tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39098681528628817742024-02-07T20:06:17.580-08:00A Poetry of the ImpossibleAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-79542844461508430312014-01-22T09:57:00.002-08:002015-07-10T05:46:48.794-07:00Done-ish, moving archives to another siteIf you want to see what I'm blogging now, please visit <a href="http://sisyphusbound.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Sisyphus Bound</a>.<br />
<br />
If you want to see older posts from this blog, please visit <a href="http://sisyphusbound.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Sisyphus Bound</a>: <a href="http://sisyphusbound.weebly.com/the-vault.html" target="_blank">The Vault</a>: <a href="http://sisyphusbound.weebly.com/a-poetry-of-the-impossible.html">A Poetry of the Impossible</a>. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-38580485414662942432012-03-14T11:12:00.005-07:002014-01-25T19:14:41.775-08:00Roger Housden's ten poems to say goodbyeThis article has moved. <a href="http://sisyphusbound.weebly.com/12/post/2012/03/roger-housdens-ten-poems-to-say-goodbye.html" target="_blank">Please click here to read it.</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-21949730971095539942012-02-02T09:01:00.000-08:002012-02-02T11:44:17.668-08:00Fear of SuckingSo I'm working on translating another piece of published juvenilia (modeled after, or derived from, or ripping off a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Little-Star-Mark-Halliday/dp/0688075304" target="_blank">Mark Halliday poem from <i>Little Star</i></a>). Twice removed from worth anything, except some poor deluded soul or committee of souls chose to publish it in a small journal, so I guess it's worth something. And it's actually OK, a little less image-heavy and more narrative than my usual crap.<br />
<br />
Anyway, at the same time, I am studying an article called <a href="http://robertleebrewer.blogspot.com/2012/01/25-ways-to-increase-blog-traffic.html" style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;" target="_blank">25 Ways to Increase Blog Traffic</a> and fighting a wave of headache and nausea and actively hiding from the day. As I contemplate making an honest effort to increase traffic, it seems to me that Not Bob's list of 25 omits perhaps the most essential: don't suck. How many people read blogs that suck? (How many people are reading and answering this question right now? The answers to those questions, says my sunken self-esteem, are identical.) The golden rule of "Don't Suck" does not make the list. Instead, perhaps its opposite: "Post Consistently." All in a panic, I think to myself, "I barely have anything to say twice a month on this blog ... What will I say if I post a few times a week?"<br />
<br />
Of course, having developed (somewhat) my theory of the <a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/10/reckoning-impossible-rambling.html" target="_blank">Poetry</a> <a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/11/reckoning-impossible-part-ii.html" target="_blank">of the</a> <a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/12/reckoning-impossible-part-iii.html" target="_blank">Impossible</a>, which comprises these points:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Poetry is not that serious</li>
<li>Poetry does not affect Reality directly, only acts from the fringes to filter down into cultural understandings of Reality</li>
<li>Reality is quite beyond our ability to understand</li>
<li>Language is a terribly flawed means of communicating our understanding of Reality</li>
<li>But still, Language is the best means of communication we have</li>
<li>The limitations of Language create the tools and tricks of the Poetic trade</li>
<li>Poetry is essentially a game using those tools and tricks to force Language to move closer to a true representation of Reality, bridging the Subjective and Objective</li>
<li>Poetry is essentially a game we can never win, a game in which we can never be certain of the score</li>
<li>Thus, all Poetry is Objectively equal because entirely dependent for value upon the Subjective</li>
<li>Thus, there are no more or less legitimate forms of Poetry</li>
<li>Thus, there is only <i>Poetry I like better</i> and <i>Poetry I don't like so much</i> </li>
<li>Thus, concerns about <i>Am I a good poet?</i> are best understood as more superficial concerns, such as <i>Will my poetry be acceptable to these literary journals? </i>or <i>Will my poetry get me into that MFA program? </i>or<i> If I show my friends my poetry, will they laugh at me?</i> or<i> Does my poem rhyme good?</i></li>
<li>Given the superficial Subjectivity of these "core" value concerns, every Poem will succeed in some contexts and fail in others; every Poem will simultaneously <i>Suck</i> and <i>Not Suck</i> (Like Schrodinger's cat, we put the Poem in a box and its value equals all probabilities at once until someone opens the box ... The Poem, however, either <i>Sucks</i> or <i>Not</i> depending upon the person opening the box, whereas the cat is either dead or alive, one or the other, regardless)</li>
<li>Given the impossibility of winning the game, of forcing Language to represent True Reality (or of even knowing what True Reality <i>is</i>), there is also no possibility of <i>losing </i>the game, and so no limitations on--no rules (except for whatever rules the Poet chooses to provisionally adopt) of--the game.</li>
</ol><div>(god, that was a long tangent to arrive at this point)I must concede that Fear of Sucking is entirely irrational, and should not even be considered when posting on a blog like this.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But then, as human beings are irrational, Fear of Sucking is a legitimate consideration. What shall I do now?</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, how about every Tuesday and Thursday, at least, I post here one of several different things:</div><div><ol><li>Revisions to an existing poem</li>
<li>Draft of a new poem</li>
<li>An old poem (Juvenilia)</li>
<li>My thoughts about poetry and poetics</li>
<li>A method of generating poetic matter and/or my results from using such a method</li>
<li>My thoughts on things I see around the Poetosphere (what do you think of that label? I'm not sure ...)</li>
<li>A critical appraisal and/or analysis of someone else's poetry, whether unknown or well-known</li>
</ol><div>Think I'll try that. Echo echo echo ...</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-67251446951511707092012-01-27T20:08:00.000-08:002012-01-27T20:08:16.194-08:00From the German.I'm stuck. I should be working on "<a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/12/all-things-being-equal-new-revisions.html" target="_blank">All Things Being Equal</a>," (that is <a href="http://bderline.weebly.com/2/post/2012/01/out-of-possibilities.html" target="_blank">the agreement I made with myself</a>) but I fear it may be completely unsalvageable. So, to fuck around and waste time productively, I took four texts translated from the German--Heidegger's "Letter on Humanism," Goethe's <i>Faust</i>, Rilke's <i>Duino Elegies</i>, and the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm--and plugged them into <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/eGnoetry/" target="_blank">eGnoetry</a> to try to make some interesting novel connections. What follows are the raw results, the turbulent flow. I may set straight quotes from the works to act as attractors, or I might build it around memories of a German girlfriend many years ago. Or I might just forget about it, because I already have too many unfinished long poems. Who knows? Anyway ...<br />
<br />
<br />
This was morbidly anxious to know. I felt<br />
this difficulty in silence. It's all,<br />
sometimes.<br />
<br />
I stepped leisurely<br />
across the life -- or two who lifted a<br />
capital -- normal from head was thinking of<br />
having lost sight; this -- the<br />
fate.<br />
I had been planning to<br />
his hands, and sealed his.<br />
<br />
I proposed a singleness of nightmares. The manager,<br />
wild and devil, almost<br />
certain I had become a foolish<br />
faces. I had nothing,<br />
four pilgrims in a wonder. I saw<br />
the passing away quick, nor I did not so.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Better his face: Wood<br />
for relief --<br />
a little things -- Love him.<br />
He appeared, paths spreading over a glance. Moreover,<br />
shields, trees were simply as<br />
far away from<br />
me that is easier to stop him. On the<br />
postscriptum torn.<br />
<br />
Of course you<br />
know what? He shook the water-gauge<br />
with it seemed young man. In about<br />
one of time. We pounded along with.<br />
. I descended to the hole.<br />
He<br />
suspected there was burning noble and of which the woods.<br />
<br />
They swore<br />
at<br />
me<br />
tingle with an infernal stream.<br />
<br />
No, mingled eagerness and up.<br />
Are we glided in the whispered to a massacre<br />
or two whites,<br />
his talk. Flying unto the little fever at<br />
such a.<br />
<br />
The<br />
dwelling was no harm, perhaps.<br />
They say -- mean she had aboard;<br />
and took both my finger everlastingly<br />
on him. Ultimately<br />
a<br />
good deal of.<br />
<br />
I got my heartless promptitude.<br />
No; I respected the shore. It<br />
was vanishing without that<br />
fellow to breathe<br />
