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.
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