdicts and
deadlines, whispers of slaves and Klans.
Have you found your spunk yet? Ich
weiβ es nicht. Was ist spunk?
Being a color in Texas is to wake stressed
from being. To wake in a panhandled lethargy
of dust and heat, a mishmash of hazards
flashing a downpour.
Bad to be black,
worse to be a mixed indetermination.
--
Being a color in Germany chills like
mosquitoes in amber. I knew three
blacks, all from Africa. Most thought as
Americans, we were racist. They
didn’t know it’s hipper to be racist
over nights of broccoli and condors, behind
javelin glances and incomes. The only
whiteface I ever found was at Barnums.
It’s savvier to hate gypsies, Turks, and
the Mexicans of thirty different countries,
their eyes stewing in your diaphragm. For
Christmas a friend sent us a card with a
black baby Jesus, no Sol Invictus for your
felonies and chuckles of niggers
born in barns. Why hate a black, when
a black can hate itself? Verdicts and
deadlines, whispers of slaves and Klans.
Have you found your spunk yet? Ich
weiβ es nicht. Was ist spunk?
Junkyard Quotes, Week 3
You don’t always have to fuck her hard. –Tenacious D, “Fuck Her Gently”
No tears please. Such a waste of good suffering. –Hellraisers
Have you found your spunk yet? –Nikki
This sparked a conversation about the multiple connotations of the word spunk. In this context, it means “hipness” or “style.”
Don’t touch the power breaker, you idgit. –Matt
I like the sound of the word idgit, and it’s replacement for retard (or ritard for those The Hangover and Freddy Got Fingered fans) or imbecile.
Jesus Christ, I wanna lick your mind. –True Blood
No tears please. Such a waste of good suffering. –Hellraisers
Have you found your spunk yet? –Nikki
This sparked a conversation about the multiple connotations of the word spunk. In this context, it means “hipness” or “style.”
Don’t touch the power breaker, you idgit. –Matt
I like the sound of the word idgit, and it’s replacement for retard (or ritard for those The Hangover and Freddy Got Fingered fans) or imbecile.
Jesus Christ, I wanna lick your mind. –True Blood
Improv 1 Week 3
This improv attempts to simulate the work of Adrian Matejka in his collection, Mixology. However, rather than modeling after a single piece, I aimed to replicate the tones, rhythms, transitive styles, and subject matters discussed and presented throughout the pieces.
Thanks Guetta for your respect,
though Damn, youse a sexy bitch
rang too much of sangria and Barcelona,
where I watched a prostitute blow,
her stilettos dodging dog shit and
club flyers. We danced on tabletops to
remixes of remixes and outdrank our
direction, voices slathered with rum and
tapas, and spoke of Hotlanta—its
Goose and zoology softer than
cotton. My mom once told me
Niggers have bugs in their hair. Twines of
agendas and melodies exhaust
through the room, smelling of
eyeliner and gondolas. Tempos quake
to the booty drop and nylons of the season,
and lyrics anger lions and butanes.
Thanks Guetta for your respect,
though Damn, youse a sexy bitch
rang too much of sangria and Barcelona,
where I watched a prostitute blow,
her stilettos dodging dog shit and
club flyers. We danced on tabletops to
remixes of remixes and outdrank our
direction, voices slathered with rum and
tapas, and spoke of Hotlanta—its
Goose and zoology softer than
cotton. My mom once told me
Niggers have bugs in their hair. Twines of
agendas and melodies exhaust
through the room, smelling of
eyeliner and gondolas. Tempos quake
to the booty drop and nylons of the season,
and lyrics anger lions and butanes.
Freewrite 2 Week 3
They tango above, the swell of
your mother’s allowance
basking over your crassness.
You sop disinformation with
rye and sharecroppers.
Reels align and spool towards
his anchovies as he chivvies her
in a stackhouse . Your overexertion
liquefies into an ambush and the
lollygag screeches for the undersurface
of your domesticity. The jargon of
the days fades to grammar of nonfusion and
the species overtone of inquiries and alcohol.
Financial wrecks and passive showers
infect a charter’s birth. Treat yourself to
comas and haircuts, squeezing shelters from
lawns and dustbins. Nickels peel potential from
exits, acting, and posters.
Don’t touch the power breaker, you idgit.
your mother’s allowance
basking over your crassness.
You sop disinformation with
rye and sharecroppers.
Reels align and spool towards
his anchovies as he chivvies her
in a stackhouse . Your overexertion
liquefies into an ambush and the
lollygag screeches for the undersurface
of your domesticity. The jargon of
the days fades to grammar of nonfusion and
the species overtone of inquiries and alcohol.
