Wednesday, October 31, 2007

a poem for the sad apples

sometimes, like now
I pick an apple
to eat out of a bowl
on my green counter top
but I question if I
picked the right apple
or whether apples are more delicious with more apples present
and
whether the other apples
are jealous
not to mention
the other fruits

my grave will only say

Well, maybe next time.

(m)elegy

oh the cold clay that I will become bright
being pouring from me tissues
made of memories made
of semen and sunlight trapped
inside me bubbling up to the tips of my

toes that certainly have walked through
this before my secret stench gathering in tight
pockets of flesh unsecrets the diamond and the
tadpole afloat in the weight of me
released to the quiet smoking moment

mother and lover dogged skeleton quaking
teeth and treetops in their wild
dark dancing alone beneath the clouds and metals.

gritty fibers of unbeing palms pushed
to seeing
trapped beneath thrusts that release from

where I am going
I came so hard
that I remembered and
yet here we laugh again
here we are I am again

such a time I had
fucking, dying, flying
laa la laa inside your pinball machine
greasy fingers poking my
eyes to a gaze
come on cut the astral cord
here comes the reeling sound
here comes the trumpets bound
crystals and cotton the absence
forgotten making room for me
making room for me

thank you for the way you only now realized
you forgot
here’s me not hearing I am

starstruck skullfuck grapes and
bright wallpaper
maybe next time kid
it will only say
maybe next time
the mama won’t recycle the wheel
but you know she’s a circle
and you love to keep spinning
maybe next time kid
kept your seat warm

starpuke spread out on the unmade bed
she’s sleepy
for the night night song
yr a night night bird
with a skeleton for

her meat to spin in
meat likes to know itself
I’m sure we are
not sure we are

Colaboración con Borges y Casares

Long time friends and collaborators Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares (both de Argentina) have collaborated on various works together. What interested me about their relationship was their longtime commitment to one another's work, and commitment in collaboration with one another, producing the following over a span of several decades:

Seis problemas para don Isidro Parodi (1942)
Dos fantasías memorables (1946)
Un modelo para la muerte (1946)
Libro del Cielo y del Infierno (1960)
Crónicas de Bustos Domecq (1967)
Nuevos cuentos de Bustos Domecq (1977)

(Casares worked under the pseudonym H. Bustos Domecq)

Break Out the Elegy

Stuart Matthew Allard
August 18th, 1984 – present
writer, comedian, radio personality
beloved son and brother
founder of the Dr. and Mrs. Stuart M. Allard Memorial Scholarship Fund
even though he wasn’t married and only had a bachelor’s degree;
a Kansas City Royals fan
in a sea of Pale Hose and Cubbie blue
the zigger in an army of zaggers
either the funniest person you ever met, or the most demented
a 5’9”, 165 pound force
trivia buff extraordinaire
capable of correctly guessing a person’s gender on no more than two tries

Cause of death unknown
but there’s plenty of assumptions
my best guess was all that coughing eventually did him in
others will argue that his short-attention span proved fatal
though it’s really hard to explain

Stu led a good life
accomplished a lot in a small window of time
never cared much for saccharine, lovey-dovey stuff
he wanted meat, not marshmallows
a very straightforward way of living

elegy

Somewhere between Existence and Nonexistence


The constant chill
running through my veins
awakens me to the truth
I cannot grasp
I remember the accident
the hospital bed
the scent of the sheets
the voices around me
crying, shaking me, begging me
Come back, Danielle.

I see myself
but no one else does
I am invisible
try to get your attention
try to move things
push things
but they slide right through me
as though I don’t even exist.

but I stand here
I feel the cold
the pain
its inside of me
I am real.

I am stuck somewhere
between life
&afterlife
not quite dead
holding on for something
answers
why…

Why can’t I have closure
things always end
abruptly
no one tries to take the time to explain
they just say their graces
and leaves
but no one explains WHY ME.

No one ever tries to hold my hand through this
or say it’ll be easy
you’ll be okay
they just weep for their loss
for their lack of closure
for their own pain-reeked feelings

One day I will get my closure
and my body
my mind
will be put to rest
up in the clouds
feeling warmth again
feeling alive again
resting in peace.

collaborative Poetry

I found a website that has a bunch of LONG collaborative poems that is up for constant additions (people keep adding on work to it) its from a while ago so I think its done with, but I thought it was interesting because they were all so long & from so many different people. The website is http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/forms/poem/index.html and one of my favorite poems from this selection is http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/forms/poem/poem10.html called Sound Theory for an Absurd Practice.

Check it out.

Fear of Death

do not fear Death.
others should.
it is those hiding their Truth
lying
they should fear It.
not only Death,
but what comes after.
they will get what they deserve
as will you.
ask for Forgiveness.
that’s it,
Ask
be better than those who doubt the Lord
going against His will.
Obey
He will see and give you your reward.
nothing tangible
you will be rewarded with a life if eternity.
Heaven
This reward cannot be taken from you.
Ask
Obey
Trust
the Lord
receive your reward
Deny
Lie
Stray from
the Lord
That is the time
Fear Death

Comic Elegy, Song Elegy

Bad Elegy

Dear Andy, sorry you had to die
but no more rent to pay
no more innathatgreat gittin up morning
no more heartbreaks or viceversa
or snuggling cept with the earth
you are the earth
****
he welcome to death land
please take a brochure

would you like a serenade
a table with a view

would you shut your eyes
and look inside

did you lose a leg along the way
here have it back

oh you red, come here
your collar's up, whew
B.O. Man BTW nice poetry
what else did you do

ah, your vitae, let's see
not enough experience, son, sorry, you have to go back

Have you had your death today?
Eternal no one
Every myn, booboisee
what have you lost
what have you gained
are you having a nice elegy young man?

Death.
Deathy death.
don your blindfold man, smoke your last
say something profound a-hole,
smile, say cheese

Dear Andy,
sorry you died
now the world can't go on
it ceases to exist,
happy
love, death.

*****************

Good Elegy:

You are the earth
You are the sun
The world is spinning
and we become clouds

we rain we snow
we sing we blow
we make we kill
we till the soil,
till ever, till when
till maybe the end

oh you young one
with pizza in hand
devour it good
and taste every smide

be happy, be sad
and dream of the rockets
and go and get big
and wander your way

and kiss and hold
and touch and warm
and make and send
them off again

and grow up and old
and sit and decease
and meet the old earth
and put bone back in rock

you are earth
you are sun
and you're spinning
a cloud

Elegy

pelting rain drip drop to a standstill
callous skies unfasten your prisoner

sound the flame of being
where death no longer burns
tonight make it right
hands in the air make sweet beats
and only just for Her

kindness her cloak woven through strands of daily attire
stars etched into flesh of palms
while the un-reached still smile because She drifts among them
with one request God “bench press my burden”
(yeah, i think that’s what she’d say)
“lift up empty tummies”
“lift up naked bodies”
“God lift up their low self-esteem”
“lift up the hopeless to land on hope”
(yeah, i know it i know that’s what she’d say)

passion in her wind
strength in her storm
you were on her mind

no hint of silence as curtains close
you dance circles i applaud encore
this was Her life.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

An Elegy


other than breathing
we haven’t moved in
how many minutes
a real bell, sounds
even with all the
not knowing involved
impersonality
the sounds of the train
blaring through our windows
they aren’t the same
cross those tracks
mourning
although steel and cold
tell his mother
there are stars aligned
we often chase clouds wondering
if we ever knew well enough to matter
as a family of sand grains
lay on a Puerto Rican beach
if our message in a battle
ever reached the love that it slid thru
for if the script ever blessed with eyes
flew over to a touch,
which would chill your gut to commiserate
it was okay to give
it was okay to grieve
the pinch and wake up syndrome
please tell his mother
there is a day, his love extended far up to the fireplace
reached through cloudy air
for the heavens
true beating , you will breathe in
but it will never be okay
bow down to the calm that may never come
for you, who felt him
for all of those who didn’t
and
for the silence that hasn’t moved in
how many minutes

Hey guys!!!