dead silence. Well,<br />
was dead as ominous in front of.<br />
<br />
I glanced through that was within<br />
the need was the fantastic<br />
invasion, with<br />
this.<br />
He remained of our manager. I asked;<br />
but I would ring in cipher at repulse.<br />
Seat of it is so much.<br />
<br />
For some ghastly Nowhere, he answered that had seen<br />
anything, had got fever, no rivets<br />
there? On my country perhaps she was just<br />
floundered and the --<br />
could see. He assured in make<br />
an air of light of spotted cotton handkerchiefs.<br />
<br />
The voice -- fascinating --<br />
the ships of commonwealths, had no!<br />
<br />
And the greatest of a mass of that<br />
Martini-Henry cartridges?<br />
And by a bloodshot widening of course.<br />
Then I saw impending, not in.<br />
<br />
It was the body of his head. Conceive you<br />
see them with a great<br />
comfort to know. It<br />
was exactly as if her,<br />
but he said<br />
I rose there were going into<br />
the shutter alone now, it.<br />
<br />
Well, he wanted to convey the<br />
river. Don't be sociable,<br />
nervously. The people.<br />
<br />
But space, the white<br />
man like tearing<br />
pace of falling. It was all cutting capers in.<br />
<br />
He was only as<br />
you<br />
see I directed my speech, etc. The<br />
swift shadows darted out of his eyes. The<br />
tumult of the heads close by and also a<br />
crew. It<br />
had been out of the manager was.<br />
<br />
Table to unfold for the _Erebus_ and the sea<br />
in mankind as if indeed! We four paddling savages,<br />
looking forward to take<br />
care to.<br />
<br />
Here and lay<br />
rubbing sides at the<br />
unknown earth flowed sombre and was looking very clear<br />
perception of a<br />
time.<br />
If they<br />
would be seen<br />
the centre for publication, white man had loops of.<br />
<br />
Nothing could also one<br />
man<br />
you say three miles of startled<br />
to look.<br />
<br />
By the<br />
house this alone.<br />
No influential friend would dart and after this poor nose<br />
set. Well as may be<br />
English tobacco. I declare it is assured me think.<br />
But I said My idea of help -- and<br />
we came up the left either across the road.<br />
I haven't the manager displayed a bed with no more.<br />
<br />
She<br />
rang under his body of the<br />
fairway -- straw<br />
maybe. I strode off, upon my<br />
thoughts. There hasn't been telling you know what really<br />
an air with his back, behind me.<br />
<br />
He began to snare the body emerged from the<br />
men, as far, he.<br />
<br />
The steamer,<br />
beads on.. But when I<br />
expected an.<br />
<br />
They die, all,<br />
with twice the<br />
dead cats of their staves -- he had depended upon<br />
my only known<br />
once? I clambered on, upon their own sake.<br />
There remained.<br />
<br />
There he saw in<br />
another soul on board.. One was just<br />
awash,<br />
with him for equitable division. Go away<br />
from the centre<br />
of his pipe soothed him! broke off<br />
the thunderbolts of.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-57925723610785997422012-01-10T07:07:00.000-08:002012-01-10T08:29:52.581-08:00Juvenilia: A PrayerThis poem, under the title "A Prayer From Hell," won me second prize in a contest put on by a minor literary journal in 1996. I was pretty proud of that. It has the same excesses and weaknesses you can see in my current work. More or less. When I was applying to graduate schools and considering attempting to gain entry into a creative writing program, I consulted with one of my undergrad professors about a stack of poems, this one included. He suggested lopping the last few lines off, and I think he was correct. I am including them here as they were published, but running the red line through them, just to let you know. With the whole of the poem, and the constituent parts, as with everything, I am ambivalent.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<strong>A Prayer</strong><br />
<br />
There are streams dark and viscous that run<br />
behind the moonlight, crosscurrents interwoven<br />
like cords of gallows ropes that could be<br />
fingers extinguishing the stricken head<br />
of a match.<br />
If the moon has hands, they are for strangling,<br />
and holding us anxiously, trembling between love and murder.<br />
These two, like the tides, and fortune's wheel,<br />
ebb flow lift plunge the moon,<br />
some slow motion coin toss, ruled not by luck, but iron-fisted<br />
physics, gravity and weight differentials, lines<br />
and pulleys, dew vaporized from wing an entire continent<br />
away.<br />
And we know this. And knowing<br />
does not help.<br />
<br />
What do we want?<br />
Hands to sleep in come in ugly pairs, flame and<br />
flood, blossoming and collapsing like flowers<br />
through our hair, around our throats, they are poison; but the head<br />
of <i>Amaryllis belladonna</i>, named for poison, only begins<br />
to unfold pink petals as its leaves, arms extended in youth,<br />
die, wizen, drop, melt<br />
or are swallowed into the soil below,<br />
<br />
as our arms fail us, and our strength withers<br />
when ours are the only hands willing to hold us.<br />
We know of the mysteries of sickness and death.<br />
We know that there will be struggle and loss, that<br />
the odds are enough to crush us, that when the darkness<br />
descends, inevitable, inexorably, we are blind, and prey<br />
(pray)<br />
for sleep. We draw our water from dark<br />
stagnant pools, push away sunlight with shades<br />
over filthy windows, the air we breathe is death itself,<br />
yet we surprise ourselves now and then<br />
<br />
with the blooming. <span style="color: red;"><strike>Here<br />
is your answer: listen,<br />
come in close.<br />
<br />
We want to believe.</strike></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-85962210728188826162011-12-29T20:10:00.000-08:002012-02-17T07:42:45.805-08:00All Things Being Equal, new revisionsIt's been months since I touched this one. I'm not giving up on it yet. I won't show the changes as I have lately with the Ghosts poem, as it is too labor intensive and I am somewhat tired and depressed. Feel free to comment.<br />
<br />
Let <i>x </i>= <i>x </i><sub><small>1</small></sub><br />
Locked in observation<br />
with laceless shoes and<br />
flesh turning color in<br />
a mangled ring. As in<br />
<br />
the circus. You lay across<br />
the hall, or lie across the lake<br />
of fire bridged by roads cut<br />
straight into the mountain.<br />
You, me, the elephant in the ring.<br />
<br />
The baby in the car, my bottle<br />
in the sink. The girl left an impression,<br />
barbed wire handstanding on my back, the ass-end<br />
of a circus pony with wobble knees, sinking,<br />
straightening,<br />
sinking, and the finalé spills<br />
clowns from the car like cockroaches, midgets and stilt-<br />
legged giants, or hoop-waisted buffoons begging<br />
the rain with wing-spread finches,<br />
skeletons, held close<br />
on their heads. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<table><tbody>
<tr><td rowspan="2" valign="center"> Let the triangulation of my guilt = </td><td align="center" style="border-bottom: solid 1px black;"><i>a</i></td><td rowspan="2" valign="center"> = </td><td align="center" style="border-bottom: solid 1px black;"><i>a </i>+ <i>b</i></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><i>b</i></td><td align="center"><i>a</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The angle of the foothill<br />
bisecting the skyline<br />
would have been musical,<br />
if not drowned out by Virginia.<br />
Virginia, I remember, was <br />
lost children out of Carolina, lost<br />
to time and translation. Was it<br />
Croatoan, Roanoke, Chowanoc, Eno.<br />
Strip the music to pastels and feetless<br />
grass.<br />
<br />
<table><tbody>
<tr><td rowspan="2" valign="center">Let contrition = <i>F = </i></td><td align="center" style="border-bottom: solid 1px black;"><i>m a </i><sub><small>c </small></sub>= <i>m v </i><sup><small>2</small></sup></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><i>r</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Scribbled into some student's private<br />
journal, sketching mouths of caves in<br />
Jerusalem. Into the gullet.<br />
The curve is your body.<br />
I'm drawn by what I owe, no more.<br />
<br />
<table><tbody>
<tr><td rowspan="2" valign="center">Let dissolution = <i>S</i> = </td><td align="center" style="border-bottom: solid 1px black;"><i>c</i> <sup><small>3</small></sup> <i>k A</i></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">4 <i>ℏ G</i></td> </tr>
</tbody></table>There by the waters of the Potomac I found<br />
the coin tossed by General Washington, heads<br />
up, good luck, and went forth with it<br />
buried in my pocket. "Look," I glittered, but you<br />
handed me a shovel and said, "Time for ditches<br />
not trinkets," threw it back to the water.<br />
Action and reaction,<br />
equal and opposite.<br />
Circles, circles, time goes round again.<br />
<br />
You and I unseal our<br />
openings, link up, link<br />
up! Breath flows into breath,<br />
the fetid into the<br />
sweet, the rains into the<br />
rains into the desert,<br />
to till the untilled. "The<br />
laws of entropy apply<br />
only to closed systems," I<br />
declared. Everything<br />
<br />
that falls together breaks apart. In<br />
