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.