Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Improv 1 (week 10)
“If it’s been ten times it’s been forty-five
I’ve checked the man out in the car behind
mine, teeth bared, laughing in my rearview”
He’s not gripping the wheel, he’s only flailing
arms like a blow-up doll in the wind.
The same penciled-in strap-on face, he’s a rubber
look alike to my passenger.
Darlene is her name, all filled up ready
to go. I follow her suggestions:
wrong way down the one way, pull the brakes,
run this, skid into that, close the doors
tight while she melts, she makes a steady wheeze
the same sound after the air bags
pop. By evening’s pallor she is leaky:
her legs go first sucked dry by the sun.
She is deflation next to me.
But now, with the white toothed
laughter, his smile, his arms all
play for mirrors, all smoke.
He is the fake, the afternoon
soap opera and my blow-up
holding my hand, slowly easing out,
letting go.
I’ve checked the man out in the car behind
mine, teeth bared, laughing in my rearview”
He’s not gripping the wheel, he’s only flailing
arms like a blow-up doll in the wind.
The same penciled-in strap-on face, he’s a rubber
look alike to my passenger.
Darlene is her name, all filled up ready
to go. I follow her suggestions:
wrong way down the one way, pull the brakes,
run this, skid into that, close the doors
tight while she melts, she makes a steady wheeze
the same sound after the air bags
pop. By evening’s pallor she is leaky:
her legs go first sucked dry by the sun.
She is deflation next to me.
But now, with the white toothed
laughter, his smile, his arms all
play for mirrors, all smoke.
He is the fake, the afternoon
soap opera and my blow-up
holding my hand, slowly easing out,
letting go.
Free Write 2 (week 10)
I want to spoon your straw into clouds. I want to
cloud your panting paws. I want the grain elevators
lit, a roman candle to the bushels-a-day
coots in their co-ops. I want the soapbox
step up to the hot air balloon
stopping somewhere between arch and horizon:
That McDonalds on Main Street. I want to take elevators
down the silo , that is to say, lifting me deeper,
damper, darker to the ground where my wants
meet my wishes and that fabled outlander
drops a stamp of enlightenment. I want
hands to cup liquid grace. I want
a ribbon at the end of the race.
cloud your panting paws. I want the grain elevators
lit, a roman candle to the bushels-a-day
coots in their co-ops. I want the soapbox
step up to the hot air balloon
stopping somewhere between arch and horizon:
That McDonalds on Main Street. I want to take elevators
down the silo , that is to say, lifting me deeper,
damper, darker to the ground where my wants
meet my wishes and that fabled outlander
drops a stamp of enlightenment. I want
hands to cup liquid grace. I want
a ribbon at the end of the race.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Junkyard 4-5 (week 10)
"The mine devoured seascape: it's a punched out eye to the waves"
"Does all cash eventually drift back to timer, to sappy pulp?"
"Does all cash eventually drift back to timer, to sappy pulp?"
Monday, March 15, 2010
Junkyard 1-2 (week 10)
“dancing until the sticks fall”
“I assembled this evening with the help of screwdrivers”
“I assembled this evening with the help of screwdrivers”
Free Write 1 (week 10)
She was not a charity girl
with her Ardmore, Oklahoma
drawer full of pieces—an oyster
puckered and ready to give
lust for socialism, blush for thighs.
When I pitched my voice to
the swing set’s rusted upper swivel
each rock an ultrasound scrape
her bra straps beat like summer whispers
her abiding velvet in solitaire
there are many ugly bumps
on my body. there is only
that red abrasion: Hymenoptera
medical jargon for wasp sting
rising from her belly button.
with her Ardmore, Oklahoma
drawer full of pieces—an oyster
puckered and ready to give
lust for socialism, blush for thighs.
When I pitched my voice to
the swing set’s rusted upper swivel
each rock an ultrasound scrape
her bra straps beat like summer whispers
her abiding velvet in solitaire
there are many ugly bumps
on my body. there is only
that red abrasion: Hymenoptera
medical jargon for wasp sting
rising from her belly button.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Free Write 2 (week 8)
These aluminum alloy rims
will still be spinning after I’ve passed.
Picture it: down in a rut, that bottom-
fed-excuse-for-a-creek slinging
refuse at the end of my block.
I cut the corner with back wheel slipping
and front wheel nose diving. It’s a concerted
effort with these two, they chuck me like an old shoe,
dump my body to the creek. There I expire with the soured
plastic jugs, the mold on tin and the neighbors sink water
unable to wash me down, to forget.
Or was it the bike that let them know? Tires in the air
revolving somewhere between eighth and ninth gear, the rubber
repeating: more road, more road.
will still be spinning after I’ve passed.
Picture it: down in a rut, that bottom-
fed-excuse-for-a-creek slinging
refuse at the end of my block.
I cut the corner with back wheel slipping
and front wheel nose diving. It’s a concerted
effort with these two, they chuck me like an old shoe,
dump my body to the creek. There I expire with the soured
plastic jugs, the mold on tin and the neighbors sink water
unable to wash me down, to forget.
Or was it the bike that let them know? Tires in the air
revolving somewhere between eighth and ninth gear, the rubber
repeating: more road, more road.
Junkyard 1-2 (week 8)
“These citadels of Disney innocence”
“Flipping burgers, I am the cow at this kids
fast food birthday.”
“Flipping burgers, I am the cow at this kids
fast food birthday.”
Free Write 1 (Week 8)
Up north, we’re recycling ice cores
mere samples unearthed: each slice the casing
of a story like the flicker
frames in a film canister.
Stories and histories
and the illusion of motion.
We like our pictures
spinning from reel to reel
our history being cylindrical,
our stories unraveling. Because
asking when does spring
turn summer? finds it’s appositive
theory in some uncountable number.
In layman’s terms: the New Year just
cuts another slice in the pie.
Meanwhile, on Coney Island,
a palm reader begins and ends
on the cusp. Nevermind the skin’s
creases or that ulcer at 35. They’ll
bore it out, band aid it white
with cotton balls.
mere samples unearthed: each slice the casing
of a story like the flicker
frames in a film canister.
