The week previous, David wrote about the place of his youth, a small town in Michigan and the characters there. It inspired us to write about place. This week I brought in a poem by Philip Levine, “The Two.” It conjured parts of Detroit I don’t know, but many in the workshop have a long relationship to that city and so it brought up a lot of stories even before we wrote.
[A lonely lighthouse of the Ottoman]
— by Michael + Places
A lonely lighthouse of the Ottoman
A picture by the wannabe newly discovered
A passion for new Atlantis beginnings
B with underwater alien safety parking lots
B for or against in a Judicial miracle
B Q as noise is made gently on plain
C if a third eye blind really is mens intuitive
C the biblical year of a Christian calendar
C to C like I to I or seven wonders of the world
D sent a daring parachuter from near space
D a son’s nickname or logo for a city
D a miracle I didn’t flunk altogether
E said the pig who was scared or not
E the phonic start… of a sentence or question
E it seemed easier as a child
F another phonic start of a sentence or reaction
F not a good grade to bring home
F U C Kay tell her I love her
G are you or you, a line from blondie
G whiz Mr Cleaver
G man walk the other way
— by Donald
2nd writing class since 2.21.13 exit
1. This is my chief Definite Aim, but the class struggle keeps getting in the way. Mostly all day even sleep comes with the price of the class struggle. However, difficulties have their bounce with life. Spicy is the term I use. Hardships can sometimes rhyme with misery recycled to an untimely degree from mild to malignant.
The point is, the order of priority on the chief definite aim with super glue. Much to write, much has been written. Now is phase 2, match it with deeds. Speed up on the littles, patch on the bigs. Next, get your feet wet by/with change. Change the title, approach, change the method of organizing. Change toward efficiency. Move toward certainty. Above all, apply effort.
— by Courtney
Vertebrae vertebrae neckbone.
Mud dog in the compost again.
Buzzards descend on the thawed roadkill.
Most moments are painful or plotless.
The weather coming through his shirt.
Nigh sweating, night waking.
I heard the mud dog heaving again in the dark, licking
the dirt off the wood floor to calm her gut.
not burning exactly.
Barn cats huddled on the exposed porch.
We kept a cardboard box and cut out a door,
a window, screwed in a doorknob,
taped a pink cloth napkin over the window, curtain-like.
Cut a slot in the cardboard door for mail.
I slipped in a Ritz cracker for Henry,
and a post-it with a heart drawing, dark red.
He taped it up inside on his dark cardboard walls.
Sticker letters with his name on the door,
which he unpeeled from the cardboard and stuck to my shirt
in another order, no order. N on my shin.
E on my collarbone.
Paper bones on the dining room table.
Jesus rose from the dead.
In the song Henry loves, the skeleton collects his bones
and builds a body from his body.
Mud dog throws up something and eats it.