Financial wrecks and passive showers
infect a charter’s birth. Treat yourself to
comas and haircuts, squeezing shelters from
lawns and dustbins. Nickels peel potential from
exits, acting, and posters.
Don’t touch the power breaker, you idgit.
Freewrite 1 Week 3
Pet Euthanasia
When do you euthanize a pet? For my writing professor, it’s when you want to piss your readers off. To my sister, it’s when cancer grates a body and livers fail. When dogs fight and clients don’t pay. Intra-muscular Telazol and six minutes to fade. Leering over, the vets pierce the skin soft as mushrooms and inject the pink juice. Too much Euthasol for you? You grab the splintered foot, shave the patterns and press into a paw mold. Try not to overheat the kiln, or you’ll have to make another Christmas ornament from a boarding dog. Toss the body into the fridge next to Tuesday’s sandwich and the Cerenia. Scrub the table with Roccal-D, sign a client condolence card. When the pudged cremator comes, laugh every time he says It’s a dead dog in a feigned British accent. Wonder why poor humor helps him with his job. If carrying carcasses to the oven every day helps him overcome death.
When do you euthanize a pet? For my writing professor, it’s when you want to piss your readers off. To my sister, it’s when cancer grates a body and livers fail. When dogs fight and clients don’t pay. Intra-muscular Telazol and six minutes to fade. Leering over, the vets pierce the skin soft as mushrooms and inject the pink juice. Too much Euthasol for you? You grab the splintered foot, shave the patterns and press into a paw mold. Try not to overheat the kiln, or you’ll have to make another Christmas ornament from a boarding dog. Toss the body into the fridge next to Tuesday’s sandwich and the Cerenia. Scrub the table with Roccal-D, sign a client condolence card. When the pudged cremator comes, laugh every time he says It’s a dead dog in a feigned British accent. Wonder why poor humor helps him with his job. If carrying carcasses to the oven every day helps him overcome death.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Improv 2 Week 2
A portion of Mark Halliday’s “Muck-Clump”
My wife was being too busy around the kitchen one morning
I think to give her the sense of being on top of things
and when I poured a bowl of Shredded Wheat Spoonfuls for Devon
my wife bustled over and said “oh Devon likes to have more cereal
than that”
--
My wife was too busy around the kitchen—
it gave her the sense of being on top of things.
Scourge the pots too large for the dishwasher,
slam drawers of forks and pizza cutters,
Lysol counters and that one corner
where Grandma fell last night, its
rubied grout winking under track lighting.
Her fingers trace the tile veins that
impressed foreheads and soles, and the
memory glows with the her own reflection in
blood and aneurisms. She sacrifices Grandma’s
favorite coffee cup to the sheetrock and shards
shatter the floor and spice rack, slowly revolving.
My wife was being too busy around the kitchen one morning
I think to give her the sense of being on top of things
and when I poured a bowl of Shredded Wheat Spoonfuls for Devon
my wife bustled over and said “oh Devon likes to have more cereal
than that”
--
My wife was too busy around the kitchen—
it gave her the sense of being on top of things.
Scourge the pots too large for the dishwasher,
slam drawers of forks and pizza cutters,
Lysol counters and that one corner
where Grandma fell last night, its
rubied grout winking under track lighting.
Her fingers trace the tile veins that
impressed foreheads and soles, and the
memory glows with the her own reflection in
blood and aneurisms. She sacrifices Grandma’s
favorite coffee cup to the sheetrock and shards
shatter the floor and spice rack, slowly revolving.
Freewrite 2 Week 2
The inside of the egg
held bones I roll
between tips and thumb,
watching the sac roll over
spine like so many eyes.
My cake flattens as I
dismember tail from head,
joints popping like Legos.
The Kenmore’s cleaving cold
whispers silence to me,
and I ward the body
from my dog’s tongue,
dripping water on my toes.
I shovel near tomatoes a
burrow deep enough from
Bentu, and my son wonders
Are eggs chicken menstruation?
I ponder thoughts of veganism
rather than my son’s thirteenth
birthday and graves. The tomatoes
bulge their skins and snap
vines—a placenta better than
any Miracle-Gro.
held bones I roll
between tips and thumb,
watching the sac roll over
spine like so many eyes.
My cake flattens as I
dismember tail from head,
joints popping like Legos.
The Kenmore’s cleaving cold
whispers silence to me,
and I ward the body
from my dog’s tongue,
dripping water on my toes.
I shovel near tomatoes a
burrow deep enough from
Bentu, and my son wonders
Are eggs chicken menstruation?
I ponder thoughts of veganism
rather than my son’s thirteenth
birthday and graves. The tomatoes
bulge their skins and snap
vines—a placenta better than
any Miracle-Gro.
Freewrite 1 Week 2
In my front yard lingered twelve
neighborhood kids, eager for baseball.