Stories and histories
and the illusion of motion.
We like our pictures
spinning from reel to reel
our history being cylindrical,
our stories unraveling. Because
asking when does spring
turn summer? finds it’s appositive
theory in some uncountable number.
In layman’s terms: the New Year just
cuts another slice in the pie.
Meanwhile, on Coney Island,
a palm reader begins and ends
on the cusp. Nevermind the skin’s
creases or that ulcer at 35. They’ll
bore it out, band aid it white
with cotton balls.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Junkyard 3-4 (Week 7)
It’s all the same people
with all the same parts.
I came to town with a pack of dogs
in my pocket
with all the same parts.
I came to town with a pack of dogs
in my pocket
Free Write 2 (week 7)
At the Audition
We’re running the second act, second scene.
She’s third step up and stretching to pick
a grape: embryo to four seeds now crunching
behind her belly ring. It’s a briar, spiny and stage left
the director knows no grapes, no trees and leans to his assistant,
“No belly rings.”
Old men pull the flies
that let in these spectacles,
swinging drops weighing in their calloused hands,
gripping the fire wall. The director strikes the grapes,
exits the girl stage right. Action stills
as black suits wheel statued dragoons
and the bottomless urn for escapes.
The people, the parts.
Offstage she’s acting, stretching for the green one:
tannic nugget all ballooned up and pulled tight,
and that ring in her center, the cork conditioning her age.
There’s a twitch in her cheeks when the four seeds
pop, her lipness muzzling the pyrotechnics.
We’re running the second act, second scene.
She’s third step up and stretching to pick
a grape: embryo to four seeds now crunching
behind her belly ring. It’s a briar, spiny and stage left
the director knows no grapes, no trees and leans to his assistant,
“No belly rings.”
Old men pull the flies
that let in these spectacles,
swinging drops weighing in their calloused hands,
gripping the fire wall. The director strikes the grapes,
exits the girl stage right. Action stills
as black suits wheel statued dragoons
and the bottomless urn for escapes.
The people, the parts.
Offstage she’s acting, stretching for the green one:
tannic nugget all ballooned up and pulled tight,
and that ring in her center, the cork conditioning her age.
There’s a twitch in her cheeks when the four seeds
pop, her lipness muzzling the pyrotechnics.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Free Write 1 (week 7)
Hello past:
Do you want to hear your mistakes?
Do you want my wounds fomented like dreams?
I want to spoon you into clouds,
present you like the aluminous sheets
shaken daily from the silo rooftops.
Sham rocked in the 4-H club
fashion, never stopping till
enlightenment sells for pennies a day
and the soap-box prairie
thanks ice for its winter stand still.
This is the Russian wheat, the frame-boarded house
we hoteled ourselves, paying land
the winter and dropping kerosene
kisses come spring.
We’re burying something
underneath blue stem and red seed.
The turbine turns dust signals
that corn cob whites will never see.
Do you want to hear your mistakes?
Do you want my wounds fomented like dreams?
I want to spoon you into clouds,
present you like the aluminous sheets
shaken daily from the silo rooftops.
Sham rocked in the 4-H club
fashion, never stopping till
enlightenment sells for pennies a day
and the soap-box prairie
thanks ice for its winter stand still.
This is the Russian wheat, the frame-boarded house
we hoteled ourselves, paying land
the winter and dropping kerosene
kisses come spring.
We’re burying something
underneath blue stem and red seed.
The turbine turns dust signals
that corn cob whites will never see.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Junkyard 1-3 (week 6)
Junkyard 1
Slipping went the joker
in checkerboard across my sink
while I cigarette dance,
my porcelain flagstaffs.
Junkyard 2
You plum bump
that rests uncoiled
in my driveway.
You lump my throat
with Benzin
and pad my eyes
with oily rag-rubber.
Junkyard 3
Dagwood hair
crossed out waves to
the leash. The tie wrapped
around your neck swinging:
“Please pull me down.”
Slipping went the joker
in checkerboard across my sink
while I cigarette dance,
my porcelain flagstaffs.
Junkyard 2
You plum bump
that rests uncoiled
in my driveway.
You lump my throat
with Benzin
and pad my eyes
with oily rag-rubber.
Junkyard 3
Dagwood hair
crossed out waves to
the leash. The tie wrapped
around your neck swinging:
“Please pull me down.”
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Improv 1 (week 5)
Meditation at Lagunitas
Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Improv:
“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.” The lines we trace,
wire-tapped, as we are the long distance people.
We stymie our brimming voices
set on repeat after our dailies, our eulogy teas.
A man visits the zoo to buy a cage.
He throws tinsel across its bars:
a celebratory gesture, weaving brocade for the locks.
But you pump yourself over copper wire
through wrought iron claws and under wood-hungry mandibles.
These are our zoo pets—the grackle
who clasps your laugh, the queen bitch
between the walls who gorges on sweet sappy pulp
turning my chuckles to sawdust.
Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Improv:
“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.” The lines we trace,
wire-tapped, as we are the long distance people.
We stymie our brimming voices
set on repeat after our dailies, our eulogy teas.
A man visits the zoo to buy a cage.
He throws tinsel across its bars:
a celebratory gesture, weaving brocade for the locks.
But you pump yourself over copper wire
through wrought iron claws and under wood-hungry mandibles.
These are our zoo pets—the grackle
who clasps your laugh, the queen bitch
between the walls who gorges on sweet sappy pulp
turning my chuckles to sawdust.
Junkyard 1 (week 5)
My blues turned skinny,
shuffled away and flipped its hat
upside to catch change the way
mange pants for a scratch
and old men wheeze their wives to sleep.
I laugh and take apart bologna sandwiches
cursing when the mayonnaise curdles under the sun.
shuffled away and flipped its hat
upside to catch change the way
mange pants for a scratch
and old men wheeze their wives to sleep.
I laugh and take apart bologna sandwiches
cursing when the mayonnaise curdles under the sun.
