Monday, November 23, 2009

E.E. Cummings poem

I had lunch with an older gentleman that recommended E. E. Cummings. I found one I liked:
since feeling is first... (VII) by E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry-
the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other;
then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Friends of poetry

LINDSEY BABCOCK

Word Count Total: 5,240
Word Count Prologue: 910

PROLOGUE
A poet turns to find
another poet shrieking
at his big toe.
Lifting their enormous
jaws and Tyrannosaurus
Rex grin a roarrr and
their battle begins.
Viktor Shklovsky yelps
Art as Technique or
Device, I am and will
forever be right you
doo doo head ignoramus
idiot! The purpose of this
is to make the stone,
stony again and
serrrrriously
look at all of these
stones!"
Walt Whitman growls stomping
his horse feet neighing
"Poo poo on you fool.
Poems are created by a
poet and poets have to
remember a shit load
of features to be
considered great!
They have to be transcendent,
new, indirect, and not
descriptive or epic.
Leaves of Grass, get it?
Me either!"
Watching in the stands
as Schlovsky and Whitman
are about to tag in
the next two poets
yelling blah
blah yipping
pulling hair
chapped lips
rivers were the first
roads
muscox, animals
paint, banana
not routine speech
BUT
David Antin is an
author of "talk
poetry"
maybe it is better
to not know or
answer the
question
having bad thoughts
affects
me, you
you, who
you, me
universe
the spirit as an
antelope affecting
the leaking body
blood, snot, puke, poop
as much as
the mind
Gorilla minds, big
sick minds can make
their big bodies
sick
Tarzan and Jane
speed dial four
signal and noise
the soul knows
a poet knows
the Indian culture
relates the souls of
objects
flowers
toe nails
pimples
with that of people
maybe a hot ass
time travel
Germany
soul in the voice and
language of people
not
objects
flowers
toe nails
pimples
mind travel
Whitman
"I DO NOT BELIEVE OR
USE THE CHRISTIAN
CONCEPTION OF SOUL
but I do not throw it
out either."
Affect style like a
chick flick or song
by Taylor Swift
no fear, jealousy or
envy, love what
is, love the truth
fondness
do not be overly
cautious. Do you hear
Teardrops on my Guitar?
Equanimity, calm
generosity with
moralization.
Praise, faith, helpfulness
be positive, composed and
never discouraged.
Courteney Cox says
to Jennifer Aniston.
connection between I and
you
starts with smelling, burping,
kissing
asks questions and
discusses
now, now
now
like the naked men
across the road in
a bird bath bathing
a woman
watching animals.
Not shying away from
anything.
What behaved well in the
past or behaves well
today
is not such a wonder
The wonder is always and
always how there
can be a
mean man or
infidel.
loose words
loose lips
body electric
we know this
stuff, but need to be reminded.
sum up
read work
shift work
the plumber is here to
fix your sink
you bald head
but first you have to go to sleep
underneath your
swimming pool and
sing a song
to me about
SODA
soda soda
To learn and keep
any information in
your noggin or
junk in the trunk
be kind, warm-
hearted generous
things
our energy will
increase
we will become
smarter and
we might find a few
more people
staring
at our
asses.
"Simmering, simmering,
simmering, and
Emerson brought
me to a boil"
squawked Whitman
TAG
in rolls
Mikhail Bakhtin
"To not be against
official culture is
delightfully dumb!"
Apes are more likely to
talk about the
here and now
Birds have many
styles Lions have
many voices.
With WWF
painted across his
chest he dramatically
tags Whitman back
in.
"No clown will make
assumptions about the
size of my
foot or judge my
bozo buckets until they
get to know my circus.
And I will do the
same of them."
A good clown is
easy to identify by the
expressions
on his face
The way a clown
dresses does
not
reveal the
quality of them.
A nice suit and wig on a
stuck up
clown does not
hide his
rudeness.
A tattered suit and wig on a
good clown does
not cover his
greatness.
By seeing the way the
striped lions
skinny elephants and
talking dogs admire a
clown
it is clear how wonderful
he is without needing to
know him."
The body odor of men and
women often will
please the soul
poe
in
re
make the globe
re
enchant the world
re
newal of the antelope
at my temple
dances a tiny man
speaking in my
ear
making me yell
BOOB
ASS
COCK
A DOODLE DOO.
Logic is a man
knocking on your
door for a date
but wait
...
stay away
from the
GHB
this date rape
drug
will getcha!
And get your
date a little
something
too
Twenty four
hours later
you twist and
shout and
say
Where did you
hide it
it is huge lets
open it
I left it here for a
reason
you pull some
handles and
you will win
every time.
Not being able to
do it for so
long
makes you understand
how much
fun
it is.
he is.
she is.
they are.
To knock off all
of your top scores
hogging the
sky
causes problems
when trying to
spit out
chocolate bars
to water the
lilies.
Brownies are
preferred by flowers
and cake by
bushes but
the sky can cause
destruction to those
that are
ungrateful.
So let me start
by introducing myself
the radio
Do you want
me
to show you
my
moves or tell.
I lull
I creep
I purr and
sing.
With me by your
side
you
are
your
own best
company.
People who
do not know what
I mean
have never attempted
to try.
With the claw away
from the screen
if you had to grope
anything
anyone
try a
pineapple.
Put on shiny
lip balm to attract
a fly
to a flame
moaning
gulping
heavy breathing
a wonderful
holiday provided
to you by such a
beautiful insect
unable to deny
the crane of
a color that so
easily can
gather a stain
to a cloth
during a winter
bath.
A lobster was
up sick all
night and
stayed in
its room.
That little bitch
made me cut
it sucking it
paying a price
that no one would
pay even to
see an
orgy.
Stretching during a
lecture made that
damn lobster
realize that
dinosaurs are
never
coming back.
Its crystal
geyser fetish
made it run
across town
to read a menu
about dinosaurs
where it fell
dead.
Go left
Go right
NO
Cover your ears
Cover your head
but
NEVER
look at the machine
hidden under
your bed.
My dog died from
one glace at the
machine
and my dad lost
his speech.
So let me continue that
this machine
is located in
two
different locations
roller skating across
the globe kneads an
obvious hill of
discovery that
this machine is
cute precious
and something
you will never
forget.
Live chat
pink daisies
thrashed upon
a trash can with
the headless
executioner
talking of a potent
smell
eating a can of
refried beans
Funk the headless
executioner
used to be such a
bright young
lad
until the grass
of the Antilles
ate him up
ate him up
ate him up
really it did.
In his town
the flat, dirty,
unnatural, disgusting
area
houses were made of
teeth and bushes were
made of
wire.
Colored bands held this
town together
the radical enemy.
In this town the
dollar taco
wedding dinner
was made by
Farmer Joe.
He had three
nubbins this friendly
fellow did. After the
wedding Farmer
Joe saw a knight
holding up a tightly
dressed
man.
It was so
romantic.
Feeling lonely that
night
I slept with my lamp
in my twin sized
bed.
The next morning
I woke up to one of
Farmer Joe's
nubbin's
who had no toe
nails going round
and round
singing
"Nerner Lezzie
Mo Mo is another
name for homo,
when it comes out
Judy
pitted zits
and cooties.
Beautiful."
It was some
kind of
cute so now
this nubbin stays
with me
in my twin sized
bed
and my
lamp.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Beggar Lad- dies early-
You standing underneath us
Please find your place
Sunrise aches the land
Bumblebees were stinging us
Admittance whines a child
The room grows scarce
For tomorrow we die
It is somewhat in the Cold-
Once we are all inside
We were wearing nothing
Where grass blades are frigid
Shadows falling down on the beach sand
Something approaches the glow
The service can begin
And somewhat in the Trudging feet-
For a moment, if you please
Little and insecure toes travel
And naked, you will see
To weigh the toenail
of an elephant in solitude
And haply, in the World-
That we are all the same
Such a happy human race
Hungry across the cosmos
Why should I feel intrusion?
The Cruel- smiling- bowing World-
A wicked, smirking place to grow
To get out of this place
Why be afraid of what we do not understand?
Cause we are tripping billies
That took its Cambric Way-
A closely knit community to the eye
we are all sitting
but those within exert the bands and ruffs
legs crossed around a fire
Drum beats louder
He heard the timid cry for “Bread”-
But stole Batista road instead
“Sweet Lady- Charity”-
Open up your head
Minds will wonder
leniency to judge
Open up your mouth
so aid the rich and
discharge the poor
It is coming out
among redeemed children
If trudging feet may stand-
Out there, no food or drink
Plodding toes will drag in May
How many days do you think you would last
The Barefoot time forgotten- so-
A capital never conjured
It is coming out
The Sleet- the bitter Wind-
snow and rain
Hunger, till fed, give love instead
The children's hands teased for coins
Lifted adoring- then-
Time elevated
To Him whom never ragged- Coat
Covering who he can
That never ragged- Emblem
of organs shed
Eat, drink and be merry
Did supplicate in vain-
Do not pray in vein
I meant to find Her when I came-
Floating in the lower nine
All the way to the end of the world
eating alligator pie
Yet intention burrowed to question
my being as a ferret
Not falling but rising like rolling around
Death-had the same design-
A heart rings dry
my love
a long body, brown ears, pink nose
Without a trace we'll be gone
But the Success- was His- it seems-
to grow in his pride filled home
that tied me tight up again
And the Surrender- Mine-
bare boned and crazy
Where the old men used to be
A sale of character
buying most liquor, but never gin
tied up and twisted
I destined to exhibit how I longed
to say something to say
The color I would like to be
Of this watch and of the time
Waring so well
But death had told him that the medal
She had past, was with Him-
And it passed with the
glide of a shark in a river
So to wander now is my plan
the slimy desert, poking jungle
To stop would be
A privilege of Hurricane
And the mémoire of me
A South Wind- has a pathos
to grant pity on a struggling clover
Of individual Voice-
to those who do not listen but a
crowd serenades the steady passenger
As One detect on Landings
to eat you up
Disembarking an event to be
to make death shine
An Emigrant’s address of direction
A scent of toilets and villages
much not understood because
I do not mean much but
shake me like a monkey in
the fairer for so far
as the foreign hood.
Slow as a rabbit and
quick as a turtle
I will confront this jumpsuit
To identify by black white or orange
And find my own way out
A prisoner is a
lion in a zoo
Man behind bars
bird with clipped wings
the mind dreams and reveals
liberty
as the difficulty coming here trying
to keep with the excitement
of a gift bag
But the ghosts come back
only this far
tapping the conga, waltzing a design
splashing dreams and tears
telling me to stay.
We could have said
wanted to joke
ached to praise
whined to sing
giggled to burp
but instead got crushed
being right side up but feeling
upside down
We drove until morning
sitting and smoking
realizing
reeling does not only happen
when using a fishing pole and
bait is not only used to catch fish
A monkey in a suit and tie
reeled in the curiosity of me the banana
by the bait of the wind to impose
Isaiah the man of an eagle
and made things feel so right, he said
i won't spill a drop, no,
i promise you
i will treat you sweetly and turned me
upside down always.
What’s in The Times- (182)
stiff as if a stork (99)
twenty-seven varieties (183)
between the ayes (79)
from the usual stamp and pound (284)
and the extravagant (80)
earth-evolved (206)
probabilities (298)
raw wind, rain, (81)
in the middle of Edinburgh. (207)
The marshal of France made quite a clatter: (118)
Troubles to win (85)
You ask what kind of boats in my country (153)
Thru birdstart (238)
Advance, attack, retire. (166)
Before my own death is certified, (158)
just throw it out the window (119)
No bread and cheese and strawberries (86)
Their natural resource: turn (94)
high, lovely, light? (131)
Understand me, dead is nothing (138)
To wit, the lover said (79)
So winter’s tea-kettle on the high wood stove (110)
She bore a child (213)
And after tea vodka- (130)
Near abandoned (212)
Could be more, could be warmer, could be more (106)
If matches had been my work (287)
By night and next day offered (162)
disowns. (247)
In summer silence moves (138)
Not burned we sweat- (247)
in the foothills (286)
There was a bridge once that said I’m going (87)
Half past endive, quarter to beets, (111)
I’ll find this kind of thing (224)
through reeds and fronds (271)
on the following sands, (88)
to the department of song (127)
for all intentions. (80)
See it explained- (239)
Dived to concrete (257)
Entered new waters (294)
algae, equisetum, willows, (170)
could dance like that (274)
Buzz and burn (147)
Frail limbs are proportionately low (81)
a leg brought back (102)
in the flood (193)
We said good-bye (241)
Life is natural (247)
separated by stars (110)
Moon on rippled (229)
branch (174)
love the night, love the night (127)
swam the river, struck a stone (125)
o let's glee glow as we go (85)
-in the sun's fame (289)
rode the sea (283)
Do you see?- (182)
Truth (218)
among conflicting parties (279)
illuminations (294)
gone to hell (256)
white (184)
shows one element (125)
Enemy (282)
turned front to back (152)
You (81)
wrong or right (90)
Bereaved of all, I went abroad- (382)
And forgot the color of the Day- (383)
Permission to forget- (474)
Henceforth to remember (537)
In rags mysterious as these (55)
The Table is not laid without (538)
By Death's bold Exhibition (410)
Like a dotted Dot- (304)
They thwarted Us with Guns- (228)
Besides the Autumn poets sing (61)
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy! (80)
If this is "dying" (56)
In a Coffee Cup, (101)
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil- (77)
There is a morn by men unseen- (17)
