Christina Ledesma
Advanced Poetry Writing
Professor Barnstone
Critical Response
February 19, 2009
Critical Response to Casualties by Alex Johnson
I really enjoyed the poem “Casualties” by Alex Johnson; he had great descriptive images throughout his poem. My favorite lines are the first two lines “A perfect ripple of flesh in the night that shakes off insecurity / Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.” These two lines paint a vision of two lovers together in the night. His word choice is very sensual and in the second line I can vision the characteristics of a woman. I think Alex did a good job following the structure of a Ghazal poem. He repeats the word perfect in the first line of every stanza and also includes his name in the last line of the poem. Some of the lines I think Alex should work on would be line 6, 8, and 10. I think he could describe these lines in a better way where his reader can actually visualize what he is trying to say. I also think he should choose another verb to describe the “immaculate coat” in stanza three. Overall, I think Alex’s poem is very sensual and sexual and appeals to his reader through his descriptive language. I also like how he plays with word “victimitude” in the last stanza, which is not a word but becomes a word in his poem. Like many other poets Alex is creating a word that compliments his poem and appeals to his reader.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Ned Ludd-Celina
“Enough!” Ludd’s act organically
stewed engineers in shame.
Humanity mechanically
gasped with the stocking frame.
stewed engineers in shame.
Humanity mechanically
gasped with the stocking frame.
Amnesiac Phrenology
Kinetic energy and molten sensations,
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull –
Its boiling rock is diverging and converging and
Black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull
Send aftershocks that shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes.
The black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics
As pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts.
Aftershocks shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes,
Creating ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent while
Pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts
And rememberances of old scents and honeyed colors.
Ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent
Surround rigid pools of dewed memory
And rememberances of old scents, of old honeyed colors
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes.
Rigid pools of dewed memory –
Of laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes –
Bubble and evaporate, soon becoming soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
Heavy with laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Clouds darken and release memory on the surface;
It evaporates on contact and returns to the sky, soon
The whole skull will be covered in soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
The clouds darken and release memory on the surface,
Where boiling rock is converging and diverging.
Soon the whole skull will be covered in cumulonimbus reminiscence
Maintained by kinetic energy and molten sensations.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull –
Its boiling rock is diverging and converging and
Black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics.
Weapons-grade amnesia and plate tectonics of the skull
Send aftershocks that shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes.
The black sounds in the temporal hemisphere are erupting in arc volcanics
As pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts.
Aftershocks shake transform boundaries in the lips and eyes,
Creating ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent while
Pooled ether cools into obsidian thoughts
And rememberances of old scents and honeyed colors.
Ridge-lines and hot, infertile valleys of resent
Surround rigid pools of dewed memory
And rememberances of old scents, of old honeyed colors
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes.
Rigid pools of dewed memory –
Of laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Of aprons and the click of heels, of parasols and pinstripes –
Bubble and evaporate, soon becoming soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
Heavy with laughter and mustard flowers, the white
Clouds darken and release memory on the surface;
It evaporates on contact and returns to the sky, soon
The whole skull will be covered in soothing cumulonimbus reminiscence.
The clouds darken and release memory on the surface,
Where boiling rock is converging and diverging.
Soon the whole skull will be covered in cumulonimbus reminiscence
Maintained by kinetic energy and molten sensations.
Sour Grapes
Rimbaud, a country child not fit
for vineyards, rolling hills.
But city life bore no fruit and
destroyed his strength of will.