Free Write 2 (week 5)
The first line comes from Komungakaa's poem Blackberries.
“They left my hands like a printer’s or thief’s before a police blotter & pulled me into early morning’s terrestrial sweetness, so thick the damp ground was consecrated where they fell among a garland of thorns.” The printer’s thorns consecrated my hands as I fell into terrestrial sweetness. The thief’s damp ground of thorns would not blot out the police, so thick in their terrestrial sweetness. This thief, fully terrestrial with a skull thick as thorns, catches me like a police blotter as my left hand drips sweetness on the damp ground. In the consecration of early morning I am Jackson Pollock with my hands pulled out like a garland of thorns. I am a thief with a blotter, a terrestrial printer dripping holy water until my canvass is a damp ground. These hands beg redemption, they will be consecrated and their story wrapped in a garland of thorns. The blotter pulled me up early, wrapped me in redemption and waited for the printer’s garland. A skull thick drips the terrestrial on my story, its ink pulling me back to morning’s sweetness to the damp ground where the words would fall among thorns.
“They left my hands like a printer’s or thief’s before a police blotter & pulled me into early morning’s terrestrial sweetness, so thick the damp ground was consecrated where they fell among a garland of thorns.” The printer’s thorns consecrated my hands as I fell into terrestrial sweetness. The thief’s damp ground of thorns would not blot out the police, so thick in their terrestrial sweetness. This thief, fully terrestrial with a skull thick as thorns, catches me like a police blotter as my left hand drips sweetness on the damp ground. In the consecration of early morning I am Jackson Pollock with my hands pulled out like a garland of thorns. I am a thief with a blotter, a terrestrial printer dripping holy water until my canvass is a damp ground. These hands beg redemption, they will be consecrated and their story wrapped in a garland of thorns. The blotter pulled me up early, wrapped me in redemption and waited for the printer’s garland. A skull thick drips the terrestrial on my story, its ink pulling me back to morning’s sweetness to the damp ground where the words would fall among thorns.
Free Write 1 (week 5)
I spend evenings picking you out of my bed:
that skillet with electric blanket
I’m hand tossed, lightly breaded
with your body crumbs and
deep fried dreams.
Look for me, the daily special, all shrink wrapped
safe for home consumption.
My fingers dig sleep from the pan
chipping away the charred pieces
the way my alarm clock
lets the digits fall.
Or this warm spot:
your impress until I pull
blankets like palimpsest:
the pan that’s scraped again
yesterday pulled taut,
all clean and dry and used up.
How do I throw myself up?
With a razor and creme
my teeth will shine.
How do I attach rod to bed sheet
and hobo my life away?
that skillet with electric blanket
I’m hand tossed, lightly breaded
with your body crumbs and
deep fried dreams.
Look for me, the daily special, all shrink wrapped
safe for home consumption.
My fingers dig sleep from the pan
chipping away the charred pieces
the way my alarm clock
lets the digits fall.
Or this warm spot:
your impress until I pull
blankets like palimpsest:
the pan that’s scraped again
yesterday pulled taut,
all clean and dry and used up.
How do I throw myself up?
With a razor and creme
my teeth will shine.
How do I attach rod to bed sheet
and hobo my life away?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Junkyard 1 (week 4)
My grandfather is all shave and no bristle
he squeezes his watch and his grapefruit
dripping seconds off his finger
like holy water Clorox
or a priest before vespers swigging
Irish whiskey from the chalice
he squeezes his watch and his grapefruit
dripping seconds off his finger
like holy water Clorox
or a priest before vespers swigging
Irish whiskey from the chalice
Strategy Response 1 (Week 4)
“This Be the Verse” by Philip Larkin
In this relatively simple worded poem, Larkin discusses with candor the affect of one generation on the other. What strikes me as strong or fresh in this piece of writing is the way in which its almost sing-song rhythm and rhyme scheme combines with its strong language to create a somewhat jaded nursery rhyme. The emotional register and especially the language used bespeak a somewhat bitter narrator, but the song like cadence and rhyming reign in the bitterness. This pushes the poem’s tone toward a more radical middle and keeps the voice from sounding like a teenager spouting an angst ridden tirade. More and more, I have seen good poets navigate successfully through delicate subjects that I typically regard as inaccessible. This poem, while essentially saying ‘fuck you’ to mom and dad, captures more than teenage anger or frustration because of the way in which it delivers its message. Furthermore, the subject of the piece is fairly straightforward and simple. The poet is not trying to spin several plates at once. the simplicity but sustaining breadth of the poem’s subject matter combine to deliver with potency. All the while, we don’t feel as if Larkin is dumping his family problems on us largely due to the melodic nursery rhyme style and the narrator’s composure in delivering powerful lines with journalistic sobriety.
In this relatively simple worded poem, Larkin discusses with candor the affect of one generation on the other. What strikes me as strong or fresh in this piece of writing is the way in which its almost sing-song rhythm and rhyme scheme combines with its strong language to create a somewhat jaded nursery rhyme. The emotional register and especially the language used bespeak a somewhat bitter narrator, but the song like cadence and rhyming reign in the bitterness. This pushes the poem’s tone toward a more radical middle and keeps the voice from sounding like a teenager spouting an angst ridden tirade. More and more, I have seen good poets navigate successfully through delicate subjects that I typically regard as inaccessible. This poem, while essentially saying ‘fuck you’ to mom and dad, captures more than teenage anger or frustration because of the way in which it delivers its message. Furthermore, the subject of the piece is fairly straightforward and simple. The poet is not trying to spin several plates at once. the simplicity but sustaining breadth of the poem’s subject matter combine to deliver with potency. All the while, we don’t feel as if Larkin is dumping his family problems on us largely due to the melodic nursery rhyme style and the narrator’s composure in delivering powerful lines with journalistic sobriety.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Improv 1 (Week 4)
Almost Intervention
Adrian Matejka
My little brother lives
in Indianapolis
with its suburban rabbits
and warrens of junkies.
