week 1

part of my very short list of "resolutions" this year is to have fun with poetry exercises.

exercises.

the word itself makes you think of heavy lifting, doesn't it?

so the idea is to make them into challenges, or better yet--games. poetry games are what i'm playing, not sweating and lifting heavy words and bending them into strange shapes.

i'll be taking old exercises that i know and (hopefully) inventing new ones to stir the creative pot. it's part of this new working theory i have about the craft of writing. that, to be a writer you have to write. i know... so obvious, right? but then why is it that every time i sit down to write a new piece, i think of it as having to be divine inspiration? some mystical beam from some other place that delivers something to me, fully formed?

to hell with that. (unless it happens... then i'll be very happy and humble and thank the poetry gods and goddesses and live on the royalties... *cough, cough*)

this week, two examples of a game (see? using the new terminology already) stolen from Terrance Hayes, called a gram of &s. take a word, make a bunch of words from the letters in that word and then use them as the end of each line in the piece you're writing. simple, right?



entity

she stretches to fill his shadow--tiny,
almost shrunken, like a tent
swallowed by the canyon of his size. There are ten
years of apologies lost on his tongue; fish caught in the net
of his mouth (not spoken, not yet).


languid

ding!
isn't a word you can nail
to a cross. you can't close it like the lid
on a coffin, or shoot it from a gun.
it lacks the sting of a bottle of gin,
but late at night it will nag
at you with it's hollow din,
an empty elevator, painted by dali.

how my mind works

new year's eve, driving to a party. the wind was gusting.

first thought through my mind as i'm hopping in the car: "this would be horrible weather to fly in."

did i mention a) i'm not a pilot and b) it's been at least two year's since i've flown?

pant, pant, pant

ok, so i've been running again on and off for two weeks. things i've learned: running isn't getting any easier, it's hot in southern california, and proper hydration is the key to survival.

listening to good music doesn't necessarily make your legs ache any less, or your feet less sore, but it sure can distract you from thinking about them for a few minutes at a time. today's choice lyrics come from jeffrey foucault (www.jeffreyfoucault.com):

And the girl I loved once
Came to me last night
In a dream with a secret to tell
She whispered close
Can’t you hear the ocean?
As she leaned her earAgainst a shotgun shell

also been holding regular sessions of exercise theater for the past month (exercise theater is my new term for riding the exercise bike while watching movies... again, it doesn't make it hurt any less, but you're not thinking about it quite as much if you're watching something like the right stuff... especially the scene where yeager (sam shepard) takes a jet out for a last test-flight... talk about amping you up for the next 15 minutes!). past victims of exercise theater: the right stuff (obviously), amelie, nightwatch (a russian supernatural thriller type thing), the illusionist, flags of our fathers, casino royale and the incredibles (surprisingly inneffective as a motivator to keep going).

this week (all week) on exercise theater: the lord of the rings trilogy. yep, should take all week, one disc per night (excluding wednesday), or half of each movie per session.

Another something new from titles suggested by friends. 

...and another sketchy/journal-y thing that's already been posted, but now in it's original state.  

Okay, so I'm trying this sort of sketch/journal kinda thing with the writing. Still much to work on, but it's a new thing worth trying. Hopefully. 

hm redux

more from the artwork that doesn't exist. title courtesy of dmitry berenson.



Forty Miles Past

your high school graduation is a hilltop.

Below it is a wide valley.
There’s a house for every day of your life.

The first ones to catch the eye, the obvious ones perhaps,
have exceedingly well-manicured lawns, the type
where you can guess the occupants’ lives at a glance.

They’re the types of houses that have guest rooms
with clean sheets and comforters. Pillows that will swallow
your sins while you sleep, turning nightmares to dreams
in the alchemy of their feathered embrace.

Next are the ones with For Rent signs out front.

Again, clean sheets, warm blankets,
but the pillows ask too many questions.

Then there are the ones
where the weeds outnumber
the blades of grass on the lawn,
the houses whose doors stand open like empty mouths,
but everyone knows better than to step inside,
though some still do,
slipping into their unlit interiors,
leaving behind only faint stains
like hope about forgetting, or finding,
or a handful of pennies, a wishing well
and nothing better to do.