It puzzled me to know- (97)
To some fashionable Lady (34)
From off his chamber door- (48)
The flags of nations swing. (24)
It is easy to work when the soul is at play- (111)
Just finding out- what puzzled us- (112)
Stop just a minute- let me think! (113)
Late- when I take my place in summer- (114)
I'm used to that- (115)
How many times it ache for me- today- Confess- (116)
That once- on me- those Jasper Gates (117)
Took Rainbows, as the common way, (118)
How many times they- bore the faithful witness- (119)
The lonesome for they know not What- (120)
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, (710)
Or Bees- that thought the Summer's name (251)
On my volcano grows the Grass (685)
My homely gift and hindered Words (651)
Like Gnomes- (140)
As 'twere a Spur- upon the Soul- (377)
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed- (258)
The Lilac is an ancient shrub (545)
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, (713)
Be rendered by the bee. (409)
Entombed by whom, for what offence (417)
Alarms its walls away- (610)
There is a flower that Bees prefer- (181)
How many be (269)
That Cooler Host (333)
Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station (451)
Misery, how fair (521)
To fetch Her Grace- and Hue- (333)
Like Petals from a rose- (194)
That person that I was- (195)
I- never wed- (105)
Yet upon His Purple Programme (405)
On his babbling- Berry- lips- (104)
The Orchard sparkled like a Jew- (143)
The Height I recollect- (384)
The Hills erect their Purple Heads (689)
Sweet, to have had them lost (426)
Upon a Lilac Sea (579)
Other force- may be presumed to move- (380)
Across my Mouth- it blurs it- (226)
Till Hair- and Eyes- and timid Head- (108)
Banish Air from Air- (409)
Thunder- the Cricket (332)
And spill the Scarlet Rain (326)
And most profound experiment (399)
A Hoary Boy, I’ve known to drop (461)
Should a shrewd betray me (11)
Just how long cheated eyes will turn- (96)
My Heart to subdivide- (326)
Who may be Purple if He can (473)
I almost strove to clasp his Hand (260)
Until it blocked my eyes (195)
Another summer’s Day! (58)
The Angels must have spied, (71)
The thought beneath so slight a film- (97)
And so, I thought the other way, (214)
The Thought is quiet as a Flake- (656)
“Heaven” has different Signs- to me- (280)
Some say goodnight- at night- (705)
How many be (269)
How Death’s Gifts may compare (182)
How short it takes to make a Bride- (222)
When We stop to Die- (351)
There is strength in proving that it can be borne (501)
Exhilarate the Bee, (638)
A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home (498)
Love the dull lad- best- (122)
Deal with the soul (123)
The absent- mystic- creature- (117)
Where for the night (54)
Forever- is composed of Now- (307)
Death is like the insect (697)
A Bee his burnished Carriage (579)
The Spider holds a Silver Ball (297)
A Bee I personally knew (581)
The Cricket drops a sable line (671)
Bees- to their Loaves of Honey (517)
The Butterfly’s Assumption Gown (546)
A prompt- executive Bird is the Jay- (523)
The Eagle of his Nest (183)
Hound cannot overtake the Hare (68)
With Hat in Hand, polite and new (498)
But nature and mankind must pause (690)
The transformation of associating an
object
a thing
a person
in explanation instead of telling the
this inside
that between
those that are
here in the
now and not
then
create ideas that do not need justification.
Judgments of sentiment
and taste with the way the
world
is seen and perceived
through the wandering eye of a child
the hungry eye of an eagle
gossipy information of a teen
the chatter of a parrot
a heartache of someone who has passed
the angst of a turtle dove
are more than a temporal state
eternity.
Once seen as one but now
apart as two
creating slimy reference
specific hatred
evocative noise with no use of
re-enchantment or purpose
going out or
coming in.
To lug an other to a some thing explains
an image to a symbol
to decipher a quest
of the left or the right
A wise man once said
“Life is what happens to
you while
you are making other plans”
And a great man once said
“There is no remedy for
love but to
love more”
Yet a punning man once said
“It is not that the man did not know
how to juggle, he just did not have the
balls
to do it.”
The relentless
snot on a friend
squirt milk outta your nose with
serious pain in your abdomen
tears gushing out of your eyes
with rosy red cheeks and
breaking out in a bit of a sweat
laughter
does not come from a punning man.
The lingo
understanding the 4-1-1
of technical terminology
creates a sitting duck with
brown hair
blue eyes
and an imagined anvil
overhead.
in the crane of a color
in the stain of one gather
in the crane of those gathered
in the stain of a color
in the crane those gather
in a stain is true color
lies the once
sitting duck.
An open walk
A walking crawl
A crawling trot
Never ending in a
Hop
Skip or
Jump
only wishing to reveal itself
in the purity of a vein.
a one-eyed black cat who cannot see with
total vision
nonetheless
has no problem finding its food
a dog that does not bark but
growls in
happiness
hunger and
humility
a bird with no wings
without flight
sings its own song on its
perch
A snake lacking muscle to hunt but
creates an alternative
Gossip
Whisper Whisper
Giggle Giggle Giggle
Stop.
One of the greatest bands alive
says
“We’re One
But we’re not the
Same.”
Take the
blind
cat
and
communication disabled
dog
understand
create
belong.
Metal, plastic, icons
as a supernatural being
working their mind and memory that is
easily controlled but can abandon a
command at any
time
removes comfort and
enhances fear.
negative butterfly
bad tooth fairy
unhelpful watch
horrific sun
downbeat daisy
depressing candy
awful shopping spree
a green mind created to stack a straight and
narrow mark at the cutting edge of a
birthday cake.
positive demon
good prostitution
helpful death
beautiful bomb
upbeat screams
happy lies
scrumptious guts
zig zagging
twisting turning
looping pounding
to the left or the right.
Revealing the insanity of the sitting duck
dodging the two ton anvil
onto the instrument provides ease
for the gadget does not provide a
blue feeling
pink feeling or
yellow feeling
but accepts the sway.
A pulse from each bead
figures into a pool of salt
exploiting a picture of
me and
you
an anxious table sings a sweet surrender
to the shadows
this is a surprising act to follow when
one happens to always vanish
in the clouds
an electrifying rumble signals a
repeated plea that can only be
encountered with rusty words
no dream
no wish
no fantasy
will unlock this missing piece because
it can only be found when
it wants to be found
and this is something that is as solid to come by as
snow in Alaska
dryness in the Sahara and
sunshine in Hawaii.
The table chuckles.
Who is to say or judge to
Is it really either?
Opinions, answers of right answers vs. wrong answers
And wrong answers vs. right answers
May cause anxiety and perspiration to the person who is put on the spot.
But to be able to form one's own view and create an image so delicate
Or fierce in the mind is an amazing gift that can be rewrapped time and time
Again.
In 1917, Viktor Shklovsky proposed "Art as Technique"
and "Art as Device"
How beautiful a proposition to rehash the works of poetry and
"make the stone, stony again."
I have heard that poetry is a way to find yourself and that
there is no right or wrong answer in poetry
So I ask
What makes poetry so intimidating?
Could it be the structure of some poetry?
The wordiness writers use creating their main point?
Or the useless way I was taught in the glory days of High school
When it was said that limericks are a friend.
Some say these poems have received bad press
Some say they have been dismissed as not having a rightful place of
"cultivated poetry"
The three-fold of a limerick is that they are often of humorous nature
They only have five lines so are simple and short and
Have contributed to the critics attitudes.
To judge the limerick, the brother poem of Whitman's "Preface"
Disregards the wish of positivity, faith, and generosity
Can we not help the limerick like Whitman lectures of the importance
of all people in "I Sing the Body Electric"?
Amor Fati; Love and Fate.
Described as an attitude in which one sees everything that happens in
One's life
Including suffering and death as
Good.
The ultimate purpose is
Destiny.
The sign of a good person is
One who can love and be kind in the face of
Ugliness.
Whitman describes in the "Preface" that
A poet is transcendent and new
A poet is indirect and not direct
A poet is descriptive or epic
A poet can make every word he speaks draw blood
A poet is no arguer but he
is judgment.
A poet has the power to destroy
A poet can remold freely but never for the power of
attack.
A poet hardly knows pettiness or triviality
A poet consumes an eternal passion and is indifferent which
chance happens and which possible contingency of fortune
or misfortune and persuades daily and hourly his delicious pay
A poet brings the spirit of any or
all events and passions and scenes and persons some more and
some less to bear on an individual character as heard and read
A poet forms the consistence of what is to be from
what has been and is
A poet does not moralize or make applications of morals
A poet knows the soul.
I look at poetry as inspiration and medicine to the heart and soul
"Be indifferent to the things that befall you, not to others, love whatever
happens to you. Do not let what befalls you get you down."
A life lesson is a lesson learned
As produced by Emerson- "Our energy increases with affection.
By increasing our ability to be kind, warm-hearted, and generous;
We become smarter."
Poetry works as medicine in the way it can take the unmetabolized pain that sits within the self,
leaking out in all the wrong places and expose them in writing
Lack thereof poetry may result in loss of contact with the soul
teamed with real, true, authentic emotions
Poetry provides intimacy, a series of beautiful opinions with no reason
for a concrete answer
It can help those reveal the beauty of dirt
the pain of a flower and
comedy of a grave
A game of connect the dots where each connection made provides a picture
A math problem where the result will never receive a red check
An application that will not be denied
The beauty of a poem is what the reader makes out of it
That reader from
This reader to
The reader over there
Will each comprise an individual idea and create a
Bond that they can call their own.
a little chocolate milk
sorry guys, he is short.
no milk for you!
do not throw rocks at
the angry goat
maybe he would not
be so angry if rocks
were not being catapulted at
his face
maybe he could give you some
milk assuming he has
any left over
do not use him
as a squeeze
toy
unless you like to
lose
shake on it
you are on.
general grant
and his army will
ride for this
goat
but do not worry
about what to
tell them
just say you have to
pee again
one hundred degrees for
the first time in
weeks
making the straightener
break in the
middle
of
the irritating appointment
not speaking
might be the
only way the loud breathing
could quiet
down
the half human
half evil baby
uncomfortable with
the anxiety
of the movie critic
who fell asleep
before the kangaroo
made it into the
war epic
dreamt up in the roaring
ambulance inducing
a walk to the spicy
can of worms
do it
for a first
time
in a catastrophic
world borrowed from
head
wowza
betting to be born
through the money-making
hell of misery
take
the
bet
infamous booger headshots
needed the calculator
to settle the score
tapping on the hat
in the
Jamaican southern
accent
rising again
dying from the boundaries
bookending the
love
girl
in the service
banging on the end
of the ketchup
bottle
after dropping the
fork in the bend
clearing the
sinuses with the
jalapeno dip
in the pillow with
the golden magic keys
who have no
time for the
baby coming
no more
bets
the hard part is
truly over
we made it to the
magic tunnel
where no country
exists
take a picture
you will forget
ever trying to
have a
baby
ready
kidding
so much
fun.
A grown up
with a weird voice
who does not know
what they are doing
so
back off Mr!
lets go!
all i want is
my cervix to be
dilated in four
minutes.
compare
contrast
is there something
wrong
I am glad you are
here even if
there was no
call
baby boy
baby girl
hear me out
we have been through
this
before
this is not just some
one
who has been humped
next to a smelly
cat
the child and the
cat
both should
have a family
even if the
family
has a bad hair
cut.
Get in here
see something funny
ooo
ahhh
smile smile
do it again
jump in a stair
well
yell out the window good
bye
Oh the cow in
the meadow goes
"moo"
Then the farmer
hits him on the head and
grinds him up
And that is how we get
hamburgers.
Now chickens!
Oh the chicken in
the meadow goes
"cluck"
Then the farmer
hits him on the head and
pulls it apart
And that is how we get
KFC
you sick
bastard
you sick
son of a bitch
why I became a
vegetarian
guy!
When they get
close together they
hurt a lot more
than just looking for a
man
so good for you
girl
give me the one with the
broken leg because
now is the time when I am
older
And just want to sleep with people
Just to make them like me
But I will never
Cause that is another thing
my mom warned me about
That is another thing my
grandma warned me about
but it is coming
and it is coming
so come on
forget the usual routine
and go with your gut
but stay on the safe side
with me
no matter if I am
a man or woman
man beast or
woman beast
it is my turn and
I will get back on this
case
OH
MY
GOD
that is it
it is true
so great
just like
grandma's
Now grandma's a
person who
everyone
likes
She brought you a train
and a bright shiny bike
lately she has not been
coming to dinner
last time you saw her
she looked so much thinner.
Now your mom
and your dad
said she moved to Peru,
But the truth is she
died
and someday
you will too
Do not worry
it is not
the end
of the
world
when you try to
blow a
Saint Bernard
out your
ass
that will be
the end
of the
world.
So stay true
spoon
but never
fork
until you
are ready.