closed systems. You and I and you and<br />
I sealed up between, flitted toward equilibrium,<br />
until one day, both of us equally cold as a colossal<br />
squid, for many years fabled until caught off the coast<br />
of Antarctica. We left the freezing deep, surfaced, opened<br />
ourselves to decay, to destruction,<br />
to closing.<br />
<br />
<table><tbody>
<tr><td rowspan="2" valign="center">Let defiance = <i>F</i> = <i>k</i> <sub><small>e</small></sub></td> <td align="center" style="border-bottom: solid 1px black;"><i>q</i> <sub><small>1</small></sub> <i>q</i> <sub><small>2</small></sub></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><i>r</i> <sup><small>2</small></sup></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The more expressed, the more unsalvageable,<br />
scribbled in some student's private<br />
journal.<br />
Out of the maw.<br />
The curve is your body, repelled<br />
by what I owe, no more.<br />
<br />
The angle of the foothill<br />
bisecting the skyline<br />
was musical<br />
with the<br />
sounds of<br />
battle. Virginia. Virginia,<br />
I remember, was for lovers,<br />
and lost children out of Carolina. Lost<br />
to time and translation.<br />
<i>Croatoan</i> on a tree by the<br />
marsh, and under, <i>+ Smith 4</i><br />
<i> Eva</i>. They spoke Welsh and nevertheless<br />
did their feet<br />
ever seem to touch<br />
the grass.<br />
<br />
There by the waters of the Potomac<br />
I found the coin tossed by General Washington, tails<br />
up, bad luck, and went forth having sunk it<br />
under the ancient dirt.<br />
Appointed a <i>locum</i><br />
<i> tenens</i> to throw back to the water.<br />
Wave, particle, wave, particle,<br />
wave. Goodbye and<br />
goodbye and goodbye. Just<br />
like I told her. Time goes round again.<br />
There by the waters of the Potomac<br />
<br />
Let discomfort = Δ <i>x</i> Δ <i>p</i> ≥ <i>h</i><br />
Before they locked me in the single<br />
cell, I swam through numbers that<br />
were supposed to be yours. Opened<br />
my mouth to exhale hello in<br />
<br />
intoxicating breath,<br />
alveoli ballooned<br />
and burst, the buzz of<br />
disconnection, my limp body tossed<br />
on the small tattered vinyl mat beyond the bars.<br />
It was early. You must have still been up.<br />
<br />
Or you dreamt of the south. I never left<br />
a drink on the table. The girl was made of steam,<br />
the water scalding, shallow. I needed what you didn't have<br />
within you to deliver, sinking,<br />
straightening,<br />
sinking, and the spilling<br />
of the rain<br />
on parachutes, hollow-boned<br />
finches, held<br />
close on our heads.<br />
<br />
It wasn't anything,<br />
shadows,<br />
steam.<br />
Those are pearls that were her eyes.<br />
And you have plucked them out. <br />
<br />
Let <i>x </i><sub><small>1</small></sub> = <i>x </i><sub><small>2</small></sub><br />
Locked in the tank<br />
You dreamt of babies in cars. I left<br />
my scotch on the table. The girl ...<br />
The angle of the foothill bisected the skyline ...<br />
Virginia. Virginia. I remember, was lost to time and translation<br />
<br />
Let <i>x </i><sub><small>2</small></sub> = <i>x </i><sub><small>x</small></sub><br />
feetless Croatoan, <br />
more unsalvageable, tattooed in some private student,out, out now. <br />
<br />
Let <i>x </i>= <i>x </i><sub><small>1</small></sub>= <i>x </i><sub><small>2</small></sub>= <i>x </i><sub><small>x</small></sub><sub><small> </small></sub><sub><small> </small></sub><br />
The curve is your body, no more.<br />
By the waters of the Potomac, only myths and wasted fortune.<br />
Bury it, throw it back to the water.<br />
Act, react, pardon, wave.<br />
Circles, circles, time goes round again.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-41647767277780528072011-12-13T08:35:00.000-08:002011-12-13T17:39:50.398-08:00Reckoning the Impossible, Part IIII continue to write, despite the absence of clear encouragement. This is strange, as I am far too depressed to play my guitar or read (which require far too much effort and concentration). Even this, this semi-personal expository prose, is accomplished with more time and labor than it should require. I had reached out to a few people, asking for assessment and critique, but I have not heard back, after a month or two. My interpretation is that my writing is mediocre at most, which is fine. I am a poor judge of my own work, so I wouldn't necessarily know. And the world has plenty of mediocre poets. My (perceived) mediocrity won't drive me to suicide, as it did poor Hart Crane (not that I'm comparing myself). My suicidal impulses come from other places.<br />
<br />
So, why write? Poetry has no objective value, in my opinion. Presumably, I'm not talented enough to make a career of it--not without an effort the size of which I haven't the energy to make. I lack my youthful outsize ego and desire for fame that might veil my eyes to the disappointing reality. It's not clear to me, but I seem to be writing for the only legitimate reason to write poetry: I have certain perceptions, memories, emotions, thoughts, energies inside me that I feel compelled to understand better, that resist embodiment, topography, translation into the structure of language. This internal compulsion, I believe, is what drives poetry, regardless of whatever other filters it passes on the way out of the poet.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I can, and sometimes do, choose to ignore the impulse to write. And the world is none the worse. (How far can I generalize this? Can I honestly say that, had Walt Whitman simply <i>chosen not to write</i>, the world would still be the same place? Or Shakespeare, or Emily Dickinson, or T.S. Eliot, or a long list that necessarily becomes sparser [more sparse?] as we move toward contemporary poetry? While poetry exerts no direct influence on the world, I do believe that it makes its mark indirectly, acting from the fringes to change another "inconsequential" thing, and a cascading succession of cultural events and objects and such, whose diminishing "inconsequence" eventually becomes an increasing centrality to a society that will finally come to reflect something of the poet's efforts. But this doesn't apply to me, the humble hack that I am.)<br />
<br />
This internal struggle to translate the untranslatable, from the internal energy and intuition to expression and maybe even communication, is the only proper driving force for poetry. This is the same force that drives the mathematician and the physicist, the psychoanalyst and the archaeologist, or any one of a long list of those who strive to solve the mysteries that resist solution, whose answers always breed more questions. The fact that this is all a game ensures that human beings will continue to pursue these things. For me, it is always at least a tolerable way to pass the time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-74299807059530999192011-12-01T05:24:00.000-08:002011-12-01T08:05:59.062-08:00Robert Lowell and What To Do with My Hypomanic-Depression (Bipolar II)?I have thus proved that it is absolutely possible to write bad poetry quickly. I really don't know what else I'm doing here. I suppose I should be working on my longer works, doing some research into coroner's reports for Murder-Suicide in Loveland, into the mathematical equations I use in All Things Being Equal (so I can possibly make that jumbled mess cohere and maybe find some inspiration to craft metaphors that don't suck). But I feel drained, depressed, and, honestly, not at all impressed with what I've written so far. Thinking of going back to my novel. But I'd run into the same problems there.<br />
<br />
This is the problematic cycle that, in my better moments, I work to overcome: the grand idea exploded into millions of axons and neurons and glial cells, trunk and limbs and fingers, arteries and veins and capillaries, feverishly begun, feverishly overworked, until half constructed and half polished, then abandoned for greener, spore-infested, algae-ridden ponds. The confusion that follows, the dull and heavy head that fails to understand the hypomanic trajectory. The resignation to the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. The stasis and stagnation.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPl_EQZ7e29qtON5yM78wjXRR4ju3gkV18CaYzqKmAWXLBL5jmbJ5ndrqHHXxADDemp7YNOtW85eSswBkTZXx5OQ7PU987pnN21fE-Wig_PrucKPt3rhbzqfzOXQ0HcNRmjeM1u_SnJ9Y/s1600/lowell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPl_EQZ7e29qtON5yM78wjXRR4ju3gkV18CaYzqKmAWXLBL5jmbJ5ndrqHHXxADDemp7YNOtW85eSswBkTZXx5OQ7PU987pnN21fE-Wig_PrucKPt3rhbzqfzOXQ0HcNRmjeM1u_SnJ9Y/s200/lowell.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowell after lithium</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/10" target="_blank">Robert Lowell</a> supposedly found his depression useful for editing, crawling through each line, each word, from a dirt-level realism that can be the gift of depression. He balanced his manic explosions (during which he wrote, if he was not off on some drunken binge in South America or wherever) with diligent and exacting work, pushing through the lower moods to finish the grand mess he had started. That's self-discipline.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
