| exquisite corpse |
[19 Oct 2005|11:05pm] |
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music |
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ella fitzgerald and Louis armstrong |
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KP - exquisite corpse.
theme - beige despair surrealism
the door refuses to close I will not let it
close in the middle of the desert. beneath
endless blue sky w/no clouds. The memories
refuse to hide. The longing refuses to
go away. Melting through a dirty cloud.
sandy water. sinking and wanting to hide.
nothing dark to hide in and under
exposed has always had that effect on me
in an overrated way - bloating, made
larger in the beige light unflattering
in the quicksand, I sink deeper and deeper into the sandy abyss.
Losing hope as quickly as I was losing
air, a vision, a hallucination hit
the white squall of asylum dreams.
clipped onto my ID badge that lets me come
and go as I please, not that anyone cares
wheter I appear or disappear, whether
I fade into industrial lenoleum.
into nothingness, into the remains of Julius Caeser's 13th legion.
His legion of despair, countered by a force
of the unnatural, clashing
white on white undistinctions lost in
white noise
crackling as I drive under the overpass on Belmont
avenue. No signal. damn it. fucking
asshole, not that it matter or ever did
anyhow, not to me.
Buy I'm not important in this world, we're nothing on this rock, used sands
of the hourglass.
-sharmili louis ryan jp sam
--same theme---
despair is beige, not alive like black, not
passionate, but beige, surreal in its
ordinariness, in its unremarkability,
the beigeness itself disorienting
the eye of Ra, in the oasis by the Northern Nile of the old kingdom.
and the desert, as everyone knows, is
full of beige. Thirst brought despair
itching frustration clawing at faces, a color
of silent hell and chaos.
with hives as my hell, scratching itches that
won't go away. no benadryl in sight,
only lime juice and cilantro. not
even avocados
could save this one Doritos cool Ranch chip. There could be
a party in my mouth; everyone is
cordially invited (please RSVP)
egg shell off-white invitations representing
but only representing
the west side of my consciousness which is always
at war with the east, battle lines drawn
across memories and the bare actions
of despiration and loss.
But not even comparable to the loss of the Cheshire Cat's smile. He
was losing teeth due to lack of brushing;
his tooth brush's bristles
the color of beige wine drinking an
exquisitely beige corpse.
Go White Sox!
s l r jp s
more later....
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| Freewrite |
[05 Oct 2005|10:53pm] |
What is the Connection Between Beauty and Death?
Multiple meanings, all guesses - what with the different incarnations of death in literature; many beautiful, often women. Women as a source of beauty, sometimes death wears lipstick. Off on a tangent, many modern supermodels, post-Twiggy with exposed ribs, are skeletal, strengthening the bond between beauty and death.
To the actual deceased, the concept of beauty sleep coupled in with Eternal sleep and Eternal rest, hence a connection there. No more pain or suffering, an inherent beauty in peace.
In the transition to death, the white light...oh so pretty, but also deadly.
Death and beauty are intertwined; death is respected, beauty is respected, sometiems one is revered over the other, but at times, both are haunting.
Death as a seductress, as vampires, sweet release, or everlasting peace.
Death is promiscuous. Death has touched everyone, and will touch more. Death knows no bounds.
Death is a mystery. Mysteries are unknown. The unknown draws attention. Attention is drawm from beauty.
Death promotes discussion. Public activity is beautiful.
Death inspires creativity; Megadeath of a Salesman, for example.
Death grows variety, which breeds thought. Thought itself is beautiful.
Perhaps, then, there is the connection. No dual system like life or death, but a cycle; birth, thought, and death. And since thought is beauty, therefore beauty is connected to death.
--Ryan
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| guest facilitators |
[29 Sep 2005|01:00am] |
robert karimi, october 5th
sharmili, october 19
lani montreal, nov 2
note* 7pm at her house or cosmic cafe; tbd
sarwat, nov 16
mary anne, nov 30
be there,
-jp
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[20 Jul 2005|11:53pm] |
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up until my freshman year of high school, this was my favorite poem.
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Amiri Baraka
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into
Her own clasped hands
(helene)
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| assignment, via heidi |
[20 Jul 2005|08:35pm] |
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think about something you once wanted so badly but never acquired. write about how you think your life would've been different if you had received what your heart desired.
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| free write |
[20 Jul 2005|08:33pm] |
...from today--since i'm still at kp i might as well utilize the stray signal.
someone entered from the side...letting in a shaft of light and it gleamed along the length of his horn like it was intentional. when he played he absorbed the energy of the entire room, and mixed it the scream that started from his feet, ripping up his back and out his horn. his command of his environment was thick, like he owned everything, even the air. this, is what they came to experience. not his talent, but his greatness.
and then someone released the air out of a two-liter bottle like it was a tire, and broke the spell.
