Poem: (a beginnging)
Strategy: Overlapping layers to construct identity
The strategy that stands out to me the most in this piece is a sense of overlapping layers of identity and time. The strongest instance of layered identity is the imagery of the daughter’s and the father’s face, “That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is / a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue one” (5-6). The fact that the father’s face deviating from the norm and is not the daughter’s face foreshadows the end of the piece when the father is not a breath and he passes on. His face also passes away from the daughter. In addition, there is a sense that the speaker’s identity layers over the daughter, “I slip and slip under the sheets and / the daughter sleeps” (4-5). Sheets are thin covers that are meant to lie over something; so the boundary between the identity of the speaker and the daughter appears to be nothing more than a thin sheet. It appears as the speaker is the daughter and the past event of the father dying is overshadowing the present moment in which the speaker is reliving the memory (past over-layers the present). She is obviously a part of the poem and is not serving as a distant observer of the piece, “You smiled and smiled with / me” (11-2) The repetition of words like, “smile,” “slip,” and “breath,” along with the connected relationships of the father and daughter, work together to emphasizes this idea of overlapping layers of identity and time.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Improv 2, Week 15
My second improv for this week comes from the piece, "Notes on Yellow Paper."
Notes on Yellow Paper
There are new colors in the leaves and the sky is white. A woman does
not necessarily recognized another one when she sleeps in a car. Where
are the children at two fifty five. Her body needs a change and she is not
hungry. That a flag quivers in the morning does not make her eyes. She moves as mercury to break its perfect skin. She was ignorant once and she threw a key to her face. Is utopia when dogs bite the flying dirt we kick with our boots when there is a meadow and trees when we never knew their names. Sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery. A horse collapses behind the daughter. They walked by the church at nightfall and bells were a sign. There is not always another way. They washed her soiled garments under the mink coat. She reads about Ancient Egypt and shaves her eyebrows.
The above piece seems to draw from the relationship of a mother to her children. In my piece, I added a father to the family towards the end and my language seemed to embody a sort of break down of construction. I attribute this to the use of words like "jackhammer," "cleaver," and "stabbing at a dew drop." Such imagery tends to suggest using tools to break apart something. In Byrd's piece, it appears as if the mother is trying to reach some element of peace and solace, a sort of utopia, "her body needs a change and she is not hungry," (3-4). There is an air of attempting to calm the speaker down in the midst of her chaos. This stems from the usage of words such as, "meadow," "chruch," "bells," and "swimming beyond the scenery." My piece, however, adds a bit more leverage to the chaos itself without giving its characters a chance to breathe.
Red Grass Inscription
There are dead leaves in the sky and the ground is white. A child never
really sees himself when he stabs at a plummeting dew-drop. Have the trees boiled at two and a half ticks. His jack-hammer must be appeased, and she is not thirsty. That a moth bled her eyes does not murder her ears. He crawls like ice to burn the inflictions of time. She was young once and she thrusted a cleaver to her breast. Is sanctuary when otters flick the petalled dress we bathe with our skin when the clouds dissipate into dirt when we never knew their age. Every year we fly below our fingernails. The cattle mewls above the father. They run past the preacher at daybreak and flying rocks were their key. There is never another option. We ripped his powdered hairs under the red rug. He studies Einsteen and clips her nose hairs.
Notes on Yellow Paper
There are new colors in the leaves and the sky is white. A woman does
not necessarily recognized another one when she sleeps in a car. Where
are the children at two fifty five. Her body needs a change and she is not
hungry. That a flag quivers in the morning does not make her eyes. She moves as mercury to break its perfect skin. She was ignorant once and she threw a key to her face. Is utopia when dogs bite the flying dirt we kick with our boots when there is a meadow and trees when we never knew their names. Sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery. A horse collapses behind the daughter. They walked by the church at nightfall and bells were a sign. There is not always another way. They washed her soiled garments under the mink coat. She reads about Ancient Egypt and shaves her eyebrows.
The above piece seems to draw from the relationship of a mother to her children. In my piece, I added a father to the family towards the end and my language seemed to embody a sort of break down of construction. I attribute this to the use of words like "jackhammer," "cleaver," and "stabbing at a dew drop." Such imagery tends to suggest using tools to break apart something. In Byrd's piece, it appears as if the mother is trying to reach some element of peace and solace, a sort of utopia, "her body needs a change and she is not hungry," (3-4). There is an air of attempting to calm the speaker down in the midst of her chaos. This stems from the usage of words such as, "meadow," "chruch," "bells," and "swimming beyond the scenery." My piece, however, adds a bit more leverage to the chaos itself without giving its characters a chance to breathe.
Red Grass Inscription
There are dead leaves in the sky and the ground is white. A child never
really sees himself when he stabs at a plummeting dew-drop. Have the trees boiled at two and a half ticks. His jack-hammer must be appeased, and she is not thirsty. That a moth bled her eyes does not murder her ears. He crawls like ice to burn the inflictions of time. She was young once and she thrusted a cleaver to her breast. Is sanctuary when otters flick the petalled dress we bathe with our skin when the clouds dissipate into dirt when we never knew their age. Every year we fly below our fingernails. The cattle mewls above the father. They run past the preacher at daybreak and flying rocks were their key. There is never another option. We ripped his powdered hairs under the red rug. He studies Einsteen and clips her nose hairs.
Improv 1, Week 15
The first improv for this week come's from Briditte Byrd's collection, Fence Above the Sea. It is entitled, "(a beginning)."
And then there is another day
Everything is about waiting. A phone rings and it is not always a mistake.
A chest fills with requiem and it is not his not it is not. When there
is something to say the ants find the sun on a mosaic floor. A strange
fragrance. They never see any light. I slip and slip under the sheets and
the daughter sleeps. That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is
a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue
one. At least we tried. In the bed there is a sea and it is cold. But we lost it.
Why no sound. Sisters ride in a car with the daughter’s blue flower and it
is a face wrapped in gauze. His always there. It is hard to turn away from
moving water. A house is not an escape. You smiled and you smiled with
me. The father looked at her and he is not a breath there is not a breath
There is only daughter.
In Byrd's piece there appears to be several familial characters, most of which are feminine. There are sisters, a daughter, and the speaker who appears to either be a reflection of the daughter, one of the sisters, or perhaps even the wife of the 'father.' While the speaker's role is ambiguous, her language dictates a type of feminimity, "I slip and slip under the sheets and the daughter sleeps" (4-5). Here, for example, one could read the line as if the speaker has become the daughter, just for a moment.
I wanted to see where my language would take me if I incorporated several different relations of a family into my piece as well. My characters, however, are a bit more on the masculine side. I have a brother to a sister, a son to an uncle, and the speaker (who could be seen as a reflection of the sister). So, my piece consists of ideally at least one female (in two different roles) and three males. By the time I finished the poem ece, all of the relationships seemed to embody some element of abusive love. This greatly contrasts with the peaceful nature of family in Byrd's piece.
(absent end)
And then, there was no tomorrow.
Nothing is about withstanding. A bed creaks and it always smiles.
A wrist overflows with abstinence and it is not hers if it is his. When
Something tries to bleed the starfish cry nebulas on crystalline ceiling. An enticing taste. They always hear twenty tongues. He turns or turns over the wheel and the sister mourns. That her hair stemmed from her brother is an epiphany. It is never uncertain that a sister’s tendrils is a brother’s goatee and never red. Until they slept. At the shore lies a whale and it is dead. But they found it. Where are the notes. Sons jump on the deck with Uncle’s gangrene razor and it is a knee making love. She never leaves. It is hard to always forget the call of a mosquito. A tree is steadfast. I cried and I cried with the brother. She worshipped him and he was not there, there is never there. There is only me.
And then there is another day
Everything is about waiting. A phone rings and it is not always a mistake.
A chest fills with requiem and it is not his not it is not. When there
is something to say the ants find the sun on a mosaic floor. A strange
fragrance. They never see any light. I slip and slip under the sheets and
the daughter sleeps. That her face is not the father’s is not a sign. It is
a coincidence always that a daughter’s face is a father’s and often a blue
one. At least we tried. In the bed there is a sea and it is cold. But we lost it.
Why no sound. Sisters ride in a car with the daughter’s blue flower and it
is a face wrapped in gauze. His always there. It is hard to turn away from
moving water. A house is not an escape. You smiled and you smiled with
me. The father looked at her and he is not a breath there is not a breath
There is only daughter.
In Byrd's piece there appears to be several familial characters, most of which are feminine. There are sisters, a daughter, and the speaker who appears to either be a reflection of the daughter, one of the sisters, or perhaps even the wife of the 'father.' While the speaker's role is ambiguous, her language dictates a type of feminimity, "I slip and slip under the sheets and the daughter sleeps" (4-5). Here, for example, one could read the line as if the speaker has become the daughter, just for a moment.
I wanted to see where my language would take me if I incorporated several different relations of a family into my piece as well. My characters, however, are a bit more on the masculine side. I have a brother to a sister, a son to an uncle, and the speaker (who could be seen as a reflection of the sister). So, my piece consists of ideally at least one female (in two different roles) and three males. By the time I finished the poem ece, all of the relationships seemed to embody some element of abusive love. This greatly contrasts with the peaceful nature of family in Byrd's piece.
(absent end)
And then, there was no tomorrow.
Nothing is about withstanding. A bed creaks and it always smiles.
A wrist overflows with abstinence and it is not hers if it is his. When
Something tries to bleed the starfish cry nebulas on crystalline ceiling. An enticing taste. They always hear twenty tongues. He turns or turns over the wheel and the sister mourns. That her hair stemmed from her brother is an epiphany. It is never uncertain that a sister’s tendrils is a brother’s goatee and never red. Until they slept. At the shore lies a whale and it is dead. But they found it. Where are the notes. Sons jump on the deck with Uncle’s gangrene razor and it is a knee making love. She never leaves. It is hard to always forget the call of a mosquito. A tree is steadfast. I cried and I cried with the brother. She worshipped him and he was not there, there is never there. There is only me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 15
Original draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
The gray concrete encircles my mind
like a Rottweiler’s chain choking
the life out of an anaconda.
Squeezing that citrusy lemonade
out of skin. It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood, absent
from the body’s self.
Whimpering virgin fingers tremble
in the wake of Nature’s tragedy. Dusk breathes
Mercury’s star-crusted poison
into the iron-clenched jaws of ignorance,
road-kill on the cement. Earth’s cracked veins
spell the essence of my innocence- CHILD,
chided for her beliefs in a system of non-conformity.
Everyone’s trying to be different: the panic
room of social construct crumbles like Cheetos’
chips at our toes. Ants edge out to digest
our remains, nestled between the edges
of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Revised draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
Dirt-Hill
Gray concrete surrounds my mind,
a Rottweiler’s clinking church bells
ring to entice an anaconda. The asylum
squeezes citrus lemonade out of dry
crusted sin; Earth's blood has been missing in centuries.
The virgin whimper trembles, fingers tap in the midst
of dusk’s isolated breath: star-crusted poison
bathes iron jaws of ignorance in waving black
sounds. She didn’t die, but she’s not alive.
Her cracked veins spell innocence- CHILD,
chided for non-conformity. How can we
differentiate the chaotic construct
crumbling like sand between our toes.
Ants are reborn to re-solidify our remains,
nestled between the edges of the Atlantic
and the specific.
The gray concrete encircles my mind
like a Rottweiler’s chain choking
the life out of an anaconda.
Squeezing that citrusy lemonade
out of skin. It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood, absent
from the body’s self.
Whimpering virgin fingers tremble
in the wake of Nature’s tragedy. Dusk breathes
Mercury’s star-crusted poison
into the iron-clenched jaws of ignorance,
road-kill on the cement. Earth’s cracked veins
spell the essence of my innocence- CHILD,
chided for her beliefs in a system of non-conformity.
Everyone’s trying to be different: the panic
room of social construct crumbles like Cheetos’
chips at our toes. Ants edge out to digest
our remains, nestled between the edges
of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Revised draft for Free Entry 2, Week 15:
Dirt-Hill
Gray concrete surrounds my mind,
a Rottweiler’s clinking church bells
ring to entice an anaconda. The asylum
squeezes citrus lemonade out of dry
crusted sin; Earth's blood has been missing in centuries.
The virgin whimper trembles, fingers tap in the midst
of dusk’s isolated breath: star-crusted poison
bathes iron jaws of ignorance in waving black
sounds. She didn’t die, but she’s not alive.
Her cracked veins spell innocence- CHILD,
chided for non-conformity. How can we
differentiate the chaotic construct
crumbling like sand between our toes.
Ants are reborn to re-solidify our remains,
nestled between the edges of the Atlantic
and the specific.
Free Entry 1, Week 15
Original Draft for this week's Free Entry:
I pricked myself
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
Revised Draft for this week's Free Entry:
Mend
I prick myself when sewing for hours,
birthing a pool of blood. I wail
the blues as the doctors whack
the bottomless souls of babies.
They are boys that must become shadows.
Black cloaks vested in a shroud of fire.
Don’t demand a premature demise in war;
necessary skeletons become circumstantial.
Their rugged femurs dusted in combat,
vanquishing chariots of fire where man
alone cannot. The pregnant swell of His
stomach is rubbed, rough and ragged,
to scrub knobby tribulations into molten
ash before they return to the black cloaks…
to His coat-rack: The Messiah’s pot-bellied
Buddah. He shivers without His blanket
too; it is for him that I sew.
I pricked myself
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
Revised Draft for this week's Free Entry:
Mend
I prick myself when sewing for hours,
birthing a pool of blood. I wail
the blues as the doctors whack
the bottomless souls of babies.
They are boys that must become shadows.
Black cloaks vested in a shroud of fire.
Don’t demand a premature demise in war;
necessary skeletons become circumstantial.
Their rugged femurs dusted in combat,
vanquishing chariots of fire where man
alone cannot. The pregnant swell of His
stomach is rubbed, rough and ragged,
to scrub knobby tribulations into molten
ash before they return to the black cloaks…
to His coat-rack: The Messiah’s pot-bellied
Buddah. He shivers without His blanket
too; it is for him that I sew.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 15
"You're thinking in Japanese! If you must think, do it in German!"
-Asuka Langley Soryu, Evangelion
-Asuka Langley Soryu, Evangelion
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 15
"Walking-Horseback-that is the speed at which the soul can stay in the body during travel."
-Gordon, "Dead Man's Cell Phone"
-Gordon, "Dead Man's Cell Phone"
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 15
"Going broke in San Francisco is sad, but romantic. Going broke in Carrollton is just sad."
-Quote from discussion during the Bridgette Byrd reading.
-Quote from discussion during the Bridgette Byrd reading.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 15
"You're dipping in my Kool-Aid when you want to know my GPA."
-My teacher said this in one of my classes during a discussion session. It was so funny!
-My teacher said this in one of my classes during a discussion session. It was so funny!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 14
Poem: A Brittle Day Passed By
Strategy: Enjambments due to lack of commas and due to awkward line breaks.
In, ‘A Brittle Day Passed By’, the lines are primarily made of enjambments that evoke the feeling of time smoothly shifting or passing by the reader. This is achieved by the lack of commas where natural pauses fall as one reads the poem. For example, in the verses, “And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed/ at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him,” it appears as if commas should fall after the words, “then,” “chest,” and “broken.” By writing these lines without the comma, the sense of pausing is essentially eliminated. Because there is no pause, there is nothing to stop the piece from continuously moving on to the next line. The enjambment scheme works because of the lack of commas throughout the piece. It also works because the instances where it appears one should breathe occur within the piece rather than at the end of a line break. Only three line breaks end with a period: line four, line seven, and the last line of the poem. The rest of the line breaks forces the reader to continue on to the next line. One cannot control the fluidity of the piece by taking a breath where they wish to, just as one cannot stop the passing of time or the passing of a day. Breaks come when the day calls for it, just as the commas and pauses for breath occur where the speaker dictates it in the piece.
Strategy: Enjambments due to lack of commas and due to awkward line breaks.
In, ‘A Brittle Day Passed By’, the lines are primarily made of enjambments that evoke the feeling of time smoothly shifting or passing by the reader. This is achieved by the lack of commas where natural pauses fall as one reads the poem. For example, in the verses, “And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed/ at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him,” it appears as if commas should fall after the words, “then,” “chest,” and “broken.” By writing these lines without the comma, the sense of pausing is essentially eliminated. Because there is no pause, there is nothing to stop the piece from continuously moving on to the next line. The enjambment scheme works because of the lack of commas throughout the piece. It also works because the instances where it appears one should breathe occur within the piece rather than at the end of a line break. Only three line breaks end with a period: line four, line seven, and the last line of the poem. The rest of the line breaks forces the reader to continue on to the next line. One cannot control the fluidity of the piece by taking a breath where they wish to, just as one cannot stop the passing of time or the passing of a day. Breaks come when the day calls for it, just as the commas and pauses for breath occur where the speaker dictates it in the piece.
Improv 2, Week 14
My second improv for this week riffs the piece, "Going Around The Country With Full Orchestra"
There was a shift in desire and she sat in bed with the sound of flowers.
Was this an exponent of language this dramatization of her heart. He hit
her weakness like a keyboard. Always a skipped note in this cold song.
The level of fascination rose up and the original plot stretched toward a
Nomi song. She stood in red ski socks and sparkling silver gloves when
there were no more questions about the obviousness of their dreamscape.
There. A glorious drunkenness in static tableaux. No tremor, no perspire:
Heaven is here in Minneapolis. On the other end Henry was still a cat. No
reason for suspicion. It is strange he said this melting story. She said You
have the calm symmetry of an occasional reason below. He fell on her like
a moral emergency and the path turned. Convlusive. Like beauty. Like
his voice. There was a retrospective act of manufactured oddity. There
was his dream. There was her hand. There.
