keep ongoing
i am still most focused in putting things in, but there is a bit of pressing and pushing of what's there to test what kind of shapes may come out.
the two other times i did this interactive or "making of" poetry thing i updated less and usually after substantial progress. i likely would not have gone through these iterations thus far. in one sense, updating after "breakthroughs" is less satisfying because it doesn't show the kind of banality that is actually involved in my writing. in another sense, it's more interesting because it bypasses a lot of the banality that is actually involved in my writing, the shortage of easy and meaningful progression. eh. maybe next time more definition.
its lighting, or the sound of it,
woke me
from dream deep sleep
gray and dullness overlaid the room, tattered municipal light slipping in
becomes a feeble wasted scepter pitched against the wall
as reignless as my fingers are ringless
all appeared normal but the potential for new ugly scars of barbarism
loom
this domicile, no longer protected by the familiar rule of law
why do i still sleep here?
why not sleep outside?
burrow beneath snow and layers of new
concrete and older pavement
stepped on gum, discarded cigarette butts, lost loose pocket change,
flyers, delivery menus, pressed bottles
carbon, crude, diamond
to ancient dirt, recomposing and decomposing
mingle with the mold and rot of roots
and examine their contrary aspiration as they divert
vital energies up through soil to
bodies that rise in viscid sky and heaven
visa
uncross my fingers
normally i am disinterested but startled
while sluggish, i became interested before i could
be disinterested
i missed it initially
unsee what is seen
disturbance
boring blank scenes against the furnishing from the afterglow
a magic lantern
some one loves you very much,
some one loves you very much
the worn petals of your rose mostly blacked and bruised, the fragrant provocations expired
not lost but still troubled
bioluminescence
firefly
i make fists
i give fists
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
sweet cream ladies, forward march
where had i left it all behind?
my heart,
my heart, it is in it still
i at last ask myself, am i awake after all?
how awake? after a short pause.
then i am in a navy suit, and i say hello to miss receptionist. "good morning." and at
my desk and my monitor turned on. still no email? i call, - it's not ready? ...
very well ... tomorrow ... when, no, before, i get in ... okay, bye. that frees
up my morning a little but might have to stay late tomorrow. i check my calendar.
re-schedule my meeting. a very important meeting. nothing to go over now. not
my fault they will have to stay late too. may be it will not take too long.
i telephone - hey, yes, good morning, oh no, nothing, yeah, i have a lot of work
here, can't really talk, just wanted to let you know, in case i forget, no, well, i
want to ask if we can move dinner later tomorrow, nothing, just, well,
you know, it's okay? excellent.
the big moment. i have to check this. the inventory application opens. come on,
come on. week on week change. yes. this is going to
be a big quarter. nice. every market above target. those Atlanta stores are catching
fire. finally. about time. i know they have been working hard to pick things up for a long
time. no doubt, prayers too. but that tie-in promotion, i knew it would work.
i'm not finish
i have secrets
indigo, madder & chay flags soar, an array of lithe idols, and ringed pungent chains of blossoms
jealous gods
jealous hearts
i held your face in my hands
i looked at your eyes
the friendship my childhood was on the lookout for
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
the over ripened lips, set to burst
the accelerating rhythm of blood's machinery vibrating against my palm
the spring of crooked line of scarlet creasing your cream thighs, i kiss around the source
crossroads migration sleazy
i recross my fingers
bolt passed the finish line, eventually
gertrude stein does not write or say anything anymore
she's dead
the funeral completed before i was born
loveland
i sought a misunderstood flame
and the monsoon that beats down, washing dirt, sin
leaving only unquenchable lust and that flame alive
i cannot continue
Rekindle This
new finish line
confession confession
confess confess
the floating flame. premonition. of it reaching my bedding,
the down comforter, fire like wings that would envelop me.
consuming me. a pyre, an inferno.
i am not a virgin for appeasement.
i whisper a desperate breath to extinguish that flicker.
i barely have a breath left
it withstands my attempt anyway, and comes closer.
