Jan 30

Jan 30, 2004 Word Associations I got the following list of words from here. I wrote the words on the right. Those are my associations...the first words that came to mind when I read the word on the left.

Self - taught School - day Job - aware Marriage - love Picture - photo Memories - fun Accomplishment - achievment Side - reality Childhood - kids Year - book Bully - mean Stars - sky Witty - fun Different - odd Labor - love Beverage - drink Treasure - chest Place - picture Water - lagoon Beam - powder Sight - vision Hair - glob Respect - suspect Painful - hurt World - idea Divorce - court Laugh - out loud Sister - friend Jump - up Brother - sister Home - casa Room - broom Fear - fart Light - lily Stay - away Mother - mama Father - dippy Book - ends Glasses - spectacles Daughter - girl Son - bun Fingers - splinters Board - group Language - diphthong Elderly - old Dread - bread Good - wisdom

Normal - same Calendar - days Wish - wash Hungry - starving Ordinary - same Wind - sock Tomorrow - today Bold - bright Fence - suspense Sleep - tight Soul - boring Again - repeat Fire - burn Lesson - learn State - say Mirror - repeat Traffic - jam Baby - doll Double - take Rash - rub Rare - ribs Bitter - sweet Candle - dock Plastic - bag Keep - safe Forty - five Fox - trot Time - table Vacation - space Gone - away Crooked Cancer - sticks Song - broom Pet - friend Gift - love Alcohol - drunk Bill - duck Honey - bear Key - lock Teacher - apple Sugar - bug Linda - blair Broken - bone Bald - ball Chicken - legs Free - from Myself - me Yesterday - forgot Cold - play Courage - bravery Negative - positive Slippery - wet Trip - daisy

Jan 30, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Poetry Readings Looking for poetry readings near you? Look here.

Jan 30, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

One Words: Streets and Script Today's OneWord, SCRIPT: I once wrote a script for a play about two hens that only ate turkey sandwiches. They ate them at picnics. Red gingham blankets and all. I even included a thermos in the script.

Genius, I tell ya.

Yesterday's OneWord, STREETS: The streets are running away. We have nothing but grass and things living in the grass like centipedes and tangerines. We are aware of the dilemma. We are working on the streets.

Excuse the delay.

Jan 30, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Some More Titles Here are some more titles, because sometimes titles are fun and because the word "title" has the word "tit" in it, and "tle."

This is a Title The Lampshade Hat We Ate the Last Unicorn Your Wallet Stinks Cheesy Popcorn Paper Plate Techtonics The Sleepy Raincoat Fabio Roasted Toast Slap Hat Teeny Blur Favorite It Begins Here Should I Shave My Head?

Girls Can Can-Can Slipknot Shoe Fly Fixing Things I Just Tripped Perhaps You Shouldn't Do That Ripped Rafts Bric-a-brac Jellybean Fiasco The Leak from Upstairs Toiletries Where is the Lightswitch?

On Top Popsicle Licks They Took My Tractor Why I Lie From Now On I Am a Man

Pretty Skirts Barbed Wire Brazirre (Sp?) School is Cool Late Night 7-11 Sign Here Shooting The Shiznit (?)

Exclamation Points Third Trip to Taiwan Fingerling Promise Not to Tell The Bargain Shopper Extracurricular Nativity Before I Die Shut Up My Liver My Name is Roger The Forgotten Snowflake Build Me a TreeHouse Sure, Why Not? Jan 30, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 29, 2004 I'm not a feminist

You are Emma Goldman! You are the mama of Anarchist/Communist feminism and you inspired millions to embrace the labor movement. Without ever directly saying so, you directed efforts toward saving wymyn and children from exploitation. Oh yeah, you were also a total sexpot!

Which Western feminist icon are you? brought to you by Quizilla

Jan 29, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

My Contribution I wanna make a list of some titles too!! (titles of poems, perhaps or books) Here are some off the top of my head: My Boyfriend Wears an Indian Headress Trouble on the Staircase Coinfish Broken Balloon The Pretend Garden Kissing Kickstands The Marching Finger My Friend, the Feather Couch Hates Sofa Faces in the Corner She Licks Things Fork This is it Right Side Up Paper-cut Slut Pass the Turpentine Eggs on the Way She Shaves It My Uncle Peter That Black Sweater Chopstick City Secret Shoebox Sleepwalker in Tahiti The Pebble I Ate This Book The Poem Cieling Fan Underwear for Pears Achoo This is not a Piano We Like It like That Over the Rainbow Trout Piece of the Lake Cartoon Beds Mine!

Sisyphus In the Middle of Toe Hair This is all a Lie And so I said The Custodian's Moustache Jan 29, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Because of the Lemonade (rewrite 1) The chink and clash of ice in my lemonade reminds me of a hand in a pocket. A nervous hand, a prom date sort of sound, and stirring makes a symphony of fidgety hands rummaging

through pockets of plastic whistles and silver dollars, just like a forest walk in mid-October, pine cones erupting under new boots, wind chewing the trees’ leaves, snapping them to tokens, the seasons tossing the days like Frisbees across the lawn to a dog wearing a collar that jangles with tags and who chases field mice to the post office downtown where a homeless man begs for cheese, and tinkles a can of pennies until a teenaged boy with a broken arm hands him a wedge of Monterrey Jack before buying a book of stamps so he can mail a letter to the girl he felt up at prom, but who moved a week later to Sicily where the lemons grow like tears from the boy’s face prior to pulling the trigger on himself. He loved the girl and the clack of her heels on the dance floor, the music her mouth made in his car when they collided for the first time like the thunder of clapping hands at a theater when the cast connects in one line, then bows, roses winging from the crowd landing at their feet, in the collars of their bell-lined costumes.

A man in the back row claps the loudest, his palms stung red like fire ants or thorns, but he doesn’t mind. He went alone, and the prick of his applause is wet grass between morning toes compared to the deaf bang of a bullet in a dark bedroom, or the slam of a door, fencing off sound, breaking one into two.

Jan 29, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Titles I constantly think of titles I could use if I were ever to have a book published or even a chapbook. Luckily, Jimmy from Linear Be has accumulated a nice list of possible titles, although I would never steal from him. Daniel Nester from Unpleasant Event has a nice list too. They are fun to read though. Oh so creative and witty.

Jan 29, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

MMMM Art Check out my favorite artists Walter Martin and Paloma Munoz. I want it all. They're a team.

Jan 29, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Jan 28, 2004 Listology I just found a very fun website where you do nothing but make lists! I am such a listmaker. It's called Listology. Everybody's doing it.

Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Because of the Lemonade The chink and clash of ice in my lemonade reminds me of a hand in a pocket. A nervous hand, a prom date sort of sound, and bringing you a glass is a symphony of fidgety hands rummaging through pockets of plastic whistles and silver dollars, just like a walk in a forest in mid-October, pine cones erupting under

new boots, wind chewing the trees’ leaves, snapping them to tokens, the seasons tossing the days like Frisbees across the lawn to a dog wearing a collar that jangles with tags before chasing field mice to the post office downtown where a homeless man begs for cheese, and tinkles a can of pennies until a teenaged boy with a broken arm hands him a wedge of Monterrey Jack before buying a book of stamps so he can mail a letter to the girl he felt up at prom, but who moved a week later to Sicily where the lemons grow like tears from the boy’s eyes prior to pulling the trigger on himself. He loved the girl and the clack of her heels on the dance floor, the music her mouth made in his car when they collided for the first time like two ice cubes dropped in a glass of lemonade.

Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Returning I live for this: the afternoon’s coffee-stained sunlight sifting through plastic blinds, Elliot Smith waltzing with a guitar in a bedroom of book spines, unopened letters, and cities of empty cups on the nightstand.

My husband’s somber tires crawling in the driveway after a day of desks and that long tangle of traffic on tongues of highway, his first steps inside the house, the smell of deodorant and loosened Windsor knots.

This culmination. This spread of commitment merging at once into the center lane of an evening home before wine, dinner, and the folding of bodies into sleep.

Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Favorite Poems of the Moment I can't express how good the poems are in Spillway. I've never been so amazed by poems in all my life. Is it crazy to adore something so much? The feeling I have after reading these poems reminds me why I ever fell in love with poetry in the first place. Why I want to pursue poetry and live in it. I want to take sponge baths with words and share raspberry tarts with poets. I want to chew metaphors like pink taffy and sweep tumbleweeds of verbs under my bed. I want to sprinkle lines on sandwiches and put poets in my hair like a hibiscus.

I don't know if this is legal or what, but I have to show you some of these poems. Click below to read them.

Clouds Again -John Randolph Carter An autumn afternoon.

The shadows lengthen.

Birds begin to sing in the trees.

Nothing to do but stare out the window at the leaves moving gently in the wind.

Open the window.

Elbows on the sill.

Stare out at the yellow light on the tree trunks, the purple shadows.

Listen, the dry leaves.

Someone is raking.

At the High School Football Game -James Doyle I fall in love with every one of the cheerleaders.

Their legs are the colors of pinwheels turning on the sky: tint and shadow and stern as the grain in bronze. Their arms somersault the school letters on large blocks of air. The goal posts like bright needles thread the Fall night, stitch it together into a crisp quilt that settles the stadium down.

The muffled huddles, the parents spilling coffee, the tuba bouncing its bass above the band like a trampoline. I flex my numb fingers for the football's sting. It goes through the hands of my grandson on the fifteen-yard line.

I dated each of these cheerleaders, feature for feature, sixty years ago. It is amazing how seamless the flesh can grow in the cold, how tight the stadium light can draw their thighs.

Cindi -Janet McCann skate draws a thin line, figure eight, now we're playing crack-the-whip in the wind, a small figure flares out, flying into the dark. later, writing your name on ice, cindi, cindi, the name a clash of cymbals, dotting the I, spiraling in, twirling on bladetip in the spiral's center, spinning gyroscope faster and faster aglow in the lakeside fire incandescent split cocoa, knots that just won't give to numbed fingers, you will be first to go, the leader for us to follow one by one into the shadows of the trees but then just to walk home, arms linked, still gliding on skates our heads over the darkened frozen field

shadowshadow leap shadow name in the ice Orphans in Love -Daniel John Susan on top of me kissing like butter and wine yanked her head up and away like a baby ripped off the nipple breaking apart our mouths still full of each other shutting down skin blazing on the edge screaming Why did I pick her for a mother? violent wrenching sobs my tongue too full of the taste of her to speak she dressed and left me in a cold bed with chapped lips just as well If she melted I would drown in the amniotic sea between her breasts Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

New Poetry Books for Me I just went to my favorite bookstore of all time, Brazos Books in Houston. They have the best selection of literary journals ever. I almost peed in my pants. I bought a few of them: Barrow Street, Good Foot, and Spillway. My favorite isSpillway. Every poem is great, awesome. I want to underline each word and make-out with it on the couch. I do. I really do. It's wonderful and stuff like that.

I also bought The Extraordinary Tide, New Poetry by American Women and Letters to Wendy's by Joe Wenderoth. Letter's to Wendy's is just that...a small book of small letters/poems written to Wendy's, the restaurant. It's all fiction but its genius.

Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Lost Plane I've only been up for about 30 minutes and so far it's been a fun-filled funny day. First off, while walking downstairs for a little bowl of cereal, I managed to slip and slide upright down about 12 stairs on my ass and land still sitting up. It was quite hilarious. My boyfriend was behind me, and while I couldn't do anything but laugh uncontrollably, he was worried and trying to help me up. Then, as I'm pouring milk into my cereal, my boyfriend says, "What's the dumbest name you've ever heard?" and I said something dumb like "Gladimeer." Then he holds up a piece of paper, reads from it and says,"how about Jafison." I am unable to eat

my cereal now as I am pretty much heaving out laughs while bent forward in a buckle. He then proceeds to read the entire piece of paper to me. Here it is EXACTLY: I have lost my plane on someane's yard on this block, please notify me ay this number.

713.941.****

Ask for Mary or Jafison

Now, I want you to just think about what this flyer says. Let it settle in. Notice the apparent spelling mistakes. How did Mary or Jafison not notice these blunders while photocopying?

They managed to attach a picture of the plane but they couldn't spell it correctly? And how, may I ask, does Jafison (whose name is a god-awful mix of Jason and Jefferson) know that it's in "someane's yard" if he's lost it? Yeah. I pretty much collapsed in explosive laughs and chuckles when I saw this one. I thought I'd share it with you.

Jan 28, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Jan 27, 2004 Bramble Story I really like this little writing exercise from Bramble Story. I think I might do it.

Write a scene, short story or poem mentioning all of the following: (1) Santa Claus, (2) a menorah, (3) a small dog, (4) a major work of art, (5) saffron, (6) two signs of the zodiac, (7) inclement weather, (8) a sapphire, (9) ants, and (10) words in a foreign language.

There is no length requirement or restriction.

Whatever comes from this, it will be crazy. Perhaps 10 items is a bit much for a poem...at least a good poem. Maybe not.

Jan 27, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

One Word - Least I'm gonna start posting my One Word entry thingies here. Won't it be fun?

Least: At least I know how to buckle my shoes and eat broccilli with chopsticks. At least this is a paper plate and at least I can jump over hurdles made of juniper and at least the quadrangle downtown has fruit flies the size of apricots. I am cool. At least.

Jan 27, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

My Words!!

Being very ADHD, I was a crazy kid. I had no inhibitions whatsoever, and therefore I created my own vocabulary. I'd like to share some words with you. Here are words that I made up (I'm pretty sure). Some of them have meanings, some don't. Most of them were coined around the ages of 5 - 12.

1. Stingler = It came from the word "stinker." I just wanted to switch it up a bit. "Stingler" is nicer than "stinker," yet it means the same thing. It's a child's euphamism, if you will.

2. Stupan = This is another euphamism. It came from the word "stupid." I have no clue why I wanted "pan" as the ending...it just happened. I said this word for a long time. It was a staple in my house.

3. Minion = I really hate this word, so I don't know why I said it. It's very ugly. It means "minute." Here...I'll use it in a sentence..."Could you please wait a minion? Thanks."

4. Eevee = This is another big one. It has no real meaning but there is a story behind it.

This is where you're gonna witness just how odd I truly am. When I was about 7 and my sister was 9, we got a new puppy, a golden retriever named Casey. We always used to say "Here boy!" like most people do when calling their dogs. One day we said it over and over and over, rapidly and it came out as "Eevee" or "E.V." Soon, we said "Eevee" whenever we saw something cute...or when my dog did something we thought was cute. This little word was so huge in my family and my school (yes I was a trend-setter) that I still say it today.

But as I've matured, I've abbreviated it and made it more socially acceptable. Now, if I see something cute I say "eeeeeeeeeeee."