News-Celina
They danced and shot off fireworks
Feasted in their homes
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
Feasted in their homes
Led away, wrists bound by wires
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
Led away, wrists bound by wires
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
A boy who had a lovely smile
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
Millions of trees harvested
A boy who had a lovely smile
Large manufacturers rely on them
Millions of trees harvested
The two countries are still interwined
Large manufacturers rely on them
Bridge a chasm in perception
The two countries are still interwined
Your fingers curl over just where they should
Bridge a chasm in perception
The billions of dollars that will flow
Your fingers curl over just where they should
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
The billions of dollars that will flow
They danced and shot off fireworks
Feasted in their homes
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
Feasted in their homes
Led away, wrists bound by wires
It’s a conscious awakening of an entire people
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
Led away, wrists bound by wires
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
You don’t know what’s in our hearts
A boy who had a lovely smile
Sprawling complex of golden-eaved temples
Millions of trees harvested
A boy who had a lovely smile
Large manufacturers rely on them
Millions of trees harvested
The two countries are still interwined
Large manufacturers rely on them
Bridge a chasm in perception
The two countries are still interwined
Your fingers curl over just where they should
Bridge a chasm in perception
The billions of dollars that will flow
Your fingers curl over just where they should
A celebration of mourning, not a celebration
The billions of dollars that will flow
They danced and shot off fireworks
Where I'm Writing From; For Raymond Carver
These days your name is a
phrase that tears on my ears,
and writing is like catching my foot on a nail
or stepping in broken glass someone left behind.
A phrase that tears on my ears, that
echoes, pierces the fabric of memory,
like stepping in broken glass that someone left behind;
it reminds me of objections left unvoiced.
Pierce the fabric of memory and
scream yourself to sleep without sound, without echoes.
Spring reminds me of objections left unvoiced;
of reluctant copulations and uncomfortable sweat.
Scream yourself to sleep without sound
while frontier battles rage in your breast.
Remembering the reluctant copulations and uncomfortable sweat,
my tongue trembles on the seal of the envelope I don’t know that I’ll send.
Gulliver
Is Gulliver so large and wild,
Or slipping deceit up?
A small and artful, shifting child
On isles he found himself.
Or slipping deceit up?
A small and artful, shifting child
On isles he found himself.
Salta
Green-dusted, meandering hills that welcome.
Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns,
with earthly kneelers, so sincere.
My lungs open, chest rises, eyes grin.
Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns
and dark uniform-clad children.
My lungs open, chest rises, eyes grin
as hot light hits the siesta-time square.
Dark uniform-clad children
with school bags, they play futbol in sandals,
as hot light hits the siesta-time square.
Jesus hunkers down from the hillside.
With school bags, they play futbol in sandals
despite crowded streets and vendors.
Jesus hunkers down from the hillside
at fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile.
Despite crowded streets and vendors
girls in orange panchos sneak by
fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile,
to reach the campo limits.
Girls in orange panchos sneak by
to their boys with horses and guitars
to reach the campo limits,
green-dusted, meandering hills that welcome.
Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns,
with earthly kneelers, so sincere.
My lungs open, chest rises, eyes grin.
Pink crossed cathedrals packed with hymns
and dark uniform-clad children.
My lungs open, chest rises, eyes grin
as hot light hits the siesta-time square.
Dark uniform-clad children
with school bags, they play futbol in sandals,
as hot light hits the siesta-time square.
Jesus hunkers down from the hillside.
With school bags, they play futbol in sandals
despite crowded streets and vendors.
Jesus hunkers down from the hillside
at fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile.
Despite crowded streets and vendors
girls in orange panchos sneak by
fat abuelas with coca, that chew, and spit, and smile,
to reach the campo limits.
Girls in orange panchos sneak by
to their boys with horses and guitars
to reach the campo limits,
green-dusted, meandering hills that welcome.
Smiling River
We saw a violent river, from the valley rim.
You nearly lost your grip on the anxious scramble down.
We bathed in the frothing mouth and came out clean,
the dirt under our fingernails now gallops down the stream.
You nearly lost your grip on the anxious scramble down!
Fresh-cleaned limbs lack gripping power and you miss it,
the dirt under our fingernails now gallops down the stream.
It mingles with more foreign dirts in distant estuaries.
Fresh-cleaned limbs lack gripping power and you miss it,
The sharp-toothed current gnashing promised no ablution. While
it mingles with more foreign dirts in distant estuaries,
Still smiling, we bared our teeth right back at the rocks
The sharp-toothed current gnashing promised no ablution yet
we bathed in the frothing mouth and came out clean.
Still smiling, we bared our teeth right back at the rocks.
