Poem-A-Day #356 : Stuffed

Stuffed

i
The bear has a birthday hat on
is sitting calmly - pink chair - is
staring at the ceiling

ii
The eyes are cataract - chipped
glass - they are windows in
a church bombed in a war

iii
Pray at the pew of it - hard - unfeeling
the sort of colors streaming on your face
that make everything seem alive

iv
And the hat came from a night concert
the man who I have obsessed over
placing it on my head - no reason given

v
Pink like grapefruit
faded to bubblegum on your shoe
Grandmother's chair

vi
Addiction to history - ashes on skin
bear that traveled in boxes and bags
- it's too much honestly

vii
Let's pretend that we had kissed
that the chair had been reupholstered
that the fruit had been bruised

Poem-A-Day #354 : Ars

Ars

lingering
like a child in the labyrinth
trying not to get closer
to center

my mind
endlessly recycles itself
a loop - coming undone
at the ends

snake refusing to eat its tail
but caught still
in the woosh of it
the idea of the eating

here is a comment
about lights and obsession
one about Tesla
play the hits -

ok - the path is wide
is covered in dead leaves
underneath is -
something

Poem-A-Day #339 : Hope Chest

Hope Chest

The box full of things - unnamed as they are -
hold the history of place in the reflection imposed surface

The sun comes from behind eclipse - it
momentarily explodes - loses itself - becomes a break in the lack of air

This is opening - a seam of paper tape - a fold
sun echoing in pulp - in dust

What are these broken lines of thought
burning a hole in the universe of a closet - they flap like broken doves

Beak cracks - the rubble of it - a light bearing
fruit - rotting and burning and searing the faces of memory

Poem-A-Day #250 : Re-See

Re-See

Above - the moon - endlessly talked photographed landed upon - known to the point of boredom - even its rabbit has cleaned itself from the discussion

How does the change occur - the sudden shift in views - the magic of fire leading to space travel - how does the child mind say 'FUCK THAT'S AMAZING' in its current mood

It hovers - like a balloon - jaundiced and slow to blink - it mythologizes itself - collects the news clipping and will have to go to therapy to get its hoarding under control - the dark side of the moon is covered in cats and abandoned satellites

How does one re-see for the first time - the things in your hand - in a changing light they may become strangers - your own fingers are sausages in an overcast moment

One of the first photographs of the moon
Taken by John William Draper in 1840

Poem-A-Day #123 : Night

For the month of July I am hitching my Poem-A-Day wagon to Ariana Lombardi's amazing Salon project wagon to do some amazing wagon things!

I dug out my journals from when I was in high school and will be re-working the poems into ... something. I'm calling this project 'Remember'.

I will post both the original and the new edit. Original first!


Untitiled (May 27 1998)

The puddles shimmer with the skins of soil. The floating edges of night. The skins of crab-starred beings light the endless night. The fireflies fall gently like fireworks sparks. Can I see the night life of the unopened door. Crack the lock.


The edit!


Night

The lock of night - the closing in of our vision - we are helpless in the dark but stumble forth to bury ourselves in wet soil -

Out here in that darkness - beyond ourselves - the skin of the earth cracks open and the boundaries between this and that soften - it rains -

After the storm the puddles begin to settle - stars reflected look like crabs tracing their way to the ocean - the sparks of distant fireworks become lightening bugs they dance -

Poem-A-Day # 96 : Line

Line

The line becomes the edge of the forest that you weren't allowed to cross when you were nine and then the line turns green and then the line softens and branches fall into the cornfields that run up to the line they are yellow and sometimes fallow and always delicious over a grill with butter running on your chin the line becomes a symbol for things not attainable for the mysteries of life and within the line is darkness moss possibly bears oh my what is that sound the one like celery bring twisted in your fists the one that is both dry and so very full of liquid is there a creek in there full of frogs and small fish to stare at for hours we could name them naming is a fine thing to do Adam named the things in the garden is this a garden are we even religious is there even a grounds for religion in a world where that could happen where this could happen where the line is hardening is a thing drawn in trapper keepers and thought about is a monster that attacks in the night out of the closet a line like a knife trying to two dimensionally suffocate you by filling in the spaces in your lungs with scribbles -