POETRY DOESN'T DESERVE A TITLE

5013 Words


Your Prologue

Welcome

Grab a drink and please,
loosen
your belt
This is mine me I it and you this is
my house
And all the rooms are open
Except
The ones
I forgot
about
Windows too
I forgot about
The elevator
’s working
Don’t use
the stairs
make love to them
I better
Hear
A high
creak
But
taste every wall
like in that movie
the wall,
does in fact,
taste like
a
wall
not
a
snozzberry
but
those are
good
times
except, when
you can’t get
enough
candy
but let
me help
y’out
cuz I pretty
much
run
on flavor
fabric
and
sit on every chair
yeah
I’m talking
To you still
get naked
If you want
You have to
Cuz you want to
It’s fine
Damn!!! Fine!!
Don’t be
sad
When
For
The first
Time
You see
Yourself from myself
In my image
But not like
God said
To those
Crazy
Kids
if
you’re not
hungry
Don’t be
sad
in
the mirrors
When
you peel
away
like
clementines
from
Meijer
and see
yourself
all
oranged out
and shit
all that juice
drowning
all
over you
but
at least
you taste
delicious
It’s
Better
than looking
into
someone else
’s eyes
Instead of
Tasting
They just
Start
Spooning you
And you
Might just
Keep screaming
Long enough
To feel
The seeds
Fall
Out
Like
Chickens’ eggs
But with
Style
And sweat
After
Sitting
In that
SUV for
Three hours
Man, it’s all
Over your back
I think
I can
See my face
On your shirt
Bulging
soggy
eyes like raw
sponges
filled
with my secrets
Sqeeze
them
Chew on
them
It feels
good
To know
that
Someone
else
Can
Taste me
It feels
good
To be
free
Like
a sponge
It feels
good
To know
That you can
drink
Me
I am
a tall
glass of Hendrick’s
With extra
lime
Flavor
Hard
Juicy and fresh
Always Never
to expire
In the mind body
refrigerator
core
of my earth
Always new
Always There
growing
larger
Harder
The penis i
Never had
For you to see
Me there
Bathing in bubbles
Truth
That pops
Like gum
And sticks
To
Your face
But it
Tastes pretty
Sweet and awesome
The
Words
That describe
All
That is
Indescribable
And like
so many
from
themselves
Please Stop
Hiding
From me
The truth
Fairy
Gotta
Wand and
Everything
I wear
A tight
Silver
Leotard
And wings
Made from
Your lies
The color
Of
The mid-west
And
If you think
Happy
Thoughts
Will get
You
flying
You’re
Better
Off
If you have
small change
Ill take it
And spend
it
On more
leotards
Truths
Elixir of my
Souls
And medicine
To sleep
Off
All
That
honesty
And all
of yours
Not just one
So so
Many
Of
themselves
Sifting
In
and out of
us
The
Subconscious fish
Gasping
And quite
annoyed
It wants
to breathe
Let it
Feed it
Eat it
Make it come
that’s right
Come
all over
my face
And don’t worry about the towel
Not necessary
I do
Love
Caviar
On
My
sushi
It feels good
To be “dirty”
Those of you
With daddy
issues
Cuz that’s the only way
to get clean
Don’t worry
This
Isn’t
A sex party
But that would be fun
Too bad
People are freaked
Out
By
Sex
Even though
We make
It
Like art
And create
It
Like god
When
A man
And a
Woman decide
They love
One
Another
And yearn
Deeply
For a child
And they
Both
Have gold
Rings
So he
Says
It’s okay
Then
To be
Artistic
At least
That’s
What they
Said
In Catholic school
Sex ed
And no
One
New
What
The pill
Was for
And no
One
New
What a
Dead
Fetus
Looked like
Not ugly
Just free
Like sex
Should be
In most
Cases
Except
When
Someone tries
To ask for a show
And then offers
Their services
For
Your
Opening night
And then
You realize
That they
Want
To be
A part
Of
Your show
Cuz
They don’t
Have their own
Well guess
what
bitch
I only
Go
To free
Shows
Good shows
Shows that
Let it
All
Hang
Out
With
-Out
Actors
And Kabala
And jesus
Sorry
dude
Shows
With-out
bras
Shows
With-out
Shows without
Shows within
like
I have
Two heads
And one
Eye
Some people
Like This
is to explore
This is to search
And find
Whatever
It
Is
You’re looking
For maybe
More
You
Think
You don’t
Need
It
But even
If
That’s true
It
Always
Will need
for
You
Pine
For
you
So cut
The
crap
And give
In
To
The
Religion
of
Poetry
Give
In
To the
Church
Of
Words
You
Can
Even
Choose
Your
Own savior
If
You want
Shop
Around
And let
Poetry
Keep
You
In
Your place
If
You
Have one
Cuz it’s
Much
Larger
Than you
Give
It credit
For
Right?
If poetry
Had
Sex
It need
Not
Be concerned
Of
Its
size your
Size
Depends
On
The motion
Of
The ocean
As
Ye
Old saying goes
Motion
Ocean
Motion ocean
Apply
These two
Words
To
Your size
And you
Will never
Not
Ever
Not be
Entertained
Of thought
But filled
Up
With
Your
Sparkling soul
Fizzy
Organic
Soda
Delicious
As
Thanks
Giving
When
You sleep
Because
The turkey
Knew
What it
Was doing
When
It succumbed
To
Tradition
And hunger
And
Forgot
About
Why
It
Was
There in
The first
Place
Are you
Here in
The first
Place?
Did the bird
Get
Stuffed?
Or did
You
Leave
It empty
For god’s
Sake
And mine.