That's all I can think of right now, but I know there are tons more. I'll have to call my sister tomorrow and have her help me think of some. I can't tell you how many times we attempted to write a dictionary of our words. I once made my own sign language too. I was never bored as a child, can you tell? I'm still never bored. I always find something to do.

Jan 27, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

The Question I know everyone has their dumb moments but mine are monumental and quite famous. I've been known to ask some pretty stupid questions. Basically, I don't think before I speak. I'm pretty sure that everyone asks stupid questions inside their heads but censor them before they escape through the mouth. I lack that censor. If I were on TV like Jessica Simpson is, I would be just as dumb...well, no I wouldn't.

Anyway, I have a question and it's really not all that dumb of a question, I just didn't have any other way of introducing my question. Anyway, I was watching animal planet today. I saw puppies being born and I got to thinking about umbilical cords. Here's my question: With twins and multiple births (a liter of puppies or triplets, etc) how are the umbilical cords attached? Does the mother's fork out for each fetus or does she have a bunch of them or is it like a train/chain in which each fetus is attached to one umbilical cord....sorta like a charm bracelet? I wanna know. Maybe I should research it. I just thought it was interesting considering I hadn't thought of it before. Well, thank the high heavens for Animal Planet!

See? I told you TV is good...TV makes you think...TV inspires research! I also learned that a baby orka is called a cub. What did you learn today?

Jan 27, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 26, 2004 Fun Links I have discovered some fun things to do on the internet. Here they are, in no particular order.

If you go to One Word, you will recieve a word and then you must write about the word for 60 seconds and then they post your little blurb. It's fun and thrilling and addicting and scary all at the same time. This is my new favorite.

If you go to Mr. Picassohead you will magically become picasso. This is very cool, duh.

If you go to Orisinal, you can play games that are so cute you'll want to eat them like jelly beans.

If you go to meme pool you can read about the strange people of this world.

Jan 26, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Birdsong (revised 1) A winter wren flits from bush to bush and tweets.

Everything moves in its tune as if this part of the world is a montage scored in chatters and flits.

My hands hook the luggage handles. Mother hides her leaks, prevents a scene. I have my keys and the wad of money dad gave me.

Mother makes sure I packed my shoes. Dad pats me on the back and says, “Nice to know you.” He laughs, but it’s true. The me they served peaches to is not the me they’ll see in a month or two. I'll be ripping columns from the evening news in a neon city.

I’ll have a green canteen and sarongs of grape leaves.

I’ll be shoveled under sandaled feet, planted like poppy seeds.

Leaving the driveway, I wave like I’m on deck with a hanky in my hand, fussing in the salty sky, the ship’s hoots stressing the white-sailed scene.

This is how it should be. A distance swelling by a driver with a license and that new car scent.

I can't see around the backseat packed with boxes, so I don’t know if they’ve gone inside yet, but my hands are on the wheel, and I can still hear the winter wren, the tune of the latest me, that song I’ll sing at sea.

Jan 26, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Tit Willow I was just researching some bird names for a poem I'm writing and I came across one of the cutest things I've ever read. I thought maybe David would enjoy it too.

So...here it is: On a tree by a river a little tom tit Sang "Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow."

And I said to him, "Dicky bird, why do you sit

Singing Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow?"

-- W.S. Gilbert (The Mikado) This poem (if that's what it is) has some sexual innuendos in it, don't you think?

Jan 26, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Mutterings Unconscious Mutterings Week 51:

1. Political:: typical 2. Concentration:: rationalization 3. Fish:: decrepid 4. Lunacy:: tyrrancy 5. Red:: fled 6. Imply:: reply 7. Recognize:: initialize 8. Sexist:: racist 9. Commercial:: dive 10. Stricken:: rope Jan 26, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 25, 2004 Birdsong On the porch I hook the luggage handles.

I'm low on gas so I’ll get some on my way.

Mother gathers buckets of water before she leaks, before she makes a scene. I have my keys, and the wad of money dad gave me.

A mockingbird rackets nearby, and everything moves to its beat as if this part of the world is a montage with a chirping musical score.

Mother makes sure I packed my shoes. I did.

Dad pats me on the back and says, “Nice to know you.”

He laughs, but it’s true. The me you served peaches to is not the me you’ll see in a month or two. I'll be ripping columns from the evening news in a neon city.

I’ll have a green canteen and a sarong of curling grape leaves.

I'll be shoveled under my sandaled feet, planted like poppy seeds.

Backing out of the driveway, we wave like I’m on deck and there’s a hanky in my hand, screaming in the salty breeze, the ship’s honks pulping the white-sailed scene.

This is how it should be. A distance growing wider in seconds by a driver with a license and that new car scent.

I can't see around the backseat boxes and hanging clothes, so I don’t know if you’re waving anymore, but my hands are on the wheel and I can still hear that mockingbird, that tune of the latest me, that song I’ll sing at sea.

Jan 25, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

The Titular Poem I've been meaning to do this for a while, so I'm doing it now. Here is the complete poem from which I got the new title of my blog and the little tagline.

HEAD OF A WHITE WOMAN WINKING -James Tate She has one good bumblebee which she leads about town on a leash of clover.

It's as big as a Saint Bernard but also extremely fragile.

People want to pet its long, shaggy coat.

These would be mostly whirling dervishes out shopping for accessories.

When Lily winks they understand everything, right down to the particle of a butterfly's wing lodged in her last good eye, so the situation is avoided, the potential for a cataclysm is narrowly averted, and the bumblebee lugs its little bundle of shaved nerves forward, on a mission from some sick, young godhead.

What does this poem mean? Who knows? Who cares?

Jan 25, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Paradelle Before Lunch Running away from home Running away from home Raisins in my pockets Raisins in my pockets Home away from pockets Home away from pockets My legs tire before lunch My legs tire before lunch Benches fall from the sky Benches fall from the sky The sky benches my lunch.

The sky benches my lunch.

The sandwich tastes like worms The sandwich tastes like worms Old weenies over fire Old weenies over fire Worms fire the sandwich Worms fire the sandwich Old weenies like benches Sandwich the tastes over

My legs fall from the worms Before running raisins Away from the old lunch The sky pockets my home Jan 25, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

A List Here's a list of things I want to write...

I want to write a found poem consisting of phrases found in the dictionary.

I want to write a paradelle.

I want to write a children's book about a raisin...or a pocket...or a raisin in a pocket.

I want to write a list poem that lists something. (get back to this one later) I want to write a poem in which every line has the word "ink" in it. (think, blink, stink, ink, brink, etc) I want to write a poem about "my boyfriend who is as hairy as a coconut." (that was his idea) I want to write a poem that's two words long.

I want to write a poem entitled, "Oh Pish Posh."

I want to write a poem with a billboard in it.

I want to write a poem of rhyming couplets.

I want to write a poem of chyming rouplets.

I want to write a poem about a hotel room.

I want to write a poem that reads like a reciept from the grocery store.

I want to write a poem entitled, "Chewing Barbie's Foot."

I want to write a concrete poem in the shape of an igloo.

I want to write a poem about sex that's not sexual.

I want to write a poem that makes someone cry.

I want to write a poem that makes someone jealous.

I want to write a poem that makes someone fall in love.

I want to write a poem that makes turkey sandwiches.

Jan 25, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 24, 2004 You think you know me!

Click here to see how well you know me.

You're so gonna fail. =) Jan 24, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Googlers You know how I can see what people type into google to find my site...well I've been getting some very strange ones....like these: Madonna Armpit sexy pencils bumblebee poet porn pencil sketch shirtless mowing dancing bumblebee blogs boobies boring poems (this one is kind of insulting) Katey, poetry

tuba in cuba bathroom poems I am moving tomorrow. Packing up two cars and moving to Houston. Once I'm there I think I'm gonna haunt the University of Houston and stalk Tony Hoagland. Either that or stalk his house. Maybe I'll find something cool in his trash like a version of some poem he was trying to craft. (you know I'm kidding about the whole stalking thing....I don't want to ruin my chances of getting in any worse than they already are.)

Thanks to everybody who said nice things in my last pathetic entry. They cheered me up! I got another rejection today but it was a good one because they left a personal note saying they liked my poems. Yeah! That's just as good as being published sometimes.

Jan 24, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Favorite Poem of the Moment Just in case you haven't noticed, I have a real love for James Tate, the poet. I don't know what it is, but I've always loved him. I think it has something to do with his bold creativity...never holding back or worrying too much about what something means or if the reader will "get it." He just writes and I love it.

Here's my new favorite poem of the moment. And by golly it's by James Tate.

The Wrong Way Home -James Tate All night a door floated down the river.

It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure from its former life, like the time the lovers leaned against it kissing for hours and whispering those famous words.

Later, there were harsh words and a shoe was thrown and the door was slammed.

Comings and goings by the thousands, the early mornings and late nights, years, years.

O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle.

The door was an island that swayed in its sleep.

The moon turned the doorknob just slightly, burned its fingers and ran, and still the door said nothing and slept.

At least that's what they like to say, the little fishes and so on.

Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

Jan 24, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 23, 2004 New Pet (v. 1) The dog returns home one night with a boot in his mouth and a leaf behind his ear, he says he's met a woman named Gladys who hangs her clothes on a line in her yard.

She keeps clothespins in a bag near the back door.

She collects opals and lines them on a shelf like sequins on the hem of a cocktail dress.

The dog says she has grey hair in a broken mess and her feet are bass, or catfish, something with fins.

Nobody hears the dog's story even though he's home and the owner is filling his bowl with water.

A piece of grass is at the bottom like a pebble in a fishtank, only it's grass. He doesn't mind because it reminds him of Gladys, that lady who fed him persimmons and freezer burned bread. The lady with clothes that whistled as if it were happy to see a dog around, as if the clothes had missed the stray hairs of a new pet.

Jan 23, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Rejected I know. I know. I haven't been very fun lately. But I'm moving, so I've been packing the past few days.

I just got an email from a contest I entered a long time ago. I didn't win. Not even close. I didn't really expect to, but you know. Every time I get rejected I ask myself "What am I thinking?" As if I'm ignorant for thinking I'm even mildly good at writing. Maybe I expect too much. I have this huge fear that my ambition outweighs my talent. I want someone to break it to me. To tell me I'm just not very good. I hate being in the middle. I'm not sure what I'm in the middle of, but I feel like I'm in limbo...hovering over the really bad writers while at the same time looking up to the celebrated, published, way up there poets. I think I expect too much. I think I'm rushing myself. But I want to go to graduate school. And I won't get in without credentials...without awards and some background full of published poems. Maybe I aim too high. I feel oblivious, like someone whose really fat that thinks they're skinny and runs around the beach in a string bikini while people laugh at her but nobody actually tells her she shouldn't wear a bikini.

I need constant reassurance. I dont have that. I want to be back in school...learning more about writing and poetry, but I won't get there unless I'm semi-successful, in a way, right now. I think.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! I have to go clean out my car and take a shower. Why am I letting this get to me? I usually don't. Rejections usually roll right off my back. It's cloudy today. Maybe that's it.

Jan 23, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack

Jan 22, 2004 Celebratory Opium Hey! Lookie there. Every writer needs a good dose of opium now and then. Get you some.

Jan 22, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Family Meal (v. 1) Scrub your hands with soap before supper, and remember to get beneath those nails.

I've seen you drum the surface of every plain like you was a zipper with some sort of migraine.

Hurry up. We almost forgot to pray.

This family needs a spanking, a hot one with fingermarks and bee stings.

We like a patch of broken glass in a baby's crib, we make the neighbors cry and beg for tit.

I wish the fence hadn't collapsed last fall.

I'm afraid of what they's gonna see in our windows.

These rat holes, baked beans, and shotgun shells.

Everything running up and down the view of this house like we's entertainment, like we offerin' popcorn and cherry bombs. To hell with them, I say.

We fine. Don't you think we fine?

Hand me the mashed tators and give your father a piece of that pig before I slap your face so hard, your overalls jump off your body and dance the struggle up your ass.

I really think we fine. Don't you?

Jan 22, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Girl I don't know what I just wrote but at least it's something, right? Well, here it is. (i'm on a long poem kick) The gum in my mouth is seven hours old and hard. Tastleless but a hint of spearmint, or was it peppermint? Now it's rubber cement, and I swallow it whole like a snake would a white mouse.

"It will stay in your intestines for nine months," you warn me with your hand on your hip like a school boy on a class trip, marching the museum, checking out his favorite piece of art. "It will not.

That's a myth," I reply with my eyes and then you leave the room, leave the house. I listen to your tires warm the driveway in reverse. I can picture your hand change the gears from P to R to Drive, your feet in tune with the movement of machine.

I always told my mother I wanted to marry a sensitive man, a man with oven mitts who likes babies and burning incense, but this, this is ridiculous, this is like disco and monday morning kazzoos, so I stare in the mirror, pop a zit and think about sex with a magician who hates women because of the way they sit.

I am in indian style on the bathroom counter, little square tiles indenting my legs like a graph, and I know this is not how every woman sits, this is how I sit, and soon I forget the magician, his white gloves and disappearing watches, old skate keys.

I never noticed this mole before on my neck, a new star, a new birth I suspect, and it makes me think of you and your chapstick, leather seats and dustpans, my senstitive man, my mountain of a senstive man who once baked me cookies with rainbow jimmies.

Plucking eyebrows only hurts if you don't put pressure on the fresh open pores.

You taught me that, and it's safe to say

that at first I was sure you were gay.

One eyebrow hair settles on my nose, another on my chin. I blow air from the corner of my mouth, upwards, a missile.

The dog barks, jangles his leash near the front door, and I hear your footsteps, those unmistakable shoes, your presence is vivid like a bruise. I hop down, pretend to read a magazine, an article about spring, and the new color: green. He is mad at me.

Lime and chartreuse too. He has a fat heart, and I push him around like a bloated vaccuum.

Turtlenecks. Flats and denim skirts.

Drink wine with your husband, is the latest advice I scan before you enter the bathroom with a glass in your hand and one for me. I don't have to pretend that you aren't the most sensitive man, becasue you are the cotton in my pajamas, the sound of morning rain, and the smell of the toughest red wine stain.

Jan 22, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 21, 2004 Existentialism (revised) "In a certain sense all of us are running." - Kierkegaard I watch her every morning during breakfast.

Her back against the bark, she sings in the Oak’s shadows or maybe she talks to a mockingbird who hobbles in a spray of leaves. I'm not sure, but her mouth is open, and her cheeks are always pink. It's the same everyday.

This table, this coffee, this circling stir. The same oil painting.

Today I get up and take a closer look.

Her little hand lifts to her mouth to cover a yawn the size of a pill, a small pebble. She turns her head and says, “Did you take my brushstrokes?"

