The Impermanent Illinois Collaborative Poetry Collective

Monday, July 18, 2011

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

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

Butterﬂy Fly Away, Miley Cyrus

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

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

tuh

nope

water

nothing

nohing

nothing

water

nothing nothing

ﬁghting

nothing

water

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

The Impermanent Illinois Collaborative Poetry Collective

Monday, July 18, 2011

Monday, November 23, 2009

E.E. Cummings poem

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Friends of poetry

POETRY DOESN'T DESERVE A TITLE

Ars Poetica Completa

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