In time for Halloween–A Modernist Nightmare!

October 27, 2009 at 10:12 am (Poetry)

Most typos intentional, here’s the nightmare, as I see it, of life and modernism, and presented in what is meant to be a generally unsettling way; just in time for Halloween! Enjoy! (And I know it’s long and meandering, but see it through; it all comes home.)

(a Modernist Nightmare and Beatles Cover in several parts)

For those of you who never
have the opportunity to read
the cover of the notebook this
was written in I’m penning
it here:
     I’m not sure why you
wouldn’t be able to read the
cover, just flip back right?
But let’s be pragmatic.
So just to be clear I’m not
predicting the future here,
just calling on Discord and
Uncertainty to do —
what they always do.
     I did date a girl
once though, who could see
          the future.
It was like 16 Candles,
but I was 24, and it
     I realize my prag-
matism is somewhat
     limited in scope
     here: if
the cover can go missing,
any number of pages
might also go the way of
the dodo, and it seems
as though any individual
page missing would shatter
the ribcage right thru to
the gooshy organs of this
attempt at preemptiveness.
But enough, I’m
getting on my own nerves*
     “Let simple and
old-fashioned myself stay w/ you,
     while ordinary things
     have been disappearing
          in the world.”
Tell me
     you’ve heard every
     song there is.
I’m old-fashioned like
Hansel and Gretel cooking
an old woman for meat pies
— you know they ate the witch.
I knew them when
they grew up: they
turned out pretty alright,
     all things considered.
Tell me
     you’ve heard every
     song there is.
wicked stepsisters cutting off bits of foot to
wedge what remains
into glass;
it’s the man’s place
to backhand the girl
the Woodcutter told
Little Red, when she
doesn’t go down on him.
Keep perspective, she
was like 18 at this
Even though he was like 45.
Is it the ordinary that’s
missing from this world?
It’s the irregular that
we condemn anymore
in our actions.
Everything has a place.
No hollowed out Judas trees
set before Venus,
rising out of the sea.
We have ratchetclanks
and pistonsshses,
where once we had —
I don’t know anymore.
This is just ranting
          anymore; it’s
worthless, I’m done.
And your bird can sing.
But you don’t get me.
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Weekend Abroad

October 20, 2009 at 1:53 am (Japan Journal, Poetry)

This starts in the wee hours in the neighboring city of Takamatsu, after a night of drinking, returns to Marugame, and then continues on into the next day in Kanonji — one weekend of craziness:
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Japan Journal: First Insert

October 19, 2009 at 7:17 pm (Japan Journal, Poetry)

Written during a trip to a sake festival near Hiroshima and a subsequent visit to the island of Miwojima:

back in the world
I don’t see anyone back in the world
with the world so often at large–
disappointing, that
everything out there:
hence, everything; though,
I keep trying to bring it home with me,
or keep trying to bring home with me.
why should I remain?
strange how waves from a ferry
always look more real
than waves from a beach,
like filmed w/ handicam, or
modern movies+
high resolution television
too closely resembling what’s in front of
my own eyes.
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New Section: Japan Journal

October 19, 2009 at 7:09 pm (General, Japan Journal, Poetry)

I’ve added a new section to the blog with the intent of reviving my online writing life/presence/what-have-you. The section is under Poetry>Japan Journal. I don’t have the patience for standard journal entries, and oftentimes scribble down my daily doings in poetic form. Sometimes there’s a good idea worked in, and sometimes there’s just some of whatevers happening. This new section will not be the only thing updated on the blog; however, it is sort of a way to jumpstart the heart of Here She Be, again.

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Who Am I to Escape My Past

August 7, 2009 at 8:35 am (General, Poetry)

I’m back bitches! Sort of. I’m actually the farthest from home I’ve ever been — something like 9500 miles. But the writing is coming back. Got a couple of novel ideas cooked up — one brewing, and the other I was working on well before I took an interim of not posting here. I can’t say I’ll be updating regularly, but perhaps sporadic moments of banging the gong to make you all aware that I still draw breath. Let my enemies exhaust themselves getting here, only to realize that the woodcutter has been hunting wolves ever since.