Poem-A-Day #63 : Character Sheet

Character Sheet

Fill out your name

          Add your race

                     Your gender

          What are your motivations

          Think about your weaknesses

That time when you were a child and you sat in the garden and the small mouse touched your hand and you panicked and hit it with the book and it crunched under A Wrinkle in Time

How you wake up sometimes thinking that your body is failing and you have cancer or AIDS or are going to die young even though you creep towards less young every breath

How many d20s do you roll to figure out how to move on

          What armor is enough

Here is a backpack you do not get to say what is inside just know that it has an inside

Rope enough

Initiative will change

Poem-A-Day #19 : Unweaving the Rainbow (Keats Erased)

Unweaving the Rainbow (Keats Erased)

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

       Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

       A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

       Of deities or mortals, or of both,

               In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

       What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

               What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

       Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

       Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

               Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

       She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

               For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

         Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

         For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

         For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

                For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

         That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

                A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

         To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

         And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

         Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

                Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

         Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

                Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

Blue Crayola

This is the oldest poem that I have saved on my computer. It is a poem from September 2000. There are poems with older roots floating around, but this one has the oldest modification date.

I can't tell you what the original inspiration was, it is lost to me. I think it had to do with that time of year when twilight grows long and the sky takes on that amazing blue glow the last few hours before full dark.

What Joan Didion calls the blue hours. It happens in late May and early September. The start and finish of summer. The sky announcing the growing season with a trumpet blast.

Here is the poem. It's just called Blue Crayola:

4 generations of logos on Prussian (now Midnight) blue

Water wrapped in wood

Dipped in cornflower
And cased in sugar
Crisp as the sky, yet
Blurred as the oceans
Atlantis in a paper cup
Neptune’s pen of pens
The melting point of wax
Becomes indigo crushed
A missile from the Blue Man Group
Chew-toy of the young and famous
And not-so-famous
Implement of famous nights and devastating floods
A place of worship for faeries
One hundred years old
A Tim Burton movie’s inspiration
Blue Crayola,
September 2000

I have two versions saved. One with the blue words, and one without. I like the idea behind the coloring of the words. That some of them clearly connect to 'blue' and some seem as far from it as can be. Like 'wax' and 'worship'. In my head I can invent new connections for the color and the word.

I cannot be sure if they are the same as the ones I had 13 years ago.

The forgetting of thought process is not a problem for me. Not scary. But it is interesting how ephemeral that thought can be. When I wrote this I am sure it seemed to be important. Imperative, even. I bet I turned this in to workshop. I bet people said nice things.

What would I write today if I was meditating on a blue crayon? Which is what this seems to be ultimately. A thought on a childhood object written at the end of childhood. I think it would be similar, touch on subjects like these. Though Neptune and the sea feel more green to me now. And I think Blue Man Group is too obvious, but the missile is good. I don't like the obtuse references to actual blue things. I feel like it relies too heavily on that. I want it to come sideways. From non-blue parts of the universe.

September is definitely blue. I will have to revisit this.

In the meantime go read Thirty-Six Shades of Prussian Blue by Joshua Cohen.

THIS! 10/12/12

THIS! on October 12, 2012

Historical Bromance

FACT!
On this day in 1960 Nikita Khrushchev pounded his shoe on a desk at a UN General Assembly meeting to protest the Philippine assertion of Soviet Union colonial policy in Eastern Europe.


1) 55 Cancri e

'55 Cancri e' is a massive 8x heavier than the earth while only twice the size. Its close orbit means a year is only 18 hours. The surface temperature reaches 3,900 degrees Fahrenheit. The surface is covered in graphite and diamonds.