I changed my poem around. The one y'all critiqued last week. Please let me know what you think because I want this to be good for the reading next week!!! Thanks

Unfinished

Mistakes of the past
the lies whispered

all over her body
the regrets of forgiving, taking him back.

Crimson stained into his shirt color
with late night pages and the scent of juicy couture


the love they shared was
as fake as that tramp he was assimilating with

shoving her belongings into a large suitcase
carelessly, effortlessly

the inscribed necklace for their one year anniversary
(tossed into the bag)
his favorite night gown
when she wore his hands were glued to her body

(crumpled up inside next to)
a picture frame of the family they were starting
two heads, two hearts, two bodies

only one was ready.


she left.


snow tossed from sky to ground

found her feet dragging to the place she least wanted to be
standing, staring

her life in bags weighing her down
eyes red and swollen from the drippings of her heart.

The empty foundation of their soon to be
home

incomplete empty bleak.

like her heart, it too was missing something

Stepping, gliding, over pieces of their unfinished life
she sits on the snow covered foundation
of the existence she’ll never go back to
and cries
for everything it meant

Collaborative Project

Mr. Koch's volume is useful pedagogically, but also for personal exercises as well.

Included are two chapters on collaboration specifically, one on just two people, and another one on a whole class collaborating...


Here is a poem from Mrs. Weick's class of fifth graders who by now are probably in their late forties.

Goodbye, Mr Koch

Be sure to go to the German Alps and say hello to my Dad
Eat a lot of apple strudel in Germany
Maybe you can dig a tunnel and find another tunnel where
Prisoners are escaping from East Berlin
Eat all the Italian type spaghetti
Try making some pizza
Eat matzoh balls
Knock down the Leaning Tower of Pisa
And you'l have a lot of help: It'll be leaning already
Go to Naples and drink wine
and visit Sibernus for me
You can roam around Rome
Feed somebody to the lions at the Coliseum
Or go chariot racing
Eat the bottom ring of the ice cream in Naples
Be the third Columbus
Take some Spanish dancing lessons
See the bullfights in Madrid
But don't faint
When they pick you to be the matador too
Run a million miles away
Don't eat any enchiladas
They're too hot
Don't forget your bathing suit
Make sure you don't drown
We want you back
Don't go crazy with your language
Don't forget to button up your overcat
Send us a couple of cheeses from Switzerland
Don't Break your leg skiing
Send me a sample of snow
In a hot stove
Don't go on any Israeli Airlines
Don't meet the Wolfman
Don't work in the Radium Dial Company
You'll get Leukemia
Mrs B. works there-they call her that- she had leukemia
Make your hair grow long and join the Beatles or buy a wig
Hold your ears at 12 o'clock when you're near Big Ben
Don't watch the girls in miniskirts (this is a recording)
Bring an umbrella and bring an overcoat
Go see Queen Elizabeth and bring back some of her jewels
Bring Charlie Chaplin with you
Install windshield wipers on your eyeglasses
Visit Camelot and steal King Arthur's crown
And meet the stupid Knight in Red
And marry Guinevere
Don't run into a bobby
Go on top of the Tower and don't fall off
England swings like a pendulum do
With the crown and jewels buy an airplane
Get some feathers and make them into wings and fly back
Walk back so you won't get highjacked
Swim the English Channel and fly back
Go by boat and take some seasick pills
(Don't forget to take Guinevere)
Don't forget to write

Koch, Kenneth. Wishes, Lies, and Dreams: Teaching Children To Write Poetry New York: Perrenial, 1970, 62-63.

Collaboration Research 5

I googled "Collaboration Poetry" and stumbled upon a collaborative poetry page on About.com. Here, I found The Albany Poetry Worshsop. The Albany Poetry Project is a collection of poems written online via messageboard style. Each poem starts with a line from a well-known poem by a familiar author. Readers/writers then create a brand new poem by posting lines of their own. Each contributor is only allowed to post one line per visit to the website.

The poem I found most interesting is entitled, "An August Afternoon." It was completed October 27, 1997. The first line is from a poem by Bronislaw Maj.

Please visit following link. It will lead you to a page of poems by The Albany Poetry Project. Click on "An August Afternoon" to view the poem in original format. Also, feel free to check out the other poems.

http://poetry.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=3&f=20&tt=14&bt=0&bts=0&zu=http%3A//thunder.sonic.net/poetry/albany/group/groupoem.html

Friday, October 26, 2007

Philippians

Slit my wrists and hang me out on a line to dry.
There is nothing left.
I am your savior –
your sacrifice –
but no savior to myself.
Tears rush in to bloodied arms, cries for those I’ve loved and lost,
cries for those who have not yet gone within me.

In the name of the Father,
Soiled linens lay on the floor –
lost hopes of reconciliation.
Jumbled thoughts asking –
who am I today?
It will differ from tomorrow.
Once the lightning strikes again,
or the full moon rises –
and who I was then transforms.

Don’t pity those.
Who feel sorry for themselves.
stupidity and pride have set in,
nothing can save them now.
For I can do nothing without He who strengthens me.

As it was in the beginning,
Is now,
And ever shall be.

I am lost.
World without end,
a lost soul,
a troubled soul,
still on my bloodied knees with my rosary,
praying to the unseen,
for answers to silent questions.
Seeking help and forgiveness from the spirit,
crying out to Him –

for what I have done
and for what I have failed to do.
Amen

Sandra Scolnik

You disappearing act you.
Blending in with the drapes and the carpet -
suffering in your world
of deep floral designs and pink taffeta -
everything you ever really wanted
pink satin panties,
a taste for the good life,
a desire for something you are not.

I don’t feel sorry for you
your superior personality diminishing
in the darkness of your daily life.

I hope it was everything
you every really wanted,
what ever fills up the holes in your pocket -
with dreams of peppermint and rainbows -
or whatever helps you sleep at night -
beyond the
Valium and Prozac.

You have good reason,
to doubt,
to lie,
to cheat,
to die.

And that’s what you did -
you disappearing act you.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Pumpkin

Pumpkin

Hi, Andy. Andy called Pumpkin reaches above and removes his lid, disc with stemmed handle. Concentrating, his face tightens until his fingers find their target. Get distracted as they further corrugate the already corrugated cortex with massages. Each movement of the hand corresponding indirectly with thrashes before me in the chair. As if he enjoyed locating the response, prolonging the removal of it from his person, more than proffering it. His face blurred and chewing itself but, Andy, this searching through your brain is enough. I say hi to everyone. If you must respond, wave or raise your eyes. He shakes and withdraws his hand; clutches a tape recorder.

Even with much orange matter falling from his hand, he knows better than I that the words on the tape recorder are Hi, Andy which he will use in lieu of his response, but not in my voice because his thoughts have obscured the phrase swaddled it sieved it. The finger’s wet streak pushes the play button and euphoric eyes that say, to lie to myself that by not speaking by giving you back your words I eschew rhetoric, semantics, etc.—this lie and its effect are akin to coitus.

