My mother’s voice keeps me still.
I walk backwards.
I have eyes in the back of my head.
My words mean little to anyone else-
I have been raised by a street lamp.
The stars beam down on me.
The wind glistens like rain.
I am desperate for noise,
for music-the clarinet just won’t do.
Did I just say that? I didn’t mean
how it sounded;
didn’t mean the words that came
from my mouth,
that were uprooted from the ground.
I take myself out for lunch at McDonald’s,
and drive home to read a new Danielle Steele
novel.
This is the extent of my day.
It makes me happy.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wizard's Alchemy.
Shitttttt, "Wizard's Alchemy" is over 130,000 words now. Le Sigh. I MUST break it into a sequel or trilogy.
Still some editing errors. Frack.
Still some editing errors. Frack.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Update on vampire story.
Crap...my vampire story is only 12,671 words long; I want to get to 15,000 words, 12 thou is still considered a novella, however, I just like to round up. If I can't, Harlequin still accepts works that are under that amount.
I only need to write in a few more scenes.
I only need to write in a few more scenes.
Update on synopsis ideas.
I started writing a new science fiction novel. It is called "Wager's War" for now; I came up with this other title before and I forgot it. Uh oh. I also have this other idea for a science fiction novel called "Sun Dogs." A sun dog is an atmospheric phenomonen in space, primarily associated with sunlight by small ice crystals. Kinda hard to explain but you can look up what it means online.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Winds Exhausted.
In the dark, my eyes are bitter, the winter winds moan
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Resiliant.
My grandmother sat in her rocking chair
Spouting songs of war-Vietnam, World War I,
The war in Iraq and Afghanistan.
She said she’s seen them all.
My husband bought a new car, parked it in the driveway
Of our new house. I stood proudly, admiring
His efforts-the love of my life, my secret admirer.
I met him at a barbecue seven years ago,
At my father’s house-he brought the ketchup and
Mustard, and charmed my neighbor.
She was sixty
Years old and later that year, moved to a nursing home
that was run
By the government-the rooms cost three hundred
Dollars each.
Poems fell out of open mouths like ashes.
My husband said he would give me the stars if it
Made me happy.
Spouting songs of war-Vietnam, World War I,
The war in Iraq and Afghanistan.
She said she’s seen them all.
My husband bought a new car, parked it in the driveway
Of our new house. I stood proudly, admiring
His efforts-the love of my life, my secret admirer.
I met him at a barbecue seven years ago,
At my father’s house-he brought the ketchup and
Mustard, and charmed my neighbor.
She was sixty
Years old and later that year, moved to a nursing home
that was run
By the government-the rooms cost three hundred
Dollars each.
Poems fell out of open mouths like ashes.
My husband said he would give me the stars if it
Made me happy.
Radio Waves.
Nouns bounce off of broken radios.
My mind goes on like a microwave.
I am not Einstein. I am not awake,
I am not feeling-many people think
Of me as a blade of grass. As a piece
Of cheese. Something to be eaten,
And spit out.
The grapes stick out of the vine. (Whine.)
Many people crowd the alleyways,
Sticks and stones break through differences
And crossroads disappoint me.
I never remember what I say after a hard
Day’s work. I never remember everything
When I go to the grocery store.
Tomorrow is another day. I troop up
And down the stairs like a mother
Hen waiting to be fed. Waiting for
Someone.
My husband angers the gods.
My mind goes on like a microwave.
I am not Einstein. I am not awake,
I am not feeling-many people think
Of me as a blade of grass. As a piece
Of cheese. Something to be eaten,
And spit out.
The grapes stick out of the vine. (Whine.)
Many people crowd the alleyways,
Sticks and stones break through differences
And crossroads disappoint me.
I never remember what I say after a hard
Day’s work. I never remember everything
When I go to the grocery store.
Tomorrow is another day. I troop up
And down the stairs like a mother
Hen waiting to be fed. Waiting for
Someone.
My husband angers the gods.
Scripts.
Dang! I really want to write a script but those are very difficult. Plus, I am smart, so I have no life.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Awake, Loved.
What the blue rivers say are not
what they speak,
what the green bells waving in
the brown grass.
Waving leisurely in the wind.
An elephant lumbers past.
War is transparent, a piece of leaf
is caught in an updraft.
You held me, befallen,
in a piece of paper,
in a riddle.
The ground sucks up all the juice,
the sky is blue above me.