i duck under cover
pythias, do not return! stay away, stay home, stay and watch your baby
be born, and crawl, and grow big,
become unruly become your equal become a new father himself
stay away and love your wife and father and mother
tend your house and fields and friends
stay away and live and ponder and deny and exercise and dream
and exert and reminisce and become old, lost, senile, and spent
as if to attest, you must bear witness
like joan of arc or a jew Tomas Trevino de Sobremonte, Antonio Jose da Silva
kiddush hashem
קידוש השם
Auto da Fe quemadero (burning place)
discovery of guilt
i cannot understand the ongoing plea of love
no i don't love you nor will i
never was much of a gambler
i lost it all on my very first wager
i don't think i'll get the chance again
i ask for god's blessing - gods do not answer letters - i will continue asking
all night
Posts
8 comments:
nov 28, 2006
this was sort of fun at the former place i blog: interactive poetry. basically i would go through the various stages as i attempted to write a poem. this time is even more severe. prior, i more or less had the acorn of the poem somewhat formed, some starting or jumping off point, a few cool lines, words, a theme, a starting image, a starting something. this time, i don't got nothing much. but i figured displaying my insecurity and first and second guessing would be sort of fun. and i'm going to write about the process from almost scratch, and right now it's searching for an entry point.
here goes. i had intentions to write something about the rather common scenario for myself in which i go out at night with friends, see someone alluring, and basically not summon the courage to escalate the romantic tension above "hello" and eventual "good night." she leaves and i am left with nothing but internally kicking myself for miss opportunity. do i dare and do i dare. as good as a place to start, i half figured. but i re-figured and was less than satisfied.
first, it's prufrock territory, again. and while i love ts's poem, i've been long playing and replaying in its shadow for quite some time. and doing so so overtly seemed hesitation worthy. i can't start moving past (or beyond) it if i stay in that place.
secondly, describing my failed romantic conquests that doesn't even arrive at love's boot camp seemed unworthy/pitiful. that i easily remedied by possibly changing or adding from simply describing my moment of greatness flickering to a resolve to act: in short, i won't be afraid. thus instant dramatic arc of some sort. except that artistic decision resulted in an actual reality base decision and action. simply, i went out with friends again and this time instead of just saying "hello" and the eventual "so long", in between i added "okay i'll call you for dinner some time this week" even if coaxed by her coy statement of "i can't always be making the first move." called her i did on monday, and in slow burn fashion, she was busy with something but said she would call me tomorrow instead. tomorrow came and then another tomorrow, still no call back. i suppose it's not too much for me to call thursday, hoping (or is it fearing) for a tangible fruit. (i should add that i can't talk to girls. completely tongue tied.) and while there's nothing wrong with drawing from my recollection for a moment in the past to write a poem, i sort of feel that my attention has moved past that recollection.
anyway, not long later, i was also watching something on the television and thought instead i should write a poem about myself in relations to the united states of america. this impulse was also aided by the fact that i'm reading the 42nd parallel currently. i'm not loving the book, but reassessing my country and my place in it seems like a fun thing to do, despite it (perhaps obviously) being way above my abilities.
or i can do both. my poems often meld divergent themes and jump to sudden diversions and digressions. though attempting to write about something that i sort of loss the feel for and another thing that i sort of feel is too ambitious for my young talent is more or less a built in excuse to not write anything. anyway, i feel i'm more or less back at the beginning. with no idea of what to write.
below are some lines, words, images, sounds that i jotted down while i went through the motion of the above description. for the unfamiliar, i more or less jot shit down at first, compiling different things that comes to mind, seeing what sticks, what sounds stupid, and work out the details of shaping them when, and if, i shape them. you can see from the below that this compilation isn't much, nor much to salvage. but we'll see.
and of course, at this point, there isn't much to comment, dissuade, persuade, laugh, insult, encourage, etc regarding my "process". but i'm definitely casting out for lines, hopefully something will bite.
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
i love you, i shouldn't say that yet
i could
i'm not finish
i have secrets she does not know.