And me: this is not hearing one’s voice and thinking, that’s doesn’t sound like me; that, in fact, is not me; even if that were me, that is me in thought not speech; but rather that is not me and I wish it were. What are the logistics of exclusively responding via submerged tape recorder? How much do I care that my wife will leave me that I will be ostracized when I entreat Andy to accompany me indefinitely? And will he shatter the tape recorder within the endocarp when he realizes my obsession, and succor himself instead with the physics of fragmented plastic and tape; coruscations smiling from the walls each time a shard pierces a particular mound of endosperm, as if the seeds therein had grown sweetly sharper. But to not speak or respond or laugh until I have done so to Andy alone and had him again extract the recorder so that I may play it for whomever. If not, how to inject my voice with seeds and pulp, muffle it with Andy’s hearing it. To speak only as someone’s brain absorbs your voice, reconfigures around it, falls through it.

Even for strangers, your first voice would have to be in their brains, quiet somewhere in a room and awaiting its next iteration; yet when it arrives the original is cloaked, sporting a false nose and mustache, and oddly cantankerous…

Leviticus Revisited

If its mind is burnt from the herd, it will offer a male without blemish
bring it to the entrance of the tent, it may be blasphemed

It shall lay its hands on the burnt mind, and atonement be made


kill the bull before, and Discourse's sons shall bring the blood and throw it against
the sides of the altar, the entrance to meeting

Then it shall flay the burnt mind and cut it into pieces,
and the sons of Discourse shall put fire on the altar


And Discourse's sons, the priests, shall arrange the pieces, the head, and the fat
but its entrails and legs, wash with water

burn all of it on the altar, as a burnt mind, a food mind with a pleasing aroma to the Lord

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Rachel Weiss & Jamie Brown-Apology

Dearest Jamie. My sincere apologizes for pointing out your faults to the class
in which we write. It was very wrong of me and it will not happen again.

hey Rach
no worries
apology accepted
but do you remember? i started this mess
an instigator at heart exploding with malice
i just might be the spawn of satan
it's true that
i deserve nothing but ask for something that may take ALL you have
can you ever forgive me?
i am so very sorry

Sweet Jamie, worry not. Let us not quarrel about who started this hurt that we
both share. Better to make amends and leave the past in the past. It is
impossible for me to fathom the words that came from my fingertips onto the
page, insisting that you were not worthy of praise and only scorne. How wrong
I have been. For you, Jamie, are one of the most sincere people that it has
ever been my priviledge to know. Thanks be to creative writing for allowing me
to meet you.

my darling Rachel
your fingertips compose truth
walk on to future in bare feet
my dog ate my goody two-shoes
humbled by such mercy
a sublime child of God you are
quite deserving of adoration
you possess an altruistic heart

It has become abundantly evident from our correspondence
that yours is a compassionate nature. Your character is one that makes you admired by
those that surround you. Dedicated to the passions that you have in life,
you are a model of what we all strive to be.

the worlds roots tangled in haughtiness
but you dear Rachel wear a quiet confidence
grounded in goodness
you carry the burden of others
work ethic dynamic
attitude inspiring
generosity patience and virtue
fall upon us in ticker-tape fashion

Always joy is seen on your face
even in the midst of adversity
a kind word you have for all
you relate to those around you
in sincerity
Jamie, never do you pull people down
you are always looking for a way to raise someone
to a position higher than yourself
and create strong ties with all those have helped
in your Jamie way
a wonderful way

i'm the Jamie way
you're the Rachel way
dare we say one way's the right way?
we're two ways one ending
but still just the same

Apology poem Andrea/Alex

Friend, I apologize for my earliest remark—it was so bad I cannot speak of this—I love your 64oz cup! I am always thirsty and I stare at your amazing container of beverage, longingly wishing for a sweet swig of cold liquid!

Alex, I congratulate you for your knowledge on corn—I am a mere city girl—I only know where to locate wifi! I want to know all there is about corn! I thank you for sharing your knowledge!

Alex, I congratulate you on your ability to make wedding cakes. Oh! How I wish you would make my wedding cake! How my day would be so much better!

Alex, I congratulate you on your wonderful blond hair! I am a boring brunette, boring and unsexy.

Lincoln, this fine city! How lucky you are to know Alexandrea Davis!

Feed corn! Thank you for being a part of Alex’s life for being a fine commodity!

Cheers

Andrea

Dearest Andrea,

I apologize for being so critical of your little red shoes. I just feel dreadful for telling you they remind me of a four-year-old. I despise the fact that you are able to wear such youthful shoes. I really do like them I wish I felt young enough to wear them myself.

I would also like to apologize for any quick - negative - retorts I gave when we spoke of Jeremiah earlier. I realize it was not nice of me to say your face is what keeps him away. Please forgive me.

Please do consider forgiving me for rhyming. I forgot that it reminds you too much of the late Robert Frost.

I also seek forgiveness for using curse words in my poetry occasionally. I do feel guilty about this.

Congratulations on being such a stupendous individual. You carry yourself well and have a super-cute angled hair cut. I love it, and am quite jealous of how full and thick your hair is.

Congratulations on your engagement. How wonderful it must feel to be loved and adored by someone, and how great it must feel to know you will soon spend the rest of your life with this person.

I would also like to congratulate your for your ability to make me laugh. Your writing is quite humorous at times and I love how it makes me smile.

Alexandrea


Friend!

Please forgive my crudeness--I grew up in a household where burps and swears were ok as long as our knees were closed.

Please forgive me for bringing up your love for J--It was a cheap shot--really a test of my non-wittiness. I am sure he thinks of you often especially since you are a lovely looking woman

Please forgive my quickness to assume your only writing ability is to rhyme and then to make it worse I had to insult your grammar--you know that I have horrible grammar in fact I often receive Bs b/c of this

Thank you for congratulating me on my engagement!
Thank you ants for being present as Alex greets you! Hello ants!
Thank you chocolate!
Thank you lampost for guiding Alex when the sun has set at 4pm!
Thank you pen!
Thank you water so Alex will not be dehydrated!
Thank you winter accessories for protecting Alex from the flu!
Thank you movie theaters for entertaining Alex! Please make your popcorn less expensive!
Thank you ice cubes for cooling the water Alex drinks!
Thank you shoes for covering Alex's feet!
Thank you frogs!
Thank you hair straightener!
Thank you midol!
Thank you anti-bacteria soap!
Thank you prophylactics!
Thank you mouse pad for making each click a smoother transition!
Thank you Ethics Training to ensure each of Alex's professors are ethical!
Thank you frozen dinner especially Lean Cuisine and Smart Ones


Cute little Andrea! Thank you for being so cute. Thank you for making me smile.

Please forgive me for saying it is your breath that keeps Jeremiah away. For although we don't sit close I believe your breath smells like that of roses, ripe peaches, or a sprig of fresh peppermint.

I would like to take a moment to thank you for all the things that make you - you!
Thank you for your beaming face that always holds a smile!
Thank you for your bubbly personality that creates a positive writing atmosphere!
Thank you for your comments and opinions they are always notable!
Thank you for being yourself, for teaching prisoners, for loving the world as you do. Thank you!

Sweet Alex!

Forgive me for cursing at you! I hate to swear—it was only for exaggeration.