The neighbor’s mutt
growls at what he knows
is there. Maybe corn
kernels and tassels dressed
up as humidity. Maybe
the thin-lipped vinyl
in the siding. I don’t know
what it means to need
something more than you
need you. My brother
shifts from today to yesterday
in a halo of weed smoke,
slides down the concrete
driveway without mom’s
permission into somebody
else’s rusted minivan. He’s
geometric, all points leading
to the same happenstance.
He is a porch swing
with the bolts loose.
Improv:
“My little brother lives
in Indianapolis
with its suburban rabbits
and warrens of junkies.”
The rain pounds through
the phone as I hold
and he opens tuna.
Applying all his force to the cut,
he sends scales across the sink.
Good with wood, better with the knife
my brother lives on shavings
he’s rabbit-holed in the drain
picking out each silver member
sucking it between the gap tooth
that clicks the receiver of
our relationship. In the neighbor’s
garage, he tells me, sleeps
a ’76 Chevrolet Caprice.
My brother wants to steal it
says he’s got the keys in his pants.
Still with fish mouth he gnaws
on plastic straps. His front porch sunburn
dressed in dollars and cents as he turns
the achy chain of a Huffy 12 speed
while Jack and Johanna spit
past in crystal Chevrolet glory.
Adrian Matejka
My little brother lives
in Indianapolis
with its suburban rabbits
and warrens of junkies.
The neighbor’s mutt
growls at what he knows
is there. Maybe corn
kernels and tassels dressed
up as humidity. Maybe
the thin-lipped vinyl
in the siding. I don’t know
what it means to need
something more than you
need you. My brother
shifts from today to yesterday
in a halo of weed smoke,
slides down the concrete
driveway without mom’s
permission into somebody
else’s rusted minivan. He’s
geometric, all points leading
to the same happenstance.
He is a porch swing
with the bolts loose.
Improv:
“My little brother lives
in Indianapolis
with its suburban rabbits
and warrens of junkies.”
The rain pounds through
the phone as I hold
and he opens tuna.
Applying all his force to the cut,
he sends scales across the sink.
Good with wood, better with the knife
my brother lives on shavings
he’s rabbit-holed in the drain
picking out each silver member
sucking it between the gap tooth
that clicks the receiver of
our relationship. In the neighbor’s
garage, he tells me, sleeps
a ’76 Chevrolet Caprice.
My brother wants to steal it
says he’s got the keys in his pants.
Still with fish mouth he gnaws
on plastic straps. His front porch sunburn
dressed in dollars and cents as he turns
the achy chain of a Huffy 12 speed
while Jack and Johanna spit
past in crystal Chevrolet glory.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Junkyard 1 (week 3)
My soles flip-flop
in the backyard blues
watching chicken wings crackle and dance
in liquid heat while my right-hand beer
swigs today away.
in the backyard blues
watching chicken wings crackle and dance
in liquid heat while my right-hand beer
swigs today away.
Improv 1 (Week 3)
Wheels of Steel
Adrian Matejka
I got me two songs instead of eyes—
all swollen and blacked out
like the day after a lost fight. Two
jigsaws spinning, buzzing the backdrop
for woodshop or emcee, bar mitzvah
or afterset. It’s DJ Run, DMC rocking
without a band, but not without me.
I make it rain. I make it rain on these
shined up rims still spinning after the car
stops. Dubs kind of grind like me
in their perpetuity. I’m the Wizard
of Oz if Oz was a fish fry in July.
Call me Master of the Cracked Fingers.
One song spins forward, the other
back to repeat itself: Every day I’m
hustlin’. Every day I’m hustlin’. Baby,
I’m the layaway payment on a Ferris
wheel. My songs orbit parking lots
and rent parties like the crazy lady’s
eyes when she finds out her lover man
already left…It’s all because of you,
I’m feeling sad and blue. One of my songs
spins backward, while the other plays
forward like sugar mixing in to make
the grape. My joints are the pinwheels
in this parade of moonwalks and uprocks:
See, I like to get down, Jack.
Improv:
“I got me two songs instead of eyes—
all swollen and blacked out”
they play dogged, sidelong at you
two spinning plates stuck on repeat
between your chest and the fur
necking at your ears.
Your cheeks cube rosy when I
ask: would you like your mango with salt?
Then a tripwire: Jerry Leather eyes whip me like boot straps;
I dispatch.
While you drip cobbler from your nails
I sink my hands deep:
thumbing spoons in soap,
fumbling over spatchulas
that stick to your thighs
like saddle bag reflectors.
Adrian Matejka
I got me two songs instead of eyes—
all swollen and blacked out
like the day after a lost fight. Two
jigsaws spinning, buzzing the backdrop
for woodshop or emcee, bar mitzvah
or afterset. It’s DJ Run, DMC rocking
without a band, but not without me.
I make it rain. I make it rain on these
shined up rims still spinning after the car
stops. Dubs kind of grind like me
in their perpetuity. I’m the Wizard
of Oz if Oz was a fish fry in July.
Call me Master of the Cracked Fingers.
One song spins forward, the other
back to repeat itself: Every day I’m
hustlin’. Every day I’m hustlin’. Baby,
I’m the layaway payment on a Ferris
wheel. My songs orbit parking lots
and rent parties like the crazy lady’s
eyes when she finds out her lover man
already left…It’s all because of you,
I’m feeling sad and blue. One of my songs
spins backward, while the other plays
forward like sugar mixing in to make
the grape. My joints are the pinwheels
in this parade of moonwalks and uprocks:
See, I like to get down, Jack.
Improv:
“I got me two songs instead of eyes—
all swollen and blacked out”
they play dogged, sidelong at you
two spinning plates stuck on repeat
between your chest and the fur
necking at your ears.
Your cheeks cube rosy when I
ask: would you like your mango with salt?
Then a tripwire: Jerry Leather eyes whip me like boot straps;
I dispatch.
While you drip cobbler from your nails
I sink my hands deep:
thumbing spoons in soap,
fumbling over spatchulas
that stick to your thighs
like saddle bag reflectors.
Free write 1 (week 3)
It’s raining the color blue and I am seaside
filling my pockets with denim and nautili.