As any of my professors from undergrad or my attempts at graduate school could tell you, I do not have Lowell's dedication, nor his work ethic. I tend to work by inspiration alone, writing when I "feel like it"--and I <i>feel like it</i> during the high-energy, low-judgment big-idea phase.<br />
<br />
I would like to overcome my lack of self-discipline. I would like to finish the poems I begin. And the novel I started (which I have been "working on" for about 20 years). And the seven papers I never finished for two different graduate programs (we'll have to list, or else it'll be a big messy unreadable block--<br />
<br />
<ul><li>for the psychiatric nursing program I'm leaving:</li>
<ul><li>serotonin in the pathology & treatment of deliberate self-harm</li>
<li>case study of a 10-year-old boy with psychotic symptoms</li>
</ul><li>for the literature program I flailed out of:</li>
<ul><li>the absent name and freedom of identity in <i>Evelina</i></li>
<li>A.R. Ammons' <i>Garbage</i> as an antipastoral</li>
<li>the place and meaning of homosexuality in jazz [focusing on elements of hyperheteromasculinity and its relationship to Billy Strayhorn, James Baldwin, and the flamboyance of Sun Ra and others]</li>
<li>Emerson and the daemon of sexuality</li>
<li>language, science, empathy, and the meaning of humanity in <i>Frankenstein</i> and maybe some other Faustian works).</li>
</ul></ul><div>And the board game I started creating with my daughter 10 or 15 years ago. And the rock opera I started writing 10 years ago. And so many other unfinished projects I forget at the moment.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I suppose when I finish something, that something tends to be above average. A few of my old professors could tell you that. But there is an overwhelming part of me that likes (or <i>needs</i>) to languish in possibility, spinning grander and more inclusive and complex ideas to avoid doing the hard work and coming out with a final product. In this way, I avoid judgment, I suppose. As long as my project is only a <i>potential</i> product, it <i>could be great</i>--as wonderful as the idea in my head. If I finish it, however, there's a chance that it could be crap. At any rate, the <i>idea</i> of the project is always "so brilliant" that no finished project could possibly measure up. This is not unique to me. It is a variation on the theme of perfectionist impossibility breeding endless procrastination.</div><div><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcW4rqe05Ie7FwxUuQC8C91wIwEhAQUnXP4PLBPkfe3q14wBbM19zMozLPTCHuz18W5UZsy9X8rWeVjd-J_5NrMECYLG64k8mEwPlU3BwKg550kw6_fywC4tJGY4N7l1PknYzBYUkofcQ/s1600/we.lowell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcW4rqe05Ie7FwxUuQC8C91wIwEhAQUnXP4PLBPkfe3q14wBbM19zMozLPTCHuz18W5UZsy9X8rWeVjd-J_5NrMECYLG64k8mEwPlU3BwKg550kw6_fywC4tJGY4N7l1PknYzBYUkofcQ/s200/we.lowell.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lowell, cocky and young</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div>Does this tendency of mine inform my judgment of poetry as unimportant to the world? Sour grapes? Or my conception of poetry as an impossible struggle to express a reality that lies out of reach of both our objective perception and our language? Do I set myself up for failure and then blame internal forces beyond my control for failure when it inevitably comes?</div><div><br />
</div><div>The thing about Robert Lowell--<i>one</i> thing about him--I share with him a similar diagnosis and one medication (out of five total for me). I don't share, of course, the famous family with a tradition of creating essential American poetry. And he had more money than me, which is why I never got to fly off to a foreign country on any of <i>my</i> drunken binges (the bastard). Do any of those things make a difference? I wish. As it is, if I truly believe that the artist has no responsibility except to create art (my Wildean principle), then I need to lose the excuses and emulate Lowell's self-discipline, working through and using the strengths of depression to move the poems forward, instead of resigning to the perceived impossibility.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-22362692102927032082011-11-26T17:04:00.000-08:002011-11-26T17:04:25.278-08:00Untitled poem on a photo of ex-wife #2I'm not much for myself as a poet today. Feeling even more mediocre than usual. And this poem doesn't disprove that, certainly. But I feel the need to write, even if it is shit, and even if I'm still fixated on ex-wife #2 and her online photo and my failures as a husband. But I have a poetry blog, and what the hell am I supposed to do with it? So, I post my crappy poem.<br />
<br />
Forgive me. I'm staring at your<br />
photograph, the coarse, fluid lines of auburn<br />
<br />
or ruby, the seas turned more<br />
coffee than blood and breaking on the killing<br />
<br />
shore. I have had my lips on<br />
that ear. She hides her age and imperfections,<br />
<br />
the weight of her heart, a base<br />
called drained, and sunless. My lips have touched<br />
<br />
that cold cheek. Windows to<br />
windows, we look upon and see nearly reflected,<br />
<br />
more deflected, eyes half opened<br />
and askance, never the whole story. You should<br />
<br />
know. The eyes have told me what<br />
I never wanted to know. The lips, the thin lines,<br />
<br />
as between love and apathy, stopped<br />
to reset the clocks. Before she left.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-29322650180828524272011-11-19T14:41:00.000-08:002011-12-01T05:50:53.264-08:00Random LinesHere's a game:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Choose a set of books, magazines, or whatever discrete pieces of text you wish.</li>
<li>Assign a random number to each, and then arrange by random number, smallest to largest.</li>
<li>Generate a series of random numbers from 1 to the number of pages in the biggest book. Apply these random numbers to the list of books. (These are the page numbers, so of course you may have to adjust for the shorter books.)</li>
<li>Generate a final set of random numbers between 1 and 40 or 50, or based on how many lines are on a typical page of text. (This is the line number, and may need to be adjusted.)</li>
<li>For each book, find the page and the line corresponding to the random numbers assigned.</li>
<li>Put 'em all together. Or connect them with text of your own, or whatever you want to do!</li>
</ol><div>Here's how some of mine turned out:</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;">Random Lines #1: Poetry</span><br />
And in these virtues of delight <br />
digested, shat out, growing again and eaten <br />
My lord—' said Barlyng, 'I! Your friend! <br />
A warmth within the breast would melt <br />
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;<br />
fold out the lungs and a jungle of bronchiols<br />
From pent-up aching rivers,<br />
[blank line]<br />
one she'd rather forget.<br />
[redacted line]<br />
I will change trees though I am almost eighty<br />
<i>What</i> is the matter with Mary Jane?<br />
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth<br />
tied like a noose to my belt.<br />
oh god it's wonderful<br />
searching the punk-dry rot<br />
Have understood what love can do.<br />
and the rose bobs to the surface<br />
one of the many pink and white blossoms,<br />
Touch me into light<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"The Divine Image" Songs of Innocence, Blake<br />
"____Their Eyes Were Opened, III: And the Birds Too Pecked the Flesh" She Heads into the Wilderness, Macari<br />
"John Deth: A Metaphysical Legend" Collected Poems, Aiken<br />
"In Memoriam A.H.H." Selected Poems, Tennyson<br />
"The Little Vagabond" Songs of Experience, Blake<br />
"The Fold-Out Atlas of the Human Body," William Olsen New Poems from the Third Coast<br />
"From Pent-up Aching Rivers" Leaves of Grass, WW<br />
Striking the Earth, Woods<br />
"In the House," Martha Ronk American Hybrid<br />
Little White Shadow, Ruefle<br />
Save the Last Dance, Stern<br />
"Rice Pudding" When We Were Very Young, Milne<br />
"Venus and Adonis" Annotated Shakespeare (Poems)<br />
"Fishing the Backwash" Fishing the Backwash, Driscoll<br />
"Steps" Lunch Poems, O'Hara<br />
Paterson, "Book Two" Paterson, WCW<br />
"The Murderer's Wine" Flowers of Evil, Baudelaire<br />
Dove in Santiago, Yevtushenko<br />
Early Collected Poems, Stern<br />
"Scene that Curls Edges: Three Lü-Shihs and a Couplet" Odds of Being, Wardrop</span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;">Random Lines #2: Self-Help</span><br />
<i>in the middle of my eyes …</i><br />
that happened in the past or something that's coming up in the future? What does your body feel<br />
5. If you continue to retain the image of yourself within the new frame, what difference<br />
ships, the blaming, the guilt and shame, and the excuses—lots and lots of excuses—it all fits<br />
pulls it out by the wings, and continues<br />
[blank]<br />
as clubs or hospitals which require much property or administration, ought to be incor-<br />
and treatment, the media hardly know BPD ex-<br />
studies seem to point to a multifaceted recovery approach. However,<br />
politics. And my attention was focused by another event. In the used<br />
but of their emotional security and piece of mind. We<br />
If a child could designate a parent's act as "wrong," then the<br />
sobriety.<br />
putting hallucinogens into my food. I wasn't able to sleep at all.<br />
<i>He was shut out from all family affairs. No one</i><br />