She props to her knees. “The painter wanted texture, so you could feel me lift from the wall.

My dress should be dappled and the grass, puckered.

Where are my ragged clouds and craggy leaves?

What is a painting without the paint?”

She stands up, and I can see she’s barefoot and beautiful although her features are smeared.

She climbs the tree, and I tell her to be careful, that this is insane. Standing on the tip of a twig, she shouts, “Without paint I am nothing."

I pinch her off the wall, set her on the lip of my coffee cup, her legs slack over the rim like the strings of two teabags.

“If you were nothing could you do that?” I ask, scratching an itch on my shoulder. She crosses her arms which bleed into the pink of her sweater, and she looks away in a pout, her bottom lip poking out in a bristle's stroke. I look at the wall where she used to be, the canvas now draining like an awning after rain, the Oak tree gliding down in yolk to the floor.

“Why is it running?” I ask her, but she is gone.

Footprints path from the table to the pool of paint.

I felt her lift from the wall, and the painting is gone, but the painter did his job. So, this is what happens when you stare at art for far too long.

Outside it’s raining, and I can’t decide if I am the woman who lost the touch of her skin, or the woman leaving footprints on the sidewalk, whose face is dripping black.

Jan 21, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 20, 2004 Poet's Intentions Vs. Ultimate meaning I just love it when I get into heated debates about poetry. It reminds me of creative writting class. Luckily, the lastest one took place via AIM, and I have the transcript. It's long but definitely worth reading. I mean, I think it's interesting, at least. The debate is is based on whether or not the poet's intentions ultimately matter in poetry. Of course, I was correct the whole time.

KateyToot: but I don't get it BlackCow79: The poem?

KateyToot: yeah, but I don't want to KateyToot: that's a good thing BlackCow79: Do you know what the word Gestalt means?

BlackCow79: No, I think that's a terrible thing.

KateyToot : NO! KateyToot : Adam!

BlackCow79: Despite what others may argue, I believe that it is the MEANING of the poem that is important, not the sound or the meter.

KateyToot: if I can enjoy your poem without knowing exactly what it means, then that means youre a good writer, you know how to create startling images BlackCow79: Well, yes BlackCow79: BUT KateyToot: its the WORDS and the images BlackCow79: sound and meter are not secondary to meaning. They absolutely are not.

KateyToot : but meaning will be different for everyone BlackCow79: Not if you're a decent poet KateyToot: What!?!?! No! BlackCow79 : Look, there's a right way to read The Waste Land by Eliot.

KateyToot: don’t dumb down your reader and give away too much BlackCow79: I'm not saying that.

KateyToot: yes. i've read the waste land BlackCow79 : Eliot didn't do that. Milosz didn't do that.

BlackCow79: Poems are sometimes difficult.

KateyToot: I know!!! thats what i'm saying BlackCow79: But there's a right way to read the GOOD ones.

KateyToot: no!

BlackCow79: Yes! KateyToot: there's no rule BlackCow79: Bullshit!

KateyToot: oh my BlackCow79: lol BlackCow79: hahahahaha I'm laughing out loud over here KateyToot: you think theres a right way and a wrong way for your readers to read your poems????

KateyToot: I am mad! ha BlackCow79: "oh my" BlackCow79: Yes, absolutely.

KateyToot: no!! Adam! seriously BlackCow79: I think if I cannot convey a definite meaning to the reader, then I am not doing my job as a poet.

KateyToot: thats fine, but the meaning that you’re intending to convey will not necessarily be the meaning that any of your readers actually gets from your poem. Everyone will bring something different BlackCow79: Then it's either the fault of the poet or of the reader. It doesn't matter if they bring something different.

KateyToot: yes it does!

KateyToot: no its just that everyone is different!

BlackCow79: There is a meaning behind the Waste Land that is universal KateyToot: ok forget about the waste land KateyToot: thats like the ultimate poem KateyToot: never mind KateyToot: fuck it BlackCow79: No, keep going. I want to hear what you have to say KateyToot: ok You mean, you've never read a poem where you didn’t get it, but you liked it anyway?

KateyToot: like….you enjoyed it....you thought, "wow he's a good writer!"

BlackCow79: Yes, but that is not the point at all.

KateyToot: yes thats MY point KateyToot: Wait. You mean the point of reading poetry or the point of this conversation?

BlackCow79: Katey, I'm not saying you can't ENJOY a poem without getting the meaning of a poem.

BlackCow79 : That's not what I'm saying at all.

KateyToot: then what are you saying?

BlackCow79: I'm saying that poems have definite meanings, and if the meaning is not accessible, then it's the fault of either the poet or the reader.

KateyToot: "definite" = the poet's intention???

BlackCow79: Um, yes. But it exists apart from the poet's intention.

KateyToot : ok... but the poet has nothing to do with a poem once its in the readers hands.

The "intention" dissolves BlackCow79: Sort of. The poem has to be able to stand on it's own, in terms of its meaning/ KateyToot: EXACTLY! and standing on its own doesnt mean it relies on the poets intention....it means it stands ALONE and lets the reader deem from it whatever he wants BlackCow79: No, NOT WHATEVER HE WANTS. KateyToot: yes!

BlackCow79: Poems have DEFINITE MEANINGS. KateyToot: I think poetry is more fluid than that KateyToot: I mean, I'm not talking about a Billy Collins poem where the meaning is given in the title. I'm talking about the type of poem like you just wrote

BlackCow79: hang on. I don't know what you're saying. explain KateyToot: OK I'm not talking about the sort of poem thats "easy" to read....like a billy collins poem. his intentions are obvious and some people say thats one of the bad things about his poems BlackCow79: But profound, nonetheless. I think his poems are very deep.

KateyToot: he's the "people's poet" because everyone gets him BlackCow79: Right. And that's a very good thing, I think.

BlackCow79: So, he's a successful poet.

KateyToot: BUT!! Billy Collins would never right a poem like Charles SImic BlackCow79: Of course.

KateyToot: Charles Simic is also very successful BlackCow79: Well, that depends.

KateyToot: and his poems are more difficult KateyToot: No! he IS successful. He’s celebrated.

BlackCow79: Do his poems have definite, discernable meanings KateyToot: of course not!

BlackCow79: Because that's the measure of a poet's success.

KateyToot: WHAT? where are you getting this information from?? is it your own theory?

BlackCow79: Who knows?

KateyToot: hahahahaha BlackCow79: I suppose. hahahahaha KateyToot: youre stubborn as hell BlackCow79 : But it's what I believe, nonetheless.

BlackCow79: You are, too!

KateyToot: no!

BlackCow79: I think you're wrong is all.

KateyToot: because i'm right!!!

BlackCow79: If you want to convince me of your point, you're going to have to ACTUALLY CONVINCE ME. BlackCow79: Which, you're not doing so far.

BlackCow79: I'm right.

KateyToot: ok hold on almighty debate master KateyToot: the poet's intention has no bearing on the interpretation of the text because there is either no intention, or the initial intention becomes distorted in the writing process.This theory of poetics which does not admit to the idea of a direct intention, contrary to Chladenius's assertion, does not deny that the poem is intelligible and meaningful for the reader. When the intention of the poet is removed, the language of the poem still remains.

KateyToot: =) BlackCow79: That's a load of crap, Katey.

KateyToot: oh ok. Wait…I figured it out KateyToot: you are a conservative reader BlackCow79: How so?

KateyToot: http://www.philosophy.ucf.edu/ahcon.html BlackCow79: Hang on, lemme read that KateyToot: k BlackCow79: perfect! Excellent site KateyToot: ok. so maybe we just approach poetry in different ways because I totally disagree with that KateyToot : I am a Heideggar reader BlackCow79 : Um, wha? You're a what?

KateyToot: the philosopher - Heideggar BlackCow79: You've read Heidegger?

KateyToot: I just read an article about his theory on reading poems and its exactly how I feel KateyToot: At the very least the reader of poetry would have to understand that the poem is something more than the production of the poet. Indeed, it seems that a poem is an indirect revelation of something that transcends the interpretive community of the poet and reader.

BlackCow79: Oh man, that explains a lot.

KateyToot: sometimes you act like I'm the biggest idiot. "You've read Heideggar???"

BlackCow79: No, it has NOTHING to do with that.

BlackCow79: No one's read Heidegger.

KateyToot: This sums up everything: For Heidegger, poetry allows humans to be able to build and to dwell because it establishes the primary measure by which they understand their position between the heavens and earth.

KateyToot: awwwww. so sensitive, that Heidegger BlackCow79: You should actually read Heidegger. You might get a lot out of it. He wrote a book called "Poetry, Language and Thought": KateyToot: ok so if you're so into your readers "getting" your poems, then I guess I should tell you that I dont get the poem you wrote, but then again I never looked up gestalt....my fault. hehehehehe that rhymes BlackCow79: hahahahah BlackCow79: Dude, go to dictionary.com and look up Gestalt. it'll explain a lot Or, at least, I hope it will KateyToot: ok hang on KateyToot: oh yeah...like the opposite of metonymy BlackCow79: What's metonymy mean?

KateyToot: like if you say “skirt” for “girl” or Crown for king KateyToot: "look at that skirt! she's hot!"

BlackCow7: No, no BlackCow79: Gestalt means that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts KateyToot: I know! THE OPPOSITE OF METONYMY BlackCow79: Oh, is it? hahahahaha BlackCow79: It doesn't seem like that....

BlackCow79: Well, nevermind.

KateyToot: I think so....thats how I thought of it…maybe that’s a little abstract BlackCow79: ok KateyToot: its like....seeing the forest and not the trees BlackCow79: right KateyToot: ok BlackCow79: So, that's kind of what the poem is about.

KateyToot: I get it BlackCow79: You do? Sweet!

BlackCow79: Hooray for conservative hermeneutics!

KateyToot: oh god BlackCow79: hahahaha KateyToot: artists arent supposed to be conservative!

BlackCow79: No, no! That doesn't mean you're conservative!

KateyToot: I know!!! Jeese, you really think i'm stupid BlackCow79: No, I don't!

KateyToot: you're thinking "conservatively" in terms of literature when most artists are real liberal in terms of their art and more abstract about "what it means" BlackCow79: Well, maybe so.'

KateyToot: yes, so BlackCow79: But I'm definitely conservative when it comes to hermeneutics

KateyToot: man thats an ugly word BlackCow79: Isn't it, though?

KateyToot: yes BlackCow79: I'm so glad you showed me that link. It's dead on KateyToot: I know BlackCow79: Now, tell me. Why do you disagree with it? What's your reasoning?

KateyToot: disagree with what?

BlackCow79: conservative ugly word KateyToot: because I dont ultimately care what the author intended....at all BlackCow79: Wow KateyToot: I care about what I get from it KateyToot: narcissistic? perhaps BlackCow79: perhaps, perhaps not.

BlackCow79: Now do you see why I believe the author has to be taken into account, though?

KateyToot: I mean....sometimes I try to figure out why a poet broke a line at a certain word or why he wrote it in first person, but if I dont get the poem...that doesnt bother me as long as the language is used in an inventive, metaphorical, vivid way BlackCow79 : I see.

BlackCow79: Hmmm. Well, I guess it's just a matter of beliefs, then.

KateyToot: hang on a second BlackCow79: You're still wrong, though.

BlackCow79: hee hee KateyToot : hellllllll no. I’m right BlackCow79: Truthfully, though, I do believe your interpretation to be narcissistic.

BlackCow79: I mean, no offense, or anything.

BlackCow79: And I do think there are different types of poetry, too.

BlackCow79: But even abstract art has a meaning behind it.

KateyToot: poetry is narcissistic BlackCow79: And intended meaning.

KateyToot: no! my dad is an artist BlackCow79: I think that's a cop out answer.

BlackCow79: So, this is where you got this.

KateyToot: he never has a firm meaning, he just makes something and lets others find meaning, and I think your way is narcissist for imposing your "meaning" BlackCow79: hahahahaa KateyToot: no I just thought about my dad two seconds ago. everything I’ve been saying comes from what ive learned in classes BlackCow79: Oh, you've got to be kidding. My way is not the least bit narcissistic.

KateyToot: ok BlackCow79: I'm not IMPOSING any meaning. You are.

KateyToot: I dont really care, actually KateyToot: what??!?! i'm saying there is NO meaning!

BlackCow79: No, you're saying the only meaning is your meaning.

KateyToot: no!!!!!! i'm saying everyone has a different meaning BlackCow79: Katey, that's where your position naturally leads.

KateyToot: youre saying there's only one meaning KateyToot: nope BlackCow79 : If everyone has a different meaning, then they're ALL imposing their meaning BlackCow79: Yes. That's what you're saying. Whether you realize it or not KateyToot: yours is a straight line.....while mine is like a tree with tons of branches BlackCow79: No, there's no tree. that's the point KateyToot: yes theres a fucking tree with a bird in it

KateyToot: I am so right BlackCow79: No, you're not.

BlackCow79: Youre absolutely wrong, as was Heidegger BlackCow79: Katey, you cannot internalize an absolute. It ceases to become an absolute then. This was the problem with Luther, Heidegger, Kierkegaard KateyToot: oh pish posh BlackCow79: hahahaha KateyToot: stop throwing your big words at me and trying to confuse me BlackCow79: HAHAHAHAHA KateyToot: seriously. you think i'm a lot dumber than I am BlackCow79: I do not! I think you're very smart KateyToot: I act a lot dumber than I am BlackCow79: It's just, this is the kind of thing I do for a living. I know the positions a lot better than you do, which has nothing to do with your intelligence KateyToot: hang on BlackCow79: ok BlackCow79: I think you and I attack poems from different standpoints, you know?

KateyToot: ok then! if a poem has to have definite meaning, then explain imagistics to me BlackCow79: Ahhh. Good question, grasshopper KateyToot: I know, blowhole BlackCow79: this is a tautological point KateyToot: oh fooey BlackCow79: See, imagists went into the poem TRYING NOT TO convey a definite meaning.

So, they merely succeeded at their goal BlackCow79: But a good point, nonetheless BlackCow79: Did you vanish?

KateyToot: no KateyToot: I was reading over our debate and I am so right BlackCow79: No, you're not BlackCow79: We just believe different things at the get go KateyToot: oh yes!! did you not say the other day that imagism is vital or something like that to poetry???

BlackCow79: I think images are vital to poetry BlackCow79: I'm a disciple of William Carlos Williams, for God's sake KateyToot: I am a disciple of Ezra Pound for pete's sake!

BlackCow79: lol BlackCow79: Well, so.

KateyToot: so he started imagism!

BlackCow79: And images are important.

KateyToot: I dont know where I was going with that BlackCow79: ahahahaha BlackCow79: You there?