Run to hat then corner house, graze
pine tree and barrel into Joe, the catcher.
My mother smashed the ball into the neighbor’s
bathroom window. To his curses, we found
another and three innings later, the chalk board
filled with the dust and cheats of the generation.
Evan volleyed the ball into the sewer, and I,
the smallest, wiggled past the upturned manhole
to swim for it. I waited for a crocodile to snap
my hand or worse, the ball, but rather only found
the stinks and secrets of the neighborhood lingering
under our houses. Protests forced me to shower,
and my team, without me, faded.
neighborhood kids, eager for baseball.
Run to hat then corner house, graze
pine tree and barrel into Joe, the catcher.
My mother smashed the ball into the neighbor’s
bathroom window. To his curses, we found
another and three innings later, the chalk board
filled with the dust and cheats of the generation.
Evan volleyed the ball into the sewer, and I,
the smallest, wiggled past the upturned manhole
to swim for it. I waited for a crocodile to snap
my hand or worse, the ball, but rather only found
the stinks and secrets of the neighborhood lingering
under our houses. Protests forced me to shower,
and my team, without me, faded.
Improv 1 Week 2
A portion of Carolyn Forché's “For the Stranger”
There are a few clues as to where
we are: the baled wheat scattered
everywhere like missing coffins.
The distant yellow kitchen lights
wiped with oil.
Everywhere the black dipping wires
stretching messages from one side
of a country to the other.
The men who stand on every border
waving to us.
---
There are a few clues to where
we are: Pine trees lined like corn stalks,
their feet shivering with no brush.
Cranberry cotton fields as beautiful and harsh
as snow. The townspeople—white, withered—
trail in flocks to baptisms and daily sermons,
praying for their harvests below. Pumping
wells and frying corn, they gaze at the
minstrels on their wall, reciting Little Black Sambo
for grandchildren. The sand under their feet and in
porch cracks only fed the onions and pecans,
as the fat fingers of vidalias reach for Toombs.
There are a few clues as to where
we are: the baled wheat scattered
everywhere like missing coffins.
The distant yellow kitchen lights
wiped with oil.
Everywhere the black dipping wires
stretching messages from one side
of a country to the other.
The men who stand on every border
waving to us.
---
There are a few clues to where
we are: Pine trees lined like corn stalks,
their feet shivering with no brush.
Cranberry cotton fields as beautiful and harsh
as snow. The townspeople—white, withered—
trail in flocks to baptisms and daily sermons,
praying for their harvests below. Pumping
wells and frying corn, they gaze at the
minstrels on their wall, reciting Little Black Sambo
for grandchildren. The sand under their feet and in
porch cracks only fed the onions and pecans,
as the fat fingers of vidalias reach for Toombs.
Repsonse 1 Week 2
Carylyn Forché’s “For the Stranger” highlights the travels of two forbidden lovers—forbidden for their heritage, culture, and marital status—as they travel through a Central America occupied the American military. The two lovers “have [. . .] nothing” (49) and “neither [. . .] / really knows” (3-4) which city they intend to travel to on the train. The piece utilizes largely subdued verbs, such as say, knows, touch, listen, slows, find, to have, and to be. The tone of the language creates inaction for the characters, displaying they are beyond the actions of the military, their country, and themselves. Their passive natures by the strength of the landscape: trains slip and reach, wheat bales scatter, lamps are wiped with oil, wires stretch messages. The language of the landscape creates an active power that subdues the characters, perpetuating their inactiveness and indecisiveness. Furthermore, the language of the poem, though bleak and subdued, allows the descriptions to overpower the verbs. Some of the stronger passages include, “on your tongue like a fruit pit” (2), “the wind’s broken teeth sinking into us” (9), “the coffee / sloshing into your gloves” (11-12), and “baled wheat scattered / everywhere like missing coffins” (11-12).
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Junkyard Quotes, Week 2
"Don't play with my Jesus." -Supernatural
"Dude, your butt hair looks weird." -Sister to our dog, Brant
"Staying young is a brutal business." -Plastic surgeon on Supernatural.
"I don't like toe tags, cause I wanna wear socks when I die." -Matt
"Hungry for long pig (human flesh)." -Supernatural
I selected these quotes for their humor, unusual content, or in the case of long pig, their extension of my vocabulary.
"Dude, your butt hair looks weird." -Sister to our dog, Brant
"Staying young is a brutal business." -Plastic surgeon on Supernatural.
"I don't like toe tags, cause I wanna wear socks when I die." -Matt
"Hungry for long pig (human flesh)." -Supernatural
I selected these quotes for their humor, unusual content, or in the case of long pig, their extension of my vocabulary.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Improv 2 Week 1
A portion of “Current” by Khadijah Queen
Of course, fingerprints do not
Evaporate if a woman somewhere
Soars horizontally out to sea.
