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Pulls of Velvet & Diamond
ENGL 367: Environmental Writing
By Vicki Gerentes
Fall 2013
Professor Corey
Table of Contents Marshmallow Pies Introduction: Luxury in Language Chums of Kar Knocked Up Away and Back Performing Distance The Mayor Notes on Phonemes CafĂŠ Baby Nutty Days of the Week Gravity Carol of the Season Pulls Sedona Speed Bearing Bones A Zinger
1 2 6 7 8 10 13 16 19 20 22 25 26 27 28 30
Marshmallow Pies Marshmallow pies melting in July down my hot, sweaty back.
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Introduction: Luxury in Language Like velvet and diamonds, this portfolio pulls on luxury—it offers a sense of enjoyment in the design of its pieces and in the nature of language. How do we design language? My portfolio is entitled “Pulls of Velvet & Diamond” because my writing is sometimes smooth and sometimes rough. The idea is that they both shine, radiating a sense of pride in their polished states. These descriptors honor the way in which I have arranged the language, diction, and style in my writing. Velvet is soft and luxurious. Diamonds are hard and luxurious. I hope that my work, in its various genres and styles, at least gives the reader a feeling of amusement and pleasure. I decided to open this project with a short poem entitled "Marshmallow Pies." I find this poem (quite William Carlos Williams inspired) to be fitting as an epigraph of sorts for the work completed in this course. The poem is smooth and concise. I have been playing with it for years, and I cannot bring myself to add or edit in any way. This poem also further describes my title of velvet and diamond. A large piece of velvet would be overwhelming and clingy. An enormous diamond would blind your imagination. Smaller pieces of prose and poetry seem to work better for me. The editing process for some of my work in this course reduced poems from even three pages to one, such as “Sedona Speed.” I omitted so much of that poem and focused on revising the interesting parts. Like velvet and diamond, a piece of creative writing has certain qualities about it that make it sparkle. As a writer, I think my qualities are my ability to experiment with the design and form of a piece. I like to structure my content around sounds, repetitions, language, and the ways we throw all of that into spaces and places. My perspective on writing is heavily rooted in the building blocks. For instance, I love grammar as a language. Punctuation, in its own right, designs words and sentences to construct something new. Whether or not correct or proper grammar exists in a piece of creative writing does not matter as long as it is consistent and established. The same goes for spacing and indentations. If a triple-space indicates the start of a new section, then your reader should be able to understand that. On that note, my writing is best when experimental at the very least. What I mean is that
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the writing I produce is better when a constraint, a rule, or a process drives the writing. At the end of the semester, I asked how we are able to write creatively or experimentally about spaces and places. Obviously that is a broad topic the course explored. I wanted to know what my classmates had to say about their individual experiences in trying to write about the environment or the nature of things creatively. For me, I need a way to design my content. I need a way to structure and shape the ideas. Perhaps I even need ways to limit what I can and cannot do with the writing. Environmental writing is a tough focus for a senior seminar course. Beyond that, producing a portfolio of 25-30 pages of writing has not been easy. I was not particularly impressed with my work this semester because I struggled with the challenge of wanting to write more prose. I do not enjoy writing prose because I start to feel as though I cannot manipulate it and design it in the same way that I can with a poem. However, I understand that prose can be just as creative, experimental, and poetic as a poem. My struggle has been to figure out how to do that. This semester, I forced myself to practice writing prose. I feel good about pieces like “The Mayor” and parts of “Away and Back,” which were a result of the work I completed for assignments and workshops. I wanted to experiment with something a little different, though. I think the first two prose pieces, “Chums of Kar” and “Knocked Up,” explore a little bit more of my creative side while maintaining prose. These two pieces are more about emotions in a familiar space, which is something I did not explore enough this semester. The course touched on the topic of time. I wanted to write about time creatively, but not specifically. “Nutty Days of the Week” is a poem describing time. Types of nuts replaced the days of the week, and online Wiki how-to-eat formulas helped produced the hours of each day. The result is something kind of silly, but it forces the reader to reconsider what would happen if the ways in which we interpret time changed. This course definitely enhanced the way I interpret writing about a time or an object. How does it feel? What does it taste like? How does it look? The ability to compare objects and describe them is important, and I think that I was truly able to practice that skill in this course.
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The topic of this course is specific in the sense that is has the ability to limit the topics I write about it. Yet, it also does not limit me at all. This writing seminar encompassed much of the academic topics that interest me. I am constantly fascinated by language and culture, and how our environments shape the way we think and speak. In addition to this course, there are five other courses that have influenced me as a writer in college: Religious Perspectives on the Environment, Language and Culture, Unwriting/Remix Workshop, Linguistics, and Poetry. After taking ENGL 367: Environmental Writing, I am starting to feel the fusion of these subjects. The earth is sacred, but how do we go about establishing what is and what is not sacred? Perhaps it is through speech. Perhaps it is through our gestures. No matter how we relish and enjoy nature, we need to be able to communicate those feelings. We do that by unwriting what we know, remixing what we find, and describing what we feel. And we do all of that through language. Still, language is its own sphere that deserves a place in nature. This course was different for me in the sense that I did not have much knowledge about environmental things in the way some of the students who are studying the environmental sciences might. However, I was excited to see myself produce writing that embraced the theme. Pieces, like “Notes on Phonemes” and “Performing Distance,” are two ways in which I think I experiment more with the idea of language in a space. “Notes on Phonemes” is playing with the space of the page as a notebook or guide, but it also has a bit of a narrative. I want the reader to feel the production of sounds and language. In the way that you can see or feel holes in a leaf, you should be able to register the feeling of a vowel when your body produces it. I am hoping to pursue a career in publishing. After working with LFC Press/ &NOW Books to design The &NOW Awards II and other books, I have realized that in order to appreciate or understand creative writing, you need to have experience with it. What I mean is that you need to be constantly reading it and writing it. I have had my hand held during college, meaning I had to write because I have always been in a writing intensive course. I am most worried for when I graduate and need to start teaching myself ways to write consistently or productively. This course certainly taught me more about myself as a writer, which will be
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helpful in my future when I need to motivate myself to not only read and write, but to reread and rewrite. Something I truly cherished in this class is the ability to workshop and critique work. No one in the future is going to give my writing the time of day in the way that my peers did. I am thankful for that opportunity, and hope that those types of people are accessible to me in the future when I need someone to voluntarily read and respond to my work. I need to find a writing community—which I do not anticipate being difficult given the publishing sphere I am hoping to enter. Overall, my writing has changed this semester. I have especially enjoyed the short writing prompts from class, where I have been able to explore what writing about the environment means. I have also been able to delve into the thinking process that goes into writing about the environment, and how we conjure the appropriate language to describe it. After reading The Arcadia Project, I have been more than inspired to play with form and structure. Reading pieces from that anthology in class helped me invent ideas for the portfolio, especially "Notes on Phonemes." I want my readers to find playfulness in my pieces, while discovering something new about language. Additionally, I have noticed that my poetry is more focused than it has been in the past. I have been able to capture more attention to detail, which is a great skill to have in order to eliminate the fluff that often appears in a first draft. Although I am not fully satisfied with my prose, I think I have made greater efforts to become more comfortable with it. I am most proud of pieces like "Gravity" and "A Zinger." I think those pieces are ones that I spent a great deal of time on either in the initial writing process or in the editing process. Again, those pieces have a solid idea or constraint that help me to perfect the writing. I also really like the way "Performing Distance" turned out. It was originally a collage piece from earlier in the semester, but it turned into prose that suits my interests, as well as the luxury of language. Like velvet, there is an honesty in the writing of this portfolio that I want to continue to touch and investigate. Like diamond, this portfolio feels complete and whole—it displays a wide range of talents and expressions that I have been able to examine and analyze this semester. The pulls of these two materials have produced a portfolio I am thrilled to call my own.
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Chums of Kar As she released the long, velvet curtains and prepared to light the marble fireplace, Seraphina stopped to listen (both to her thoughts and to the noise coming from the kitchen). Uncle Nicholas was storytelling again; he was telling the tale of the Chums of Kar. This story was one of kindness and adventure, a story of two boys and their search for happiness. Seraphina knew it well, for Uncle Nicholas had been telling that story for years to her brothers George and Tom (terrors in their own right).
Reaching behind the sofa to retrieve firewood, Seraphina tried to remember the last time
she heard the Chums of Kar. Then again, Uncle Nicholas never told her the story; she only knew George’s and Tom’s renditions of the wondrous tale. So, as she placed the dried wood into the fireplace and started a fire. On that November night, Seraphina decided she would join Uncle Nicholas, Tom, and Beth in the kitchen. Tom and Beth (perfect and well-mannered) were Uncle Nicholas’ children. They lived above Seraphina, which is why she called Nicholas’ son Tom Upstairs and her brother Tom Downstairs.
“What happens next, Pop?” asked Tom Upstairs. At that point Seraphina entered the
kitchen; Uncle Nicholas looked up: he seemed nervous.
He asked if Seraphina needed help lighting the fireplace. “Not really,” she said. A
moment of silence surfaced.
“Seraphina, we have a story to finish here; this story is not for you. Please leave. And
until you leave, I cannot continue,” Uncle Nicholas said. Tom Upstairs and Beth sat quietly, and admired Uncle Nicholas as if he were a saint.
“Well, when you get to the part where the chums find Kar, I hope Kar kills them,”
Seraphina said. She firmly placed her hands in her dress pockets and turned to face the living area. Taking a seat on the wool rug in front of the fireplace, she shuffled her dress and laid her hands into her lap. She smiled.
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Knocked Up She said nothing. She turned the doorknob a little. She twisted the handle. She pushed the door wide and went inside the room. She laid for a time with her eyes open. She sat up, crouched. She got up from the bed. She switched off the light. She sat down on the bed. She heard her father calling her name. She hurried past the Keep Out sign. She stopped again. She peered through the dark. She reached the sign that said Dangerous Beyond This Point. She parted the clinging reeds. She listened to the wind flap the scrap. She reached the bottom. She could almost taste the answer in her mouth. She shut her eyes. She turned the key and drove slowly through the rainstorm. She went to the supermarket. She watched a man push a shopping cart. She moved along the aisles. She gazed at the little white cards. She searched for her own card. She paid, took her change. She started the station wagon and drove out of the parking lot. She parked the car back in her driveway and sat for a time looking at the windows. She stared at the closed door. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside the living room. She gazed along the corridor. She moved forward a little way, passing under a framed photograph. She opened the kitchen door and stepped back outside. She moved up behind him. She watched the nails fall onto the wet grass. She stood behind again. She thrusted her hands into the pockets of her white jeans. She watched him bend to pick up his hammer. She heard the sounds of kids laughing. She did not see kids anywehre. She said, “Can I ask a question?” She turned towards him. She shrugged. She pressed her face against the side of his arm. She shut her eyes. She laughed. She turned her face towards him. She laid her hands flat on her stomach. I love you, she thought.
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Away and Back Curvy roads barely noticing the street signs, but searching for inspiration. There’s Western. There’s Sheridan. There’s nowhere to go in Lake Forest. The roads lead you right back to where you started. At least I know how to get out. Or at least I think I know how to get out. For the outsiders, it is a whirlwind of confusion that forces them out. How did I come to know these streets? Perhaps I have spent far too much time traveling them to find Wendy’s, froyo, or gas stations. The dead of the cold on this November Saturday, the impossible search for comfort. Barren trees. So many trees. And I do not know the types of trees. Does it matter? All of the leaves have fallen, and the landscapers have discarded them. God forbid. Frosted grass and plants. The twigs and sticks are so gray and ashy, not brown. There are so many trees in this town. I watch them more than I watch the road, for they line it, guide it. They take you both away and back. Yet, the trees hide so much of what I want to see: the architecture of the homes, the manicured lawns, the ridiculous holiday decorations and the really nice cars. My car zooms past these things faster than I can react to them. But I’m on my way out. They reel me back. I drive myself so far away onto Waukegan Road. I’m still in Lake Forest. How? Pulling into a strip mall, I find a Starbucks. The warmth of a peppermint mocha on this bitter day might help my mood. The barista behind the counter, not the cashier, asks what I want, and I don’t know. I usually order a grande soy vanilla latte (SVL is what they write on my cup). I want the peppermint mocha. The drink name is staring at me from the featured specials menu above the barista’s head. I wonder if the criteria for working at Starbucks requires one to have artistic abilities, solely for creating these menus. The man in front of me and his daughter order four croissants. So many buttered flakes. I choke and order that peppermint mocha with a toasted multi-grain bagel and cream cheese. Using the iPhone, I scan my Starbucks card from the app. At least I’m building up the points on my Starbucks Gold Card. I’m three stars away from a reward! I definitely wanted SVL, APU (as per usual). I wish I could say I paid attention in the hour and a half that I sat in there at the high-top
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table near the door. I played Candy Crush instead. Level 191 is killing me. I can’t escape that either. An elderly couple enters the store as I put my forest green pea coat on. The man holds the door open for his wife? girlfriend? They are so presentable. The woman’s gray hair is done, but not overdone. She has a little makeup on to enhance her features. She’s wearing a sparkly gray shirt, and her teeth are confident in her smile. They both have black coats on. I hop into my car. My hands are cold. The rest of the peppermint mocha is cooling off. I want to explore. Starting the car, I allow the trees to once again guide me into the forest that is Lake Forest. No resemblance to a real forest. I decide I’ll go to Highland Park, to an even more commercial area. I need to buy something. Approaching the downtown area, I notice the building that was once Saks Fifth Avenue. The city people must have peeled the letters off the building when the store closed, but you can still read SAKS FIFTH AVENUE on the side of the building. I drive around the corner and park behind this massive, abandoned pale building. I walk towards storefronts. The winter freeze turned a puddle of water into a patch of ice. It’s as if the water had begun to trickle in a slope shape, but then the temperature froze it in place. And I could slip on that. I could fall right on it. Instead, I walk past it on the concrete sidewalk. The cracks in the white slabs make me wonder how long they’ve been here. I enter a small boutique I have been to before. The saleswoman is familiar with her fluffy blonde hair and jingling jewelry. I spent half an hour in the store looking at all of the junk. The books with motivational quotes, the useless key chains, and stationary nonsense. I decide to buy two necklaces, buy one get one 50 percent off, as well as an anchor-shaped bottle opener. $32 for stuff. And the saleswoman is complaining about the music. “If I have to hear ‘Frosty the Snowman’ one more time, I swear,” she says as she wraps the gifts I bought myself in tissue paper. “Thanksgiving is this week,” I remind her. “Yeah.” She hands me an unnecessarily large bag for the contents inside of it. Too much bag.
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Performing Distance Language and life exist with wildness in distance.
Garrulous and absorbed, we talk and we think. Maybe we think, then we talk. Perhaps we imagine and project simultaneously. Scientists have long predicted that the very language we speak can influence or even limit how we think—and how we behave. What do scientists know? Do I know a scientist? Better yet, might I be one and not know it? Distance.
Language creates distance.
Distance in thought.
Distance between
you me.
English is “futured." We talk about stuff that will happen. For instance, how the weather will ruin our picnics in the park or the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Or how our busy schedules will prevent us from enjoying an aged bottle of wine and stinky cheese in good company. We create this concern for the distance between
now and tomorrow.
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We fail. We fail to both accept and live in the present because we are so consumed by the excuses we might make for when things go wrong. Blame culture. What do we accept as normal? The language both of and within our culture dictates the way we think. Perhaps it has to do with the ritualistic nature of our being. In identifying ourselves as part of a speech community, we must take ownership of the words and language. Our utterances exhibit our ability to act on communicative competencies. The output is a level in performance of performatives, which points us to a greater sense of how we do things with words. When humans enter the world, we’re not fully formed. I am not born Vicki Gerentes. Rather, I create Vicki Gerentes and the Vicki-ness that accompanies the name. Thus, I perform myself with the rules and scripts of Vicki. Those performances help me perform myself as a unique entity. However, when I do not perform Vicki correctly, others do not feel the sameness of Vicki; they sense something is wrong or different about me. Vicki becomes unfamiliar. A ritual is a more or less regularly performed, structured cultural practice that must occur in a certain way with certain meaning. Additionally, rituals must occur more than once to be considered ritualistic. Rituals are also conventional because they serve a particular function. Through our competencies and performances for a given ritual, we can negotiate social relationships and transform social reality. Essentially, if I do not perform the Vicki-ness of Vicki, and if the scriptedness of a ritual does not follow its norms and conditions, then the performance is inappropriate. We have suddenly made others feel uncomfortable, or distanced. When we do things in, through, and by language, we are performing certain acts. For example, the way we greet one another is ritualistic. We can say, “Hey! What’s up?” or “Hi!” Each greeting requires a communicative competence. Does it matter which one we use? The answer is yes. Different greetings will result in difference responses, and, in turn, different social business. Scientists have long predicted that the very language we speak can influence or even limit how we think—and how we behave. We chat about what we dream about, and we dream
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about what we chat about. This I believe is language and culture. And as a human performing Vicki-ness—I am a woman, a scientist, a communicator, a walker, a thinker—I am negotiating the world around me based on the languages I speak—both futured and futureless—to negotiate the distance. And, yet, perhaps the only way to conquer this distance is to perform the peripatetic. Sometimes it is hard to determine wither we will walk.
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The Mayor I am both the mayo and the mayor. A handmade hero. I am the mayor. I am the Earl of Sandwich, the fresh brew, and the mall rat. Grab the greasy spoon, the one we dip into creamy tomato bisque. The crouton garnish predictably turns soggy. Grab the greasy spoon and set it in the oily puddle oozing from the grilled cheese sandwich. My eyes water at the sight of American cheese melting onto the plate. I have already tasted the crispy realness on the crust. I snatch the greasy spoon, and I place it into my cup of coffee. This city of java, of roasted beans brewed into a cup of crap. The grease deserves a friend. I’ll mix the hazelnut creamer with the greasy spoon. Voilà! A fresh brew for the mall rat. In four hours, I will have tried on approximately twenty outfits. I will go home empty-handed. I am the mayor. So snazzy with my discounts. I am the mayor. Trainspotter, my trainspotter. The jet setter and the train taker. There’s Track 9, Track 13, Track 15, Terminal 3, and Gate T5. I need my bagel. Schmear. Here we go again with the fresh brew. Bring me a baker’s dozen. Just desserts. We might call it even. I am the mayor. Treat me like I am the mayor. It’s a super swarm. I am the mayor. I have experienced an aquatic life. Some might say I’ve got the swimmies. I am the mayor. Bento box and a sweet n’ sour check-in. Free pot stickers! I am the mayor. I celebrated in 2012. I am the mayor.
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Hot tamale! Free chips and salsa! I am the mayor. I celebrated again in 2013. I am the mayor. Here are nine tips. Those were some bomb hash browns. Go-for-2 is fantastic! I always get smoked chicken and pear salad with tomato basil soup. Y.U.M. Overall, excellent restaurant. The grilled chicken with plum was outstanding! Eggplant Parmesan. Nom. Is the decor for real? Outdated much! Impressive, but hard to navigate. I couldn't find the entrance! Free concerts!!!! Chipotle Pasta! Consistent and entertaining staff that remembers your face and favorite beverage! I go out of my way to get my vanilla latte here=] I am the mayor. I am the mayor. I am a historian with the munchies! Once a newbie, now a campus explorer, a superstar. Back to school. A bookworm at times. I am the mayor. Hey there, shutterbug. I got my zoetrope. Pop some popcorn. That Orville Redenbacher pack in the cabinet will do. I’ll take some Milk Duds. Don’t overshare. I am the mayor. I checked-in and received a free milkshake. I am the mayor. Here are nine more tips. So peaceful. Spinach dip and french fries are addictive, but the bbq chicken salad is best! Ask for the hash browns well done! Best outdoor mall! Nordstrom <3 Perfect sandwiches and an awesome atmosphere! On Wednesdays they the most delectable salad with asparagus... yum!!! Best restaurant for students on a budget=] Too many rocks in the sand and along the water=/ Take a moment to smell the "Whiskey Tobacco" perfume. Banana wontons are a MUST! I am the mayor.
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I am the mayor. 2,804 check-ins, 18 tips, 54 friends, 11 lists, and 47 badges. I am the super mayor.
Weeks later: 2,912 check-ins, 19 tips, 60 friends, 11 tips, and 47 badges. Alex ousted you as the mayor of J.Crew. Are you going to let that stand?
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Notes On Phonemes • A phoneme is a minimal pair that marks meaning. Language is system of systems, which relates experience to sound and sound to experience. Let us begin. • Vocal organs allow for the production of sound. Feel their spaces. 1. lungs 2. larynx/vocal chords 3. velum/soft palate 4. hard palate 5. alveolar ridge 6. teeth 7. lips/mouth 8. nose 9. tongue
/m/ 1. pulmonic 2. egressive 3. active 4. down 5. bottom lip 6. upper lip 7. air stops at lips and escapes through nose
• Linguistics is the scientific study of language. The spoken language is studied before the written language. Not traditional grammar. Not a walk in the park. • Phonological cohesion is like tongue twisters. Read them. Say them. Say them again and again. Then faster and faster. Run through the forest. • example: Sally sells seashells by the seashore. • example: Turtles teach tricky technology. • A cluster is two consonants that form a unit. Stand. Stand on a boulder. • example: -st • example: -ld • Phonetics is a science. • language universal • detailed spelling system • phones (sounds with physiological features) • Phonemics is fiction. • language specific • phonemes
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/s/ 1. pulmonic 2. egressive 3. passive 4. up 5. tongue 6. alveolar ridge 7. partial closure at alveolar ridge and air escapes through alveolar ridge
• Myths are a source of material. Where do you get your myths from? • A phonemic word can be pronounced even though it is not in the dictionary. Try one. Take a step away from your boulder. • example: smoop • example: gobledigook • Segmental phonemes consists of 9 vowels and 24 consonants. The sounds cut apart because they are tangible, like the leaves in your hand.
The voiced and the voiceless remain in the forest. What directions do we take to set them free?
• Consonants for the voiced and voiceless.
• Vowels, the tiny holes in your leaves. front central back high /i/ /I/ /u/ mid /e/ /ǝ/ /o/ low /æ/ /a/ /ﬤ/ • Suprasegmental phonemes are stresses that mark meaning. The music of language. Whistling winds in the distance. • primary /' / • secondary /^/ • tertiary /`/ • weak /u/ • +juncture, where the road splits. • example: see + mabel or seem + able • example: ice + cream or I + scream
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/r/ 1. pulmonic 2. egressive 3. active 4. up 5. tongue 6. alveolar ridge 7. partial blocked of air at alveolar ridge and air escapes continuously through mouth
• Terminal contours. Slopes that carry your voice. • sustained • rising • fading • Pitches. Climb the trees. The challenge is to see how high you can get. • 1, 2, 3, 4 • declarative 2→1 • question 1→2 • emphasis 2→3→1 • exclamation/surprise 4 • Grammatical choices are finite. Lexical choices are infinite. Your journey has just begun.
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/k/ 1. pulmonic 2. egressive 3. passive 4. up 5. tongue 6. velum 7. air blocked at velum and air escapes through mouth with explosion
Café Baby java sipped biscotti bit extra shot espresso thick café baby tired sick roasted beans noise machines bitter, sweet barista wink café baby’s saucer clink hot cocoa indulging foam guitar string eyebrow ring café baby my coffee king keyboard type roasted hype iPad scroll cinnamon roll café baby has no soul readers read time is freed whispers scatter quiet chatter café baby or nutmeg adder?
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Nutty Days of the Week Macadamia 5 hours to Buy Crack Freeze Clamp Cheat? and eat. Pistachio 7 hours to Buy Bowl Take Suck Remove Crack and eat. Cashew 10 hours to Buy Gather lettuce Clean lettuce Pour olive oil Add carrots Add tomatoes Boil eggs Pour dressing and eat. Walnut 5 hours to Buy Crack in cracker Remove shell Remove meat and eat meat. Almond 6 hours to Buy Eat handfuls Add to breakfast
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Make butter Purify and eat 23. Peanut 5 hours to Buy Crack Drink and eat. Roasted 6 hours to Prepare Salt Coat Bake Soak and eat, and repeat.
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Gravity
Blue M&Ms
Green Skittles
Me On the moon we make crater angels. On the sun we roast our marshmallows. Prepare for take-off.
Grocery List
Sour Cream
Whipped Cream
Oversleeping
Dollars
Sleeping In
Coins
Weeping Willow
Seed
If size indicates importance, perhaps we all fall down, we go boom-boom, and we sit there and we fancy.
Gravity
Heartbreak Me
Crumbs
Oatmeal Cookies
Cushion Dust
Encyclopedia All of this history, this material, this time, and this stuff just stuffed into the novel. Read it, but also reread it. You
Me
Lights
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Canada Malta a an
the
Bobby Pins
Me Hang Nail
Blanket Napkin
You How did we get here? My mother, your mother, and our mothers. Your father, my father, and our forefathers.
Dinosaurs
Rugrats
Ghosts Witches
Big Dipper
Little Dipper
Me
Fairy
Godparent
Stay. Collect. Unearth what positions you.
Champagne
W a t e r
Freaks
&&
Geeks
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ANCHOR
Hope
You Me All things that are good. We always celebrate the good.
Lady Bugs
Betty Crocker Cake Mix
Frosting
GRaFFITI
Oceans
Puddles Me
You Bricks Pebbles
Pipettes
HOT PLATES Platelets
Pangaea
THUNDER
LIG HTN ING
Me
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Carol of the Season Perhaps
we go door-to-door.
Perhaps
we sing too many songs.
Perhaps
the season is winter.
Perhaps
we grip our hats.
Perhaps
we clench our fists in gloves.
Perhaps
we beam with light.
Perhaps
we glitter, rejoice.
Perhaps
the wind smacks our faces.
Perhaps
we misplace our thoughts.
Perhaps
we cry and carry on.
Perhaps
we come together.
Perhaps
we celebrate.
Perhaps
we have so much to do.
Perhaps
we watch you sit.
Perhaps
the leaves are dead.
Perhaps
we will eat later.
Perhaps
we lose track of good things.
Perhaps
the dirt is dry and pallid.
Perhaps
we are terrible people.
Perhaps
we will sing more songs.
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Pulls Grass and so much of it. So much so, I became a blade grass. Blades of grass… replaced when they die. Dead blades, dead leaves, dead trees Fallen with nothing left, but wind. The wind that shifts things. The birds they talk sometimes To the bugs, who hide in flowers. The bugs caught up in spider webs, Where the sun truly glitters. The trees criticize the sun, Stretching towards it, but Drooping from gravity. The pull. Roots declare space. Roots above ground, Roots below. Abundant greens camouflaged by this loss, An assassination in splendor. Leaves with holes, they’re sick. Leaves with holes, they’ve been eaten. Flowers, ordered by pigment, by size. They fall from windowsills and pots, Reaching down to linger. Cicadas squashed on sidewalks, Paths the ones for people, The ones who sustained the pulls.
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Sedona Speed I pushed my brother into the speed of the water on those rocks in Sedona. And he should thank me, for he cannot coalesce the liquid cold. He cannot return to this spot. He cannot desert the memory. He cannot push me. Push me. Push me, because I want to know. What’s it like to have water move across my back; to capture speed, the Sedona speed; to have frozen needles take over my body.
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Bearing Bones I will spin your mistakes, the ones I call my own. I will cherish your mistakes, I bear them my bones. That time when your mother grounded you for smiling at a funeral. Remember when you gave your keys to freshmen? They drove a stranger’s car instead. When you stopped eating I could toss you like a baby. You trailed like feathers. How did you steal bras and tequila from Target when I was not looking? You cried when your brother got caught. I remember your mother’s munchies. I was 13 when I noticed the plastic baggies. That one time Daniel threw angry cherries. Those white walls stained magenta, but you giggle-gaggled. I cried when your brother committed suicide. I constantly hear your voice: “Chris committed suicide.”
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I spun your shit, the shit I call my own. I cherish you, your shit, I bear it, lug it, bones.
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A Zinger arrows :: A never hitting me B :: birds defecating on my words cataract :: C the water I drown my face in D :: decimals non-negative real numbers epidural :: E catatonia F :: fluff no, not the crap in the clouds girdle :: G a ring around the tree H :: herring fish are not food inception :: I at the very least J :: jalapeños ripe and red and red-hot keys :: K to gain access L :: locus to your point exactly megabytes :: M the information N :: neckties that holds a poet together ozone :: O absorb, absorb, absorb! P :: pest the worst of the worst quest :: Q as plot device R :: rest for both stop and support swallow :: S just one does not make a summer
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T :: terminal a monospace typeface utopia :: U after an apocalypse V :: vapor to boast wrench :: W twisting pulls from my pen X :: xenia what hospitality! yolks :: Y syntactical protein Z :: zinger well, good luck finding one
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