There is obviously a sense of "heavenly lust" in Byrd's piece. She uses positive terms like, "sparkling, glourious, heaven, calm, fascination, etc" to envoke a sense of pleasure. I attempted to turn the language around to ground my improv in a stronger sense of harsh reality of words like, "deamening, slamm, sledge hammer, chipped, chilled, plummted, broken, etc." I believe in the end, where Byrd's piece hinges more on lusty heaven, my piece ended up hinging more on abusive reality.
There was a rise in disgust and she stirred in the water with the sound of the grass. Was this an extension of prologue demeaning the evolution of her tongue. He slammed her head like a sledge hammer. Never a chipped tooth in this chilled prong.The steps of desire plummeted and the age-old rhyme curved near a Japanese proverb. She stared in white silk slippers and red leather gloves when the city begged prudence about the sanctity of their breath.Beyond. A magnificent keyhole in static taboo. No shimmy, no shake: The Library is over in the Bronx. Just past 54th street, Josephine still knit. No reason for song. The arousing pain he said pours from her fingertips. She said You reek of the rationale that deters thinking just there. He slicked her like coke bottle and the illusion was broken. Silence. Like concrete. Liketheir grandparents. There was a respected intent of baby befuddlement. Here was her whisper. There was his voice. Beyond.
There was a shift in desire and she sat in bed with the sound of flowers.
Was this an exponent of language this dramatization of her heart. He hit
her weakness like a keyboard. Always a skipped note in this cold song.
The level of fascination rose up and the original plot stretched toward a
Nomi song. She stood in red ski socks and sparkling silver gloves when
there were no more questions about the obviousness of their dreamscape.
There. A glorious drunkenness in static tableaux. No tremor, no perspire:
Heaven is here in Minneapolis. On the other end Henry was still a cat. No
reason for suspicion. It is strange he said this melting story. She said You
have the calm symmetry of an occasional reason below. He fell on her like
a moral emergency and the path turned. Convlusive. Like beauty. Like
his voice. There was a retrospective act of manufactured oddity. There
was his dream. There was her hand. There.
There is obviously a sense of "heavenly lust" in Byrd's piece. She uses positive terms like, "sparkling, glourious, heaven, calm, fascination, etc" to envoke a sense of pleasure. I attempted to turn the language around to ground my improv in a stronger sense of harsh reality of words like, "deamening, slamm, sledge hammer, chipped, chilled, plummted, broken, etc." I believe in the end, where Byrd's piece hinges more on lusty heaven, my piece ended up hinging more on abusive reality.
There was a rise in disgust and she stirred in the water with the sound of the grass. Was this an extension of prologue demeaning the evolution of her tongue. He slammed her head like a sledge hammer. Never a chipped tooth in this chilled prong.The steps of desire plummeted and the age-old rhyme curved near a Japanese proverb. She stared in white silk slippers and red leather gloves when the city begged prudence about the sanctity of their breath.Beyond. A magnificent keyhole in static taboo. No shimmy, no shake: The Library is over in the Bronx. Just past 54th street, Josephine still knit. No reason for song. The arousing pain he said pours from her fingertips. She said You reek of the rationale that deters thinking just there. He slicked her like coke bottle and the illusion was broken. Silence. Like concrete. Liketheir grandparents. There was a respected intent of baby befuddlement. Here was her whisper. There was his voice. Beyond.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Improv 1, Week 14
My first Improv this week riff's Brigitte Byrd's piece, "A Brittle Day Passed By."
Despite his attempt at rewriting the opening scene her Georgian film
took a tragic welcome. She had almost reached the vanishing point
when he broke. And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed
at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him. There.
Though thoroughly convincing it was his dramatic dialogue which
aroused the commotion in her lyricism. She stumbled on his architectural
syntax and held on to her ending. He indulged in peripheral sympathy.
His questions made it into the narrative. On the occasion a sensual allure
sparked their sexual uproar. There was a furtive glance at his eyes a
shifting of her hands on her thighs a conceptual prologue to. In other words
her show split into a new opening and there was a straightforward wait
in the adaptation of their domesticity. There is of course the bag…There
will always be the bag. After leaving this performance red as his guitar
they went on threading through the plot like under-written players.
I modified the language and imagery just a bit to give it more of a western feel. By doing this, I found that there is a sort of dual meaning within my improv: one of a motherly nature and one of a somewhat sexual nature. Byrd's piece has meaning embedded within the setting: romance/lust in a movie script. I also have a few meanings is embedded within my setting: Maternal, sexual, and mechanical embedded within a Texas-rodeo environment. I was very surprised and impressed by the piece that was the result as a whole:
Because he disposed of the residue her Texas rodeo blew a flat tire. She almost roped her baby when he leaked. And then blue tornados split his thighs and she waved at nothing to say ashy graces as she ripped him. Around. While entirely pretending to juggle her cynicism with the saddle, it was his rugburn that drew her out. She feasted on the pesticide of his erratic logic. He bathed her in the shambles of his Ford F1-50. Metallic buckles made her non-carcinogenic. In the instance of euphoria the vodka burned their noses. There was a snort of vengeance at his engine, revving to inject red and green wires of antifreeze into her womb. In other words, her gloves peeled into a new position and there was no hesitation in the transformation of their bucking bronco. There are also the jeans…There will always be the jeans. After drying up the left over milk blue as his hide they went on stealing ten gallon hats like Bonnie and Clyde.
Despite his attempt at rewriting the opening scene her Georgian film
took a tragic welcome. She had almost reached the vanishing point
when he broke. And then there was a tremor in his chest and he pointed
at nothing to say there is something broken and she loved him. There.
Though thoroughly convincing it was his dramatic dialogue which
aroused the commotion in her lyricism. She stumbled on his architectural
syntax and held on to her ending. He indulged in peripheral sympathy.
His questions made it into the narrative. On the occasion a sensual allure
sparked their sexual uproar. There was a furtive glance at his eyes a
shifting of her hands on her thighs a conceptual prologue to. In other words
her show split into a new opening and there was a straightforward wait
in the adaptation of their domesticity. There is of course the bag…There
will always be the bag. After leaving this performance red as his guitar
they went on threading through the plot like under-written players.
I modified the language and imagery just a bit to give it more of a western feel. By doing this, I found that there is a sort of dual meaning within my improv: one of a motherly nature and one of a somewhat sexual nature. Byrd's piece has meaning embedded within the setting: romance/lust in a movie script. I also have a few meanings is embedded within my setting: Maternal, sexual, and mechanical embedded within a Texas-rodeo environment. I was very surprised and impressed by the piece that was the result as a whole:
Because he disposed of the residue her Texas rodeo blew a flat tire. She almost roped her baby when he leaked. And then blue tornados split his thighs and she waved at nothing to say ashy graces as she ripped him. Around. While entirely pretending to juggle her cynicism with the saddle, it was his rugburn that drew her out. She feasted on the pesticide of his erratic logic. He bathed her in the shambles of his Ford F1-50. Metallic buckles made her non-carcinogenic. In the instance of euphoria the vodka burned their noses. There was a snort of vengeance at his engine, revving to inject red and green wires of antifreeze into her womb. In other words, her gloves peeled into a new position and there was no hesitation in the transformation of their bucking bronco. There are also the jeans…There will always be the jeans. After drying up the left over milk blue as his hide they went on stealing ten gallon hats like Bonnie and Clyde.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 14
My second Free Entry for this week also revamps a poem that I wrote in my journal earlier this semester.
Original:
I look at life like the glass
is half full...of poison.
That’s why popcorn Aunt Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
She slides up and down the metal rod
with butter slicked hands, ignoring
the cracked kinks in her back.
In eleven months she’ll slap you with a herring.
Though a turnip would be better. You always
told me that. Did you never like fishy broads?
My memories are not my own, but that of an actress portraying me.
Devour my past and you will you will confront
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring around my life,
and I don’t mean my ring tone-Put your Records On.
No, I have no song. But my ring will spin you right around,
encircle you, turn your world upside-down, tear
asunder your illusions and send the sanctuary
of your own ignorance crashing down around you.
It will echo in your brain like the pounding
metal of a monorail, screeching tracks barreling
out of a tunnel in tidal waves…until you drown
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Aunt Jackie decides
to butter you up with salt instead.
An Iodine Melody.
This is my revised version:
Title: The Downtown Strip
Life is a glass half full
of poison. Popcorn Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
Sliding up and down the butter-
slicked rod, cracking kinks in her back for
eleven months. Slapping herrings sting
more than fishy, broad actresses devouring
my past memories; confronting
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring tone around life’s record;
Having no song, will spin you right around,
turning your world upside-down. Tears
asunder your illusions and send your ignorance’s
sanctuary crashing down around you.
Rips echo in your brain, pounding the sharp
monorail metal, screeching tracks that barrel
out tunnels in tidal waves…drowning you
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Jackie decides
to butter up your salt instead.
Original:
I look at life like the glass
is half full...of poison.
That’s why popcorn Aunt Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
She slides up and down the metal rod
with butter slicked hands, ignoring
the cracked kinks in her back.
In eleven months she’ll slap you with a herring.
Though a turnip would be better. You always
told me that. Did you never like fishy broads?
My memories are not my own, but that of an actress portraying me.
Devour my past and you will you will confront
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring around my life,
and I don’t mean my ring tone-Put your Records On.
No, I have no song. But my ring will spin you right around,
encircle you, turn your world upside-down, tear
asunder your illusions and send the sanctuary
of your own ignorance crashing down around you.
It will echo in your brain like the pounding
metal of a monorail, screeching tracks barreling
out of a tunnel in tidal waves…until you drown
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Aunt Jackie decides
to butter you up with salt instead.
An Iodine Melody.
This is my revised version:
Title: The Downtown Strip
Life is a glass half full
of poison. Popcorn Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
Sliding up and down the butter-
slicked rod, cracking kinks in her back for
eleven months. Slapping herrings sting
more than fishy, broad actresses devouring
my past memories; confronting
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring tone around life’s record;
Having no song, will spin you right around,
turning your world upside-down. Tears
asunder your illusions and send your ignorance’s
sanctuary crashing down around you.
Rips echo in your brain, pounding the sharp
monorail metal, screeching tracks that barrel
out tunnels in tidal waves…drowning you
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Jackie decides
to butter up your salt instead.
Free Entry 1, Week 14
For my first Free Entry this week, I am revamping the poem of Free Entry from earlier in the year.
Original Draft
I stared at the manhole, anxiously waiting. Knowing they would pop out at any moment. They lived right in front of my house, at night I could hear them skittering around the shit-infested waters like cockroaches tap-dancing across a linoleum floor. Age five, I sit on my trampoline…staring. Bikes and people trample their home, and I know any moment they’ll spring up and ka-ra-te those people into channel 101…the static channel obliterated by our antenna. The large, violet, Tyrannosaurus told me they would. Every day, at 12:30 pm, he drilled that notion into my brain. He did not like un-punctuality. If I missed the day’s lesson, he’d lick me with his tail. Ten good swats across the back, transforming into my father who danced with his belt like drunken snake charmer. The belt was really a gypsy, buckles and bolts clinking together in rhythm-it was hypnotic. Bangles jingled insane harmony, chiming of the Pocahontas and pedophile John Smith that government Disney melted into the brains of children. Dreams, wishes, and love were all fucking lies at that age. Just ask the Falcons about 1998, when they bomb-shelled ATL’s heart and put the dirty-bird to shame, as if its filth wasn’t already bad enough. I had to burn my fan-jersey, watch it rise up in smoke and suffocate the second-star-to-the right: a ladybug trapped tightly in fisted fingers.
Revamped Draft:
Title: Notre Dame
I stared at the manhole living right in front of my house;
they would pop out at any moment. I heard them skittering
around shit-infested waters: cockroaches dancing across
a linoleum floor. Bikes and people trampling their home, know
that at any moment they’ll be digested into the static channel,
obliterated by our large, violent antenna. It told me they would.
Every day, at 12:30 pm; churning that notion into bitter un-punctuality.
Missing the day’s lesson earned me a tail’s lick- transforming
my father, who charm-danced with his drunken leather belt.
The gypsy buckles and bolts clinked together in hypnotic rhythm,
jingling the insane chime of the age-five pedophile melted
into our brains. The Falcons of 1998 dreamed, wished,
and loved all fucking lies at that age. Bomb-shelling
ATL’s heart shaming the dirty-bird, burning jerseys nation-wide.
Rising up in smoke and suffocating the North Star:
a ladybug trapped tightly in fisted fingers.
Original Draft
I stared at the manhole, anxiously waiting. Knowing they would pop out at any moment. They lived right in front of my house, at night I could hear them skittering around the shit-infested waters like cockroaches tap-dancing across a linoleum floor. Age five, I sit on my trampoline…staring. Bikes and people trample their home, and I know any moment they’ll spring up and ka-ra-te those people into channel 101…the static channel obliterated by our antenna. The large, violet, Tyrannosaurus told me they would. Every day, at 12:30 pm, he drilled that notion into my brain. He did not like un-punctuality. If I missed the day’s lesson, he’d lick me with his tail. Ten good swats across the back, transforming into my father who danced with his belt like drunken snake charmer. The belt was really a gypsy, buckles and bolts clinking together in rhythm-it was hypnotic. Bangles jingled insane harmony, chiming of the Pocahontas and pedophile John Smith that government Disney melted into the brains of children. Dreams, wishes, and love were all fucking lies at that age. Just ask the Falcons about 1998, when they bomb-shelled ATL’s heart and put the dirty-bird to shame, as if its filth wasn’t already bad enough. I had to burn my fan-jersey, watch it rise up in smoke and suffocate the second-star-to-the right: a ladybug trapped tightly in fisted fingers.
Revamped Draft:
Title: Notre Dame
I stared at the manhole living right in front of my house;
they would pop out at any moment. I heard them skittering
around shit-infested waters: cockroaches dancing across
a linoleum floor. Bikes and people trampling their home, know
that at any moment they’ll be digested into the static channel,
obliterated by our large, violent antenna. It told me they would.
Every day, at 12:30 pm; churning that notion into bitter un-punctuality.
Missing the day’s lesson earned me a tail’s lick- transforming
my father, who charm-danced with his drunken leather belt.
The gypsy buckles and bolts clinked together in hypnotic rhythm,
jingling the insane chime of the age-five pedophile melted
into our brains. The Falcons of 1998 dreamed, wished,
and loved all fucking lies at that age. Bomb-shelling
ATL’s heart shaming the dirty-bird, burning jerseys nation-wide.
Rising up in smoke and suffocating the North Star:
a ladybug trapped tightly in fisted fingers.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 14
Fuu: "There were two useless bodygaurds traveling with me. Well, it doesn't matter anymore. Now I'm as lonely as can be. So, it doesn't matter where I die. But... I didn't want to drown. Because, you know, your body size doubles. I'm not joking. I want to die beautiful, you know."
Okuru: "There are no beautiful corpses."
-Samurai Champloo
This is from one the episode of one of my favorite animes.
Okuru: "There are no beautiful corpses."
-Samurai Champloo
This is from one the episode of one of my favorite animes.
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 14
"It's times like that I ask myself, why am I watching two bugs fight each other?"
-Conversation with a friend
My friend and I were watching a couple of our friends playing a videogame with these characters that we think are kinda bug-like.
-Conversation with a friend
My friend and I were watching a couple of our friends playing a videogame with these characters that we think are kinda bug-like.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 14
"Man fears the darkness, and so he scrapes away at the edges of it with fire."
-Rei Ayanami, Neon Genesis Evangelion
-Rei Ayanami, Neon Genesis Evangelion
Friday, April 9, 2010
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 14
"Why don't you sit down? But not too hard, you'll hurt your brain."
-Steve Urcle, Family Matters
-Steve Urcle, Family Matters
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 14
Hallucination: "What is my necklace made of? what is my name?"
House: "You're not the answer, you're the clues. Why are you here?"
Hallucination: "Because you don't know the answer. What is my name? What is my necklace made of?"
House: "...Amber."
-House
I was watching an episode of House where he kept having hallucinations to try to figure out who was going to die after there was a crash. He and the victim were on the bus that had been crashed into, but he couldn't remember who she was. These were the lines said to help him figure out the answer. I like the double play behind the name 'Amber' as well as the play with the language in generally.
House: "You're not the answer, you're the clues. Why are you here?"
Hallucination: "Because you don't know the answer. What is my name? What is my necklace made of?"
House: "...Amber."
-House
I was watching an episode of House where he kept having hallucinations to try to figure out who was going to die after there was a crash. He and the victim were on the bus that had been crashed into, but he couldn't remember who she was. These were the lines said to help him figure out the answer. I like the double play behind the name 'Amber' as well as the play with the language in generally.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 13
Poem: PARENTHITICAL
Strategy: Grammatical rule breaking
The strategy that stood out to me the most in Melanie Jordan’s piece, “Parenthetical” was how she seems to boldly ignore (or pay little attention too), rules set up for grammatical mechanics. In retrospect, the fact that she ignores these rules seems to make up the basis/foundation of the piece as a whole. For example, the poem starts with a lower-case “a”, and the entire piece is made up of 3 sentences. However, each is a run-on sentence which stands strongly enough on its own to defy the rule set against it. Finally, at the end of the piece, the period is set on the inside of the parenthesis instead of on the outside.
Everything set inside the parenthesis is isolated from the world and set in its own world/environment. In other words, inside the parenthesis there are no rules. The fact that there are no rules means that anything is acceptable, which is also true in terms of the content and construction of the piece. When we get to the line about the speaker and her friend pulling up outside the club in the middle of the piece, we can see the correlation to the inside of the club, their relationship, and their first night together in the attic room. The waves of curtains and dresses and the smoky atmosphere makes for a mystic environment in which nothing is grounded, just as nothing is really grounded within the parenthesis encompassing the poem.
Strategy: Grammatical rule breaking
The strategy that stood out to me the most in Melanie Jordan’s piece, “Parenthetical” was how she seems to boldly ignore (or pay little attention too), rules set up for grammatical mechanics. In retrospect, the fact that she ignores these rules seems to make up the basis/foundation of the piece as a whole. For example, the poem starts with a lower-case “a”, and the entire piece is made up of 3 sentences. However, each is a run-on sentence which stands strongly enough on its own to defy the rule set against it. Finally, at the end of the piece, the period is set on the inside of the parenthesis instead of on the outside.
