A Wetting

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

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

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.


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

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

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 30/20 on it. yeah extra cred­it points for pla­gia­riz­ing.

All Generalizations

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.