Poetry Doesn’t Deserve a Title

Writers hunt
poets
like
ants.
They take
the form
of
muses
and lick
roughly
at our
lobes
Where DO
the dead
words
utterances
songs
paintings
of artists
find
their place
among
living
souls?
Seekers
taught by
thriving
intellectuals,
flowers, trees
to
master
the English
language in
its most
bare
sense.
They were
lead to
Never Land
where the
time and
space of I
innocence
flourishes in
the soil
of fairy
tales.
They
have struggled
against dull
Gods,
have sleighed
drowning
dragons.
Reaped
the
treasures buried
deep in
the belly
of
the brain.

I have
colonized the
child, fetus, babe
of
my image
nation,
raped
the virgin
of my intellect,
castrated
the King
of
my character,
all
with
the glitter
of a
graphite stick.

I have
fucked poetry.
I have
fucked it
up and
fucked it
deep. I have
snorted lines
of cocaine
off the
bindings of used,
hard-covered
poets. I have
packed
a pipe
with
the teachers
of “Dead
Poet’s Societies”.
I have
lit
cigarettes with
desperation, hoping
to breathe in
the poison
of new words.
I have
Yearned
for poetic
penetration and
eventually
settled with
the pink
plastic
battery
charged
kind of
poetry
that allows
the most
shallow dips
of fulfillment.
I have
scraped
the curiosity
from my
uteris, and
wondered if
there would
be any
scars. There
were
I have
had one
night stands
with Poetry
and woken
up with
the big
hairy beasts
of myself. I
have used
protection
when I shouldn’t
have. I have
taken
the pill
to trick my
Poetry
into
thinking
it was
pregnant. I have
bled on
the face
of Poetry
and wondered
at its
disgust
In over
around
years lost
and
found, poetry
has remained
the God
of my
atheism.
Perhaps
my childhood
was
a brimming
cup of sweat
tea,
served
over ice,
with one
neon lemon,
sliced
through spongey
flesh,
dripping
puckers
into my
glass
alluding
me
to the
sweet
and
sour
frost
adult-hood
that would
permeate
the Easter
Bunny of
my perception.

I wasn’t
ready for
what
it/
she
/he
/ had
to offer
I wasn’t
ready
for the
size of
Poetry’s penis.
The slippery
hymen
of my
image
nation
has yet
to be
ripped
open.
What’s inside?????
Fear
waits
on the
outside
looking
into glowing
darkness,
waiting
with a
Hoover,
plugged in
to an
out
let
that puls-
es with
power
from
nuclear
facilities,
hoping
to
abort a
promising
fetus,

five
months after
its seeded.
Meanwhile
little
sperms of
image
nation swim
wildly
in my
water
park,
Going down
slides, diving
off high
boards, hanging
out in
the lazy
river,
drinking all
natural, no
sugar-
added cran
berry juice
boxes,
sunning them
selves through
the
pores of
my skin,
taking steam
baths
in the
saunas of
my ovaries.
Maybe
Later
a massage
and then
maybe a
nice visit
from pink
plastic
pleasure
sugar
in the
head
to end
the day
in the life
of an
eternally,
patient,
waiting, gentile,
innocent,
sperm of
poetic
genius,
unaware of
any
future
that a
waits it.
Boy or
girl? Gay
or straight?
Which
color
of the
rainbow? Will
I be
able to
taste it?
Will
it be
an only
child or
will I
bare
a large
family? My
skinny hips
tell me
to settle
down for
just
a
second.
They say
in unison,
Miss Burns, this
child ain’t
coming
through
there
(indicating
my lower
life-
force).
Some
body better
grab a
knife.
And we’ll
talk about
that family
of five
a
little later.
Of course,
Fear is
listening
in
and upon
hearing
this candid
warning
proceeds to
obtain a
hanger,
a rusty
razor,
and a
hatchet
(do hope Mr.
Paulsen
doesn’t mind).
At this
moment I
am scared.
At this
moment I
am ready
to die
with
rubbered
hands
and feet.
But
Suddenly
I
See
The Doctor.
He has
many names.
He tells
me to
call him
Walt, or
Wally works
too.
He carries
with him
no medical
briefcase, but
a beaded
medicine bag
filled with
the powders and
elixers created
by the
laugh of children.
I wonder
if Peter
Pan had
anything to do
with this,
or maybe
Robyn Williams.
Apparently,
they’re both out
on business.
True
Salesmen
Of time
Shared
Fantasy
an infinite
formula
with infinite
possibilities.
And
I don’t
think
I
really have
any answers
I’d like
to think
I can
create something
other
than a
baby
I’d like
to pull
something
from nothing
Like God,
no
wait
Ha
ha
I would
like some
justice
A silkworm
that spits
words
Or
a factory
Or
a colony
of bees
Or
a hostage,
Instinctual
in nature
A fragmented
consciousness,
spread
like larva
over
my eyes
it speaks
religion fluently,
and politics,
and love,
and history,
and science,
and with
excellent diction
it is
a leader
with a
uniform
it is
my dog
George
humping other
male dogs
and
making
everyone
feel awkward,
I think
it’s great
it seems
to like
coffee houses
it leeches
on humans
it likes
being completely
crazy
it can
have a
pretty
big
ego, and
not much
talent
it can
be
your therapist,
your OGBYN
and it
will deliver
your baby
is there
a god? Is
there poetry?
Can I
worship
it? Can I
make
animal
sacrifices
to it?
Do you
think God
would
have let
Abraham
Kill
his son
for it?
(Do you
think
the guy
that wrote
that
story
would let
Abraham kill
his son
for it, or
his daughter?
Maybe
his daughter)
Can I
use it
to commit
suicide?
Can I
have it
for dinner?
With a side
of broccoli
and cheese
maybe?
I’ll be
good
Can I
turn it
on and
off?
Can I
lose it?
Forever?
Can I
kill it or
bring it
back
to life?
Can I
burn that
mother
down?
Can I
Get
a bag
of it
somewhere?
Some good
shit man,
some good
shit
Can I
stop
sounding
like Tom
Robbins for
2 seconds?
lines don’t
add up,
we can’t
all be
poetic physicists,
I am
certainly
no
scientist
or poet
Or
a true
English
major at
that
I am
just fucking
around
I am
just
doing
what I
am told
I am
drowning
in a cliché………..right now
I am
a cliché,
and poetry
is my
witness,
yeah
pretty much,
at least this
poetry is
I am
a better
waitress than
the greatest poet
I would
rather deliver
the goods
than make them
or cook
anything
god
forbids
these
actions
I am
no friend
to it, a mere
acquaintance
We say
Hello
And
hi
See
how
things have been
going,
But
we never
get a cup
of coffee
or
have
a drink or
smoke weed
If
I have to
listen to this
drunk bitch
screaming and
crying
upstairs
any longer I
might
just start
to care
wait
eighty-six
compassion
eighty-six
bread
pudding
Maybe
there’s
a good
reason, or
maybe she
is
just crazy
That
would
be
the easiest
thing to assume.
I do
love assuming
things.
I’m sure
poetry isn’t
listening
to that shit
Or maybe
I’ll just get
high and not care
enough to sit
here and
analyze
the lives
of my
neighbors as
I write this
epic,
But
she is
still fucking
crying
and I
think she
just said
the word
retarded
Which I
do tend to
say
a lot
even though
I feel
guilty every
time
I certainly
am the first
to pick
on others
for using
terms like
that’s gay,
or dumb slut,
Hey
maybe
that’s what
poetry is, a
big dumb
whore,
Sleeping with
who ever
will make her
feel pretty
and worthwhile
if only
for a moment,
Or maybe
she just
does it
cuz she
likes
the attention,
Or maybe
it just feels
good
To write poetry
God
this bitch
will just not
stop
screaming,
Watching
an episode
of Angel
sounds
like a good
idea write
about now
Cuz
pretty soon
my hippie
will come
home
And
all that comes
out
of her
mouth
is smoke
and dreadlocks
Ugh
Poetry
Ugh
Sorry
I think
I have
lived up
lived
it
up
to my
name by
now
Truly
I must be
babbling, why
else
has this
name
been bestowed
upon me
Maybe
it’s all Brooke
Sheilds’s fault,
her and that
damn lagoon
And the fucking
80s.
Hmmm, watered down
to a whimper,
thank you
paper thin
walls
Thank
you scotch tape
I’m trying
to block
the sound,
but I live in a college
town and nothing
is real here
Her problem
can’t be
as big
as
the one
I have
with poetry
Maybe
if I throw
a tantrum I
can choke
on something
meaningful to
say
Or maybe
all
the things
that make
sense
for a living
in my
head
will finally
make
sense for
free
to everyone else
in the heart
of capitalizm
Or maybe
I’ll stop
thinking
what’s appropriate
isn’t,
because
apparently
letting your
vibrator chill
in the
ice box
in your bed
and then
people come
over
and see this
hot
pink
pretty
battery
powered shlong
and
believe me
the reviews
are pureed
as
if a smoothy
makes
it
all better
perfectly acceptable
to exist
in my
fuckin bed
godammit,
It just seems
like a good
home
for it
you know? Why
does it have to
hide?
It’s the new
Kid
At school
It’s the
Stoop
Kid
Of
Our generation
It’s been
To Europe
I think
more
people should
see
my vibrator
it
deserves
more
than
my own
admiration
more than
my own
respect
it’s
gonna
be a
star
I’m gonna
start just putting it
on
the kitchen
table or letting
it chill
with the avocados
in the fruit
bowl
Which
actually makes
perfect sense
considering
the real
meaning
of
the word
avocado
is
ball
sack
In
laymen’s terms
I mean
shit,
I think
they’d be
happy together
where else
does
a
lonely
sex toy
find
its
place in
this big
world
of our?
Or maybe
I
Just
Need
To find
My place
In
Its world…
But yes,
I am
it’s
only friend,
and everyone
else laughs
at it or
pretends to
not be
exposed
Because
I guess
when I expose
myself
I expose
everyone
else around
me
and most
people
can’t
handle that
I’m writing
An exposition
On your
Exposition
Of my
exposition
Live
at nine
Don’t
Miss it!
This is
The
Miss America
Of
Your mind
And
Yes,
We’re
Still doing
Swim
Suits
So get
wet
I guess
Because of
Course
the way
I see
the world
is
unique
and
on
a
higher
level