KateyToot: yeah BlackCow79: I was thinking more about our conversation KateyToot: ok BlackCow79: I see what you're saying about the imagist school KateyToot: and I am ultimately right BlackCow79: But it's like me saying that I enjoy abstract art and portraits KateyToot: ok. And???

BlackCow79: They're different animals KateyToot: true BlackCow79: What I'm saying is that, at base, all poetry has intended meaning, and that if you break from that, then you're BREAKING FROM THAT

KateyToot: but what if its abstract art and the artist titled it "self portrait"?

BlackCow79: Who gives a shit?

KateyToot: YOU!!! It was the artist’s INTENTION! BlackCow79: Well, then he failed as an artist KateyToot: you’re the one that said the artist cant be separated from the art!

BlackCow79: Right KateyToot: oh my god!!!! he didnt "fail" BlackCow79: Yes, because an artist has intentions when he begins KateyToot: whats the dividing line between correct and incorrect in art??? is there a failing point??

BlackCow79: He either succeeds in conveying them, or he fails KateyToot: ok in terms of art....tell me what it successful and what is unsuccessful?

BlackCow79: You are successful, as an artist, if you are able to convey your intended meaning in a definite manner that can be universally understood KateyToot: oh my god BlackCow79: if it is your intention to convey no meaning, then you automatically succeed KateyToot: ok I agree with that BlackCow79: This is what I'm saying. All poetry, at base, in terms of tradition and form, is an attempt to convey intended meaning in a definite and universally understandable sense.

But some people have tried to break away from that. That's where you get sound poetry and the Dadaists and the like KateyToot: remember yesterday when I was reading your poem and I asked you what it meant and you said you didnt know and I said ok...now craft it and figure out what its gonna mean?

BlackCow79: yes KateyToot: ok. you didnt have intentions when you wrote it KateyToot: ok BlackCow79: That poem was a failure KateyToot: I liked it BlackCow79: That's not the same thing. you can like it and it can still be a failure KateyToot: what the fuck? that makes no fucking sense BlackCow79: Of course it does KateyToot: who the hell are you to judge whether or not a piece of art is a failure?

BlackCow79: There's a big difference between some one being able to get your meaning and some one enjoying it BlackCow79: IM THE ARTIST. It's failure is defined by my intentions KateyToot: and you’d rather someone "get" your poem rather than enjoy it??? thats LUDICROUS BlackCow79: Not at all BlackCow79: And again, I didn't say that. I'm saying they're separate things KateyToot: well if meaning defines success, then thats what youre saying BlackCow79: It does in my case KateyToot: youd rather it be successful rather than enjoyed BlackCow79: No, I didn't say that. success and enjoyment are not the same thing KateyToot: do we need to make a diagram?

BlackCow79: No, You're missing what I'm saying.

KateyToot: no...i'm reiterating what youre saying BlackCow79 : No, you're not. I'm saying success and enjoyment are two separate things.

That's all KateyToot: I know. So you think its up to the artist whether or not something succeeds?

BlackCow79: No KateyToot: so you blame your reader?

BlackCow79: It's dependant first upon his intentions, and then, depending on the intentions,

it depends on the audience and the author's abilities KateyToot: ok KateyToot: soooo your point?

BlackCow79: Look, if someone doesn't get the Waste Land, it's their own damned fault. You know? That's how you can blame the readers.

KateyToot: what if they dont care if they got it or not?

BlackCow79: Well, then that's their business.

KateyToot: is it a failure??

BlackCow79: No, They didn't engage the art KateyToot: oh my god. so its up to the reader then, not the artist ??

BlackCow79: You can enjoy art without engaging it BlackCow79: And the artist's abilities KateyToot: ahhhhhhhhh KateyToot: nevermind KateyToot: you're killing me, Smalls BlackCow79: If the reader engages the art trying to find meaning, and finds none, then its the artist's fault KateyToot: killing me BlackCow79: Sandlot! Great movie!

KateyToot: what if the reader is retarded?

BlackCow79: Then it's the reader's fault.

BlackCow79: Sort of.

KateyToot: but he engaged!

BlackCow79: I mean, it's not they're fault that they're retarded, BlackCow79: they just don't have the capacity KateyToot: oh seriously adam, I really think youre going about this all wrong BlackCow79: I don't think so at all KateyToot: ok BlackCow79 : Because of my intentions, they're different from yours BlackCow79: Meaning is of the utmost importance to me KateyToot: I know BlackCow79: I'm training to be a political poet, you know? This is part of the problem with doing so KateyToot: but youre creating a poem....words are your medium, not meaning KateyToot : Whats a poem without words?

KateyToot: whats a dance without the dancer?

BlackCow79: But that's not the point I'm making.

KateyToot: but WORDS, not meanings BlackCow79 : The point is that I have to learn to manipulate my medium in such a way that my meaning is clearly conveyed, like a portrait artist KateyToot: meanings arent solid BlackCow79: You're more like an abstract artist KateyToot: my dad is a portrait artist....theres only one meaning in portraits....is that what you want in your poems?

BlackCow79: YES. That's what I want. I want my poems to be clear, as much as a poem can be KateyToot: so you like simple poetry....like me BlackCow79: Well, no, that's the thing BlackCow79: Although, yes.

BlackCow79: hahahaha KateyToot: ah ha!

BlackCow79: The Waste Land is not a simple poem, right?

KateyToot: I made another wonderful point, didnt I?

BlackCow79: But I love it.

BlackCow79: No. KateyToot: you understood ALL of the waste land??

KateyToot: clear as day? youre certain that the meaning you got from it is the same meaning that eliot intended??

BlackCow79: No, not at all. But that's MY fault as a reader.

KateyToot: how would anyone ever know?

BlackCow7: I can come pretty close BlackCow79: His notes help KateyToot: oh jesus KateyToot: do you have control issues?

BlackCow79: Not at all.

BlackCow79: Katey, you're totally missing my point!

KateyToot: no!

BlackCow79: I'm saying that we, as poets, have different intentions.

KateyToot: the way youre thinking puts a hell of a lot of pressure on you and your reader BlackCow79: So, you're simply talking about something different from what I'm talking about.

BlackCow79: Yes, it does! You're absolutely right KateyToot: why would you want to do that to your reader BlackCow79: Why wouldn't I? KateyToot: "if you dont engage, my poem is doomed!"

KateyToot: ENGAGE! BlackCow79: No. Like you said, you can like a poem without understanding it BlackCow79: So, my poem isn't doomed.

BlackCow79: The point is this: BlackCow79: if someone DOES engage, and they still don't get it, then there's a problem KateyToot: but you said that it fails if the meaning is not conveyed even if the reader enjoyed it!

BlackCow79: Right But that's if they engage at all KateyToot: “you can like a poem without understanding it” KateyToot: AH HA! BlackCow79: right BlackCow79: What?

KateyToot: that totally contradicts what you just said BlackCow79: No, it doesn't.

KateyToot: “ you said that it fails if the meaning is not conveyed even if the reader enjoyed it!”

BlackCow79: Right BlackCow79: Yes That's IF THE READER ENGAGES KateyToot: oh my god!!!! hahahahahha KateyToot: how can you make sure your reader will fucking engage?

BlackCow79: You can't KateyToot: ok KateyToot: I am done KateyToot: I am thirsty and stuff BlackCow79: hahahaha BlackCow79 : Bailing out on me now, huh?

BlackCow79: Wimp.

KateyToot: I’m sweating too KateyToot: yeah because youre not making sense. you have no basis for your theory BlackCow79: Sure I do.

KateyToot: you whipped it out your ass, and youre so sure of it

BlackCow79: You sent me the link.

BlackCow79: That's the basis.

KateyToot: link shmink BlackCow79: lol KateyToot: cant you just relent and say i'm right BlackCow79: no Because you're not.

KateyToot : no! youre the type of person who always thinks they're right even when they know they're wrong BlackCow79: No, I'm not.

KateyToot: hahahahahha YES! Jan 20, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Existentialism "In a certain sense all of us are running." - Kierkegaard I watch her every morning during breakfast.

Her back against the bark, she sings in the Oak’s shadows or maybe she's talking to a mockingbird hobbling in a spray of leaves.

It’s unclear, but her mouth is open, and her cheeks are pink with her eyes tapered.

It's the same everyday. This table, this coffee, the same circling stir, the same oil painting.

Today I get up and take a closer look.

Her little hand lifts to her mouth to cover a yawn the size of a pill, a small pebble. She turns her head and says, “Did you take my brushstrokes?"

She props to her knees. “The painter wanted some texture, so you could feel me lift from the wall. My dress should be dappled and the grass, puckered. Where are my ragged clouds and crinkled leaves? What is a painting without the paint?”

She stands up, and I can see she’s barefoot and beautiful although her features are smeared and she’s nothing, really, but a soft puddle of color.

She climbs the tree, and I tell her to be careful, that this is insane. Standing on the tip of a twig, she shouts, “Without paint I am nothing but a poster.

Can you please help me find my texture?”

I pinch her off the wall, set her on the lip of my coffee cup, her legs slack over the rim like the strings of two teabags.

“If you were a poster could you do that?” I ask, scratching an itch on my shoulder. She crosses her arms which bleeds into the pink of her summer dress, and she looks away in a pout, her bottom lip poking out in a bristle's stroke. I look at the wall where she used to be, the canvas now dripping like an awning after rain, the Oak tree gliding like yolk to the floor.

“Why is it running?” I ask her, but she is gone.

Footprints path from the table to the pool of paint.

I felt her lift from the wall, and the painting is gone,

but the painter did his job. So, this is what happens when you stare at art for far too long.

Outside it’s raining, and I can’t decide if I am the woman who lost the touch of her skin, or the woman leaving footprints on the sidewalk, whose face is dripping black.

Jan 20, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

I love Female Poets! Yea! Out of all the book I bought last night, there is a tie for my favorite: Tell Me by Kim Addonizio and Origami Bridges by Diane Ackerman. Both poets have startling images and use words in such creative, intelligent ways that I got severely jealous. That's a good sign.

With Addonizio, what struck me was her endings. She has such a punch at the end of every poem. She's a bit prosey with long lines, almost long enough lines to say they don't necesarilly break, but cut off at the right end of the page. You know how somwtimes you read a poem and you stop in the middle of it because it sorta hurts to read...like you have to put too much effort into the poem, or the words are ridiculously huge and its pretentious and there's no rhythm, and its just choppy and nauseating? Well, she doesnt have that at all. In fact, I didn't want the poems to end...they were so melodious and rhythmical...soothing and poignant, emotionally gripping. And then at the end, she pops you at a jolt that makes you sigh and tremble a little. Sometimes she's fierce and cusses or gives you an honest, startlingly direct image, and I like the boldness of it all. She's great. I definitely reccommend this book.

Here's a quick tidbit from her poem "Target." (these are the first three strophes) It feels so good to shoot a gun, to stand with your legs apart holding a nine millimeter in both hands aiming at something that can't run.

Over and over I rip holes in the paper target clamped to its hanger, target I move closer with the flick of a switch or so far away its center looks like a small black planet in its white square of space. It feels good to nestle a clip of bullets against the heel of your hand, to ratchet one into the chamber and cock the hammer back and fire, the recoil surging along your arms as the muzzle kicks up, as you keep control. It's so good you no longer wonder..."

With Diane Ackerman's poems, it's hard not to underline her images. Talk about a talent with words!! She has short lines, and her poems are tight, full of imagery and sound. Really beautiful and poetic poems. She's one of those writers that can conjure up the perfect metaphor to describe the most ordinary idea or object in such a way that you'd like to punch her three times or even 8 times. Here are a few examples from several poems: "Though my curiosity / is swelling like a Magellanic Cloud / filled with a luminous starfield of questions,..." "...and insight whose razors cut clean as thrill."

"I stopped mid-sentence / and closed the book like a handclap."

"A tiara of stars bends / over Manhattan's skyscrapers / whose floors light up in couplets, / then stanzas of light..."

"No, I do not read auras. / But I smell rain on umbrellas / and imagine where it fell."

"My spine is a rosary / you know bead by bead." - - - my favorite!!

Listen to the sounds in these lines: "Abracadabra, and birds fly. / Meaty yet ghostlike, they change shape / to pirouette on high, casting daggers / of glare or broad black shadows."

"The cradle glide of skiing / feels langorous, swaysome, slick."

Sheesh. Awesome poets. Just typing in those lines makes me want to write. Isn't that a sign of a good poet? Yes. It is!

Go buy some books.

Jan 20, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 19, 2004 Books Yippee! I'm excited. I went to the bookstore and bought some books! Here's what I got: Tell Me By Kim Addonizio Satan Says By Sharon Olds Origami Bridges By Diane Ackerman The Simple Truth By Philip Levine There are tons more that I wanted, but I have no money. So...you know. I am gonna read now. Cheers.

Jan 19, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

For the love of TV I've always thought that people who watch a lot of tv know more than people who dont.

There's so much to learn about the world just by watching TV. I think the same thing about video games. Anyway, I learned something today while watching MTV. I was lying in my mom's bed next to my dog and talking on AIM, when a commerical comes on with a very catchy song. I look up. It's a starburst commercial, and it's actually a great commercial, but I fell in love with song and immediately panicked and thought, "I have to know who sings that. Now!" So I went to the Starburst website and viola! There it is in all its glory. So you should go check out the song that brightened my day, and I should go out and buy the CD. Jan 19, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Jan 18, 2004 The Hankering (v. 1) He shaves with an electric razor before brushing his teeth.

He forgets to floss because he's running late and can't find his paisley blue socks.

He kicks up a pile of clothes with his toes, and his dog plays along in leaps.

His ears excited, his paws scraping the carpet, he hangs out his tongue in a smile, then chews on his paw, listens to birds out the window, and he's gone with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.

The dog puts on a pair of khaki pants, mists cologne below his leather collar,

and swipes the newspaper from the kitchen table.

Drinking coffee and reading, the dog thinks about getting a job. Preferrably one involving day walks. So he highlights and circles.

He decides on a blind woman with a cane and a canary named Platypus Sue. She is my new owner, he says to the window.

He folds the paper, rinses the coffee pot, puts on a shirt and says goodbye to the houseplant in the living room with its dried leaf tips, and he kisses the orange cat that sleeps under a desk lamp and claws at mosquitos in the window, and he's gone with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.

Jan 18, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

What I know It's cold outside today, and windy, and cloudy. It's a great day for lying in bed and reading!

