The Space of Memory
I think it’s good when you think of history to remember that the people that are studied and discussed in classrooms liked to laugh.
“Remember”
There’s a latticework here,
supporting all of us–
the efforts of claustrophobic spiders,
pushing out past all space,
allowing us to enjoy our laughter.
But the sound carries far and fast–
we hope to distant ears.
Still, sometimes it doesn’t know home.
Break-Up Song
I dug this up from awhile back. I think I may’ve been in Spain at the time, but I know I was reading Jesse Browner’s The Uncertain Hour, which has a Spanish poet in it. The original title for the poem was “Spanish Diatribe,” but I think “Break-Up Song” is a better title.
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A Response to Dharma Bums
We miss you Jack.
“Weathertop”
Jack I have to disagree. I am glad that you have gone to nothing, where nothing does nothing because it is nothing. I am glad you found emptiness. But while this orange may be empty, her–yeah, the girl over there on the right–her will is not. And our will is not, perceived or otherwise. I have to disagree. Let us not stop because you have died Jack. Because in this dream already over, all men have died.
There is a weathervane made of blackened iron, rusting red, at weathertop. Weathertop is whyever calling to me as surely as it signals to you from the sandy strands to the arroyos to the betempled valleys and cliffsides. It’s where we accept what we will never accept otherwise: that the sky is blue because it is the sky, that the grass grows because it is grass, that it is cold because it is cold. These things are no more empty than you, Buddha. Isn’t that ironic?
Ask old-son Sam–you will die one day that will be like any other day, only shorter. In this dream, things are the way they are because of the myth of reality, but at weathertop they are the way they are because they are. There was a time when you too couldn’t help but fly by these nets. I know you know. I know you remember. We remember you, Jack.
Morphology in Poetry
This may be the first poem I’ve ever written where I recognize the use of a conceit in the process of writing. A conceit usually appears as an extended metaphor that moves throughout the entirety of a piece. It has its name because the technique illustrates a very clever author when done effectively. This contrasts with normal metaphors that leave the comparison up to the reader. What I tried to do here was use the example of “sing” as a word that utilizes what is becoming an outmoded method of conjugation, i.e. sing, sang, sung (and the noun, song). Still, this method is in common usage. I thought English morphology or history would be an interesting means of comparison as a basis for a short, existentialist poem (with a conceit).
“Outdated”
Michael will sing at the banquet tonight,
but even as the words enter fresh into our
minds, as he sings, we will think that he
sang them. The next day, the paper will
talk about how he had sung, and years from
now these words will be just the song. It
lingers in the air, through time, yet it is no
more or less gone by than I or you.
Re-telling Segment
I’m working on a short story that will go out to magazines for publication in the Fall. As this is nearing its final stages, I won’t be posting it here (as I rarely post final versions here due to complications with copyrights when different pieces are sold), but I thought I’d put up a snippet. This is a story concerning the time after the traditional Little Red Riding Hood story–the snippet is from a flashback. I’ve always been a fan of themes of innocence and traditional children’s stories, so this has been a lot of play for me.
Red jumped at the sound of the door crashing shut. Now, she couldn’t see anything. She held her hand up in front of her face, hoping that her eyes would adjust and that she would be able to make out her fingers. When that didn’t work, she went over to where she knew the shutters were, stood on tiptoe, and tried to reach. She could feel the edge of the wood that lay over the windows, but she was too short to get a good push to open them. Instead, she tripped and hit the countertop in front of her. The basket slid off her arm and fell to the floor. Something bounced out, and she listened to it roll across the floorboards that she couldn’t see. It was no use going after whatever it was—probably an apple—so she went over to the countertop she had fallen into to try and climb it to get at the windows. As she reached across the counter to find a handhold, she felt the brass rim of a candleholder and let out a soft sigh of relief. Perhaps too loud of a soft sigh: she didn’t want to wake up Nana.
Pattern for a Fairytale
This was an idea that I drafted into a poem. I’m not sure what it is yet.
“For the Moments In-between”
It’s been a long day and it’s only noon.
Sweat clinging to the hair of my chest
beads up and sucks on the fabric of my shirt.
Dim the lights, close the blinds, and turn off the tee-vee.
Put ice in a glass just to hear it rattle.
We’ve been mistaken for strangers
in stranger places than where we are today.
We’ve been mistaken for lovers
on colder days than today.
I’ve often mistaken you for me
in the middle of July.
It’s been cut and dried,
pulped up and set in racks,
you cut the cloth and
laid it all out—
the pattern for our fairytale.
The Moriarty Theory
More dialogue because I like to write it.
“You had a research proposal coming up, right?”
“Yeah, I made the proposal today actually.”
“What on?”
“I’m arguing on overlapping cultural maxims regarding Moriarty figures. Essentially there are 2 Moriartys–the one from Doyle’s Holmes and then Neal Cassady A-K-A Dean Moriarty.”
“Yeah, I only read the original scroll version of On the Road, so I always forget Cassady’s other name.”
“Apparently, you don’t. Anyway, the two characters are opposites with one being a villain and the other an iconic hero, but you have overlap of brilliance and some anti-hero qualities.”
“That’s horse shit.”
“I know that, but it got me laid in Chicago, and the board accepted my proposal for a book on the subject. I think the fact I argued that the symbolism of naming is what was essential is what really sold it.”
“Got you laid? She must’ve already been drunk.”
“More like energetic. I met her at a coffeehouse during a poetry reading.”
“Dear God, you’re a walking literary hoax to be reckoned with is what you are.”
“Even as a hoax, my ego still gets stroked, so I don’t mind so much.”
“Do what you will. I’m sure if I ever get around to reading it–assuming you ever get around to writing it–I’ll believe the Moriarty theory through and through.”
Cups of Coffee
Dialogue because I like to write it.
“The word ‘thief’ always looks misspelled to me.”
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Oh, I know.”
“You know you don’t have to start every conversation with a grammar point or a discussion about a word, or a bit of plot, or dialogue, or cappuccinos. That’s not what writers talk about.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I’m a writer and I don’t.”
“So am I, and I do.”
“Must be an author.”
“Whatever.”
Miracles and wishes…
This is just a short story I’m working on to try and get back to selling some of my work. The title is a working title, and undoubtedly will be changed–I know it’s bad.
“The Evolutionary Problem with Miracles”
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