Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 6

So I'm having a pretty exciting day today, apparently. Just found out that one of my friends has been keeping up with my blogger without me having to prompt him. If that doesn't make you feel loved, nothing will.

Ok, to quotes:

1. "So broke, I can't even afford a mistake right now."

2. "open discussion about pooping experiences"

3. "Fuck that other girl and her couch."

4. "By daily dying I have come to be."

Calisthenics 3, Week 6

A Shar Pei named Blue

China's royal lap dog lapping dew
in the Half-Native backyards of Carrollton.
Blue, as she might have been collared,
was ratty like the tattered scraps of tomato vines,
shriveling under the habanero drought.
It took all the dew from Blue
and soon that Chinese lap dog curled
like a grain of jasmine rice.
Holly-baby, don't cry for Blue--
all brown and puffy like squished hamster cheeks.
You're a Taurus. Grab that bull
by the horns and drag that sack
through the Californian woods.
Wait until the lushes surround you
and the pines bury you in scented branches
until the leaves blend into the soft silks
of Indian sari, and that blue rice grain becomes Poha
blended in savory breakfast spices.
Bury burdens and drown its trunks in hops
and as the floral scent surrounds you,
Holly-baby let the gardens of dishonesty grow
uncultivated in the realms of relativity.
Dishonesty is relative, after all.

Free Write 1, Week 6

I keep coming back to this piece for some reason, but I'm trying to edit it and maintain that roller coaster feeling Tim suggested in his third dispatch. I seem to be mentioning you quite a bit lately, Tim. I'll try and stop. =)

Title is the same placeholder, I might try and brainstorm some more appropriate titles when I don't have to run off to pick up my sister from work. If you don't know the first version, look here for differences Basically (Version 1.5)


Basically (Version 2)


I remember the sagging blue nightgown
with nothing underneath.

Suggestive phone chats winking
ideas that transcended denim and Tuesday panties.
That electric connection through the speakers
circuited in a spider web of intermingled, intertwined, and satisfying--

I remember wanting to see everything
but your darkness blocked my view.

creeping on sacred slabs, sandwiched
between a lawn mower and a beach ball.
I let you in and you and I contemplate birth
marks on the planes where darkness sleeps.

I remember squirming against you
but you became a wall.

The ceiling trembles in a sigh into the floor
But the world outside is bored.
Who is snoring on top of us right before
the baby screams? The screams, the noise, God, my noise

I remembered your jacket used to be soggy
sweating scents of Gillette and mold.

hovers in frozen intensity. You finger
every scrap, every morsel, devoured slippery pieces
of my hesitation like a foaming dog in spring.
Then the pain becomes too clumsy to endure,

I remember the salt of unsanctioned prayers.
Christ had never tasted so seasoned.

our driving need for completion squashes
under knowledge that this moment isn't it.
That silent tears on basement floors
are best for days not mid-November.
Nights can't hurt this bad.

And I remember the glorious return
of that sagging blue night gown
hiding everything underneath.

And instead of dancing, I remember we swam
in the atom juice of my basic joy.
And our bodies are knocked down
to the smallest levels of animalism and awkwardness.
I could have drowned in awkwardness.
And in asphyxiated dreams hover trophies
of our almost accomplishment.

If you feel there are some things that still need work or if I might have sacrificed something in the transition even, please do relay critiques and concerns. 

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.

Calisthenics 2, Week 6

First attempt ever at a sestina. 

In Picking Up Women

A fisherman, lining a prize-winner, Chris

may eat, or mount, or catch Angela's

hips and do multiplication on tables

because after arguments you extend the olive

branch. And brunch is lucky charms,

magically delicious in the steeping pot.

Pirate booty steeping in the pot,

stewing a brew more bejeweled than Christmas.

Who could ever resist your charms?

Flex up against heaven, my Angel.

Lift your words in an impediment for Olive

Oyl. Then collect girls in a charming tableau.

Look for ladies with more legs than tables,

and who knows the rims of pans and pots,

and can sizzle sautees in oiled olives.

May her knees be more crossed than Christians

but mistake her for no low-flying angel

less she betwixt you with her charm.

Only McGorgeous has arched arms

though Lady Liberty in crook carries tablets

more green than two lips bloomed in Angela's

garden. Sprouting roots in their flower pots,

their leaves intermingling and criss-

crossing in shades of forest and olive. 

Never admit to her that our love

is every grain in the Sahara charming

thoughts of equation. Unless Chris

is sure he's Mr. Right angle on cornered tables.

Farm roosters in the cock pot--

crock pot, wafting alien smells to Angela

who's purely out of this world, this angle

and corner of a earth rounder than olives.

Hotter than spring greens in a summer pot

we sizzle in your hunka hunka burning charms.