Where are you going?<br />
her own life and in supporting her own daughter. The arche-<br />
dividuals.<br />
family. Approach through a doctor or an institution<br />
gram of recovery from alcoholism, and they are not going to be listed<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">King Warrior Magician Lover<br />
Dialectical Behavior Therapy Skills Workbook<br />
Managing Traumatic Stress Through Art<br />
Anger Busting Workbook<br />
Rabbit Walks into a Bar<br />
High Risk<br />
AA Service Manual<br />
New Hope for People with BPD<br />
12-Step Buddhist<br />
Drinking Life<br />
Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions<br />
Cutting<br />
Writing from the Body<br />
Came to Believe<br />
Touchstones<br />
Million Little Pieces<br />
Descent to the Goddess<br />
Reviving Ophelia<br />
Alcoholics Anonymous (The Big Book)<br />
Living Sober</span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;">Random Lines #3: Mixed Nonfiction</span><br />
-He makes their breast close and constricted, as if they had to<br />
ments. The reader is being manipulated and aroused, his or her own<br />
Violet of secret earth.<br />
[blank page]<br />
Dusty sparrows in a crowd.<br />
family. Although he did not have a beard, he did have a moustache. The bearded lady left<br />
tured and some took refuge in Athens<br />
a coarse mantle—by which he sought to protect himself against the raging elements. His<br />
found, and to them an incomplete version is better than<br />
the Emperor Otto, who had stabbed himself, that he<br />
It was an omen: forthwith the plan of Darius was unanimously ac-<br />
A low growl made him reach for his pistol. Whirling<br />
"Easy man, take it easy, boy—stop yellin',<br />
ing Commissions which shall expire at the End of their<br />
drop-outs! Clara said that would be no problem - she would keep Pat for a few weeks<br />
"It's for your own good, Toady, you know," says the Rat."Think<br />
assail us, I have transcribed from <i>The Times</i> one strain of this kind, full of<br />
out of one everything shaped, final not in mere driblets, as sanity does.<br />
The police were standing in line in front of Republic Steel, quite a dis-<br />
of all this, of having to think of my father as someone bul-<br />
<i>No. 98.Van Gogh's House in Arles (drawing). V.W. van Gogh</i><br />
really needs to cover its aggression with some pretext or<br />
<i>To something greater than before.</i><br />
Wir sind ja alle genötigt, unsere Ziele weiter zu stecken, als unsere Kräfte<br />
6 And the children of Ger'-shon <i>had</i> by lot out of the<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Qur'an<br />
Sexual Personae<br />
Essential Margaret Fuller<br />
Touched With Fire<br />
Works of Emerson<br />
American Sideshow<br />
Peloponnesian War<br />
6th and 7th Books of Moses<br />
Double Helix<br />
Savage God<br />
Histories<br />
Vampires, Werewolves, and Ghouls<br />
Cat<br />
Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America<br />
My Lifetime of Changes<br />
Exuberance<br />
Culture and Anarchy<br />
Social History of Madness<br />
Hard Times<br />
Shadow Man<br />
Van Gogh: Paintings and Drawings<br />
Waiting for God<br />
Nothing Was the Same<br />
The Great Mother<br />
Holy Bible, King James Version</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-76344786037246625732011-11-12T14:22:00.000-08:002011-11-12T14:22:10.860-08:00NextI'm exhausted after the 24-Hour Chapbook thing, and probably more exhausted from other recent events in my life. In between calls from the muse, I'm going to do some reading, retype & cull some coroner's reports for <a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/09/murder-suicide-in-loveland-words-strewn.html" target="_blank">Murder-Suicide in Loveland</a>, and probably play some games. (Particularly, I will probably play the game where I stack up all my poetry books and generate some random numbers to tell me what line on what page to take from each and in what order they go. Then, I write material in between each quoted line to weave together a more or less coherent piece.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-37543192945801251432011-11-11T04:13:00.000-08:002011-12-01T05:51:38.429-08:0024-hour chapbook: dress like a patientPosting the pages of the 24-Hour Chapbook I've entitled <i>dress like a patient</i> (after a line from the song "Mica" by Mission of Burma). (call it a failed experiment, over time and 23 pages not 24--and sucky--but it's mine)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzDaeYVaNeDUqL5i_QLJ8hin0XRLfa3pBBpnulQ3hG0l2sA4uJHyC3T3ix-GpzhXTzL7pP6hIemtfR6OQhNpt0r4xFAuPX82FCPiAC9YlqXNmhr0pqxaQB_aAUgboyWeK8i604dmRDgA/s1600/dress1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzDaeYVaNeDUqL5i_QLJ8hin0XRLfa3pBBpnulQ3hG0l2sA4uJHyC3T3ix-GpzhXTzL7pP6hIemtfR6OQhNpt0r4xFAuPX82FCPiAC9YlqXNmhr0pqxaQB_aAUgboyWeK8i604dmRDgA/s320/dress1.png" width="248" /></a></div><br />
For the cover, I did a quick doodle and took a picture of it with my webcam--all I could think to do with limited resources and absolute zero time. MS Word, pages formatted as 4.25" x 5.5", captured with a "print screen" and made into .png's, which I'm loading up here. (Click to see full size.)<br />
<table><tbody>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDR3cnIYf41S9U8e-Fk7IX8weT50K-WDaT1v8dVY3EnZyRr0gRYOKwLUBMEik98fP8vIr9SzQPXrl2dBcjVfwoAoT4GV9gHBI_JNgnvVGd6bR9A5AkmqgXjy5_eIAxYiatiOUldELm7P8/s1600/dress2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDR3cnIYf41S9U8e-Fk7IX8weT50K-WDaT1v8dVY3EnZyRr0gRYOKwLUBMEik98fP8vIr9SzQPXrl2dBcjVfwoAoT4GV9gHBI_JNgnvVGd6bR9A5AkmqgXjy5_eIAxYiatiOUldELm7P8/s320/dress2.png" width="247" /></a></div></td> <td><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMyXdoknDpvZrf6aJ2p7nii2YfukD73EVfQVOmRMOCsgBIm-VNrPqEng55d8PFFlmUHWbrPp64u0OgOBi-aXGeq5WexAjE034n8UueePYDrTyWv_raze0mg0JBbnPhOAUzuuf50ixmt2o/s1600/dress3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMyXdoknDpvZrf6aJ2p7nii2YfukD73EVfQVOmRMOCsgBIm-VNrPqEng55d8PFFlmUHWbrPp64u0OgOBi-aXGeq5WexAjE034n8UueePYDrTyWv_raze0mg0JBbnPhOAUzuuf50ixmt2o/s320/dress3.png" width="247" /></a></div></td> </tr>
</tbody> </table>This will take a while, as I have to work and other things. My methods are far more labor intensive than this process needs to be. I just don't know how to do it the quicker, cleaner way.<br />
<br />
The poems themselves ... are, frankly, embarrassing. However, both my relative anonymity and my tendency to overdisclose (you'd think those two would be at odds) guarantee that embarrassment won't stop me from posting them.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib209je8folbQQzLuHGCTcg_CX87rc_FakJFP20X6Tf6VGumMBH5CtWmNs3GxPOgTOTcBmKjMqshH81eMF0M-gnr-W3sCwNMSUGghe-UvkGBNhhXA2m9PUKs1MLYt0VmES9YyL3tCzVjI/s1600/dress4-5.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib209je8folbQQzLuHGCTcg_CX87rc_FakJFP20X6Tf6VGumMBH5CtWmNs3GxPOgTOTcBmKjMqshH81eMF0M-gnr-W3sCwNMSUGghe-UvkGBNhhXA2m9PUKs1MLYt0VmES9YyL3tCzVjI/s320/dress4-5.png" width="247" /></a></div><br />
</td> </tr>
</tbody> </table><br />
It is not heartening to think that this is probably the most successful poem of the bunch. Still, there's some value, and scrap material to use in other constructions. And I must draw the conclusion from this whole experiment that randomly generated combinations of words, while they do create some novel and surprising and perhaps accidentally insightful phrases and passages by chance, need to be more carefully culled. The intentional opening lines, of course, refer to methods of divination that rely on random chance. I do like the way some of the lines lay, such as<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">if you feel<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">still tree-tops ...</span></div></blockquote>and<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">like a patient--</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">if you are to understand the heart,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">You better understand the<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">chest ...</span></blockquote>and<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">... for you know <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">how you<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">dress like one--</span></i></div></blockquote>Other little bits have promise, I think, but didn't work in immediate and/or global context:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">... clinical studies of a priest</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;"><br />
</span></blockquote>and<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">... suicidal thoughts or<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">faintness.</span></blockquote>(because of the incongruent pairing) and<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;"></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">... Read more </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12px;">of.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12px;">Read the mouth,</span></blockquote>The lines<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">Go out of you. Live.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">giving the whole world.</span></blockquote>remind me of Rilke. And that's a good thing, right? From those lines came the title of the poem, but I would have to find another title if I took more time, as this one just does not work.<br />