My Nordic haunts: a saline mixture of switches, prattle and mutt.
Hot wires warm and, at midnight, begin to spin silk,
the orange spiders that hammock my dreams.
In lucidity I am my father’s Gregorian chant:
a churning rhythm, a booze strung rant.
I wake, knee deep in the muck of linen
I cling, all balled up skin flaking till I’m spread dermis, a milli-thin veneer.
Tonight, I am the rings around the moon.
I am lunacy arching its back to laugh
and wheel barrel all the way home.
filling my pockets with denim and nautili.
My Nordic haunts: a saline mixture of switches, prattle and mutt.
Hot wires warm and, at midnight, begin to spin silk,
the orange spiders that hammock my dreams.
In lucidity I am my father’s Gregorian chant:
a churning rhythm, a booze strung rant.
I wake, knee deep in the muck of linen
I cling, all balled up skin flaking till I’m spread dermis, a milli-thin veneer.
Tonight, I am the rings around the moon.
I am lunacy arching its back to laugh
and wheel barrel all the way home.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Improv 1 (week 2)
From "Introductions" by Jillian Weise
"After we've introduced ourselves
with gin and tonic and jazz,
a woman asks to read our palm."
I slid down your leg's trombone
and rub the sandpaper on your hips.
Impatient, the palm reader exhales
in fact, she hisses and it smells of
sodden cardboard. I consider if the man collecting my trash
at 5:48 in the morning has the same stench.
These folks measure yesterday in pounds of grease
My neighbors, the man flicking to light an end,
Everyone around us smiles and,
waving paper towels like scarves,
they drive bomb this town
"After we've introduced ourselves
with gin and tonic and jazz,
a woman asks to read our palm."
I slid down your leg's trombone
and rub the sandpaper on your hips.
Impatient, the palm reader exhales
in fact, she hisses and it smells of
sodden cardboard. I consider if the man collecting my trash
at 5:48 in the morning has the same stench.
These folks measure yesterday in pounds of grease
My neighbors, the man flicking to light an end,
Everyone around us smiles and,
waving paper towels like scarves,
they drive bomb this town
Junkyard quote 3 (week 2)
A lot of empty outcries
next to the hospital
witnesses the comings
and goings of pallets
the trappings of a life
strapping patience down
next to the hospital
witnesses the comings
and goings of pallets
the trappings of a life
strapping patience down
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Junkyard 1-2 (week 2)
As I move this inkwell across the parched and barren
my pen comes to rest on a Gila monster
black and beady with a stinging tongue
we eat fur pie and roasted rope soup
at the mayor’s estate.
His wife offers me a panther’s claw
but I refuse, digging my eyes into scalloped moth balls
encrusting her lips
my pen comes to rest on a Gila monster
black and beady with a stinging tongue
we eat fur pie and roasted rope soup
at the mayor’s estate.
His wife offers me a panther’s claw
but I refuse, digging my eyes into scalloped moth balls
encrusting her lips
Free Write 1 (Week 2)
We venture to Tennessee together,
my Indian and I,
with slop on the roads
riding in each other’s laps.
All the time, my face,
hangs its droopy eyes out the window
to catch fire flies in the eyelids.
Once, we played with six shooters:
evenings filled with port and
bacon-wrapped minion.
You licked my face like a dog when
we assailed the neighbor’s hedgerows
to pop BBs in front seat of your Volkswagen.
But now, now Tennessee
and the tin siding of your face
that I imagine as I bed you in rust
Laying you on the springboard mattress stamped
Captain Daniels Adventure Highboy
my Indian and I,
with slop on the roads
riding in each other’s laps.
All the time, my face,
hangs its droopy eyes out the window
to catch fire flies in the eyelids.
Once, we played with six shooters:
evenings filled with port and
bacon-wrapped minion.
You licked my face like a dog when
we assailed the neighbor’s hedgerows
to pop BBs in front seat of your Volkswagen.
But now, now Tennessee
and the tin siding of your face
that I imagine as I bed you in rust
Laying you on the springboard mattress stamped
Captain Daniels Adventure Highboy
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Free Write 2 (Week 1)
It’s a grab bag of cheap beer,
Nice ass and nuts.
The depraved stand starving
Near the gates of this amusement ground
Waiting for hedgehogs, swine
To dig tunnels for them
Tunnels that grow into caverns
The empty spaces underground
I live there, damp sooty, mildew
Now here comes a clown whose make up…
No… wait… no clown
Just a funny mirror, a waitress
Painted, plastered on beauty
That reigns supreme, that dives into you just
To see your lover’s green
Get washed down by Dixie cups
And pink panties.
Fill me up, water me down.
My only request: that you fool me
Trick me, deceive me until
Morning.
Nice ass and nuts.
The depraved stand starving
Near the gates of this amusement ground
Waiting for hedgehogs, swine
To dig tunnels for them
Tunnels that grow into caverns
The empty spaces underground
I live there, damp sooty, mildew
Now here comes a clown whose make up…
No… wait… no clown
Just a funny mirror, a waitress
Painted, plastered on beauty
That reigns supreme, that dives into you just
To see your lover’s green
Get washed down by Dixie cups
And pink panties.
Fill me up, water me down.
My only request: that you fool me
Trick me, deceive me until
Morning.
Junkyard Quote 5 (Week 1)
I've seen those fishnets in your closet.
The one the post worker hand delivered
a parcel to match your brown eyes.
When they grip your torso
squeezing grapefruit passions
and juicing my loins.
We'll huddle under pines
shining flecks of mica in red Georgia clay
Sticks, needles, dry rope
the green tomato seeds in my eyes
that fall like lollipops
on your cheeks
The one the post worker hand delivered
a parcel to match your brown eyes.
When they grip your torso
squeezing grapefruit passions
and juicing my loins.
We'll huddle under pines
shining flecks of mica in red Georgia clay
Sticks, needles, dry rope
the green tomato seeds in my eyes
that fall like lollipops
on your cheeks
Junkyard quote 4 (week 1)
I stuck my neck out
to find him below
sifting through our refuse
the twisted of his beard
would not lose the shoe string,
maybe spaghetti.
