Oh banana on my window sill
How you tempt me
Looking like Uma Thurman
in your taught yellow body suit
Laying there waiting, waiting
For something to begin
Oh banana on my window sill
How you tempt me
Smooth hairless body
Firm and youthful
Green top blending into
Bodacious, bang-a-rang
Send me back to my knees
Yowling no yielding please
Yellow.
Oh banana on my window sill
How you tempt me
Composed, relaxed
You do not flinch an inch
Under my gawking gaze
Oh, oh, oh no banana on my window sill
Oh banana on my window sill
How you tempted me
With promises of passionate potassium
With scrumptious sugary sweet
stomach swelling
satisfying stop, stop, stomp, stomp, chomp, chomp—
Oh my!
We’re not in Kansas anymore
Oh, oh, b, b
A
Na
Na
Oh f-abulous fruit
Oh banana on my window sill.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A Fly in My Gravy
A rice paper wing, embedded,
becoming translucent—almost nonexistent
except for the glossy outline.
Legs crinkled into geometric zigzags.
Orange specks of grease lying under him—
mutated water lilies,
and the strings of chicken meat—
seaweed dredged up from a river.
Afloat on cold gravy.
He’s dead. I should bury him. What’s the point?
I should lament in the presence of death
like others do in the open casket ceremonies.
What is there to grieve for?
A body? A body?
I realize it is the absence.
It is the absence of the moments when he was
living, when the gravy was warm and swimming
in my stomach and it is the minutes, the hours
of his life that he took with him. It is the time
that was—that belonged to both of us, the losing
of me that was so distinctly a part of him.
I don’t cry over the body.
I cry for the he—
harbinger of
my own
extinction.
becoming translucent—almost nonexistent
except for the glossy outline.
Legs crinkled into geometric zigzags.
Orange specks of grease lying under him—
mutated water lilies,
and the strings of chicken meat—
seaweed dredged up from a river.
Afloat on cold gravy.
He’s dead. I should bury him. What’s the point?
I should lament in the presence of death
like others do in the open casket ceremonies.
What is there to grieve for?
A body? A body?
I realize it is the absence.
It is the absence of the moments when he was
living, when the gravy was warm and swimming
in my stomach and it is the minutes, the hours
of his life that he took with him. It is the time
that was—that belonged to both of us, the losing
of me that was so distinctly a part of him.
I don’t cry over the body.
I cry for the he—
harbinger of
my own
extinction.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
for every writer
no writing should start with an apology unless it's to someone you've done wrong, someone like your lover or your mail carrier, both of which could really do some damage if not properly placated. the only other time you should apologize is if you were about to knowingly write something with the soul purpose of making sounds with your infantile mind and had absolutely no regard as to how it may drain the reader of valuable minutes of her life. i am, at the present moment at least, apologizing in the latter sense.
so don't say i didn't warn you.
i'm in the blacksburg starbucks. i find that i must be some lonely sailor forever attracted to the siren, and of course, who could resist her plethora of caffeinated goodies? i am trying to juice the very last moments of semi-solitude before the kids get here and am also fearful that not writing for a few days will render me, within a weeks time, unable to write...period. i suppose if this did happen i could save greatly on pens, do my part to boycott the slaughter of trees by not purchasing journals, not to mention saving lots of heartache and energy spent sweating over sentences. sentences! such fragile little things. i'd rather blow glass!
it occurs to me that the writer is a rather narcissistic being, only commenting on those issues pushed up against her little bubble, hover craft. and so, how many writers write about not being able to write? too many. and who reads it? other writers. there's an infinite number of ways to spell frustration, agony, and pity. and we writers are dramatists. we thrive on reading about our own private pain through the words of those other tortured souls. the ironic thing is most writers are also a poor lot. thus, it's somewhat rare that one can sell a book that rages and rants about the fragility of sentences and the fickle nature of inspiration because those that read it, the writers, often won't pay to buy it. why would they? they have 10 books on the same subject in the works!
funny, rough-cut people writers are. sometimes i'm sure we are the shabby, ill-fit bits of fabric left over after the others are made and our quest is always, always to understand the pattern. why this and not that? we look down at ourselves and notice we are strange. and we look out and everyone else seems strange too. writers think that others don't realize their strangeness and thus we need to tell them about themselves. put a picture on the front and our head shot on the back. you're welcome.
