|Tuesday, November 25th, 2003|
|Monday, November 17th, 2003|
|Sunday, November 16th, 2003|
|Saturday, November 15th, 2003|
|Friday, November 14th, 2003|
|Monday, November 10th, 2003|
|Saturday, November 8th, 2003|
|Wednesday, November 5th, 2003|
|Monday, November 3rd, 2003|
|Friday, October 31st, 2003|
|Saturday, October 25th, 2003|
|Thursday, October 23rd, 2003|
|Sunday, October 19th, 2003|
( A PROSE PERIOD PIECE - BURIAL ON CASTLE GROUNDS )
|Friday, October 17th, 2003|
|Sunday, October 12th, 2003|
|Saturday, October 11th, 2003|
( POEM -- NATURE MORTE, OR VARIATIONS ON STILLNESS )
|Tuesday, September 30th, 2003|
|Saturday, September 27th, 2003|
|Wednesday, September 24th, 2003|
|Tuesday, September 16th, 2003|
|Sunday, September 14th, 2003|
Broken-hipped, the patient stares
through the window's blear.
The scent that meets her nose
is ammonia-yellow. A maze
of willows leads her eyes
through teardrop leaves
and blond lianas.
A nurse enters and asks about
the hip (Does it hurt?). Without
a word, he attends to the urine-
stained bedclothes. She, smearing
her lips with her tongue, replies
Yes, a little.
The leaves attract her again.
Remember when we used to swing
on those limbs? We'd hang
as tight as we could, but we'd always land
on our bottoms, hands full of leaves.
The nurse says nothing as he smoothes
her sheets. He looks
into the window, sees
a skein of geese drifting south.
|Saturday, September 13th, 2003|
|Wednesday, September 10th, 2003|
|Monday, September 8th, 2003|
|Saturday, September 6th, 2003|
|Tuesday, September 2nd, 2003|
|Saturday, August 30th, 2003|
I can recall the beach littered with shells
and fragments of stones that the tide
had long since marked though I cannot recall
the mode of transport: the scent of water
rotting that carried us there, beckoned us
to set foot on those ancient sands; or else
the sight of artistic depictions nailed
to museum walls, little pagan crucifixions,
renderings we marveled at from behind
purple velvet ropes. We longed for it.
We longed for the sun on our backs and
the sense of freedom promised by such an
overload of sensations. I remember it well.
We carved words into the sand and then
waited impatiently for the tide to erase them.
Fragments of Sappho, invocations to
the goddess said to haunt these very shores.
I emerged dripping wet and smelling of
genitals from the rank recesses of the sea.
I disrobed the god of war with a goblet of juice
before the god of wine had even been born.
I know these shores as well as I know
the back of my hand or the cleft in your chin.
It was the brine, the canvas that drew us in.
Perhaps it was a seashell's tale that did it,
fed lies into our ears like a jaded pythia.
From behind the velvet rope, I longed for you
to explore the beach with me, a companion,
an accessory to the crime. Eventually the tide
erased all our words, all the remnants of
that infamous inhabitant of Lesbos. What else?
Time is, after all, the great destroyer. The paintings
only survive because they are guarded or
kept like fragile dormant things beneath glass.
I know these things are not true. I know that
the sea I came from has nothing to do with
succession or trite symbology. I know that
he bedded me willingly, that the wine only forced
the desire out of him as one prods a child
so that he will eat all the food on his plate.
I know that those brushstrokes are lies,
concoctions, whispers stolen from the inside
of a shell. I know the truth. I know that
when in Cyprusthat land known for love and
lust and sex and waterthe sun never once shone
on us. I know that it poured for days on end.
|Saturday, August 23rd, 2003|
What were you doing all those years ago? Back in 1998
the suits were discussing the problem
in the navel of civilization. Their words were the fat
of Brazil nuts. Nothing like the fat
of a thirty-year-old man flecked with bits of a self-
detonated truck. Their words manifested
as bricks collapsing on your neck. Where were you back then?
You, mellow, probably sat across the table
from your wife, swallowing salad with wine.