It is also only 40 light years away.


2) Wendy's

They unveiled a new logo. It's terrible.

Comparison via Brand New

The new Wendy icon is fine. I like the update. I like that she is flesh colored instead of ghost-white. I like the hair and the new circle. The script choice is...odd. It's too rounded, too silly. It looses all appeal. Why not use the old logo with the new Wendy? Sad.


3) Mo Yan

Mo Yan was awarded the Nobel in Literature. The Chinese author's pen name means 'Don't Speak'. He is best known for Red Sorghum and the film version. His latest novel Life And Death Are Wearing Me Out was written in 42 days with traditional brush and ink.

Buy one of his books.


4) LEGO

This gigantic Batcave model exists in the world. It weighs 100 pounds and took over 800 hours. Look at the builder's Flickr stream here.

Re-Read : The Witches

The Witches
Author: Roald Dahl
Publisher: Jonathan Cape (1983)
208 pages

I was 9 when The Witches was turned into a movie by Nicolas Roeg and Jim Henson. It was 1990. It was Jim Henson's last film. If you've never seen this film, you should. Angelica Huston is great in it. And, talking mice!

Talking about Jim Henson makes me all misty-eyed and sad. It's like a very real and raw wound. At the age of 9, Jim Henson dying was like a family member dying. It was an odd first real moment of dealing with death.

The Witches is not particularly sad, but it is definitely dark and it for real touches on death more than once.

What I remember loving about Dahl is that he never once takes children for not understanding complicated concepts, like death. He assumes they understand. He expects them to. Reading Dahl is being taken seriously for the first time.

For those who've never read this book here is a quick run down. A boy is orphaned while on vacation in Norway and goes to live with his grandmother there. She tells him about witches. The parents' will requests the boy be raised in England because which is what he is used to. The grandmother and he move. Once there she becomes ill and her doctor recommends a vacation tot he seaside. Once there they uncover a plot to kill all the children in England by turning them into mice. The boy is transformed and must save the day while a rodent.

At the end the boy is a mouse and he and his grandmother decide to spend their remaining years alive fighting the witches of the world.

That ending is what I have always remembered about the book. The boy and his grandmother have a very frank discussion about her being old and probably near death. He asks how long mice live and a really sad talk about a few years follows. Both are upbeat though, because neither wants to go on without the other.

Sad and beautiful.

It gets me misty-eyed the same way talking about Jim Henson does. If I had to pick two people, who are not relatives, who shaped my world-view they would be Henson and Dahl. Henson taught me about kindness, education and love. Dahl said that was all well and good but there are dark things out there so be ready to kick their asses.

Re-reading The Witches reminded me of the simplicity of the work. And how good a writer Dahl really was. He manages to take a very basic story of children taking on the world and infuse them with a magical sense of realness. Close to what the world feels and looks like to a child. Scary and amazing.

And that's what we lose as we get older. The amazing is replaced with more scary. I think we all would do good for ourselves to remind us of the amazing. Everyone go pick up a Dahl book. Read it. It will take you only a few hours. Then go watch an episode of Sesame Street or The Muppet Movie. Then watch the video below. It will make your day better. I promise.

Re-Read is a sometime article where I go back and read a book from my childhood over and examine the threads that I find in my current adult life.

Re-Read : Flowers For Algernon

Flowers For Algernon
Author: Daniel Keyes (1927)
Publisher: Harcourt, Brace & World (1966)
274 pages

What do you remember about this book? Probably two things. 1) That it is about a man who has his intelligence increased through science; and 2) There is a mouse and it dies.

What I forgot about the book was that the main character, Charlie, sexually assaults a woman in Central Park and spends a good portion of the book drunk and moaning about the world around him. I forgot that the book is written as journal entries of Charlie's and that the form of the book follows the progression of the character's level of intelligence.

Dr Strauss says I should rite down what I think and remembir and everything that happins to me from now on. I dont no why but he says its importint so they will see if they can use me. I hope they use me...