Everything set inside the parenthesis is isolated from the world and set in its own world/environment. In other words, inside the parenthesis there are no rules. The fact that there are no rules means that anything is acceptable, which is also true in terms of the content and construction of the piece. When we get to the line about the speaker and her friend pulling up outside the club in the middle of the piece, we can see the correlation to the inside of the club, their relationship, and their first night together in the attic room. The waves of curtains and dresses and the smoky atmosphere makes for a mystic environment in which nothing is grounded, just as nothing is really grounded within the parenthesis encompassing the poem.
Free Entry 2, Week 13
Following the same procedure as my first Free Entry for this week, below is the original version of my second entry for this week:
Redemption, they name is scar,
the forbidden cross of transmutation.
Breaking down to reconstruct,
building to decapitate legs
and limbs, scattered like pins
across a linoleum floor. Lemon- scented
sterilization, the sour aroma layers
the absence of evidence.
Mutilated branches secrete blood
that quinches thirst-ridden bush rats—
starving from the lack of food and cracked
from dehydration. They drive their snouts
into soil, seeking solace in plague-infested
quicksand that drown the seedlings of restoration.
Leaves sprout, yearning for a life saver,
“Feed Me Seymour!” But he
does not hear their cries,
and they see less…feel less…inhaling
oxygen, exhaling carbon.
The path has twisted down into the sky,
reversing the flow, reviving screeching
banshees with skins of wrinkled leather.
Old is young, pure is im-
pure, to die is to live,
and have-nots, have
become the epitome
of an equivalent exchange
that is not so equivalent.
That, is alchemy.
This is the revised version:
Title: Reborn
Redemption, thy name is now Scar.
Decapitated legs and limbs, scattered like safety-
pins across a linoleum floor. Lemon- scented
sterilization, the sour aroma layers
the absence of breathing evidence.
Limbs secrete dried blood,
starving from the lack of juicy food and
dehydration. Driving into soil,
seeking solace in plague-infested
quicksand that
cries, inhaling oxygen,
exhaling carbon.
The path has twisted towards the sky,
reversing the zen-like flow, reviving squeaking
skins of wrinkled, spotted-leather.
Old has become young,
purity embodies impurity,.
To live is to die,
and death has transmuted
into the epitome
of an equivalent exchange
that is not so equivalent.
Redemption, they name is scar,
the forbidden cross of transmutation.
Breaking down to reconstruct,
building to decapitate legs
and limbs, scattered like pins
across a linoleum floor. Lemon- scented
sterilization, the sour aroma layers
the absence of evidence.
Mutilated branches secrete blood
that quinches thirst-ridden bush rats—
starving from the lack of food and cracked
from dehydration. They drive their snouts
into soil, seeking solace in plague-infested
quicksand that drown the seedlings of restoration.
Leaves sprout, yearning for a life saver,
“Feed Me Seymour!” But he
does not hear their cries,
and they see less…feel less…inhaling
oxygen, exhaling carbon.
The path has twisted down into the sky,
reversing the flow, reviving screeching
banshees with skins of wrinkled leather.
Old is young, pure is im-
pure, to die is to live,
and have-nots, have
become the epitome
of an equivalent exchange
that is not so equivalent.
That, is alchemy.
This is the revised version:
Title: Reborn
Redemption, thy name is now Scar.
Decapitated legs and limbs, scattered like safety-
pins across a linoleum floor. Lemon- scented
sterilization, the sour aroma layers
the absence of breathing evidence.
Limbs secrete dried blood,
starving from the lack of juicy food and
dehydration. Driving into soil,
seeking solace in plague-infested
quicksand that
cries, inhaling oxygen,
exhaling carbon.
The path has twisted towards the sky,
reversing the zen-like flow, reviving squeaking
skins of wrinkled, spotted-leather.
Old has become young,
purity embodies impurity,.
To live is to die,
and death has transmuted
into the epitome
of an equivalent exchange
that is not so equivalent.
Free Entry 1, Week 13
For my first Free Entry this week, I'm going to utilize some guiding advice that Professor Davidson gave me in my second journal assessment. I will take a longer piece from one of my previous entries and attempt to contract it, pushing various images together to get off of the original subject while, at the same time, discovering a poem within the poem.
This is the original piece:
Blue arms extend pointed nails
in her direction. A menacing purr
emanates from the deep bowels of her breast.
Planetary plates shift silently
under their souls to avoid the trample
of destitution. His hand rakes
down her spine, skeletal bones
shivering in discourse. Her muscles
clench his waist tightly,
rolling in time with her pants of exertion.
You’re touching me. I’m -
not touching you. Their lungs tighten:
free air, swirling mischievously
around them like flamed leaves
drowning on air. His nails drive
into her skin, a jackhammer
demolishing that straw house of ’73.
Swinging with bondage to her gutted teeth,
eyes rutted hollow in the dusk. I’m not
touching you. She thrusts up
against his torso, pinning him a sheep
to the slaughter. Her fingers grip
his bony wrist in a vice
unbreakable.
Bending down, she hisses,
You’re touching me.
This is my revised version:
Title: Little Red
Blue arms extend pointed nails
in her direction. Planetary plates
shift silently to avoid the stampeding
trample of his hand raking blisters down her spine.
Skeletal bones shiver in discourse,
swirling mischievously
around them like flamed leaves
drowning on air. Her polyester primed
nails jackhammer at lightening speed,
demolishing that straw house of ’73.
Swinging with bondage to her gutted
russet eyes, spiking bullets into the dusk.
I’m not touching you. She thrusts up
vehemently, pinning him a sheep
to the slaughter. His skin is shed
in ashes along the plummeting floor.
Bony wrist in a vice
unbreakable.
Bending down, she hisses,
You’re touching me.
This is the original piece:
Blue arms extend pointed nails
in her direction. A menacing purr
emanates from the deep bowels of her breast.
Planetary plates shift silently
under their souls to avoid the trample
of destitution. His hand rakes
down her spine, skeletal bones
shivering in discourse. Her muscles
clench his waist tightly,
rolling in time with her pants of exertion.
You’re touching me. I’m -
not touching you. Their lungs tighten:
free air, swirling mischievously
around them like flamed leaves
drowning on air. His nails drive
into her skin, a jackhammer
demolishing that straw house of ’73.
Swinging with bondage to her gutted teeth,
eyes rutted hollow in the dusk. I’m not
touching you. She thrusts up
against his torso, pinning him a sheep
to the slaughter. Her fingers grip
his bony wrist in a vice
unbreakable.
Bending down, she hisses,
You’re touching me.
This is my revised version:
Title: Little Red
Blue arms extend pointed nails
in her direction. Planetary plates
shift silently to avoid the stampeding
trample of his hand raking blisters down her spine.
Skeletal bones shiver in discourse,
swirling mischievously
around them like flamed leaves
drowning on air. Her polyester primed
nails jackhammer at lightening speed,
demolishing that straw house of ’73.
Swinging with bondage to her gutted
russet eyes, spiking bullets into the dusk.
I’m not touching you. She thrusts up
vehemently, pinning him a sheep
to the slaughter. His skin is shed
in ashes along the plummeting floor.
Bony wrist in a vice
unbreakable.
Bending down, she hisses,
You’re touching me.
Improv 2, Week 13
My second riff for this week comes from the piece, "Charlie Brown in the Dead of Night."
This howling makes me shiver, but it ought to be beautiful.
I wish he would stop it. And you're out there, too,
little girl, smiling over sticker albums and apple slices.
Who is it takes care of us? Who mends trees
when their limbs crack, who thinks of a question like that?
I know worry is a way of filing, but the folders are too long
or too narrow and none of my frets ever fit. The space
around my head at night is easier to work with,
blankets piled on top of me so I can barely see the rise
of my chest. They don't mend them, that's who.
I don't know which is worse, the barking or the silence.
Tomorrow, maybe, I can win your eye
with animal crackers or a pencil with sparkling foil clefs.
And what good is that, the blessing eye that might not see
me surrounded by autumn's energy and nearly bursting
with rhapsodic blood? It's a lot to look for.
There's a lot to see in people, the way they hover
at the edge of knowing and oblivion, the way they keep on
clipping hair and making appointments, clocks with hearts.
It's definitely a tick when I see you, our dress smoothed
over invisible knees, tick the way I feel you know me.
I've danced with girls before, swaying lightly back
and forth, just on the edge of what it means
to fill my body of being poured in like wet cement.
Then worry filled up my shoes, but it was almost pretty,
a haze like sundown or chiffon before I had to sit down.
If life is a series of escapes to the punchbowl, I want to ask
Out loud if this it? But what kind of question is that?
I'll be fixed tomorrow when the day is mine, opened up
like the white cream of a cookie. Keep trading
lunches and mittens with me-what is love but one
big cloakroom-because mine is the longing
of a Hercules let loose, mine is the fear of a burst
oil candle, bright with flame and dim with rupture.
He'll keep it up. Until I'm out there barefoot
with flashlight and dogdish, or until sunlight sticks up
unruly, ready as a willing head waiting to be combed.
I wanted to capture that same sense of "questioning reality" but I wanted to do this outside the element of the spine-shivering night-time setting established in the poem. As I played with the language, I found myself elaborating and never-ending relationships and a never-ending childhood. In other words, there's a sense of a cycle that doesn'tseem to have the capability of ending. I was surprised that I was able to pull that from riffing from "Charlie Brown in the Dead of Night."
Sally in the Spring of Fall
This squealing makes me cry, but it ought to be tears of pain.
I wish he could cry louder. And you're not here,,
little boy, smiling over mud pies and tadpoles
Who is it abandons us? Who mends fireflies
when their bulbs go out, who thinks of a question like that?
I know curiosity is a way of shredding, but the files are so long
or so boring and none of us cares. The room
around my legs at noon is easy to satisfy,
bedspreads shifted around me so I can feel the hairy
field of his chest. They don't leave them, that's who.
I don't know which is more scary, the squealing or the purring.
Next week, maybe, I can catch your eye
with my baseball glove or a bat with Billy Mason’s blood.
And what good is that, the omniscient eye that might not notice
me surrounded by Hallow’s Eve and nearly bursting
with rhapsodic blood? It's not a lot to take in.
There's a sea of people, the way they swim
at the edge of flat Earth and the sidewalk’s end, the way they keep on
mowing lawns and driving around and around, cutting the cycle.
It's definitely a trick when I see you, your tux pressed
over fake abs, fool the way you think I feel you.
I've danced with boys before, gyrating back
and forth, pushing the cycle of what it means
to fill my body roll like a dough of wet mud.
Then ecstasy fills up my shoes, but it was almost deafening,
a blaze like moonlight or seaside before I had to lie down.
If life is a series of beginning the end, I must ask
Out loud if this it? But what kind of question is that?
I'll be gone again when the day is yours, closed up
like the terrified roly-poly. Keep trading
lunches and cards with my brother-what is love but one
big placemat-because mine is the yearning
of a Hades let loose, mine is the elation of a wicked
oil candle, bright with flame and dim with desire.
He'll keep it up. Until I'm out there barefoot
with skirts jerked knee-high and pickle-jars, or until the dawn sticks up
unruly, ready as a willing head waiting to be licked.
This howling makes me shiver, but it ought to be beautiful.
I wish he would stop it. And you're out there, too,
little girl, smiling over sticker albums and apple slices.
Who is it takes care of us? Who mends trees
when their limbs crack, who thinks of a question like that?
I know worry is a way of filing, but the folders are too long
or too narrow and none of my frets ever fit. The space
around my head at night is easier to work with,
blankets piled on top of me so I can barely see the rise
of my chest. They don't mend them, that's who.
I don't know which is worse, the barking or the silence.
Tomorrow, maybe, I can win your eye
with animal crackers or a pencil with sparkling foil clefs.
And what good is that, the blessing eye that might not see
me surrounded by autumn's energy and nearly bursting
with rhapsodic blood? It's a lot to look for.
There's a lot to see in people, the way they hover
at the edge of knowing and oblivion, the way they keep on
clipping hair and making appointments, clocks with hearts.
It's definitely a tick when I see you, our dress smoothed
over invisible knees, tick the way I feel you know me.
I've danced with girls before, swaying lightly back
and forth, just on the edge of what it means
to fill my body of being poured in like wet cement.
Then worry filled up my shoes, but it was almost pretty,
a haze like sundown or chiffon before I had to sit down.
If life is a series of escapes to the punchbowl, I want to ask
Out loud if this it? But what kind of question is that?
I'll be fixed tomorrow when the day is mine, opened up
like the white cream of a cookie. Keep trading
lunches and mittens with me-what is love but one
big cloakroom-because mine is the longing
of a Hercules let loose, mine is the fear of a burst
oil candle, bright with flame and dim with rupture.
He'll keep it up. Until I'm out there barefoot
with flashlight and dogdish, or until sunlight sticks up
unruly, ready as a willing head waiting to be combed.
I wanted to capture that same sense of "questioning reality" but I wanted to do this outside the element of the spine-shivering night-time setting established in the poem. As I played with the language, I found myself elaborating and never-ending relationships and a never-ending childhood. In other words, there's a sense of a cycle that doesn'tseem to have the capability of ending. I was surprised that I was able to pull that from riffing from "Charlie Brown in the Dead of Night."
Sally in the Spring of Fall
This squealing makes me cry, but it ought to be tears of pain.
I wish he could cry louder. And you're not here,,
little boy, smiling over mud pies and tadpoles
Who is it abandons us? Who mends fireflies
when their bulbs go out, who thinks of a question like that?
I know curiosity is a way of shredding, but the files are so long
or so boring and none of us cares. The room
around my legs at noon is easy to satisfy,
bedspreads shifted around me so I can feel the hairy
field of his chest. They don't leave them, that's who.
I don't know which is more scary, the squealing or the purring.
Next week, maybe, I can catch your eye
with my baseball glove or a bat with Billy Mason’s blood.
And what good is that, the omniscient eye that might not notice
me surrounded by Hallow’s Eve and nearly bursting
with rhapsodic blood? It's not a lot to take in.
There's a sea of people, the way they swim
at the edge of flat Earth and the sidewalk’s end, the way they keep on
mowing lawns and driving around and around, cutting the cycle.
It's definitely a trick when I see you, your tux pressed
over fake abs, fool the way you think I feel you.
I've danced with boys before, gyrating back
and forth, pushing the cycle of what it means
to fill my body roll like a dough of wet mud.
Then ecstasy fills up my shoes, but it was almost deafening,
a blaze like moonlight or seaside before I had to lie down.
If life is a series of beginning the end, I must ask
Out loud if this it? But what kind of question is that?
I'll be gone again when the day is yours, closed up
like the terrified roly-poly. Keep trading
lunches and cards with my brother-what is love but one
big placemat-because mine is the yearning
of a Hades let loose, mine is the elation of a wicked
oil candle, bright with flame and dim with desire.
He'll keep it up. Until I'm out there barefoot
with skirts jerked knee-high and pickle-jars, or until the dawn sticks up
unruly, ready as a willing head waiting to be licked.
Improv 1, Week 13
My first riff for this week comes from Melanie's piece, "Parenthetical"
(a white curtain in the dark waves
from a window across the street
and I can't hear anything other than
what I imagine is the sound
of that tiny sail flapping like a useless
handkerchief and you are smiling
like you've spoken, but I'm watching
a woman's shadow overhwelm the red
interior of her second story while
the white curtain like a minidress
obscures her waist, ruffles her thight.
She changes, undresses without pause
the way you pulled the parking break
before we came inside the club,
the way I undressed for you
our first night in your attic room.
It's so loud here it's silent, our table
subsumed by dancers, swelling, splitting
mitosis. Smoke hurts my chest, I can't
hear you anymore, I'm blind
against the curatin swelling the window,
the world, reflecting the streetlamp,
how I came here with nothing to cover
me, how I leve with nothing to uncover.)
What I wanted to channel from this piece, through my improve is the gentle flow associated with the fluditiy of fabric flowing in the breeze. This is embodied in concrete imagery such as, "curtain, waves, sail, handkerchief, minidress, ruffles, etc.) However, I wanted to embody this by pushing in a somewhat opposite direction. My pieces takes on a more masculine persona with words such as "pavement, vein, weight lifting, building hurricans, etc." But I wanted that same fluidity to be present even though the tone of my improve represents a more masculine, power-inflated atmosphere.
Semi;Colon
(a blue vein in the green curves
from the pavement across the campus
and I can’t touch anything other than
what I smell is the taste
of that tractor-trailer sized edifice collapsing like a wrecking
ball and you are whimpering
like you’ve been unleashed, but I’m studying
a man’s biceps undertaking the white
interior of her red Volvo while the
blue vein like a pulse
pumps up his volume, increases his erection.
He changes, lifts weights endlessly
the way you pushed the ticket gate
as we infiltrated the carnival,
the way I lifted you
our third anniversary in your hay scented loft.
It’s so quiet here it’s a cacophony, our shoes
Submerged in dust-mites, swirling, building
hurricanes. Clouds burn my taste buds, I can’t
touch you anymore, I’m deaf
against the vein swirling the pavement,
the church, bathing the street-rat,
how I became here with a wrecking ball to destroy
you, how I leave with myself crumbled.)
(a white curtain in the dark waves
from a window across the street
and I can't hear anything other than
what I imagine is the sound
of that tiny sail flapping like a useless
handkerchief and you are smiling
like you've spoken, but I'm watching
a woman's shadow overhwelm the red
interior of her second story while
the white curtain like a minidress
obscures her waist, ruffles her thight.
She changes, undresses without pause
the way you pulled the parking break
before we came inside the club,
the way I undressed for you
our first night in your attic room.
It's so loud here it's silent, our table
subsumed by dancers, swelling, splitting
mitosis. Smoke hurts my chest, I can't
hear you anymore, I'm blind
against the curatin swelling the window,
the world, reflecting the streetlamp,
how I came here with nothing to cover
me, how I leve with nothing to uncover.)