if you don't like the sound of your voice, you cannot be a writer. it's as simple as that. if you love the sound of your voice you cannot be a good writer. there is a difference however between being a good writer and a successful writer. but here i go again, atop my sloping soap box, (sloping because i spend so much time up there that the wood's starting to bow), being all writer like, trying to define. that's what us rough-cuts do. we need to know our edges, need to know just how thick they are and how wide and how long so that we know just how fast to run before throwing ourselves off these edges and out our bodies. the confines of the mind must be known before we are able to race rhino ready through the walls.
sentences, then, are the fingertips of your inner self brushing against the corridors of your mind as you race wildly down, brown-blond hair down to your butt, swishing out behind you like a spirited pony. that's what happens when you write.
so don't say i didn't warn you.
i'm in the blacksburg starbucks. i find that i must be some lonely sailor forever attracted to the siren, and of course, who could resist her plethora of caffeinated goodies? i am trying to juice the very last moments of semi-solitude before the kids get here and am also fearful that not writing for a few days will render me, within a weeks time, unable to write...period. i suppose if this did happen i could save greatly on pens, do my part to boycott the slaughter of trees by not purchasing journals, not to mention saving lots of heartache and energy spent sweating over sentences. sentences! such fragile little things. i'd rather blow glass!
it occurs to me that the writer is a rather narcissistic being, only commenting on those issues pushed up against her little bubble, hover craft. and so, how many writers write about not being able to write? too many. and who reads it? other writers. there's an infinite number of ways to spell frustration, agony, and pity. and we writers are dramatists. we thrive on reading about our own private pain through the words of those other tortured souls. the ironic thing is most writers are also a poor lot. thus, it's somewhat rare that one can sell a book that rages and rants about the fragility of sentences and the fickle nature of inspiration because those that read it, the writers, often won't pay to buy it. why would they? they have 10 books on the same subject in the works!
funny, rough-cut people writers are. sometimes i'm sure we are the shabby, ill-fit bits of fabric left over after the others are made and our quest is always, always to understand the pattern. why this and not that? we look down at ourselves and notice we are strange. and we look out and everyone else seems strange too. writers think that others don't realize their strangeness and thus we need to tell them about themselves. put a picture on the front and our head shot on the back. you're welcome.
if you don't like the sound of your voice, you cannot be a writer. it's as simple as that. if you love the sound of your voice you cannot be a good writer. there is a difference however between being a good writer and a successful writer. but here i go again, atop my sloping soap box, (sloping because i spend so much time up there that the wood's starting to bow), being all writer like, trying to define. that's what us rough-cuts do. we need to know our edges, need to know just how thick they are and how wide and how long so that we know just how fast to run before throwing ourselves off these edges and out our bodies. the confines of the mind must be known before we are able to race rhino ready through the walls.
sentences, then, are the fingertips of your inner self brushing against the corridors of your mind as you race wildly down, brown-blond hair down to your butt, swishing out behind you like a spirited pony. that's what happens when you write.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
the nomadic life: side A
i remember the slicked back, neat details such as how you hold your pen or whether or not you have connected earlobes. how do you say yogurt? do you linger at the first syllable or do you swiftly move through your sentences. i collect these little bits like lint in a pocket. one day i'll have enough to construct you anywhere, in anytime, no matter the distance, no matter the darkness.
i've been living on couches and turning the channels in myself like a television. not HD and not satellite. there's only so many pictures i can present or, perhaps, only so many that i'm willing to. regardless, i pretty much give the people what they want. after all, they feed me and house me and talk with me and allow me a glimpse of their lives. and i record it all. well, it's not like i walk around with a pen and pad while they are living, no, i save that for when they aren't looking, but i mentally take notes. we all do. constantly surveying our new environment, sniffing the air for danger and treading softly on the balls of our feet.
unlike many animals in defense mode, i attempt to make myself as small as possible. if i could have the potions of Alice, that would be ideal. but normal people don't exactly have access to such chemicals. i condense all my belongings into a corner, stacking them one on top of the other. the sky's the limit. and i often brace it with one shaking hand, my head pushing it against the wall and the rest of my body attempting to block it out. i must look uncomfortable, pushed up against my things, but i don't want to sprawl out, in fact, i don't want to take up any space. why don't we just forget i'm even here?
