Watching World's Dumbest again...
"The world is my bathroom."
"Dad's loaded up the kids to take them to school."
"There's more to Brazil than delicious nuts and big shaking asses, dangerous stuff happens there."
"a sloppy serving of justice."
Thursday, November 17
Free Write 1, Week 12
Only in America
Only in America can you kill a tree
to get a bike. What self-respecting
black man leaves his Brooklyn home
with an axe? He wants to take this tree
down. He wants to take this bike out,
he wants the only tree left in New York
because he doesn't have a license.
And so he swings until the muscles
in her arms grow weary and the frustration
in his mouth blurts out in angry swears.
All I wanted was a goddamned bike.
All I wanted was to fell a tree that does
little more than take up needed space.
He throws the axe because his hands
won't chop anymore.
And when the tree comes down he runs
shocked, but cannot escape the charges of his
criminal mischief. I'm surprised he was not more
pleased. If worth was measured
in the rings in a tree, this Brooklyn man,
the head on his axe gleaming with wooden
fibers, would be empty of his worth, his biggest
contribution to society--nothing like George
Washington, merely a tool carrying tools,
a bandit disappearing from common
understanding. I'd set that man up next
to the stump of that tree he left behind,
chain him up to the fallen bike he tried
to steal and tell him that before he cuts
another tree, that at least this tree gives
oxygen, gives life, which is more than what
this man deserves and I'd probably line up
the people surrounding him and chain the useless
wrists into a weak-link chain against Darwinism
for just watching him do it in the first place.
Only in America can you kill a tree
to get a bike. What self-respecting
black man leaves his Brooklyn home
with an axe? He wants to take this tree
down. He wants to take this bike out,
he wants the only tree left in New York
because he doesn't have a license.
And so he swings until the muscles
in her arms grow weary and the frustration
in his mouth blurts out in angry swears.
All I wanted was a goddamned bike.
All I wanted was to fell a tree that does
little more than take up needed space.
He throws the axe because his hands
won't chop anymore.
And when the tree comes down he runs
shocked, but cannot escape the charges of his
criminal mischief. I'm surprised he was not more
pleased. If worth was measured
in the rings in a tree, this Brooklyn man,
the head on his axe gleaming with wooden
fibers, would be empty of his worth, his biggest
contribution to society--nothing like George
Washington, merely a tool carrying tools,
a bandit disappearing from common
understanding. I'd set that man up next
to the stump of that tree he left behind,
chain him up to the fallen bike he tried
to steal and tell him that before he cuts
another tree, that at least this tree gives
oxygen, gives life, which is more than what
this man deserves and I'd probably line up
the people surrounding him and chain the useless
wrists into a weak-link chain against Darwinism
for just watching him do it in the first place.
Classmate Response 2, Week 12
In response to Queenie's Free Entry 1, Revised Week 11 (Anthology)
I like the details the beginning opens with--five hues of blue, though I admit I do not agree with its repetition at the end. I feel like you recognized the intrigue of this line and decided to reuse it, but in repeating it the image loses its initial appeal. The first stanza as a whole is my favorite. It creates a vivid setting and sets weird language next to each other that presents itself as unique and odd--in a good way. I like the weird idea of hearing an acorn falling, especially with the booming echoing about the speaker. I feel like there was more attempt to focus on why the acorn fell instead of focusing on why the speaker would single out this one thing. What more is more insignificant than a falling acorn? I have tons of them on my driveway, so why this one sound? Of course there could be some ways to tie in how it fell into the wonder behind why notice at all, but I feel like this is a focus in this piece that is not touched.
I feel like the 15th line is missing an article or something?
Who are the two tiny eyes? It's not established and the description isn't specific enough to make judgement. I imagine it's the squirrel again? Perhaps the intruder isn't needed here. I feel it takes purpose off the subject yet to be addressed here. Too many things happening muddles your pretty way of handling images, and it gets confusing. Hope this Helps.
I like the details the beginning opens with--five hues of blue, though I admit I do not agree with its repetition at the end. I feel like you recognized the intrigue of this line and decided to reuse it, but in repeating it the image loses its initial appeal. The first stanza as a whole is my favorite. It creates a vivid setting and sets weird language next to each other that presents itself as unique and odd--in a good way. I like the weird idea of hearing an acorn falling, especially with the booming echoing about the speaker. I feel like there was more attempt to focus on why the acorn fell instead of focusing on why the speaker would single out this one thing. What more is more insignificant than a falling acorn? I have tons of them on my driveway, so why this one sound? Of course there could be some ways to tie in how it fell into the wonder behind why notice at all, but I feel like this is a focus in this piece that is not touched.
I feel like the 15th line is missing an article or something?
Who are the two tiny eyes? It's not established and the description isn't specific enough to make judgement. I imagine it's the squirrel again? Perhaps the intruder isn't needed here. I feel it takes purpose off the subject yet to be addressed here. Too many things happening muddles your pretty way of handling images, and it gets confusing. Hope this Helps.