What I wanted to channel from this piece, through my improve is the gentle flow associated with the fluditiy of fabric flowing in the breeze. This is embodied in concrete imagery such as, "curtain, waves, sail, handkerchief, minidress, ruffles, etc.) However, I wanted to embody this by pushing in a somewhat opposite direction. My pieces takes on a more masculine persona with words such as "pavement, vein, weight lifting, building hurricans, etc." But I wanted that same fluidity to be present even though the tone of my improve represents a more masculine, power-inflated atmosphere.
Semi;Colon
(a blue vein in the green curves
from the pavement across the campus
and I can’t touch anything other than
what I smell is the taste
of that tractor-trailer sized edifice collapsing like a wrecking
ball and you are whimpering
like you’ve been unleashed, but I’m studying
a man’s biceps undertaking the white
interior of her red Volvo while the
blue vein like a pulse
pumps up his volume, increases his erection.
He changes, lifts weights endlessly
the way you pushed the ticket gate
as we infiltrated the carnival,
the way I lifted you
our third anniversary in your hay scented loft.
It’s so quiet here it’s a cacophony, our shoes
Submerged in dust-mites, swirling, building
hurricanes. Clouds burn my taste buds, I can’t
touch you anymore, I’m deaf
against the vein swirling the pavement,
the church, bathing the street-rat,
how I became here with a wrecking ball to destroy
you, how I leave with myself crumbled.)
Monday, April 5, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 13
"Maybe the heat does make people crazy, and before you know it, crazy becomes normal."
-Huey Freeman, The Boondocks
-Huey Freeman, The Boondocks
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 13
"If you watch "Jaws" backwards, it's about a giant shark that barfs up so many people, they have to build a beach."
-Conversation with a friend
This came from talking with my cousin actually. The idea of people being barfed into a beach is a somewhat sickeningly tantalizing image. I really like the usage of word play in this quote so I had to put it in my journal.
-Conversation with a friend
This came from talking with my cousin actually. The idea of people being barfed into a beach is a somewhat sickeningly tantalizing image. I really like the usage of word play in this quote so I had to put it in my journal.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 13
"Villains make the story. Without villains, all heroes would be at home sulking."
-Conversation with a Friend
I think this quote would be a great springboard for flipping the stereotypical idea of the hero/villain relationship. Really, villains seem to have much more weight, power, and charisma than the heroes. I would be interesting in tackling a poem where the villain was essentially the hero and vice versa. This actually reminds me of Joker's character in the most recent Batman film as well. Developing the reflexive/unseen side of an idea is a great creative outlet for a poem.
-Conversation with a Friend
I think this quote would be a great springboard for flipping the stereotypical idea of the hero/villain relationship. Really, villains seem to have much more weight, power, and charisma than the heroes. I would be interesting in tackling a poem where the villain was essentially the hero and vice versa. This actually reminds me of Joker's character in the most recent Batman film as well. Developing the reflexive/unseen side of an idea is a great creative outlet for a poem.
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 13
"Hell must be swell spot, because the guys that invented religion have sure been trying hard to keep everybody else out."
-Conversation with a friend
-Conversation with a friend
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 13
"Pink apples aren't real, so that means I am a figment of your imagination... You're crazy"
-Conversation with a friend
The online username of one of my friends is "PinkyApple" and she has this quote as her signature. I love it because it plays with the tattered fragments of reality. It shows how something with a merit of existence (due to being recepted by one of the five senses)can fall more into the the realm of imagination or fantasy. This is similar to the brain-teaser:
The below statement is false.
The above statement is true.
One can read both statements with their eyes, enough to comprehend them. But attempting to making sense of them eventually cancels out their solidity, validty, and reliability. These three aspects are usually associated with something people knows due to the tangieble proof/merit of existence mentioned earlier exists.
-Conversation with a friend
The online username of one of my friends is "PinkyApple" and she has this quote as her signature. I love it because it plays with the tattered fragments of reality. It shows how something with a merit of existence (due to being recepted by one of the five senses)can fall more into the the realm of imagination or fantasy. This is similar to the brain-teaser:
The below statement is false.
The above statement is true.
One can read both statements with their eyes, enough to comprehend them. But attempting to making sense of them eventually cancels out their solidity, validty, and reliability. These three aspects are usually associated with something people knows due to the tangieble proof/merit of existence mentioned earlier exists.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 12
I seem to think of things cryptically.
Hieroglyphics plague my mind like the salsa
of rattle snakes in the dessert.
When it’s all said and done, I have no more priority
than the makeshift bandits on television.
Robbery instigates a myriad of primetime
networks. Just how do those detectives solve
every case at half the price while still managing
to look sexy? That must be Victoria’s secret,
hidden just under the lacey sheets of misconception.
Voluptious bounties desecrate the crime scene
and receive the Emmy award. Yes,
this is what is written on the Rosetta Stone,
on King Tut’s Tomb, inscribed on Cleopatra’s locket.
Forever engraved on the underground caverns is the
secret of lust, theft, and death. We’ve always had the keys,
but one has yet to crack the code.
Hieroglyphics plague my mind like the salsa
of rattle snakes in the dessert.
When it’s all said and done, I have no more priority
than the makeshift bandits on television.
Robbery instigates a myriad of primetime
networks. Just how do those detectives solve
every case at half the price while still managing
to look sexy? That must be Victoria’s secret,
hidden just under the lacey sheets of misconception.
Voluptious bounties desecrate the crime scene
and receive the Emmy award. Yes,
this is what is written on the Rosetta Stone,
on King Tut’s Tomb, inscribed on Cleopatra’s locket.
Forever engraved on the underground caverns is the
secret of lust, theft, and death. We’ve always had the keys,
but one has yet to crack the code.
Free Entry 1, Week 12
Dogs of Conviction
Watch out, here I come; though it’s gonna take a little time.
They’ve been laughing since I can remember,
“You’re an adult, speak like a child.” But I need to think
things over, I need a break from this modern living, to choke
on the strands of compliance. All this time guys were just sucking
up my luck. If you say you’re going to donate, then do it. You
only meet me half way, and then you can’t come through.
Instead you want the 5 cent penance that is retribution. Traded
for a stick of gum: Winter-fresh. You feel the boney-iced limbs
as they scratchthe window pane, bleeding the conventions
of mortality down your flesh. Anxious to end the beginning,
spinning beyond your control. Don’t put me back on the shelf,
I’m not your pot-bellied Buddah. Really, men are no better
than dogs, they are worse. At least dogs will bury your secrets.
Watch out, here I come; though it’s gonna take a little time.
They’ve been laughing since I can remember,
“You’re an adult, speak like a child.” But I need to think
things over, I need a break from this modern living, to choke
on the strands of compliance. All this time guys were just sucking
up my luck. If you say you’re going to donate, then do it. You
only meet me half way, and then you can’t come through.
Instead you want the 5 cent penance that is retribution. Traded
for a stick of gum: Winter-fresh. You feel the boney-iced limbs
as they scratchthe window pane, bleeding the conventions
of mortality down your flesh. Anxious to end the beginning,
spinning beyond your control. Don’t put me back on the shelf,
I’m not your pot-bellied Buddah. Really, men are no better
than dogs, they are worse. At least dogs will bury your secrets.
Stragey Response 1, Week 12
Poem: Let me be reckless with the word love
Strategy: The title as part of the poem; Reckless shapeshifting of the word/notion of 'love'.
Two strategies stood out to me in the piece, “Let me be reckless with the word love.” The first is how Weisse immediately imbeds the reader into the poem by making the title the first line of the piece. There’s no need to separate a “title” from the poem because in retrospect, the entire piece is strong enough to stand by itself without the signpost that a title often provides.
The second strategy that stood out was the many visual images used to signify the word ‘love.’ The images are presented in a way that the notion of ‘love’ itself recklessly shape-shifts into a variety of forms throughout the piece. These many morphs show just how reckless love is, in that it is never really found in one solid, stable image/imagery (neither in this piece or in reality).
For example, the first stanza of the poem states, “Let me drive it into the deepest ditch/ in the darkest country and pop its hood/ to inspect the engine for broken valves.” Here, the imagery established for ‘love’ is that of an automobile. But by the end of the third stanza (and going into the fourth stanza) we receive the lines, “let me walk it/ through the living room, leaving tracks in the plush pink carpet. Let it say,/ I’m sorry. I seem to have made a mess.” In this instance, ‘love’ is the muddy footprints left over from when the speaker attempted to salvage it earlier after driving it into a ditch. In the next stanza, love embodies the entire situation, which the speaker intends to “blow up” in the back yard while the neighbors enjoy celebrating the anniversary of their relationship.
So love has transformed from a car, to muddy footprints, to a fight encompassing the entire situation presented in the piece, as well as the relationship the speaker has with her lover.
What I admire about this strategy is that the images were not just injected into the piece at random; and each image was not reflected or represented in its own stanza. Instead, the images are interwoven to serve as transitions describing the details of a rough and tumble scenario for the speaker, who is also an amputee. Love is a car, love is hitch-hiking with a pervert, love is the muddy stains left on a carpet, love is is arguing with one’s partner, love is staying with an amputee despite her hardships, and love is transformed into all of these images in a manner that influenced the fluidity of the piece as a whole.
The speaker then indicates that her partner does not know how love means “sticking with/ the woman whose one foot dangles/ from the window of a pick-up truck” (17-19). Afterwards, she states that she has become an apostrophe by its Greek definition.
To be an apostrophe means to give personification to an object or abstract idea. So, in the end, love recklessly transforms one more time into the amputee herself; who is turning away and cutting herself of from not only the poem (as an ending), but what one could conclude is the relationship itself.
Strategy: The title as part of the poem; Reckless shapeshifting of the word/notion of 'love'.
Two strategies stood out to me in the piece, “Let me be reckless with the word love.” The first is how Weisse immediately imbeds the reader into the poem by making the title the first line of the piece. There’s no need to separate a “title” from the poem because in retrospect, the entire piece is strong enough to stand by itself without the signpost that a title often provides.
The second strategy that stood out was the many visual images used to signify the word ‘love.’ The images are presented in a way that the notion of ‘love’ itself recklessly shape-shifts into a variety of forms throughout the piece. These many morphs show just how reckless love is, in that it is never really found in one solid, stable image/imagery (neither in this piece or in reality).
For example, the first stanza of the poem states, “Let me drive it into the deepest ditch/ in the darkest country and pop its hood/ to inspect the engine for broken valves.” Here, the imagery established for ‘love’ is that of an automobile. But by the end of the third stanza (and going into the fourth stanza) we receive the lines, “let me walk it/ through the living room, leaving tracks in the plush pink carpet. Let it say,/ I’m sorry. I seem to have made a mess.” In this instance, ‘love’ is the muddy footprints left over from when the speaker attempted to salvage it earlier after driving it into a ditch. In the next stanza, love embodies the entire situation, which the speaker intends to “blow up” in the back yard while the neighbors enjoy celebrating the anniversary of their relationship.
So love has transformed from a car, to muddy footprints, to a fight encompassing the entire situation presented in the piece, as well as the relationship the speaker has with her lover.
What I admire about this strategy is that the images were not just injected into the piece at random; and each image was not reflected or represented in its own stanza. Instead, the images are interwoven to serve as transitions describing the details of a rough and tumble scenario for the speaker, who is also an amputee. Love is a car, love is hitch-hiking with a pervert, love is the muddy stains left on a carpet, love is is arguing with one’s partner, love is staying with an amputee despite her hardships, and love is transformed into all of these images in a manner that influenced the fluidity of the piece as a whole.
The speaker then indicates that her partner does not know how love means “sticking with/ the woman whose one foot dangles/ from the window of a pick-up truck” (17-19). Afterwards, she states that she has become an apostrophe by its Greek definition.
To be an apostrophe means to give personification to an object or abstract idea. So, in the end, love recklessly transforms one more time into the amputee herself; who is turning away and cutting herself of from not only the poem (as an ending), but what one could conclude is the relationship itself.
Improv 2, Week 12
My second riff for this week comes from Jillian Weise's piece, "Homan, Age 10"
Holman spits on my dress
while in line for gym class.
My mother is ticked.
She calls his mother
and we all eat dinner
in the fancy restaurant
with Chinese lanterns.
Where did he learn?
my mother says, peral-clutching,
napkin slidiing from her leg.
She stepped on his new shoes,
his mother says.
Holman wears his napkin
like a pirates hat.
She has a fake leg, she didn't know
she was stepping on them.
Holman crawls under the table
to see for himself.
Awkward him sitting between
my knees. The real skin feels
a wet tongue.
I loved this piece because it deals with child-age teasing and curiosity. As I let my mind flow for my riff, I ended up mergeing two scenarios into one poem. I think they compliment each other nicely. Half of the piece is inspired by something that happened to a friend of mine I was younger. Names have been changed to protect the innocent!
Two Sides of Trevor
Trevor pulls on my pigtails
while watching ‘Fern Gulley’ in art class.
He gets detention.
At recess he comes up to me
puts sand in my hair and
calls me Crocodile tears
before laughing in my face.
What gives him the right?
My mother asks, when I tell her at home.
Grade five, there is a Halloween bash.
I dream of genie,
he says to me in my genie costume.
Trevor is two-faced,
like the villain on 'Batman.'
You have a split personality,
don’t you? My lungs wheeze
in anxiety. Trevor steps forward and
presses his ear to my breast.
Awkward him resting his head
against my chest. The truth soothes
my asthmatic soul.
Holman spits on my dress
while in line for gym class.
My mother is ticked.
She calls his mother
and we all eat dinner
in the fancy restaurant
with Chinese lanterns.
Where did he learn?
my mother says, peral-clutching,
napkin slidiing from her leg.
She stepped on his new shoes,
his mother says.
Holman wears his napkin
like a pirates hat.
She has a fake leg, she didn't know
she was stepping on them.
Holman crawls under the table
to see for himself.
Awkward him sitting between
my knees. The real skin feels
a wet tongue.
I loved this piece because it deals with child-age teasing and curiosity. As I let my mind flow for my riff, I ended up mergeing two scenarios into one poem. I think they compliment each other nicely. Half of the piece is inspired by something that happened to a friend of mine I was younger. Names have been changed to protect the innocent!
Two Sides of Trevor
Trevor pulls on my pigtails
while watching ‘Fern Gulley’ in art class.
He gets detention.
At recess he comes up to me
puts sand in my hair and
calls me Crocodile tears
before laughing in my face.
What gives him the right?
My mother asks, when I tell her at home.
Grade five, there is a Halloween bash.
I dream of genie,
he says to me in my genie costume.
Trevor is two-faced,
like the villain on 'Batman.'
You have a split personality,
don’t you? My lungs wheeze
in anxiety. Trevor steps forward and
presses his ear to my breast.
Awkward him resting his head
against my chest. The truth soothes
my asthmatic soul.
Improv 1, Week 12
The first improv for this week comes from Jillian Weise's "Notes on the Body (2)."
Notes on the Body (2)
They call me patient. They pull
with pliers and plug with gauze.
In the pre-operation room, an intern
touches my leg, refers to tibie, fibula…
Now in the bedroom, I stretch over
him, but it is only night, mattress, plaster
ceiling, a stack of mail on the dresser, a woman
with one leg, a song from camp:
Way up in the sky, the little birds fly…
Someone unbuttons her shirt.
Gives her a thin sheet for hiding.
She’s thinking of white space, tunnels,
a body that waits for her on a coat hanger.
In the piece above, there is the double meaning of a lover and a patient in the piece. I wanted to push the boundaries a little bit further in my poem. I sprinboarded from chainging the word 'patient' into 'miko,' which is the Japanese term for priestess. The end result was a rather forbidden piece of a priestess who is also a lover. However, by definition, priestess are supposed to be pure and forbidden from partaking in such acts. As a result, I rather liked how the piece turned out. I also enjoyed playing with elements of color to enhance some of the imagery.
Notes on the Miko (1)
They call me miko. They crawl
on silk knees with scabs and blood.
Under the canopy of white night, a husband
touches my breast, pleading for one taste, breath…
Now in the pulpit, I bow over
him, but it is only violet fire, wick, waxy
promises, a decrepit flame benath the mosaic, a cross
with one leg, a unknown ancient song:
I came as I was; weary, sound and sad…
Someone’s tears speak like a child.
You’ll hear her tale through her blood.
She is thinking of red clouds, white caverns,
A soul that waits to be sacrificed.
Notes on the Body (2)
They call me patient. They pull
with pliers and plug with gauze.
In the pre-operation room, an intern
touches my leg, refers to tibie, fibula…
Now in the bedroom, I stretch over
him, but it is only night, mattress, plaster
ceiling, a stack of mail on the dresser, a woman
with one leg, a song from camp:
Way up in the sky, the little birds fly…
Someone unbuttons her shirt.
Gives her a thin sheet for hiding.
She’s thinking of white space, tunnels,
a body that waits for her on a coat hanger.
In the piece above, there is the double meaning of a lover and a patient in the piece. I wanted to push the boundaries a little bit further in my poem. I sprinboarded from chainging the word 'patient' into 'miko,' which is the Japanese term for priestess. The end result was a rather forbidden piece of a priestess who is also a lover. However, by definition, priestess are supposed to be pure and forbidden from partaking in such acts. As a result, I rather liked how the piece turned out. I also enjoyed playing with elements of color to enhance some of the imagery.
Notes on the Miko (1)
They call me miko. They crawl
on silk knees with scabs and blood.
Under the canopy of white night, a husband
touches my breast, pleading for one taste, breath…
Now in the pulpit, I bow over
him, but it is only violet fire, wick, waxy
promises, a decrepit flame benath the mosaic, a cross
with one leg, a unknown ancient song:
I came as I was; weary, sound and sad…
Someone’s tears speak like a child.
You’ll hear her tale through her blood.
She is thinking of red clouds, white caverns,
A soul that waits to be sacrificed.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 12
"Seeing is Believing, unless you see something that you think is unbelievable, then you have mental problems."
