Improv 1, Week 6

Doing a mad-lib esque improv, removing adjectives and nouns.

Original:


Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Canticle with Sea Worm

Blessed be the curly-haired lady at Penn Station
who directed me to my train in a sea of angry

trenched coats. Blessed be Brazilian hatchet fish
that leap the lake together for a snack of gnats.

Blessed be juice and raspberry vodka.
Blessed be the first day of the year for sandals.

Blessed be driftwood with mysterious eggs
inside. Blessed be Tess, the 50ft. Woman

with Visible Organs standing outside of Los Angeles.
I pulled over because of her neon sign,

the postcards, the t-shirt possibilities—
& had the cup of coffee that kept me driving

in between the lines. Blessed be the eunicids,
the tiny sea worms mouthing on bits of sand

& shell thanklessly at night, spitting up whole
platforms for the Great Barrier Reef to spread.

Blessed be any mother with cancer spots
on an otherwise perfectly milky x-ray. Ghost

of a heart large & light, just a trace of her supple arms,
a wedding ring. The silence of her children studying

the delicacy of a new fern, the crispy gift-foil around
each potted plant. The silence of waiting by her bed.

Improv:

Diamond Forde

Auditioning with a Dancer

Blessed be the guitar string at strum

who directed hymns to my insides in a sea of twisted

line transition. Blessed be the G chord

that leaps the basics together for a final bow.

Blessed be rhythm and thrums.

Blessed be the first day of the year for understanding.

Blessed be lyrics with honeyed metaphors

inside. Blessed be music sheets, the 50ft sprawls

with scribbled pauses standing outside of verse.

I drifted around because of her melody,

the notes, the a capella possibilities—

& had a beat that kept me driving

in between the meter. Blessed be the chant,

the hallow cadences mouthing on bits of Spain

& divinity thanklessly at St. Benedict, spitting up muffled

progressions for the sanctity to spread.

Blessed be any choir with heavenward sopranos

on an otherwise perfectly chalky baritone. Minuet

of a fluttered trapeze & limelight, just a trace of her triple time,

an assemble. The silence of her ballerina studying

the delicacy of a postured nocturne, the wafting curls around

each laced bodice. The silence of waiting by her upturned skirts in ostinato.