I hope you live a life aware of wildflowers and baked pumpkin seeds
I hope you are able to cry w/o shame or embarrassment

Praise your future children may they have wonderful names beautiful thoughts may you reflect on funny stories about mispronouncing words or not being able to give up their blanket or toy may they live with imagination may they love junkfood and carrots and broccoli

Praise your future partner may s/he love you think you are cool compromise watch bad television with you go shopping for groceries with you rub your feet be a good lover tell bad jokes share clothes share blankets pillows may they protect you from bees wasps and other funny creatures that seem threatening may they hold you when you have nightmares may they walk with you play catch with you go fishing with you play cards, backgammon may they curl with you

Or if you do not have a future partner or child this is ok

Praise your kitties, cows, sheep, bears, tigers, puppies, blackbirds

Praise your ability to make cakes pies zucchini nut bread casserole rice (I could never make rice well until my mother gave me her steamer)

Praise your current and future gardens of lettuce cucumbers cabbage daffodils sunflowers(my grandmother Naijba had wild sunflowers in her yard for years and then my Baba died and then the sunflowers never came back)

Praise your shoes your wonderful shoes

Praise your future and current cars I hope they get good gas mileage they do not break down they keep you safe over snow rain

Praise your future and current friends may they be healthy kind beings who volunteer at YMCAs who do not hate women or men who do not use curse words who love you and will buy you ice cream when you are sad or happy or when it’s summer or when you have cramps

Praise your parents and siblings if you have siblings your grandparents aunts uncles cousins may they live long lives may they be healthy may they never pay too much for hospital bills may they never burn their fingers on ovens or stub their feet (I stub my feet toes fingers two three times a day)

Stu n' Stephen


Apologia

STU:
We meet again, Mr. Chamberlain
hung like Wilt the Stilt,
I guess marrying at 18 is fine where you live
but it’s unheard of in my part of the world
a ham sandwich for two would taste delicious right now
since we couldn’t build upon our previous collaboration



STEPHEN:
Stu, polite and scribe-willing,
how you sate yourself on the smoothie-skin
that rises to the top of your lid,
making the actual contents last until
evening when you thoughtfully reconstitute it
and victual your itinerant mouse,
the name of which I know sounds
as soft as your intermittent coughs,
not their timbre, but how you’ve hung them
on the contracted muscle of trains.
You’ve not dispatched him, the mouse, I know
because when you first saw him submerge
in the hamper, his tail shaped like your
expert capital G’s, you overturned the clothing and
rodent into the filling washer bowl and left the room.
Yet you did not shower as planned. Divested of clothing you
ran into the kitchen and dove your hand into the water,
and bringing the spent body to your face
you vivified him with not a please but a plangent you’re welcome.
Christened him Royal, for the blue tint of his detergent complexion
and its concomitant susurrations.




STU:
Perhaps in retrospect
in a classroom that consists of
a braless bohemian,
a basketball biker girl,
a thirty-something pervert,
a hippie stoner who never shows up,
a pink-haired free spirit,
a hirsute creature that answers to “Buddy,”
a dainty young thing whose last name sounds like the Swedish version of Lipitor,
a former 300-pound man,
a suicidal emo artisan,
three pious Christians,
two Jewish princesses,
and a partridge in a pear tree…
why would I ever want to insult you?
Dearest Emily,
I am so deeply sorry for my cheesy un-original comment about you being a Giant, clearly...you are a supermodel not a giant.
With deepest regrets & in hope for forgiveness,
Danielle
Oh sweet Danielle,
Your apology is sweet and unnecessary. It's I that should ask for your forgiveness. I apologize for being so blunt and criticizing you for your shortcomings.
With greatest apology,
Emily
Emily,
I am writing you again to apologize about my comment on your big feet. It is not your fault you were blessed with such large feet. They must come in handy for something; like kicking the shit out of guys, for example. And for that, my friend, I would love to have you on my side.
With regrets,
Danielle
Danielle,
Please do not feel bad about your critiques of me. I should be apologizing to you for criticizing your taste in music. There are so many forms of music to express oneself, rap should be appreciated as much as other genres. I am in no position to judge.
Sincerely apologetic,
Emily
To the supermodel, cowboy loving Emily,
In my previous apologies I have failed to mention that I do not think you are a hoe. Just because you lasso & ride things does not mean that it is done in a sexual manner. I also know that mechanical bull riding is looked at as talent, not as skanky. So I deeply regret calling you a "hoe" at all. Clearly, you are just a country girl who loves to have a good time.
Wishing you the best with your rides,
Danielle
To my petite and honorable friend, Danielle,
I thank you for your apologies. Once again, they are not warranted. It's I that is sorry for referring to your fashion choice in such a negative manner. I am also sorry for implying you are anything but an honorable and upstanding young woman with whom I am proud to know. Regretfully judgmental,
Emily
Emily,
You are right, I am an honorable & upstanding young woman. And you should be proud to know me. And I just want to confess that the reason for all my harsh comments is that I am jealous of your motorcycle-ridin', cowboy-boots-wearin‘, tall and slender type ways. I want, and desire to be as care free and fun-loving as you one day. My jealousy took control and my harsh comments were bitter because I wanted to be the one working in the country on a farm instead of working retail with old stuck up ladies. I wanted to be the one who went into a beauty pageant and was told that I am too "manly" but that it would be okay because I was proud of my identity and selflessness ways. I hope to grow & learn from your apologetic and forgiving ways.
Thanks for the understanding,
Danielle
Danielle,You are right. I do love riding my motorcycle and to wear my cowboy boots. It's who I am and I'm proud of that. Thank you for your understanding of my unique lifestyle. Please do not feel jealous, for you are a fun and beautiful person; inside and out. Be proud of who you are. We have exchanged harsh words. I know I am sorry for what I've said. We are both proud women that are each unique. In understanding that, we will become stronger and will hopefully, one day, be friends.
With all best wishes in your bright future,
Emily

Deep Breath

deep breath

Alissa...

I wanted to say,
the day you were born,
your mother looked at you
and came to life;

that like you said,
all she wished
for you was kindness.

A kindness that could
penetrate,a kindness
that could transform us.

If only kindness was
not so hard, as the grimace
and grin always enmesh

If only families smiling truth
in pictures could hold that pose
Nor would your father’s lips wail

for loss, the loss of song, the loss of breath,
The Loss of the dream of your mother
I am sorry

Sorry I said that I slept with your sister. Cala
and you did not deserve to lose your imagination.
I think you two never lost it really,

it just went underground. Aliza still hides there
in the rocks, they are inside of you, swirling like
a river, not yet ready to meet the sea.

Mr Pausz, cradled you as a baby, then
you were broadened out into your bone

And to see the millions of trilobites,
and tully monsters
Slithering up the rocks past the

Many layers eddying on this pointless
and profound thought river
You were placed into, at

the top of the ladder, sidewise,
becomes a link,
And I think I have more evolving to do.

Yes, we do have eternity
The maelstrom of leaves coming down,
want us to go with them.