I have to study for a political science test. I'm taking the class through correspondence so I can take the test whenever I want, and that's my problem. I keep putting it off. Just pushing it inch by inch, or day by day. You know how a lot of people say they're bad at math or bad at spelling. Well, I'm good at both of those. However, I totally suck and at anything and everything government-wise. For some reason it all confuses me...senate, congress, cabinets, ahhh! I have lots of blonde moments. Lots. I lack a massive amount of knowledge in certain areas...mostly government stuff...see? I dont even know the words to use to show you what I dont know. Taxes, insurance, jury, court - all that stuff. And my boyfriend is an accountant. Go figure. Oh! Another thing I just can't figure out....baseball.

There are so many different terms, and slang words that I get it all confused. It's torture to watch for me.

So, what do I know? I know lots about poetry, I think. A lot about authors and writing. A lot about teaching middle school. A lot about grammar, spelling. A lot a lot alot about astrology, science, metaphysical stuff. A lot about babysitting! A lot about psychology. A decent amount about philosophy. A lot about art, film. A lot about cooking. So there! I'm also good with my hands, and I dont really mean that in a sexual way. I'm crafty, if you will.

That was the most random entry ever.

Jan 18, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Mutterings Unconscious Mutterings:

1. Berry:: burst 2. Fiendish:: fish 3. Bar:: cookie 4. Frank:: sinatra 5. Bend:: backwards 6. Fanatic:: fantastic 7. Belch:: bench 8. Flagrant:: fragrant 9. Burden:: scalpel

10. Flimsy:: film Burden...scalpel??? Interesting.

Jan 18, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Hi Look who's cool now: Me! Jan 18, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Jan 17, 2004 Letter #310 (v. 1) Bowls of fake fruit remind me of a letter I once sent you in Uzbekistan.

Remember that letter? The zip code so long it was a trail of black ants, soldiers in salute to the many stamps?

The heat rose from the concrete outside like churchgoers, and everyone was in lawn chairs, shirtless, mowing, dashing in sprinklers, sunglasses, sunscreen, thongs.

I told you I missed you, said I'd buy you a new pair of shoes when you returned, and I pictured you there with the Uzbekistanians.

There were flies stuck to your cheek, a little monkey eating twigs from your hair as if you were a fruit-tree in season.

So I planted one in my backyard, pears.

I put a little green fence around the bottom, a plastic birdfeeder with seeds and stuff, so when you never write back, when that day comes, I can walk out the backdoor and pick your fruit, and maybe then you'll like me, like you did that monkey.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

I'm #1 It's hard for me to believe that people actually read what I write. Do people read what I write in here? I guess most of the time I'm talking to myself or to some generic human thing with hair. I guess everyone who has a blog (i really hate that word) asks the same question. Anyway...I was wondering that because, for the 5th week in a row, Michael Wells of Stick Poet Super Hero has ranked me #1 blog! It makes me feel special. Sometimes I read over what I wrote and I think "i sound like an idiot!" But I'm not the type of person who puts tons of thought into my entries...at all. I just ramble. It's a venting thing for me. I know there are people out there who use a thesaurus and research stuff before posting...that's just not how I work. I'd rather people know me...even if it's the idiot me. I guess that's a good thing. However there is a bad side to being too honest. But that's an entirely different entry I guess. Anyway...you should visit Michael Wells' blog: Stick Poet Super Hero. Yes! Yes, you should.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

For the love of light verse Katey woke up from a very long nap, went to the movies, and made up a rap.

She fixed a flat tire and bought a green snake who lived with a sailor that always ate steak.

She fished for a goldfish with a lawyer and cook, slipped on some flowers and read a new book.

Katey went running along a green creek, jogged past a duck and a bucket that leaked.

She swallowed a dime and kissed a young prince, she sprained her ankle and hasn't been since.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Cont. of female poets Here are the female poet books i have: 1-800-Hot Ribs - - Catherine Bowman Visits from teh Seventh - - Sarah Arvio The Complete Poems - - Anne Sexton Ariel - - Sylvia Plath Given Sugar, Given Salt - - Jane Hirschifield Collected Poems - - H.D. Selected Poems - - Rita Dove I think that's it. I really love Catherine Bowman.

Look at this: Here are some of her first lines: "Because your fingers are long like the morning."

"This drawer here is full of Avon products."

"The moon is a full thing."

"The Air Force jet set down like a god" "You are my dog. Your teeth are white. Your tongue" "Uncle Mitch, Mitch Mitchell, had a belt" And then there's Sarah Arvio: To sum her up, she's a pretty poet...I mean, she writes pretty poetry with a classic feel, but not confessional...(i dont like confessional poetry) All of her poems have a personal tone to them...as if she's talking to herself or a little bug. She writes with a lot of dialogue too...constant quotation marks. She's an interesting poet. I like that.

Anne Sexton - Who doesn't like Anne Sexton? She's Sylvia Plath on a sunny day! This is from her poem, Barefoot: "Loving me with my shoes off / means loving my long brown legs, / sweet dears, as good as spoons; / and my feet, those two children / let out to play naked." Aye yae yae. Love her!

Sylvia Plath: Yes, I did just say that I don't like confessional poetry, but Sylvia Plath is an exception. Her life intrigues me, so her poetry does too...in a different way than other poetry does. I read her poems to figure her out, whereas I read Tate's poems to figure out how to write. Anyway, if you haven't read her journals, you must! Nobody writes like Plath.

She's a Scorpio and so am I so we have a bond. I'm half-way kidding.

It's time for a nap.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Birthing v. 3 His feet extend from the tireswing, a tail forming a Q from the O. He fills the center to a whole, like a hand and then a fist.

Dangling there, he is the donut hole, the wrist filling the watch, the ring finger, the circus dog, the tire -- his circling fire.

From far away he is a pendant, and the tree's bloom is the head of a girl.

He can see down her shirt into the valley where pebbles fall.

And when his mother calls, he will slip through the tire's yawn, toboggan down a canyon, landing at the end in two cupped hands where there are lights and blood.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Female Poets OK...I did some research...here are the female poets whose books I want to buy: Elizabeth Bishop Kathleen Ossip Melanie Braverman Diane Wald Dara Wier ...more to come. I have to go clean out the garage. yippee.

Jan 17, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Jan 16, 2004 Big Hair Ha!! Look what I just came across. Since I was just talking about Jorie Graham and how I don't like her poems, and how I said David Lehman is one of my favorite poets...well, look at this poem by David Lehman. It's a perfect sestina!!

Big Hair Ithaca, October 1993: Jorie went on a lingerie tear, wanting to look like a moll in a Chandler novel. Dinner, consisting of three parts gin and one part lime juice cordial, was a prelude to her hair.

There are, she said, poems that can be written only when the poet is clad in black underwear.

But that's Jorie for you. Always cracking wise, always where the action is, the lights, and the sexy lingerie.

Poems, she said, were meant to be written on the run, like ladders on the stockings of a gun moll

at a bar. Jorie had to introduce the other poet with the fabulous hair that night. She'd have preferred to work out at the gym.

She'd have preferred to work out with Jim. She'd have preferred to be anywhere but here, where young men gawked at her hair and old men swooned at the thought of her lingerie.

"If you've seen one, you've seen the moll," Jorie said when asked about C. "Everything she's written is an imitation of E." Some poems can be written only when the poet has fortified herself with gin.

Others come easily to one as feckless as Moll Flanders. Jorie beamed. "It happened here," she said. She had worn her best lingerie, and D. made the expected pass at her. "My hair was big that night, not that I make a fetish of hair, but some poems must not be written by bald sopranos." That night she lectured on lingerie to an enthusiastic audience of female gymnasts and gindrinking males. "Utopia," she said, "is nowhere."

This prompted one critic to declare that, of them all, all the poets with hair, Jorie was the fairest moll.

The New York Times voted her "best hair."

Iowa City was said to be the place where all aspiring poets went, their poems written on water, with blanks instead of words, a tonic of silence in the heart of noise, and a vision of lingerie in the bright morning -- the lingerie to be worn by a moll holding a tumbler of gin, with her hair wet from the shower and her best poems waiting to be written.

Now, check out her hair:

Jan 16, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Katey's Favorite Poets In no special order: David Lehman James Tate

Richard Brautigan Charles Bukowski David Berman David Kirby Tony Hoagland Billy Collins Philip Levine Dean Young Russell Edson Rita Dove Denise Duhamel Isn't that sad? I really can't find any female poets that I really like. Except Rita Dove and Denise Duhamel. Somebody recommend me some. I mean, I have a lot of female poetry books, but I just can't get into them.

If you look at the list of my favorite poets, it becomes very obvious what kind of poetry I like. All of the poets above have a certain something, collectively...they share a spark of some kind....wit? Maybe. But Rita Dove isn't exactly witty. She just knows how to create emotion through everyday things. She always writes domestic poems like I do. She's brave too...she'll write about anything. Same with Denise Duhamel. I guess I like that in female poets. I haven't thought about that before.

Jilly from Poetry Hut Blog wrote about how she doesn't "get" Louise Gluck, Jorie Graham, or Billy Collins. I agree about Louise Gluck and Jorie Graham...they both write for themselves it seems like. It's as if their readers don't even cross their minds as they write. Jorie Graham...I REALLY don't get her. Pullitzer?? Please! Uh! But Billy Collins...how can you not get Billy Collins? He's great! Maybe he's "the people's poet," and his poems seem a little "easy," but they're so relatable. Everything he writes about, people have experienced..or have thought about...but could never put into words the way Collins does. To me, he's like the Jerry Seinfeld of the poetry world. Whatever that means.

Jan 16, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Two Poets Talking KateyToot (7:19:24 PM): hey! how long have you been writing poems?

BlackCow79 (7:19:45 PM): I've been writing poems for a while now, but do you mean seriously?

KateyToot (7:19:51 PM): yeah KateyToot (7:19:55 PM): how many years?

BlackCow79 (7:19:57 PM): Maybe since this past summer.

KateyToot (7:19:59 PM): oh KateyToot (7:20:05 PM): why'd you start?

BlackCow79 (7:20:13 PM): Because I love poetry,' BlackCow79 (7:20:16 PM): hee hee KateyToot (7:20:17 PM): how long have you been studying it?

KateyToot (7:20:21 PM): reading it?

BlackCow79 (7:20:22 PM): Since this past summer.

KateyToot (7:20:41 PM): you just jumped into it and you know all the stuff you know? i dont get it.

KateyToot (7:20:45 PM): did you take a class?

BlackCow79 (7:21:06 PM): No, I've never taken an Engliush class of any kind since high school.

BlackCow79 (7:21:15 PM): I placed out of them in college.

KateyToot (7:21:19 PM): how do you know all the rules of poetry, then?

BlackCow79 (7:21:26 PM): I don't know that I do.

KateyToot (7:21:34 PM): yes! you do KateyToot (7:21:42 PM): like the basic imagistic standards BlackCow79 (7:21:49 PM): But, I've tried to study it as closely as I can, and understand why poets do what they do....

BlackCow79 (7:21:52 PM): You think I do?

BlackCow79 (7:22:04 PM): Well, I've learned a great deal from you and Will, of couse.

KateyToot (7:22:17 PM): yeah...i think the best poets follow the imagists KateyToot (7:22:32 PM): not strictly, but guidingly, if thats a word BlackCow79 (7:22:38 PM): It is now.

BlackCow79 (7:22:55 PM): I think you're right. I think imagery is essential to most poetry.

KateyToot (7:23:11 PM): its everything to poetry....different perspectives and metaphor, too BlackCow79 (7:23:14 PM): I do think there are some geniuses out there who can write without much imagery at all.

KateyToot (7:23:17 PM): metaphor = poetry BlackCow79 (7:23:23 PM): Shakespeare, Holderlin.

KateyToot (7:23:29 PM): right BlackCow79 (7:23:30 PM): They were light on images.

KateyToot (7:23:37 PM): they had sound and inventiveness BlackCow79 (7:23:41 PM): But most poetry needs it to thrive.

BlackCow79 (7:23:42 PM): Right BlackCow79 (7:24:06 PM): I don't know how I've learned what I've learned about poetry, to be honest.

KateyToot (7:24:44 PM): i've always thought that poetry is: taking something and looking at it in a way that nobody else has, sounds, words, the line, invention, line, and metaphor KateyToot (7:24:47 PM): yep, thats it!

KateyToot (7:24:49 PM): hehehehe KateyToot (7:25:16 PM): (oops i said lline twice) BlackCow79 (7:25:17 PM): Yes, I think that's a lot of what poetry is.

KateyToot (7:25:21 PM): hahhaa BlackCow79 (7:25:23 PM): hahahha BlackCow79 (7:25:38 PM): But yeah, I've only been studying poetry since this past summer.

KateyToot (7:25:44 PM): thats crazy BlackCow79 (7:25:48 PM): I really hadn't read much, if any, before then.

KateyToot (7:26:05 PM): i've taken so many poetry / creative writing classes...workshops...etc. and i know nothing KateyToot (7:26:08 PM): youre a sponge BlackCow79 (7:26:12 PM): LOL KateyToot (7:26:13 PM): me niether BlackCow79 (7:26:16 PM): Well, thanks!

BlackCow79 (7:26:53 PM): That's why I'm so excited to be taking that class with CK Williams this semester. I've never had anyone teach me anything about writing. I've had to learn it all on my own.

KateyToot (7:27:23 PM): i've always loved studying poems in class though...all my life...i loved figuring them out...i remember reading Ode to a Grecian Urn in like 9th grade and LOVING it...it gave me chills KateyToot (7:27:35 PM): i know! thats so awesome BlackCow79 (7:27:40 PM): Wow! That young?

BlackCow79 (7:27:43 PM): That's amazing!

KateyToot (7:27:44 PM): yeah!!

BlackCow79 (7:27:59 PM): I don't remember reading any poetry at all until this past

summer.

KateyToot (7:28:09 PM): i didnt read it on my own....the teacher was explaining it in class and i was like, wow!! thats so creative!

BlackCow79 (7:28:18 PM): Cool!

KateyToot (7:28:27 PM): hahaha its a really boring poem! ha!

BlackCow79 (7:28:33 PM): hahahah BlackCow79 (7:28:38 PM): I've never read it.

KateyToot (7:28:43 PM): what is it? like romanticism? blah BlackCow79 (7:28:49 PM): lol KateyToot (7:29:21 PM): Keats BlackCow79 (7:29:43 PM): Oh. BlackCow79 (7:30:06 PM): I haven't gotten to many of the great poets of that time period.

I don't have an ear for them.

BlackCow79 (7:30:22 PM): I stick to modern stuff, mostly, because it's all I can appreciate.

KateyToot (7:30:34 PM): "what pipes and timbrels?" i love the word "timbrels!"

KateyToot (7:30:42 PM): i love modern poets too BlackCow79 (7:31:46 PM): Who's your favorite poet again?

BlackCow79 (7:31:50 PM): IS it Hoagland?