Classmate Response 1, Week 12
In Response to Kyley's Free Write, Week 12:
How odd. It's an interesting situation, of course, there is always the tired picking on of Christians and how they're hypocritical--that they're supposed to be Godly in their approach to others but tend to be cold and judgemental, I feel its common knowledge. I think it was a good idea to address the woman's reasons why, primarily her children, which makes her more reasonable and tolerable for her she reacts, but I would have liked to see some shame in her reaction--some small moment that made her realize that how she was behaving was not in the Christian way. There seems to be no small turn in this, other than the man simply picks up and leaves. I do like the ending though. I myself was wonder, where was the wine? It's sad to portray the man as only being good enough to make children glare. I feel like the characters in the piece are very stagnant. Search deeper for some traits within them, perhaps portray them in direct interaction and the rest can come with it. I hope this made sense--I'm so tired I don't know what I am saying.
How odd. It's an interesting situation, of course, there is always the tired picking on of Christians and how they're hypocritical--that they're supposed to be Godly in their approach to others but tend to be cold and judgemental, I feel its common knowledge. I think it was a good idea to address the woman's reasons why, primarily her children, which makes her more reasonable and tolerable for her she reacts, but I would have liked to see some shame in her reaction--some small moment that made her realize that how she was behaving was not in the Christian way. There seems to be no small turn in this, other than the man simply picks up and leaves. I do like the ending though. I myself was wonder, where was the wine? It's sad to portray the man as only being good enough to make children glare. I feel like the characters in the piece are very stagnant. Search deeper for some traits within them, perhaps portray them in direct interaction and the rest can come with it. I hope this made sense--I'm so tired I don't know what I am saying.
Improv 1, Week 12
Improv of Kaminsky's We Lived Happily During the War:
Caught a Woman Stealing Wine Bottles Under Her Skirt
and when they carried out the bottles we
stared,
but couldn't speak, we studied them
but couldn't speak. I sat
blank, behind the camera, blank in booze
bars watching on surveillance as expensive bottle,
after expensive bottle, after expensive liquor bottle
was lifted and magicked underneath the plaid cotton
of the only skirt she owned
to take home to fill up cups that cost no money,
to forget plates that cost no money, next to spoons that cost no money,
her great home that's worth no money, we (laughing)
pinched the wealth back from her skirts.
Caught a Woman Stealing Wine Bottles Under Her Skirt
and when they carried out the bottles we
stared,
but couldn't speak, we studied them
but couldn't speak. I sat
blank, behind the camera, blank in booze
bars watching on surveillance as expensive bottle,
after expensive bottle, after expensive liquor bottle
was lifted and magicked underneath the plaid cotton
of the only skirt she owned
to take home to fill up cups that cost no money,
to forget plates that cost no money, next to spoons that cost no money,
her great home that's worth no money, we (laughing)
pinched the wealth back from her skirts.
Sign-Inventory 1, Week 11
Ilya Kaminsky
We Lived Happily During the War
and when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun
in the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money, in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
The piece starts in media res, as if erupting into the action.
The first three lines has strong, war-suggesting verbs like: bombed, protested, opposed.
Lack of punctuation creates a rushing feeling to the lines.
Duality of the meaning of "in the sixth month"
The "we" is left vague in the piece
Repetition of homes and money, as if suggesting a material importance.
We Lived Happily During the War
and when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun
in the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money, in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
The piece starts in media res, as if erupting into the action.
The first three lines has strong, war-suggesting verbs like: bombed, protested, opposed.
Lack of punctuation creates a rushing feeling to the lines.
Duality of the meaning of "in the sixth month"
The "we" is left vague in the piece
Repetition of homes and money, as if suggesting a material importance.
Calisthenic 1, Week 12
Tim's calisthenic from class today. I did a new one and yeah, I know--the ending.
I Left the Class
In the poem we discussed today, I made
points in a box of crayons. Its smell
was like the waxing tornados of a sherbert
covered thunderstorm. I left the class and lifted
my head like the end of a snapped twig. I see spots,
staring at the fluorescent lights until the white
turns blue. I shut my eyes and see
circles. The harder I squint, the redder
they become, and when I reach out and grab
the walls, I tingle awareness of each dent,
like the dappled damage on the Corvette in the State
Farm commercial. I crush cans like robots
devour cars and as it smashes in my hand
I cut my palm and spin out colors. But
I don't just make red, I am the Alaskan
shades of cauliflower. I am the tired shades
of steely gray. I make the hurried lines
of forest green push out in the wintered
crystals of blue-violet. I am more rainbow
than Rose Art. And the political points
I make leave me no simple red, no
liberated blue collar.
I Left the Class
In the poem we discussed today, I made
points in a box of crayons. Its smell
was like the waxing tornados of a sherbert
covered thunderstorm. I left the class and lifted
my head like the end of a snapped twig. I see spots,
staring at the fluorescent lights until the white
turns blue. I shut my eyes and see
circles. The harder I squint, the redder
they become, and when I reach out and grab
the walls, I tingle awareness of each dent,
like the dappled damage on the Corvette in the State
Farm commercial. I crush cans like robots
devour cars and as it smashes in my hand
I cut my palm and spin out colors. But
I don't just make red, I am the Alaskan
shades of cauliflower. I am the tired shades
of steely gray. I make the hurried lines
of forest green push out in the wintered
crystals of blue-violet. I am more rainbow
than Rose Art. And the political points
I make leave me no simple red, no
liberated blue collar.
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