But we have to wait. The world
always calls us to gravel, and further
more to crumple up and be. But I think

we are sitting here, ruminating
over hot tea. The stone moving
slow, carving though the distance

yet being molded. somehow, the sun’s
warmth comes in and tells us
we are not just open books, nor liars,

but we are drawings on rocks,
spontaneous: A wingspan of chaos.
*

andy thank you for using your name time
with breathing learning into your life
for the struggle you lost through
we all churn inside your suggestions

andy thank you against your honesty
for the sorryness please accept
by the idea hint of redheads being bozo
my mother would not be proud

andrew thank you with your tolerance
for people and leaves of change
by being in church with love
hearings of God's word, remaining

andrew thank you over Nevada and back
with the words you wrote that rushed
me, for apologizing for my sister
under affirming craziness life ensues

andrew clark thank you with your religion
twelve stepping towards sincerity, serenity
for the nonshake within your voice
the spirit beneath your intentions

andrew clark thank you to survive stressful stats
in their ever growing ant hill
mounting passed all those rejections
from an entity, beautiful and unyielding

andrew clark hall thank you for shining like you
I too keep falling for the same
old disappearing act
ever rolling with the magic of change

and above all
andrew clark hall thank you at the kindness you unpack
pellets of humor and helpfulness
all by meaning of the education one
falls in love with slowly, faithfully
*

Alissa,Suppose gravity not withstanding
we could walk off the flat earth-
would we fall or rise
become birds and feather
We raise children to the pedestal
and then they dive off the platform
or perhaps they are pirates withdrawing
the plank or aliens preparing to invade us
and if we are ubermensch
floating about in primordial stew,
What then? ...Alissa,
I also apologize for calling you
a festering sore. That was lame
of me we are all festering
sores, wounded from the beauty
of nothingness. I am a fool.

*

andy can you please steam up all
the thank you greetings cards
in the world in all languages
accept them on behalf of all explorers

if I had one hour to ache just like
a woman, find something tangible
something real true in the dark
I would take it back
give anything to consult barbara and claude

even bob dylan would say you’ve
walked down enough roads
to call you a man, how could I or a
lakota chief suggest otherwise

my speaking of a craziness in you
was unthinkable
I am crazy, dandelions are crazy
the moon and love, beauty and airplanes
we’re all crazy,

the solitary category alone could kill you
you deserve so much better andy

if I could take a deep breath like you said
disclose this book with you
perhaps I might refresh your river
you imagined for me
open it page by word, share
like you so admirably

praise be the teacher, andy clark hall
how he lets life come
so agreeably with struggle
leaning into pleasure, leaning into pain
unlocking the chest of uncertainty to

a space where kites can fly
as they catch the wind so gracefully
allow us to go where
we are meant
seeing the poetry in each ordinary day


Alissa,

You are everyone’s sunshine,
no one could take you away

for ever, unless you wanted to.
Tears remind us that we are water.

I thank you for reminding me to be water
You have made my Mackinaw flow

I am grateful for the changes yet to come
The cold that is descending upon us

I am grateful for the barren trees, the autumns
That remind us of nature’s perfect chaos

I am grateful for the humbug of our
Sometimes humdrum existence

I am grateful for my fuck-ups;
and you, you have shown me

A passage into the world, a porthole
we view this chasmous universe,

We are journeying out, draining
inward at the same time. Star rats, in search

of immortal cheese, or a wormhole to
the next dimension. Blessed are we all,

and the cheese too, a mold of milkholes,
to peer into substance, lovingly.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Kitty likes to smell men's shoes


Nataliewood meow meows Happy Birthday Alissa and Jamie.

Early birthday to Andy--

and Good Vibes to Eng 347.


A Decision in the Case of Allard v. Chamberlain (2007)

O Mr. Chamberlain,
your cousin Richard is a far better actor
a premature elder statesman
of the Gamecock variety
wishing to meet Piggles
when the ham is on your mirror
soldier of poetry, champion of hybridism
send my regards to your child bride

You’re welcome, Stu:
I’d call you an epigone
but you ape Bukowski
and, well, when Capote
said Kerouac was typing,
Bukowski was drinking
and then puking.
You licked the vomit
from his bare feet,
from between his toes
like a soup strainer,
and called it love.
But—you’re more of a
thick-soup guy, right?

painting poem so uninspired--comments helpful


Dear Tsunami Generation,

Once, when I was a rainbow and slept next to a unicorn, I saw you on the beach with a glad bag in your hand. I was practicing my kind thoughts. I spoke to you: Hello Tsunami Generation! Have a great day, whatever that means to you! I heart you I hear you.

When I was a bear I ate fish because that is what bears are supposed to do. When I was an elephant I was afraid of mice because that is what elephants are supposed to be afraid of.


But, I want to be a part of your team. I want to help Oprah I want to glorify a thievery of books.
I want to refill ice cubes I want to say phrases like I am on the outside looking in.

But you know that already.
I can’t remember what type of Indians wear saris. I can’t remember
the last time
I awoke next to a unicorn.

Tsunami Generation,
here is my dowry:
a half-moon of Pacific
ocean, a switchboard
of faces waiting to
be connected—

Response to Lamar Peterson Paiting

Inside the velvet rope

1
a diligent chupacabra exercises his
lidless dark robbed death

2
sideshow “AMERICANA” dazzles
neglected/maniacal youth like
fickle fleeting concepts of light to a moth

3

the sky laughs cherubs
unable to grasp the looming
horror behind existence

4
they all have highly individualized concepts of reality, but the music helps control the fear

translation

Translation of Charles Baudelaire’s L’Homme et la mer

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âmeDans le déroulement infini de sa lame,Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeurSe distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeurAu bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrablesQue vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

Man free, always you cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
in the unrolling infinity of its wave,
and your spirit isn’t a gulf less bitter.

You please yourself to plunge within your image;
you embrace it with eyes and arms, and your heart
is separated sometimes from its clean rumor
By the noise of this complaint unconquerable and wild.

You are all the two dark and discreet:
Man, no one has sounded the bottom of your abyss;
O sea, no one knows your wealth intimate,
so much you are jealous to keep your secrets!

And yet there are centuries innumerable
that you battle each other without pity or remorse,
so you like slaughter and death,
O wrestlers eternal, o brothers implacable!

I haven't gone to sleep yet, so for me it's still Wednesday...

So I found this book in the library called Letters to Five Artists in which poet John Wain (not to be confused with the cowboy with a homophonic name) writes letters (poems) to different artists. The artists include two visual artists, a musician, and two poets. Wain's poems vary drastically in style--likely due to his appropriate responses to each individual artist. I like the concept of writing to someone whose work you admire, because in doing so you are collaborating with their art. While he isn't the greatest poet, I think we can benefit from his METHOD of collaboration.

Here's an excerpt from his poem "Moondust" for Victor Neep, painter and metal worker:

old mangles
old gas cookers, limbs
of bicycles that died of old age
rest by the shifting sea, or on the mountain
content and motionless
bathed in that light
content to have arrived:
content to be, what all those wheeling years
they were becoming:
sentinels of time and loneliness,
emblems of all that is unreachable

Because she asks no questions, because her face
Holds light and only light, calm-spreading, free
Of all those interrogatives that hold us
Hot-tempered captives when the sun climbs high:
Because she is a disc of visual silence
Dramatic only in her suddenness
When breaking from the clouds, she throws her silver
On grass, on waves that rake the waves of shingle,
On rock and waterfall and moving sheep
So that all objects cast contented shadows,
Not like the shadows of day, not question marks
Crossing each gesture with a grimace of doubt.
The moon's shadows are of darkness only,
fulfilled, contained, an experience of shape.

She holds our violence in a steady frame
burnished amid pure darkness. At Stonehenge,
the victim died when dawn lit up the sky,
splashing the stone with fire that sang, Destroy.