-Conversation with a friend
-Conversation with a friend
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 12
"Soon I will be here no more...you'll hear my tale through my blood..."
-Nightwish, Creek Mary's Blood by Dee Brown
-Nightwish, Creek Mary's Blood by Dee Brown
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 12
"Alright! Ya know, dogs really are better than boys. All this time those guys were just sucking up my luck."
-Faye, Cowboy Bebop
-Faye, Cowboy Bebop
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 12
"I will adopt an air of facetious non-compliance."
-Conversation with a friend
-Conversation with a friend
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 11
Piece: "The Surgeon"
Strategy: Villanelle formatting- Surgeons:Lovers correlation; Repetition to emphasize missing identity.
"The Surgeon" is a villanelle that is slightly different from a standard villanelle due to the change in one or two words in the structure of the piece. Traditionally, the lines that reoccur throughout the piece are done so exactly, word for word. But Jillian actually modifies one or two words in the repetition of a line.
For example, “Please call and tell me its name” in line 3 becomes “Please call and whisper my name” in line 9.
Interestingly, it appears that there are very few set/strict forms presented throughout the entire collection. Jillian fluctuates the forms her pieces by writing in couplets, tercets, quatrains, and quintets. Yet "The Surgeon" is the only poem that truly sets itself apart from the others as an easily recognizable villanelle. One could speculate on the purpose behind why Jillian chose this particular form for this particular piece. The recursivity and repetition found in "The Surgeon" villanelle is not nearly as prominent in the rest of the collection.
One stanza that really stood out to me in this piece (in relation to an idea that is repeated utilizing the villanelle format) was the fourth tercet: “When we met, I was young and lame./ I’ve had several others since you./ They left nothing behind when they came.” Naturally, within the context of the poem, one could easily read the stanza as the speaker talking about previous surgeons that she’s hd. Yet in the context of the entire collection, (dealing with relationships, sex, and the body), one could also read the stanza as talking about previous lovers the speaker has had.
In Weise’s collection, a lot of pieces deal with how the speaker’s lover(s) poke, prod, and feel the amputee’s body much in the same way a doctor or surgeon would. In a sense, the lovers are the surgeons and vice versa. Yet stanza two almost seems to speak to specific lovers or surgeons that have impacted the amputee when it states, “You left it behind when you came,” compared to the last line of stanza four stating, “They left nothing behind when they came.”
The notion that a part of the amputee is taken and kept by the recipient of the piece (a surgeon and/or possibly a lover) is emphasized in the lines that are repeated through the villanelle form. The speaker wishes for the name of whatever part of her was taken to be reiterated back to her- the part of her that makes up her identity. This is seen in stanza three: “It doesn’t hurt, so don’t be ashamed/ if you forget who I am as I do/ Please call and whisper my name.”
In contrast with the rest of the collection, there is frequent reference to the fact that the prosthetic leg is an identifiable part of speaker’s self. "The Surgeon" is the one poem where whatever part of the amputee that is missing has no name…the speaker cannot remember the name and so cannot remember herself.
Strategy: Villanelle formatting- Surgeons:Lovers correlation; Repetition to emphasize missing identity.
"The Surgeon" is a villanelle that is slightly different from a standard villanelle due to the change in one or two words in the structure of the piece. Traditionally, the lines that reoccur throughout the piece are done so exactly, word for word. But Jillian actually modifies one or two words in the repetition of a line.
For example, “Please call and tell me its name” in line 3 becomes “Please call and whisper my name” in line 9.
Interestingly, it appears that there are very few set/strict forms presented throughout the entire collection. Jillian fluctuates the forms her pieces by writing in couplets, tercets, quatrains, and quintets. Yet "The Surgeon" is the only poem that truly sets itself apart from the others as an easily recognizable villanelle. One could speculate on the purpose behind why Jillian chose this particular form for this particular piece. The recursivity and repetition found in "The Surgeon" villanelle is not nearly as prominent in the rest of the collection.
One stanza that really stood out to me in this piece (in relation to an idea that is repeated utilizing the villanelle format) was the fourth tercet: “When we met, I was young and lame./ I’ve had several others since you./ They left nothing behind when they came.” Naturally, within the context of the poem, one could easily read the stanza as the speaker talking about previous surgeons that she’s hd. Yet in the context of the entire collection, (dealing with relationships, sex, and the body), one could also read the stanza as talking about previous lovers the speaker has had.
In Weise’s collection, a lot of pieces deal with how the speaker’s lover(s) poke, prod, and feel the amputee’s body much in the same way a doctor or surgeon would. In a sense, the lovers are the surgeons and vice versa. Yet stanza two almost seems to speak to specific lovers or surgeons that have impacted the amputee when it states, “You left it behind when you came,” compared to the last line of stanza four stating, “They left nothing behind when they came.”
The notion that a part of the amputee is taken and kept by the recipient of the piece (a surgeon and/or possibly a lover) is emphasized in the lines that are repeated through the villanelle form. The speaker wishes for the name of whatever part of her was taken to be reiterated back to her- the part of her that makes up her identity. This is seen in stanza three: “It doesn’t hurt, so don’t be ashamed/ if you forget who I am as I do/ Please call and whisper my name.”
In contrast with the rest of the collection, there is frequent reference to the fact that the prosthetic leg is an identifiable part of speaker’s self. "The Surgeon" is the one poem where whatever part of the amputee that is missing has no name…the speaker cannot remember the name and so cannot remember herself.
Improv 2, Week 11
My second improvision from this week riffs Jillian Weise's "Sleep Talk"
Sleep Talk
The grit and grumble of your voice
before waking is a topographer,
a priest after one glass of scotch
or an underwater cameraman.
Even better are the casual clauses
you let slip from half-sleep
Up is no down, says the topographer.
Fire and grimstone, says the priest.
Get that on tape, says the cameraman.
The cameraman fits you best.
In your dream, you wear thick glss
masks and oxygen tanks, breathe
in deep, droning swallows and swim
after barracudas and sharks.
Not long until morning comes
like the squid that flashes electric blue
when aroused.
For my riff, I wanted to use another form of sensory to form the foundation of my piece. Instead of using the element of voice, I wanted to use the sense of a rough touch, much like sandpaper, and connect those senses to related professions. The piece below was my result.
Drunk on Touch
The callused scars of your hands
soothing circles on my stomach are a carpenter,
a mechanic after a can of Bud-Light
or a ten-year guitarist.
Your profession haunts you in your sleep
it is quite actually charming
Saw with the grain, not against it, says the carpenter.
The carburetor’s shot, says the mechanic.
You gotta tune that string, says the musician.
Really the carpenter has all the answers.
You murmur about sawdust and nubby-knobbed wrists,
ripe from the smell of freshly cut metal
wires wrapping ‘round your other fingers until they
bleed. You strum my pain con los dedos.
Then you awaken with the drunken sun
rising slowly over the horizon like a ruby-red
whore with a bad hangover.
Sleep Talk
The grit and grumble of your voice
before waking is a topographer,
a priest after one glass of scotch
or an underwater cameraman.
Even better are the casual clauses
you let slip from half-sleep
Up is no down, says the topographer.
Fire and grimstone, says the priest.
Get that on tape, says the cameraman.
The cameraman fits you best.
In your dream, you wear thick glss
masks and oxygen tanks, breathe
in deep, droning swallows and swim
after barracudas and sharks.
Not long until morning comes
like the squid that flashes electric blue
when aroused.
For my riff, I wanted to use another form of sensory to form the foundation of my piece. Instead of using the element of voice, I wanted to use the sense of a rough touch, much like sandpaper, and connect those senses to related professions. The piece below was my result.
Drunk on Touch
The callused scars of your hands
soothing circles on my stomach are a carpenter,
a mechanic after a can of Bud-Light
or a ten-year guitarist.
Your profession haunts you in your sleep
it is quite actually charming
Saw with the grain, not against it, says the carpenter.
The carburetor’s shot, says the mechanic.
You gotta tune that string, says the musician.
Really the carpenter has all the answers.
You murmur about sawdust and nubby-knobbed wrists,
ripe from the smell of freshly cut metal
wires wrapping ‘round your other fingers until they
bleed. You strum my pain con los dedos.
Then you awaken with the drunken sun
rising slowly over the horizon like a ruby-red
whore with a bad hangover.
Improv 1, Week 11
The first Improv for this week riffs Jillian Weise's "The Old Questions"
The Old Questions
When I asked you to turn off the lights,
You said, Will you show me your leg first?
I heard Rachmaninov through the wall,
A couple making love without prerequisites.
Do you sleep with it on? I forgot
There would be this conversation.
Do you bathe with it on?
I need to rehearse answers to these questions.
Will you take it off in front of me?
I once stepped into a peep show in New Orleans.
Over the door, signs read: Hands off our girls.
Is it all right if I touch it?
I am thinking of a hot bath, a book.
The couple on the other side of the wall laughs.
She has found the back of his knees.
With this piece, I changed the direction for my riff in the second stanza by changing "heard" to "smell," then I let my mind flow to think of what kind of smell could lead the way into shocking imagery. Dead rats were the first thing that came to mind. I also played with the idea eating edible thighs, I thought this would be intersting imagery to work with.
Darn, Dirty Rat
When I asked you to turn down the heat,
you said, Will you first show me your thigh?
I smelled rats in the wall,
fornicating with the dead.
Does it taste like chicken? I forgot
how crude you were.
Is that scar from mountain biking?
I should remember you never stop talking.
Do you taste like chocolate?
I once tried Vanilla Ice Cream in the Bronx.
On the window signs read: Scored 97 on Health Inspection.
Are you good at everything you do?
I yearn to bask in the snow, to drown.
I hear one of the rats squeak in excitement.
She has eaten her lover.
The Old Questions
When I asked you to turn off the lights,
You said, Will you show me your leg first?
I heard Rachmaninov through the wall,
A couple making love without prerequisites.
Do you sleep with it on? I forgot
There would be this conversation.
Do you bathe with it on?
I need to rehearse answers to these questions.
Will you take it off in front of me?
I once stepped into a peep show in New Orleans.
Over the door, signs read: Hands off our girls.
Is it all right if I touch it?
I am thinking of a hot bath, a book.
The couple on the other side of the wall laughs.
She has found the back of his knees.
With this piece, I changed the direction for my riff in the second stanza by changing "heard" to "smell," then I let my mind flow to think of what kind of smell could lead the way into shocking imagery. Dead rats were the first thing that came to mind. I also played with the idea eating edible thighs, I thought this would be intersting imagery to work with.
Darn, Dirty Rat
When I asked you to turn down the heat,
you said, Will you first show me your thigh?
I smelled rats in the wall,
fornicating with the dead.
Does it taste like chicken? I forgot
how crude you were.
Is that scar from mountain biking?
I should remember you never stop talking.
Do you taste like chocolate?
I once tried Vanilla Ice Cream in the Bronx.
On the window signs read: Scored 97 on Health Inspection.
Are you good at everything you do?
I yearn to bask in the snow, to drown.
I hear one of the rats squeak in excitement.
She has eaten her lover.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 11
The pennacle of language in its verbal extremity.
Standing in attention to answer the call.
Metaphor: Interjection’s little “i” turned on its head.
Like a child’s pogo-stick, a birthing mother’s tear,
a printed siren’s symbolization…
forgotten after grade twelve. Traded
for that wannabe basterd of period and comma;
ostracized by research and poetry alike.
Prejudiced, drilled as an English scholar’s enemy.
Appearing non-existent in dissertations and theses,
in a few years it will be nothing. No one will have heard of it
Call it the cleansing of grammatical waste;
call it the massacre of a punctuation.
Or call it the direct definition:
extinction.
Standing in attention to answer the call.
Metaphor: Interjection’s little “i” turned on its head.
Like a child’s pogo-stick, a birthing mother’s tear,
a printed siren’s symbolization…
forgotten after grade twelve. Traded
for that wannabe basterd of period and comma;
ostracized by research and poetry alike.
Prejudiced, drilled as an English scholar’s enemy.
Appearing non-existent in dissertations and theses,
in a few years it will be nothing. No one will have heard of it
Call it the cleansing of grammatical waste;
call it the massacre of a punctuation.
Or call it the direct definition:
extinction.
Free Entry 1, Week 11
The incessant cry of a motherless
canary brings the quivering night
air to its knees. But you can get through anything
if you don’t think about it hard enough.
The trigger, for instance, of temptation,
drowning a blinded city in a symphony
of fire-crackers. Lucifer pimps their souls
for Prada shoes and Coach purses. He knows the game,
and we’re keeping score. We ignore the fouls and fumbles
as we’re just trying to find our way back home.
Never-mind the high-rolling payolas,
we’re all just itchin’ to be somebody’s Daisy.
We want our own baby dolls with crystal
blue eyes and curly locks of gold. Pretty, so pretty.
We want to pretend to play-house with our dollies.
We want to eat play-dough spaghetti. We want play-fight
like mommy and daddy. Muffle screams, wear makeup
to hide the bruises. But in the end,
it’s all just pretend.
canary brings the quivering night
air to its knees. But you can get through anything
if you don’t think about it hard enough.
The trigger, for instance, of temptation,
drowning a blinded city in a symphony
of fire-crackers. Lucifer pimps their souls
for Prada shoes and Coach purses. He knows the game,
and we’re keeping score. We ignore the fouls and fumbles
as we’re just trying to find our way back home.
Never-mind the high-rolling payolas,
we’re all just itchin’ to be somebody’s Daisy.
We want our own baby dolls with crystal
blue eyes and curly locks of gold. Pretty, so pretty.
We want to pretend to play-house with our dollies.
We want to eat play-dough spaghetti. We want play-fight
like mommy and daddy. Muffle screams, wear makeup
to hide the bruises. But in the end,
it’s all just pretend.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 11
"You can live with anything if you don't think about it hard enough."
-'Bones"
-'Bones"
Friday, March 19, 2010
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 11
"The devil is big pimpin' in his prada shoes."
-This quote was a spring-board from the title of the film, "The Devil Wears Prada," I just wanted to try to spice it up a bit. I think the terms 'pimp' and 'prada shoes' symbolize a complex, underlying personality that could reveal a...dangerously enticing side of the "devil."
-This quote was a spring-board from the title of the film, "The Devil Wears Prada," I just wanted to try to spice it up a bit. I think the terms 'pimp' and 'prada shoes' symbolize a complex, underlying personality that could reveal a...dangerously enticing side of the "devil."
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 11
"Soon, exclamation points will be extinct."
-Conversation with a friend
This conversation also took place after the poetry reading. I was waiting in line to get my book signed and my friends and I were talking about how in primary and elementary school, teachers lecture the signficance/purpose of exclamation points. However, in college, exclamation points are rarely used at all. Very few poems utilize the punctuation and students never really use exclamation points in their research papers either. About the only setting in which they hold some remote signficance is in fictional/non-fictional writing; but even then there occurrences are few (it is usually somewhat prominent in dialogue, but again very rare). So we were talking about how soon exclamation points will not even be referenced at all in schools and we may stop using them altogether...those poor little exclamation points!
-Conversation with a friend
This conversation also took place after the poetry reading. I was waiting in line to get my book signed and my friends and I were talking about how in primary and elementary school, teachers lecture the signficance/purpose of exclamation points. However, in college, exclamation points are rarely used at all. Very few poems utilize the punctuation and students never really use exclamation points in their research papers either. About the only setting in which they hold some remote signficance is in fictional/non-fictional writing; but even then there occurrences are few (it is usually somewhat prominent in dialogue, but again very rare). So we were talking about how soon exclamation points will not even be referenced at all in schools and we may stop using them altogether...those poor little exclamation points!
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 11
"But it is terribly romantic he's waited six long years, almost like that book with the triple murdering or something... the Great Goose..."
"Great Gatsby...oh my heavens that makes me his Daisy!"
-"Work With me Friend," Anonymous
I read this from a fictional work online. The story was about a young lady who is married, and later finds out that one of her best guy-friends from college had a crush on her, and still does. She then talks about this with one of her female friends who compares her to the story of "The Great Gatsby." I remembered reading this quote after the poetry reading on March 17th. I wonder how chilling it is to actually be considered as, "Someone's Daisy," since she really is not the brightest or most complex character in the book. She's actually pretty shallow. It may be interesting to play around with Daisy's character in a contemporary setting and weave it into a poetic piece.
"Great Gatsby...oh my heavens that makes me his Daisy!"
-"Work With me Friend," Anonymous
I read this from a fictional work online. The story was about a young lady who is married, and later finds out that one of her best guy-friends from college had a crush on her, and still does. She then talks about this with one of her female friends who compares her to the story of "The Great Gatsby." I remembered reading this quote after the poetry reading on March 17th. I wonder how chilling it is to actually be considered as, "Someone's Daisy," since she really is not the brightest or most complex character in the book. She's actually pretty shallow. It may be interesting to play around with Daisy's character in a contemporary setting and weave it into a poetic piece.
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 11
"There are 50 ways to spell my name."
-Conversation with Friends: This took place after Kathy Fagan's reading. She asked me how to spell my name and I told her, "The original way. B-r-i-t-t-a-n-y...there's like 50 different ways to spell it now though. It's all butchered and stuff, and Britney Spears isn't helping either." I later continued this conversation with Professor Davidsons and a couple more of my friends, and they advised me to write it down as it could be used as part of a future poem. I see great potential in this quote and I'm going to play around with it over break to see what I can come up with.
-Conversation with Friends: This took place after Kathy Fagan's reading. She asked me how to spell my name and I told her, "The original way. B-r-i-t-t-a-n-y...there's like 50 different ways to spell it now though. It's all butchered and stuff, and Britney Spears isn't helping either." I later continued this conversation with Professor Davidsons and a couple more of my friends, and they advised me to write it down as it could be used as part of a future poem. I see great potential in this quote and I'm going to play around with it over break to see what I can come up with.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 10
Poem: Saloon Pantoum
Strategy: Line one of the previous stanza becomes/is reflected as line two in the following stanza.