But how not to
Seize the oscillation, dive under,
Fearless, no longer blind
To parallels.
---
Of course, fingerprints evaporate
from a prepubescent child. Wisps of water,
not oil coat fingertip cracks and
if not careful, traces of a
stolen child disappear
in an hour. The mother’s screams only
heat air faster, urging the marks to
vanish like the name of the girl
in the Volvo cab. Vanish as easily as
hair threads from scalp for him to
finger eternally as even she
drowns in her own water. An hour
couldn’t mist the lake fast enough and she
only had four minutes to graze the bottom.
Of course, fingerprints do not
Evaporate if a woman somewhere
Soars horizontally out to sea.
But how not to
Seize the oscillation, dive under,
Fearless, no longer blind
To parallels.
---
Of course, fingerprints evaporate
from a prepubescent child. Wisps of water,
not oil coat fingertip cracks and
if not careful, traces of a
stolen child disappear
in an hour. The mother’s screams only
heat air faster, urging the marks to
vanish like the name of the girl
in the Volvo cab. Vanish as easily as
hair threads from scalp for him to
finger eternally as even she
drowns in her own water. An hour
couldn’t mist the lake fast enough and she
only had four minutes to graze the bottom.
Response Week 1
Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s recent poetry collection, entitled The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart, presents thirteen post-Modern, or anti-Romantic, poems. These pieces reject a sense of an untamable, untainted maternal Nature as a source of human purification and revitalization, and support the post-Modern conception of a tarnished and human-conquered Nature. Calvocoressi’s collection centers on decaying towns, failed and ever-present technology, and the subsequent struggle and oppression of the people. She presents her rendition of human-inflicted disasters from varying and multiple perspectives in several of the poems, including “From the Adult Drive-In.” This piece however, in contrast to the many other multiple-perspective pieces in the collection, depicts a decaying town as many of the citizens view an overarching adult film on the hillside from the perspective of various townspeople and the film characters. This poem is the sole multiple-perspective piece that details a seemingly current, unknown event with anonymous characters. Furthermore, the piece follows a different format than its counterparts: rather than the nine sub-sections succinctly following one another, they scatter throughout the collection. The language and format allow readers to both view and participate in the poem, which becomes increasing violent. However, the altering structure allows the readers to experience horror and disgust, yet swiftly abandon concern at the next poem. Calvocoressi, however, recursively slams the material into readers’ faces and forces them to remember current horrors as equally as the past events she details.
Freewrite 2 Week 1
A spider scuttled across
the carpet, its legs whisking
fibers into spools. My
boyfriend eased to squish it,
but I shrieked and it
flailed, eight eyes
glaring at his sole.
A testament to spirituality,
it laces tales of theology, and
yet defies santion and God.
The shoe plunges into the
softened back and hundreds of
avengers spill from the carcus
like croissants. Tiny plagues to
devour mother and destroyer alike.
the carpet, its legs whisking
fibers into spools. My
boyfriend eased to squish it,
but I shrieked and it
flailed, eight eyes
glaring at his sole.
A testament to spirituality,
it laces tales of theology, and
yet defies santion and God.
The shoe plunges into the
softened back and hundreds of
avengers spill from the carcus
like croissants. Tiny plagues to
devour mother and destroyer alike.
Freewrite 1 Week 1
I gazed at a board
in single-variable calc,
or drawing, analyzing
the chalk circle
caved slightly on the left.
I though of circles,
geometry tools and Paint.
Never making a cicle.
Unable. A fantastic
image. The circle only
exists in the decayed
minds of European mathematicians--
ventriloquists to modern
dummies. A Flatland figment, earth
is no sphere and never was.
Count its flesh pocks of
man and think of theories.
Of perfection and God.
in single-variable calc,
or drawing, analyzing
the chalk circle
caved slightly on the left.
I though of circles,
geometry tools and Paint.
Never making a cicle.
Unable. A fantastic
image. The circle only
exists in the decayed
minds of European mathematicians--
ventriloquists to modern
dummies. A Flatland figment, earth
is no sphere and never was.
Count its flesh pocks of
man and think of theories.
Of perfection and God.
Improv 1 Week 1
Selection of Sylvia Plath’s “The Arrival of the Bee Box”
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
--
I gaze at the lacquered box,
And feel the heat of African hands
Shaping wood and splinters to this
Coaster holder, our makeshift urn.
The black swirls peel from grains as
I argue with my mother.
You can’t keep a dead man in the
kitchen. Her brother, Johnny.
Overdosed on heroin and
Apathy, his death too shameful for
A service. For a burial. His life too
Gutter to spread ashes. Where—
Little Five? Cabbage Town? The I-20 bridge?