Jamie Brown & Rachel Weiss Insulting Each Other

Rachel Weiss
did you want a prize for such perfection?
always arriving to class first
again again and oh my gawd AGAIN
such time could be spent buying a flattering blouse
no wait! you'd rather wear that fugly old t-shirt


A woman’s hand is a model of beauty and grace, to be kept soft and
jeweled. This your hands will never be for they possess nails bitten to
the quick,
ragged edges at fingertips.
You are what you eat, or so goes the popular adage. Your make-up is one of
junk, chips and pizza.
A disregard for appearance is evident in a disregard for the clothes you wear
and wear and wear.


and where is your regard?
wrapped around your wrist?
ticking a vain rhythm
stare at that effing clock one more effing time
and i'll tear that effing Fossil from your effing wrist and return it to the effing store
your wastefulness makes me twitch
you write scribble scratch re-write JUST WRITE
by the time you make that teeny tiny decision, the earth will have no trees
all chopped down for delicious gum
and the gum is gone too
SAD
my deprived children shall never experience shade or a piece gum
because Rachel Weiss chewed it ALL gone


It is important for one to have respect. Respect for people and respect for things.
You have neither, sketching in class.
Here you make the authority voice sound far away and destroy materials and waste ink (or lead).
A mind like yours cannot be contained and kept focused long enough to hear a person out.
Children are led down a hall with their hands behind their backs. As a child I assume you could not complete this task. Causing distractions and disruptions, you move and fidget the entire length of class. And what good does it do you?

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Sea Shells in White (Extant Collabo.)

ocean waves crest
tumble into foam . . .
a shorebird stares

sea shells in white enthroned
beckon the traveler

gift necklace
and matching earrings
first dance

fond memories . . .
lady-in-waiting

she wraps her sweater
tighter to her body
Hunter's moon

the fawn cries out
the wind responds

crimson leaves
in the chilly air
a young man frowns

resolutions
Christmas cactus about to bloom

anxious children
with sleepy eyes
stolen kisses under prickly boughs

tryst on Whistler Mountain
hard-packed snow trails

an ivory blanket
covers the mountain
downhill racer's paradise

shadow-chasing
night skiers

another frost
pots on the porch
with flattened runners

brightly adorned barbless hook
the passing steelhead

`foot-loose
and fancy-free'
shopping spree

freckled face & pony-tails
. . . top shelf out of reach

overhanging
forsythia --
golden stars

risen Saviour ...
bells, rejoicing


by Francine Porad and Arthur Ramos

This collaboration was done in 1993. I just really enjoyed how this poem flowed. A lot of the words they used were nice and flowed together nicely.

The Leiden Hymns (My Version)

God of creation, creator of all

drops the chains off of those who suffer

and needs no tool to heal those who languish with disease

He is the knowledgeable God

God of all knowing

my vision becomes transparent

after what seemed like an everlasting fog

he opens his true nature to me

God to whom I am a child

to whom we are all a child

and as a mother who loves her children

you love and have loved yours

Your loving kindness seeps through

like the sweat of my pores

you are forgiving and have mercy on me

in the times when darkness reveals itself

and when I fall into the pits of darkness

Your ears are more perked then the thorns

you hear my thoughts to the highest volume

our cries are never left unheard

our cries are never left unanswered

your presence is felt immediately in times of woe

Your wings expand across the earth

a symbol of your protection to us whom you love

Powerless becomes forces against you

when we call your name

When fear comes to swallow our minds

you shut its mouth instantly at the thought of your might

Rescuer, Provider, Savior is what you are nothing less

For you are a God of mercy with intentions to only heal

You are good to those who acknowledge you

those who raise their voices out to the heavens

who praise your mighty works

When embraced by the human heart

a feeling of abundance flows

nothing else is needed

You are an advocate to everything good and pure

for you are pure and can only accept what is good

God who is right and can never truly be seen as

wrong.


The prayer poem that was due last week. Im guessing I should have posted it. This is my version of the Egyptian Leiden Hymn poem.

Mylka & Buddy's Flyting Poem Collabo.

Your very presence is like a rusty needle sliding slowly under my thumbnail

while one look upon your bloodcurdling face causes my heart to bleed vermins

fitting that should equate your heart with a rat

thoughts of you that walk across my mind calamitously cracks each nerve

nerves-impusles-feelings, I wasn't aware such things dwelled in dirt

myself, dirt? but it is such an apt understatement for your crippling inertness

Speak not of things you do not and cannot understand, child.

children hold more competence in their crayon tips than you in the entirety of your anatomy

perhaps I should find a coloring book, it has to be more engaging than you

while you are at it, find a substance sufficient to dilute your mephitic aroma

It’s your pollution that consumes me, bitter and biting to the last

Teeth nashing?devil screaming?pain howling?oh,im sorry, you were talking

--not to you, that much at least we can agree is done

when I came upon you, earth’s most repulsive creation, you longed to speak

--and now we are through, you to me, are a dead nothingness

yet you will live on as a faux bandit in heels, unsure of your own nebulous existence

extant collaborative project

Here is another place to find some more collaborative work of Lynn Hejinian and Emilie Clark. It is really interesting to look at the collaborations between art and poetry in light of our upcoming project.

people.mills.edu/jspahr/chain/clarkhejinian.pdf

flyting with Christephen

Christina, you pop-culture drunk Mary Poppins,
batting your eyes at wealth and beauty
your legs spread under invisible neon lights––
please close your robot-Revlon lips
and silence your dumbed-down sickening musical.

Stephen, you sub-culture slut Edward Scissorhands,
rolling your eyes at malls and meat-eaters
covered in cat hair and flea-market kitsch––
your life is the ambient noise of trains and growling stomachs
droning on amateur college radio.

Maybe you should drop out of poetry class and, for once,
become competent at something––
like writing girly cursive cliffs notes
to your yawn of an autobiography, saturated
with Nutra-Sweet jingles and after-school-special dilettante rambling.

I should. So you can write this poem to and from your idiotic self
and perpetuate your self-obsessed monologue of imagined importance.

Congratulations! Even your insults are sub-par; at least you’re consistent!
Maybe you could rehearse them in your spastic, overdramatic voice
in your messy-ass room with a closet-full of overpriced sweatshop clothes
and six unread books, you unending afterthought of self-involved contradictions.

It took you eighteen minutes to come up with that? You could do better,
you unending wreck of Indians in a glass head, acid tripping,
kung-fu gripping electromagnetic brainwave frequencies,
chattering cavities and phantom track marks.

Yeah, eighteen minutes is a long time. Sorry,
I kept getting distracted by your predictable board-game
of regurgitated Anglo-Saxon beauty myth––
you juvenile derivative fairy tale on legs.
Maybe you should reapply eyeliner; trace over
your big vacant monochromatic stare on your
faux animé-doll-eyes reflected in the aftermarket mirror
of your German ancestry,
you neon-pink bundle of mermaid insecurity.

And you, my malnourished Prince Charming
in need of a shave and a decent night’s sleep,
pacing the corridors, contemplating a toaster in the moat—
try getting dressed with the lights on, for once.
I hope you find in me
something you lack in yourself,
that you add it to your inventory of projection slides
in your show for the oblivious masses.

Is that directed at me, or your father?—
You should really discuss these issues with a therapist,
you knotted twine-ball of unresolved infantile neurosis.

Nice pre-packaged line that failed to deliver,
you rapid boiling pot of self-admiration.
You probably fuck to your own goddamned music
and recite your own poetry as you come.