What particularly stood out to me in the piece “Saloon Pantoum” was the way that the second line of one stanza was reflected or repeated in the first line of the second stanza. This trend consists of an identical repetition for stanzas 1-3. But then, the second line of stanza three is referenced as an idea in stanza four, and the same is true for stanzas four and five. In other words, the verse is not an identical repetition, but simply a paraphrased or reflection of the notion presented in the second line of the previous stanza. This technique connects the stanzas in a style or format that is rather loosely restricted. The exact repetition of one line is not consistent throughout the entire poem, but only the first three stanzas, and then stanzas four and five. However, the mere reflection of one line within the line of a following stanza serves to give the reader a subtle reminder of exactly how intricately the poem is threaded. The poem begins with the remnants of classic jokes that are told, and the joke remains present through the strategy of connecting the joke relate lines through the second and first lines of the stanzas in the poem:
“Guy walks into a bar with a duck down his pants,” becomes the start of stanza two;
“A priest, a rabbi, and a minister,” becomes the start of stanza three;
“Wherever two or more are gathered in a joke,” becomes the start of stanza four;
"There is love. And just as He’d said, we know it [reflecting wherever two or more are gathered in a joke],” becomes the start of stanza five.
And stanza six starts with a bleak image that seems almost like a sick joke with the mention of 'dead babies, "By its blonde hair and dead babies."
I also love how, though the entire thought is not repeated in the last stanza, Fagan is also still able to include the classic joke of something that is "Black, White, and re(a)d" all over in stanza five.
I love how Fagan juxtaposes the idea of "jokes " with the notion of "religion," and how the two themes thread in and out of each other to form the basic skeleton of the poem as a whole. I think the way the repeats lines helps to strengthen this particular threading method in the piece.
Strategy: Line one of the previous stanza becomes/is reflected as line two in the following stanza.
What particularly stood out to me in the piece “Saloon Pantoum” was the way that the second line of one stanza was reflected or repeated in the first line of the second stanza. This trend consists of an identical repetition for stanzas 1-3. But then, the second line of stanza three is referenced as an idea in stanza four, and the same is true for stanzas four and five. In other words, the verse is not an identical repetition, but simply a paraphrased or reflection of the notion presented in the second line of the previous stanza. This technique connects the stanzas in a style or format that is rather loosely restricted. The exact repetition of one line is not consistent throughout the entire poem, but only the first three stanzas, and then stanzas four and five. However, the mere reflection of one line within the line of a following stanza serves to give the reader a subtle reminder of exactly how intricately the poem is threaded. The poem begins with the remnants of classic jokes that are told, and the joke remains present through the strategy of connecting the joke relate lines through the second and first lines of the stanzas in the poem:
“Guy walks into a bar with a duck down his pants,” becomes the start of stanza two;
“A priest, a rabbi, and a minister,” becomes the start of stanza three;
“Wherever two or more are gathered in a joke,” becomes the start of stanza four;
"There is love. And just as He’d said, we know it [reflecting wherever two or more are gathered in a joke],” becomes the start of stanza five.
And stanza six starts with a bleak image that seems almost like a sick joke with the mention of 'dead babies, "By its blonde hair and dead babies."
I also love how, though the entire thought is not repeated in the last stanza, Fagan is also still able to include the classic joke of something that is "Black, White, and re(a)d" all over in stanza five.
I love how Fagan juxtaposes the idea of "jokes " with the notion of "religion," and how the two themes thread in and out of each other to form the basic skeleton of the poem as a whole. I think the way the repeats lines helps to strengthen this particular threading method in the piece.
Improv 2, Week 10
My second improv for this week riffs Fagan's piece, "Lunacy."
Lunacy
A tub is that which would be king,
But we must cease to praise shallow water.
Too many baths are conceited. And then
There's that bathtub-addled Moon,
For whom Des Moines gleams like a suitor
Waving his wampum of prcelain and brass.
Drawn, now, to chrome and fiberglass,
She feels the pulle of neither sea nor stream.
The lakes have lost their glistening.
There are, instead, these sudsy ponds of men,
These steaming spas of marble and tile,
An immersed depression, laved,
And children mewling for their no-tears shampoo
When we're clean out, nothing to tide us over.
I love the nature-like feel of this piece in relation to a sense of royalty. I wanted to springboard the same themes but focusing on different aspects of nature and nobility. My riff ended up centering on a princess and the sun, rather than a king and the moon. I also found myself tying in words that related to the element of heat: rays, basking, misty, etc. I thought these really helped to enhance the vivid-ness of the poem as a whole.
Sol-acy
A bed is that which would be princess,
But we must begin to despise the sky’s depth.
Too many nimbus clouds drown. And then
There’s that sea-sated Sun,
For whom Princess Yue worships like a subject
Bowing her diadem of silk and linen.
Drawn, now, to ruffles and lace,
She feels the push of neither tar nor pavement.
The lights have lost their allure.
There are, however, the sweaty muscles of lumbermen,
These misty onsens of stone and water,
A basking elation, ecstatic,
And cubs purring for their winter stock
When we gut mackerel, nothing to soothe our bellies.
Lunacy
A tub is that which would be king,
But we must cease to praise shallow water.
Too many baths are conceited. And then
There's that bathtub-addled Moon,
For whom Des Moines gleams like a suitor
Waving his wampum of prcelain and brass.
Drawn, now, to chrome and fiberglass,
She feels the pulle of neither sea nor stream.
The lakes have lost their glistening.
There are, instead, these sudsy ponds of men,
These steaming spas of marble and tile,
An immersed depression, laved,
And children mewling for their no-tears shampoo
When we're clean out, nothing to tide us over.
I love the nature-like feel of this piece in relation to a sense of royalty. I wanted to springboard the same themes but focusing on different aspects of nature and nobility. My riff ended up centering on a princess and the sun, rather than a king and the moon. I also found myself tying in words that related to the element of heat: rays, basking, misty, etc. I thought these really helped to enhance the vivid-ness of the poem as a whole.
Sol-acy
A bed is that which would be princess,
But we must begin to despise the sky’s depth.
Too many nimbus clouds drown. And then
There’s that sea-sated Sun,
For whom Princess Yue worships like a subject
Bowing her diadem of silk and linen.
Drawn, now, to ruffles and lace,
She feels the push of neither tar nor pavement.
The lights have lost their allure.
There are, however, the sweaty muscles of lumbermen,
These misty onsens of stone and water,
A basking elation, ecstatic,
And cubs purring for their winter stock
When we gut mackerel, nothing to soothe our bellies.
Free Entry 2, Week 10
I look at life like the glass
is half full...of poison.
That’s why popcorn Aunt Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
She slides up and down the metal rod
with butter slicked hands, ignoring
the cracked kinks in her back.
In eleven months she’ll slap you with a herring.
Though a turnip would be better. You always
told me that. Did you never like fishy broads?
My memories are not my own, but that of an actress portraying me.
Devour my past and you will you will confront
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring around my life,
and I don’t mean my ring tone-Put your Records On.
No, I have no song. But my ring will spin you right around,
encircle you, turn your world upside-down, tear
asunder your illusions and send the sanctuary
of your own ignorance crashing down around you.
It will echo in your brain like the pounding
metal of a monorail, screeching tracks barreling
out of a tunnel in tidal waves…until you drown
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Aunt Jackie decides
to butter you up with salt instead.
An Iodine Melody.
is half full...of poison.
That’s why popcorn Aunt Jackie
is always practicing her pole dancing.
She slides up and down the metal rod
with butter slicked hands, ignoring
the cracked kinks in her back.
In eleven months she’ll slap you with a herring.
Though a turnip would be better. You always
told me that. Did you never like fishy broads?
My memories are not my own, but that of an actress portraying me.
Devour my past and you will you will confront
the fundamental fabrics of your existence.
There is a ring around my life,
and I don’t mean my ring tone-Put your Records On.
No, I have no song. But my ring will spin you right around,
encircle you, turn your world upside-down, tear
asunder your illusions and send the sanctuary
of your own ignorance crashing down around you.
It will echo in your brain like the pounding
metal of a monorail, screeching tracks barreling
out of a tunnel in tidal waves…until you drown
in the crests and troughs of sound.
And popcorn Aunt Jackie decides
to butter you up with salt instead.
An Iodine Melody.
Improv 1, Week 10
My first improve for this week riffs Kathy Fagan's piece, "Diadem"
Diadem
When the moon assembles the stars on the blue baldachin
And I am become the perfect center of one
Five-pointed star, the hole in my own crown,
Having seen the crown, Stephanos,
Gold in the blue atmosphere,
I will walk to my coronation
Amind minions of maple and beech
Who bow and bow,
Their young hair spiked in the cool atmosphere,
Gowns aroar like oceans in an ocean's shell.
At what moment will I first look up?
From what will I turn away?
In that rare atmosphere,
I will walk a path like powder underfoot
Through leafy mayapples-those excellent witnesses-
A cardinal ahead, the three queen mothers, my subjects' limber
Backs, lovely hair, a roar that dies down dies down
And in awful light, I will accept
My scepter. The usual
Fanfare, the pink embellishments. Bells, trumpets.
Then will I be annointed by no one,
And serve him well.
Research says that in ancient times, diadems were the the fillet of silk, wool, or linen tied about the head of a king, queen, or priest as a distinguishing mark. Later, it was a band of gold, which gave rise to the crown. In heraldry, the diadem is one of the arched bars that support the crown. As I riffed this piece, adhering to the speaker's "subjects" and how the subjects worshipped the speakers, I found myself referencing a tone matching that of a musical concert. I decided to let my language flow to see what I could come up with while reflecting as much of Fagan's "audience honoring the speaker" tone as possible. In my case, by the time I finished the piece, my audience ended up worshipping a musical performer rather than one of royalty.
Rhythm's Inter-Nation
When the sun pulls back the clouds on the black diving board
And I am losing the broken home of two
Six-cornered diamonds, the square in my camera,
Having viewed the camera, Scorsese,
White in the pale air,
I will swim to my dissipation
Amongst lackeys of strawberries and chestnut
Who stand and cheer,
Their sticky-toddler hands mosh-pitted in the musty air,
Cells pinging like the maple center of a bell
At which point will I then drop down?
From what will I start my engines?
In that desired moment,
I will tred the water like Triton’s soldiers
Through coral reefs- those blood-sucking-bats
A Cicada behind, the four spade brothers, my people’s taught
Abs, shagged hair, a wave that rises higher rises higher,
And in the bated night, I will deny
My sword. The sentimental
Music, the black blushes. Triangles, chimes.
Then I will be denoted by one note,
And worship him horrendously.
Diadem
When the moon assembles the stars on the blue baldachin
And I am become the perfect center of one
Five-pointed star, the hole in my own crown,
Having seen the crown, Stephanos,
Gold in the blue atmosphere,
I will walk to my coronation
Amind minions of maple and beech
Who bow and bow,
Their young hair spiked in the cool atmosphere,
Gowns aroar like oceans in an ocean's shell.
At what moment will I first look up?
From what will I turn away?
In that rare atmosphere,
I will walk a path like powder underfoot
Through leafy mayapples-those excellent witnesses-
A cardinal ahead, the three queen mothers, my subjects' limber
Backs, lovely hair, a roar that dies down dies down
And in awful light, I will accept
My scepter. The usual
Fanfare, the pink embellishments. Bells, trumpets.
Then will I be annointed by no one,
And serve him well.
Research says that in ancient times, diadems were the the fillet of silk, wool, or linen tied about the head of a king, queen, or priest as a distinguishing mark. Later, it was a band of gold, which gave rise to the crown. In heraldry, the diadem is one of the arched bars that support the crown. As I riffed this piece, adhering to the speaker's "subjects" and how the subjects worshipped the speakers, I found myself referencing a tone matching that of a musical concert. I decided to let my language flow to see what I could come up with while reflecting as much of Fagan's "audience honoring the speaker" tone as possible. In my case, by the time I finished the piece, my audience ended up worshipping a musical performer rather than one of royalty.
Rhythm's Inter-Nation
When the sun pulls back the clouds on the black diving board
And I am losing the broken home of two
Six-cornered diamonds, the square in my camera,
Having viewed the camera, Scorsese,
White in the pale air,
I will swim to my dissipation
Amongst lackeys of strawberries and chestnut
Who stand and cheer,
Their sticky-toddler hands mosh-pitted in the musty air,
Cells pinging like the maple center of a bell
At which point will I then drop down?
From what will I start my engines?
In that desired moment,
I will tred the water like Triton’s soldiers
Through coral reefs- those blood-sucking-bats
A Cicada behind, the four spade brothers, my people’s taught
Abs, shagged hair, a wave that rises higher rises higher,
And in the bated night, I will deny
My sword. The sentimental
Music, the black blushes. Triangles, chimes.
Then I will be denoted by one note,
And worship him horrendously.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Free Entry 1, Week 10
I stared at the manhole, anxiously waiting. Knowing they would pop out at any moment. They lived right in front of my house, at night I could hear them skittering around the shit-infested waters like cockroaches tap-dancing across a linoleum floor. Age five, I sit on my trampoline…staring. Bikes and people trample their home, and I know any moment they’ll spring up and ka-ra-te those people into channel 101…the static channel obliterated by our antenna. The large, violet, Tyrannosaurus told me they would. Every day, at 12:30 pm, he drilled that notion into my brain. He did not like un-punctuality. If I missed the day’s lesson, he’d lick me with his tail. Ten good swats across the back, transforming into my father who danced with his belt like drunken snake charmer. The belt was really a gypsy, buckles and bolts clinking together in rhythm-it was hypnotic. Bangles jingled insane harmony, chiming of the Pocahontas and pedophile John Smith that government Disney melted into the brains of children. Dreams, wishes, and love were all fucking lies at that age. Just ask the Falcons about 1998, when they bomb-shelled ATL’s heart and put the dirty-bird to shame, as if its filth wasn’t already bad enough. I had to burn my fan-jersey, watch it rise up in smoke and suffocate the second-star-to-the right: a ladybug trapped tightly in fisted fingers.
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 10
"Dracotic isn't a name, but a state of being...Devour me and you will be satiated...Devour yourself and you will confront the fundamental fabrics of your existence...Taste & Savor..."
This quote comes from the signature friend on a forum online. My friend's name is dracoticcannibal and when I read this quote I thought it was filled with powerfully charged language. I particularly like the second half of the quote, "Devour yourself and you will confront the fundamental fabrics of your existence." I think there are a lot of branches that can be molded out of that statement as a starting point.
This quote comes from the signature friend on a forum online. My friend's name is dracoticcannibal and when I read this quote I thought it was filled with powerfully charged language. I particularly like the second half of the quote, "Devour yourself and you will confront the fundamental fabrics of your existence." I think there are a lot of branches that can be molded out of that statement as a starting point.
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 10
"Back where I live, we have the oldest city-pool in the history of forever. And I'm like, 'I'm not getting in that pool, there's a ring around it!'"
-Conversation with a friend
My friend was talking about how he can't stand city pools because it's filled with the dirt and germs of strangers all swimming together at once. The 'ring' of course refers to the dirt-ring found around a tub after taking a bath. I think in a poem it could be used to reference that, or some other ideal of history, age, demographics, gender, society, etc. Tying that back in to the pool somehow would be an interesting foundation for a poem.
-Conversation with a friend
My friend was talking about how he can't stand city pools because it's filled with the dirt and germs of strangers all swimming together at once. The 'ring' of course refers to the dirt-ring found around a tub after taking a bath. I think in a poem it could be used to reference that, or some other ideal of history, age, demographics, gender, society, etc. Tying that back in to the pool somehow would be an interesting foundation for a poem.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 10
"Your light of purity will kill your friends."
-Narku, "Inuyasha" In this show the bad guy was taunting the good guys. He was able to manipulate their good-power to make it evil. I think the idea of taking something positive and using it as weapon for evil would make a good springboard for a poem.
-Narku, "Inuyasha" In this show the bad guy was taunting the good guys. He was able to manipulate their good-power to make it evil. I think the idea of taking something positive and using it as weapon for evil would make a good springboard for a poem.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 10
"I look at life like the glass is half full...of poison"
-Conversation with a friend
-Conversation with a friend
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 10
"Popcorn Aunt Jackie is practicinc her pole dancing..."
-conversation with a friend. She was talking about a movie she saw and this line just stood out to me like a red light! XD
-conversation with a friend. She was talking about a movie she saw and this line just stood out to me like a red light! XD
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 9
Piece: Here Lightning Has Been
Strategy: Movement of Fluidity, Climbing down the latter of specificity
One strategy that is strongly noticeable throughout all of Estes’ pieces it that of movement. She has the talent of effortlessly transitioning the reader from one setting or moment in time to another while also managing to keep the entire poem relative to one particular image, notion or idea. For example, in her piece, “Here Lightning Has Been,” she utilizes the objects of lightening and light as the framework or foundation of her poem. But the way she sculptures the piece around that framework best exemplifies the constitution of her movements.
She goes from speaking of lightening and the divine, to transforming the 'light' from lightening into, “the color of blood that has entered a vein” (16-19). The blood then becomes ink used to imprint upon a diary that belongs to one Nijinsky who, "invented a fountain pen called God" (25-27). Nijinsky then takes over the poem on until the last stanza where Estes uses vivid imagery to describe him: “In 1939, after shock/ treatments, Nijinsky was visited/ by photographers who asked to see/ his famous leap. In one picture Nijinsky appears-in dark/ jacket, trousers, and shoes- highlighted/ against a white wall, a foot/ and a half above the floor, arms/ outstretched and blurred like a hummingbird/ hovering at a flower or a man before/ a firing squad at close range,/ each sip a jeté/ of light."
The picture itself is a contrast of darkness and light, which reflects the nature of the piece in its entirety.
In reference to the last line, a 'jeté' is described as a ballet leap where the weight of the dancer is transferred from one foot to the other. The dancer “throws” one leg to the front, side, or back and holds the other leg in any desired position upon landing.