II: Diplomat #2
Through the concrete smoke, I glimpsed myself
near the blown-out window, the jagged glass still in the pane,
a middle-aged woman, a shock of hair
my skull's corona. My arms lay limp,
knees, bent; I looked asleep.
Then my mother and sister joined me,
one to each side. I could follow the thread
of my sister's voice, but I could not open my eyes.
IV: Correspondent's Report
The meeting was gavelled into order
at precisely 4:15. The councilman's praise
succumbed to the blast that struck mid-
sentence. We, knocked to the floor, came to
as a cameraman's lamp gave the room
dim relief. A metal beam
pinned four women to the floor
like a broach.
|Saturday, August 16th, 2003|
The moon this powerless night
is tangerine, hovering over
the shadowform trees.
The moon is an eye
seen through the bridal lace
The moon is a knuckle
crowning the ebony skeletal trees.
The moon: a satin glissade
backlighting brushstrokes of trees.
The moon is a spyhole
surfacing in a spray of trees.
The moonblue scarf
accents the shoulder of trees.
The moon is a sparrow's egg
above cricketing trees.
|Sunday, August 10th, 2003|
Dark mare, hair flung
back in a stare, you know
that you have your own star power.
You click your shoes. Smile
for the camera, say your piece.
Keep yourself tethered to your column,
candidate. Don't stray from the stable.
|Wednesday, July 23rd, 2003|
this patterned silence, ringlets of it, hum of a
small fan, fingers at the keys, then silence. pause
then clatter, pause, clatter, you could never
write the silence of this.
this. this hope now
throw the light-switch on, world still soft with adjusting,
dilation meaning love they told you in school
and you believed it. looked for it, even,
in the mirror, out the window in the perfect
half-light to see a street a world and you
filtered with it, groping for belonging
you looked for this.
this sheen. this way of moving
without letting go,
headlights enter your reflection, tail-lights,
a tree in pantomime, silence broken for a moment
but now back again and you wonder
if it could have ever been broken, if such a thing
and it�s fear, you know.
what holds you here,
eyes locked in their own gaze, questioning.
waiting for an answer and seeing
an answer. waiting still.
I suppose that it's time we get this community to be as busy as its members.
Brief introduction: the two poems already posted here (Aspartame and Forensic Electric) are part of a WIP collection called BasicWords. It's where I dump pile these particular lapses. Third one: Larvae.
One way only. No ring-road
that will take me to the beginning
of the journey known as the
greatest waste of air. Breathing
mud, packed with lies and tapeworm
eggs settling exactly where the
Crackle-crack, eating obligatory AM oats.
Wholesome imagery, but this fine day
garments are made of last-laugh fabrics
and the amplified sounds bounce off.
Gold medals for indifference and solitude.
Achievement badges; case closed and filed
away. Bureaucratic titans.
this is me attempting to rid myself of writer's block.
the heat was pressing
and i couldn't tell your skin,
from my own. there was a rush of anticipation
and knowing that what we were reaching for
we'd never grasp. it wasn't ours.
the family in the grocery store,
the faces on franklin street, the asshole
in bentonville--our existence
vanished with one shrill voice at two,
with the sky still dark and the summer
it's five days until midnight
and what that means to you,
after it never ended,
only your sketchbook will ever know.
|Wednesday, July 16th, 2003|
again is the time for apologies. modding will be halted until further notice. life got big all of a sudden for the maintainers of this community.
i'm giving members posting access, so those of you who have already been accepted will be free to post, including those of you who have not received introductions.
i'm really sorry. i hope you can still use this community as a venue to display your work, and i will try very hard to finish introductions while i'm on vacation.
|Sunday, July 6th, 2003|
i'm currently finished with my share of the introductions. coastline is MIA, so those of you who have not been introduced will, i suppose, have to wait. if it gets to be too much longer i will figure something out.
those of you who have been introduced are free to post. i encourage you all to comment on each other's work. we are nothing if we do not grow.
