Thirteen Ways
[We responded to Wallace Stevens’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” — a classic poem with a recognizable, list-like form. Some took to the form, some to the content of birds — being that it’s spring, after all.]
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Ways of the Red Winged Blackbird –
Anon but Many –
— by Mary
I.
Trillie Trille sing
ye Red Wings Trille
How stack their awakening
Trille it’s Spring
Perched atop reeds a-many
arching sprouts their
call—it flies my
Eye swings up and All
is blue sweeten by white
Sparkling lights aquamarine
so blue so black the
body black – the circle
mark of Red – Pronounce
Spring Alive Now
Alight the trails of high
pitched notes – As they
embed my mind with
so unforgettable trilleies
II.
Be it the game of first discovery
or be it the claim of being
the first – the fact being
Spring sweeps us all
in lushing folds the
red wings of lone
blackbirds bring
our hearts pounding
faster to the crescendo
Spring – morning light
dizzy puffs of clouds
small the tiny threads of
peepers Re sound the
Red Red spot of shining
blackness –
Reflect my hope Reflect
despair persistent
Joy break free
Aligned I am to be
one with Spring – its
messenger the Red
Winged Blackbird
III.
Hark did I hear – Yes
below the mud
bulbs of oxygen pop
Squinting I peer out
where is the sound
Alerting me it’s there
I see the one – effusive
blue-black gently rolling
waving shape – A bird – Red is
it of course I know Memory
first the end the
beginning – the timelessness
of Spring –
Perfection illusive
trilleie trillie
the one the lone celebrated
messenger – Red Winged
soldier gloried be you
The Red Winged Blackbird
of Spring
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Thirteen Ways
— by Matt
What the heck.
I was talking to Blackbirds outside social security yesterday.
If this makes me mentally deranged,
then so be it.
I would like to someday find out the
Native American phrase for “Friend of
the Birds.” This is what I’d like to be.
Ever since the Fall, man has seemed to
have a hard time getting along with the
animals, obviously because of our own hostility.
This is the fault of man, and nothing
else, because animals are simply afraid of us.
I’m afraid of us, too.
If we live in a world where it’s impossible
to stop and give someone the time of
day, I believe hope is lost.
The problem with sin is not that it means
somebody had simply done something
wrong.
The problem was it signaled an alienation
of ourselves toward God.
I want “stuff,” but I’m not going to do
this at the expense of reason.
I think the litmus test of man is whether
we can simply get along with animals.
If the Lamb is to lay down with the Lion,
we will first have to do every part of
introspection.
I think Fear is the greatest enemy
we have.
I think striving after perfectionism makes
things impossible.
Letting go, on the other hand, makes
things easy and lets us realize the
things we could become.
My former Landlord, Kathy McHugh, once
told me to “Slow Down.”
I think this is the best advice anyone
has ever given me.
Speed is for the Dead, because it
symbolizes the effort to catch up to
things we should probably never attain.
Easy is the byword for everything that
symbolizes usefulness.
I think “Blackbird” is my favorite Paul
McCartney song.
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Thirteen Moons
— by Courtney
Touching my fingernails: where is the moon? the boy asks.
The moon makes bird shadows on the sand in front of us streetlight-bright.
By moonlight I photograph sand in his hair before he cries.
I want to photograph the orb of everything against my uterus mountain.
The girl displaced from China posts photographs of the moon so close-up I think she is in orbit.
If we could know the future our hearts would crack at what we will be required to bear. In this moment and in this one all is well.
The composition of a circle can only work beside or inside another circle (flower-center beside moon inside womb).
The boy’s book: Against the moon’s face shines the sun – with a line drawing of saffron stars.
Moon womb whom doom broom room.
I circle the days the moon is full like hospitals and firemen do.
I have never seen a moon while flying and I have never seen it while underwater. I have never drawn the moon.
In the schematic of the sky, the moon was as significant as Jupiter and Venus lined up below, but our eyes and the ocean at our feet disagreed: a moon argument.
Dark matter and white matter flip through one another at the black hole, which is not dead space after all; rather, a moment of creation that burns and is extinguished and burns against like people do.
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Nine Ways…
— by George
From the passenger seat
Through the car window
I took a picture
Of a wind farm
Central Illinois
The dark loamy soil
Saturated with chemical
Drive
Hands upon the wheel
Ten and two
Avoid the trash
Blown from the truck
In front of you
Springfield
Somewhere near dead center
Looks like one big freeway
When talking
I turn my head slightly
And look in the rearview mirror
Hoping to connect with
The eyes of my companions
We are moving
Someone must be driving
Maps: Rt. 94 to 80 to 65 and back
These red and blue lines
Blood pulsing through my body
A café for eggs and coffee
A peanut butter sandwich
Two apples
Nourishment drained
By the all night party
It was raining. Then the sun showed
There was rumor of a tornado
We were driving
Interstates
Between Michigan and Missouri
Blind to most everything
Listening to each other.