We saw a violent river, from the valley rim.
You nearly lost your grip on the anxious scramble down.
We bathed in the frothing mouth and came out clean,
the dirt under our fingernails now gallops down the stream.
You nearly lost your grip on the anxious scramble down!
Fresh-cleaned limbs lack gripping power and you miss it,
the dirt under our fingernails now gallops down the stream.
It mingles with more foreign dirts in distant estuaries.
Fresh-cleaned limbs lack gripping power and you miss it,
The sharp-toothed current gnashing promised no ablution. While
it mingles with more foreign dirts in distant estuaries,
Still smiling, we bared our teeth right back at the rocks
The sharp-toothed current gnashing promised no ablution yet
we bathed in the frothing mouth and came out clean.
Still smiling, we bared our teeth right back at the rocks.
We saw a violent river, from the valley rim.
Mr. Teach
Blackbeard the infamous dispatched
his foes with undue glee.
The shape of his flag flew low, just
a hair above the sea.
his foes with undue glee.
The shape of his flag flew low, just
a hair above the sea.
Rinds in the Loam
A party sits and eats in pungent dirt and leaves and grass,
Now they begin to drink from hollowed rinds found in the loam.
I meet a wooden man with an Easter Island Face,
He carves a deep and hollow tune I cannot erase.
She walks on thin glass heels through crevices in granite,
Hollow laughter rings just behind, shrieking from stone to stone.
A freshly minted mime shines a Windex-clear window.
His hollow motions haunt me as my grinding teeth groan.
A blacksmith pounds his anvil at an olde-timey faire,
His hammer strikes are hollow; he does not pound for fares.
The old king feels arthritic while he waits for Ragnorak,
His sword hangs at his side useless it is forged from hollow bone.
A wizard plays at solitaire in the halls of Xanadu,
This sage does not feel pride though, for every hand he knew.
Now they begin to drink from hollowed rinds found in the loam.
I meet a wooden man with an Easter Island Face,
He carves a deep and hollow tune I cannot erase.
She walks on thin glass heels through crevices in granite,
Hollow laughter rings just behind, shrieking from stone to stone.
A freshly minted mime shines a Windex-clear window.
His hollow motions haunt me as my grinding teeth groan.
A blacksmith pounds his anvil at an olde-timey faire,
His hammer strikes are hollow; he does not pound for fares.
The old king feels arthritic while he waits for Ragnorak,
His sword hangs at his side useless it is forged from hollow bone.
A wizard plays at solitaire in the halls of Xanadu,
This sage does not feel pride though, for every hand he knew.
Pick and Choose Response #1: Jeffery McDaniel Endarkenment
A play off McDaniel’s “Heavy Breather Zoo” (10):
Hippie Zoo
By Christina Arganda
Whatever happened to the hippie?
capitalist consumerism- Orange County, yuppy greed,
apathy, glass fences, substance control laws-
has rendered her free spirit obsolete. Who
will listen to her cause now? She is the floppy disk
of rebels. She tried leading a protest march
through Whittier College campus,
but only four people joined in,
which was a damn near heart breaking blow.
Should we go to Venice Beach or Berkley-
gather up the last few still out there, smoking
joints and painting banners in the wild,
before they go extinct, place them
in a special zoo, in eco-friendly cage systems, complete
with 2nd or 3rd hand furnishings- glass pipes, rally
signs, hemp blankets, Doors records and music
from “Hair,”- to recreate what their used to?
Perhaps a plaque that reads: Here
sits the hippie. She used to carry signs down
Pennsylvania Avenue and though flip-flops at
corrupt politicians and “The Man.”She lived for that
first rush of the crowd, the ground shaking cheer
that gave Nixon and congress headaches and her chills.
Kiss the mug and smile like you mean it
Ghazal By Christina Arganda
If I could tell you all the shadow secrets that I am
I promise, you still would never know.
BBQ Buddha drinks and
Never placid, candy splintered shattered soul.
Last year I spent my whole spring break
Never less than eyelash deep in snow.
There are seven serpents that make the color of my eyes
They cry but will never again see the light.