i was won by the first piece. the work absolutely speaks for itself, in my opinion. sometimes writing is about taking the scenic route to the conclusion. somewhatnervous's route makes you wish for your camera.
eg elska hana.
she is pink salmon today
with a giggling, obnoxious grin--
beneath our paper presentations and one-
hundred-and-ones we have sketched out
mass genocide in metaphors.
from one end of the room to
the other, she stretches, and all this time
i have never seen a living label
so beautifully vile. and last night,
this morning, one hundred years ago,
a girl with irish eyes refused
my pulsing limb--offered
devoid of strings and otherwise venus-
esque teeth. her words were
familiar, her aim foreign, but
endlessly eg elska hana--in the
darkness of sound. a small town
with fifty per cent southern
drawl, drag, and spat on union graves;
a memorial day spent missing
elska minna with a heart-wound manicure.
and she is drowning her
fishy stench for one dance--
tango and cocktail--and then a fast
midnight goodbye full of rage until...
there is no limit. so, i sew
together my thoughts, and i exhale my
uncultured casualties, since last
night, this morning, twenty seconds ago
i admitted eg elska hana.
[translations: "eg elska hana" means "i love her," and "elska minna" means "my love." the language is icelandic.]
plath in tune.
someday i will be too much for myself
and this pool-rippling disappointment
will be self-contained, will be thrown
out into the peanut-crunching crowd
as they sing "je t'adore" from my stage
all the way to burn their nine to fives
for backwash solo albums, starving out of
[translation: "je t'adore" is "i adore you" in french, so i was told by a friend.]
you are revisiting to avoid
resembling a title in mirror images
next to my touch.
my fingerprints left stains on you
and she will taste them.
my tongue, my teeth --
nothing in these scenes can
replace my words
and out of utter selfishness
i hope a needle was left in your heart
every time i exhaled that
and may they each erupt
as they exit her womb.
this was a hard-won acceptence. blackswan is a persistant one. his form is absolutely impeccable, and this piece contains a teeming mass of emotion so violent it is best to brace yourself while reading it. the words are searing, hot as tears, and incredibly executed. no hard feelings, hon.
this got lost
in a jumble of pipes
twenty minutes from
some winters ago
when I was ruined
I have had this in my head
for two whole years now;
it is just beginning to
the Act itself is inconceivable though
in history he found justification---
the Nazis used wood, metal
as prods down men's
throats to test
for gag reflexes and to reach
inside their rectums,
making sure the muscles
were still intact---
if the answer was No
off to the showers they would go, single file
to the tune of Twilight of the Gods
which is not exactly how
I was sentenced
to die though
it might as well have been.
I might've been a hero, then.
I might've stuck my flag into someone
else's earth & called it Rhapsode
or something equally as beautiful,
he would have been
a means to inevitable Christendom though
I do not even like Wagner and he did not
of course want my ribs:
the blood hit the water, spiraled,
met the porcelain edges,
was flushed out just
His name was spelled in magnets
on the door of the refrigerator:
the B in red, the two L's in green & blue,
the vowel staring me in the face
like a spire, perpindicular, un
the sounds of gay porn and the husky
snap of leather cracking as
chairs bent backward,
stupid I drank from the cup I was offered.
and when every thing turned red
I knew it had gone too far,
I knew that,
amid the loud fucking sounds coming from
the television, my No was no
thing at all
that on all fours I was something like
from the drugs in me
for his body was all breath and thrust but
whatever you are thinking this is not
a story about lust or how I let It happen because
I could not fight back.
This is not a story at all. I wish it were.
This is me
to the bath
the tale is in the entrails
which the city claimed,
into the water supply and
replenishing his erection. I think
if I were a myth i would be above all this
as I rise / as I rose
from the tile and
made it back. I have survived no thing if not
an habitual deathscene.
I want the pipes to stop clanging in my dreams.
I want to break free of the night's symbology.
I want my body back: intact, sound
as ever. To own the meaning of the words
I want to scour the sewers and
trace it back along ruptured lines
of intestines until I can
make sense of it,
until I can allow some one in
again without offering
the gods their fucking
bleeding my way into