He squats in our house, his ashes hoarded in
My nose and the vacuum cleaner.
I hear the heart beat of an addict
And feel like pressurized wood
As a ghost watches me not sleep.
The most time he’s spent with me in
Years, though he once crocheted a
Bear for me in jail and sent me
Birthday cards with my misspelled name.
I can feel the Africans, their drums and
Johnny’s heartbeat roaring to
The tune of denial.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.
--
I gaze at the lacquered box,
And feel the heat of African hands
Shaping wood and splinters to this
Coaster holder, our makeshift urn.
The black swirls peel from grains as
I argue with my mother.
You can’t keep a dead man in the
kitchen. Her brother, Johnny.
Overdosed on heroin and
Apathy, his death too shameful for
A service. For a burial. His life too
Gutter to spread ashes. Where—
Little Five? Cabbage Town? The I-20 bridge?
He squats in our house, his ashes hoarded in
My nose and the vacuum cleaner.
I hear the heart beat of an addict
And feel like pressurized wood
As a ghost watches me not sleep.
The most time he’s spent with me in
Years, though he once crocheted a
Bear for me in jail and sent me
Birthday cards with my misspelled name.
I can feel the Africans, their drums and
Johnny’s heartbeat roaring to
The tune of denial.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Week 1 Junkyard Quotes
People say I have a Cabbage Patch crack, because it's so innocent. -Eric
This reference initiated from a friend concerning his ass crevice. I found the language interesting to insert an outdating cultural reference well-known to many (if not all age-relevant) Americans into a commercial idealism and a sexual context.
Do lies lie in the truth? -Classmate CNF
A slight tongue-twister, this sparked in Hipchen's Creative Non-Fiction class, where we as a class were discussing truthiness and the deceptions of truth. The interesting portion of this quote includes the duality of the second "lie"--meaning either a fragmentation of the "Truth" or a physical (or metaphorically geographical) position.
Ai/I use(s) fuck really well. -Heather
As you may remember, this surfaced in our own classroom upon discussing the uses of profanity in poetry. This quote can either serve as homage to Ai, or as an interesting first-person perspective. I think this could actually form into an ars poetica piece, were one interested.
For such a lovely crime, I'll do the time. Better lock me up, I'll do it again. -Dave Matthews Band "I Did It"
I selected this piece because I regularly listen to the DMB, and was trying to figure out why I have every song memorized. I decided the beats in combination with the words and politics continues to draw me in. I enjoy this line for its social and polical commentary on the judicial and reform system, rebelliousness as heroism, and a sort of sinful pleasure and voyeurism.
Dude--we've got two hobos and an engaged lesbian in here. - Holly
I've found recently that some of my best work initiates from the political incorrectness of my friends--as seen in this statement by Holly. These issues of homosexuality, marriage, welfare, and an insecure economy surface even in the slightest of jokes, and I believe that the same politics will often surface in my works.
This reference initiated from a friend concerning his ass crevice. I found the language interesting to insert an outdating cultural reference well-known to many (if not all age-relevant) Americans into a commercial idealism and a sexual context.
Do lies lie in the truth? -Classmate CNF
A slight tongue-twister, this sparked in Hipchen's Creative Non-Fiction class, where we as a class were discussing truthiness and the deceptions of truth. The interesting portion of this quote includes the duality of the second "lie"--meaning either a fragmentation of the "Truth" or a physical (or metaphorically geographical) position.
Ai/I use(s) fuck really well. -Heather
As you may remember, this surfaced in our own classroom upon discussing the uses of profanity in poetry. This quote can either serve as homage to Ai, or as an interesting first-person perspective. I think this could actually form into an ars poetica piece, were one interested.
For such a lovely crime, I'll do the time. Better lock me up, I'll do it again. -Dave Matthews Band "I Did It"
I selected this piece because I regularly listen to the DMB, and was trying to figure out why I have every song memorized. I decided the beats in combination with the words and politics continues to draw me in. I enjoy this line for its social and polical commentary on the judicial and reform system, rebelliousness as heroism, and a sort of sinful pleasure and voyeurism.
Dude--we've got two hobos and an engaged lesbian in here. - Holly
I've found recently that some of my best work initiates from the political incorrectness of my friends--as seen in this statement by Holly. These issues of homosexuality, marriage, welfare, and an insecure economy surface even in the slightest of jokes, and I believe that the same politics will often surface in my works.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Walker
My grandmother, ninety, obsessed with dying,
needs help in the bathroom. Collapsing onto the wide
plastic booster chair, she slumps against
the toilet paper holder. My mother and I support
her as she wipes, and count the steps to
her walker. On the way, she straightens the hand towels.