KateyToot (7:32:01 PM): ummmm i have 4 favorites BlackCow79 (7:32:04 PM): Ok BlackCow79 (7:32:06 PM): lemme guess BlackCow79 (7:32:08 PM): don't tell me KateyToot (7:32:10 PM): hoagland, tate, brautigan and BlackCow79 (7:32:13 PM): DAMMIT! KateyToot (7:32:22 PM): sorry!

BlackCow79 (7:32:25 PM): I would've gotten hoagland and tate BlackCow79 (7:32:31 PM): And of course billy collins KateyToot (7:32:37 PM): no BlackCow79 (7:32:41 PM): but I wouldn't have gotten brautigan KateyToot (7:32:44 PM): i have his CD hahahahaha BlackCow79 (7:32:47 PM): Not collins?

BlackCow79 (7:32:54 PM): hahahahaha KateyToot (7:33:02 PM): and i've listened to it so much...that i'm tired of him....yeah i think i know all his poems by heart BlackCow79 (7:33:14 PM): So, who's your fourth favorite, then?

KateyToot (7:33:20 PM): i am thinking KateyToot (7:33:38 PM): philip levine or even dean young BlackCow79 (7:33:46 PM): I didn't know you liked Levine!

KateyToot (7:33:52 PM): oh yes!!

BlackCow79 (7:34:00 PM): He was the first poet I EVER read seriously.

KateyToot (7:34:28 PM): i wish i liked girl poets. i like rita dove BlackCow79 (7:34:36 PM): The bookstore at my undergraduate college had this big bin of sale books, and I found like four of his books in it one day. I never looked back.

KateyToot (7:34:37 PM): oh i forgot russell edson and david kirby KateyToot (7:34:48 PM): oh man! i love books on sale!

BlackCow79 (7:34:51 PM): I know!

BlackCow79 (7:34:59 PM): There are hardly any of them at Rutgers.

KateyToot (7:35:05 PM): david kirby and edson are prose poets, pretty much...both HILARIOUS BlackCow79 (7:35:19 PM): You like humor more than anything in poetry, don't you?

KateyToot (7:35:41 PM): yes...i think you have to be smart to be funny and you have to be creative to be funny BlackCow79 (7:35:47 PM): Me too.

KateyToot (7:35:51 PM): so there you go!

BlackCow79 (7:35:54 PM): lol BlackCow79 (7:36:11 PM): I think I've always loved sadness and pain in literature.

KateyToot (7:36:22 PM): i also like serious poems, though...CK Williams, Rita Dove, Elizabeth Bishop, even KateyToot (7:36:27 PM): oh not me BlackCow79 (7:36:28 PM): Because it's all I could ever relate to.

KateyToot (7:36:32 PM): oh BlackCow79 (7:36:43 PM): But now, things are changing, I guess.

KateyToot (7:36:58 PM): i dont like people that complain...i cant stand negative people, so why would i want to read about someone's woes and ails?

BlackCow79 (7:37:04 PM): lol BlackCow79 (7:37:28 PM): You like my poetry, though, and most of my work is about pain and sadness.

KateyToot (7:37:39 PM): i like tragedy though....like, i loved that nonfiction book about the kid that was abused....A Child Called It....great book BlackCow79 (7:38:06 PM): I don't think I've ever written an upbeat poem KateyToot (7:38:08 PM): not really! you always have a turn in your poems that leads to a surprise that makes me laugh...and that suffises my appetite for humor!

BlackCow79 (7:38:19 PM): Well, that's true. Hee hee.

KateyToot (7:38:25 PM): oh yes, poetry is about surprise too BlackCow79 (7:38:32 PM): I think one can be full of pain and sadness without being negative.

BlackCow79 (7:38:35 PM): You know what I mean?

KateyToot (7:39:00 PM): yes....you use objects, not "emotion words" - broken heart, tears, dark BlackCow79 (7:39:05 PM): LOL KateyToot (7:39:11 PM): its true!

BlackCow79 (7:39:14 PM): Well, thank you!

KateyToot (7:39:22 PM): no...i didnt mean YOU KateyToot (7:39:33 PM): hahahahahhaa i meant, thats how one goes about it KateyToot (7:39:36 PM): but you do that too KateyToot (7:39:45 PM): i have to go eat dinner...be right back, ok?

BlackCow79 (7:39:46 PM): I just, I have no idea how I stack up as a poet.... I've neevr had anyone to tell me how I was doing, except for you and Will, you know?

BlackCow79 (7:39:50 PM): Oh, ok KateyToot (7:39:58 PM): ok stay where you are BlackCow79 (7:40:04 PM): I'll be back in a bit BlackCow79 (7:40:08 PM): bye!

Jan 16, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

I think Louise Gluck Sucks, sorry Here's what I want to know. What's so great about Louise Gluck? Someone please explain the appeal. Her poems are dead...limp...boring..."monumentally narcissistic" as one reviewer puts it. Is she really a good poet? If so...I am lost once again as to what constitutes good poetry. I know it's a matter of taste, but isn't there a universal division somewhere? I don't know about you, but, to me this is below par on my poetry scale: (from "Confession") To say I'm without fear-It wouldn't be true.

I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.

Like anyone, I have my dreams.

But I've learned to hide them, To protect myself From fulfillment: all happiness Attracts the Fates' anger.

------ Makes me cringe. Where's the creativity? Where's the poetry?? This reminds me of junior high diaries...and she's the almighty laureate? Oh my! Someone please explain this to me. She is the opposite of everything I've ever been taught about poetry. (that rhymed) Jan 16, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Jan 15, 2004 Farmer Can't Forget (Automatic collaboration with Will Roby) Your dress is broken in the driveway.

I'm at the diner counting pennies for a change, and I'll be home after ten to clean the biscuit tin you've left me in: three kids and a diabetic guinea pig.

Your mother lost her figure in 1974, while pulling taffy at the county fair.

I carried laundry for the fat man, while you fed a bearded lady with a plastic fork and a rusted can.

We arranged for a secular marriage, changed from linens to quilts in the wicker carriage.

I couldn't find a priest in the tri-county.

So I crossed the border into Canada and got us married by a bearded Mountie.

On our wedding day, the songbirds fled the farm.

I left my boots by the barn like two tarred lanterns, and you lit them. Ran to Tahoka with dust in your shoes.

Today, I'm drinking with the dog, and I've been talking to myself for years: When we slept together at the motel, I acted sad, but I had a lotus in my hands.

You had those feathers in your hair, and we swooned, remember?

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Isms This is what I'm interested in, this is what I want to know more about: Surrealism Post-Modernism Cubism Stylistics Imagism I love William Carlos Williams' technique: "In succinct, often witty poems he presents common objects or events--a red wheelbarrow, a woman eating plums--with freshness and

immediacy, enlarging our understanding of what a poem's subject matter can be." Academy of American Poets I think I am naturally drawn to the idea of stylistics. I like to figure out why one form a sentence works better than another form of the same sentence, etc. Basically, linguistics. I think it has a lot to do with pacing and timing. Yeah.

I'm sleepy.

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Favorite Poem of the Moment Julia, I am at high tide. My skin crawls up and down, pulled by the moon, a balloon of skin over Galveston Island.

I am written in red ink on the ceiling fan, I fly around the top of your room.

You wipe your lips and spit into the sink.

You live alone, with a picture of your father, a long purple suit. Storm windows with their slats, nothing but the beep and click of your mother's tongue, buried now in Midland but no matter, you remember: Sunday afternoon, the radio up too loud, a tumbleweed inside you, tugging.

Your mother rattles, lungs caught together as she crosses herself, spits out the window.

She picks dirt from a thumbnail.

You pack gauze into fist sized rolls, plug up the tiny holes that stain your dress.

The sun sews heat in the room, no needle and thread but friction and swish, your feet a perfect arc; the new moon like the television changing channels.

A woman passes on the street, has wonderful pink skin you'd love to wrap over yourself, over your head, a little give when I push. And I push.

- Will Roby (from Stirring)

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Gloom I've been in a frump lately. My moods have been weird and gray. Nothing sounds fun.

Anxiety. I don't think my prozac is working anymore. My mom said that it can eventually quit working. I think that's what's happening to me. Hello Effexor.

I think it's funny how everyone takes antidepressants these days. It makes me wonder.

Surely this isn't a new thing. Have people always been this depressed and just didnt get it treated, or are people more depressed these days than ever before? It's kinda like the whole gay thing. It's always been around, but lately it's been brought to light.

But it's wierd. I'm not "depressed," and I certainly don't have any sort of suicidal thoughts.

No no no. It's not like that. But I cry easily. I don't feel comfortable, really. If the sun isn't out, I'm gloomy. I am very very sensitive lately too. I hate this feeling. I feel like I'm back in high school. All I wanna do is write today. I just might. I would do ANYTHING to get paid to be a writer. I mean, really get paid. Such a dream job.

I get to babysit tomorrow. A 3 yr. old girl named Lily and her baby brother (3 mths), Colin.

They are so cute. Babies make me happy. I love their little feet.

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Hooray

congrats! you are the worst fucking indie fuck that can ever fucking exist. you are not only better then everyone but arent afraid to show it. your taste is perfection and you are loved. what type of indie fuck are you? brought to you by Quizilla

Holy Sweet God Damn, you're SALVADOR DALI! What Famous Painter ARE YOU? brought to you by Quizilla

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Couplets Somebody tricked the cashier, bought thirty peaches for a chug of beer.

The front gate wedges in a tuft of dirt, you climb over the fence, rip your shirt.

People crowed in black brigades on lawns, this doesn't look like the state's new bonds.

She shines the ship's bottle with turtle wax, she spits in the ring and the rag till they sing.

The pretender has a bent fender for dinner.

We argue over brownies about the size of your boobies.

Let's pace around the garden, swallow cocktails, watch nightingails in heaps by the barn.

Cock the hedges in turns of clocks, finish your meal, exit off the third wheel.

We swap sentences in lines to knit a bonnet for the puppet you forget.

This is my favorite mode of direction, this is the map i use for selection.

I chose the one with calendars in his hands, the mail carrier in extensions and sends.

I forgot your two-tone duffel bag, you broke your belt under my bed.

Salted candles taste like wax, i can play the golden sax.

Wish me luck on the first crime draw, i am about to find the last chewed straw.

Suck this ice so i can watch your lips.

The frozen skin is a sin i'd kiss.

Seat yourself on the barrels of hay, slip off the couch, subscribe the day.

Simple minds equate the best rhymes with the finest deal of a savory meal.

The fly is a swatter, and the fish is a hooker, let's eat them both on a salty cracker.

Pitt the cherries in a bowl of spit, aim your seeds to the corner I picked.

Jan 15, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 14, 2004 Night Shift (v. 2) The train woke us, pulled us to the window.

You parted the curtains and showed me the grain elevator, lifting in pale yellow light above the train's errand and our untied robes.

The train dissolved on the ladder tracks behind us, hushing its whistle in the trees, and the elevator remained a vertical view of quiet delivery.

The graveyard shift, you said. Yes, I said, I could do this until the rain runs backwards, until the grain sprouts underground, until the train returns with it's song,

sending us back to bed, so we can rise and join them again in this patterned route of up, down, hello, goodbye, then back again.

Jan 14, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Night Shift (v. 1) A train marched past our house last night, chanting an announcement of its cargo and metallic progress in the rain.

It woke us, pulled us to the window.

You parted the curtains and showed me the grain elevator, lifting in pale yellow above the train's errand and our untied robes.

The train dissolved on the ladder tracks behind us, hushing its whistle in the trees, and the elevator remained a vertical view of quiet delivery.

The graveyard shift, you said. Yes, I said, I could do this until the rain runs backwards, until the grain sprouts underground, until the train returns with it's song, sending us back to bed, so we can rise and join them again in this patterned route of up and down, hello, goodbye, then back again.

Jan 14, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sky Life I feel sorry for Pluto. He's like the boy that wants to play football, but is just too small. I can see Pluto sitting on a bench with his chin resting on his fist, his cleats barely swiping the grass below him. He just wants to be part of the team. Pluto should work out more, I guess.

Right now, he's like the pimple of the galaxy. The red glow that appeared over night after hiding under the skin of Neptune. Pluto is ready to come out and play. Maybe we should pop him. Would his comrade, his big moon, be upset with us? Is this planetary high school?

Earth is by far the most popular kid in class. He is sexy with broad shoulders. He already shaves! I heard he's dating Venus. But Uranus told me that Venus has ugly nipples, so go figure.

Jan 14, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 13, 2004 The Forgotten Mailman The mailman lost his map.

Perhaps he dropped it in Ms. Mercanteel's mailbox along with the fifteenth fat letter from Latvia.

So many god-damned stamps! He got scrumpled in a vision of the many licks the Latvian sealed on the envelope's top right corner. At this point, no doubt, he lost his map, his route, not to mention, his job.

So, like a shot, he walked to the forest,

and there, with nothing but a sun-visor, he lived eating fireants, praying mantis, scraping psalms in trunks with sticks, and spying on deer in heat.

Bathing in rain, he thinks of Ms. Mercanteel and her Latvian lover with his thick notes, calligraphic print, and this makes the mailman cry.

The trees shuffle their leaves and lose some to the rain. A yellow one lands on his head, his face in his hands, and he doesn't know it's there, but he knows he's there, alone.

And to the mailman, that's something.

Jan 13, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Global Warming Our planet is shriveling to a prune, and the earth will soon pull me into the fruit's deepest wrinkle.

I will be only hands, hands waving from a flowerbed. A landmark, for sure.

And this sounds okay to me.

I especially like the idea of a marigold marker designating my domain, the star on a tourist's map.

This makes my hands clap and just below the topsoil of my hair, my face smile, while a root of some sort pokes out my eye.

Jan 13, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 11, 2004 Streaming This is a free write, and I have to go pee, screw up the horny bee. Let me see what you look like under the shower curtain, that pony tail to short and cute. I can't help but notice that you are only a freckle of yourself in the mirror, a fake tan and lashes, who gave you those scratches? In my own time, I will find a new way to create a sphere of pleasant places to communicate and masticate. I'd appreciate a different approach to this topic. Let me explain the grass's hue in view of your face. Let me show how the spine of a book is really just a hook to elaborate your senses, punish your cataract lenses. We should forget the uncontrolled horses, those wild stallions of diamonds and indolent repeals. Look at the frogs and their bubbled ribbits caught by butterflies in mid-air. I ride on the largest one. Hey! How did you get there? I love the way I can smell your hair, and I want you to know that you are the dots of terry on a towel, the bits of joined together in a tiny weave of delicate stitching. This is you and me. We are nothing but a towel, but isn't that everything? It has stains and a cigarette burn but I love the rub of it on my face, the way balls of us fall in my bellybutton like indians in a small cave. This is me in the mirror with our towel...so naked and wrapped in a blanket of strength like a mountain hug. Where has this gone to? Where I have ventured? This is foo foo land I want to be in the poet's feet. Let me smell your toes, lick the soles you imprint in every wet square of concrete. Let's eat a ham sandwich on the balcony and drop crumbs on the hats of old ladies. Let's fill an album of scratches of songs and detailed rings of choruses. We should hop over barbed fences in fields of paisley.

