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.