Petal wet and trembling flesh
Bare breath in red that never reaches truth.
I have seven self given injuries all the blood has gone,
Battle scar piercing I can never live without.
For the truth is, I am the end of star light
A neverland dream delusion Donut dancer.
Paint your path
Quatrain By Christina Arganda
I dwell within the realm of pure obscurity.
I search for truth and maybe magic but find no purity.
My mind is a Jackson Pollak wet dream,
Where only questions drip as splatters darkly gleam.
My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty is her rowr
Pantom by Christina Arganda
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets.
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean.
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin.
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath.
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes.
A play off McDaniel’s “Heavy Breather Zoo” (10):
Hippie Zoo
By Christina Arganda
Whatever happened to the hippie?
capitalist consumerism- Orange County, yuppy greed,
apathy, glass fences, substance control laws-
has rendered her free spirit obsolete. Who
will listen to her cause now? She is the floppy disk
of rebels. She tried leading a protest march
through Whittier College campus,
but only four people joined in,
which was a damn near heart breaking blow.
Should we go to Venice Beach or Berkley-
gather up the last few still out there, smoking
joints and painting banners in the wild,
before they go extinct, place them
in a special zoo, in eco-friendly cage systems, complete
with 2nd or 3rd hand furnishings- glass pipes, rally
signs, hemp blankets, Doors records and music
from “Hair,”- to recreate what their used to?
Perhaps a plaque that reads: Here
sits the hippie. She used to carry signs down
Pennsylvania Avenue and though flip-flops at
corrupt politicians and “The Man.”She lived for that
first rush of the crowd, the ground shaking cheer
that gave Nixon and congress headaches and her chills.
Kiss the mug and smile like you mean it
Ghazal By Christina Arganda
If I could tell you all the shadow secrets that I am
I promise, you still would never know.
BBQ Buddha drinks and
Never placid, candy splintered shattered soul.
Last year I spent my whole spring break
Never less than eyelash deep in snow.
There are seven serpents that make the color of my eyes
They cry but will never again see the light.
Petal wet and trembling flesh
Bare breath in red that never reaches truth.
I have seven self given injuries all the blood has gone,
Battle scar piercing I can never live without.
For the truth is, I am the end of star light
A neverland dream delusion Donut dancer.
Paint your path
Quatrain By Christina Arganda
I dwell within the realm of pure obscurity.
I search for truth and maybe magic but find no purity.
My mind is a Jackson Pollak wet dream,
Where only questions drip as splatters darkly gleam.
My Tiny is a daisy, but mighty is her rowr
Pantom by Christina Arganda
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets.
She is framed by canary diamond silk streaks and sheets
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
All of this is hidden by Maybell masks for everyone she meets
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean.
As he chips away the last shreds of innocence of eighteen
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The tenderness he seems to give is really only mean
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin.
She turns to face the darkness and declare battle deep within
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
The time has come to run away from eighteen years of sin
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath.
The past no longer matters as she must cut a whole new path
A hollow cloud withers in her trembling hands and dies
To embrace the truth of her now the word will know her wrath
Aqua skies melt derision and deference in her wide wet eyes.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Valentine’s day to do list:
Number 1: Embody, recreate and reminisce on any love moment together.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.
Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.
Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.
Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.
Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Response to McDaniel
A response to Origins by Jeffrey McDaniel
I'm from biking in the woods and warnings of prowlers
I'm from detached family values and sad limbs of family trees
I'm from mutt blood and hiding behind clothes racks
I'm from forced love and alcohol stained ceilings
I'm from stealing scenes in high school plays
I'm from uniforms and moonlit tag on golf courses
I'm from across the playground as the pretty girls learned about popular boys
I'm from lying to get out of babysitting and nomadic pupils
I'm from unwashed hair in good company and hands in mismatched pairs
I'm from not heeding warnings and empty shells
I'm from don't drive like your father because it's unsafe and don't interrupt like your mother because I can't stand it
I'm from men exploiting my sweetness to get a grab, a taste, a feel, of my nineteen year old sex
I'm from fuck you when my friends are around and why, why, why when I'm alone
I'm from talking behind my back and the spitting of it in my face from drama queens
I'm from nuzzled necks in cold wind
I'm from you're the reason I want to leave this family
I'm from exit plans that involve pills and cars and cliffs
I'm from you're not allowed to be a feminist until you stop letting shitty guys abuse you
I'm from biking in the woods and warnings of prowlers
I'm from detached family values and sad limbs of family trees
I'm from mutt blood and hiding behind clothes racks
I'm from forced love and alcohol stained ceilings
I'm from stealing scenes in high school plays
I'm from uniforms and moonlit tag on golf courses
I'm from across the playground as the pretty girls learned about popular boys
I'm from lying to get out of babysitting and nomadic pupils
I'm from unwashed hair in good company and hands in mismatched pairs
I'm from not heeding warnings and empty shells
I'm from don't drive like your father because it's unsafe and don't interrupt like your mother because I can't stand it
I'm from men exploiting my sweetness to get a grab, a taste, a feel, of my nineteen year old sex
I'm from fuck you when my friends are around and why, why, why when I'm alone
I'm from talking behind my back and the spitting of it in my face from drama queens
I'm from nuzzled necks in cold wind
I'm from you're the reason I want to leave this family
I'm from exit plans that involve pills and cars and cliffs
I'm from you're not allowed to be a feminist until you stop letting shitty guys abuse you
Migraine
Not everything seems to look the same
my eyes are too crossed to look.
Books are open with words;
hopping ink that looks up at me,
teasing my pulsating nerves,
frayed with each watery look.
The television screen yells
a look of pure ghostly passion.
Drumming on my orb
lightning takes a look
at the swelling of my sanity.
Whispers look like hell.
A footstep, a nightlight, a rain drop
look through pillowed ears,
and echo past a guarded temple
into the gray looking nerves.
Please no sound no light
to look me in my mind.
Messages smudge in vain.
At my Whit’s end, I simply stop — looking.
my eyes are too crossed to look.
Books are open with words;
hopping ink that looks up at me,
teasing my pulsating nerves,
frayed with each watery look.
The television screen yells
a look of pure ghostly passion.
Drumming on my orb
lightning takes a look
at the swelling of my sanity.
Whispers look like hell.
A footstep, a nightlight, a rain drop
look through pillowed ears,
and echo past a guarded temple
into the gray looking nerves.
Please no sound no light
to look me in my mind.
Messages smudge in vain.
At my Whit’s end, I simply stop — looking.
If she could she'd watch the world
Through panes of stained glass
He doesn't see himself in reflections
He only sees lies in the looking glass
She finds the world in splinters;
Shards of glass across the linoleum
Attempting to achieve understanding
There are only eyes of glass
Look inside Liane, what do we find?
A chest full of organs made of glass?
Through panes of stained glass
He doesn't see himself in reflections
He only sees lies in the looking glass
She finds the world in splinters;
Shards of glass across the linoleum
Attempting to achieve understanding
There are only eyes of glass
Look inside Liane, what do we find?
A chest full of organs made of glass?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Casualties
A perfect ripple of flesh in the night that shakes off insecurity.
Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.
Perfect mornings blanched by tired light and hidden under satin sheets -
There is no victim in taking in a breath of hair, of roses and smoke.
You are perfect in your profession, a doctor in an immaculate coat -
To you there are no victims, only bad choices and equality and balance.
Perfect lies spoken into electric air that carries little deceits -
Little deceits for little victim, me, and aching pity for you in the years to come.
Little, secret, perfect beggings spoken at night for aid, for support of flesh and bone -
Subtle denial and malicious ignorance, noninvolvement, creates more victims.
Perfect in their victimitude, humans sweat under the weight of secret guilts.
But if victimless crimes are Alex's specialty, why does he sweat so?
Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.
Perfect mornings blanched by tired light and hidden under satin sheets -
There is no victim in taking in a breath of hair, of roses and smoke.
You are perfect in your profession, a doctor in an immaculate coat -
To you there are no victims, only bad choices and equality and balance.