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
out the door she goes
out of the room
out of my sight
out by my side
for so long i was in the new york wilderness
not lost but still troubled
loneliness
close your eyes
make a wish
and you will be there
her arms again
an imaginary love affair
an American son
American misery
rock and roll
psychedelic stage
star spangled stage
crossroads
i cannot continue
its lighting, or the sound of it,
awoke me
from dream deep sleep
head lifting with heartbeats slowly racing
to search for that source of
disturbance.
flat,
gray and dullness permeated the room, an icy slash
of cool light stirring a blade
in steaming steely crispy blue
sweet cream ladies, forward march
showering air with pink blush
normally i am disinterested but startled
while sluggish, i became interested before i could
be disinterested
i missed it initially
some one loves you very much, someone loves you very much
haunting with gentle touch and left with sweet ash
not lost but still troubled
firefly
from the empty sky
ask me why
into wonders and wonders of mirrors in lights
I see myself everywhere in endless me
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
hoar
where had i left it all behind?
my heart,
my heart, it is in it still
cold and black
numb and drawn
rescuing with mad calls
i at last ask myself, am i awake after all?
how awake? after only a short pause.
blody body save me from bloody marry
i'm not finish
i have secrets
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
crossroads
migration
crushing the once and vanish forever gone
i cannot continue
buttons pressed.
nipples squashed.
water water set me free
may it burried in jungles of trees
to leave that full red lips
echoring and echoring
There is something left in between
Rekindle with broken flare
rolling and rolling hot ripples
growing and growing
What is what you lie that
crawling and crawling out from silent skin.
new finish line
the floating flame. premonition
crossing back from blue sea
melting into sweet breeze
smiling into my ears,
climbing fear turned into saved tears,
then finally,
reaching my bedding,
spreading into the purple goose duvet,
fire like wings that would envelop me.
consuming me. a pyre, an inferno.
“i am not a virgin for appeasement.”
desperate i whisper a breath to extinguish that small flicker.
i barely have breath
and small as it is, it withstands my attempt, and comes closer.
no avail
i duck under my cover
refusing the lavish daring
as if to attest, you must bear witness
like joan of arc or a jew Tomas Trevino de Sobremonte, Antonio Jose da Silva
kiddush hashem
קידוש השם
Auto da Fe
quemadero (burning place)
discovery of guilt.
so the interactive poetry last time didn't go anywhere. nov 28, 2006. that's a longass dry spell. anyway, press on. or what's the alternative? or why not?
jan 09!
unlike last time, i do have a sorta idea in mind so there is more "hopefulness" of carrying through to completion. but while i'm at it i guess i can see if the scraps from the earlier effort is salvageable.
minimally, it's a story of a spark/flame. and cycles through various readings of it and the sensation it produces in me/narrator. obviously not grounded in strictest reality, as, in realty, flames don't just pop out of nowhere. i'm not fluent in literary terms, but i suppose the flame is a metaphor, what the exact metaphor is, is both part of the poem and the point of the poem. starting from in a distance, a point of light, like a star in the sky. drifting closer, dancing, like a swinging flashlight in a party, it's something different. closer and closer, shifting from mysterious, to rapturous, to philosophical, to - the spectrum, until - to (it may be obvious) frightening, as flames too close normally are. the payoff, i think it's a great payoff, is even with that flame not definitively understood, and at the moment of inducing hysterical fear, a decision. to swallow it. or is that a boring payoff?
one reason i am attracted to the idea is that i like the very beginning and the very end, and yet there is room in the middle for different things to happen or to come out, or to just meander. another reason it's an attractive idea is that it's one less piece of the puzzle, with an idea in place, to worry about. though naturally, how i see things in this starter phase might not necessarily be how things turn out. certainly my mood now is very different from when i first conceived of this idea (uh, march of last year). the/a story, it needs to be clear, is more an excuse to explore and toy with what i can, and cannot do with words.
so, anyway, i've talked perhaps too much/long. there should be an implication that i know what i'm doing or things are rolling smoothly along. it's not smoothly. i'm hitting major (writer/road) blocks. i actually really like the first three lines, such that i don't know how to proceed from there. weird huh? usually the first sentence, myth suggests, is the hardest. it's a substantial problem, but one i am trying to defer for now just by continuing to throw lines, ideas, images, lyrics, kitchen sink, etc together, hoping something good comes out, and hoping things just work themselves out. in some ways, i feel like that is a very unpoet thing to do. that the process should be a little more, i don't know, artistic? i'm going to stop thinking about that, may lead to too much self doubt!
usually i invite criticism and so forth. but as what i likely have here is pretty bare bone, do with it what you will. and usually i archive my prior versions in the comment section, in this case, usually and in fact.
its lighting, or the sound of it,
awoke me
from dream deep sleep
i lifted my head to search
for that source of
disturbance
all appeared normal
gray and dullness permeated the room, a icy slash of
cool light from the lamppost, a steely crisp blue blade
sweet cream ladies, forward march
normally i am disinterested but startled
while sluggish, i became interested before i could
be disinterested
i missed it initially
some one loves you very much, someone loves you very much
not lost but still troubled
bioluminescence
firefly
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
soar
where had i left it all behind?
my heart,
my heart, it is in it still
i at last ask myself, am i awake after all?
how awake? after only a short pause.
then i am in a navy suit, and i say hello to miss receptionist. "good morning." and at
my desk and my monitor turned on. still no email? i call, - it's not ready? ...
very well ... tomorrow ... when, no, before, i get in ... okay, bye. that frees
up my morning a little but might have to stay late tomorrow. i check my calendar.
re-schedule my meeting. a very important meeting. nothing to go over now. not
my fault they will have to stay late too. may be it will not take too long.
i telephone - hey, yes, good morning, oh no, nothing, yeah, i have a lot of work
here, can't really talk, just wanted to let you know, in case i forget, no, well, i
want to ask if we can move dinner later tomorrow, nothing, just, well,
you know, it's okay? excellent.
the big moment. i have to check this. the inventory application opens. come on,
come on. week on week change. yes. this is going to
be a big quarter. nice. every market above target. those Atlanta stores are catching
fire. finally. about time. i know they have been working hard to pick things up for a long
time. no doubt, prayers too. but that tie-in promotion, i knew it would work.
i'm not finish
i have secrets
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
crossroads
migration
i cannot continue
Rekindle This
new finish line
the floating flame. premonition. of it reaching my bedding,
the goose down comforter, fire like wings that would envelop me.
consuming me. a pyre, an inferno.
i am not a virgin for appeasement.
desperate i whisper a breath to extinguish that small flicker.
i barely have breath
and small as it is, it withstands my attempt, and comes closer.
no avail
i duck under cover, refusing the
as if to attest, you must bear witness
like joan of arc or a jew Tomas Trevino de Sobremonte, Antonio Jose da Silva
kiddush hashem
קידוש השם
Auto da Fe
quemadero (burning place)
discovery of guilt
so not exactly progress as this is rather still amorphous but i think i've added and amended enough to set record. jan 09, again. the progression, as it is, is within the comments.
i do have a reaction against whatever it was that i had in mind. part of it might be by describing it, once done that, it seemed a bit less compelling and it seemed a bit more trite. the trite part is that whatever the payoff was suppose to be, it's also a ground that i've touched on before. not that i don't think it's worth reiterating, not just tolerance, not even acceptance, but a sort of real celebration for the unknown or the mysteries of paradox and contradiction. i just figure i might have something else or more to say.
so it's more of the same, compiling words and images and phrases and stuff that i want to use, or not use. there are a bunch of things i want to do, and not to do. or not to do too badly, like make it utterly depressingly morbid. anyway, just keep at it to see if something stands out to build around.
its lighting, or the sound of it,
woke me
from dream deep sleep
gray and dullness overlaid the room, the tattered municipal light slipping in
becomes a feeble wasted scepter pitched against the wall
as reignless as my fingers are ringless
all appeared normal but the potential for new ugly scars of barbarism loom
this domicile, no longer protected by the familiar rule of law
why do i still sleep here
why not sleep outside
burrow underneath the snow and layers of new concrete and old concrete
to ancient dirt
a magic lantern
unsee what is seen
disturbance
boring blank scenes from the afterglow
sweet cream ladies, forward march
normally i am disinterested but startled
while sluggish, i became interested before i could
be disinterested
i missed it initially
furnishing
some one loves you very much,
someone loves you very much
the worn petals of your rose mostly blacked and bruised, the fragrance no longer provocation
not lost but still troubled
bioluminescence
firefly
my thoughts are filled with fucking
i got 99 problems and a bitch in everyone
i make fists
i give fists
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
soar
where had i left it all behind?
my heart,
my heart, it is in it still
i at last ask myself, am i awake after all?
how awake? after a short pause.
then i am in a navy suit, and i say hello to miss receptionist. "good morning." and at
my desk and my monitor turned on. still no email? i call, - it's not ready? ...
very well ... tomorrow ... when, no, before, i get in ... okay, bye. that frees
up my morning a little but might have to stay late tomorrow. i check my calendar.
re-schedule my meeting. a very important meeting. nothing to go over now. not
my fault they will have to stay late too. may be it will not take too long.
i telephone - hey, yes, good morning, oh no, nothing, yeah, i have a lot of work
here, can't really talk, just wanted to let you know, in case i forget, no, well, i
want to ask if we can move dinner later tomorrow, nothing, just, well,
you know, it's okay? excellent.
the big moment. i have to check this. the inventory application opens. come on,
come on. week on week change. yes. this is going to
be a big quarter. nice. every market above target. those Atlanta stores are catching
fire. finally. about time. i know they have been working hard to pick things up for a long
time. no doubt, prayers too. but that tie-in promotion, i knew it would work.
i'm not finish
i have secrets
indigo, madder & chay flags, an array of lithe idols, and ringed chains of volatile blossoms
jealous gods
jealous hearts
i held your face in my hands
i looked at your eyes
the friendship my childhood longed for
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
the rose of your lips
the accelerating rhythm of blood's machinery vibrating against my palm
the flow of scarlet reveal down your legs, i kiss around the source
crossroads
migration
gertrude stein does not write or say anything anymore
she's dead
the funeral completed before i was born
i sought a misunderstood flame
and the monsoon that beats down, washing dirt, sin
leaving only unquenchable lust and that flame alive
i cannot continue
Rekindle This
new finish line
confession confession
confess confess
the floating flame. premonition. of it reaching my bedding,
the down comforter, fire like wings that would envelop me.
consuming me. a pyre, an inferno.
i am not a virgin for appeasement.
desperate i whisper a breath to extinguish that small flicker.
i barely have breath
and small as it is, it withstands my attempt, and comes closer.
no avail
i duck under cover, refusing the
as if to attest, you must bear witness
like joan of arc or a jew Tomas Trevino de Sobremonte, Antonio Jose da Silva
kiddush hashem
קידוש השם
Auto da Fe
quemadero (burning place)
discovery of guilt
never turned out to be much of a gambler
i lost it all on my very first wager already
i don't think i'll get the chance again
i ask for god's blessing
i will continue asking
woke me
from dream deep sleep
gray and dullness overlaid the room, an icy slash
of crown light grown to barbarism
as new ugly scars scare to
loom
as reignless as my fingers are ringless
this domicile, no longer protected by a magic wand
turn the torch into wordless wants
why do i still sleep here
why not sleep outside
burrow beneath snow and layers of new concrete and old mistreats
stepped on gum, freezing num
free cigarette butts, lost loose pocket change,take out flyers, delivery menus, picking up fights then finally,
pressed broken bottles to glasses that shine your eyes,
then lighting to
carbon, crude, cut diamond
to
ancient dirt,
recomposing and decomposing
mingle with molds and rots of roots
and examine their contrary aspiration as they divert
vital energies up through soil to
bodies that rise in viscid sky and heaven
visa
for v is a and vise versa
there is a man left in manhattan
(as the han baked egg tan/ the hat that lost its weight)
unbearable forbidden being like bees beginning to
drink laughing gin instead of loving honey rings
uncross my fingers
normally i am disinterested but startled
while sluggish, i became interested before i could
be disinterested
i missed it initially
unsee what is seen
disturbance
boring blank scenes against the furnishing from the afterglow
the touches burn slowly low
a magic lantern
some one loves you very much,
some one loves you very much
the worn petals of your rose mostly blacked and bruised, the fragrant provocations expired
not lost but still troubled
bioluminescence
firefly
i make fists
i give fists
it happened,
the thing that does not happen.
to say a few words
sweet cream ladies, forward march
where had i left it all behind?
my heart,
my heart, it is in it still
i at last ask myself, am i awake after all?
how awake? after a short pause.
then i am in a navy suit, and i say hello to miss receptionist. "good morning." and at
my desk and my monitor turned on. still no email? i call, - it's not ready? ...
very well ... tomorrow ... when, no, before, i get in ... okay, bye. that frees
up my morning a little but might have to stay late tomorrow. i check my calendar.
re-schedule my meeting. a very important meeting. nothing to go over now. not
my fault they will have to stay late too. may be it will not take too long.
i telephone - hey, yes, good morning, oh no, nothing, yeah, i have a lot of work
here, can't really talk, just wanted to let you know, in case i forget, no, well, i
want to ask if we can move dinner later tomorrow, nothing, just, well,
you know, it's okay? excellent.
the big moment. i have to check this. the inventory application opens. come on,
come on. week on week change. yes. this is going to
be a big quarter. nice. every market above target. those Atlanta stores are catching
fire. finally. about time. i know they have been working hard to pick things up for a long
time. no doubt, prayers too. but that tie-in promotion, i knew it would work.
i'm not finish
i have secrets
indigo, madder & chay flags soar, an array of lithe idols, and ringed pungent chains of blossoms
reborn
jealous gods
jealous hearts
i held your face in my hands
i looked at your eyes
the friendship my childhood was has longed for
that thing happened
that thing is the thing that does not happen
the over ripened lips, set to burst
the accelerating rhythm of blood's machinery vibrating against my palm
the spring of crooked line of scarlet creasing your cream thighs, i kiss around the source
crossroads migration sleazy
i recross my fingers
bolt passed the finish line, eventually
gertrude stein does not write or say anything anymore
she's dead
the funeral completed before i was born
(or/for someone has never lived) in
loveland
i sought a misunderstood flame
and the monsoon that beats down, washing dirt, sin
leaving only unquenchable lust and that flame alive
barely,
dancing in the meeting of the eyes, like lies
i cannot continue
Rekindle This
new finish line
confession confession
confess confess
the floating flame. premonition. of it reaching my bedding,
the down comforter, fire like wings that would envelop me.
consuming me. a pyre, an inferno.
“i am not a virgin for appeasement” it snows in no,
i whisper a desperate breath to extinguish that flicker.
i barely have a breath
and small as it is,
it withstands my attempt, and comes closer.
i duck under cover
pythias, do not return! stay away, stay home, stay and watch your baby
be born, and crawl, and grow big,
become unruly become your equal become a new father himself
stay away and love your wife and father and mother
tend your house and fields and friends
stay away and live and ponder and deny and exercise and dream
and exert and reminisce and become old, lost, senile, and spent
as if to attest, you must bear witness
like joan of arc or a jew Tomas Trevino de Sobremonte, Antonio Jose da Silva
kiddush hashem
קידוש השם
Auto da Fe quemadero (burning place)
discovery of guilt
rewind
like wind gone with the wound
or wings moun its destiny
i cannot understand the ongoing plea of love
no i don't love you nor will i
never was much of a gambler
i lost it all on my very first wager
i don't think i'll get the chance again
i ask for god's blessing - gods do not answer letters - i will continue asking
all night
living to prove
to welcome the birth of proof
before you become too aloof
or deaf
or dead
or dolls dropped cute
with too much memory
in dark miles of silent,
no mind, just stand by
my side, at least
in this life.
its lighting,
or the sound of it,
woke me,
from dream deep sleep
rain overlaid the mist
like a mask hidden with a fist
through this city
a yelling insist
even he is angry, now
finally
god does speak words
and answer letters
tear stream
the cure was supposed to fix
then
the firefighters
far and close
like cheerleaders
silent anger
i, at last,ask myself,
what have i done wrong?
more lighting and
endless sounds
it's not my turn,
the punishment belong to others,
while mine has been paid, all with this long
time that has been said and
unsaid
be gentle,
be gentle to
others, if you
must
the lighting,
is his anger,
punishing those words that disturbed
the minds
the lighting of the night
comes for those who despite,
my heart, my heart
survives through the storm,
i ask you,
ease the punishment
ease them
erase them
and peace them
all is in the past now,
my heart, my heart,
he is angry too
the flame was being misunderstood
nuptial gift.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/30/science/30firefly.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=fireflies&st=cse
it's your birthday
close your eyes,
make a wish
where are you now?
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