His hunger pulling the entrails of a dumpster
splayed out on concrete and
he notices me
smiles, scratches his crotch
while I count the chunks of canned corn
infesting his scruffle-grit
to find him below
sifting through our refuse
the twisted of his beard
would not lose the shoe string,
maybe spaghetti.
His hunger pulling the entrails of a dumpster
splayed out on concrete and
he notices me
smiles, scratches his crotch
while I count the chunks of canned corn
infesting his scruffle-grit
Free write 1 (week 1)
I had a dream in New York City
A terrier—squat, wiry
we walked each other
he me, I him.
I wore my collar with splendid pride
as the terrier stepped daintily
on hind legs.
An Italian met us
didn’t like us.
I popped off
told him something about
the Catholic church and
tight leashes.
The hound yelped
you could see his breath
sick dog with yellow teeth.
Or was it me?
Now I’m awake
the dog still walks
toward my bed and
he wears a badge that speaks
authority.
Now his paw rests on my chest
opal eyes, he pants
my chest swells to raise his brown nails.
There is no cure for this one.
A whimpering sack of fur
begins to grow on my chest
tail between my legs
I raise up in bed
follow my canine doctor
four sharp teeth, good for incisions
and other things surgical
I’m waiting for him
to lay me down
to put me to sleep.
A terrier—squat, wiry
we walked each other
he me, I him.
I wore my collar with splendid pride
as the terrier stepped daintily
on hind legs.
An Italian met us
didn’t like us.
I popped off
told him something about
the Catholic church and
tight leashes.
The hound yelped
you could see his breath
sick dog with yellow teeth.
Or was it me?
Now I’m awake
the dog still walks
toward my bed and
he wears a badge that speaks
authority.
Now his paw rests on my chest
opal eyes, he pants
my chest swells to raise his brown nails.
There is no cure for this one.
A whimpering sack of fur
begins to grow on my chest
tail between my legs
I raise up in bed
follow my canine doctor
four sharp teeth, good for incisions
and other things surgical
I’m waiting for him
to lay me down
to put me to sleep.
Improv 1 (Week 1)
For the Stranger
By: Carolyn Forché
Although you mention Venice
keeping it on your tongue like a fruit pit
and I say yes, perhaps Bucharest, neither of us
really knows. There is only this train
slipping through pastures of snow,
a sleigh reaching down
to touch its buried runners.
We meet on the shaking platform,
the wind’s broken teeth sinking into us.
You unwrap your dark bread
and share with me the coffee
sloshing into your gloves.
Telegraph posts chop the winter fields
into white blocks, in each window
the crude painting of a small farm.
We listen to mothers scolding
children in English as if
we do not understand a word of it—
sit still, sit still.
There are a few clues as to where
we are: the baled wheat scattered
everywhere like missing coffins.
The distant yellow kitchen lights
wiped with oil.
Everywhere the black dipping wires
stretching messages from one side
of a country to the other.
The men who stand on every border
waving to us.
Wiping ovals of breath from the windows
in order to see ourselves, you touch
the glass tenderly wherever it holds my face.
Days later, you are showing me
photographs of a woman and children
smiling from the windows of your wallet.
Each time the train slows, a man
with our faces in the gold buttons
of his coat passes through the cars
muttering the name of a city. Each time
we lose people. Each time I find you
again between the cars, holding out
a scrap of bread for me, something
hot to drink, until there are
no more cities and you pull me
toward you, sliding your hands
into my coat, telling me
your name over and over, hurrying
your mouth into mine.
We have, each of us, nothing.
We will give it to each other.
Improv:
Although you mention Venice
keeping it on your tongue like a fruit pit
and I say yes, perhaps Bucharest, neither of us
really knows where we store ourselves away.
the French compote on my leg and
sticky seeds brings the Dienstmädchen
with yet another white towel.
You tell me things cozy
and I dream into each stop.
There’s the peddler with stuffed animals,
he’s praying over them.
There’s the lighthouse on a hill
or a commercial jetliner.
We’re moving too fast
you complain as I sweep down your sheets,
nuzzle my ass into your bed
to make things warm.
There’s too much rocking.
Have we slid off yet?
You jerk my tie
just to hold on
as we grind metal
shifting our weight around Alpine peaks
By: Carolyn Forché
Although you mention Venice
keeping it on your tongue like a fruit pit
and I say yes, perhaps Bucharest, neither of us
really knows. There is only this train
slipping through pastures of snow,
a sleigh reaching down
to touch its buried runners.
We meet on the shaking platform,
the wind’s broken teeth sinking into us.
You unwrap your dark bread
and share with me the coffee
sloshing into your gloves.
Telegraph posts chop the winter fields
into white blocks, in each window
the crude painting of a small farm.
We listen to mothers scolding
children in English as if
we do not understand a word of it—
sit still, sit still.
There are a few clues as to where
we are: the baled wheat scattered
everywhere like missing coffins.
The distant yellow kitchen lights
wiped with oil.
Everywhere the black dipping wires
stretching messages from one side
of a country to the other.
The men who stand on every border
waving to us.
Wiping ovals of breath from the windows
in order to see ourselves, you touch
the glass tenderly wherever it holds my face.
Days later, you are showing me
photographs of a woman and children
smiling from the windows of your wallet.
Each time the train slows, a man
with our faces in the gold buttons
of his coat passes through the cars
muttering the name of a city. Each time
we lose people. Each time I find you
again between the cars, holding out
a scrap of bread for me, something
hot to drink, until there are
no more cities and you pull me
toward you, sliding your hands
into my coat, telling me
your name over and over, hurrying
your mouth into mine.
We have, each of us, nothing.
We will give it to each other.
Improv:
Although you mention Venice
keeping it on your tongue like a fruit pit
and I say yes, perhaps Bucharest, neither of us
really knows where we store ourselves away.
the French compote on my leg and
sticky seeds brings the Dienstmädchen
with yet another white towel.