Extend our arms over heaps of wind-breakers, break the beaks of dead burns and glue them to our cheeks like volcanic pimples. We should laugh a little longer, louder and brush our teeth in the shower. Swim in talcum powder. How does it feel to know that you have ribbons in your hair? Hair in your ribbons?

We pivot like cranes on cattails, like muskrats in search of rattails. We are meek, and we make adjustents. Who do I think I am? Hart Crane with his Chaplinesque? That's what it sounds like. A tuba in Cuba. We are nothing but the sand we funnel into each other's ass cracks. This duck in my arms is a piece of our future. We will crack in quacks and eat tarnished fingers for friday breakfast. This is not the way you eat with a fork, you must combine both the lateral and the force of a fork into a subtraction of media. You know what I mean? Ha! I didn't think so. Look at the unravel of the babble. The tongue, a redcarpet for every trampling present, or peasant. Wish away the crowded streets, wash your hand before you eat. Who are you to look down on the handprinted concrete when there are eyes to meet? Eat your meat. Wipe your face. Kiss your mother in soft embrace. Wonder about the accomplished gators and aqua-skaters. They are your enemy, the miracles of what not to be. Let us gather in shelves of records in teh archives. We can draw with a black marker on every index of every author of every day we come to offer. This is the time we admit we are immortal. This is the day we breathe and forget the morsel of indifference, and the difference between you and I is I am a chopstick and you are merely a bendy straw with a hole in it, and you whistle, but never succeed in a drink. The thirsty throw you away with a sigh. Ask for another. Forget about the net I caught you with. Thats strange blank of blinking biceps. this is a night for us to look at each other, wonder about out bodies and scar stories. Let me hear your vice when your voice shakes and your cobra mates. In the closet, we'll count bones and eat the liver. Fava beans? No. Consider the liter that withers in winter. Where do we fetch such wonderful snow and glitter? Let me buy you lunch. This is a tray. This is your plate. You face is a reflection on flatware. DOnt be alamrned. Its regular. Its fanfare. My arm hurts and I haev a headache and tomorrow is a new day. I want to go there. I am afriad. I am afraid of tomorrow like a bus in the harbor, all the passengers in a panic. A swamp of horshoes and dead flies. Scary and buzzing without orchids or iotas of limping kangaroos. I am thirsty. Bring me a stream, let me scream for every fifty balloons in your room. Shlam the door and curl your hair while standing naked in a gulf of forgotten colmbuses and ninas. Dont forget the santa maria. the biggest one. the macho man of the pack. He is your winston. Your salem light. Pull the plug on your butt and eat raw radishes with mayonaisse, let me introduce to your typewriter.

Call him pal. He is your friend. His formal name is Mr. Wigginstein. We like to thank him everyday for providing us with a couch and hot coffee. Next time bring the equal. This guy's out of sugar.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack

Cross-Stitch (v. 1) You are my favorite tangle, and there are no fingers strong enough to unravel this weave we've needled together.

So, tonight I'm sleeping with a blanket I found packed in cedar, threadbare and torn. I chose this one for it's length, it's tattered complexion, the sounds it makes dragging across the wooden floor.

Our patches are still stuck together and for tonight, they drape over the back of an antique chair like a winter's coat

caped over shoulders, and it looks brave with it's fringes drooped, fingering the floor.

Tomorrow, I will replace it to my bed like it never left the touch of my legs, and lying there, it will fall asleep in it's natural heap of safest seams.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Mutterings Unconscious Mutterings Week 49_2 I say ... and you think ...?

1. Mitchell:: pitchers 2. Mercury:: oil 3. Cycle:: cyclone 4. Engagement:: wedding 5. Alternative:: other 6. Gang:: rebang 7. Emotional:: conditional 8. Skinny:: pinky 9. Hypochondriac:: aphrodisiac 10. Insecure:: rapture Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Lorrie Moore, genuis I was just flipping through some Lorrie Moore books. Honestly, I can't get over her brilliance. It makes me thirsty. Or something. I just have to keep a record of some of the best snippets I can find in her stories. So here are some.

From Go Like This "The moon rummages down in the alleyway like somebody's forgotten aunt."

"I am something incorrect: a hair in the cottage cheese. Something uncouth: a fart in the elevator."

"He gives me the old honey I'll bring you home a treat, like I'm a fucking retard or something whose nights can be relieved of their hellish sameness with gifts of Colorforms and Sky Bars."

"She laid her head in my lap like a leaky egg."

From What is Seized "The rooms in our house were like songs. Each had its own rhythmic spacing and clutter, which if you crossed your eyes became a sort of musical notation, a score - clusters of eighth notes, piles of triplets, and the wooden roundness of doorways, like clefs, all blending in a kind of concerto. Or sometimes as with the bathroom, with its motif of daisies and red plastic, they created a sort of jingle, something small, likable, functional. It was the bookcase in the living room that seemed particularly symphonic, the books all friendly with one another, a huge chorus of them in a hum; they stood packed behind glass doors with loose metal knobs."

"She is fifteen and has Tonied her hair into a wild frizz that dances, dark and frenetic, way out beyond the barrettes she uses to clamp it down."

"Once in a while I went with her, jogging next to her, watching her breasts float up and down beneath her sweatshirt, imitating the way she breathed in and out with quick snorts.

Twice we saw dead birds washed up on the shore and we stopped to look at their bedraggled carcasses, their eyes already crawling with small black bugs."

From How (my favorite story) "He will have a nephew named Bradley Bob." "Maybe he'll say something like: Christ, what's wrong? Maybe he won't. If he spends too long in the bathroom, don't ask questions."

"You will shamble through the hall like a legume with feet. People will notice."

From How to Be An Other Woman (ok, maybe this one's my favorite.)

"As she attempts, mid-bite, to complete the choreography of her chomp, Russian dressing spurts out onto her hands."

"Try to decide what you should do: 1. rip open the front of your coat, sending the buttons torpedoeing across the room in a series of pops into the asparagus fern; 2. go into the bathroom and gargle with hot tap water; 3. do downstairs and wave down a cab for home."

"Wonder why she always polishes the silver after meals. Lean against the refrigerator and play with the magnets."

"Philosophize: you are a mistress, part of a great hysterical you mean historical tradition.

Wives are like cockroaches. Also part of a great historical tradition."

"Toothaches. Stomachaches. God, the soup. Excuse yourself and hurry toward the women's room. Slam the stall door shut. Lean back against it. Stare into the throat of the toilet."

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Redundant Settings I've been writing a lot today! Whoo hoo! But that doesn't mean I'm producing anything good. Anyway, I think i gathered up some evidence of why my poems always seem like the same poem just in different forms. It's my setting. It's always domestic. I think all of my poems take place at home. I think that signifies that I should get out more. That's depressing, if you ask me. So from now on, I'm not gonna write about home. I want to write about more worldly topics, but tighten them to one point of view. For example, I'd like to take a broad circumstance like cancer (but not cancer, because everyone writes cancer poems) and shrink it to one image of cancer, one moment of cancer...intensify the whole idea of cancer...or whatever topic I'm writing about. Dyslexia. War. Anxiety. Polio.

Masturbation.

Whatever. I'd like to bring the hugeness of it under a microscope and focus in on a tight poem of something huge. Yes. That's what I would like to do. Sounds easy...riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

The Gravity (v. 2) When the earth shakes in earthquakes, I lump under the kitchen table, watch the apples hum in a bowl on the counter, a glass of water skate off the end to the sink, and I blink

with the clap of glass and metal, slap my ears shut when the roof flaps off the frame of this home in an earthly yawn.

The walls scream in splits forming cracks, vertical slices sprouting like dark hairs, and through my hands, I watch them grow.

The whole world in a growl, a snap of life, everything dances, mumbles, and skitters to corners and untouched inches.

I tighten to a knot, doubled over, and I'm static, a nailed down statue with a broken chip of marble at my carved feet.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Under (v. 4) The other day I fell off the roof and died, but the washing machine still tumbles change and wine stains. Mother folds sheets and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep, I keep tally of the wriggling worms.

My grandfather lies beside me.

Cold bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree, worm-infested. Now they feast on me.

Mother makes dinner, stirs her tea.

I tug the roots of risen thyme and remember to forget how to breathe.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Spoon V. 3 Two bodies folded and creased like an accordion in a cuddle.

One face open, the other niched in the nape of a neck, a nest to nestle.

A display of our vacations dangles by nails above the kitchen sink. I drag my hand across them. They swing and sing out jingles like wind chimes ringing reflections.

My mother polishes the oldest ones, scrubbing the russet tarnish, lifting each one to the light in a test of gleams, and she spins the thin handles so the concave cups a scoop of quick sparks like a hand full of stars, little dippers.

Jan 11, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 10, 2004 At least I wrote something Ok...so it's not a sonnet...but you know.

Under

The other day I fell off the roof and died, but the washing machine still tumbles change and wine stains. Mother folds sheets and washcloths. In a hole six feet deep, I keep tally of the wriggling worms.

My grandfather lies beside me. Cold bones, raw anatomy. He had a fig tree, worm-infected. Now they feast on me.

Mother makes dinner, stirs her sugared iced tea while I tug the roots of risen daisies, and remember to forget how to breathe.

Jan 10, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Obsessive Consumption I just discovered a very fun website. The owner of it is Kate Bingaman. She's 26. Her site is called Obsessive Consumption and in it she documents every single thing she buys. It's great. You can really figure someone out just by looking at the objects they own. I love that.

Jan 10, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Formal, What?

I'm in some sort of formal mood today. I want to write a sonnet. I'm gonna go walk my dog, Lola, and then I'm gonna venture down sonnet lane into some unknown, iambic territory. We shall see what happens.

Jan 10, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 09, 2004 Favorite Word #1 OH! Before I forget. My new favorite word of the moment is...

Parapraxis Don't know what it means? Look it up for Pete's sake!

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Creative Cycles I seem to go in cycles of creative spurts. Sometimes I have urges to read, other times I crave writing. And on special days I crave drawing or painting. Lately its been drawing/painting...digitally. I've been frustrated lately with my writing...I think I just have too much going on in my life to be able to focus on the craft of poetry, right now. I am moving, and we all know how much work that is. But drawing doesn't take so much focus...so much inner-probing. Plus working with colors makes me cheery. I've also been reading fiction lately...and I find it hinders my poetry. I always read poems before writing poems...it helps me so much. Lolita has gotten in the way. I noticed that watching the Kubrick film, Lolita before reading the book is not a good idea. They are too much the same.

Although Nobakov is such an awesome writer that it's still worth reading. I just suggest you read the book before you see the movie. The book is definitely better anyway.

My sister has been reading The Life of Pi and she wont stop talking about how great it is, so I wanna read that too. Although I just said that I havent been reading much poetry lately, I did buy a poetry book in Houston. I forgot the title of the book and its in the other room so I dont want to go get it but its by Cynthia McDonald...the founder of the writing program at the University of Houston. Of course, when I bought it I didnt even know she taught there. I just liked the poems. I always do that! Every time I find a new poet I like, they end up teaching at The U. of Houston. I really have to get in there. There's gotta be some secret way. I feel so rushed in having to perfect myself as a writer in one year before grad. school, but sometimes I just think back to myself a year ago and I see how much I've learned since then. I have a year until I start applying for graduate school, so hopefully I'll learn as much as i have this past year.

I can't wait for my life to be settled. I want to live in a house and NOT move! I want to know what I'm doing. I want a schedule and a plan. I dont have any of that right now. I think this is hardest time in my life I've ever had. The transition from college to real life is hell. I hate it.

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Chewing on things is fun I just saw another funny google search. "Chewing Kleenex."

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Lolita Because I'm reading Lolita right now. I drew a picture of her. Although it turned out to be more like a replica of me in my highschool uniform.

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Eloise's Boo boo Because my cat got spayed today, I drew a picture of it.

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Why type of poet are you?

Go to Shanna Compton's blog and check out her "What kind of poet are you?" list. I think it's great. Somehting to talk about.

I think I'm either a Pop-Culture poet or Generation #83 of the New York School. Definitely not Slam, Traditionalist, or Language poet. I hope I'm not a Hallmark poet and I know for sure I'm not Bob Holman. For sure!

Hooray hooray hooray!! Michael Wells ranked me number 1 again this week. 4th week in a row!! What makes me so special? It must be the Quizilla. Does anybody else hate the word "quizilla"? I cringe when I say it in my head, I'd probably tremble and throw up if I said it out loud.

I've been making a lot of Freudian Slips lately. For instance, I just accidentally typed "when I say it in my hand" instead of "when I say it in my head." I think the slip is sort of poetic.

Perhaps I'm just a natural poet like that. Yeah. That's it.

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Do you have a dollar?

I had to take my cat to the vet this morning to get spade (spelling??) and she has to stay there over night. I got teary-eyed when I backed out of my parking spot.

I went to Starbucks afterwards, and while standing in line something strange happened. I was 2nd in line. A short lady wearing a jacket with the hood over her head order a "short drip" whatever that is. While the cashier rung her up, she turned around, and mumbled something to me about a train and then said, "you wouldn't spare a dollar, would you?" My immediate reaction was to say "what the hell," but i didnt. Instead I said "i dont have any cash." Which of course is a lie. It was just weird. You dont order and then ask the person behind you if they'll pay for it. The cashier was nicer than me. She gave it to the hood lady for free.

I've always loved Legos. Last year I went with my boyfriend to Toys R Us to buy some, but we couldnt find any. I mean, all they had were these kits to make Harry Potter castles or superman cars. I just wanted an enormous bucket of legos. I wanted to make a lego land.

Check out this site, and you'll see why Legos are cool. I need to get some. Maybe I should check Ebay. Yeah!!

I promise I'll write something worthwhile later today. Something a little more poetic.

Jan 09, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Jan 08, 2004 Ooh La La Lolita

You are Literature.

Your strength is your ability to understand human nature, and you tend to equate truth and beauty with humanity. You get along well with Poetry and Drama.

What form of art are you? brought to you by Quizilla

Sorry I keep posting these things. But they're fun. I don't have much to write about. I had a bad day today. I'm gloomy. I'm reading Lolita right now. You should too. We can talk about it...how creepy Humbert is. Sheesh.