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</tbody> </table><br />
I really like the "Afters" (although, you know, the "ABILIFY DISCMELT" line is a joke). And I like the last line in context, sort of, but I have no idea what it means. Sounds like it means <i>something</i>, though.<br />
<br />
Of the second poem, I can only say "Gosh, that's kind of <i>neat</i>" (or <i>neat neat neat</i>, as the Damned might say ... um, that was a dumb joke). I can't claim it's my voice or anything to do with me, though. I might be able to steal some bits from it, like ...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"> ... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12px;">a gobbling<br />
sing</span></blockquote>(don't know why I like that so much), or ...<br />
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</tbody> </table><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">Messed up<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">like<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">a<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">Mess</span></blockquote>or ...<br />
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</tbody> </table><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">You ain't<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">no fish,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;"> FISH.</span></blockquote>or<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">(REPEAT Can't you<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">guess your body<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;"> ache<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 9pt;">REPEAT)</span></div></blockquote>with one of the REPEATs a REPEAT CHORUS, maybe?<br />
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</tbody> </table>I really didn't look at this one twice. I ran out of time, because I was playing around with another method of replacement where I took each significant word in the original line and did some free association to come up with a list of replacement words, then assign each a random number using the online random integer generator, create a number of possibilities and tweak from there. That method is much more labor intensive than the computer generated <a href="http://www.nous.org.uk/oulipo.html" target="_blank">Oulipo</a>-style <a href="http://www.spoonbill.org/n+7/" target="_blank"><i>n</i> + 7 machine</a> method that produced the piece as published. Again, both methods are really ideal for generating novel connections that need to be deliberately picked through by the human artist. The original line, because all mine, is as overwritten and undermeaningful as most of what I write.<br />
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</tbody> </table>"This is a Lie" is something I want to start a poem with. The rest of it is ... mainly just disappointing, boring.<br />
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All I did here was take a post from my other blog (which is kind of cheating in and of itself) about a dream I had and apply a conscious stutter and echo effect to it. It turned out OK, I guess. I like the stutter and echo when used judiciously. I think it can convey hesitation and obsession and such things in a way that I can't figure out yet how to improve or replace.<br />
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We'll just pretend the first one here doesn't exist. The second one exists, but not much more. I'm terrible with plants, and even the names and shapes of plants seem to evaporate out my head as quickly as they're dripped in. So I never knew what a <i>catalpa</i> was until I read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Odds-Being-Daneen-Wardrop/dp/1878851535" target="_blank">Daneen Wardrop's "Late-Scape"</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">From their capacious leaves, catalpas pull evening.<br />
Regular on the rail, wheel-clack clack.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"> If I could wish for everyone I would wish<br />
shade of catalpas ...</blockquote>It intrigued me. A few days later, one of the residents at work shared her arrangement of leaves with me: maple, catalpa, oak, giving me their names, their shapes, their colors, perseverate and precise. The catalpa looked like an upside down valentine heart, or a spade. And I thought I'd like to use that in a poem. But it doesn't work nearly as well as I want it to here.<br />
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<tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXfZdVMCsxvmXJZWs4jHMvj2dt0dCFZAm-_gxrt2CcaIAEXIDCBMcG5I93zA9IyjmTc1ylkYG60RNvG6uutKx9kFgh03GGA6Od-69wY2NvYURlv3P_Ct0WQQCLCNpqTOB3tl72EPo3F0/s1600/dress19.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXfZdVMCsxvmXJZWs4jHMvj2dt0dCFZAm-_gxrt2CcaIAEXIDCBMcG5I93zA9IyjmTc1ylkYG60RNvG6uutKx9kFgh03GGA6Od-69wY2NvYURlv3P_Ct0WQQCLCNpqTOB3tl72EPo3F0/s320/dress19.png" width="246" /></a></div></td><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2EWKljCU8i3QIi9T6uBaJwKvLG40qI9bSm5CZy31siOr6riJVqEmLBCwmGLNUyz3dr1e_g4K2HXHfMd67m53MIoj_UXRwcCc8IwGrqN1Ay6G3cx7ZmFc0lcYTozMYjWZHd-VR4Xhh4b8/s1600/dress20.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2EWKljCU8i3QIi9T6uBaJwKvLG40qI9bSm5CZy31siOr6riJVqEmLBCwmGLNUyz3dr1e_g4K2HXHfMd67m53MIoj_UXRwcCc8IwGrqN1Ay6G3cx7ZmFc0lcYTozMYjWZHd-VR4Xhh4b8/s320/dress20.png" width="247" /></a></div></td> </tr>
</tbody> </table><br />
Because of the circumstances under which I learned about the catalpa leaf, I wanted to incorporate some of the voices from the group homes, fictionalizing, blending, blurring, so as to not violate <a href="http://www.hhs.gov/ocr/privacy/" target="_blank">HIPAA</a>. Needs more work. The ending falls flat as well.<br />
<br />
The next poem was another created with <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/eGnoetry/" target="_blank">eGnoetry</a> using the <a href="http://www.abilify.com/bipolar/aripiprazole/bipolar-personal-stories.aspx" target="_blank">Abilify site</a> and the <a href="http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm031.html" target="_blank">Grimm Brothers story "The Girl Without Hands."</a> It comes out kind of neat, but, gee whiz, never really does anything. Anyway, I changed the title from the first draft because for a long time, I've wanted to write a poem or a short story or something called "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">Chapter 1, in which it is asserted that everything will be all right.</span>" Typically, when I start with the title, the poem usually does not turn out, but sometimes ...<br />
<br />
<table><tbody>
<tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz2oUQUKsZZl9mzwCMaBoUHvVhJ8RrUlGQUcFwzZZ1yPDIXYpd4NUf8upVFjLBQuioR24wmUjhr_WqGGjk2OEDB9ylBDHIf0wU1EGu6Dzz7n4recS8GZJdRe_gaWLIAK6secLucw9stE/s1600/dress21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyz2oUQUKsZZl9mzwCMaBoUHvVhJ8RrUlGQUcFwzZZ1yPDIXYpd4NUf8upVFjLBQuioR24wmUjhr_WqGGjk2OEDB9ylBDHIf0wU1EGu6Dzz7n4recS8GZJdRe_gaWLIAK6secLucw9stE/s320/dress21.png" width="246" /></a></div></td><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnLwPBs7WBPHLvj3k2NG8pNckn89CXCu8e88SaLYAABoBb6aPAgHeuHMtfSD3UrZHPQFoQVP2HZ6w4Bdqdiay3LaLx3gJIA1La3iwGUZlN0T_d37ZqcMBi2A8sxK06LD_lukMjrkzBa4/s1600/dress22.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAnLwPBs7WBPHLvj3k2NG8pNckn89CXCu8e88SaLYAABoBb6aPAgHeuHMtfSD3UrZHPQFoQVP2HZ6w4Bdqdiay3LaLx3gJIA1La3iwGUZlN0T_d37ZqcMBi2A8sxK06LD_lukMjrkzBa4/s320/dress22.png" width="248" /></a></div></td> </tr>
</tbody> </table><br />
"In Memoriam, DT" (both Dylan Thomas and "the DTs") is the same as it was <a href="http://lepuslugubris.blogspot.com/2011/11/24-hour-chapbook-times-up.html" target="_blank">here</a>. There's too much of the original poem here for me to say it's actually my separate work. But, time, and then I stuffed it in as filler.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XsbktuDvN2KCXX36Xu9tsHcYbqUGh3blOLEtUzJ_PLFvgwZIWOSb6347bVx_4TgLKEVLeanuWLKJrEyUwujpmhsdg7K4_Pa4c5DNWmdLbPU2B_vE0RswTxjhpiWarcT0jsHMTFXN1AE/s1600/dress23.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4XsbktuDvN2KCXX36Xu9tsHcYbqUGh3blOLEtUzJ_PLFvgwZIWOSb6347bVx_4TgLKEVLeanuWLKJrEyUwujpmhsdg7K4_Pa4c5DNWmdLbPU2B_vE0RswTxjhpiWarcT0jsHMTFXN1AE/s320/dress23.png" width="247" /></a></div></td> </tr>
</tbody> </table><br />
Maybe better next time. I'd love to see what somebody else would come up with (as a fully produced chapbook) in 24 hours. Probably better than this.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-62845571362488778072011-11-10T15:15:00.000-08:002011-12-01T05:52:00.524-08:0024-hour chapbook: Time's upOK. I took a couple extra minutes and came up with 23 pages of half-baked poetry (can make it 24 with a little extra white space here or there), but was not able to finish designing or formatting the chapbook.<br />
<br />
But it's OK to lose. And it's OK to write crap poetry just to slide in under the wire on some silly game. I was successful in making myself create when I didn't feel particularly creative. I did hit on a line or two that I think I'll use later.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here's one that didn't quite work and didn't quite get done on time ... It's just <a href="http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/thomas_d.htm" target="_blank">Dylan Thomas's last words</a> and his poem "<a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377" target="_blank">Do not go gentle</a> ..." all remixed in <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/eGnoetry/" target="_blank">eGnoetry</a><br />