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Inertia
— by David
Like Mr. Frost, I came to a fork in the road;
thirteen ways to go forward; I see
one to Buffalo; too much rust.
one to Boston; too preppy.
one to New York; too much hustle.
one to Virginia Beach; too South.
one to Charleston; far too South.
one to Miami; far, far too South.
one to Brownsville Texas; far, far too South;
far too laden with memories.
one to Tijuana; ok, but can’t speak Spanish.
one to Los Angeles; too flaky.
one to San Francisco; far too burdened with memories,
even from afar.
one to Duluth; the possibilities are unknown.
one to the Soo; Michigan again.
one back to Ann Arbor, the default value;
why travel?
Rhyme
[March 20, 2012: The prompt was rhyme: I read and passed out a poem by Rebecca Wolff called “Parkeresque.” There are so many rhymes in this poem with such short lines that the rhyme drives the poem with an insistent beat. I have had trouble finding poems that move me these past few weeks, and this was the first one that did so I thought others might be moved, too. I was nervous for the prompt — usually I do ‘content’ prompts instead of ‘form’ prompts, and it’s sometimes more difficult to come up with content on the spot when there is only twenty minutes to write. But the conversation and the writing was so fascinating, I think it was a success.]
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by Matt:
Rhyme.
Dig it.
Keep in mind, before there was rap music there was funk.
I can dig it you can dig it, we can dig it, she can dig it.
Why is it children seem to get things better than full-grown adults?
I think I need to spend more time in the nursery.
Black limos. Condos. Mountain chalets.
Puke.
Why can’t there be more simplicity?
I think there should be a constitutional amendment that our next president be under the age of 8.
If I hear another lecture about maturity, I’m going to scream.
Christ said, “Let the children come to me.”
I wish children were simply running things.
Political science should be banned.
Maybe the reason we have too many wars is because too many people have their thumbs up their asses.
The simplicity of a poem is the most calming thing I can think about right now.
This morning, I called out to the birds outside my window.
People said I was crazy.
Fuck off.
Why is it that birds seem to understand rhyme, and people treat them like dearth were some virtue?
I believe nature is highly underrated.
I think I want to be a swami when I grow up (and this may never happen).
I once saw a killer dancing to Earth, Wind and Fire.
Get your funk on, get your groove on, and let it go.
If more people were poor, I think the human race would finally have a chance at survival.
Money is the answer to almost none of your problems.
I think I’ll have fudge for breakfast.
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by Mary:
I.
Fence me –
No way Jose
Trail a can
behind my Bentley
Maybe then
I’ll let you in
Marvel Jose
Furry limbed diamonds within
Canned they be
rounded for the Jubilee
Come Come
Off we bee
Dazzled, Praised
All within, All Awhile
The party’s soon
to begin –
II.
High mirrored in the sky
Float by panels
Tipped in silver
Weathervanes of cows
North by Northwest the
Eastern light casts
In silhouette upon the
cow prefaced by wagon trains
booted to a sluggish crawl
envision purpeled rawness of the Now
III.
good bye good bye
Soakey handkerchiefs wave forlorn
Sweet sadness
drip and drip goodbyes –
I love yous I miss yous
Must you go?
Be brave be strong
Wishey would be’s
Aside courage
Awakens my steady grief.
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by Amy:
Suspended in flight:
the clustered balloons;
in time with;
the full moon;
A green lager
poured the father
over the sky;
I fly,
I try; but,
the stalactites
of malachite
flood my sight.
Pants green neon
shirt yellow neon
outrageous combination
like hot and cold;
The tornado that folds
over the night.
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Death Rhyme
by Courtney
Ready steady go
the boy says, and down the slide glide
whoa
head – we have only one head per life
his life, my strife.
(I will not rhyme with dead.)
Connect me to telepathy
a prayer for knees, the beekeeper’s
blessing of skinned trees
no way, not my trees (on my knees).
(The movie with the bees that took a child away.)
As he sleeps I can’t sleep unless I see
his chest his breath a lightning rod
a sign that there is gold in my house that the gods want
Fruit rot death not burial plot not sought breath shot heart hot.
(Rain, rain, go away.)
All the Living
[March 13, 2012: As the prompt I read an excerpt from C.E. Morgan’s novel, All the Living. This novel contains the real pain of being alive on earth, the small ways we all must suffer in our daily life and in our relationships to one another. It is a beautiful book, despite or because of its sorrow. It begins with this quote from Ecclesiastes that really struck a lot of the people in the workshop:
This is an evil in all that happens under the sun, that the same fate comes to everyone. Moreover, the hearts of all are full of evil; madness is in their hearts while they live, and after that they go to the dead. But whoever is joined with all the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion.
