Improv 1, Week 7

The first improv for this week riff's Sandra Meek's, "Paralleling the Subject."

Paralleling the Subject

Armed with knowing the petals are inariably odd, I begin
He loves me, days I'm not looking
to reason being alone. Not it won't
stop raining. The dry creek bed out back's become the course

the world is taking, downstream. You, praying
for sun, aren't you the one who taught me
the body's a clay vase thrown
around an absent fist, who transposed
my mother's hymns beneath the staircase of any angelic

human voice? But history's the wilderness
you've wrested free of; the desert's flooded
to a mercury sheet. Winged, might my reflection
hover there among regrets,swords

of white fire,and the one hard
nail of sun,golden period stamped
after every question? As my sister's face shone
in the polished ice just
before she slipped, wrist

crumbling, discovering the body's core
a scaffold of ash, the skate's upturned blade
a silver glint, that little bit of grace
withheld.


This is a very nature-centric piece. It is composed of words dadling with river, planets, the wilderness, the desert, fire, and ice describe the wild/basic nature of the characters and their personalities throughout the piece. I attempted to do the same in my riff by utilizing different elements of nature such as the moon, snow, stalactites, and more.

The Cycle

Adorned with forgetting that the wings are unequivocally bare, I demolish
She worships me, nights I’m searching
for lies of being together. Now it won’t
start snowing. The wet grooved bark above us transmutes the evolution

the sun is bringing, upwind. You, rebuking
the moon, aren’t you the one who disrobed me from
the arm’s brittle puzzle enveloped
around an immutable foot, who demolished
my father’s beard next to the cellar of all beastily

piglet squeals? But tomorrow’s the jungle-vines
you’ve tangled into, the ocean’s evaporated to a
sand-papered lot. Scaled, shall my irises
bury there beneath time, shields

of red water, and the three softened
beds of rings, bronzed colons embedded
before each list? When my son’s nose paled
reflection in the unshaven stalactites just
before he collapsed, ankle

dissipating, unleashing the tonsil’s kidney
a bevy of muscles, the bike’s spinning wheel
a tar-black tire, that little bit of the cycle
ever-turning.