What, what say you-
how high does your voice rise,
clear over a clear day.
Clearer than what I say.
I am tired.
My ears flap like an elephant’s.
I read books,
and shun black baskets.
My back aches,
my breasts heave for you in
the dim and the dark
and the sound of the rain
wakens me. Welcomes me.
The still of the night won’t let
me down.
The beat of your heart shelters me,
love.
what they speak,
what the green bells waving in
the brown grass.
Waving leisurely in the wind.
An elephant lumbers past.
War is transparent, a piece of leaf
is caught in an updraft.
You held me, befallen,
in a piece of paper,
in a riddle.
The ground sucks up all the juice,
the sky is blue above me.
What, what say you-
how high does your voice rise,
clear over a clear day.
Clearer than what I say.
I am tired.
My ears flap like an elephant’s.
I read books,
and shun black baskets.
My back aches,
my breasts heave for you in
the dim and the dark
and the sound of the rain
wakens me. Welcomes me.
The still of the night won’t let
me down.
The beat of your heart shelters me,
love.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Walking To the Store.
I walked down the street to the deli store
on Fifth and Crayfish,
my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t
eaten
anything in
seven hours.
Cars drive by on the highway.
Lights are
reflected off the street lamps.
Mona waved to me as I walked past her.
She had been my friend for a little over
three months.
I walked into the store,
and ordered pimento loaf-
it was my favorite,
I slathered it in mayonnaise and
ham. The cook smiled at me,
offered me a free cookie-
I exclaimed "Thanks!" and drove home.
Tomorrow was another day.
It was not the same day as the one before.
Tomorrow I would have to eat something
else,
or else buy things from the grocery store.
Jessie said this was okay.
I said maybe I should write a grocery list.
And stick it on the refrigerator,
upside down.
I read once that William Carlos Williams
wrote a poem about a grocery list.
I wondered what happened to it.
Maybe it was in some museum in Rome.
Maybe a thief stole it in the night.
Sometimes we don’t know why things
are gone,
or if they ever come back.
People are like this.
on Fifth and Crayfish,
my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t
eaten
anything in
seven hours.
Cars drive by on the highway.
Lights are
reflected off the street lamps.
Mona waved to me as I walked past her.
She had been my friend for a little over
three months.
I walked into the store,
and ordered pimento loaf-
it was my favorite,
I slathered it in mayonnaise and
ham. The cook smiled at me,
offered me a free cookie-
I exclaimed "Thanks!" and drove home.
Tomorrow was another day.
It was not the same day as the one before.
Tomorrow I would have to eat something
else,
or else buy things from the grocery store.
Jessie said this was okay.
I said maybe I should write a grocery list.
And stick it on the refrigerator,
upside down.
I read once that William Carlos Williams
wrote a poem about a grocery list.
I wondered what happened to it.
Maybe it was in some museum in Rome.
Maybe a thief stole it in the night.
Sometimes we don’t know why things
are gone,
or if they ever come back.
People are like this.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Do Not Feed the Bears.
My mind is corporate.
I speak little.
My heart is broken in two pieces.
Like shards of glass,
I take them out and throw them
down a well.
In Africa, they do not have water.
In Africa, the children have no shoes.
Think about your thoughts before you do
them.
Think about sorrow’s forbidden muse.
My friend is in the hospital
and has been for seven days straight.
They fixed his heart and lungs,
they fixed the arch in his forehead.
The sign outside reads "Do not feed the
bears."
Sometimes, I forget that part,
they are harmless as fleas.
I speak little.
My heart is broken in two pieces.
Like shards of glass,
I take them out and throw them
down a well.
In Africa, they do not have water.
In Africa, the children have no shoes.
Think about your thoughts before you do
them.
Think about sorrow’s forbidden muse.
My friend is in the hospital
and has been for seven days straight.
They fixed his heart and lungs,
they fixed the arch in his forehead.
The sign outside reads "Do not feed the
bears."
Sometimes, I forget that part,
they are harmless as fleas.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Stars and Rivers.
The rivers are forgotten dreams.
Misplaced and misshapen as birds, gouges
on shadows of spirals and time clocks.
Where you are is not where I should be.
The palm tree in your backyard-
looks like it needs watering.
I drift on a lonely fog, my mind incorporate
as a bog. Clouds wrap around congruent
shapes, mathematical shapes
that crisscross
blue signatures and blue flowers.