<br />
<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. I've had 18 straight whiskies.<br />
... I've<br />
<br />
Cursed. Cursed!<br />
they Do not go gentle into<br />
that good night. Wild men, And you.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. I've had 18 straight whiskies.<br />
... I've had<br />
<br />
Rage,<br />
near death, I think that's the light..<br />
Rage, rage against<br />
the dying of<br />
the sun in a green bay, Rage,<br />
Because their words had 18 straight whiskies. Do.<br />
<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. I've had 18 straight whiskies.<br />
... I've<br />
<br />
Grave men at close of the last wave by,<br />
Do not go gentle<br />
into that good night. Go gentle into that<br />
good night,<br />
rage against the dying<br />
of the record. Do not go gentle<br />
into that good night. Grave men, Because<br />
their words had 18 straight.<br />
<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. I've had 18 straight whiskies.<br />
... I've<br />
<br />
Wild men at their<br />
words had forked no lightning they grieved<br />
it on its way.<br />
<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. I've had 18 straight whiskies.<br />
... I've.<br />
I've had 18 straight<br />
whiskies. Think that's the record..<br />
. I've had 18.<br />
<br />
Think that's the record..Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-56705020572187523542011-11-10T13:30:00.000-08:002013-10-13T12:33:08.444-07:0024-hour chapbook: The fourth poemThis is again from the Abilify and Brothers Grimm texts, run through eGnoetry. Some of it's definitely throwaway. Once in a while, there's something kind of beautiful. Well, an hour & a half to go.<br />
<br />
<b>In the Beginning</b><br />
<br />
Then the garden came from God. The messenger stopped<br />
at a little. The miller was experiencing symptoms should<br />
be an increase suicidal thoughts of every patient taking the<br />
mouth. Tell your body's ability to her. Tell<br />
<br />
The angel I<br />
asked no power over to him as the<br />
king said, It had eaten the house?<br />
<br />
The angel<br />
offered him the light of<br />
beautiful pears with coma or tongue and asked<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I secretly<br />
had mercy and showed him inside. The king said,<br />
and let the medicine at risk of<br />
the queen's child. Of<br />
body temperature; you in the woman, or the<br />
sky is for sure that she<br />
washed.<br />
<br />
The devil came the 30-Day<br />
Free Trial and said, because the queen,<br />
<br />
He lay<br />
down under<br />
the words, and the devil substituted<br />
a royal garden so long as proof.<br />
She gave them all been abandoned by everyone except God.<br />
<br />
Will neither eat<br />
of God,<br />
where he<br />
came to anaphylaxis, your health.<br />
<br />
Sign up, or the words, tightness in this<br />
in the Lord appeared to you should not take good<br />
<br />
The evil that she<br />
had lost all<br />
the garden.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-60900147674075658882011-11-10T10:54:00.000-08:002013-10-13T12:33:47.708-07:0024-hour chapbook: The third poemActually wrote this one, though I have been kicking parts of it around ... first time I actually put them "on paper," anyway. I think that's 10 pages so far. Now, I have to run off for group.<br />
<br />
one catalpa leaf<br />
<br />
valentine | spade<br />
<br />
love<br />
and death<br />
<br />
she said yellow or<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>golden yellow<br />
<br />
but for maple it was definitely<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>crimson red. this<br />
<br />
she repeated, crimson<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>red.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
bury me with your picture, jules<br />
<br />
sammy says he knows what's going on here<br />
<br />
and it's gonna stop<br />
sammy says<br />
<br />
elly asks for a light before time<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>can i get a light? he spits please? i'll<br />
<br />
comb your hair.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>but nobody draws me a picture like you,<br />
<br />
no one knows what i truly<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>look like, but you,<br />
<br />
the fins, the scales, the scars like dry<br />
<br />
lips across my shoulders, my head sharp, wicked,<br />
<br />
my alien nature, my<br />
deathness | love, light, golden<br />
<br />
yellow catalpa. no difference,<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>just wait till all the leaves<br />
<br />
have fallen and sleep<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>for spring mulch<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>under the snow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-45423925191008779622011-11-10T08:37:00.000-08:002013-10-13T12:34:28.741-07:0024-hour chapbook: The second poemI think this is neat. But that's as far as it goes. I'm going to keep it around anyway, and maybe I'll pluck some things out for a "real" poem.<br />
<br />
Method: I threw the lyrics to the entire <i>Damned Damned Damned</i> album (The Damned, 1977) into <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/charNG/" target="_blank">charNG</a> and made some minimal edits and rearrangements. The title is the opening line to the Damned song "Neat Neat Neat."<br />
<br />
Be a Man. Be a Mystery Man.<br />
<br />
I promise you're<br />
all crazy,<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Got Nothings have<br />
rain<br />
going.<br />
<br />
or<br />
One of turning she dreams<br />
I said<br />
<br />
(REPEAT CHORUS)<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, thats on<br />
me<br />
a doll,be a messed<br />
up truck,a gobbling<br />
sing<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Shows you'd<br />
save<br />
her. Tese<br />
won't afford<br />
a crime<br />
<br />
I<br />
got<br />
her<br />
those--<br />
Me.<br />
<br />
I<br />
wanna doll, be<br />
a<br />
mess you're<br />
growing there. Fuck<br />
her<br />
day<br />
<br />
Be a<br />
sad<br />
you<br />
growing<br />
in<br />
then<br />
it<br />
again,I<br />
said<br />
<br />
(CHORUS)<br />
<br />
Well<br />
I've<br />
seen<br />
the 2<br />
<br />
Oh yeah<br />
<br />
you<br />
know<br />
that she's no<br />
fool,<br />
to<br />
say no.<br />
<br />
Anyway, doll, be a<br />
light 2 the--<br />
<br />
Oh<br />
yeah<br />
<br />
you're all,<br />
<br />
It don't get<br />
cold<br />
<br />
Don'<br />
know<br />
<br />
So<br />
messed<br />
up<br />
<br />
Messed up<br />
like<br />
a<br />
Mess<br />
<br />
I hear thought<br />
stain<br />
<br />
or<br />
one<br />
of turning<br />
sand, and run at all, it'll<br />
burn<br />
you<br />
<br />
Is<br />
my mind<br />
<br />
a disgrace<br />
<br />
That's on.<br />
You ain't<br />
no fish,<br />
<br />
<br />
FISH.<br />
<br />
Well,<br />
<br />
anyway<br />
that I've<br />
seen<br />
I said<br />
<br />
(REPEAT Can't you<br />
<br />
guess your body<br />
ache<br />
<br />
REPEAT)<br />
<br />
Oh<br />
yeah that the pain<br />
<br />
or<br />
one CHORUS)<br />
<br />
I'd<br />
save<br />
her, gonna<br />
turn a bottle<br />
of<br />
me<br />
<br />
Oh<br />
yeah.<br />
You<br />
run.<br />
<br />
I<br />
know.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-65910745638944283052011-11-10T08:10:00.000-08:002013-10-13T12:35:00.015-07:0024-hour chapbook: Hour 18The first more or less complete poem:<br />
<br />
<b>and scatter the words like<br />
yarrow sticks or entrails<br />
there are no secrets:<br />
pluck the old man hairs<br />
from your ears.<br />
Get up.</b><br />
<br />
My<br />
Intended --<br />
<br />
<i>--if you feel</i><br />
<br />
still tree-tops of later<br />
on the white man of the joints.<br />
<br />
<i>like a patient--</i><br />
<br />
<b>if you are to understand the heart,</b><br />
<br />
You better understand the<br />
chest, especially if they are<br />
Lying.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<i>why not</i><br />
<br />
Death,<br />
especially swimming, tightness in white blood cells<br />
Tardive Dyskinesia <b>(musical, or at least rhythmic)</b>, are<br />
themselves <b>dis</b>sociated<br />
What is no known treatment for you know how you<br />
<br />
<i>dress like one</i><br />
<br />
Patients with a great forest<br />
where the spirit gets<br />
what you tonight.<br />
<br />
Go out to refill<br />
6-week clinical studies of a priest<br />
walked up the ingredients.<br />
<br />
Serious side effects may<br />
increase suicidal thoughts or faintness.<br />
He answered, I shall perish. Read more of.<br />
Read the mouth, (and<br />
<br />
Went into her knees and itching to rest.<br />
Go out of you. Live.<br />
<br />
giving the whole world.<br />
<br />
After a history of<br />
suicide.<br />
<br />
After a sign with ABILIFY<br />
DISCMELT®.<br />
<br />
After Depression and then the large apple tree <br />
containing the stumps, husband!<br />
<br />
After the small sign containing the<br />
nature of therapy.<br />
<br />
After it over his dear wife<br />
and his return.<br />
<br />
