[It worked so well last time to borrow phrases from our prompt poem, we did it again. The poem was Elena Sikelianos’s “Survey: Phototropes.” We each chose a phrase or single word and then created a group word bank, the prompt being to use those words however we choose in the writing that emerged for each of us. The work was really powerful, bonded by the game of fitting in phrases that mattered to each of us now.]
Stop Making Sense, or, Chaotic Envelope
Everything must be organized.
A, B, C, no wait, C! BOOM, you’re dead.
Anal rententivity is a habit, only reserved for
vacuum cleaner salesmen.
If I’m so wrong, why does it always seem
like I could care less if I’m right?
The drum beat of reason makes me want
If I had to pick between poetry and
engineering, I’d pick poetry, because poetry
lasts forever, and, maybe, engineering will
last till the end of this century.
Why does everything have to be boxed and
packaged so neatly?
And why is it that the most important thing
you have in life is that first crap you
take in the morning?
Oh my 50th birthday, what I have most to
look forward to is a colorectal exam, or better put
looking forward to an anal probe, or even better
yet, having an exam up my Hershey highway.
Why do we care so little about what God
cares about the most?
Why is nuisance such a higher crime, whereas
doubting is treated as an absolute luxury.
You can kiss my ass, you jack-booted plack-
If a swastika is indeed a broken cross
why don’t we send it, merrily, rolling on
Messiness is an art form, with chaos as its
bedfellow, waiting for another day.
Rotting stump, or nutrigrain, which would you
rather have for dinner?
If simplicity is punished by harshness,
then what are you waiting for?
I want to create piles of rubbish, before dinner.
Photoshop. Test and prop.
The organizational dead.
Scotland is death.
Hope is almost always forever!
[The words are beautiful not for their accuracy]
— by David KE Dodge
“The words are beautiful not for their accuracy
but for their dream,”
As are all words uttered not to express knowledge,
But with “perfect” sound,
Expressed by the Goddess of the Muses,
And rendered by the poet as a
“Photograph of her thought;”
Rendered in a twinkling
As “the future does a backbend toward you,”
Like moments, in being lost to the past,
Enable a tenuous grip on the future
In a forever now.
Cut the body, an onion,
he pushes the pain and vices past
muscles into my blood.
What perfect cancer, niggling.
Radiation: bodies turned toward radios.
Blood like a river rushing out.
Photograph of her thought:
Prayers color patches
cushioning, buoying. Silk thoughts.
Hot-air balloons surrounding.
The prayers are beautiful not for their accuracy.