She shuffles through
the rest of the family--six years with Aunt Kathy,
a two month stint with Joan, and a
Florida cameo with Barbara. She arrived
at our house three days ago, one day before
my dog chewed her oxygen line. Don't worry;
she's fine. Though she won't meet
anyone if her hair falls flat, applies lipstick
for the postman, whose eyes, she tells me,
seem too close together. Forty-five minutes
and four wooden steps pushing the walker
to the mailbox. Three miscarriages, seven children,
a couple strokes: a couple times a day,
she asks to die, tells us with an airy chuckle
she may not be here to see my father's tomato plants.
Huddled in a thermal blanket, she reads
her pill labels. Because soda makes her vomit,
we told her the factory shut down. Each day she
watches the news and waits for their strike to end.
At dinner time, she sits of the couch and watches us speak.
Or we play her box set of Walker, Texas Ranger,
and I think the excruciating beauty
of those Austin sunsets helps her forget,
briefly. With her red wine and pot roast, forget
the things her husband said that hurt her
after she found condoms in his pocket.
Or her alcoholic daughter,
who married three like her father.
I'm asked constatnly how old I am,
because dementia means her husband is still alive,
or that I'm her daughter,
or that she and her sister still shuffle
through the Depression in their ankle-length skirts.
needs help in the bathroom. Collapsing onto the wide
plastic booster chair, she slumps against
the toilet paper holder. My mother and I support
her as she wipes, and count the steps to
her walker. On the way, she straightens the hand towels.
She shuffles through
the rest of the family--six years with Aunt Kathy,
a two month stint with Joan, and a
Florida cameo with Barbara. She arrived
at our house three days ago, one day before
my dog chewed her oxygen line. Don't worry;
she's fine. Though she won't meet
anyone if her hair falls flat, applies lipstick
for the postman, whose eyes, she tells me,
seem too close together. Forty-five minutes
and four wooden steps pushing the walker
to the mailbox. Three miscarriages, seven children,
a couple strokes: a couple times a day,
she asks to die, tells us with an airy chuckle
she may not be here to see my father's tomato plants.
Huddled in a thermal blanket, she reads
her pill labels. Because soda makes her vomit,
we told her the factory shut down. Each day she
watches the news and waits for their strike to end.
At dinner time, she sits of the couch and watches us speak.
Or we play her box set of Walker, Texas Ranger,
and I think the excruciating beauty
of those Austin sunsets helps her forget,
briefly. With her red wine and pot roast, forget
the things her husband said that hurt her
after she found condoms in his pocket.
Or her alcoholic daughter,
who married three like her father.
I'm asked constatnly how old I am,
because dementia means her husband is still alive,
or that I'm her daughter,
or that she and her sister still shuffle
through the Depression in their ankle-length skirts.
Tile Draft 4
The art of losing is hard to master
and sounds like creaking knees
as I bend to tile a floor.
Drips of water saws drown the whir of blades
ripping squares of kitchen tiles.
Swipes of dulled blades to mortar
and plastic pegs to separate my work form yours.
I ease my way out of the back corner,
filled with broken webs,
one edged tile at a time, and
remind myself of the games we'd
invented. Dinosaurs and astronauts soon
paled to the magic of angolo and
counter rails, majolica and formella. Yet no
running bond could keep us together--
you, with your no-childhood face
glaring at me as we swipe yet again.
A lifetime apprecticeship for you, my son,
the only token I had. Not enough for your
mother, not for you, and your eyes
smoke of her. Your hair shrouds the gray of
that eye, and I wish again I'd had a girl.
A girl to sweep and butter after
your mother left to open a
no-star restaurant with linoleum floors
and empty walls where our picture should
fall. A girl to remind me of her, to
fashion and crackle better than you
ever would. My son, with your feminine
hands, keep your chin to mortar and
mastic, and smile a tune to me.
and sounds like creaking knees
as I bend to tile a floor.
Drips of water saws drown the whir of blades
ripping squares of kitchen tiles.
Swipes of dulled blades to mortar
and plastic pegs to separate my work form yours.
I ease my way out of the back corner,
filled with broken webs,
one edged tile at a time, and
remind myself of the games we'd
invented. Dinosaurs and astronauts soon
paled to the magic of angolo and
counter rails, majolica and formella. Yet no
running bond could keep us together--
you, with your no-childhood face
glaring at me as we swipe yet again.
A lifetime apprecticeship for you, my son,
the only token I had. Not enough for your
mother, not for you, and your eyes
smoke of her. Your hair shrouds the gray of
that eye, and I wish again I'd had a girl.
A girl to sweep and butter after
your mother left to open a
no-star restaurant with linoleum floors
and empty walls where our picture should
fall. A girl to remind me of her, to
fashion and crackle better than you
ever would. My son, with your feminine
hands, keep your chin to mortar and
mastic, and smile a tune to me.