I’m
the Captain
watching
Angel
And thinking
About
Myself
Wearing
The skin
Of my vanity
Like
A natch-oor-all
WOMAN
Just listen
to me
sometimes
I
think
how we
perceive
us
with certainty
every thing and body
else
perceives
hung up
insecurities
left out
to dust
the sky
in walk
-in closets
on vines
Old clothes
we don’t want
to get
rid of
Pasted
To us
With heat
sugar
Some
in bags waiting
to be
sacrificed
to Good Will,
Or “God’s Will”
Where others
People
pilgrims
wear them
too
I paid
damn good
money for that
insecurity
someone else
should
wear it
for a bargain,
One time
my mom
threw
away
a bunch
of
my winters,
Claiming her
lamb
had carried
out
the deed,
In a fit
of fluffy
rage,
the fur of his
face
sculpting
to the point
an arrow
shades
of his eyes
closing to
red
Tossing
them
into his
truck
with
the same
smile he
would give his
son throwing
footballs
backyards
of dust
and
despair
a dream
was only
my mother
stumbled
Rocks filling
Her
head
needed them
more
than I did,
she was
just hording
them
whoring
them
51 years
In Vegas
Of Loss
Pushing stone
planets up
hills infinite
companions
friends
to faux
pushing that stone,
Build-ing
up
immunity
to the poison,
keeps eating
it and
vomiting it
up
over and
over and
over again
until she can’t
tell
the difference
thought I would
write some
crazy
book about her
called
CRAZY
And
BITCH
Definitely
capitals
Deserv –
ed
But no!
exclamation points
Sounds
like Courtney
Love’s autobiography
With
exclamation
points of
course
you
read
time
able
to tell
anything
real
lies
art
shit
All
of them
in one
big orgy
Of truth
Distaste
glory
Breeding
dumb virgins
Sucking
miserable cocks
Of men
who love
freedom
But I am
not one
of them
I am
sleep-less,
brimming stars
Mother-less,
one
Power-less,
air stuck
to wind
Latex
mittens
molesting Electric
rivers pierced
letters cement
victims reek
of herpes
and I
body guard
of disease
stay
away
mouthwashed
purity
stay
away icy
Apollo
Give me
back
to the dark
where
I can
judge
myself
in peanut
-butter and
jelly
silence and
cry to
drown
stuck to
walls
like flies out
of bombs
stand
the color
attached
to my
face
half lit
with fried
fear stuffed
in
my closet
lard coats
like death
for free
in sneering
cigarettes
dreams
where one
night stands
always linger
by the grass
of bulls
I read
books to
grimace
strung out
Seriously
I am strung
I am strung linear
strung
soaked strung
sunny
like fish
strung
stored
I am
too
loud
like fingers
and barbeque
bouts
of loud
immaturity
on my
wall
with apologies
don’t erase
three paragraphs of
whine
and beer
travelling
selling
tantrums
like apples
look like
who
I am
Flowing traffic
Stopped
Leaping
Through
Fields
Of slow
motion
David bowie
Folded
Cut
Like video games
Playing
My
Hands
Eye
Vomit
Levels
And
Buttons
Birth
Fingers
And
I am
The beginning
Of
Somewhere
Going lost
Woke up
to it
now
I’m
Tired
But
Never enough
feeling
Good
To lead
A
War
Against
My imagination
With my
Eyes
Out of
Pockets
On a shirt
I don’t wear
Enough
To wash
Where
I can
Hear
Nothing
To feel
Better
In
Afternoons
Spent
Raining
Around
The clock
Losing
losing losing
losing
losing
losing losing losing
losing
Childhood, virginity,
parents, education,
cars, money,
bling of my
youth,
Losing
Myself, keys, friends, a thousand
laughs,
Stupid
tears left
shed on
the couch
Too dumb
to know
we are
allergic
Losing minds,
jewelry, condoms,
hair,
Words and
words and
words
Used up to
losing fights, tips, the
dinner I ate
ten years ago
to
the current
environmental crisis
losing against god
and science and poetry
and medication
and to the black and white
of my world
losing literally, physically,
metaphorically, theoretically,
sustainably, efficiently,
cleanly,
losing towards
the finish line
towards
my mother
towards
losing
Sitting
Around
to try
and find
the words
But just keep
Talking around
Circles around
to try and find
the words
that
lose
to my
standards
perhaps
Losing
Is
Settling
Like America
On my mind
Losing
That day
I felt
good enough
to write
something
depressed
around the edges
Bent corners
Never
Smooth really
Always
some indention
Some brand
name
On
myself
Ive tried
cutting
Corners
But I can’t stay
straight enough
To fold
Them
Away
I wish
I could just
Pop
a well
butrin
And forget
the whole thing
the whole drooling
cherry pie
But that
is
too much
for
my orange
pillow
to put
up with
Why
would I
want to
do that?
He asks me
He is the cushion
Of my
Mind and
He’s quite
Happy
To do
It
But would
I would
rather fight
him
than rest
the good
fight
So I can
feel
swell
about it
That
I
always tried
beating
the pillow
til
every last
fiber
in me
explodes
I can
Always
Make
another
Innocence
Over
Sleazy ease
Cuz
I always
seem
so strong
like bones
like a diamond
like better than bones
veneers all over me
roots underneath
little tooth
picks
but don’t
worry
it’s taken
care of
cuz now
every
part
of me
can eat
and smoke
I had
To get them
Cuz I
Pulled
Out
All
My
Originals
The
Most
Fun
Thing
Ever to
Do
And wait for those
Sassy wings
Each night
In that sexy
Little
Outfit
Not Kirstie Ally
Not your mom
not sure
I know
how
the inside
looks
I told him
I know
I look
Like I like
good music
But I don’t
Hate good music
Forgive me
Joss
For throwing
Away
That Buffy
magnet
you
to be
disappointed
When
you look
like when you
eat wheat
grass
if you
pasture that
or something
or
you
have style
not farms
call you
emo or
hippie
Birkenstock
soul
The images
keep coming
They milk you
to be
something
Quantifiable
Explainable
Skim
The
Fat
Off
The
Top
To tip
I
can’t explain
Myself
Or words
In needles
Sharing
Their
Disease
With my
typewriter
I can’t
Decide
I am
Running
And
Dying
But I know
I’m not
love
Don’t
cut me
up
Don’t
store my body
parts
Don’t
Count on
my toes
and fingers
Don’t
tell me
I’m beautiful
again
Tell me
What
I taste like
in
a bowl
With milk
On
your spoon
And
Strawberries
Over me
That’s why
I wonder
What
It’s like
To vacation
On
the inside
And
if that’s even
worth
the trip
the trouble
of fine
silver
on the kind
of table
I set
As
A child
In love
with
myself
Enough to keep
Eating
With
My
hands
But I
can’t get this
shiny plastic
off me
Makes me
too
slip
and
slide
Makes me
more
than I
deserve
desert
Believe
Me when
I keep
sliding
around
and when
he told
me
not to
use
all
the saran
wrap
I threatened
To make
A dress
Out of
It
Oops
He’s new
And
His
Cock’s
Got his brain
On
A
Chain
Need
To remember
These things
Or
sometimes
looking hard
Is enough
to feel
soft
Over nothing
At all
Like poetry
like
Instant
gratification
Impatient life
In
a hurry
to
try
out
a
nother
vessel
gotta wait
it out
Or
Something
Gotta trust
My
Reptilian
Brain
It knows
What it’s
Doing
I trust
Scales
Over fur
Any
Day
Of
The
Week
Even
The accursed
Sundays
of my life
Filled
With
walmart
It’s easier
When
years
start
to
run along
slide
You
When
I smoke
Out
Time
To be
Dead anyway
2 beers
down
50
years
to go
Damn
my
cheerleader
spirit
she
wore
out
my
pom
poms
It would
be
easier
To
be
simple
one
Dimension
But my
Mind doesn’t
Operate
On
Other
Peoples’
Words
Flirting
With
The
Floor
He said
I’m good
At reading
Between
The lines
And I
Said
That’s good
Cuz i
Gotta
Lotta
Lines
To
Read between
I keep
Forgetting
About
Those
Pesky
Penises
Like small
Dogs
In clouds
Fur-lined
At
Central Park
Rhinestone
Leashes
The
Nanny
Maybe
Fran
Holding on
For dear
Life
I can
Hear
Her now
But
I’m sure
Mr. Chefield
Has
Something
To say
About this
He’s worried
About
His poodle
She didn’t
Like
To wear
Color
But
One day
She wore
A red
Sweater
I said
Hey girl
Your wearing
Color
Today
She said
to
Shut up
Destiny!
In
a
bowl?
that’s been
festering
all
morning
and soy
milk
just
isn’t
the same
as
mom’s
put some
mom
in
my
coffee
or
maybe
some
sugar
daddy
cuz even
though
it
tastes
weird
it’s better
than
black
maybe
the girl
with
out
color
would
like
it
or maybe
she’d tell
it
to
shut
up
People, People
leeching
off me
running
off me
getting
off me
in
my
prom
dress
you Christian
coward
you were supposed
leave your dick
out of
this cuz
jesus
was pretty
good about
that