it's hot and i'm sweating. i focus on the light and shadow formations on the carpet. i transform them into clouds and then imagine myself floating above the earth. suddenly i'm so big it doesn't matter. i'm omnipresent and omnipotent. i have no idea what channel i'm on. probably some silly evening time comedy, a Friends sort of conversation or, if i'm on a particularly good streak, Seinfield. rarely i'll slip into a Lifetime special. my eyes get darker and suddenly i know i'm looking into my counterparts, really looking into them and it's then that i want to know everything. i want to know them forever. that's when true connections are made and love sinks in, subtly sedating almost all defense mechanisms.
i have a tendency to get lost like a dreamy spider that builds three dimensional webs and gets all tangled in it's own abstract designs. it is this tendency that makes me especially prone to falling into people.
lately i've been stumbling into many people's lives. but that's exactly how it feels, like a stumble. it's as if in this great dance of life i'm being spun, over and over clasping onto the hands of strangers, sharing a human affirming moment, smiling teeth beaming, eyes locked, a flash of light in both our brains and a surge radiating out of our center like a full body blood rush, then gone, gone, out the door, barely enough time to say good-bye, then hello, hello, all over again.
i'm exhausted. perhaps i'm not cut out for this sort of life. flip, flip, flip, i'm speeding through my own channels and mixing up what happened today from what happened yesterday or last week or what never even happened. i'm not a social butterfly, i'm a heart heavy spider with grand illusions.
i miss being known. the comfort of synchronous and natural movement, of feeling fluid in the presence of those i know and who know me.
(at least you're writing again)
i've been living on couches and turning the channels in myself like a television. not HD and not satellite. there's only so many pictures i can present or, perhaps, only so many that i'm willing to. regardless, i pretty much give the people what they want. after all, they feed me and house me and talk with me and allow me a glimpse of their lives. and i record it all. well, it's not like i walk around with a pen and pad while they are living, no, i save that for when they aren't looking, but i mentally take notes. we all do. constantly surveying our new environment, sniffing the air for danger and treading softly on the balls of our feet.
unlike many animals in defense mode, i attempt to make myself as small as possible. if i could have the potions of Alice, that would be ideal. but normal people don't exactly have access to such chemicals. i condense all my belongings into a corner, stacking them one on top of the other. the sky's the limit. and i often brace it with one shaking hand, my head pushing it against the wall and the rest of my body attempting to block it out. i must look uncomfortable, pushed up against my things, but i don't want to sprawl out, in fact, i don't want to take up any space. why don't we just forget i'm even here?
it's hot and i'm sweating. i focus on the light and shadow formations on the carpet. i transform them into clouds and then imagine myself floating above the earth. suddenly i'm so big it doesn't matter. i'm omnipresent and omnipotent. i have no idea what channel i'm on. probably some silly evening time comedy, a Friends sort of conversation or, if i'm on a particularly good streak, Seinfield. rarely i'll slip into a Lifetime special. my eyes get darker and suddenly i know i'm looking into my counterparts, really looking into them and it's then that i want to know everything. i want to know them forever. that's when true connections are made and love sinks in, subtly sedating almost all defense mechanisms.
i have a tendency to get lost like a dreamy spider that builds three dimensional webs and gets all tangled in it's own abstract designs. it is this tendency that makes me especially prone to falling into people.
lately i've been stumbling into many people's lives. but that's exactly how it feels, like a stumble. it's as if in this great dance of life i'm being spun, over and over clasping onto the hands of strangers, sharing a human affirming moment, smiling teeth beaming, eyes locked, a flash of light in both our brains and a surge radiating out of our center like a full body blood rush, then gone, gone, out the door, barely enough time to say good-bye, then hello, hello, all over again.
i'm exhausted. perhaps i'm not cut out for this sort of life. flip, flip, flip, i'm speeding through my own channels and mixing up what happened today from what happened yesterday or last week or what never even happened. i'm not a social butterfly, i'm a heart heavy spider with grand illusions.
i miss being known. the comfort of synchronous and natural movement, of feeling fluid in the presence of those i know and who know me.