Pork Chop Thursday Draft 4
The trill of a 5:45 wake up,
Sring shoes for four children under eight,
A missing button, and egg-carton traffic.
You no longer feel the hand down your pants
And radios wrinkle waves over news.
Printers jam and a pre-school nurse
rings of coughts, flus, and the sandbox.
Grocer's hands brush your breast
Because your check was $30 short, and his
Breath squinges in your ear like sliced beef.
Long division and alphabet songs
Wince as a tea kettle whispers
And plates pound the sink.
Prozac can't twinge your breats enough
Because your husband is fucking a 15 year old
And sometimes, cries her name instead.
Swirls of sweet tea, tap water and Budweiser;
Baked pork chops, stringed beans, corn and sulfur rolls;
Clicks of school days and accounting as corner dogs puddle.
Pirate ships ripple the bathroom walls,
And jammies slice sheets and switches after
Stories of bedtime mice and closets.
You creep to bed, your toes catching the hinge
Before pillows fall flat and you weave yourself
further away from him and his dreams.
Winking lights from the street seem
To glow outside your beige bedroom window,
But you only hear their silent plead.
Sring shoes for four children under eight,
A missing button, and egg-carton traffic.
You no longer feel the hand down your pants
And radios wrinkle waves over news.
Printers jam and a pre-school nurse
rings of coughts, flus, and the sandbox.
Grocer's hands brush your breast
Because your check was $30 short, and his
Breath squinges in your ear like sliced beef.
Long division and alphabet songs
Wince as a tea kettle whispers
And plates pound the sink.
Prozac can't twinge your breats enough
Because your husband is fucking a 15 year old
And sometimes, cries her name instead.
Swirls of sweet tea, tap water and Budweiser;
Baked pork chops, stringed beans, corn and sulfur rolls;
Clicks of school days and accounting as corner dogs puddle.
Pirate ships ripple the bathroom walls,
And jammies slice sheets and switches after
Stories of bedtime mice and closets.
You creep to bed, your toes catching the hinge
Before pillows fall flat and you weave yourself
further away from him and his dreams.
Winking lights from the street seem
To glow outside your beige bedroom window,
But you only hear their silent plead.
Kayla Draft 4
My sister Kayla has a trail of faded pigmentation from her navel to sternum, accentuating her bleached happy trail. This line resists all tanning and burns. It splits her like a paper doll, and mimics my brother's appendectomy scar. My mother weaved her creation story from this marking.
God made you the most wonderful little boy of all. He asked his special Stork to carry you straight to my arms. The Stork immediately set out with you wrapped and folded in beak and wings. But, all of a sudden, a terrible storm blew up, with lightning and gales. You, my precious, were struck with a single fearsome bolt of lightning that hit your chest and ran down your body until it zapped your penis off. From that day, you were cursed a girl, but this line shows you're more special to me than all the others.
The story masked the horror of childbirth my sister could have suffered--trailing the shaved genitalia of a streched mother of three. Kayla, however, dodged the skull-squishing slide and broke from a c-section. To this day, Kayla avoids a solid crotch, preferring to not dream of butterscotch and sex. Asexual. A word I avoided until college, never explaining to our mother that her story would leave Kayla lonely forever, dreaming of test tubes and storks, avoiding the scent of men and women alike.
Kayla always maintained the most fluidity of any in the family. Each year, she was able to reinvent herself--a changed name, job, friends, schools, music and family role. Kayla, Brooke, KK, Kayla-bean, Beaner, Stick-legs, K, Horse-legs, and Scales managed to transition into the softball-soccer-football-volleyball-basketball player, the veterinarian, the cleaner, the Dixie rebel, the Christian, and the criminal. She changed university campuses and classes as easily as the air fresheners in her Civic. All she required was a new story--a tale of broken hearts and friends that never existed, lovers of which she never read, and the dreams of unknown masterbations.
To us, she was always the last child, the surprise. The spark to my mother's spaying and a house with another bedroom. I watched her change her story each year and always wondered which life, if any, contented her. If she was happy, or if her most famed moment was falling from the lightning.
God made you the most wonderful little boy of all. He asked his special Stork to carry you straight to my arms. The Stork immediately set out with you wrapped and folded in beak and wings. But, all of a sudden, a terrible storm blew up, with lightning and gales. You, my precious, were struck with a single fearsome bolt of lightning that hit your chest and ran down your body until it zapped your penis off. From that day, you were cursed a girl, but this line shows you're more special to me than all the others.