—- Ecclesiastes 9:3]
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All the Living
— by Mary
All is black at any
Given Moment of the Night
but scratch – A sound
erupts Furiously soft and sharp
the flap
of a moth’s
wings increasingly fast to FRENZY
All because Another soul’s
Agony insists on visibility
Must we all see the Feathering
curl of toasted moth wings – Against
the white bulb’s heat
Artemis leave your wars past
Allow the peace of darkness
gross it’s
time to heal
in Repair for
the glory of
dignified death
x x x
Justify the Anger
if one can
realize whatever point
defined is
Already sealed in my the mask
of death’s
lost skin –
Decay
young death and
Arise
New sprouts
Pop through
the mold
of grassy greenish blue
whitened chips of Fallen
Trees give way –
Small eggs brown and blue
speckled exposed
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All the Living
— by Matt
I’m sick and tired of talking about death.
Why don’t we give more credibility to
the living.
If life sucks so bad, why do people
treat it as if it were the only thing
to which they were clinging.
Solomon also said, “I saw the dead,
and congratulated them.”
This might be true, but I’ve never so
much wanted to cling to life as I do
now.
I once knew a grave digger, and I
envied him more than anyone I knew.
Why, if life is so important, do we
treat the dead as if they’re running
for President.
They say if you’re an alcoholic, all you’ll
ever need is a Big Book and Black suit.
C’mon, Lighten up. Life isn’t that bad.
I once had a History teach who said
she had her bullshit meter pushed up to
ten.
Why, then, are there so many people
running around sad.
And why is there so much fighting.
I think “Peace, Mother Fucker” is the most
profound thing anybody ever said to me.
If life is so precious, why do we fight
like there’s nothing better to do with our
lives.
And why do we watch so much crap
on television.
If I never see another rerun of
“Law and Order,” I’ll be truly satisfied.
And why if life is so precious have we
devised so many clever ways to kill ourselves?
I used to believe in mandatory vasectomies
for some people.
In some way, I still do.
If life is so bad, why can’t you just
end it, and leave the rest of us the
fuck alone.
I think I’ll do whatever it takes to be
kind to animals today.
The End.
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All the Living
— by Courtney
He is in the garden. Working like an ox, though I’ve never seen one.
He doesn’t stop even for a drink of water.
“When I’m done digging this section,” he says.
I don’t know how we haven’t killed each other,
All this strength inside, made acidic by the fury of circumstance.
Our grip on our childhood arms have stopped us.
(Hitting is wrong and words are right.
But these words aren’t right.)
To assuage the animal, to transport the pain,
he digs. He digs
until his face is calm and his muscles uncalm,
trembling like a dog in thunder.
This is his garden. It is soil he fights for,
this square of soil that he fills with basil now.
The basil tells me what home smells like.
When hitting is wrong and words are wrong
there are the smells that right me.
Cedar pencil box husband,
Rosie’s flowering shampoos,
Rosie’s mother’s detergent on Rosie’s clothes,
Genovese basil juicing in my fist.
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Somewhere in Illinois
— George
To all the living
Somewhere in Illinois farmland
Down swaths cut
In thick Midwestern dirt
Great clumps of it stick to my boots
Heavy, the bulk of it making
Me wish I were dead
And think if Dick Nixon
A man whose death I laughed at
Firmly planting my feet in hell
No, I’m not coming back
Buried here as I am in Illinois
Ascent
[It was George alone with the workshop, and he found an excerpt from a Taoist book as the prompt:
Chill morning, stone steps.
The path to the temple is step.
We may stumble at times,
But we must always get up again.
As George told me afterward, the quote has to do with ascending to enlightenment and how it is slow to the point of seeming fruitless. But persistence is necessary, as is an acceptance of sometimes having to stop along the way to enjoy the scenery. March 6, 2012.]
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Ascent of Man
— by Philip
The progressive powers of the species
The purposeful driving of our purpose
The essay of man; the art of his dream
Do you believe in the perfectability of man?
The progressive powers of the species
Do you believe in the perfectability of natural man?
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Ascent
— by Mary
One Stone at a time—
Oh the complexity of knowledge
Can become in itself a diversion
From the way to progress.
Better books like a collection of
Stones are precious yet
They too become items in the way
Of daily progress
Let us shed as we ascend
Admire be aware in our
Collection of visions sublime
One step—
Weightless in thin air.
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Florida
— by George
John Travolta brings an old car
To get where
The road is a character
Of limited access
Of fast food & truck stops
Of speed
The likes of which can’t keep up
Or get up
While we
Looking at the panorama
Of slash pine and palmetto
Of sand and crushed shell
Beaches
Wait for the old car and Travolta.
Judgment and the Long Sentence
[We looked to a quote from a book by Charles Eistenstein called The Yoga of Eating:
When you can understand every action, of yourself and others, as the touchingly naïve response of an innocent baby-in-an-adult-body to a world gone incomprehensibly wrong; seeking, as all creatures will, to avoid pain in a very painful world; buffeted, like milkweed in a storm, by environmental forces vastly dwarfing the power of any single individual; concealing a fathomless well of loss and private sadness; taking on a measure of difficulty and suffering at the very edge of one’s capacity; and yet, heroically, striving, surviving, and transcending circumstances beyond any reasonable expectation; then you will see glory in every person, a divine and radiant beauty; and you will realize that like all people, you do even as God would do, if God were you.
Much of the writing centered on judgment. It was a large group. Someone who has hovered nearby the table but not ever written with us or even spoke much, a man named Philip, graced us with a beautiful poem set in iambic pentameter. There are so many mysteries in this group, and moments of transcendence.]
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Judge Not Lest You Be Judged
— by Philip
Man is a symbological person
He is to wit more than a note a glass
And tho we represent ourselves alone in law
And particularize ourselves in guilt and pain
Responsible to law order police
We could not make it there and everywhere
Unless we squared circles of signs symbolically
And let justice be served by our own melding love.
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“if God were you”
- by David
What an interesting twist of phrase-
I am familiar, even comfortable,
with the phrase, “if I were God,”
but “if God were I”?
What possible reason would God
want to be me? Perhaps…
Perhaps God would like a challenge-
to throw off His omnipotence, his
omniscience, so he could really face
a challenge, like the challenge
of getting through a day.
Perhaps God still longs to be mortal,
like some believe He did when
He was born the Christ.
Perhaps He would want to throw off
the responsibilities that come
with being All-Mighty—
people could solicit his aid,
but He would need not respond—
it would fall outside His capacities.
It is all moot—idle conjecture.
God will never be me, and
that’s His preference.
If it weren’t His preference,
He wouldn’t be the All-Mighty.
Matter settled.
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Untitled
— by Matt
Why?
The question you are never supposed to ask.
When I was in Journalism school at Michigan, they told me never to ask the question “Why?”
I guess that’s the reason I’m not a journalist.
I find it hard to believe some people are numb to the circumstances around them.
Why do we fight and get in quarrels with each other as if torture were some glorious state.
I’m in pain. But what the fuck can I do about it.
I’ve been told I should take yoga classes, and this I will probably do.
People who are angry are often those who take the least notice of themselves.
Expectation. Expectation. Expectation.
You want something of me?
Well, first, you can kiss my ass.
I could care less who wins the next election, or who the next leader will be.
I’m glad, for instance, I don’t own a gun.
Personal weaponry is the most viral form of judgmentalism I can think of.
Why in a world of soap operas do we deny ourselves the most simple pleasures?
Why do we have to work to the point there’s pounding in our heads?
Why do we have to live with expectations that are unreasonable for ourselves.
The Republicans can kiss my ass. Why if it’s so important for me to vote, don’t they supply transportation?
If I see another negative attack ad, I’m going to scream.
If we go down like the Titanic, as a society I’ll know just who to blame.
Maybe the emphasis on sedatives in the psychiatric profession is not so unjustified.
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An Old Man
— by Bill
When I die, I want to
have fully lived.
I want to look back and
realize that I chose well,
often without realizing it.
Instead of grieving lost strength,
I have strength.
Instead of lost loves,
I have loves.
Instead of lost ambitions,
I can climb to new heights.
Instead of lost joyfulness
Today’s joy is enough.
Today I drink from the well and
the water bestows strength and love.
It gives the will to be challenged
and I find joy in this process.
It bestows the visions that
someday will be the hindsight
of a satisfied old man.
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Untitled
— by Mary
But if God were I
would he write the
Faces found in libraries
Would he risk
creeping crawling nebulae
flowing in our veins
visibly seen as some
weird perversion of blood
to life
would I risk
my public personae
whatever that may be
the risk of falsehood
Falsity do we see
that in nature – is to
see judgmental is to
name a godly thing?
I live in my head I
think words and
images – is that some
sickly priestly thing or
do these word/image pockets
exist as contrast to wild
purple majesty overflow of darkened
matter
x x x
Milkweed, crackled dryness
spoofing what only history
could claim as perennial
and annual in one
Oh glory! whiteness of feathery
clouds of soft scented gentility
of earth’s wetness, dank
transcending infidelity!
x x x
Crimes is judgment a call
What’s valid
Whose beauty comes first
Superseding the call
BE FREE BE FREE
SAY WHAT YOU THINK
or perhaps let the sun rise
and set for forty days –
And then see whose God is right –
but whatever
Emily are we
all jaded by our
judgmentality –
x x x
Hey Charles Eisenstein
I saw Jennifer throw up
your rotted cottage cheese
post brain surgery
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food for Nothing
— by Mike C.
Energy, Nutrition, Decision, Power & Date
Date decision energy power nutrition. Energy power nutrition. Date power. Energy decision date power. decision power date nutrition energy. nutrition power decision. power. nutrition. power date decision. date power. date energy. date nutrition.
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Pledges of Reform
— by Mike C.
Love
Lovelife
Love
Lovelife
Love
Pledges of Reform
Lovelife
Love
Lovelife
Love
Lovelife
Pledges of Reform
Love
Love
Lovelife
Love
Love
Lovelife
Love
Pledges of Reform
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Love to Flagpole
— by Mike C.
Soap box preachers over the years have limited self-visitation in the general vicinity. Life’s applause is determining awareness education and ambition. The allegiance somewhere through time turned a face to brow-beating. Dedication overviews and sexuality bring love to allegiance and the love to @ & thou flagpole. Inward reflection of the soapbox preacher isn’t just poppycock to topics of government and family.
I miss that engineer. I want a toasted dough and liked it later. We miss the continuity of a sacred valentine as my thoughts race to slow with a distinct savoy of a wedlock to mankind. I still raise my heeds in transitional peculiarities. That soap box lobbying bring a careless but tuned ear to the organically oriented worldly concerns.
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Native American Flute Concert
[A musician named Lenore Wiand, renowned for her powerful and healing performances with indigenous flutes, performed a concert for the Saint Andrews Breakfast Program this past week. We wrote to the music — the music was our prompt — then we shared our writing as a group. I am always impressed with the workshop’s ability to respond to prompts of all sorts, and this week proved no different. Many thanks to Lenore Wiand for an inspiring performance.]
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Lenore Wiand
— by George
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe
Listen to your breath
It touches heart and soul
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe
Inside each of us is a sound
A timeless quality
A higher love
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe
Listen to your heart
Play on Clay, on Wood, on Bone
Return to balance and harmony
Think of crocuses
Silence
When you hear this
A scrambled crumpling of shells
Think of music
It is complete
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe
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Untitled
— by Mary
Furies vengeful screeching FURIES
Release me
You have hurt me and now today
I need PEACE and PROGRESS
Canned diplomacy doesn’t cut it
SHE DEVILS
GIVE ME INSTEAD
ALLOWANCE for my IRREVERENCE
Of DEFEAT
LET ME INHALE
STANDING WITH
MY ARMS EXTEND
ED WIDE HEAD
HIGH HEAR ME
INHALE THE WINDS
FLUTED dissonance
Aside: See the bent
Heads over sloping shoulders
LULLED TO SONEFFLUENCE
Dot Dot DotDotDot Punctuate
SHELLED SEA STONES CARRIED BY
THE BIRDS TO ZEUS’S HIGHLAND
REALM
* * *
Human Foul Diseased Blight of Human Fighting Yelling HUMAN
Rotting Flesh of Bone Exposed Browned Muscle of Hesiod Rotting Flesh WIN
Echo The Moan of Aphrodite’s Gifts Pitched Intensity Lovers Drinks WIND
Rest With Stones
Nestled to the Fern of Forest
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Valentine’s Day Flute Concert After Breakfast
— by David M.
Music has always been a part of my life, whether performing or listening. It’s cathartic, and will take you to a word inside your head that you didn’t know existed. I don’t read fantasy books—I listen to music.
The beautiful thing about music is that it doesn’t have to be heard to have an effect on you. It can be felt as well.
I have a friend who is deaf and she loves the Doors. We used to go for drives and Katrina would slip in the Doors’ Greatest Hits and we would both sing along. Although she could not hear, she could feel the music. She felt the vibrations which moved her spirit. What do the Doors have to do with flute music? Nothing … and everything, because music is really about connecting us to the universe.
There is music in the silence. Jas as when you read a poem and pause for a timely caesura.
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Image
— by Matt
What does it really mean to me?
I am reminded of the bus song by Jason Aldean, which states you get on the bus and make a million bucks.
I think this is shooting a little high.
If I was a dinosaur, I believe I would live in the Ice Age.
I would say music is probably the most important thing in my life.
I don’t know why we have to do things so ghastly to each other while we could be doing things more restful to the soul.
Sometimes, I think, in this age of nuclear weapons, if we kill ourselves, it’s because we weren’t paying attention to the beauty right in front of us.
I don’t understand why some people can’t calmly and silently sit, without some massive form of stimulation to themselves.
Buy! Buy! Buy! And Sell! Sell! Sell!
This is the message that seems to come across, when we’re looking at our lives.
Spite is the most poisonous message you can feel.
When I die, I want to be simply content with the things I have.
Why can’t we appreciate the things which are right in front of us.
Why does there always have to be explosions, phasers and photon torpedoes?
I’m reminded of the movie Armageddon, in which the astronaut says, “Get off the nuclear weapon!”
I mean, maybe the solution lies in hypnosis.
Why do we always have to breathe, eat and shit like there’s no tomorrow.
It’s Tuesday. And tomorrow it’ll be Wednesday.
They’ve been predicting the end of the world for centuries, and yet it never comes.
I think if Sasquatch were President, most of these problems would be solved.
I think the answers lie in the mist somewhere where we are least expecting they would be.
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Four Poems by Mike
Morning to Remember in the Old Country
Evening app 2:45 est
By a Dad & Mom
The Curtis’s
Early this morning as I awoke
Early a embryo type growth process
In motion split into twin males. My
Wife & me to be, I happy her
Is and @ pre class time agina have
A reserve to be with the forces of
Mother & Father Existence. What
A Gestation. My happiness is incredible
In a Fatherly pregnant way of 2 for
This miracle of existence. Keep us
In your remembrance Lord and Book
Of Kings, Queens and all life forces
That be with.
Signed Mike & Temple
And/or TKC & Me
________
To The Best of Father’s Ability
Lord Dick “COSMOS” app 2:45 a.m.
2/14-15/12-split genetically into two males?
I didn’t know until I felt it myself.
Wow, it’s this destiny of a rejuvenated
Past life of Lord Dick’s permanent relord.
I guess me & my wife and her or rather
Our intui8tion and mentality will contemplate
A name of the reincarnated and/or name
Of their new chance of life.
By Mike C’s
Temple & Family &
Temple Maiden
_____________
Cluewill
My memo pad and a sacred Valentine mix it up
Lenore & Louis are two people. My memo pad says
Yes, it’s love and like each other we’re nameless.
Flute and Love
The American and memo pad realistically sorted …
… And Like Each Other … #**! You Brought it up!
My memo pad is pixel and solidified ORGANIC.
Tony has a memo pad of different
MY MEMO PAD!! #?@ I CAN’T FIND IT …
Love guides us and like each other odds aren’t 50-50
The memo pad contributes to growing records
The Iron Gauntlet and memo pad spy on Iran
Temple & Curtis’s
Refrain
App 18:45 EST
Years ago—Part of the sun
Today—working with the throne
6/3/4/2012—The ? Future
November—Gregorian time table
2-12/14-2012—Black Monday& Valentine
Pregnancy 2011-1600 Pennsylvania
13 AD—I can’t remember
1937—Troubling times-vs-code of conduct
1976—less than 300 years for Detroit
2012—Thank our lucky stars woman
00—Dust of Nostrils
00—The Quran Destination
00—Gospel of the creators
0+—Pregnancy
1957—The title of a process
1 day ahead—February 13/15-2012
Halftime in Detroit
[Our prompt was this commercial featuring Clint Eastwood, played during halftime of the Super Bowl this week (click on image to be directed to youtube of commercial).
The transcript was co-written by a poet, Matthew Dickman, and another writer. I personally found it thrilling that a young poet was commissioned to write a commercial for the biggest football game of the year. The group, though, was way more interested in writing about the content — the hope of Detroit. There were some powerful pieces written this week, and the energy felt even more engaged that usual. People have opinions about Detroit. Many of the people in the workshop grew up there. I am a transplant who has visited it rarely, and it was a workshop where I felt like an outsider eager to understand more.]
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Halftime
— by David KE Dodge
I’m in my late thirties. I guess that’s in the halftime of my life, as God grants us years.
17364 Westbrook. 161-313-538-2383. That’s my girlfriend’s address and phone number, from the first quarter of my life, as I remember them now, in my fourth quarter.
I’m in my late thirties. I leave my vermin-infested apartment in downtown Detroit, and walk to the MESC day-labor office, perhaps five blocks away. The time is in the first quarter of the day, before 06:00.
I’m the only White in the room. Perhaps twenty young Black men are there with me. In my depression, I sit in the corner, my head propped up by the walls. I sit silent. It has been over three months since I last bathed or changed my clothes. For some reason, beyond my disinterested thought, the men tolerate me. Once, one even tries to strike up a conversation. He chooses sports as a topic. I try to respond, and in so doing, say a thing showing preposterous ignorance of sports. The conversation ends. I return to my funk.
We’re all waiting for the same thing- a job. Perhaps eight of the men were hired that day, by different small-business entrepreneurs. I’m one of the eight. Somehow, I get out to a landscaping sales business on Seven Mile, West side.
I spend the day painting used dumpsters, rusted, holes patched by a full-time welder, for sale to the public. The other day-laborers with me, perhaps three Blacks, are filling what are inferior positions, despite their seniority, repairing broken wooden pallets. They show me kindness.
At the end of the day, the bookkeeper of the company, White, invites me into the office. We agree to payment for my labor, by check. For the first time in my experience
as a day-laborer in Detroit, I’m not short-changed. The bookkeeper wants to know my story- how does a middle-aged White man end up doing day-labor in Detroit? He shows kindness.
Then I make my way back home, but on the way, I walk perhaps a mile, to 17364 Westbrook. The house is still there, boarded. Memories flow. Bittersweet. I walk to Six Mile and Grand River. I make my way home. I go to bed. Funk takes over. The neighbors, all White, complain. I don’t care.
* * *
On at least one occasion in my life that I definitely remember, a Black man tells me I’m Black. I consider the source, and am humbled.
Happy Black History Month, Detroit.
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Untitled
— by Dan S.
Detroit – Land of the Heretic and Infidel. They’re really nice people and a lot of fun to go to school. One time I got a pound from a guy with bright red machine gun holes in his leg (We went canoeing). His name was Jim. So then we went around.
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Half Time America Rise of Detroit
— by Mary
Did Detroit hear its echo
vibrating from the hallway of its soul
I sure think it did I could
hear it and I’m from New Jersey
raspy a capella American at its crosshairs falling into place
rising meteor behold the way
for government should
intercede where and when
innocent human struggle
hurting – But what of that
We could die
But what of that
When Hope is tabulated and
sung as in a whisper –
x x x
Father Grand Torino grandfather
I can still hear your song Prospero your notes
float as do the cries of
whimpering dogs – Behold America
in our dangerous times we
follow – The woody flute
Detroit’s pounding heart has
stopped its free float BLEED.
… .
Trinkle Down American
capitalism – hey you rock
Fox’s counter-propaganda sneer
Flat falls Murdoch speech m a k i n g.
— Red Fox you slinking Anima ie
Beauty merges on
Eight Mile.
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Untitled
— by David
Living in SE Michigan I know a thing or two about fighting, fighting for what you believe in, fighting to survive, fighting for your dreams…
No matter where I am in life, Detroit will always have a place in my heart, because it’s a city of underdogs fighting and learning to win, despite the doom and gloom it’s a city of optimists who haven’t lost hope, but then again when you’ve hit rock bottom there’s only one way to go. I’m a fighter, I’m a dreamer, I’m an underdog, and sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps you alive – it’s the willingness to imagine, to inspire, to believe that if you are willing to do whatever it takes, someday your dream of being the best can be a reality.
A few years ago, after having a severe setback in my life, I had given up hope. For me, it’s always been an internal struggle as a creative type. The talent I have is both a gift and a curse – I don’t fit in with the average nine-to-fiver corporate type.
One night after hitting my rock bottom, a dark cloud came over me and I climbed a scaffolding to a condominium that was being built. I was planning to jump that night but remorse came over me and I began to cry and could not stop. I hadn’t cried in probably two years up to that point. Two years of dreams far to the street below. After I collected myself I ran into my friend Scott who is a musician and he sense the dread I was feeling. I asked him, at what point in your life do you give up on your dreams and throw in the towel and have 2.3 kids, cat/dog and live in the suburbs with a white picket fence like most others? He told me something I needed to hear that night, something I will never forget.
“You don’t…. You don’t ever throw in the towel. Never give up.” Dreams are our hope for the future.
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Hamtramck Disney
— by Courtney
If there’s a breeze, we’re told, the fans tilt like flowers spin. Something special, we tell Henry, who is two, as we drive toward the alley. Something special? he repeats.
Mickey Mouse. A piece of a metal fish. Art show 1999: in red letters peeling. It’s in a narrow alley, it’s hard to see in the car with my cheek pressed to the glass, but around here you don’t get out of your car.
There is no breeze. When I say Hamtramck my brain looks for a way to say damn. Damn Hammock. When I type Detroit, I almost always spell it wrong first: De Riot.
A metal constellation in someone’s damn backyard in Hamtramck. Oversized Christmas candles, not lit. Plastic sculptures, gray sky. Paint peeled. Red paint turns gray on brittle plastic. Somewhere else, out of the alley, the sky is setting pink. We drive on in our foreign car. Was that special? we ask Henry. He says no.
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Kill ‘zem. Kill ‘zem all.
- by Matt
This is, of course, in response to Republican response to the Clint Eastwood Commercial in reference to Detroit.
I mean, look, Detroit has some crime infested areas, and the Unions did get greedy (but not the Executives. They are beyond question (gag)).
But does that mean we write off the entire city, or the people in it, and ignore the possibility of what they could become?
I mean, I realize people do some stupid things (although I never have. Ever. (Gag, again).
But what Republicans (and, I am one), don’t seem to realize is that no one, ever, should be left behind.
And know this: While many people have abandoned the idea that Detroit could make a comeback, I never will.
For instance, I will never give up on the Lions, and will go to my grave rooting for them.
I mean, what’s the problem with forgiveness and letting people learn from their mistakes?
Quite frankly, if someone had abandoned me, like they want to do to Detroit, I’d long be dead by now.
And what blows me away, is many people don’t seem to understand the positive in the Clint Eastwood message.
Detroit has tremendous possibility, and you are high-off-your-ass if you don’t know this.
Let people learn, and live from their mistakes.
Abandon them at your own peril.
Each and everyone has a likeness to God, and anyone who doesn’t know this, is obblivious to their surroundings.
And again, and this goes for the Clint Eastwood detractors, laxatives are highly underrated.
Dialogue (Salvage the Bones)
[With a prompt-excerpt from Jesmyn Ward’s Salvage the Bones, some authentic-yet-poetic dialogue surrounded by a bed of gorgeous description.]
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Prompt: Dialogue
— by David KE Dodge
Q: I still don’t understand. What is “dialogue,” anyway?
A: It’s just part, or parts, of a larger written account, usually fictional, which said parts relate the statements people make to each other.
Q: Oh, I see. So if I write “Jane said, ‘No Spot, no,’” and then I write “Spot said, ‘Bark, bark, bark,’” I’m not writing dialogue, because both statements are not from humans. Am I right?
A: Well technically, you might be right, but I guess I’m wrong in what I told you is dialogue. I guess animals can contribute to dialogue, not just people. Animals can be portrayed as emitting sounds typical of them, as part of a give and take with other animals, or with humans, who actually talk.
Q: How about if animals are anthropomorphized, speaking in human tongue, like if Spot, instead of saying “Bark, bark, bark,” says “Oh lighten up, Jane. It doesn’t do you any harm when I jump up on you.”
A: Yes, anthropomorphized animals can talk in human tongue, and in so doing, engage in dialogue. That kind of dialogue goes back, at least, nearly two millennia, to Aesop.
Q: But you said dialogue is always fiction. Is “Dick and Jane” fiction, or non-fiction?
A: I said dialogue is usually found in fiction, not always.
Q: But is “Dick and Jane” fiction, or non-fiction?
A: Well, what do you think?
Q: I don’t know. Maybe the author is recounting events he actually witnessed. But then, he may have just made it all up. This is so confusing, First you say one thing, and then you contradict yourself, and you answer questions with questions. Is it too late to change to another section of this class?
A: Why do you have to be so persnickety, so particular about who teaches you this class?
Q: I’m not particular about who teaches me; I’m particular about receiving instruction from someone who knows what dialogue is, and can tell fact from fiction.
A: Well, you can’t change sections. All the other sections of this class are filled. And I’m no more delighted to have you in my class than you are to have me as an instructor. And I’m sick and tired of teaching students who haven’t gone beyond “Dick and Jane.”
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Dialogue
— by Mary
Dibs without a word
in search of self
to say a word he-she-I
am —- talk can I talk?
Exchange — my howlwl
to word A sayin
bite (the) the (the) hair of thee
dog that b _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
my howl — mother milk
me — give sugar of word
to say
x x x
Cushin shookin warmin me
oven slow roast ash wood
First – a scent – the image then
blueberries bubblin up soakin crust.
HAVE A PIECE OF PIE – would you?
x x x
Beauty so softly seeping its release
interlace the haze of dark and life — light
Moan the grace ERETSIMUS ERATO
before heaven must swallow her birth
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Dialogue
— by Matt
Fuckin’ Fuck.
Why are we so obsessed with bad language.
I truly feel if world leaders simply screamed
at each other, and got it out of their systems,
we would be much better off.
Why does everything have to be so perfect?
I’m a firm believer in loose end?
I mean, I said the word “shit” at a meeting
last night, and everyone was so appalled.
I believe if world leaders simply swore at each other,
like Reagan and Gorbechav, the Cold
War may have ended so much sooner.
I believe dialogue is important, and
relationships flourish the more you do this.
Why do animals sometimes know how to socialize
much better than human beings?
It’s anal retentively because they rely on instinct, rather
than planning out everything ahead months in advance.
I believe in shooting from the hip, rather
than conniving everything out, for the day,
well in advance.
Free verse.
Impulsiveness.
These things, in my mind, are highly underrated.
I believe in law and order, but I also believe
in skipping through mud puddles, if the
situation warrants it.
Yesterday I saw a flock of birds flying
in unison, knowing where they were going
better than most human beings I know.
The greatest planner ever, in my opinion,
was Machiavelli; and yet, for all his
planning, and dialogue, his relationships
suffered.
Why can’t we be just like little kids, and just
go for it?
Why does everything have to be known in
advance?
I believe in the world relied more on
spontaneity, and less on formality,
the world would be much better off.
Lighten up, live and let live, and learn to
let go.
What the Fuck!!!
Mary’s “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” (in three parts)
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle
— by Mary
Rising tension no relief the antithesis
of interspecies exchange where
dogness reigns midst dayness
Morning nightness dawn and evening
Restfulness
Glorious to share the intelligence of
elemental partfulness seen undisguised
The Dogness of earthful touch repose by
mindful respect
The absence of interference collects as
morsel muddy balls dry and tangle my dogness
hair as one I am in love supreme my
doggie giveth me
x x x
Edgar saw and telles s s s tales in
perpetual yeasty songs skipped beats
skipping breaths – propels intrigue
beware \ black must defend against
Edgar’s unreleasing prisoner taking
intention
But for Edgar the advantage be white
first move secures his vantage point
inner squares e4 d4 his tale
aligns its moldy expanding
momentum
- Pause
x x x
White muscle squirm turn free
Edgar’s tale No good,
Englishman — bull dog
me Free
Could ever belief be given
to frayed leather stretching
w i d e