Safe Sandwiches

there is a subway
in Hammond, IN
that is
set up like a currency exchange
yell
mustard, mayo, lettuce, tomatoes
through that small slit of hole
motion a fist as if you were shaking pepper
for your mac and cheese at nightfill
and the shaky spices too please
yeah, the spices
continuing with the hand motion
they keep tuna hostage
until you pay up
slip the money thru the metal cup
let the change rattle resonant
in exchange,
out comes the six inch
thru the mini revolving door
a portal (of sorts)
take your wheat bread and bolt
wondering throughout
if the divider is bulletproof

Fallen Hero

And God saw everything that he made, and behold, it was very good?

not a bird
not a plane
just a mortal descending
bruising the dirt
superman QUIT
hung his cape up with the rest
thirsty veins lust the needle
hands append to metal arms
and liquor lips shine from leftover crumpled cash
no shoes no shirt no service
love n’ service for naked poverty?
NO
just sex n’ service for sleazy strippers
tap that
serviced oh so good and hard
and superman just stands there crying in an open landfill

Charles Reznikoff’s Lost Work, "Victory Auto Wreckers"

I approached my car
and the door fell off–
a husky baritone bellows,
“That old car might be worth money”
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand
“for a quote”

Everything turns blue
and an address appears:
“Victory will tow
no matter what condition your car is in,”
seven days a week–
and there might be cash on the spot,
the voice gives us the option
of fixing up the car with used parts,

An image of an automobile graveyard
ten acres, the voice claims –
starters, transmissions, batteries
“-for all types of cars”
blue again
seven-ten East Green in Bensonville,
"-near O’Hare"
six-three-O
eight-six-O
two thousand.

eXTANT cOLLABORATIVE

INKSMITH

Werner Reichhold
Jane Reichhold

A Cut-up Collage of Printed Phrases
May 4-5, 1991

Unwind to the music
self priming pump
opens us up

brain rescue throw rope
without damaging fine hand washables

12 volt
pajamas for men
latest fashion

wet suit rentals
make mom proud by saving whales

tides
for the diver
baked chicken breast

pay-per-view
so you don't spear your spouse

Jerry can fix it!
all year long...like she is
oversized

rollover construction
so your feet stay dry and comfortable

Chemical Mace
brain tuner experiences
instant canopy

inflatable gorilla
four feet big

double breasted knit suit
growing concern nursery
dining out

watermelon
light. lighter. lightest.

jungle quality
stainless steel lawn
next to the skin

never have to empty
moving hats

skin and bones
bushwacking
women's jeans

some guys get all the breaks
processed to remove the "itch"

rosewood handles
secret pleasure
in blissful privacy

sunglasses
tummy and ease your aching back

releasing sex
...and folds compactly into
its own handy pouch

mix butterflies and bugs in
panties constructed without elastic legs

paradise store?
woodcutter's child within
terrain so new

I want to see my money go up in smoke!
beneath the tent volcanoes erupt

keep your mate in the dark
dragons sleeping
so you want to fly

swim laps to music, so you don't drown of boredom
if you deserve breakfast in bed let them know

blues in oils
united artists
at the pond


a prePONDerance of
time through hairspray and zinc

magnetic tool holder
keep your Roman arc
very deeply

long reach lighter hands free head lamp
splash sprinkle and snow-proof

more new moon
scratch remover
eliminates the blind spot

the primary layer for women
lifetime screwdrivers

tick the spider jumps
new thrills for pretty woman
sleeping with the enemy

"Holy War"
queen's trainer atop the sport of kings

it's raining
lizard earrings
bell born

spring sea fever
yellow silk

meeting with a rare
black oak
space maze

lightning
hand-formed guide

Extant Collaborative Project

A book entitled "A Couple of Ways of Doing Something" has photographs by well-known photographer Chuck Close and accompanying poems by New York School poet Bob Holman.

This book is kind of weird/interesting because the photographs are all of Close's group of artist friends, some of whom are very well known names.

It' s a provocative idea for a book, one that seems a little snobbish(?) to me, but it also makes me want to read it and look at it, which is a good sign.

We have this book at Milner if you wanted to check it out. (Well, not now you can't, because I have it.)

Cheers to art and poetry!

An Attempt to Insult

Standing here, in planet normal I scream above; How’s the weather, Giant?
Obviously originality is a key concept of your personality, in all honesty it is the same as down there.
The rain clouds are forming above, Giant, will you let me know when to pull out my umbrella?Sure, Will you reach mine for me, I just dropped it and you’re closer to the ground.
While I’m picking it up I notice your clown…I mean Cowboy boots, where’s the ho-down at?
You can go ask one of your rap stars, they seem to know where to find “da hoes.”
Of course my rap stars know where “da hoes” at, that’s why they avoid country bar mechanical bull riding nights.
That’s good, it’s better for business if they do their “riding” elsewhere.At least they’re discrete when they “ride” things, you cowgirls are all the same; horses bulls, pigs, anything and everything you find someway to lasso & ride.
Oh yes, mini skirts revealing a lil’ bit of ass along with some stiletto’s is always discrete. Walk those Manolo Blahnik’s back to the street corner to continue with those “discrete” actions.
I’ll go to the corners & hitch a ride in a pick-up truck with hay, animals, and all the other country saps they pick up on the way, so we can hang out sometime.
I’d love to hangout with you, although an honest day’s work and all that fresh air may not agree with you.
If you call shoveling up animal shit & feeding them hay an honest days work, I think I’ll pass.It's about the same shoveling some slop to customers at a resaurant and cleaning up after they leave. But hey, at least they leave a $3 tip.

Collaborative Project Extant

Forche, Carolyn. Ed. Against Forgetting:Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness. New York: Norton, 1993.

If you liked the Reznikoff book, this one will give you a taste of more poetry born of horrific realities. What is interesting about this anthology is that it crosses the spectrum from the genocide in Turkish Armenia to the more recent student uprising in China during the 1980s. Most of the poems are translations and are as true as can be. I think there is a better translation of Paul Celan's Death Fugue by John Feltstiner. The first stanza is as follows:

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped
a man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair
Marguerite
He writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
He whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us strike up and play for the dance

my painting orgasm

squint

The universe is
expanding and accelerating
at a rate faster than it takes
for an empire state building
to fall away
from a penny.
Gravity is gravy
with it
in it.

Evolution is not rocket science

God may have created the universe
but if s/he/it did, he was jacking off
on James Dobson
while spanking him
simultaneously.

My cat called me a liberal
and meowed at me while I
lay in the bathtub. She was
afraid I would get sucked down
into the wormhole and
disintegrate thus
losing her companion
forever

or maybe she just wanted some food.

Sometimes stars shine so dimly
you can barely see them
until you die.

My mother told me I was one of those stars
but she didn't tell me I was so far away.

Alissa and Andy Epistolate

1
Alissa,

You are a carbuncle on the pedestal of the gods, your hairtangles the roots of Medusa's oblongota grippingly and trips the wires of heart valves in bus stop motherheads eternal. You caused the nuclear war that destroyed Venus, and then you unleashed devastation on Earth. And you smell like grandma's ricottacheese at a Mets game.

Love,
Andy

2

Andy,

You are a jack o lantern on Christmas night - a nice thought,but out of place. You are a lice nit invading the hair shaft of a five year old that picks his nose and plays tag with a bayonet all the while itching his precious infested locks. Plus, you're a Mets fan.
And you probably voted for Bush.
Love,
Alissa

3

Amissa Venereal,

ow, that hurt. How did you know that I picked my nose, have liceand voted for Bush? You've been spying on me!!!!!! While I am naked and urinating all over your bed?... And I bet you've been eating Raw Garlic and unsweetened Baking Chocolate while doing it. Not only that, but you also have a birthmark the size of Russia on your left eyelid. Did you know I could turn you in for being a spy? On top of that, you like Oasis,and you mistake Patti Smith for Patti Hearst. You caused the Big Bang toreverse upon itself.