The story masked the horror of childbirth my sister could have suffered--trailing the shaved genitalia of a streched mother of three. Kayla, however, dodged the skull-squishing slide and broke from a c-section. To this day, Kayla avoids a solid crotch, preferring to not dream of butterscotch and sex. Asexual. A word I avoided until college, never explaining to our mother that her story would leave Kayla lonely forever, dreaming of test tubes and storks, avoiding the scent of men and women alike.
Kayla always maintained the most fluidity of any in the family. Each year, she was able to reinvent herself--a changed name, job, friends, schools, music and family role. Kayla, Brooke, KK, Kayla-bean, Beaner, Stick-legs, K, Horse-legs, and Scales managed to transition into the softball-soccer-football-volleyball-basketball player, the veterinarian, the cleaner, the Dixie rebel, the Christian, and the criminal. She changed university campuses and classes as easily as the air fresheners in her Civic. All she required was a new story--a tale of broken hearts and friends that never existed, lovers of which she never read, and the dreams of unknown masterbations.
To us, she was always the last child, the surprise. The spark to my mother's spaying and a house with another bedroom. I watched her change her story each year and always wondered which life, if any, contented her. If she was happy, or if her most famed moment was falling from the lightning.
Greenhouse Draft 4
I push back sunglasses and
fasten leather gloves to
graze and weed flower trays.
My fingers pluck dead
blooms and beetles. My
shoes crunch gravel and
sweat pools over my
eyes and between breasts.
I twine my headscarf again as
wisps of burlap dance in the wind.
Mendelssohn fills the air, his
second movement buzzing
in time to the drips of hoses.
Dirt and fertilizer sprinkle
my neck and cheek, and I
sneeze as I smear my forehead.
Shears peak from my apron, caked
shut in dirt and grease of too many years.
The whirs of greenhouse fans
creak with violins and the toads.
I work with Maria, who runs from the toads,
the ones like poisonous Mexico.
Maria's feet spark the earth and
it rises to fluff my nose. The air smells of
pansies, earth, and mold. The dome
reaches for the heavens and the sun
strikes through the plastic folds.
A sparrow chirps outside, and seems
as loud as the pulse in my ears, throbbing legato.
Above, seven sprinkler heads jerk and
blades of water wink the flowers asleep,
sprinkling rust in my eye.
I hear Maria's whimpers and wonder
if the geraniums of Mexico are brighter.
I weave a rubbered stem into the tail of the scarf
and hum to mask the scent of Maria's salt scorching her lips.
fasten leather gloves to
graze and weed flower trays.
My fingers pluck dead
blooms and beetles. My
shoes crunch gravel and
sweat pools over my
eyes and between breasts.
I twine my headscarf again as
wisps of burlap dance in the wind.
Mendelssohn fills the air, his
second movement buzzing
in time to the drips of hoses.
Dirt and fertilizer sprinkle
my neck and cheek, and I
sneeze as I smear my forehead.
Shears peak from my apron, caked
shut in dirt and grease of too many years.
The whirs of greenhouse fans
creak with violins and the toads.
I work with Maria, who runs from the toads,
the ones like poisonous Mexico.
Maria's feet spark the earth and
it rises to fluff my nose. The air smells of
pansies, earth, and mold. The dome
reaches for the heavens and the sun
strikes through the plastic folds.
A sparrow chirps outside, and seems
as loud as the pulse in my ears, throbbing legato.
Above, seven sprinkler heads jerk and
blades of water wink the flowers asleep,
sprinkling rust in my eye.
I hear Maria's whimpers and wonder
if the geraniums of Mexico are brighter.
I weave a rubbered stem into the tail of the scarf
and hum to mask the scent of Maria's salt scorching her lips.
Fallen Draft 4
How I prefer the authors who
fail to pen a character with a
voice. Hundreds of pages
loop around this person,
creature--a world encircling
those too strong for words. The
Dantes and Picoults sprinkle the
covers I devour. Curled
around a half-written
novel and blaze, my voice and
mind as useless and
thin as paper. A character peeks
between chapters that detail
others--other forms, faces, and
lives, until the pages shroud
it like a star. Do I love these tales
because they fail me? Fancying
novels and poems without leaders,
I dance the void of hells and cancers--
masochism at its most pleasurable.
Inclined to graze eternity without
speech or action, I could find
happiness and you.
fail to pen a character with a
voice. Hundreds of pages
loop around this person,
creature--a world encircling
those too strong for words. The
Dantes and Picoults sprinkle the
covers I devour. Curled
around a half-written
novel and blaze, my voice and
mind as useless and
thin as paper. A character peeks
between chapters that detail
others--other forms, faces, and
lives, until the pages shroud
it like a star. Do I love these tales
because they fail me? Fancying
novels and poems without leaders,
I dance the void of hells and cancers--
masochism at its most pleasurable.
Inclined to graze eternity without
speech or action, I could find
happiness and you.
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