That is the opening to the novel. The story was also published as a short story in 1959. That shorter version is what most junior high students read. That main difference is that the novel dwells on Charlie's decent into alcohol and sex a little longer.

What is interesting about the form of Keyes book is that it directly follows the narrative. As Charlie grows in intelligence after his operation the writing becomes clearer, in higher diction. He even discusses his finding of grammar and punctuation:

Today, I learned, the comma, that is, a, comma (,) a period, with, a tail

And the next day:

You, got. to-mix?them!up: She showd ? me" how, to mix! them; up, and now! I can. mix (up all? kinds of punctuation - in, my. writing!

Compare this to the later entries:

Nemur, Strauss, Burt, and a few of the others on the project were waiting for me in the psych office. They tried to make me feel welcome but I could see how anxious Burt was to take Algernon, and I turned him over.

Keyes has managed a book with form and function in harmony. The book is definitely worth a re-read though. It is beautiful and sad. It manages to be cautionary without being too preachy. That said, there are a ton of ham-fisted moments though. Anytime Charlie is put into a situation with a woman it turns into awkward 1950s theater and the men are painted in more detailed strokes then the women. The women are lust/pity objects for Charlie to play his psychology off of.

Which makes sense. Keyes got his start at Timely Comics which would change into Atlas Comics under Stan Lee. Atlas is the company that would one day become Marvel. Keyes wrote horror comics at EC in the mid-50s. HIs background is in short-form action/horror/sci-fi with clear good guys and bad guys. Little gray areas. That Flowers for Algernon is as good as it is, and holds up, is a bit of a miracle.

The clip above is from the 1968 film Charly, based on Flowers for Algernon. Cliff Robertson won an Oscar for his role as Charly.


Join me in the discussion. Next Month : The Great Gatsby.

Re-Read is a sometime article where I go back and read a book from my childhood over and examine the threads that I find in my current adult life.

Thought On 18 Year-Old Self

This is based on Trolley.


Thought On 18 Year-Old Self 5/19

Being ignored at family reunions
dismissed at Christmas parties

When I was 18 and made a presentation
on Matthew Shepard for my senior presentation

And invited the family - friends - the school

I welcomed the outcome - dreamt of
bullies bowing before my might

I spoke eloquently and leveled the family
in their bigotry

It is odd to be disappointed with positivity

Find welcoming hands less inviting

Dear 18 year-old self - please release Matthew Shepard
and let the wind take him

Let it go like dandelion seeds - let the positive wash

Pillow Fort

I recently read this article by Matt Richtel about pillow forts. I was also recently robbed. I immediately wanted to build a fort around my world.

Pillow or otherwise.


Pillow Fort 4/24

I want to pillow fort my life

Care for the soft spaces
that exist between my bones

The roof will be a sheet
because blankets are too heavy

And it will have flowers on it

Re-Read : A Wrinkle In Time

First Edition 1962.

A Wrinkle In Time
Author: Madeleine L’Engle (1918-2007)
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (1962)
238 pages

There is a moment as a kid when your mind expands. When you suddenly are aware that the world stretches beyond your home and family. That the universe is expansive, science is weird, space is amazing.

For one shining moment everything is possible.

This book was a huge part of that for me. I have a love of knowledge, science, the beauty of imagination. I can trace these to moments in Madeleine L'Engle's amazing 50 year old book.

And after all that time there is still a lot to love here. There is the absolute love of science, intelligence, and learning. L'Engle infuses her characters with a profound smartness without apology and without cliche nerdiness.

80s kids know this version.

There are the imaginative characters of Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, Mrs Which, and Aunt Beast. The Murry children are all well defined. Charles Wallace alone is amazing if for nothing else his clear aspergers representing.

The settings are epic. Camazotz and its strange bureaucratic nightmare office buildings is something out of Orwell. Even the evil of The Black Thing and IT are ominous in a classic vague/scary way that calls to mind the best of allegorical writing and Lord of the Rings.