So Nijinsky is this dancer of “light,” “ink,” “blood,” and “lightening,” all of which relate to each other because of the fluidity and pace that Estes sets in the pieces.
I love the way she is able to find simple connections between words or ideas to connect scenarios that can be on two completely different ends of a spectrum, and then she smoothly brings them together as a whole. People do not often associate lightening with the ink of a pen. Or blood with the graceful leap of a ballet dancer. But Estes was able to do so in a wholeness that was complete and beautiful. I believe her work is the perfect literary symbolism of the Russian dolls that are hidden within each other. The larger doll connects to the smaller one inside of it, no matter how different their outer design may be.
Also, the piece “Here Lightning Has Been" shows how Estes climbs down the latter of specificity: from talking about the divine to narrowing in on a photo of Nijinsky in 1939. I love how she travels inward from a broad idea to one that is much more specific and detailed.
Strategy: Movement of Fluidity, Climbing down the latter of specificity
One strategy that is strongly noticeable throughout all of Estes’ pieces it that of movement. She has the talent of effortlessly transitioning the reader from one setting or moment in time to another while also managing to keep the entire poem relative to one particular image, notion or idea. For example, in her piece, “Here Lightning Has Been,” she utilizes the objects of lightening and light as the framework or foundation of her poem. But the way she sculptures the piece around that framework best exemplifies the constitution of her movements.
She goes from speaking of lightening and the divine, to transforming the 'light' from lightening into, “the color of blood that has entered a vein” (16-19). The blood then becomes ink used to imprint upon a diary that belongs to one Nijinsky who, "invented a fountain pen called God" (25-27). Nijinsky then takes over the poem on until the last stanza where Estes uses vivid imagery to describe him: “In 1939, after shock/ treatments, Nijinsky was visited/ by photographers who asked to see/ his famous leap. In one picture Nijinsky appears-in dark/ jacket, trousers, and shoes- highlighted/ against a white wall, a foot/ and a half above the floor, arms/ outstretched and blurred like a hummingbird/ hovering at a flower or a man before/ a firing squad at close range,/ each sip a jeté/ of light."
The picture itself is a contrast of darkness and light, which reflects the nature of the piece in its entirety.
In reference to the last line, a 'jeté' is described as a ballet leap where the weight of the dancer is transferred from one foot to the other. The dancer “throws” one leg to the front, side, or back and holds the other leg in any desired position upon landing.
So Nijinsky is this dancer of “light,” “ink,” “blood,” and “lightening,” all of which relate to each other because of the fluidity and pace that Estes sets in the pieces.
I love the way she is able to find simple connections between words or ideas to connect scenarios that can be on two completely different ends of a spectrum, and then she smoothly brings them together as a whole. People do not often associate lightening with the ink of a pen. Or blood with the graceful leap of a ballet dancer. But Estes was able to do so in a wholeness that was complete and beautiful. I believe her work is the perfect literary symbolism of the Russian dolls that are hidden within each other. The larger doll connects to the smaller one inside of it, no matter how different their outer design may be.
Also, the piece “Here Lightning Has Been" shows how Estes climbs down the latter of specificity: from talking about the divine to narrowing in on a photo of Nijinsky in 1939. I love how she travels inward from a broad idea to one that is much more specific and detailed.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Improv 2, Week 9
The second riff for this week comes from Angie Estes' "Gloss":
My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violet litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at once when the sring is pulled
in just the right place:
the water in the corn pot
boils, someone is slapped and summer
rain splatters as you go out
to slop the hogs. We drove home
over the Potomac while the lights
spread their tails across the water, comets
leaving comments on a blackboard
sky like the powdered sugar
medieval physicians blew
into patients' eyes to cure
their bindness. At dusk,
fish rise, their new mons
etching the water like Venn diagrams
for Robert's Rule of Order
surfaced at last, and I would like to
make a motion, move
to amend: point of information, point
of order. I move to amend
the amendment and want
to call the question, table
the discussion, bed
some roses, and roof the exclamation
of the Great Blue heron sliding
overhead, its feet following flight
the way a period haunts
a sentence: she said that
on the mountain where they grew
up, there were two kinds
of cheeries-red heart
and black heart-both of them
sweet.
I love how the imagery moves the reader to a variety of different settings in a way that is paced steadily throughout the poem. It almost seems as if the images are embedded within each other, like one Russian doll within another. Yet they all tell a story. I attempted to achieve the same type of movement within my poem.
Powder
My father said that Aunt Florance had an orange
gash, the left side of her neck
pussed from a plague before my time,
and I saw greenish-white juice
dripping from the slits
in her neck, the maroon trail
of her vein, heard the period
roar, mew, like a feline
after a fight the way
the eye closes all at once when the lemon
is squeezed in just the right place:
the corn-husks in the rice pot
boils, someone is skidded, and winter
rays paralyze as you go in to
wood the heath. We trotted home
over the Mississippi while the
moon’s eels slitered across the wind,
asteroids leaving asterisks on the drew
covered cround like the sweetened stone
philosophers used illegally
on believers to blind their
sight. At sunset, birds land, their
old stars retching dust like the cutters
on the show “Bones,”
blending into the sky, and I
would like to make a movement, a precedent,
pressing the dent of my mind. I move
the moving and desire to answer the action, pillow
the debate, bury some lemons, and floor the interjection
of the Old Gray bat hanging
beneath my feet, it’s ears seeing sounds
the way the blind hears brail: he said that
in the Appalachains, the well known range,
there were two kinds of trees: the white tree
and the red tree-both of them strong.
My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violet litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at once when the sring is pulled
in just the right place:
the water in the corn pot
boils, someone is slapped and summer
rain splatters as you go out
to slop the hogs. We drove home
over the Potomac while the lights
spread their tails across the water, comets
leaving comments on a blackboard
sky like the powdered sugar
medieval physicians blew
into patients' eyes to cure
their bindness. At dusk,
fish rise, their new mons
etching the water like Venn diagrams
for Robert's Rule of Order
surfaced at last, and I would like to
make a motion, move
to amend: point of information, point
of order. I move to amend
the amendment and want
to call the question, table
the discussion, bed
some roses, and roof the exclamation
of the Great Blue heron sliding
overhead, its feet following flight
the way a period haunts
a sentence: she said that
on the mountain where they grew
up, there were two kinds
of cheeries-red heart
and black heart-both of them
sweet.
I love how the imagery moves the reader to a variety of different settings in a way that is paced steadily throughout the poem. It almost seems as if the images are embedded within each other, like one Russian doll within another. Yet they all tell a story. I attempted to achieve the same type of movement within my poem.
Powder
My father said that Aunt Florance had an orange
gash, the left side of her neck
pussed from a plague before my time,
and I saw greenish-white juice
dripping from the slits
in her neck, the maroon trail
of her vein, heard the period
roar, mew, like a feline
after a fight the way
the eye closes all at once when the lemon
is squeezed in just the right place:
the corn-husks in the rice pot
boils, someone is skidded, and winter
rays paralyze as you go in to
wood the heath. We trotted home
over the Mississippi while the
moon’s eels slitered across the wind,
asteroids leaving asterisks on the drew
covered cround like the sweetened stone
philosophers used illegally
on believers to blind their
sight. At sunset, birds land, their
old stars retching dust like the cutters
on the show “Bones,”
blending into the sky, and I
would like to make a movement, a precedent,
pressing the dent of my mind. I move
the moving and desire to answer the action, pillow
the debate, bury some lemons, and floor the interjection
of the Old Gray bat hanging
beneath my feet, it’s ears seeing sounds
the way the blind hears brail: he said that
in the Appalachains, the well known range,
there were two kinds of trees: the white tree
and the red tree-both of them strong.
Improv 1, Week 9
The first riff for this week is from Angie Estes', "Last Words":
Let us cross over
the river and sit in the shade
of the trees. Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur,
wait 'til I have finished
my problem. It's been a long time
since I've had champagne. Too late
for fruit, too soon for
flowers: hold the cross high
so I may see it through
the flames. Get my swan costume
ready. I am about to-or I am
going to-die: either expression
is used. Who is it? Ah, Luisa, you
always arrive just as I am
leaving. Sweet Rosabel, I leave you
the truth: if you can read this,
you've come too close. L.
is doing the rhododendrons,
the boat is going down, and I'm going
into the bathroom to read. More
light. Am I dying
or is this my birthday? I should have
drunk more champage. Either
that wallpaper goes or
I go. What is the answer?
Very well, then, what is the question? Oh why
does it take so long
to come?
I used this poem as a sprinboard and played around with the language a bit. I found the poem tailoring a bit more to things that relate to my personality such as water, my ability to speak spanish, etc. Whereas her poem is more about ones Last Words concerning their death, my new riff seemed to focus more on life time I finished. This is most likely due to the contrast of images that were chosen for the improv of this piece for this week.
To Elope
We must arch under
the hill and stand in the heat
of the sun. Excuse me chico,
your issues are worth less
than mine. Just last
week I smoked a cigarette. I
ate some cucumbers, though it was too late for
honeysuckles: bury the wreath
low so I may watch it ripple beneath
the waves. Prepare my phoenix sub.
Soon I shall…I must retire: What is it
By any other name but the same? Who
is there? Ah, Geoffrey, you
were the late riser I see. Precious, carry
with you this faux: if you hit this sign,
You will hit that bridge. B. is singing
Feres Jacques, the plane is ready, and I am
going to the attic to read. More
dust. Am I sleeping
or is this my wedding day? I should have
Worn mother's gown. Either the paint scheme
changes, or I shall never return. You’ve decided?
Fine…wait, what is your inquiry? It always
takes forever and a day.
Let us cross over
the river and sit in the shade
of the trees. Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur,
wait 'til I have finished
my problem. It's been a long time
since I've had champagne. Too late
for fruit, too soon for
flowers: hold the cross high
so I may see it through
the flames. Get my swan costume
ready. I am about to-or I am
going to-die: either expression
is used. Who is it? Ah, Luisa, you
always arrive just as I am
leaving. Sweet Rosabel, I leave you
the truth: if you can read this,
you've come too close. L.
is doing the rhododendrons,
the boat is going down, and I'm going
into the bathroom to read. More
light. Am I dying
or is this my birthday? I should have
drunk more champage. Either
that wallpaper goes or
I go. What is the answer?
Very well, then, what is the question? Oh why
does it take so long
to come?
I used this poem as a sprinboard and played around with the language a bit. I found the poem tailoring a bit more to things that relate to my personality such as water, my ability to speak spanish, etc. Whereas her poem is more about ones Last Words concerning their death, my new riff seemed to focus more on life time I finished. This is most likely due to the contrast of images that were chosen for the improv of this piece for this week.
To Elope
We must arch under
the hill and stand in the heat
of the sun. Excuse me chico,
your issues are worth less
than mine. Just last
week I smoked a cigarette. I
ate some cucumbers, though it was too late for
honeysuckles: bury the wreath
low so I may watch it ripple beneath
the waves. Prepare my phoenix sub.
Soon I shall…I must retire: What is it
By any other name but the same? Who
is there? Ah, Geoffrey, you
were the late riser I see. Precious, carry
with you this faux: if you hit this sign,
You will hit that bridge. B. is singing
Feres Jacques, the plane is ready, and I am
going to the attic to read. More
dust. Am I sleeping
or is this my wedding day? I should have
Worn mother's gown. Either the paint scheme
changes, or I shall never return. You’ve decided?
Fine…wait, what is your inquiry? It always
takes forever and a day.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 9
It takes an idiot to do cool things, that’s why they’re cool. Though I thought stupid people didn’t get colds. The sneeze of a home-hitter sparks fire if he’s not too chicken to swing the bat. I don’t know who’s on third, but they have a very important date. Reading the cards of Oriental trading, maybe your numbers will add up, in the first five years of life. Interact with the beginning, read the end of the cards, but you gotta pull’em just right and you gotta go slow. The broth is gonna taste like hot needles squeezing your skin. We’ve got to get everyone and their stuff together, the brotherhood is calling. Bebops edge is loveless, less than the bleach embracing your lungs, my funny Valentine. Freeze the cryogenic centrifuge of my amnesiac arteries. Gilled wings beat against the wind. My cranium clashes, skidding across the cement floor, drowning in a sea of red and green. I’m not a charity boy, I’d let you escape. Four to one: Visitors don’t work on reason, they don’t go easy on you, those sleeping beasts.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 9
"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant. BAM!!! Confused or what?"
-Conversations with a Friend. She was just being super silly and random! But this would make a great foundation for an awesome play on languge!
-Conversations with a Friend. She was just being super silly and random! But this would make a great foundation for an awesome play on languge!
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 9
"My nose is all stuffy...I thought stupid people didn't get colds."
-Conversation with a friend. After sneezing like ten times, my friend sniffled and said this quote. I patted her back and told her that she wasn't stupid, but she just sneeze again and glared at me. I hope she gets better soon!
-Conversation with a friend. After sneezing like ten times, my friend sniffled and said this quote. I patted her back and told her that she wasn't stupid, but she just sneeze again and glared at me. I hope she gets better soon!
Free Entry 1, Week 9
As the fire-trucks' blackened frames sludged past my abode, I could smell the green ashes emerging from the smoke stack of the rowboat sailing the roaded-rails of the riverbanks. At that moment, my husband came home, kissing my cheek sweetly-I'll have a black eye for weeks. His lips smiled, of oranges and castor-oil. He smelled of burnt popcorn and strawberries. Chest melting, I watched the children paddidng across the cotton shore on their paws, their parents stretching out to them from the ground up. Then the daily teenagers initiated their prayer-by, leaving no survivors in their wake. Everyone lay soaked in their own tribulations, while my wounded head bled the pages of His word freely. Who will wake first? I Don’t Know...but he’ll awaken third. I’ll be last, if I choose to wake at all.
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 9
"We're going to have a prayer-by. We're going to drive by people's houses and through those little green bibles."
-Ricky Smiley
I was listening to one of my aunt's Ricky Smiley CDs and I heard this. While it was funny, I also heard a double meaning to the language. Bibles represent religion, so its weird (yet interesting) that he associated religious bibles (meant to save people) with "drive-bys" that kill people. It was very attention grabbing for me.
-Ricky Smiley
I was listening to one of my aunt's Ricky Smiley CDs and I heard this. While it was funny, I also heard a double meaning to the language. Bibles represent religion, so its weird (yet interesting) that he associated religious bibles (meant to save people) with "drive-bys" that kill people. It was very attention grabbing for me.
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 9
"On the road of life, there are passengers and there are drivers. And then there are the people you try not to hit."
-Conversation with a Friend
-Conversation with a Friend
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 9
Costello: Now what's the name of the guy on first base?
Abbot: No, What is the name of the guy on second base.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second!
Abbot: Who is on first!
Costello: I don't know!
Abbot: Oh, he's on third, we're not talking about him.
-Abbot and Costello's "Who, What, I Don't Know". I just love this little dialogue! It's from a well known play that is hilarious and shows how you can play around with words to give them different meanings, even that of names! I may try to substitute words or phrases as names for other ideas in future poems and see how that turns out. That would be a fun exercise to try!
Who: The name of the guy on first base
What: The name of the guy on second base
I Don't Know: The name of the guy on third base
Abbot: No, What is the name of the guy on second base.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second!
Abbot: Who is on first!
Costello: I don't know!
Abbot: Oh, he's on third, we're not talking about him.
-Abbot and Costello's "Who, What, I Don't Know". I just love this little dialogue! It's from a well known play that is hilarious and shows how you can play around with words to give them different meanings, even that of names! I may try to substitute words or phrases as names for other ideas in future poems and see how that turns out. That would be a fun exercise to try!
Who: The name of the guy on first base
What: The name of the guy on second base
I Don't Know: The name of the guy on third base
Improv 2, Week 8
My second improv for this week riffs Natasha Trethewey's "Graveyard Blues"
It rained the whole time we were laying her down;
Rained from church to grave when we put her down.
The suck of mud at our feet was a hollow sound.
When the preacher called out I held up my hand;
When he called for a witness I raised my hand-
Death stops the body's work, the soul's a journeyman.
The sun came out when I turned to walk away,
Glared down on me as I turned and walked away-
My back to my mother, leaving her where she lay.
The road going home was pocked with holes,
That home-going road's always full of holes;
Though we slow down, time's wheel still rolls.
I wander now among names of the dead:
My mother's name, stone pillow for my head.
What stood out to me most in this poem was the rhyme scheme. I like the way she ends the first and second lines of each stanza with the same word, only to end line three with a different word that has the same rhyme as the first two lines. I used this rhyme scheme setup as the foundation of my riff.
Cabin's Remedy
It snowed the whole time we fed her fever.
From kitchen to bedside, we souped her fever.
The piercing wind at the door was a creaky griever.
When the doctor came he felt her head;
his hand drenched in the sweat that drowned her head.
If she sunk in any further, she'd be dead.
The barrelling wind became a soft breeze.
We opened a window so she could feel the breeze.
My eyes closed in prayer, I heard her wheeze
as he snow blankted over the hill.
I once sledded with her on that hill.
My eyes turned to her and she nearly keeled
over. I knew she had to go home.
Our hose was no place for her to roam.
It rained the whole time we were laying her down;
Rained from church to grave when we put her down.
The suck of mud at our feet was a hollow sound.
When the preacher called out I held up my hand;
When he called for a witness I raised my hand-
Death stops the body's work, the soul's a journeyman.
The sun came out when I turned to walk away,
Glared down on me as I turned and walked away-
My back to my mother, leaving her where she lay.
The road going home was pocked with holes,
That home-going road's always full of holes;
Though we slow down, time's wheel still rolls.
I wander now among names of the dead:
My mother's name, stone pillow for my head.
What stood out to me most in this poem was the rhyme scheme. I like the way she ends the first and second lines of each stanza with the same word, only to end line three with a different word that has the same rhyme as the first two lines. I used this rhyme scheme setup as the foundation of my riff.
Cabin's Remedy
It snowed the whole time we fed her fever.