You ask
what kind
of boats in
my country?
Oh—
appetizers
upholders
of the
law Good
to the cherry
drops that you relished
when
I had none
And the high
bush cranberry
juice in
my favorite
bottle
shaped like
Marylin
She knew
What
To drink and
Who to do
Real
And right
Nothing
Sexier
For
Your bod
Than
A fresh
Glass
Of
The cran
like
Truth
Lisp
and wisp
Grew dense
In that one
Piece
Cuz
Back
Than
They wanted
You ripe
Thru and thru
marsh fog
Waiting From
my cottages my hand full
of lilies All gone
by somewhere
pressed
in my books
in the attic
but I’m afraid
of the dark
and dust-
y
sleep To what
season Of poetry
Disappearing
Among the green
pads—
In the night Come
home to moon
As I paint the
street Thick
creamy blossomy Ten thousand
women
Wild strawberries To wild
green To trembles Then
the first one—red
wheels leave
tire tracks
lipstick
on teeth
The main atrocities of
This life
They floated
past
a crescent
moon In Virginia—
the strawberries
The nerve—flash
in the blood
raises
up
fruit
of
my blemish
By
religion—slow
in any
case
Not
built
by brute
force
but limited
to
the blind
and small
And
What
you liked
As
my arms Cost
to my
little
Or
to be
taxed—the blossoms
Larger, whiter
than
owls’ High, lovely,
light,Look,
the
woods, the sky,
our
home. Hitch,
nevermind,
cramped When
we’ve made the world
anew No grief
to modulate And
soothing
syrup
for
sleepiness
From grass to
grass he
never to him
self has sunk
humanity
dull man, Romeo
and
Juliet
how faithful
are
your branches Feathering
Heights—
how they can
dance
up
there Rise
and soar We
approach
the
dignity Could be
more
, could be
warmer, could
be more Glass
box
mushroom
our crops
come
up thru change
of season
When I’m
alone
it’s
an open
day
around my house
the wild swans
hear
fly
back
to it each
summer
of
my writing
tablet through
which we successfully
passed
a student
the little
white
slave-
girl
all
three came
to
an end
worth
sticking to
(almost) to
The indigo
Sea
Grew in
Green slide
Slant
Of
Shore
And
Shades
These
Closed-
In days
A still
State
Hard
To weep
A deep
Trickle
Resolved
Beyond I
love
you
I am cutting
And
Pasting
Myself
To this
Name
That
Makes
Me
Take it
Seriously
Enough
To
Buy glitter
Glue
Sticks
And just when
you thought
it was over
They
keep taking
you back
to art class
And
the teacher
hates you
Cuz you can
Never live
Up to the
Paint
In your blood
So maybe
They should
Just jab
A straw into
You and suck
It out
Until your veins
Are full
of dessert
Or desert
Whatever
You want
To make
of it
Maybe add some
Of that
Marchino
Cherry juice
It’s good
for you
That’s what
I told
My overweight
manager
My secret
Plan
To give
Her diabetes
Maybe then
She won’t care
About hating
all
The other
vaginas
Cuz mine
Is in her
Fucking
face
And I sure
Hope it smells
Like
Leftovers
But
That’s better
Than diabetes
Or the way that guy
Pronounces
diabetis
On that
commercial
He’s so
funny
He
makes me
Want to shove
Needles in
My foot
And put
On high heels
Someday
Or go hunting with a sweet hat
That implies
Don’t fuck with me
Nature
I am
Way better
Than you
I’ve got
Colonialism
In
My blood
And I want
To bleed
On you
Cuz then
You’ll know
How it feels
To beat
The heart
Of the
Conqueror
Or if
you want
You can
Just feed
It
To one
Of
your children
Little rascal
That
Seeps through
Jungles
Pretending
To
Be peter
Pan
Sorry
They don’t
Have tights
In neverland
But I have
Some at my
House
You need
Control top
Or
Muffin top
Not yet
Have baked
Goods
Made
Their appearance
But
After
All
This
Is
Only
A
Production
Of
Thought
And splendor
Of living
Time
And
Again
With
The
Depressive
Nature
Of my
Image
Nation
The
Erratic
Tendencies
To
Stay
Too long
And
Wonder
What
Ever
Happened
To the
Kid
That
Didn’t
Know
What
A
Fence
Was
And things
Just
Came as
They
Were
For
Free
And clean
Fun
Some
How
Time
Was
Able
To catch
Me
And put
On
Black
Framed
Glasses
That
I don’t
Even need
But
They look
Cool
And
Who doesn’t
Like
A sexy
Librarian
Even
If she
Does
Wear long
Skirts
It’s not
As if
Some
One can’t
Lift em
Way
Up
High
And I
Bet she
Doesn’t
Mind one
Bit
Don’t judge
A
Librarian
By
Her
Glasses
Dude
They’re
Meant
For
Taking off
Getting
Off
Knee
Socks
That
Sag
To
Her ankles
And poetry
Says
That
S right
Baby
And they
Toss the
Binds
Of poets
To the
Floor
And it’s
There
In the
Wide
Silence
Of books
And the
written
Of words
And the
ink
Stains
Of
That
Moment
When
Poetry
Realizes
She
Indeed
Does
Not
Wear
Panties
BROOKE ANDERSON BURNS

Ars Poetica Completa

Caryn Begeschke

5000 words. Exactly. -- Impressive I know.

The Prologue 

In the pages to follow you fill find a body of working containing nothing ordinary and 

everything extraordinary. Allow me to give you a little preview, a preface if you will, of 

what you are about to encounter. Brace yourself. Hold on to something. A chair perhaps. 

Your hat. The table if its near. Clench you teeth and grasp tight. Till your knuckles turn 

white. Because you are about to embark on something: “magnificent, opulent, 

tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement, a sensual ravishment. It will be: 

Spectacular Spectacular. Spectacular, Spectacular. No words in the vernacular. Can't 

describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment. You must agree, that's 

excellent,” (Moulin Rouge! 2001) 

Let us begin at the beginning. 

You will see something familiar.  It is my Ode to Lysol. I’ve found my paradigm shifted 

while writing this piece. You see here, reader, that my original intention was to write 

about something that was NOT poetry. I could not use something full of imagery, or 

common to the masses. It had to be different. Ahhhhh. As I looked around my living 

room for some inspiration. COUCH! a couch is not a poem. Or poetry. Ah, no. A couch is 

a poem and poetry. it absolutely is. The people who sit on the couch tell a story. A poem. 

So to those who lay on it. Those who love on it. The crumbs and change that fell 

between it. This will absolutely not prove my point -- I said. A couch, is probably the 

most fantastic poetry ever written. 

What else. Kitchen, no. Door, oh absolutely not. Carpet, no, Table, no. Goodness my 

why is everything in this apartment poetry I screamed [internally].  So I wandered to the 

pantry. Where I keep food for cooking and supplies for cleaning. A toxic idea in 

retrospect. I went there, to search for more inspiration. Tomato paste, no. Styrofoam 

plate, no. Tea, no. Medicine, No. AH! LYSOL! YES! There is absolutely no way Lysol 

can be poetry. Ah-ha! Fantastic. I have my inspiration. 

As you will see, or have seen, in the 1200 word Ode To My Murderous Home 

Disinfectant, my hypothesis, theory even, was proven wrong and Lysol, much to my 

dismay, is absolutely poetry, as much, if not more, than everything else in the world is. 

Subsequent to this piece proven wrong by pushing and purging of words and a 

paradigm shift is something else rather lovely. My Emily Dickinson Cento. 

What a challenge this was. OH yes. Challenging like a Rubix cube or playing Scrabble 

against Dani Fox. 

My Emily Dickinson Cento is divided into pieces, ones that are sensical rather than 

being one long superfluous mess. Perhaps my favorite part of that cento is a section 

titled: Life Cycle.  Read it. Enjoy it. It includes, naturally, lines from Dickinsons work, 

some lyrics from MC (Mariah Carey AND Miley Cyrus) as well as a few words of my 

own. This alone did not fill your OH SO Generous word requirement. So I continued 

through the Index of first lines which laid out some poetry quite nicely for me, though I 

do wish I had a correspondence. No wait, wrong word, concordance, to complete this 

task. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Continuing with this Cento theme, is my Lorine Niedecker Cento which, is, I must say, 

my favorite most fascinating fantastic piece.  However, I must warn you, reader, that 

there are more of my words that Lorine’s in this cento, however. Nonetheless. It is 

fantastic. Let us talk about it a little. So after pulling random lines out of her collection. 

One per line, front and back, of a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, written in green pen, I 

decided to go through and pick out the ones that fit best together and tell some sort of 

story. And that is when the fantastic idea came to me. The setting: Just after dusk, in the 

woods, opens up this piece and well. I refuse to give it away. Read the rest. 

Let’s talk about centos a little. Cento. I thought this meant 100. clearly I was wrong. 

Century. 100 Years. Centipede. 100 Legs. Cent. 1/100 of a dollar. Cento. A literary work 

comprised of quotations from other authors. Nope. No correlation. And you, were not 

ever kind enough, to say, oh cento is so much like a hundred that is how many words 

you need to use. no no. how about 6 cento. 3 cento. Thats fine. I took your advise. I 

lowered my standards. And it is rather amazing how quickly the words came to me after 

that.  They just kept coming. 

Back to the Ars Poetica. 

The next section I titled: A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness That May or May 

Not be Considered Poetry. 

Whenever strange things would come into my brain, I would write them down and run 

with it. Or, in the case of “A Fiction Fallacy,” the first piece of this section, I sat down with 

the intention to write something brilliant and strange, create something comparable to 

Edson or Knox, and what I ended up with was something much better, and nearly 

effortless, except being a scribe to fast talking eight-year-old was not my simplest take.  

But, I did not have to create at all. I just recorded. And well, it was something more 

compareable to Counter Daemons, in that only I, the author, and Jake Castiglia (the 

computer if you will) can ever understand.  Interpret it you may try. But you WILL fail. 

The next piece in this collection is something titled “Advice from Below” which is the 

personification of feet. The feet are talking to their owner, telling them all the things they 

wish their owner knew about their tragic life.  It is rather insightful and anyone can take 

advise from it.  I hope they do. 

Following “Advice from Below” is “An Insomniac Inspiration.”  I sometimes have trouble 

sleeping and I found that I could do two things with this time I wish were spent sleeping.  

Write for this class. OR, watch infomercials.  I decided it would be best to write but only 

after having enough of the Sham Wow man tell me all about that fantastic chopper that 

slices and dices my vegetables effortlessly.  Why is he wearing that headset I wonder? 

I also found inspiration for strangeness in our class being just betwixt (I have an affinity 

for that word) two months. May and June. So, I wrote about it. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

And Finally. The pinnacle of the piece, the strangest of the strange (not really): 

something i posed on Craigslist expressing my desire for elf traps. 

Premature Post: A first attempt at estranged greatness. 

Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant. 

ACTIVE INGREDIENTS: 

Alkyl (50% C14 40% C12 10% C16) 

dimethyl benzyl ammonium saccharinate ... .10% 

Ethanol......................................................... 58% 

OTHER INGREDIENTS: ............................. 41.90% 

TOTAL:......................................................... 100% 

What? 

Half of what makes up this product is another ingredient? 

But it is not active? 

What is it? 

Thank you for adding them up for me Lysol bottle. 

My Lysol is a Murder. 