Love,
Andy

4

Oh yeah? You munch on Pomeranian puppies and newborn bunnies for breakfast and wash it down with ladybugs you mix in the blender. Your brain is just a pimple and it popped whiteyellow puss all inside that cranium. The millisecond you eye your surroundings with no one, you bring your foot to your chapped lips and savor toenails for dessert. And I didn't want to be the one to say it, but you smell like the Easter egg on top of the ceiling fan my sister didn't find till Independence Day. And your socks don't match.

kindly,
alissa

5

Agreed, after making love to your sister, your would-have, could-havebeen nephew was left on the ceiling fan. That being said, making love tohens has never been my forte. As for you, you drove me to drink... after30 years of sobriety. THen you drove me to another 12 step meeting tocomplain about you. When I say the Lord's Prayer, I say, "and forgive us ourAlissas, as we forgive those who Alissa against us..." I saw youspreadin' the red at homecoming. I know you've been fantasizing about ReggieRedbird... Come on now... what is this poultry fetish you have?

with feathers,

Andy

6

Maybe if you didn't brush your teeth with tree branches, or dance like dolly parton with her boobs caught fire, or smile like a drunken monster strung out from scaring children, I wouldn't have sinned you to the bottle.Wow, thirty years, huh? That makes you 50, right? You've been driving women to insanity with your fastidious ways long before I was in driver's ed. And by the way, the alleged relationship you mentioned regarding Reggie and tis true, at least he knows the simple difference between a hen and a cock: clearly where you are lacking.

fondly,
alissa

7

AV,

What does my gender have anything to do with it? I believe you are sexist... just because I don't have a cock, a big reggie redbird rooster roasting on a spit, basted in honey and fennel, ready to wash down with mounds of oats and goblets of ale, doesn't mean I have no feelings? What does this say about your humanity? I think you have lost it. You are hitler. You are eva braun hitler... you are eva braun hitler presley. You are Elvis. My how you've decomposed!

8

Your bank thinks you're a prostitute from that boyish charm and dollar bill deposits. I think you are a communist; you are fidel on his deathbed with a liver rotting, don't you dare go to Miami. Your beard is wilting into a million fallen coarse hairs on the floor that you make your slaves sweep up. You are a poodle, a skank, an egghead, a masshole and you're such a dumb blonde. Just because you're a sissy and a shoobie doesn't mean I'm a sexist who loves your banana hat. And as the Lakota chief said last night in the dim firestand, and I quote, "Andy Hall is quite the near woman" and proceeded to describe your face as similar to squirrel poop.

love,
alissa

9

AV,

You have messed up this assignment. GG will be furious with you. He might even choose to become a fundamentalist Christian thanks to you, but not only that... ISU will have to close down. And you will be used as an example for adolescents contemplating suicide. They will see what you've done and realize they don't have it so bad and opt to live. I guess you can do something right by accident and you are a fjnord. Wait. I forgot you're "special" we were told to give you room and training pants. You were breastfed till age 12 by your father... your mother looked at you and died. Your father went to hell to retrieve her and she wouldn't come. She was making out with Mephistopheles. Alissa Veenstra, forgive me for being so insensitive to someone as misfortunate as you. You couldn't help it. Even Barbie looked at you and said "that girl needs to gain some weight." BTW, I know you "love" me.

Andy

10

Little andy,

Barbie happens to be a friend of mine, her middle name is Millicent and she told me last year your valentine was the cockroach that lives below your floorboard and sings you to dream at night. Your lungs are like the third floor of Stevenson. Bozo called, he wants his wig back for the final grand march. GG told me the Poetry for Dummies book was written for you. And I heard from your father that you wash your body with coffee and mud from the Amazon and rinse it off with dragon spit. I saw you yesterday in the quad, you were jumping in a pile of leaves and wildly yelling “Oh Persephone, come to planet Earth to claim me!” So forgive me for not saying hello Andy, but the voices in your head told me not to. That reminds me, I bumped into your doctor the other day and he told me about your personality disorder. I just want to say, it was a pleasure collaborating with each and every one of you.

“love” always,
alissa

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Collaboration Research 4

Today's collaboration research comes from William Bonilla and Amber V. Moonstone. The two authors chose to collaborate with a painting by Sue Dowe.

William Bonilla was born in New York, New York and is a reitred police officer from the NYPD. His influences include Yates, Poe, Emerson, Homer, and Willie Nelson. Amber V. Moonstone was born in New Britian, Connecticut. She is currently compiling her first book of poetry entitled "Echoes from the Sea" to be published in spring 2008.

I discovered these authors and their work at authorsden.com. I am unsure as to how the authors went about writing this poem; however, I would say it is possible that they collaborated via Internet. Feel free to take a look and see what you think.

Click here

Below, is the painting by Sue Dowe, along with the collaboration poem by William Bonilla and Amber V. Moonstone.





At The Gates Of Ecstasy

William
~*~
I visualize you like a dream
Undreamed
You stare at me sensuously
Eyes interlock
In passionate desires
With the wonderment of love.

First words slowly sail
Through the air
Carried on the wings
Of Pegasus.

Cupid aims a bulls eye
The arrow marked it’s target
Passion stir
Where there was once
A broken heart.

You mended my heart
Nursed my soul
Nourished my passionate desires
At The Gates Of Ecstasy.

Amber
~*~

The Gates await your arrival
like a lover awaits her soldier
The battle has ended
you have surrendered
to my passionate call.

Only seeing black and white
for my passionate manly knight.
You are not in darkness any longer,
My light radiated through your solitude.

Never again shall you dwell in stagnant wonder
Only flying toward me in splendid thunder.
You are no longer lost or alone,
surrender is so sweet a tone.

Words whispered, will never be forgotten
when our passion re-unites there
at the gates of our ecstasy!

Collaborate Poem

Andrei Codrescu, Laura Rosenthal, Mark Spitzer and Robin Becker

throbbing gristle

I'm pro-clam
pro-tuber
O Pro Tubular comet raise your sungod blone.
Poets move away
from genitals. Move toward
the seed that shudders a velocity that
will achieve NADA

(margin release should never be taught to anyone under 60
'cause then they cut you off
& capitalize on every return
suckling with your gray matter)

nada
don't
do it

move beyond that female hat-stink brat
smell sweet cosmos leaning into nothing
as gaseous and deep in camp
and like the smell of children kill
breathing through the swirl of mice
lopez was a wolf his wolverine was stoned

the avocado was an orphan of the Manatee of Glove
the hair of pearlflesh was the rape of Ophelia in bloom
succulent ripple roseflesh lunch

she who gorges gorgeously
will be first in line for organ donation
her name is Cindy Crawford
I think.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Another Lorca Translation

Malagueña
Federico Garcia Lorca

La muerte
entra y sale
de la taberna.

Pasan caballos negros
y gente siniestra
por los hondos caminos
de la guitarra.


Y hay un olor a sal
y a sangre de hembra,
en los nardos febriles
de la marina.


La muerte
entra y sale
y sale y entra
la muerte
de la taberna.

Malagueña

Death
comes and goes
from the tavern

Passing along the deep
paths of the guitar are
midnight horses
and sinister personas

There is the smell
of brine and the blood
of female comrades
in the sickly ferns of the
shipyard

Death
comes and goes
goes and comes
from the tavern

Prayerishthing

(Qur’an - 2:286 - al baqarah)

Allah! We will err and forget,

Damn us not


Jesus! We cannot take what came before,

again


Vishnu! We are not strong,
let our problems echo this


erase our misdeeds, forgive all and
take mercy-you protect us all


help us stand for truth

Buddy