(at least you're writing again)
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
observations and such...
i met a girl who reminded me of a calf. she was speckled brown with freckles and had wide brown eyes. they were dark and innocent. you could slay her with words and a good smile if that was your prerogative. i'm not saying she was easy, not like that and i'm not saying she's cowed, she just looks like a cow. these are insolent thoughts.
***
i like to pass my time whiddling the obtuse corners of my mind
***
i watched a man mow the field. he drew a neat line in the uprising grass-root denomination of life-affirming wilderness. and he ran his machine along this line repeatedly, inching closer to the center everytime. a personified filet knife cutting through the perfect sheet formations of fish flesh. over and over in eveer decreasing circumference. outward, inward, a reverse ripple effect. and i was fascinated by this reverse, this rewind, this bringing back to an acceptable height, this paring down. just beautiful. i thought to myself, i could lose myself in never-ending circle like that. takes a strong man to go round and round and have the sense to quiet teh motor once he's reached the center, once all has been undone. i enjoy dramatically thinking of the significance of a single act. could i mow fields for the rest of my life? i guess i could. would it mean the same things tomorrow as it does today?
***
i am banded like some exotic bird. i feel odd but not exotic. i feel artificial. i feel like i'm being indoctrinated with how to think and am being given a false sense of importance. i let most of this slip over my head. i am ducking under a wave, my eyes open, the turbulance dancing over my spine as smooth and complacent as river stones. ah yes. i live in this image, forever diving under, letting the weight crush and suspend me, feel the motion and energy surging through me a liquid cord brought taught through my center and reverberating forever, unabated, slack, tension, slack, tension.
***
why should i worry about a ghost? but you're not a ghost are you? no, you're present racking my frame as sure as a hurricane, as loud as a thunderstorm sending my heart into a schizophrenic spasms, poor scared giant trying to tip-toe through a tea house. i close my eyes and try to remember a quieter time, a time when i wasn't surrounded by strangers, when i felt at ease in the ocean bobbing with it's currents. submerging myself and feeling safe for a moment, like i could live in that second for the rest of my days. sometimes i just want to crawl back into the womb and talk myself through the past. i try to run from ghosts. but it's impossible. ghosts always know where you are and they can follow you anywhere. i try to beat them back, but they are already inside. how do you sweep the dark spots from your mind?
***
i like to pass my time whiddling the obtuse corners of my mind
***
i watched a man mow the field. he drew a neat line in the uprising grass-root denomination of life-affirming wilderness. and he ran his machine along this line repeatedly, inching closer to the center everytime. a personified filet knife cutting through the perfect sheet formations of fish flesh. over and over in eveer decreasing circumference. outward, inward, a reverse ripple effect. and i was fascinated by this reverse, this rewind, this bringing back to an acceptable height, this paring down. just beautiful. i thought to myself, i could lose myself in never-ending circle like that. takes a strong man to go round and round and have the sense to quiet teh motor once he's reached the center, once all has been undone. i enjoy dramatically thinking of the significance of a single act. could i mow fields for the rest of my life? i guess i could. would it mean the same things tomorrow as it does today?
***
i am banded like some exotic bird. i feel odd but not exotic. i feel artificial. i feel like i'm being indoctrinated with how to think and am being given a false sense of importance. i let most of this slip over my head. i am ducking under a wave, my eyes open, the turbulance dancing over my spine as smooth and complacent as river stones. ah yes. i live in this image, forever diving under, letting the weight crush and suspend me, feel the motion and energy surging through me a liquid cord brought taught through my center and reverberating forever, unabated, slack, tension, slack, tension.
***
why should i worry about a ghost? but you're not a ghost are you? no, you're present racking my frame as sure as a hurricane, as loud as a thunderstorm sending my heart into a schizophrenic spasms, poor scared giant trying to tip-toe through a tea house. i close my eyes and try to remember a quieter time, a time when i wasn't surrounded by strangers, when i felt at ease in the ocean bobbing with it's currents. submerging myself and feeling safe for a moment, like i could live in that second for the rest of my days. sometimes i just want to crawl back into the womb and talk myself through the past. i try to run from ghosts. but it's impossible. ghosts always know where you are and they can follow you anywhere. i try to beat them back, but they are already inside. how do you sweep the dark spots from your mind?
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