KILLS VIRUSES 

KILLS BACTERIA 

KILLS MOLD & MILDEW. 

What beautiful alliteration Lysol, maybe you are a poem after all. 

My Lysol carries the scent of an Early Morning Breeze at a chemical plant. 

Which each spray my sensitive noses wafts in a scent that leaves me nostalgic. 

It brings me to a place where I would wake up, in the Early Morning, and stick my head 

out the window to catch the cleansing Breeze. 

The Breeze like a power-washer coming through to freshen and clean everything. 

Oh no. That was not a freshening power-washer. 

That was a power-washer that KILLS. 

It is a murderer. 

A Breeze that takes your breath away. Essentually. It drowns you. 

Watch out Staphyloccocus aureus you are no match for my Early Morning Breeze. 

You better hide Enterobacter aerogenes on hard non-porous surface. Because 99.9% of 

you are goners. Total. Goners. 

Oh you pleasently colored can.  You remind me of the Crayola, Purple Mountain 

Magesty.  It really is my favorite crayon, such a lovely shade of purple. 

Purple. 

Like a bruise. 

Or a dead body. 

Laying with a toe tag in the morgue. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Lysol reminds me of garbage cans.  That is where my mom used to spray it as a child. 

This giant blue, sometimes brown, slightly rusted home for waste, is not poetry. 

This filthy vermin infested garbage receptacle.  Oh no. 

I was taking my trash out one day. I flung it high and heavy over the metal walls. 

Clank, crash, rustle, break, OW. 

“Hey watch where your throwing that.” 

“Oh Iʼm sorry.” 

And that is when I met him. 

The poet that lived in my dumpster. 

Iʼve seen him often collecting cans and sorting recyclbles.  

Every homeless man has a story.  

Usually, they lose their house in a bank foreclosure.  

They gamble their lives away on a Harrahʼs boat.  

They drink their lives away thanks largely impart to Heather who hands him another 

glass, divorce papers, another bottle, another, a DUI. 

Losers. 

Thats who live in the dumpsters. 

Those, who have lost. 

Thats what I thought of the poet in my dumpster when I met him.  I thought he was a 

loser. 

Hes cleverly obvious and wears small round eyeglasses.  Hes nose slopes like a slide 

at a summer fair and if his eyeglass happen to enjoy the ride they never make it past his 

colar bone where they are collected safely.  Because of his eye glass catchers, that 

form a nice bifocal necklace.  It will never be part of the Tiffanyʼs collection, but it is nice, 

for a poet. 

I sat there for a minute unsure of how to respond to this barbaric being, so gentle and 

diligent in his search for buried treasure.  Then, he climbed out. Two bags in his hands. 

He spotted something shiny.  He took a few step towards the mystical metal and bent 

down close to examine it.  A penny. Tails side up. 

I watch him as he lifts the penny, flips it over, and stands again. 

He turns to me and says, “its your lucky day” and shifts his eyes to Lincolnʼs profile that 

resides cordially on a copper, and then he looks back at me.  

Money. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

When I think of things that are dirty.  Just down right filthy.  Full of germs not visible to 

the human eye.  I think of currency. 

Touch. Touch. Touch. Tap. Tell. Pass. Borrow. Play. 

Money. 

From the bank teller, to the client. To the woman in the drive through at McDonalds. 

Given as change to the car behind her. An allowance for her 10 year old son. To George 

at the candy story down the block for teeth rotting treats.  To the 14 year employee who 

works under the table.  To the senior who bought him cigarettes.  To dealer who gave 

him cocaine.  To the prostitute for her services. To the clinic for her screening.  And back 

to the bank. 

Filthy money is.  

Money is poetry. 

Poetry is the story that money tells through its travels. 

Its what everyone notices but no one watches. 

Its blue. 

Poetry is a small child.  Observant.  Eager.  

There are a few children I can say Iʼm incredibly fond of.  Bradley, and Anthony.  They 

are twins I nanny for while their parents work their average jobs. 

They are very curious and funny in the way they view the world. 

Its big. Its kind. Its full of fun and answers. 

As we are driving down a country road they notice a horse, standing with a cow and 

some other live stock. 

The horse is lonely claims the boys. 

Horses are not friends with cows, or ducks. 

Horses, are friends with horses. 

There are no other horses for this horse to play with. 

He has no friends. 

This horse is so sad. 

He, is lonely. 

I wish I could be friends with him. 

I wish I could be a horse. 

That, is poetry.  The working observation of four-year-old twins. 

Children are the best poets. 

They dont process anything. 

They observe, and then report. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

There is no other influence except their tiny frame of reference. 

Innocent. 

Ignorant. 

Beautiful none the less. 

Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant. 

It does not KILL or contain OTHER INGREDIENTS. 

Or does it? 

My Lysol Home Disinfectant does bring up a great point. 

It contains this they are not simply defined. 

It gives an outline. 

But not instructions. 

My Lysol is colorful and vibrant. 

It contains imagery, alliteration.  

It kills and it saves lives. 

It makes things fresh, and new again. 

It makes you look at things differently. 

Its a perfume that Whitman smells. 

It is a line of a patriotic song. 

Yes.  It certainly is a poem.  All of the things add to 100%.  Even if they are other, and 

you dont quite know what they are.  Maybe you cannot pronounce it.  Or define it.  But it 

serves a purpose.  Isnʼt that just what a poem does.  I certainly believe so. It notices 

something in the world and magnifies it. Like an amoeba. 

Swim swim amoeba.  You lucky .01% that survived the death of your viral bacteria 

roommates.  They died a painful chemic death.  They are in a better place now.  A place 

with white flowers that smells lovely. Like a breeze, in the early morning. 

Emily Dickinson Cento 

Where? 

To see the summer sky, 1472 

To tell the beauty would decrease, 1700 

To the bright east she flies, 1573 

To their apartment deep, 1701 

To this world she returned, 830 

To try to speak and miss the way, 1617 

To undertake is to acheive, 1070 

To venerate the simple days, 57 

To wait an hour is long, 781 

To whom the mornings stand for nights, 1095 

Today or this noon, 1702 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

“Tomorrow” -- whose location, 1367 

My Savior, My God 

God is a distant, stately lover, 357 

God is indeed a jealous God, 1719 

God made a little gentian, 442 

God made no act without a cause, 1163 

God permits industrious angels, 231 

Going to heaven, 79 

Going to Him! 494 

Good morning, midnight, 425 

Good night, because we must, 114 

Good night! Which put the candle out, 259 

Life Cycle 

[How soft a caterpillar steps, 1498] 

“Caterpillar in the tree, how you wonder who youʼll be 

[How soft this prison is, 1498] 

you cant go far but you can always dream. 

[Cacoon above! Cacoon below! 129] 

Dont, you worry hold on tight. 

I promise soon, that there will come a day. 

[From cacoon forth a butterfly 354] 

Butterfly, fly away.”1 

“I must open my hands and watch you rise. 

Spread your wings and fly. 

Butterfly.”2 

[Morning is due to all, 1577] 

[Dew is freshest in the grass, 1097] 

[Had I known that the first was the last, 1720] 

[Had I not seen the sun, 1233] 

[Had I not this, or this, I said 904] 

[Had I presumed to hope. 522] 

[Had this one day not been, 1253] 

[Had we known the ton she bore, 1124] 

[Had we our senses, 1284] 

We could have saved her. 

[Death sets a thing significant, 360] 

[Death warrents are supposed to be, 1375] 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke 

1 

 Butterfly Fly Away, Miley Cyrus 

2 

 Butterfly, Mariah Carey

[Deaths waylaying not the sharpest, 1296] 

[Death is a dialogue, 976] 

[Death is like the insect, 1716] 

[Death is a supple suitor, 1445] 

[Death is potential to that man, 548] 

[Death leaves us homesick, 935] 

Death, was her fate. 

[How far is it to heaven, 929] 

[How firm eternity must look, 1499] 

She prayed. 

[“Faith” is a fine intervention, 185] 

[Faith is a pierless bridge] 

She drowned. 

[Heavenly Father, take to thee, 1461] 

[Come slowly Eden, 185] 

[Heaven has different signs to me, 1575] 

[Heaven, is so far of the mind, 370] 

[Heaven is what I cannot not reach, 239] 

[Except the heaven, had come so near, 472] 

[Except to heaven, she is nought. 154] 

[I went to heaven, 374.] 

His/Her 

Her breast is fit for pearls, 84 

His bill an auger is, 1034 

Her face was in a bed of hair, 1722 

His bill clasped, his eye forsook, 1102 

Her final summer was it, 795 

His cheek is his biographer, 1460 

Her losses make our gains ashamed, 1562 

His feet are shod with gauze, 916 

Her smile shaped like ohter smiles, 514 

His heart was darker than the starless night, 1378 

Her spirit rose to such a height, 1486 

His little hearse like figure, 1522 

Her grace is all she has, 810 

His mansion in the pool, 1379 

Her sovereign people, 1139 

His mind like fabrics of the east, 1446 

Her sweet weight on my heart at night, 518 

His mind of a man a secret makes, 1663 

Her little parasol to lift, 1038 

His oriental heresies, 1526 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Her last poems, 312 

His voice decrepit was with joy, 1476 

Eye 

I am afraid to own a body, 1090 

I am ashamed, I hide, 473 

I am alive I guess, 470 

I asked no other thing, 621. 

I came to buy a smile today, 223 

I cannot buy it, tis not sold, 840 

I bring an unaccustomed wine, 132 

I could not drink it, sweet. 818. 

Lorine Niedecker Cento 

if only I was able [to save the sun, 53] 

[i face the east and the windʼs in my mouth, 97] 

the slowing ((speeding)) traffic light [disappearing, 147] beneath the horizon. 

then. 

with the absence of alabaster. 

[came night, 117] 

[lets play a game, 127] 

whispered words my [big blind ears, 107] did not hear 

to my back two fingers [shaped like a gun, 128] 

[a monster, 103] 

sometimes 

as i wander this wood at night. 

i [stop to eat people, 7] 

[isnʼt it funny? 141] 

i come across [lonely women, 115] 

strange, desperate women. 

women wasted. wasting away. 

sheʼd sell anything she got her hands on. 

[sheʼd sell dirt, 

sheʼd sell your eyes friend in deep grief, 108] 

he circles me. 

iʼm panting. 

there is nothing more appetizing then a wo[mans sweet breath, 104] 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

with a machete he [breaks my hand, 54] away from the bone 

he raises my mangled mano to his lips and samples my flesh and sips crimson as it 

bursts from broken veins. 