I awaken to a pelican barking in the night,
at sea lions on a warm rock. The sea lions
shine like moon stars and snow saturates
the trees-
Misplaced and misshapen as birds, gouges
on shadows of spirals and time clocks.
Where you are is not where I should be.
The palm tree in your backyard-
looks like it needs watering.
I drift on a lonely fog, my mind incorporate
as a bog. Clouds wrap around congruent
shapes, mathematical shapes
that crisscross
blue signatures and blue flowers.
I awaken to a pelican barking in the night,
at sea lions on a warm rock. The sea lions
shine like moon stars and snow saturates
the trees-
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Sonnet.
I was reading Samuel Taylor Coleridge's essay on Romeo and Juliet and I wrote a sonnet.
I have written some before but they are awful. Here it is:
Ode to the passes of the symmetry,
that revere in greatness and in grandness-
taught with the sameness of the hand,
I revere your heart, you cometh less!
Hark! Devil’s cruel hand! That gaveth
the dew that tarnishes the land-
a bitter dream of revelation,
a begotten hand,
a bird perches near a ledge,
and eats all the berries from the hedge.
The trees are bare; the sounds fold,
churning the water of tarnished gold.
I have written some before but they are awful. Here it is:
Ode to the passes of the symmetry,
that revere in greatness and in grandness-
taught with the sameness of the hand,
I revere your heart, you cometh less!
Hark! Devil’s cruel hand! That gaveth
the dew that tarnishes the land-
a bitter dream of revelation,
a begotten hand,
a bird perches near a ledge,
and eats all the berries from the hedge.
The trees are bare; the sounds fold,
churning the water of tarnished gold.
Just for references.
Rattle rejected my poems.
No surprise there.
Sometimes I wonder if poetry is fading from literature. :/
No surprise there.
Sometimes I wonder if poetry is fading from literature. :/
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Muse.
If you are in fact a blank piece of paper
where are the words? Where is the flower
that snuffs out the bread, where is the
bold metaphor that calls to me
in the dark of the night, wanting to be written,
waiting to be heard? I have
not eaten the bread yet nor have I sniffed
the life out of the flower,
the beginning of a new poem, the beginning of
something that has not yet been written.
(Found this old poem, for your reading.)
where are the words? Where is the flower
that snuffs out the bread, where is the
bold metaphor that calls to me
in the dark of the night, wanting to be written,
waiting to be heard? I have
not eaten the bread yet nor have I sniffed
the life out of the flower,
the beginning of a new poem, the beginning of
something that has not yet been written.
(Found this old poem, for your reading.)
Mammals in the Driveway.
I fear the porpoise on the lake will
melt into oblivion and the day will not come open
like shadows stardust withers in plain sight
I move my garbage
can to the
middle of the driveway
Momma comes up the drive and
asks Where? Where?
Her eyes like stars
sometimes I rush into things I am not ready for
and I feel like taking the time to look at different
web sites on the Internet like myspace
and sometimes I stare out
the classroom window and dream of walking
hand in hand with a perfect stranger
but the words never come out right
melt into oblivion and the day will not come open
like shadows stardust withers in plain sight
I move my garbage
can to the
middle of the driveway
Momma comes up the drive and
asks Where? Where?
Her eyes like stars
sometimes I rush into things I am not ready for
and I feel like taking the time to look at different
web sites on the Internet like myspace
and sometimes I stare out
the classroom window and dream of walking
hand in hand with a perfect stranger
but the words never come out right
Another Day.
Tomorrow a new day will come and I will
not be ready.
Ready for what, I don’t know.
Ready for who, I cannot say. I used to write
mysteries on the backs of used napkins
and then I spread them into the wind like
leaves in summer.
Tomorrow the world will be ready for me,
and I will sing to the moon and kiss the stars
my hands open and embracing the world
I have come to know as myself.
The date is marked on my calendar. The night
is of shooting stars.
I avoid broken windows and messed-up
bicycles.
Sometimes, I wish to reach
out my arms.
not be ready.
Ready for what, I don’t know.
Ready for who, I cannot say. I used to write
mysteries on the backs of used napkins
and then I spread them into the wind like
leaves in summer.
Tomorrow the world will be ready for me,
and I will sing to the moon and kiss the stars
my hands open and embracing the world
I have come to know as myself.
The date is marked on my calendar. The night
is of shooting stars.
I avoid broken windows and messed-up
bicycles.
Sometimes, I wish to reach
out my arms.
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