And a quick bit of froth:

You rolled that rock out to sea,
and sat there ready to float out on adventure,
but I was running behind,
so you had it wait for me there at the shore.

There are a number of questions I have no answers for,
and now I know that there is virtue
in not asking many of them.

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TBD to be incomplete

May 15, 2009 at 4:24 am (General, Poetry, TBD Series)

Just thought I’d take care of this while I was doing some bookkeeping, so to speak —

It was mentioned some time back that there was a final determinant yet to be written for the TBD series, and lo and behold it has yet to be written. I would like to announce that this final determinant is not going to be written. TBD will remain eternally incomplete, but it seems as though that is something completely in sync with the process involved with the rest of the project. It is meant to be open-ended in many ways, and by acknowledging the work’s incompleteness, I think the gesture comes full circle — or rather it opens up in a way that it was meant to. I doubt anyone was holding their breath for the conclusion of this series, but in case anyone ever started wonder what happened to the end of TBD, now you know.

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This Time

May 9, 2009 at 3:08 am (Poetry)

Consider that who we are involves being eagerly baffled. I think I have some idea what the answer is to my big question and where it lies, but that seems like it too might be just another fiction with limited relevance (an interesting comment from someone who just wrote and posted here so much about how reality is not as ontologically distinct from fiction as we like to think). You must learn to accept the consequences of having been wrong before. Think of the tension between looking for something like sovereignty and actually assuming you know what that is. For me the strong symbols are my guidelines because I cannot yet read the subtleties. This is something I hope to one day address on the stage of a novel, but for now I am happy to try and convey the struggle in poetry.

In response to an aphorism written by Prof. Michael Theune:

[the original aphorism]
According to Joseph Campbell, the main lesson of the myths through the ages and across cultures is that one might actually, deep within, be sovereign, that one’s true self is majestic. Does anyone believe this anymore? Now, if you want people to go on quests, to change their lives, it might be better to tell them, You were not born to reign, but neither were they . . .
(check out more of his awesome aphorisms at Seven Corners Poetry)

[the response]
I am at the dusk of an event —
something like dust has started to settle
into the long slender folds of the night.
Silver sand squishes between my toes
on the beaches of sleep; somewhere I
often stay away from because as we all know,
sleep is for dreamers.

What choices have been left to me
come from something I had to be told,
but feel as though I had learned once
I realized that I would probably not
grow up to be an astronaut or the President:
I have been told that I was not born to reign,
but then again, neither was anyone else.

What choices have been left to me
result from a need to be sovereign,
to be kingly. And I have heard stories
of the Ancient East and the Ancient West,
wherein they say that somewhere out
there lies the visage of the king of kings.

Sometimes I exist for my own salvation;
other times I have given all that I can,
and I imagine I will do so again — last
full measures considered. But it is only
this I go to find: that which yet survives
stamped on lifeless things — great tomes,
the words of a statue, the trunk of a sun
god, the shield of a hero.

On the hunt, I kill to survive, yet a greater
predator may come and claim my kill, and so
I abandon the carcass to survive also. The
work of our lives brings us where we will be,
and our lives likewise drive us away from
where we are.

The silver sands are caught beneath my
untrimmed toenails, soft yet irritating.
The beach cools my feet, but I do not doze
here in these subtle surroundings because
sleep is for dreamers. And I have come
for sovereignty — blood and bone; symbols
as subtle as a flash flood.

This is who we are.
At least those of us
who are still looking.

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Megan may you age better than Ayn Rand

March 26, 2009 at 12:34 am (General, Poetry)

To understand what I’m talking about, I recommend you take a look at Dave Herrle’s interview with Volpert for SubtleTea. It makes for an interesting read; although, I’m a bit of a sucker for interviews. Herrle’s also one of those people who tends to condemn my own intelligence by being so brilliant himself, but he wears it like a slightly less pretentious indy kid, so it all pans out alright. He has a review of the book as well that I have yet to read, but I’m sure I will at some point.

I always like seeing myself in strange new places. Volpert linked this blog and the New Delta, which my review & interview will be appearing in this summer. Check out her site! I recommend grabbing the New Delta summer issue because it’ll be just that awesome.

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Tributaries Spring 2009 — Cover

March 11, 2009 at 10:30 am (General, Poetry)

So I already posted my accepted submissions for the Spring ’09 edition of Illinois Wesleyan University’s lit mag called Tributaries. I did the cover for this issue too; although admittedly it is a bit stranger than the last one. Strange as in random, not strange as in I came up with something weirder than a peacock whose feathers are interlaced with eyes. This cover, same as the last, is a huge file, so I’m uploading it to Deviant Art, and you can see it here.

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Wake Me @ Half-Past the Next Decade

March 4, 2009 at 1:42 am (Poetry)

“Under Similar Circumstances”

Sitting idle,
feeling for the profundity of a good aphorism,
my dreams are those of old men.

These are the dreams that old men dream.

I take a vacation from work to work on a garden,
setup fruit in the backyard,
two weeks,
the lifespan of the common fly.

Think back on summer vacation
during high school
and wake up six generations later.

Wondering if I dream the dreams of old men because I am an old man.

Remember college
waking up the roommate at half-past five
because he asked me to.

I feel as if I am waking up
half-past the next decade;
forgot to set an alarm.

What have I done since then?
What am I doing now?
The irony of an old man tending his garden,
hands in the soil, grasping at the fresh–
growing old with the young onions.

In my dreams that are the dreams old men dream,
I feel like I’ve been waiting
only it happened so quickly.

Tuatara lizards can die of old age between
a hundred and fifty
two hundred and fifty,
and I believe I can too.

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Tributaries Spring 2009

February 19, 2009 at 2:20 pm (General, Poetry)

As with the Fall 2008 issue of Tributaries, I submitted 5 pieces and 3 of them found their way into the issue. These pieces moreso than the last 3 underwent revisions (largely because they were either a) old or b) incomplete or c) in need of more effective word use). I won’t be posting the revised editions (at least not in the foreseeable future), but I can’t say you’re missing a whole lot by reading the early drafts instead. The names listed here are as they will appear in the journal. I am straying away from the title Building Rome for my fragmentary bildungsroman, however, and have been leaning towards Spontaneity & Indifference, which is a reference to two types of freedom of will in philosophy.

(Should you choose to read “Not Entirely Autobiographical,” pretend that the words “except in dreams” do not appear at the end, and simply imagine that the poem ends with “desire to again.”)

“Not Entirely Autobiographical”
Excerpt from Building Rome
“Anti-Aircraft Artillery”

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January 26, 2009 at 9:44 pm (Poetry)

A typical laugh
atypical laugh
typical, a laugh
laugh atypical
a laugh, typical
typical, laugh a…

troublesome child
trouble, some child
some troubled child
childsome trouble
some child trouble
trouble child some

alas, alas!
We see a typical child somewhat troubled by laughter.

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Postmodernist Haiku

January 22, 2009 at 1:02 am (Poetry)

“Every morning when I wake”

Where am I?
What do I need to do?
Which of me is to do it?


“The Unmoved Mover”

So once I told this story
about how I told this story to some friends,
each of me telling a different story
about telling a story.
Except for me.


And here’s a little quotation from the opening paragraph of Descartes’ “First Meditation: What can be called into doubt” (normally I avoid just posting straight quotations, but I couldn’t resist):
     “So today I have expressly rid my mind of all worries and arranged for myself a clear stretch of free time. I am here quite alone, and at last I will devote myself sincerely and without reservation to the general demolition of my opinions” (17-18).

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On Antiphon

January 13, 2009 at 2:42 pm (Poetry)

I planted a bed,
which grew into a tree
that I sleep in.

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January 13, 2009 at 12:44 pm (Poetry, TBD Series)

Here is the last segment of the core TBD poems. There is one determinant that has not yet been finished, but it will be shortly, which will draw the experimental compilation of the TBD Series to a close.

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