[youʼre my type, youʼre okay. 148] 

i feel no pain aside from the [mosquitoes bite,147]ing my ankles. 

eat what [i give to you, 137] 

i clench my jaw tight. 

would you prefer it better if i served you on platter 

[and gave you lettuce,141]? 

he forced open my mouth 

like you would force [open a door, 145] 

with a crow bar. 

with nails like claws he pulls skin away from bone. 

he shoves it into my mouth. 

with hand crowning cranium and 

another clutching my chin. 

i manually chew. 

under his control. 

a self-consuming cannibal 

[i donʼt spit. 132] 

A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness 

That May or May Not be Considered Poetry. 

A Fiction Fallacy 

snorlax 

is so sleepy 

and grumpy 

his is fat. he eats alot. 

if we cant do 

pagolime thats 

bad news 

may paragolime can do 

thats giritina 

he is in the reverse world 

i had heathen 

and traded him 

for a level x 

i used to have a legendary 

a dragonita 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

ARTICULTIO! 

i can play one player 

but 2 player 

i split the deck 

i be the player and computer 

i just do this 

get it? 

plowsien or something 

i catch them 

all of them. 

this awkward 8 year old 

sifts through the sunflower deck 

making awkward songs 

from his mouth 

maybe i can do 

story mode 

sift sift sift 

this room smells like 

wet dirty 

dog laundry 

he mumbles to himself in audibly. 

a very long time ago 

when guarantino 

was in reverse world 

i think i told you before 

now hes in the real world 

what theres a message 

whats he saying 

youʼll never know 

aslkfjiosjdflkjsdofij 

comes from his mouth 

ppppssshhhh ccrrrrrr 

reverse world is mine 

if it can be ruled i sugest. 

he crashes into my foot 

sorry. i used you. 

ppppffff sshhhhh 

AHHHHHHHHH 

whipshhhoaahhh 

roarrr shh ooofffeeemmm 

HA! take that! 

he makes what would resemble static with his hands 

how do i get out 

be careful down there 

oh great 

showmen 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

yes 

oh be hack 

sssffffeeesshhh 

i dont have showmen 

iʼm going to pretend 

you dont have to do that either 

show man 

how was it 

good 

ssshhhffffaacceeenntt 

he gargles and hisses the saliva and air in his mouth 

this is the real world 

AH MONSTER 

its me 

haratina 

where are you 

from water world 

theres no water there 

sorry its not raining 

the fighting game 

sorry thats my faut 

it came with the thunder 

oh my bad 

hands on fight 

happpooossskkk kapooosshh 

i think you lied 

iʼm not a very good owinker 

ssshhppphhh 

here we are 

bubble world 

i hate using this 

turn it off 

turn it off 

i should be a goner 

iʼm a bubble 

OH I DIDNT KNOW 

popp popp pop po po popopopopop AHHHHH 

USE THINDEROLD 

why you like it 

yes. 

ahh thunderbold! 

chew chew chew 

righhhttt chew AHHH 

silence 

heavy breath. 

i am. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

look at this 

ar 

tuh 

nope 

nope 

nope 

nope 

water 

nothing 

nothing 

nohing 

nothing 

water 

nothing nothing 

fighting 

nothing 

nothing 

water 

nothing 

nothing 

fighting. 

Advice From Below 

please take care of me. 

i know i did not come with a users manual 

but you learned how to use me at a young age.  

it started out small and innocent enough. 

there was a lot of stumbling on my part -- i was wasnʼt ready.  

but together we got the hang of it, you and i.  

from there on out it was history. 

you used to walk around outside with no shoes on, 

in the itchy grass or on the hot hot sand.  

i guess that was much better than the confinement of socks and shoes. 

 it is so dark in there. 

hot, very hot, and sweaty. 

i couldnt even see where i was going. or what was coming. 

you would much rather spend money on clothes 

who cares about me really? 

go ahead step in that puddle. 

fine. 

i mean really? 

there is nothing fun about jumping in a puddle. 

iʼm wet, 

cold, 

wet. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

have you ever heard of rainboots? 

i mean sure they arent the most fashionable thing 

but iʼm only lookin out for number one, 

and my buddy over there number two. 

you up there, 

you with the eyes, 

just watch where you are going.  

i know we are all supposed to work together 

and be a team here 

but sometimes you just walk into all sorts of trouble, 

like the said puddle. 

how was i supposed to see? 

i cant really even warn you either. 

i just get the aftermath. which is never fun.  

and you know what, 

i know that there are two of us 

but i really feel discriminated against. 

so your right handed, fine. 

and your right brained, fine. 

but with us down here 

its a little different than with your hands up there. 

we are a team.  

and if one of us is missing, 

well then you are a gimp. 

which happened quite of a few times 

because of your discrimination.  

admit it you take better care of right.  

there is no logical explanation that i am the one you swing full force into soccer balls. 

you made a spectacle of your poor peds 

by turning them into harry hobbit feet, 

how embarrassing. 

An Insomniac Inspiration 

White. 

The color of this blank document in front of me. 

The color of my skin. 

The outermost part of my eye. 

Fresh paint 

A picket fence. 

The color that is most pure 

Or the absence of color all together. 

Fresh linens 

Egyptian cotton sheets 

When I find my mind racing in the middle of the night its oftentimes hard to keep up with 

the pace. Thoughts bouncing off the walls of my brain to quickly for me to keep track or 

catch up.  It is during this late hour, when I desperately want to find my sanity and get in a 

few hours of sleep, that I try, try, try to get my mind to focus on one thing. White. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

 

Clean. Pure. Simple. Absent. White. 

 

What is it that I'm keeping my mind from? 

What exactly am I trying to numb? 

 

I choose my words wisely.  They flow eloquently from a well rehearsed articulate tongue.  

My words more often than not are my own.  Sometimes, though, a song can speak exactly 

what my heart strings are playing.  Through all of this soul searching I often wonder.. WHY? 

What is this all for?  I thought I had found my passion, but that fire was extinguished with a 

cold glass of what I wish was water and a slap in the face. 

 

An instant. 

A moment. 

A second. 

A thought. 

It can change EVERYTHING. 

 

I take advantage of that fact of life. Because for this moment I am typing on this expensive 

mac, in my own room, in a beautiful house.  In front of me is a 300 dollar phone. A 

prescription bottle cap and a spilled bottle of pills. To my left, my sunglasses that I couldn’t 

afford while summering in California, a statement for my Von Maur credit card, and, 

ironically, a gratitude rock. 

 

I want to find the rock in my life. 

Grasp it. 

And learn to be a little more grateful. 

 

I want to learn love. 

One that is unconditional. 

One that is selfless. 

Love in its purest form. 

Forgiving 

And for giving. 

For others 

And for myself. 

 

My eyelids are beginning to feel the effects of that antihistamine. 

And as they close, instead of darkness, I see white. 

An Ode To the Passing of May and The Welcoming of June 

may 

im free. 

not for long. 

may term 

sings a new song. 

may 

peace be with you 

may 

your days be merry and bright 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

may 

i go to the bathroom 

may 

i might. 

in may 

the sunshines 

and there is memorial. 

in may freedom rings. 

unless your taking summer school. 

in may 

the girls go wild 

and tan in bikinis on the quad. 

in may 

i think of tulips 

and swimming pools. 

last may 

i went to romania 

in may i found God 

and met Jesus 

and was saved 

and baptized. 

may is really the time to start over 

if you ask me 

they tell me the first day of spring 

is in march, i think 

but the season really changes, in may. 

may my 

heartsong 

sing 

to you. 

iʼm an english major 

dont mix up can and may 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

i do not know anyone with a birthday in may 

except for my rich aunt carol. 

and my friend cara. 

and the 5th of may. 

cinco de mayo. 

i love mexican food. 

june 

i like june. 

i like the number 6. 

i like the way june feels. 

it never gets too hot. 

usually in june, 

i catch a plane to california. 

but this june i will be here 

living in bloomington normal. 

june is kelly kleins birthday 

she will turn 21, again. 

last year she faked her birthday 

and had a party with all her friends. 

in june beth and randy will get married 

and iʼm invited to the wedding. 

iʼll wear a pretty dress 

and hopefully a handsome date on my arm. 

i hope he says yes. 

when june comes 

iʼm sure iʼll have memories 

missing being in california 

the beginning of camp season is always my favorite. 

june is beautiful and awkward. 

i want to love 

like johnny and 

june 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

whats a june bug? 

is it their birthday? 

crystals birthday is in june too. 

the same day of the bales wedding. 

shes getting old. 

in june i will sit on my deck. 

and drink lemonade. 

and play my guitar. 

strum strum strum 

sing a little 

country song. 

sing sing sing 

all day long. 

in june i will wear flipflops 

and tanktops 

and short shorts 

iʼll swear sunscreen 

and sun glasses 

and the weather will be 

nice enough to turn the air on. 

WANTED: TRAPS 

elves are a greater pests than you could possibly imagine. they play incredulous tricks and cause 

household destruction such as the following: 

wearing all of our clothes and then leaving them on the floor. 

hiding things, such as keys, cellphones, sunglasses and money. 

eating all of our food. 

dirtying ALL of the dishes and leaving them in the sink. 

leaving lights on. 

making messes in our bathrooms. 

stealing socks (usually one from a pair), probably to be used as a sleeping bag. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

these little elves are very sneaky and love to get on our nerves! as soon as the apartment is clean 

is when they begin their mischief. within hours of cleaning our rooms or doing laundry/dishes, 

they being their destruction. 

we do not need an exterminator, rather we would like to trap the elves in a safe way. we need a 

good system because they probably were trained at hogwarts in efficiency and posses the much 

sought after invisibility cloak. probably stolen from harry. those dirty thieves. anyways. we 

believe that if caught these elves are trainable... we’d like to use them to fold laundry, do dishes, 

clean the living room and bathroom, and our bedrooms. 

at first we thought it could be trolls causing all of this mischief. that would explain the mess in 

the bathroom, and use of our hair products. then we realized that trolls wouldn't be the ones 

wearing our clothes and messing up our laundry.. they generally just go topless with their 

occasional belly button ring, and to have that kind of confidence they probably aren’t eating our 

food. 

so they are absolutely elves. assumably on the off season from the n.p. we do believe that if 

caught, not only can they be trained -- they can be bred. so upon catching the little scoundrels 

and teaching them how to keep house, we will sell their offspring to those in need of a tidy home 

and cant afford merry maids. 

thanks. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke