A Wetting

Monday, 28 July 2014

we are hidden inside 
while it thunders
when you call for me, in the three o'clock 
dark of my room, I roll off 
and curl fetal on the far side of the bed 
to test
your temper.

You come in, 
the dog's eyes are sharper 
but the sound of your voice
fills the room.

You run along my aggravate silence,
horse feet searching the house, the creak of
the family room floorboard, the bare 
slap on kitchen tile, the rattled shower 
curtain, a burst into the closet -

your timbre gains an edge of question.

The screen door crash as you check the porch,
that last spot,
just sheltered, where
after dark, we sometimes dull the day.

Now, I am a cruel 
hone even to your silence. From the rack you 
gather your jacket, sheathing thin 
bones, turn back outside.

I count your steps
watch your back
rise and reclaim you.

     Where were you going?
     To look for you.
     Were you worried?

          I tell him I will never leave him 
          a large lie to tell a small boy,
          who stood 
          looking for me, 
          foot-soaked in the downpour, 
          his hand upon the gate.

Dry Spell

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Haven’t done any cre­ative writ­ing in a long while. Years, in fact. First, I ran out of gas and in­spi­ra­tion from be­ing too im­mersed in the po­et­ry scene, and then, life in­ter­vened. I stopped writ­ing po­et­ry reg­u­lar­ly in June of 2007 (By Brakhage), on­ly two po­ems since then (Tide Line, This Dominion), both over two years ago. They’re okay, I guess; abrupt but un­pol­ished. I was in­tent on oth­er things.

Lately, in the rare mo­ment of ap­prox­i­mate peace, I’ve been hear­ing a cer­tain blue­bird singing in the dis­tance of my heart.

It might be time to start writ­ing again.

The Swing of Things

Wednesday, 21 May 2003

I’ve not writ­ten any po­et­ry in quite some time. I did man­age to get an A in my Advanced Poetry Writing class, but I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Over the se­mes­ter I felt my­self be­com­ing less and less fresh and cre­ative, in­stead the po­ems be­came steadi­ly more like mass-pro­duced ob­jects with as­sign­ment com­ple­tion as the goal rather than qual­i­ty.

All my po­ems took on a sort of ar­cha­ic, un­con­tem­po­rary feel to them, some­times be­cause of my word choice, some­times be­cause of my sen­tence con­struc­tion, some­times be­cause of my sub­ject mat­ter. Perhaps my most cre­ative po­em that se­mes­ter, Fiat Tabula Rasa, was al­so the deep­est em­bed­ded in­to med­i­ta­tions of ar­chaism and moder­ni­ty.

The point is, I need a fresh new di­rec­tion, some Muse to sub­mit to, a bit of spice in my life.

Much of my po­et­ry of late has dealt with end­ings, must I now write about cre­ative stag­na­tion? I’d most cer­tain­ly rather write about pep­pi­er things.


Thursday, 17 April 2003

with four rel­a­tive­ly de­cent sized pa­pers loom­ing over me this east­er week­end i am stay­ing on cam­pus for the du­ra­tion. the pa­pers are due as fol­lows

  1. April 24th — Film Theory — 8 – 10 pages. I’m writ­ing on how class struc­tures are as­sumed in­to racial iden­ti­ties and how that plays in­to film spec­ta­tor­ship in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled.
  2. May 2nd — Irish Cinema Culture — 10 pages. I’m writ­ing on the dif­fer­ing por­tray­als of Irish im­mi­grant com­mu­ni­ty life in Far and Away and Gangs of New York.
  3. May 4th — Otherworldly Literature — 10 – 12 pages. I’m writ­ing on how J.R.R. Tolkien’s var­i­ous works are filled with an al­most atavis­tic sense of his­to­ry through a frame of English lit­er­a­ture in a world­wide form.
  4. ?????? — International Migration — 6 – 10 pages. I’m not re­al­ly sure what I’m go­ing to write about this. I’ve on­ly been to two class­es.

Regular Season End

Sunday, 23 February 2003

my reg­u­lar sea­son is over. i was 4 – 1 on the week­end, and fi­nal­ly got my act to­geth­er. the men’s squad is now 82 – 0 over three years of fenc­ing. and my time fenc­ing as a part of the team is al­most up. the dri­ve back from East Lansing was quite an ex­pe­ri­ence. the weath­er was aw­ful. snow snow snow. a bunch of the team went out drink­ing. i would have liked to join them but as al­ways, i’m flatass broke. to­day i will look for a job and try to write a po­em in iambic pen­tame­ter. writ­ing with ac­cent and me­ter is much hard­er than writ­ing nor­mal­ly.

Home, briefly

Saturday, 3 August 2002

well i drove 4 hours home to­day. i’ll of­fi­cial­ly be here for three weeks al­though i am go­ing to spend some time in Chicago. as soon as i got home i be­gan ‘nest­ing’ as my moth­er calls it, go­ing through all of my stuff and run­ning around in cir­cles like a dog does to as­sert and make it­self fa­mil­iar with its ter­ri­to­ry. any­way, i was go­ing through my file cab­i­net do­ing my year­ly pack­rat purge and i came across this one page sto­ry i wrote in 7th grade eng­lish class. i re­pro­duce it here in all it orig­i­nal hor­ri­ble­ness.

“Hey Skatch! Over here! The an­nu­al Ditterbloknic came up­on me un­ex­pect­ed­ly.” The Pysk rode her fer­ret to­ward the sound of the voice. “Heran must of got­ten drunk again,” she thought. “Heran, you im­be­cile, if you didn’t have a hang­over you would know that the Ditterbloknic was last dek­tide.” (month) “Just free me,” Heran mut­tered. The Pysk sighed. “Heran you are the strangest Halfling I have ever known.” “Will you please free me?” the Halfling begged. The fer­ret chit­tered, and side­stepped ner­vous­ly. There were snuf­fling and grunt­ing sounds amidst the heather. The sky be­came streaked with pur­ple and green. Everything on the hori­zon be­came grotesque­ly twist­ed out of shape. The fer­ret be­gins to chase his tail. “Easy Zine, calm down, help Heran!” Skatch shrieked. “I will if you ever free me!” Heran roared. Suddenly, all was calm. The fer­ret rolled on its side pant­i­ng. “Gee Skatch, the way you leapt off that fer­ret and ran to me al­most makes me think you were wor­ried about me.” “I should prob­a­bly have left you to Shenar and the Juggers.” “Not them, they take pride in tor­ture, they think its fun­ny.” “Why once I heard that they stake you out on an anthill and pour hon­ey on your.” The Pysk shud­dered. “You last two or three days, but you go in­sane long be­fore you die.” “Well I should prob­a­bly free you,” Skatch sighed. “I was be­gin­ning to think you nev­er would.” Skatch be­gan to sing. Her song was low, light, and lilt­ing, but the song that the ground echoed back was a deep rum­ble. Heran sprang free from his trap. “Yaha! Finally I am free!” Skatch and the fer­ret watched com­pla­cent­ly wh­lie Heran danced around the din­gle. When he fi­nal­ly set­tled down Skatch had a con­fer­ence. “Now,” she said, “we must dis­cuss what has just hap­pened. These re­cur­ring time swirels are very strange, we must go to Shamino.” “Not that wiz­ard who thinks he’s a Mage,” the Halfling groaned. “Yes, him,” the Pysk said in­dig­nant­ly. “Now get off the ground and fol­low me.” The Pysk and Halfling stroll out of the din­gle and west to the wizard’s vil­la. The fer­ret, still pant­i­ng, trots be­hind.

The End (or is it)

Rewriting that made me re­al­ize just how much i bas­tardized from oth­er sto­ries. jee­bus. its fun­ny to see my at­tempts at al­lit­er­a­tion and the big words i use gra­tu­itous­ly. i got a 3020 on it. yeah ex­tra cred­it points for pla­gia­riz­ing.

All Generalizations

Monday, 11 February 2002

cre­ative writ­ing is syn­the­sis, not analy­sis. when i write things i tend to de­con­struct as i have been taught. i must learn to com­bine in or­der to give things mean­ing apart from what they al­ready have. i hope that my ex­pe­ri­ences here have not per­ma­nent­ly made me in­to the bit­ter man i am be­com­ing. life af­ter col­lege must be an im­prove­ment. works nev­er ends. peo­ple are ca­pa­ble of un­speak­able acts of beau­ty and hor­ror. all gen­er­al­iza­tions are bad, in­clud­ing this one. check it. peace.