You tell me things cozy
and I dream into each stop.
There’s the peddler with stuffed animals,
he’s praying over them.
There’s the lighthouse on a hill
or a commercial jetliner.
We’re moving too fast
you complain as I sweep down your sheets,
nuzzle my ass into your bed
to make things warm.
There’s too much rocking.
Have we slid off yet?
You jerk my tie
just to hold on
as we grind metal
shifting our weight around Alpine peaks
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Junkyard Quotes 1-3 (Week 1)
1. The canal milkshakes into this city
Pies cobblestone archways
while wavers with pocked up eyes
fight cats
the night nurses walk floor to floor
wet like springtime sunflowers
in a convulsive fit of feminine passion
my body hangs a corpse out the window
2. Sometimes I fall asleep
pissing. Half in dream, half in my pants.
She’d look a whole lot prettier
if I didn’t have to watch her switch
my bedpan.
3. I’d stretch a desert across your stomach
a steppe for your spine
Buzzards could sweep down
spill themselves into one another
until they’ve sucked up all
your tightly packed insides
Pies cobblestone archways
while wavers with pocked up eyes
fight cats
the night nurses walk floor to floor
wet like springtime sunflowers
in a convulsive fit of feminine passion
my body hangs a corpse out the window
2. Sometimes I fall asleep
pissing. Half in dream, half in my pants.
She’d look a whole lot prettier
if I didn’t have to watch her switch
my bedpan.
3. I’d stretch a desert across your stomach
a steppe for your spine
Buzzards could sweep down
spill themselves into one another
until they’ve sucked up all
your tightly packed insides
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Past Work (week 1)
Here is a collection of poetry that I wrote last spring.
Reclamation
At El Dorado Lake, Kansas,
the drift wood rises dead from black water
the petrified bones of some beast,
catching migrating eagles with its mossy suckers.
My pickup follows currents across the sea floor.
In this limestone basket of dried walls,
weaved from wheat shocks milo, and bound with barbed wire
road EE points to the scenic route lining the lake.
Touring caved-in factories and shotgun drug stores
the wind jostles my Ford.
A glint of tin siding in the rear view mirror
and the tires squirt gravel,
screening entire towns
where rebellion meant
dancing on Sunday.
Coronado Street, Cortez Avenue,
a red-eyed drunk watering his cactus
with obscenity.
A five-stringed guitar,
a three-wheeled car on an altar of cinder blocks.
In the dreams of the drunk
Coronado wanders this Abyssal plain,
still flooding whole towns
precisely so gold can be found.
Camping Near Logger Trails
Into the smoldering rib cage of that pine forest
Too late for loggers and turpentine hearts,
We kicked shadows deeper into twilight,
Tripped over limestone, and roots:
The gnarled knuckles of the worn and sleeping.
The trail wheezes through the still smoking earth.
I hack along dead brush and the promise of richer soil,
My lover three burning steps away.
In the clearing, a logger’s cabin
Roofless and drained of color,
Its planks splintered, two broken windows and a caved-in door:
The face of a logger a few years from collapse.
Charred tongues of its timber creak and moan,
The windows offer only flecks
Fractured portraits of our stares.
I want us to fall here,
Split by the logger’s swing
Our hair stirring the scorched ground.
I tell her to take my hand, hold me down.
I tell her we can sleep in the ash,
Smear sooty hands across our faces, and black out.
I want her mouth to fill mine with dust
I want her to smolder like an ember.
A Coal Miner in Retrospect
Summer stripped the leaves of him,
dusted his hands
into a bowl of soup.
He rolls white papers
between stained fingertips,
taps the ember in his bowl:
some liquid ashtray
floating flakes of grey potato skin.
The shadows outside—stretch and filter
through the naked tangle of the willow.
Spider-webbed roots choke the cellar windows
that drape the room in dusk.
He wipes the last slice of day from his plate,
his wine matured without the memory of seasons,
cured by monotony.
To count each inhalation
his coal miner hands drag
down the slick stones heating winter
down the oily veins ejecting electric promises,
down the summer sun he felt but never saw.
The throaty release, smoky fingers
blown against the frost bitten window pane.
To count each filtered breath,
thinking of the thick air
swallowed nightly, tasting the day.
The sulfuric of that place
filling his mouth with scorched earth.
Downing beers with neon suns flickering
until tomorrow’s hands scrape and score
the raw underbelly of mountains.
To count the warm air
sucked between his fingers,
hands exposed by work that peels
the doer and the done.
The Girl on the Third Floor
She slides red and yellow into the water
of a room of evenings. Shadows
hang their thick X’s on the wall.
We sneak away, press old wood floors
polished by her father’s consistency.
She opens the window for a cigarette,
and in the sun’s final act, behind a chorus
of birch and pine, I hold her naked.
Last summer passes underneath us,
in streets exploding with children and bicycles.
Later, cicadas whine in the cut grass.
The air cools. She blows smoke
on my body, tells me about her Russian dolls,
her fear of ladders. I slide her into my arms,
into damp covers on the third floor,
the moon peaks around floral curtains.
Soon, I will fall out of the window,
down to the street, will ride my bicycle
past a house, and shout toward her
opening a window on the third floor.
Robert & Morris Drug Store
A white that burns your eyes, an alcohol white. This brilliance, an outpost on the fringe of town in the late burn of summer when the sun’s a beacon. Across the street you hear birds thud the windows, fall to the porch, where, a few moments later a tall man appears with a squat stool and a yellow rag. The man and the mess gone in minutes never to disturb the well maintained purity of the house; a purity of blue-clean glass and deep shadows that keep the interior activities quiet. At night, the windows’ crème shades were eyelids half open to the town and the shadows within moved through a florescent glaze. The house, blanketed in the moon’s white covers, kept its pulse in the tick and tock of a grandfather. Perhaps if you passed by on a nighttime stroll, you might hear the faint murmur of that grandfather chiming in synch with the thump-a-dump of your beating heart or perhaps you might not.
We knew only a few, inconsequential oddities within the house. We knew only what the crisp glass showed us. By the light of day you could see the clock, gold-trimmed and snug against the wall. On the shelf behind the window an odd assemblage of watercolor portraits and green glass bottles gathered. A wooden bookcase—empty and an antique cash register lay directly behind them. If you came into town on a day trip you might catch yourself staring in and think, “These possessions clutter my view. They degrade this place. They are nothing worth my time. Look at the windows that mirror, see the purity of this radiant house.” These thoughts might cross your mind or they might not.
A house so tidy with its white pillars propping up the town’s pride and allowing us to sleep sound in mind and still in body even as the old man piles earth upon another fresh cut in the backyard. “It must be the birds, large ones like the albatross and pelican,” we murmur in our sleep. Their white feathers prove the whiteness of the house and, after all, who would notice the dirty, pocked earth around such clear windows, such a brilliant place.
Reclamation
At El Dorado Lake, Kansas,
the drift wood rises dead from black water
the petrified bones of some beast,
catching migrating eagles with its mossy suckers.
My pickup follows currents across the sea floor.
In this limestone basket of dried walls,
weaved from wheat shocks milo, and bound with barbed wire
road EE points to the scenic route lining the lake.
Touring caved-in factories and shotgun drug stores
the wind jostles my Ford.
A glint of tin siding in the rear view mirror
and the tires squirt gravel,
screening entire towns
where rebellion meant
dancing on Sunday.
Coronado Street, Cortez Avenue,
a red-eyed drunk watering his cactus
with obscenity.
A five-stringed guitar,
a three-wheeled car on an altar of cinder blocks.
In the dreams of the drunk
Coronado wanders this Abyssal plain,
still flooding whole towns
precisely so gold can be found.
Camping Near Logger Trails
Into the smoldering rib cage of that pine forest
Too late for loggers and turpentine hearts,
We kicked shadows deeper into twilight,
Tripped over limestone, and roots:
The gnarled knuckles of the worn and sleeping.
The trail wheezes through the still smoking earth.
I hack along dead brush and the promise of richer soil,
My lover three burning steps away.
In the clearing, a logger’s cabin
Roofless and drained of color,
Its planks splintered, two broken windows and a caved-in door:
The face of a logger a few years from collapse.
Charred tongues of its timber creak and moan,
The windows offer only flecks
Fractured portraits of our stares.
I want us to fall here,
Split by the logger’s swing
Our hair stirring the scorched ground.
I tell her to take my hand, hold me down.
I tell her we can sleep in the ash,
Smear sooty hands across our faces, and black out.
I want her mouth to fill mine with dust
I want her to smolder like an ember.
A Coal Miner in Retrospect
Summer stripped the leaves of him,
dusted his hands
into a bowl of soup.
He rolls white papers
between stained fingertips,
taps the ember in his bowl:
some liquid ashtray
floating flakes of grey potato skin.
The shadows outside—stretch and filter
through the naked tangle of the willow.
Spider-webbed roots choke the cellar windows
that drape the room in dusk.
He wipes the last slice of day from his plate,
his wine matured without the memory of seasons,
cured by monotony.
To count each inhalation
his coal miner hands drag
down the slick stones heating winter
down the oily veins ejecting electric promises,
down the summer sun he felt but never saw.
The throaty release, smoky fingers
blown against the frost bitten window pane.
To count each filtered breath,
thinking of the thick air
swallowed nightly, tasting the day.
The sulfuric of that place
filling his mouth with scorched earth.
Downing beers with neon suns flickering
until tomorrow’s hands scrape and score
the raw underbelly of mountains.
To count the warm air
sucked between his fingers,
hands exposed by work that peels
the doer and the done.
The Girl on the Third Floor
She slides red and yellow into the water
of a room of evenings. Shadows
hang their thick X’s on the wall.
We sneak away, press old wood floors
polished by her father’s consistency.
She opens the window for a cigarette,
and in the sun’s final act, behind a chorus
of birch and pine, I hold her naked.
Last summer passes underneath us,
in streets exploding with children and bicycles.
Later, cicadas whine in the cut grass.
The air cools. She blows smoke
on my body, tells me about her Russian dolls,
her fear of ladders. I slide her into my arms,
into damp covers on the third floor,
the moon peaks around floral curtains.
Soon, I will fall out of the window,
down to the street, will ride my bicycle
past a house, and shout toward her
opening a window on the third floor.
Robert & Morris Drug Store
A white that burns your eyes, an alcohol white. This brilliance, an outpost on the fringe of town in the late burn of summer when the sun’s a beacon. Across the street you hear birds thud the windows, fall to the porch, where, a few moments later a tall man appears with a squat stool and a yellow rag. The man and the mess gone in minutes never to disturb the well maintained purity of the house; a purity of blue-clean glass and deep shadows that keep the interior activities quiet. At night, the windows’ crème shades were eyelids half open to the town and the shadows within moved through a florescent glaze. The house, blanketed in the moon’s white covers, kept its pulse in the tick and tock of a grandfather. Perhaps if you passed by on a nighttime stroll, you might hear the faint murmur of that grandfather chiming in synch with the thump-a-dump of your beating heart or perhaps you might not.
We knew only a few, inconsequential oddities within the house. We knew only what the crisp glass showed us. By the light of day you could see the clock, gold-trimmed and snug against the wall. On the shelf behind the window an odd assemblage of watercolor portraits and green glass bottles gathered. A wooden bookcase—empty and an antique cash register lay directly behind them. If you came into town on a day trip you might catch yourself staring in and think, “These possessions clutter my view. They degrade this place. They are nothing worth my time. Look at the windows that mirror, see the purity of this radiant house.” These thoughts might cross your mind or they might not.
A house so tidy with its white pillars propping up the town’s pride and allowing us to sleep sound in mind and still in body even as the old man piles earth upon another fresh cut in the backyard. “It must be the birds, large ones like the albatross and pelican,” we murmur in our sleep. Their white feathers prove the whiteness of the house and, after all, who would notice the dirty, pocked earth around such clear windows, such a brilliant place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