All a game until we turn the tables

and then all things become ludicrous.

Then girls are not angelic, but become hexed charms.

Gamble over martini olives, and play skillfully at tables

to chance the jackpot. And tips the scales away from Chris.

Calisthenics 1, Week 6

Attempt one at Tim's calisthenic. I think I have too many adjectives. Apologies.

Marines like Romano

We eat pizza, swallowing smoke,
and you tell me you're immortal.
And the cheese tastes like contacts stuck
in a clog in the back of my throat.
You tell me, "Hun, it's all for you,"
and I sag and wheeze a whisper
of how human you look today.

I want to return your black gifts.
Your dedication in fatigues,
gift-wrapped in serviceable form.
This cheese dodges consumption in boots
and with every bite reminds me
there's no customer service room
exchanging returns for receipts
because you signed away your name.

"I know you can handle it."
You assure your marinara
and then parmesan reminders
that once you're in, you're in for life.
And I nod--I have to agree
because while I'll be chugging cheese
you'll be frontline peppering men
and reminding me you'll never die

because, "Baby, I'm too stubborn."
Too obstinate, like pizza cheese.

Classmate Response 2, Week 6

David's Week 6 Calisthenic focusing on recursives:



Your big ol' blocks of text are so intimidating. Especially when the entire thing loops upon itself so much, it is incredibly easy to get lost in and I had to reread certain lines a few times to regain where I use to be.

What I'm getting from you is that you like to rant, and I think you're right, the recursive method is right up your alley. I also believe that for a lot of your works you have this same pattern of going off at full-speed without stopping. Granted, I say "a lot" and not "all" because I have read a few things from you that demonstrate a successful manipulation of flatter language and I think you have some talent in manipulating tone. Your work about the sex Q&A and rape victims really worked well with this language. But when it comes to something like the recursive method this particular piece tends to come off as lyrically elevated, and I wish you would implement some of that lesser tone.

The reason I say this is because in this particular piece, it is a huge block of text. With recursive, I feel like ideas run together and as a result the period almost seems null and void in this situation. So you have a huge block of always going text and as a reader I feel like the speaker of this work is nearly shouting at me. What's more, I think while reeling in on these things, you might want to consider how many ideas you are packing into one sentence. I'm impressed you managed to reuse so few ideas so many times, but it is difficult as a reader to keep track of all the reoccurences when there are three or four of them per line.

My best advice is consider shorter sentences. Not necessarily write this entire thing in shorter sentences. I think that would disturb some of the twisting intrigue you have here. But consider giving your readers a mental break. Give them something short and digestible in between all the commas.

I hope you don't find this as a personal criticism. I am simply trying to make a judgement off of what you have given me thus far and what you have here.  As I always say, I hope you find some help in this.

Classmate Response 1, Week 6

In response to Queenie's fourth free write, week 6. I find this funny because some of the stuff I suggested she do is some of the very same things I struggle with:

All right, a couple of things. You have an interesting list here and none of it has anything to do with rice--so clearly you're doing something right here. I feel like there's a few things you can do to make things stronger. For one, what you have here is a long lyrical rant. And when you jump into a new idea there is no distinction and it is difficult to follow the train of thought from one section of thought to another. Perhaps consider more narrative. For instance, break up the tangent with something with a simple sentence every now and again. For my Introduction to Poetry piece I had a lot of odd language juxtaposed together and Dr. Davidson suggested I change it up by adding simple sentences like, "You know this is true." Maybe not necessarily that sentence, but I hope it helps illustrate the point. For instance, "The button sprung up from cook to uncook." Compared to all that description this section pauses the reader. The rest of it comes by as a rush when reading so the reader does need a pause.

The line: "It's like as if liquid sugar" Too much happening there for your opening line. How about "It's liquid sugar" or "It's liquefied sugar." "like as if" borderlines on excessive, unless you're trying to create a certain tone then I would suggest manipulating the tone in other ways.

Hope this helps.

Sign-Inventory 1, Week 6

Shit. Week 6 already...


Those Winter Sundays 
Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

--The poem is about five sentences long

--The first stanza uses alliteration repeatedly, as in "blueback" and "weekday weather."

--The poem changes subject from the first to following stanzas by breaking the complex sentence structure with a simple sentence, "No one ever thanked him."

--The second and third stanzas are connected in an continuation of one sentence. 

--In the first stanza, the syllabic structure is 10-10-7-10-10. 10 syllables also end the final lines of the second and third stanzas. 

--Only the final line poses a question throughout the work. 

--There is a repetition of cold and warmth throughout the work from the "blueback cold" in the first stanza to the "driven out cold" in the last stanza.

--Lines in each stanza follow a 5-4-5 scheme.