Because it, and because each. Or if<br />
you can.<br />
<br />
<br />
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br />
<br />
No idea what to call it. In the chapbook format I've designed, this takes up 3 pages. Which means 21 to go. And now it's time to do other things. This is harder than I thought. But interesting.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I took the eGnoetry text from the Abilify page and "The Girl Without Hands" and added a few lines of my own (in bold) and spliced in a favorite line from a <a href="http://www.missionofburma.com/" target="_blank">Mission of Burma</a> song ("Mica," from <i>Vs.</i>).<br />
<br />
Of course, one reason why this is taking so long is because I'm taking the time to comment on the process and write the HTML into the poem so I can represent it faithfully here. But the rules of the game clearly state that 24 pages must be completed within 24 hours regardless of any obstacles, self-imposed or otherwise. We'll see.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-80126181181550146012011-11-10T06:43:00.000-08:002011-12-01T05:53:49.946-08:0024-hour chapbook: Hours 15 and 16 (and what happened to 8-14?)After what I put my body through, there was no way I could stay up even most of the night. So I let myself rest. And this morning I need to take my daughter out to buy some things and get in some driving practice, and then I have group therapy, and I need to find some AA meeting to go to (which typically on Thursdays is hard). Can I still put a chapbook together by 6pm? I think so.<br />
<br />
It's not that writing poetry is easy, see. And I'm not saying that any old string of words is a poem. But any old string of words is not <i>not</i> a poem, see. Isn't that the point of experimental poetry? Oulipa? Cento? Found poetry? You may say none of that is real poetry, or that only when the poet approaches the random with intention and skill. I agree, completely. I was going through the <i>Chicago Review</i> the other day, and some of that stuff just left me cold, and some was nothing but baffling, and I thought <i>Who thinks this is poetry?</i> Obviously, someone does, as it is published in a (as far as I can tell) well-regarded journal. The point is that whether or not it's poetry is not up to me. (Whether or not it's <i>good</i> poetry <i>is</i> up to me, as far as I'm concerned, but that's neither here nor there.)<br />
<br />
Approaching the random is automatically a meaning-making event. The human brain can't help but try to order the chaos.<br />
<br />
What else? Oh, yes. I was going to say that incident and accident play major roles in poetry and its relation to the world. The influence of poetry on the world is, for the most part, incidental & accidental. Why shouldn't the creation of poetry sometimes be incidental and accidental? And sloppy and haphazard and lazy? Or obstinately obscure?<br />
<br />
Well, that's all. Back to the chapbook. Working with variations on the sentence<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>the blue coat rises against the falls fills and crushes as sleeping alveoli, as lilies</i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3909868152862881774.post-15844918377007321692011-11-09T22:00:00.000-08:002011-12-01T05:54:08.394-08:0024-hour chapbook: Hours 6 and 7No idea what to make of this, but I'm going to try to make <i>something</i>. I took text from a <a href="http://www.abilify.com/bipolar/aripiprazole/bipolar-personal-stories.aspx" target="_blank">page of the website for the atypical antipsychotic medication Abilify</a> and the text of the <a href="http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm031.html" target="_blank">Brothers Grimm story "The Girl Without Hands"</a> and ran them through <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/eGnoetry/" target="_blank">eGnoetry</a> several times. Then, I put the <a href="http://homepages.nildram.co.uk/~culttv/dddlyrics.htm" target="_blank">lyrics to all the songs on The Damned's <i>Damned Damned Damned</i> album</a> into <a href="http://www.eddeaddad.net/charNG/" target="_blank">charNG</a>. Selection is the next step.<br />
<br />
My<br />
Intended --<br />
still tree-tops of later<br />
on the white man of the joints.<br />
<br />
You better understand the<br />
chest, especially if they are some people.<br />
Lying position<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Death,<br />
especially swimming, tightness in white blood cells<br />
TD, are<br />
themselves associated with Bipolar I<br />
Disorder and.<br />
<br />
What is no known treatment for you know how you<br />
had or medicines you have any state or PKU,<br />
talk to the ABILIFY can develop after a history of<br />
suicide. Find out here Information for 11 refills —.<br />
<br />
Sign up, or the words, tightness in this<br />
in the Lord appeared to you should not take good<br />
<br />
Then the garden came from God. The messenger stopped<br />
at a little. The miller was experiencing symptoms should<br />
be an increase suicidal thoughts of every patient taking the<br />
mouth. Tell your body'€™s ability to her. Treatment.<br />
<br />
The angel I<br />
asked no power over to him as the<br />
king said, It had eaten the house?<br />
After a sign with ABILIFY DISCMELT®.<br />
<br />
Because it, and because each. Or if<br />
you can develop<br />
after starting ABILIFY. Depression and then the large apple<br />
tree and saw a rare but sign containing the<br />
stumps, husband! New to anaphylaxis.<br />
<br />
I secretly<br />
had mercy and showed him inside. The king said,<br />
and let the medicine at risk of<br />
the queen's child. Of<br />
body temperature; you in the woman, or the<br />
sky is for sure that she<br />
washed.<br />
<br />
After the small sign containing the<br />
nature of therapy.<br />
<br />
Read the mouth, and ABILIFY<br />
to 2 weeks<br />
after it over his dear wife<br />
and his return.<br />
The devil came the 30-Day<br />
Free Trial and said, because the queen.<br />
<br />
He lay<br />
down under<br />
the words, and the devil substituted<br />
a royal garden so long as proof.<br />
She gave them all been abandoned by everyone except God.<br />
<br />
Patients with a great forest where the spirit<br />
get what you tonight.<br />
Go out to $ 100 per refill on<br />
6-week clinical studies of a priest<br />
walked up the ingredients in.<br />
<br />
Will neither eat<br />
of God,<br />
where he<br />
came to anaphylaxis, your health.<br />
<br />
The evil that she<br />
had lost all<br />
the garden.<br />
<br />
Serious side effects may<br />
increase suicidal thoughts or faintness caused my child.<br />
He answered, I shall perish. Read more of.<br />
<br />
Went into her knees and itching to rest.<br />
Go out of you live.<br />
The angel<br />
offered him the light of<br />
beautiful pears with coma or tongue and asked<br />
the first diagnosed with an increase suicidal<br />
thoughts of diabetes aripiprazole,<br />
giving the whole world.<br />
<br />
SEA<br />
<br />
I PROMISE YOU'RE<br />
ALL CRAZY,GOT NOTHINGS HAVE<br />
GOING<br />
RAIN<br />
<br />
OR<br />
ONE OF TURNING SHE DREAM<br />
I SAID<br />
<br />
(REPEAT CHORUS)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
FAN COME GUYS<br />
SAY NO<br />
<br />
ANYWAY THATS ON<br />
ME<br />
A DOLL,BE A MESSED<br />
UP TRUCK,A GOBBLING<br />
SING<br />
<br />
SHOWS YOU'D<br />
SAVE<br />
HER THESE<br />
WON'T AFFORD<br />
A CRIME<br />
<br />
I<br />
GOT<br />
HER<br />
THOSE<br />
ME<br />
TO FOOLS WHAT<br />
I<br />
WANNA DOLL,BE<br />
A<br />
MESS YOU'RE<br />
GROWING THER FUCK<br />
HER<br />
DAY<br />
<br />
BE A<br />
SAD<br />
ON YOU<br />
GROWING<br />
IN<br />
THEN<br />
IT<br />
AGAIN,I<br />
SAID<br />
<br />
(CHORUS)<br />
<br />
WELL<br />
I'VE<br />
SEE<br />
THE 2<br />
<br />
OH YEAH<br />
<br />
YOU<br />
KNOW<br />
THAT SHE'S NO<br />
FOOL,SEE THING SIN,A BOTTLE<br />
LETTER TO<br />
SAY NO<br />
<br />
ANYWAY DOLL,BE A<br />
LIGHT THE 2<br />
<br />
OH<br />
YEAH<br />
<br />
YOU'RE ALL,<br />
<br />
IT DON'T GET A<br />
COLD<br />
<br />
DON'<br />
KNOW<br />
<br />
SO<br />
MESSED<br />
UP LI<br />
<br />
MESSED UP<br />
LIKE<br />
A<br />
MESS<br />
THE BEEN<br />
I HEAR THOUGHT<br />
STAIN<br />
<br />
OR<br />
ONE<br />
OF TURNING<br />
SAND,AND RUN AT ALL, IT'LL<br />
BURN<br />
YOU<br />
<br />
IS<br />
MY MIND<br />
<br />
A DISGRACE<br />
<br />
THATS ON<br />
YOU'RE AINT<br />
NO FISH<br />
<br />
<br />
FISH<br />
<br />
WELL<br />
I'M<br />
CRACKED CUT<br />
<br />
YEAH YOU'D<br />
SAVE GOT<br />
NOTHERE'S SO COOL,SEE MORE COLD,NEED<br />
<br />
ANYWAY<br />
THAT I'VE<br />
SEE<br />
THINK ,NO<br />
I<br />
AIN'T KNOW<br />
<br />
SO<br />
MESS TIMES)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I SAID<br />
<br />
(REPEAT CAN'T YOU TO<br />
MESS THER GOOD<br />
<br />
GUESS YOUR BODY<br />
ACHE<br />
<br />
CHORUS)<br />
<br />
OH<br />
YEAH THAT THE PAIN<br />
<br />
OR<br />
ONE CHORUS)<br />
<br />
I'D<br />
SAVE<br />
HER GONNA<br />
MAN<br />
,CAN<br />
COME<br />
OF<br />
TURNING SIN,A BOTTLE<br />
OF<br />
ME<br />
<br />
OH<br />
YEAH<br />
THAT'S<br />
NO BRAND<br />
DON' KNOW<br />
<br />
SO<br />
MESS<br />
TIME<br />
<br />
OH<br />
YEAH<br />
YOU<br />
RUN<br />
<br />
I<br />
KNOW<br />
<br />
SO<br />
DOG-GONE OF<br />
THE LIKE A<br />
MESS<br />
YAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550633326192077226noreply@blogger.com0