Perfect lies spoken into electric air that carries little deceits -
Little deceits for little victim, me, and aching pity for you in the years to come.
Little, secret, perfect beggings spoken at night for aid, for support of flesh and bone -
Subtle denial and malicious ignorance, noninvolvement, creates more victims.
Perfect in their victimitude, humans sweat under the weight of secret guilts.
But if victimless crimes are Alex's specialty, why does he sweat so?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Awake, For Some Reason...-Celina
Response to “Waking Up Drunk” by Tony Barnstone from Sad Jazz
Waking Up Drunk
He wakes up drunk from ugly dreams. It's hot
outside and fifty flies have slipped in through
the door. He watches them whirl and corkscrew.
His stomach does the twist. With half a heart
he swats the busy air with a dry mop,
but they divide like water, then close in
again and pirouette and roll and spin.
So much for booze. It won't make his mind stop.
"My God this sucks," he slurs, and excavates
the mini fridge. Perhaps something in there
will make it better, coffee maybe, toast.
His mind does flips, but he grabs eggs and plates
and in the copper pan a dull face stares
at him from nether worlds, a thirsty ghost.
Awake, For Some Reason…
With what certainty do we so arrogantly
curse the rain? Sure, we must slosh and trudge
through trenches of wet apathy; while in his cove
a man writhes, wrung dry by the slurry
of last night’s drunken entropy. He is a creature
fashioned from the same atomic material
that made the obsessive fruit fly. The candied wildness
of a pregnant springtime. The forgiving showers
after a summer broil. “My God this sucks,” he belches,
and pops his white tongue off the roof of his mouth,
only to pause upon that particular taste,
familiar to when he would suck pennies as a boy.
So delicately does he pinch his trembling eyelids, as he notices
another man’s face, surrounded by flies.
Waking Up Drunk
He wakes up drunk from ugly dreams. It's hot
outside and fifty flies have slipped in through
the door. He watches them whirl and corkscrew.
His stomach does the twist. With half a heart
he swats the busy air with a dry mop,
but they divide like water, then close in
again and pirouette and roll and spin.
So much for booze. It won't make his mind stop.
"My God this sucks," he slurs, and excavates
the mini fridge. Perhaps something in there
will make it better, coffee maybe, toast.
His mind does flips, but he grabs eggs and plates
and in the copper pan a dull face stares
at him from nether worlds, a thirsty ghost.
Awake, For Some Reason…
With what certainty do we so arrogantly
curse the rain? Sure, we must slosh and trudge
through trenches of wet apathy; while in his cove
a man writhes, wrung dry by the slurry
of last night’s drunken entropy. He is a creature
fashioned from the same atomic material
that made the obsessive fruit fly. The candied wildness
of a pregnant springtime. The forgiving showers
after a summer broil. “My God this sucks,” he belches,
and pops his white tongue off the roof of his mouth,
only to pause upon that particular taste,
familiar to when he would suck pennies as a boy.
So delicately does he pinch his trembling eyelids, as he notices
another man’s face, surrounded by flies.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Giraffe
A neck freckled more than most pulled toward me long enough,
And love coalesced all the more vulnerably and fruitful.
Borderless skies brewed with the sea’s body too mutual a gray.
Like chameleon doctrine: color reigned. I slipped even more from distinction.
Each soul needs judgment launched from stiff-stone, then truth-bruise.
More and more—upon your rocks impact—they cracked and built weight.
He whispered to me, “Celina, each giraffe-neck generation is longer than the last.”
Is then the lesson of trees to bear low fruit no more?
And love coalesced all the more vulnerably and fruitful.
Borderless skies brewed with the sea’s body too mutual a gray.
Like chameleon doctrine: color reigned. I slipped even more from distinction.
Each soul needs judgment launched from stiff-stone, then truth-bruise.
More and more—upon your rocks impact—they cracked and built weight.
He whispered to me, “Celina, each giraffe-neck generation is longer than the last.”
Is then the lesson of trees to bear low fruit no more?
Monday, February 9, 2009
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