Jan 08, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Jan 06, 2004 My Alter Poet

Well...your alter poet is Sexton...not nearly as bad as Plath...but still...CHEER UP, JEEEEEZ! Who is Your Alter Poet? brought to you by Quizilla

You are Sylvia Plath - a fiery bombshell with a keen wit, and a gift for lyric poetry. You will forever alter the literary canon with your mind bending imagery, your sardonic wit, and the mythology you build around yourself. You are a voice to be reckoned with.

Which Dead Poet Are You? brought to you by Quizilla

Jan 06, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Mmmmutterings Unconscious Mutterings January 04, 2004 Week 48_2

1. Vintage:: antique 2. Longing:: yearn 3. Specimen:: inkblot 4. Mock:: sock 5. Shit:: poop 6. Friday:: yippee 7. Cruel:: rude 8. Insufficient:: lacking 9. Pessimistic:: negative 10. Grin:: smile That was a boring one. I am so predictable today.

Jan 06, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 05, 2004 Prose Poetry I remember when I first started taking creative writing classes and the issue of the prose poem would come up...I automatically hated the prose poem. I thought it sounded "too easy." How could that be poetry?

Now that I've studied poetry a lot more, I've grown to love the prose poem. However, I'm not sure if I love the actual poems or if I'm just interested in how it's poetry. I've always been interested in what constitutes something to be considered poetic...or rather, what IS a poem? I think the prose poem so ferociously begs us to ask that very question, and I love that about the prose poem. It makes me think. Lately, I can't stop thinking about it, so I've been doing a little research. Here's what I've amalgamated...these are the highlights.

"The prose poem is a type of poetry characterized by its lack of line breaks. Although the prose poem resembles a short piece of prose, its allegiance to poetry can be seen in the use of rhythms, figures of speech, rhyme, internal rhyme, assonance (repetition of similar vowel sounds), consonance (repetition of similar consonant sounds), and images."

"The Prose Poem, which avoids by degree (but not by kind) various strictly formal devices of rhymed verse, and which emphasizes an approach more naturally consistent with the inward or "associational" turnings of the human psyche--the mind's fondness for dream-like creations of metaphor in particular--seems an ideal vehicle for such sophisticated, psychologically realistic, esthetic aspirations. " -Michael Benedikt "In any event, having cast the idea of the line-break--sometimes no doubt somewhat reluctantly--behind them, it's as if historically, prose poets were looking for a "center of gravity" to take the place of the line-break; and found it in metaphor! Prose poets, like verse poets, are doubtless driven to do what they do by personal proclivity on the one hand, and on the other by the nature of medium they are working in--and the prose poem medium especially seems to call for a metaphor-based "center of gravity." - Michael Benedikt OK...So that wasn't much, but what I did find is pretty hefty in itself...a lot to think about, I think. So to top it off...here are some prose poems for your enjoyment. Why are these

considered poetry? They are definitely poetic, but are they poems? Hmmmmm....I sound like a teacher.

Bread - Russell Edson I like good looking bread. Bread that's willing. The kind of bread that's found in dreams of hunger.

And so it was that I met such a bread. I had knocked on a door (I sometimes do that to keep my knuckles in shape), and a women of huge doughy proportions (she had that unbaked, unkneaded look) appeared holding a rather good-looking loaf of bread.

I took a bite and the loaf began to cry . . .

Heroic Moment - Charles Simic I went bare-assed into the battle. The President himself heard of my insolence. I was given a flea-ridden mutt to ride. I rode in com-pany of crows pleading with them to please remember me. I had a dollhouse knife between my teeth, the red plastic pisspot on my head as a helmet.

When she heard the news, my mother caused the Greek fleet to be deprived of favorable winds on its way to Troy.

Witch, they called her, dirty witch-and she, so pretty, chopping the onions, laughing and crying over the stew pot.

Both poems were taken from The Prose Poem, An International Journal Jan 05, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Jan 04, 2004 Spoon (v. 1) A tiny oar, a mirror, the sugar shovel.

Two bodies folded together and creased like an accordion.

A cuddle. One face open, the other niched in the nape of a neck.

A display of every vacation dangles by nails above the kitchen sink.

I drag my hand across them. They swing and sing out jingles like wind chimes, the sound of reflections in a blur.

A miniature bowl on the end of a stick, it is the only device at the dinner table that won't injure, but scoop and harbor.

Mother polishes the oldest ones, erasing the sepia of tarnish, holding each one up to the light, testing its gleams, spinning the handle several times so the concave holds a shine

for a moment like two hands cupping water to a mouth.

Jan 04, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Jan 03, 2004 a little shopping My boyfriend and I just went to Best Buy and then Barnes and Noble. Here's what we got.

Being John Malkovich (which we're watching right now.)

Adaptation Dead Poet's Society (my idea) Notting Hill (yeah i know) Winged Migration (one of my favorites) And...

The Writing Life by Annie Dillard Writers on Writing - collected essays from The New York Times Beginning Theory, An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory by Peter Barry Jan 03, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

In the Bathroom Sink (v. 2) My mother washes her hair. She can’t hear the doorbell. There are bubbles in her ears, a faucet spraying loud beads to her scalp.

Eyes closed, her hands are so busy all over her head in an orbit of suds and massage, twisting the hair together after every cycle.

From the hallway I watch her.

What’s she thinking about?

My father? The color of her favorite lipstick?

What she’ll cook for dinner?

Me? The girl in the mirror has scrubbed away a familiar face. She is not my mother anymore.

Taking a towel from the wall, she lifts her head and opens her eyes Water falls to her freckled shoulders, and she sees me in the mirror’s reflection.

She smiles. I walk away, and answer the ringing door.

Jan 03, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Words Favorite Words: acrylic bombastic bourgeoisie contraband correspondence cowlick cozy

cringle-crangle debonair dilapidated eclectic effervescent elliptical eurhythmic facsimile flamboyant flip-flop harlequin hodge podge honeycomb incubator kaleidoscope kookaburra limerick lollipop lyric montage nondescript octagon peachy periwinkle ping-pong pip squeak pooh-pooh rendezvous reprimand ricochet saucer saucy silhouette snaggle-tooth soliloquy swanky tranquilizer whiplash wigwam willowy Ugliest Words adobe beefy blimpy bulbous bosom bungalow butterball caboodle colossus condominium cottage cheese cream

crotch cubby hole custodian dipstick dump flatulence frump handbag handkerchief hoot n' nanny kinfolk knapsack lasagna liver lubricate macaroni mezzanine molasses noodles nutmeg panties penis pentacle pimple poinsettia poopie quiche rhomboid romper rotunda rubbish saddlebag satchel sauerkraut scab shrubbery smorgasbord spinster strudel superb tootsie roll urinal wiener Jan 03, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Boring Blog Here's something strange: I feel like blogging, but I don't really have anything to say. I guess that means it's time to ramble. I have a political science midterm coming up and I really really need to study but I just can't. I am the queen of procrastination. I think maybe I work best under pressure. Not sure. Yeah. So, I've been in a complete writing rut.

However, it's not as if I've actually sat down and tried to write. No. My writer's block is

different. I can't bring myself to write. I know that once I sit down and do it, I can...but I can't get to that point. It's so much easier to play games on Yahoo, than to write. Ya know?

I have a huge fear. My top-choice school for graduate shcool is the University of Houston, but I just know I'll never get in. It kills me. I have a boyfriend in Houston, and I'm actually moving there February 1st from Dallas. I just really don't want to have to leave him for graduate school. My 2nd choice is Boston Univeristy, and although it's only a one year program, I'd hate being so far away from him. And besides, U. of Houston has Tony Hoagland!!!! I just want to learn from him...and Cynthia McDonald, and Edward Hirsch, and Mark Doty and Adam Zagajewski. They are all so amazing, it would just be absolutely perfect if I got in. If only they knew. Struggles.

How does one study for political science? This is the worst blog I've ever written. I hate the word "blog." Do you?

Oh yeah!!!! I know what I can do! I'll post my lists of ugly and pretty words. Yeah! Ok...I'll do it in a new post though.

Jan 03, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 02, 2004 In the Bathroom Sink (v. 1) My mother washes her hair. She can’t hear the doorbell. There are bubbles in her ears, a faucet spraying loud beads to her scalp.

Eyes closed, her hands are so busy all over her head in an orbit of suds and massage, twisting it together after every cycle.

From the hallway I watch her.

What’s she thinking about?

My father? The color of her favorite lipstick?

What she’ll cook for dinner?

Me? She is not my mother anymore.

There, before the mirror, she is a girl in thought, in a cleansing. She has scrubbed away my mother for this five minutes. With eyes closed, she is nothing, but a woman. Someone, I realize, I barely know.

Taking a towel from the wall, she raises her head, opens her eyes, water falling to her freckled shoulders, and she sees me in the mirror’s reflection.

She smiles. I walk away, and answer the ringing door.

Jan 02, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Blocked Every time I write a poem, I feel like it's just another version of another poem I'd written earlier...almost like all my poems are sorta the same. I think it's my voice. I'm afraid that I have too consistent of a voice throughout my poems. People always say you should find your voice as a writer. Well, what happens if you've found it but you can't get out of it? I think that's when it's time to experiment...span myself into different territory...write from the voice of a doodlebug, perhaps. Or a red balloon. Hey that's a good idea... I think.

I'm afraid to write right now. Like I know I'm gonna fail...or I'm afraid of writing badly. But I know that if something is worth doing at all, it's worth doing badly, right?

Oh! Struggles.

Jan 02, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jan 01, 2004 Philip Levine "My sense of a poem—my notion of how you revise—is: you get yourself into a state where what you are intensely conscious of is not why you wrote it or how you wrote it, but what you wrote. You just read it as a piece, as someone else might read it, and you see where it's alive. If that voice that you created that is most alive in the poem isn't carried throughout the whole poem, then I destroy where it's not there, and I reconstruct it so that that voice is the dominant voice in the poem."

"Guy Shahar: Do you know the voice when you start off or do you discover it?"

"Philip Levine: No. No, I often discover it. If I know exactly what the voice is, then it's usually a voice I've already used so many goddamn times that I don't need another poem that sounds just like it. I think in the best poems I make a lot of discoveries about voice, about subject, about what my real feelings are."

- Philip Levine from this interview in the Cortland Review.

Jan 01, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Favorite Poem of the Moment Animals are Passing From Our Lives - - by Philip Levine It's wonderful how I jog on four honed-down ivory toes my massive buttocks slipping like oiled parts with each light step.

I'm to market. I can smell the sour, grooved block, I can smell the blade that opens the hole and the pudgy white fingers that shake out the intestines like a hankie. In my dreams the snouts drool on the marble, suffering children, suffering flies, suffering the consumers who won't meet their steady eyes for fear they could see. The boy who drives me along believes that any moment I'll fall on my side and drum my toes like a typewriter or squeal and shit like a new housewife discovering television, or that I'll turn like a beast cleverly to hook his teeth with my teeth. No. Not this pig.

Jan 01, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

The Midnight Disease I bought a new book yesterday. I finished it yesterday. I only do that with amazing books.

And it was AMAZING. It's called The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain. The author is Alice W. Flaherty.

Basically, it's an in-depth look into the brain...and the writer's brain. It also focuses a lot on pathology and its role in creativity.

I'm a big highlighter...an active reader, if you will...so I want to share with you some of the stuff I highlighted just to show some of the great information this book holds within its cover. "...writers are ten times more likely to be manic-depressive than the rest of the population, and poets are a remarkable forty times more likely. Even student poets not diagnosed with mental illness have more manic traits then students who do not write poetry."

- - - I found this very interesting condsidering I have been diagnosed with depression and OCD. Go figure.

"Several factors besides skill are more significant in professional writers than in most amateurs. One is love if the surface level of language: the sound of it; the taste of it on the tongue; what it can be made to do in virtuosic passages that exist only for their own sake, like cadenzas in baroque concerti. Writers in love with their tools are not unlike surgeons obsessed with their scalpels, or Arctic sled racers who sleep among their dogs even when they don't have to."

- - - - I also found this to be quite interesting. Most writers were big readers during childhood, but I was not. My love of writing strictly grew from the love of words. I have always been interested in words...the power of words...different ways one can utilize words and create sentences. When I was very young...maybe 7 or 8, I tried to create my own dictionary, consisting of all the words I'd made up (Eevee, stupedo, stingler, minion). I used to keep lists of words I hated and words I loved. Actually I still have those lists. I should post them here sometime.

"Most agree that a useful defintion of creative work is that it includes a combination of novelty and value. Creativity requires novelty because tried-and-true solutions are not creative, even if they are ingenious and useful. And creative works must be valuable (useful or illuminating to at least to some members of the population) because a work that is merely odd is not creative." "...seperating drive and talent is sometimes complicated, because they are so enmeshed.

When someone is highly motivated to do something, that person is likely to learn to do it well, and when someone can do something well (especially when it wins praise), the ability to do it often increases the drive to do it. The consensus, however, seems to be that drive is surprisingly more important than talent in producing creative work."

In the book, Flaherty heavily focuses on writer's block and its origins, as well as the different types. Everything from procrastination, depression, and then the cycles of productivity. Then she focuses on why we write. What pushes a person to pick up a pen and write? "What kind of emotion is the drive to write?"

She talks a lot about metaphor and voice. "Metaphor, broadly and prosaically defined as any use of a word for one thing to describe another thing, is nonetheless one of the most magical aspects of language....Psychologists have long believed that metaphorical thinking -- realizing similarities between disparate objects -- underlies creativity in both artistic and scientific creation. Metaphor unites reason (because metaphor involves categorization and inference) and imagination (because metaphor requires a novel leap from one object to another)."

God! Go buy this book. It's really unbelievable.

Jan 01, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

The Analysis (V. 1) He talks in his sleep, and I talk back.

I'm eating grapefruit.

He tells me about Liza's new haircut, the bird-call she perfected in the bathtub.

I ask about her voice. He says it's a trombone, heavy and brass. Shiny too. And he laughs, turns over, pulls the covers to his chin, mumbles something I can't make out, and I've eaten all the grapefruit an empty bowl with bits of pulp.

I pick at it, eat the little beads with my fingers, and he says yeah then sighs a small laugh.

The air-conditioning clicks off, and the room tightens in its crisp silence, and I can hear the air travel in and out of his nose, like a lost tourist with a camera, automatic zoom lens, only black and white film.

He says forget it which I take as a cue.

I leave the bedroom to sleep on the couch, still wearing my slippers, my gaping robe.

The next morning he taps my stomach.

I wake up with the empty shell of half a grapefruit in my hand, my fingers sticky, I suck them and roll over, face the part of the couch my back is so used to, and he says from the bedroom, what's wrong, Liza?

I just chirp and hurl a hell of a trombone.

Jan 01, 2004 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack