The Fog Comes on Little Cat Feet............
-credits to Mr. Carl Sandburg for the title
the haze can be an afternoon snack
if you want to eat it slowly but not to fill
over the scenery, rolling, taking the day
and making it silk-screened,
relishing in the swell-like
discharge from dry ice
scanning below where roofs,
blue-printed-in a way-stand
erect and pencil-smudged
and motion marks the haze
to blow by branches, where trees were
once 70% absent
and crows run into crows,
and crows run into sky,
feet and talons wrapped, stitched,
in pine. When I see weather veins
twist wildly in undecided precipitation,
aviation ceasing,
migration becomes sickening
as tails, like vacuumed-up blankets
are spun as on a loom,
the chicken and the arrow
the chicken and the arrow
east, west, east-i can't remember
i push the haze
hearkening mallards
the ducks i see then don't
and when they go,
flung through a sequence of
the weather vein's turns
i close lids and hands
and create the fog
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Prose Poem...I think...
I have no idea how this came to me, but it is a take on the David and Goliath story, it's sort of fitting as I sit here thinking about my grandfather, David, who passed away just a few hours ago. This might have been a sort of unconscious tribute I was writing to him...even though it's a bit strange.
(Title pending)
I want to write songs like she makes haste, like he draws representations, like they drink beer, like we hear God. We hear Jesus on the mount saying, "Hey man, don't try to sing what's on the radio." But we do it, and we like it. The we'll cry back, "Christ almighty, Jesus, it's so easy to dance, though, when they play the music for you." But David danced to the sound of his own lute being pricked by his own fingers. And I think Goliath had his own record label.
But I want to carve words I think sound good together into a jagged rock and hurl my self-sustaining, melody-strumming lyre at Goliath's heart. I don't want to feel Jesus this time. I don't want to make him understand-if I can't. I'll do it all first Kings style and put my rock in the world's largest sling shot. And I'll tell Goliath to back the fuck off 'cause Def Jam had and still has nothing on me. And Lord knows I did a better job then David could have done, but he asked me to make a deal.
I hesitated . But from the mount, Christ said, "do it." And I said, "Stop pushing me, damn it." And David said, "I'll put music to your words if you let me take the credit for your kill." And I wanted so badly in that moment to do what the runners, the artists, and the drinkers never could to; to do what they never could do to fabricate their hopes. I wanted to scream from a mount of my own that I had made real: "Jesus! What do I do!? What's the answer!?" But I did not, and he said not a word, but lowered the clouds as if to give an affirmative nod.
So I turned to David and said it was a deal. And he made me a melody. He said, "okay, so you hand me my credit for the killing first, then you get your song." And while I knew I should have requested we hand them over at the same time, I didn't say a word, but handed him my sling shot and my honor. And David ran off with my song.
He'd put it in a book eventually. He'd apostrophize it to his God, but it was still mine. And still David danced while I, unseen, played his lute.
(Title pending)
I want to write songs like she makes haste, like he draws representations, like they drink beer, like we hear God. We hear Jesus on the mount saying, "Hey man, don't try to sing what's on the radio." But we do it, and we like it. The we'll cry back, "Christ almighty, Jesus, it's so easy to dance, though, when they play the music for you." But David danced to the sound of his own lute being pricked by his own fingers. And I think Goliath had his own record label.
But I want to carve words I think sound good together into a jagged rock and hurl my self-sustaining, melody-strumming lyre at Goliath's heart. I don't want to feel Jesus this time. I don't want to make him understand-if I can't. I'll do it all first Kings style and put my rock in the world's largest sling shot. And I'll tell Goliath to back the fuck off 'cause Def Jam had and still has nothing on me. And Lord knows I did a better job then David could have done, but he asked me to make a deal.
I hesitated . But from the mount, Christ said, "do it." And I said, "Stop pushing me, damn it." And David said, "I'll put music to your words if you let me take the credit for your kill." And I wanted so badly in that moment to do what the runners, the artists, and the drinkers never could to; to do what they never could do to fabricate their hopes. I wanted to scream from a mount of my own that I had made real: "Jesus! What do I do!? What's the answer!?" But I did not, and he said not a word, but lowered the clouds as if to give an affirmative nod.
So I turned to David and said it was a deal. And he made me a melody. He said, "okay, so you hand me my credit for the killing first, then you get your song." And while I knew I should have requested we hand them over at the same time, I didn't say a word, but handed him my sling shot and my honor. And David ran off with my song.
He'd put it in a book eventually. He'd apostrophize it to his God, but it was still mine. And still David danced while I, unseen, played his lute.
Friday, March 18, 2011
My Favorite Poetic Narrative I've Ever Written!
Just uncovered this beauty...it's called...
Ancestry
I come from deep trenches and hollow street vents. I come from an incinerated people, a history lesson. they have all become to me what I am to them, a legacy, a continuation, a fulfillment. I come from their soft bones and budding voices. My hands are fresh too, and freckled; they have worked the same struggle, touched the same fence, clasped the same bread. I come from sweeping winds which lower the highest trees. I've bloomed from poison, discrimination, destiny, death, and love's many trials. The refuse beneath my finger nails comes from their grounds, their origins. The rings around my eyes are centuries old, as are the marks upon my skin. I bruise when they call to me and cry when I find no purpose. I come from bar stools and smoky air. I belong to faulty love spells and the smell of smoke. The voice of hope within a glassy room is my music. The small, lingering song is my identity; it is my anthem. I come from business scams and broken promises, from threats and punishments. I come from a clean heart, a pristine gentleman. I come from a cynic, and a traveler, a lifter of many grave items.
I belong in a woman's arms. I am her fulfillment. She is my freckled forearm. She is my pure enamel. I belong to her embrace, her earnings, and her compassion. I belong to crime, to struggle, to money, abuse, purity, adultery, faith, pleads, and hopes. The scandal is on my shoulders. The unfaithfulness shares my once tainted name. But, the cleanliness and the soothing melody of the rocking chair make me bold. The arms make me walk on far from hollow grounds. And I have chosen to scrape the enamel. I want to be taught, to sing. I come from a hollow substance which promises something deeper.
I am a part of the smoke and filfthy air. I sit on my bar stool and realize that I am only an apparition. I am only who the me that sits on upholstery may become. I am the improper division of fear by empowerment. I am scum and I am light.
The laughter which echoes from behind the car comes not from my own voice, but from the superfluous and abrupt voice which claims to be mine. My weight may be measured half in emotion, in beauty, and some in strength; my other half, in sin. Yet, I seem to tip the metaphorical scale every minute, every hour, as the light in me piles higher. I am a rebel, a lover, a peacemaker, a con artist, and a sister. The identity is too strong. I rant and rave but do not stand still. I cry and fall, but still admire the sparks on angled stone which make me who I am.
I come from a rather regional family of fault and failure. I have sprung up from a hot tray ok cookies and a bed of hyacinths. I am from love and rage, but can only feel so many at once. The blood I own is mainly borrowed, and I will not keep it all for myself. I will lend it to another parcel in the air, another freckled finger, another piece of tomorrow.
Ancestry
I come from deep trenches and hollow street vents. I come from an incinerated people, a history lesson. they have all become to me what I am to them, a legacy, a continuation, a fulfillment. I come from their soft bones and budding voices. My hands are fresh too, and freckled; they have worked the same struggle, touched the same fence, clasped the same bread. I come from sweeping winds which lower the highest trees. I've bloomed from poison, discrimination, destiny, death, and love's many trials. The refuse beneath my finger nails comes from their grounds, their origins. The rings around my eyes are centuries old, as are the marks upon my skin. I bruise when they call to me and cry when I find no purpose. I come from bar stools and smoky air. I belong to faulty love spells and the smell of smoke. The voice of hope within a glassy room is my music. The small, lingering song is my identity; it is my anthem. I come from business scams and broken promises, from threats and punishments. I come from a clean heart, a pristine gentleman. I come from a cynic, and a traveler, a lifter of many grave items.
I belong in a woman's arms. I am her fulfillment. She is my freckled forearm. She is my pure enamel. I belong to her embrace, her earnings, and her compassion. I belong to crime, to struggle, to money, abuse, purity, adultery, faith, pleads, and hopes. The scandal is on my shoulders. The unfaithfulness shares my once tainted name. But, the cleanliness and the soothing melody of the rocking chair make me bold. The arms make me walk on far from hollow grounds. And I have chosen to scrape the enamel. I want to be taught, to sing. I come from a hollow substance which promises something deeper.
I am a part of the smoke and filfthy air. I sit on my bar stool and realize that I am only an apparition. I am only who the me that sits on upholstery may become. I am the improper division of fear by empowerment. I am scum and I am light.
The laughter which echoes from behind the car comes not from my own voice, but from the superfluous and abrupt voice which claims to be mine. My weight may be measured half in emotion, in beauty, and some in strength; my other half, in sin. Yet, I seem to tip the metaphorical scale every minute, every hour, as the light in me piles higher. I am a rebel, a lover, a peacemaker, a con artist, and a sister. The identity is too strong. I rant and rave but do not stand still. I cry and fall, but still admire the sparks on angled stone which make me who I am.
I come from a rather regional family of fault and failure. I have sprung up from a hot tray ok cookies and a bed of hyacinths. I am from love and rage, but can only feel so many at once. The blood I own is mainly borrowed, and I will not keep it all for myself. I will lend it to another parcel in the air, another freckled finger, another piece of tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Great Day
I learned a lot today...
Maud Casey is, simply put, super awesome. Everyone read her books: Drastic and Genealogy, and also the shorter story The Shape of Things to Come. I have yet to read any of these, but I did luckily just win a copy of Drastic. I have to say...she was a brilliant reader. It was natural, not performed, and extrmely lucid-full of small nuances and plays on otherwise extrmely mundane images. She had a rather cynical, yet somehow playful tone to topics that are considerably "untouchable." And I am veryexcited to embark on reading her short stories. Speaking of short stories, I'll be posting part of one of mine a bit later.
I also attended an info session on the School of the Americas and the SOA Watch, which is essentially a peace organization working to shut the school down. It was extremely informative and I think, necessary for people our age to hear about militarization in our South American neighbors' communities. I think a little education on issues such as these will create a necessary spark in people who always think about doing, but can't necessarily find that motivation to "DO" (like myself at times). Check it out, it's pretty cool:
http://www.soaw.org/
I'll be back soon to post a bit of my new writing
Maud Casey is, simply put, super awesome. Everyone read her books: Drastic and Genealogy, and also the shorter story The Shape of Things to Come. I have yet to read any of these, but I did luckily just win a copy of Drastic. I have to say...she was a brilliant reader. It was natural, not performed, and extrmely lucid-full of small nuances and plays on otherwise extrmely mundane images. She had a rather cynical, yet somehow playful tone to topics that are considerably "untouchable." And I am veryexcited to embark on reading her short stories. Speaking of short stories, I'll be posting part of one of mine a bit later.
I also attended an info session on the School of the Americas and the SOA Watch, which is essentially a peace organization working to shut the school down. It was extremely informative and I think, necessary for people our age to hear about militarization in our South American neighbors' communities. I think a little education on issues such as these will create a necessary spark in people who always think about doing, but can't necessarily find that motivation to "DO" (like myself at times). Check it out, it's pretty cool:
http://www.soaw.org/
I'll be back soon to post a bit of my new writing
Monday, March 14, 2011
Excited/Nervous for my lunch with a fairly acclaimed author...
I'm having lunch with this author tomorrow I'm very excited. She may have the coolest name ever (one that I certainly could not carry off), so let's hope the personality is just as thrilling:
http://www2.citypaper.com/special/story.asp?id=8793
http://www2.citypaper.com/special/story.asp?id=8793
Introduction to Psychology
From about 3 pm to 5:30 pm there seems to be this window of time in which I am able to feel startlingly lethargic. What makes it really great for me is that I have class from 3 pm until about 4:20 every day of the week besides Friday. Why do I bring up this almost daily crisis of mine? Because as I sit here taking notes I am lapsing into my mid-afternoon exhaustion. Today, though, is not really as bad as other days. And I owe it all to my friend: Egg and Spinach Sandwich on a toasted bagel. At nine o'clock tonight when I am finally back at my room after a long day, I will most likely be thinking that the few minutes during which I was eating that sandwich encompassed the best moment of my entire day. To be honest, right now all I can think about is asking the adorable little Asian lady, Caroline (I know this is her name because at the Evergreen cafe they often yell back "Caroline, large Chai!) if she'd like to gather up a few of her other small cooking and baking Asian friends and start a factory right in my dorm room where she only manufactured those bagel sandwiches all day...and maybe even a few large chais every once in awhile. She could take the whole kitchen, that'd be fine.
I'm currently thinking of buying Tom's of Birkenstock sandals...or both (probably both). I'm very hesitant though, mostly about the comfort level of both. I already know that either way I'll be sporting one of the two most liberal shoe styles. Once purchased, I am absolutely pairing said shoes with my big glasses and my bucket hat. New shoes=happy spring. It's gorgeous in Baltimore.
Speaking of which.....I need to get the hell out of Into to Psych........
Well, let me leave with a video that I am watching hopelessly on silent right now, it's a goodie:
I'm currently thinking of buying Tom's of Birkenstock sandals...or both (probably both). I'm very hesitant though, mostly about the comfort level of both. I already know that either way I'll be sporting one of the two most liberal shoe styles. Once purchased, I am absolutely pairing said shoes with my big glasses and my bucket hat. New shoes=happy spring. It's gorgeous in Baltimore.
Speaking of which.....I need to get the hell out of Into to Psych........
Well, let me leave with a video that I am watching hopelessly on silent right now, it's a goodie:
This may not be the best first post, but....
I want to give a HUGE thank you to this culinary genius for providing me with the greatest (although the most labor-intensive) cupcake recipe I have ever come across. I just had the last of the batch with my boyfriend tonight. You are a cupcake goddess and should be crowned with many sugary crowns....
http://unegaminedanslacuisine.com/2011/02/smores-cupcakes.html
http://unegaminedanslacuisine.com/2011/02/smores-cupcakes.html
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