From kitchen to bedside, we souped her fever.
The piercing wind at the door was a creaky griever.
When the doctor came he felt her head;
his hand drenched in the sweat that drowned her head.
If she sunk in any further, she'd be dead.
The barrelling wind became a soft breeze.
We opened a window so she could feel the breeze.
My eyes closed in prayer, I heard her wheeze
as he snow blankted over the hill.
I once sledded with her on that hill.
My eyes turned to her and she nearly keeled
over. I knew she had to go home.
Our hose was no place for her to roam.
Strategy Response
Strategy Response: Line Placement/poem's format, Rhyme Scheme
Piece: "Myth
I absolutely love this piece of Natasha Tretheway's work. Like most of the poems in her collection, the form and format of the work is rather complex, and this complexity adds to the overall impact of the poem. Here, Tretheway works to produce a poem that can be read forwards and backwards. She also does this in a way that keeps the comprehensiveness and coherency of the poem in tact. Just coming up with lines and the desired formatting of a piece can be difficult for a poet, but Tretheway is able to formulate a design in which her lines can operate no matter how the piece is organized. I believe that arranging the verses in any order would still allow the piece to be read beautifully. To test this theory, I arranged a few lines myself, randomly:
You back into morning. Sleep heavy, turning,
I make between my slumber and my waking,
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow.
My eyes open, I find you do not follow.
But in dreams you live, So I try taking.
It's as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
Still the lines work to deliver the poem beautifully and vividly. I love how she is able to keep the descriptive details of the poem fresh in lieu of the restrictions she's placed upon her self. Not only is the poem restricted in its format, but also in its rhyme scheme: abc, abc, dbc : cbd, cba, cba. I believe that what I admire most, is the way Trethewey is able to conduct a poem limited by construction and rhyme scheme, and yet still presents us with a piece that is comprehensible and descriptively vivid.
Piece: "Myth
I absolutely love this piece of Natasha Tretheway's work. Like most of the poems in her collection, the form and format of the work is rather complex, and this complexity adds to the overall impact of the poem. Here, Tretheway works to produce a poem that can be read forwards and backwards. She also does this in a way that keeps the comprehensiveness and coherency of the poem in tact. Just coming up with lines and the desired formatting of a piece can be difficult for a poet, but Tretheway is able to formulate a design in which her lines can operate no matter how the piece is organized. I believe that arranging the verses in any order would still allow the piece to be read beautifully. To test this theory, I arranged a few lines myself, randomly:
You back into morning. Sleep heavy, turning,
I make between my slumber and my waking,
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow.
My eyes open, I find you do not follow.
But in dreams you live, So I try taking.
It's as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
Still the lines work to deliver the poem beautifully and vividly. I love how she is able to keep the descriptive details of the poem fresh in lieu of the restrictions she's placed upon her self. Not only is the poem restricted in its format, but also in its rhyme scheme: abc, abc, dbc : cbd, cba, cba. I believe that what I admire most, is the way Trethewey is able to conduct a poem limited by construction and rhyme scheme, and yet still presents us with a piece that is comprehensible and descriptively vivid.
Improv 1, Week 8
The first improv for this week riffs Natasha Trethewey's "Myth"
I was asleep while you were dying.
It's as if you slipped through som rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,
the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking
you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant foraking.
*
Again and again, this constant foraking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning.
But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in - still, trying -
I make you between my slumber and my waking.
It's as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.
The admirable aspect of this format is that the poem is expressed beautifully and comprhensively forwards and backwards. One had to produce lines that read well enough on their own that they could work together to solidly construct a poem no matter how it is read. I believe that just about any arrangement of these lines for this piece could work to still make the poem comprehensible and powerful. I attempted to capture this in my riff as well.
Novel
I was reading while you were killing.
It's as if you crossed into Dante's realm,
a forbidden land unseen;
known by millions of people drilling
to the hull of the heart to reach the helm
of a murderer's hands when clean.
I want you back, but you keep resisting,
you only want to eliminate all that overwhelms
you, who fears anything that gleams.
*
You, who fears anything that gleams,
you only want to eliminate all that overwhelms.
I want you back, but you keep resisting.
Of a murderer's hands when clean-
to the hull of the heart, to reach the helm.
Known by millions of people drilling
a forbidden land unseen.
It's as if you crossed into Dante's realm.
I was reading while you were killing.
I was asleep while you were dying.
It's as if you slipped through som rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,
the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking
you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant foraking.
*
Again and again, this constant foraking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning.
But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You'll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in - still, trying -
I make you between my slumber and my waking.
It's as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.
The admirable aspect of this format is that the poem is expressed beautifully and comprhensively forwards and backwards. One had to produce lines that read well enough on their own that they could work together to solidly construct a poem no matter how it is read. I believe that just about any arrangement of these lines for this piece could work to still make the poem comprehensible and powerful. I attempted to capture this in my riff as well.
Novel
I was reading while you were killing.
It's as if you crossed into Dante's realm,
a forbidden land unseen;
known by millions of people drilling
to the hull of the heart to reach the helm
of a murderer's hands when clean.
I want you back, but you keep resisting,
you only want to eliminate all that overwhelms
you, who fears anything that gleams.
*
You, who fears anything that gleams,
you only want to eliminate all that overwhelms.
I want you back, but you keep resisting.
Of a murderer's hands when clean-
to the hull of the heart, to reach the helm.
Known by millions of people drilling
a forbidden land unseen.
It's as if you crossed into Dante's realm.
I was reading while you were killing.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Free Entry 2, Week 8
I pricked myself
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
while sewing this morning.
It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen my own blood.
I was birthed in a pool of it.
I started wailing the blues
when the doctor whacked my bottom
on the day I was born. That was when I realized
that we need boys
so that they can grow up
and become shadows.
History has not demanded
their premature demise.
That they die in war is a matter
of necessity. Which men die,
is a matter of circumstance.
The rocky roads they travel
in war withstand their chariots
of fire, but man alone cannot.
This is when he takes God off the shelf:
when easy turns rough and hard,
like He’s a pot-bellied Buddah.
They rub the pregnant swell of His stomach
and pray until the trouble dissipates.
He then returns to the shelf,
and they return to the shadows.
Free Entry 1, Week 8
My obsession with Happy Tree Friends is depressingly comedic. I bask in the cute fractures, adorably severed tendons, and ruby red showers blanketing my fleshy orbs. The boy with the bleeding heart is starting to figure me out. I can hear his skeleton clicking, clacking, rolling beneath his skin. I gotta steal those bones, bury’em deep in my bronze chest. I roll over to look at my childhood companion, gazing at how her left iris hangs haphazardly from a single vein, dangling indifference, she smiles in hindsight. Ragged and torn, she bleeds from the cloth of her breast…she is no longer a child. I murdered that part of her brain: reality lacks function in life.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Junkyard Quote 5, Week 8
"We need boys, so they can grow up and become shadows."
-Tia Russell 'Uncle Buck'
-Tia Russell 'Uncle Buck'
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 8
"I started wailing the blues when the doctor whacked my bottom on the day I was born."
-Jet Black, Cowboy Bebop
-Jet Black, Cowboy Bebop
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 8
"The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all."
-The Emperor of China, "Mulan" at the Alliance Theater
-The Emperor of China, "Mulan" at the Alliance Theater
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Strategy Response 1, Week 7
Strategy: Concealed Rhyme and Pacing
Poem: Mechanics of Flight
In the poem ‘Mechanics of Flight,” there are several instances of concealed rhyme presented throughout the piece. These rhymes are distinctive because of Meeks’ utilization of enjambments and long lines. The verses run together so that any instance where there is a comma allows the reader to pause and breathe, like the rest sign on a musical staff. In other words, saying the piece out loud allows the reader to feel the elements of rhythm and rhyme on their tongue that would otherwise go unnoticed if enjambments and the particular line-breaks were absent. These rhythms, in turn, are enhanced by the hidden rhymes that help give the piece an essence of musicality.
For example, the very first account of a period is not seen in the poem until the eighth couplet. In these couplets, words that rhyme are sprinkled throughout the eight stanzas. For example: flight in the first stanza rhymes with light in the second; around in the fourth stanza rhymes with hometown in the same line; return in the fourth stanza somewhat rhymes with a absurd in the fifth; torn in stanza three rhymes with warm in stanza five; the words trees, easy, and read also all rhyme in stanza six. All of these stanzas are broken down into couplets and punctuated by commas. The thought is continuing, and only short breaths should be taken where the commas are as not to interrupt the continuity of the couplets. Also, the speed of the poem shifts from fast, to slow due to the varying line lengths of the poem. Meeks is pracitcally composing the piece as a conductor would an orchestra.
Meeks may restrict herself to using couplets in order to format her poem, but the concealed rhyme schemes allow her an element of freedom which she can use to puppeteer and mold how she wants the reader to say and envision her work. So, there is some semblance of music that can be heard in the midst of the tragedy that was 9/11. The music is just hidden among the imagery, just like how the rhymes are concealed within in the poem and its pacing.
Poem: Mechanics of Flight
In the poem ‘Mechanics of Flight,” there are several instances of concealed rhyme presented throughout the piece. These rhymes are distinctive because of Meeks’ utilization of enjambments and long lines. The verses run together so that any instance where there is a comma allows the reader to pause and breathe, like the rest sign on a musical staff. In other words, saying the piece out loud allows the reader to feel the elements of rhythm and rhyme on their tongue that would otherwise go unnoticed if enjambments and the particular line-breaks were absent. These rhythms, in turn, are enhanced by the hidden rhymes that help give the piece an essence of musicality.
For example, the very first account of a period is not seen in the poem until the eighth couplet. In these couplets, words that rhyme are sprinkled throughout the eight stanzas. For example: flight in the first stanza rhymes with light in the second; around in the fourth stanza rhymes with hometown in the same line; return in the fourth stanza somewhat rhymes with a absurd in the fifth; torn in stanza three rhymes with warm in stanza five; the words trees, easy, and read also all rhyme in stanza six. All of these stanzas are broken down into couplets and punctuated by commas. The thought is continuing, and only short breaths should be taken where the commas are as not to interrupt the continuity of the couplets. Also, the speed of the poem shifts from fast, to slow due to the varying line lengths of the poem. Meeks is pracitcally composing the piece as a conductor would an orchestra.
Meeks may restrict herself to using couplets in order to format her poem, but the concealed rhyme schemes allow her an element of freedom which she can use to puppeteer and mold how she wants the reader to say and envision her work. So, there is some semblance of music that can be heard in the midst of the tragedy that was 9/11. The music is just hidden among the imagery, just like how the rhymes are concealed within in the poem and its pacing.
Improv 2, Week 7
My second improv for this week riffs Sandra Meeks' poem, "Mechanics of Failure"
Jumpers, we called them, as if no nerve, no marrow, still held
to flight, as if falling
wasn't in the blood, and even today the long
habit of light might not
be broken, torn
to gold laces like yellow ribbons
tied around oaks for the hometown hostage who finally
did return, blinkered
by camera flash, on eyear after
the warm June evening I was married, absurd
in formal white, 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. Mostly
there is no warning: planes slam
into buildings, or you do your own
crash and burn, lighting life down
to a finger of ash. My ring, removed,
left a groove that took years
to vanish, what seemed scar finally
a fading, the way, after seasons, a grave settles itself
into earth, or a winter day's flock of starlings
does stop pouring east, though all morning
their crepe banner had seemed
horizon itself, the blackened sun still
enough to burn the watcher's eyes
to the gold of its own sightless image, the faith
in vision what blinds. Despite their knowledge
of velocity, despite their ability to calculate
the gravity load of the cell, the fire load
of bone, some held plastic sheets makeshif
parachutes, as they dropped, as if the world
wasn't wind, and fist, and whirling fragments
of paper; as if what we're falling from
isn't grace, isn't what,
a century ago, the newly arrived believed
they could recreate, releasing
one hundred European starlings to populate
this world new and strange
to the Shakespeare they'd read
as home, setting in motion this morning's
rolling eclipse, five million birds in one gathering, one
city of flight; so when from the 100th floor, yes,
they did jump, the question, how much of our weight
can this world bear, had already been asked
as a storm of dark wings, a wake of gray light
streaming behind.
The theme/message of this piece clearly focuses on 9/11. Yet the format is complex through the usage of couplets and enjambments. The couplets restrict the breakage and emphasize particular pauses in the lines, but the enjambments allow the thoughts to run together as a whole. In a sense, this complexity mirrors the panicky chaos that was 9/11. I wanted to capture this by focusing on a different aspect, namely that shift in time that they don't prepare you for as a child.
Childhood's Failing Grade
Lightening bugs, we named them, as if no fire, no flame, eternally branded
to flight, as if flailing
was not in the river, and even on Wednesdays the short
instances of night were probably not
mended, sewed
to blue yarn like neon fabric
emblazoned around bouncy-balls targeting the local bum who
eventually departed, staggering
past engine sparks, four years after
the humid July afternoon I graduated, mental
in noble blue, atop the beheaded blades now
bleeding picture-perfect green in magazines
as subliminal, as sing-song’s rope
bore each prickling string to that unknown
cavern of blood. Usually
water breaks, shattering shards
down pale legs, dousing those blades, or you conduct your own
symphony of breaths, washing life
over the rapids of stone. My diploma, removed,
left a trace that is still
imprinted on my wall, gash
never fading, the way centuries of gravestones
push the dead to live forever, or that fish
caught in 1989 plagues the remembers with
its ruby red lips crying for a
passion only its school can bring, the marble moon
still branding the viewers’ eyes
with faux hope, the unseen vision, the belief
in a tomorrow that paralyzes a child. Regardless of their intellectual
language, incalculable math, insensible society fails to
uplift the permanent student, the brain
echoes cataclysms of avalanches from a decade before
Barney's disillusioned the tax payer dollarw, as if
The world would forever be the jailed playpen
of puzzles, as if what we learned from
was absent, wasn’t real as,
a decade ago, the shifting faces who
would demolish the world with social media,
enslaving Generation X into a conformity
of tweets and i-thinks
I didn’t see this coming
as School House Rock cradled my mind
with the psyche of lolly, naughty figure eights that
would soon be eclipsed by the Armageddoned reality of
2010. When I jumped from my play-pen into
Y2K, I bled onto my predestined Facebook pagea
as did my diploma, my baby, my beliefs
all of me, left behind.
Jumpers, we called them, as if no nerve, no marrow, still held
to flight, as if falling
wasn't in the blood, and even today the long
habit of light might not
be broken, torn
to gold laces like yellow ribbons
tied around oaks for the hometown hostage who finally
did return, blinkered
by camera flash, on eyear after
the warm June evening I was married, absurd
in formal white, 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. Mostly
there is no warning: planes slam
into buildings, or you do your own
crash and burn, lighting life down
to a finger of ash. My ring, removed,
left a groove that took years
to vanish, what seemed scar finally
a fading, the way, after seasons, a grave settles itself
into earth, or a winter day's flock of starlings
does stop pouring east, though all morning
their crepe banner had seemed
horizon itself, the blackened sun still
enough to burn the watcher's eyes
to the gold of its own sightless image, the faith
in vision what blinds. Despite their knowledge
of velocity, despite their ability to calculate
the gravity load of the cell, the fire load
of bone, some held plastic sheets makeshif
parachutes, as they dropped, as if the world
wasn't wind, and fist, and whirling fragments
of paper; as if what we're falling from
isn't grace, isn't what,
a century ago, the newly arrived believed
they could recreate, releasing
one hundred European starlings to populate
this world new and strange
to the Shakespeare they'd read
as home, setting in motion this morning's
rolling eclipse, five million birds in one gathering, one
city of flight; so when from the 100th floor, yes,
they did jump, the question, how much of our weight
can this world bear, had already been asked
as a storm of dark wings, a wake of gray light
streaming behind.
The theme/message of this piece clearly focuses on 9/11. Yet the format is complex through the usage of couplets and enjambments. The couplets restrict the breakage and emphasize particular pauses in the lines, but the enjambments allow the thoughts to run together as a whole. In a sense, this complexity mirrors the panicky chaos that was 9/11. I wanted to capture this by focusing on a different aspect, namely that shift in time that they don't prepare you for as a child.
Childhood's Failing Grade
Lightening bugs, we named them, as if no fire, no flame, eternally branded
to flight, as if flailing
was not in the river, and even on Wednesdays the short
instances of night were probably not
mended, sewed
to blue yarn like neon fabric
emblazoned around bouncy-balls targeting the local bum who
eventually departed, staggering
past engine sparks, four years after
the humid July afternoon I graduated, mental
in noble blue, atop the beheaded blades now
bleeding picture-perfect green in magazines
as subliminal, as sing-song’s rope
bore each prickling string to that unknown
cavern of blood. Usually
water breaks, shattering shards
down pale legs, dousing those blades, or you conduct your own
symphony of breaths, washing life
over the rapids of stone. My diploma, removed,
left a trace that is still
imprinted on my wall, gash
never fading, the way centuries of gravestones
push the dead to live forever, or that fish
caught in 1989 plagues the remembers with
its ruby red lips crying for a
passion only its school can bring, the marble moon
still branding the viewers’ eyes
with faux hope, the unseen vision, the belief
in a tomorrow that paralyzes a child. Regardless of their intellectual
language, incalculable math, insensible society fails to
uplift the permanent student, the brain
echoes cataclysms of avalanches from a decade before
Barney's disillusioned the tax payer dollarw, as if
The world would forever be the jailed playpen
of puzzles, as if what we learned from
was absent, wasn’t real as,
a decade ago, the shifting faces who
would demolish the world with social media,
enslaving Generation X into a conformity
of tweets and i-thinks
I didn’t see this coming
as School House Rock cradled my mind
with the psyche of lolly, naughty figure eights that
would soon be eclipsed by the Armageddoned reality of
2010. When I jumped from my play-pen into
Y2K, I bled onto my predestined Facebook pagea
as did my diploma, my baby, my beliefs
all of me, left behind.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)