The beauty is still there. The sense of wonder. All intact.

Coming back to it as an adult I was amazed at a huge part of the book I completely missed as a kid.

Here is what I mean. When Meg heads off to defeat the IT at the the end of the book the Mrs Ws give her 3 gifts:

1. Mrs Whatsit - her love
2. Mrs Who - A Bible quote about the foolish confounding the wise and the weak confounding the strong
3. Mrs Which - she tells Meg she has something IT does not

All reasonable gifts that are - whataminute!? - Bible quote?

As a child reading A Wrinkle In Time the book was about being a kid, having an imagination, space travel, and science. It was kids kicking bad guy butt and saving the world. The book is about those things but it is also about religion.

I would not classify this a 'religious' book. The moments mentioning the Bible are really meant as allegory, as story-telling, and they don't really change the actual story. They could be left out and little would be damaged. Which I guess is my point. They don't serve a purpose beyond being Bible references tossed out to the world to show religion has a place. We are told that Jesus fought IT along side Ghandi and the Buddha and all are considered equally good. But the Bible is the only thing quoted from.

L'Engle says that science, art, and religion have a place together which is great. The book does little to connect any of these things. While that may be a huge undertaking for a 'kids' book, I would point you to His Dark Materials as a series that deals with religion, science, etc. in a very frank, albeit different, way.

The main evil L'Engle gives us is a giant brain. Pure thought is the 'evil' presented in this book. What is the takeaway? That thinking is only good if it is infused with religion, specifically Christianity.

I don't think that L'Engle was being malicious. The book is a clear product of its time and place. 1960s America was a strange blend of anti-Communist sentiment, cold war crazies, and general conformity mixed with hyper-patriotism and religion. It was not a place for anyone to question anything openly. Which is probably why even this book has been banned many times throughout its 50 years despite being firmly 'safe' in all of these regards.

My biggest problem with the book is a problem I see across the genre. Why are children's books full of characters who lack agency? Why does Harry Potter do absolutely nothing the whole of 7 books while others pull strings and die for the cause? He doesn't even kill Voldemort at the end. The wand Voldemort uses reflects the spell back at the villain. Why does Katniss have to remain above the frey in Hunger Games? She drops wasps, she mercy kills the already dying, she kills one who just killed a very young child. I guess I should be happy she at least participates in some way.

I'm not asking for bloodthirsty lead characters, but if you set up a world where Harry is going to have to fight a war against Voldemort then have him basically sit there while every one else does that thing...you have failed at story-telling. If your world is children conscripted into killing each other and your main character wins that contest by mainly sitting in a tree and surviving off of berries while others brutally kill you have not shown the horrors of said world.

Similarly. If your premise is that a father has been kidnapped by ultimate evil and your brother is controlled by a giant disembodied brain...I don't expect machetes and blood letting. I do expect something more than a deus ex machina and a pat love is good coda.

I know the book is meant to be allegory. But still, even in allegory the center would still have to hold. The story would adhere to its world.

Newest cover from 2007.

I find it troubling that we tell our children stories where they are asked to move heaven and earth but given no agency to do so. You do not solve problems with love alone. It is a false premise. It sets up children for a moment after the one I opened with. A moment where they look at the world and it shrinks. Where they lose the magic they were promised. The love they have proves useless against 'evil'. They loose hope. They settle. Why be an astronaut when you can work for an insurance company?

I think we should trust ourselves more. If we can stomach a world with evil, we can stomach a world where we fight that evil and do so without remaining above the dirt and shit of that battle. We can have the magic and wonder and the reality. All of it.


Re-Read is a sometime article where I go back and read a book from my childhood over and examine the threads that I find in my current adult life.

Childhood

Childhood 2/4

Where is the boy
that I was

Has he gone running into the woods
hiding under the sloping branches of a fir

The seasons are going
he may be cold - freezing - wet

Sasssafras

Sassafras 6/23

Bubbles in my nose
I take the straw into
my mouth            blow
and froth the brew
Somewhere out there in the woods
a deer roots                        breaks bark against antler
The smell pushes air
It            breaks            over the mountains
like snow
coming off the Delaware water gap

Christen

Today was the 10th anniversary of the cafe I work at. We had a big party. Bands, cookies, discounts on coffee/tea/beer. They watched Armageddon and sang along to Aerosmith. There were belly dancers and an electric violinist.

I came home and read about the history of Sesame Street. There have been 4212 episodes in 40 years. There are still three original cast members, Bob, Susan, and Carol Spinney who does the voices of Big Bird and Oscar. Bob is 80.

I was only 3 when Mr. Hooper died in 1983, but I remember it vividly. Maybe it was a rerun? Did they rerun that episode? Did Sesame Street rerun in the 80s? Is it such a part of our collective childhoods that I remember it even if I didn't see it in 1983 on November 24th, Thanksgiving Day?

I cried this evening for the first time in a long long time.

Was it for the weird finality that a big anniversary party has? The fact that such-and-such a time has gone what now then? The general loss of childhood? The sudden remembering of the great loss my family has experienced in the last few years?

I cried.

And I'm not sure why.


Christen 8/17

Water in the river

Drinking in the river

Taking in the river

Bumper

Bumper 6/23

1,05
And the Kinder
Surprise is in my hand
The white and orange foil
a dried leaf in my fingers
It smells the same
it did when I was 8 and
it probably only cost 10p
at some corner post office
The melting chocolate
is better than my first sex
Which was not very
good to be honest
The milk and white
melt the same as always
Slow breaking of the seam
reveals the same
strange colored plastic yolk
I raise it examine it
try to figure out what
might be inside
            It is never what
            you think it is
                        One time I was probably 9
                        my mother broke the eggs
                        over the pan and it was all
                        feathers and blood one
                        unopened eye purpling in the
                        hot grease
I pull apart the halves
it is a witch a magnetic broom
As you push her across a
table the sweeper runs away
The last toy I remember
was a frog that hopped
The toys are always things
that move away from you
The Kinder Surprise
is that you never are closer
then when you have it
in your mouth

Marinate

For many years I had a reoccurring dream where the room I was sitting in would begin to fill with water.

Every window and door would suddenly be fake. Painted on. As the water rose, I would take refuge on a floating couch. The room would suddenly be very tall and circular shaped.

After a very long time of worrying about falling in (I don't know how to swim) I would reach the ceiling. I would suddenly be pushed into the water. The couch still beneath me, holding me up enough to touch the roof. The water rising. My eyes the only thing above the surface.

Then I'd wake up.

Many years later I had the dream for what turned out to be the last time. Instead of apparently drowning, the roof suddenly flew off right as I was about to go under and a man with wings saved me.

I like to think it was Birdman.


Marinate 5/26

Do you have years - ?

Raise arms up like a bear and spin
slowly - this keeps the past at bay - sit
down sob until someone (mother) takes you home

Mirrors reflect - they bundle the twig
faces we make - hold them behind silvered surface
until we least expect - releasing self-ghosts as if
fire onto bathrooms - bedrooms - countless rooms

Do you have years - ?

That memory of drowning
where all is chlorine blue - sulfur smell
in your lungs - kicking disembodies legs floating -

A cylinder room with a cap top that flies off
and fish that slowly - there may be a shark - somewhere
a fan blade set to slice 'n dice
like a movie - some (derivative) nightmare - !

Do you have years - ?

Then you get to relive this each time you look
puffy-eyed - twinkle less - you
standing in a toilette in your own water staring

In your eyes - you can see this now - sudden
rolling credits - a trampoline of guest stars
pasts are bouncing around in your eyes -
you can name them - your mouth could begin to move -

Do you have years - ?