-jp
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[12 Jul 2005|11:42pm] |
January
it was almost dawn.
our slanted kitchen, his wrists,
the scent winter.
he asked why I look so tired in the morning.
our slanted kitchen, his wrists
made me feel so small.
he asked why I look so tired in the morning,
but I knew he wouldn’t understand. that
made me feel so small.
this city was enveloping me, the apartment choking me in dreams,
but I knew he wouldn’t understand that
saying it aloud was easy.
this city was enveloping me, the apartment choking me in dreams.
the ink on checks, bills, holiday cards was the hardest.
saying it aloud was easy.
both our names- leave a message after the tone.
the ink on checks, bills, holiday cards was the hardest:
signing us off into forever.
both our names, leave a message after the tone.
both our hair on everything,
signing us off into forever.
we've never been a good idea.
both our hair on everything-
weave it into a noose for me.
we've never been a good idea.
Rachel used to say the most beautiful thing
(weave it into a noose for me)
“you are flawed if you aren’t free,” she’d say.
Rachel used to say the most beautiful thing,
and I pretended to fall asleep before him.
“you are flawed if you aren’t free,” she’d say.
I snuck out with a subway card after midnight,
and I pretended to fall asleep before him.
I closed my eyes and was in Madrid again.
I snuck out with a subway card after midnight
because my life felt more comfortable in the dark.
I closed my eyes and was in Madrid again.
I left him the keys, turned down the light
because my life felt more comfortable in the dark.
closing the door for the last time,
I left him the keys, turned down the light.
the scent of winter
closing the door for the last time.
it was almost dawn.
Domestic
when artists who cannot be lovers say goodbye,
photographs in albums regress to failed hearts.
books on the shelf purge themselves of all ink,
except where secret is printed,
black disappearing from white like ghosts.
paints stay unused, making promises to never settle-
they are waiting, luxurious in color and time.
blank canvases mock with simplicity,
but solace can be found in the television’s
understanding of what it is to be alone.
when artists who cannot be lovers say goodbye,
floorboards lament the sleepy hours they forgot to creak.
the hallway learns to echo the dripping faucet.
silverware suddenly misses the intimacy of mouths
the way lights used to long to be dimmed.
candles remember what it’s like
to caress bodies with gentle glows,
but the sofa tries desperately to recall
the sinking of two bodies into softness.
the emptied bed lures with unmade sheets
as pillows flatten under the weight of regret.
the neighbor’s piano and metronome
can be heard through the thin walls,
a night song keeping time with heartbeat.
the front door, requiring shutting, gawks
in awkward memory of the farewell.
when artists who cannot be lovers say goodbye,
corners of rooms taunt with purpose,
that which artists who cannot be lovers lack.
Helene
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| KP makes me dreamy |
[12 Jul 2005|09:01am] |
grad-u-a-tion, n. The successful completion of a program of study.
Dreaming of graduation? Now you can earn your degree anytime, anywhere,
thanks to Saint Leo University's online degree programs, made
available by the University Alliance.
Complete courses anytime, anywhere you can access the Internet. Learn
more!
http://www.SaintLeo.com/Dictionary
t. by way of WOTD (word of the day). it's funny how they make it look like a def. but it's really an ad.
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[12 Jul 2005|04:23am] |
Writing Exercise For Kitchen Poems, 7/6/05
by John Park
A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure.
-Henry David Thoreau
( Read more... )
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| from my workshop with Arielle Greenberg @ Columbia |
[30 Jun 2005|12:50am] |
| [ |
music |
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Massive Attack - Protection |
] |
The “Contract” Between the Poem and the Reader
I believe it was Mary Karr who introduced me to the idea that every poem assumes a kind of contract between the author, the poem, and the reader. The poem sets out a certain criteria for itself— an agenda, a set of assumptions, a number of rules— that demand to be read in a way suitable for that particular poem. In order to be a good reader of a poem, we must engage with and accept the poem’s own contract, and not demand things of it which the poem does not itself seem to require. Therefore, it’s a good idea to consider the poem’s contract before one begins to make suggestions about ways to improve it; one wants to insure that suggestions are predicated on the world of the poem itself, on the poem’s own contract.
Some questions to begin thinking about the poem’s contract:
1. What kind of poem is it? How would you describe what the poem seems to be doing?
2. What tone does the poem seem to be striking, or aiming to strike?
3. Is there a speaker in this poem? A location? A story? A problem? Does something else, some other element, seem to be at hand? What element is driving the poem?
4. What does the poem expect us to know, or be aware of?
5. What poetries or other things seem to have influenced this poem?
6. What does the language of the poem tell us about how to read it?
7. What does the form of the poem tell us about how to read it?
8. What does the poem ask of its reader? What does it seem to want from us?
9. What does the poem seem to promise?
10. Does the poem deliver on this promise? How? Where or when does it break it’s own contract?
whatever floats your boat, but for what's it worth, it's the best damn advice on critique i ever got from Columbia.
- ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) yellowfist
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[30 Jun 2005|12:39am] |
my Rilo Kiley found sonnet.
all of our friends were gathered there with their pets just talking shit
about how we're all so upset about the disappearing ground as we watch it melt,
all of our friends who lost the war
and all of the novels that have yet to be written about them.
we sat quietly in the corner whispering close about loss.
we could be daytime drunks if we wanted.
we're just recreation for all those doctors and lawyers,
tracing the lines in my face for all of the good that won't come out of us
and how eventually our hands will just turn to dust if we keep shaking them
in a place that exists in the pages of scripts and the songs that they sing.
and something's got to change because our love's the slowest moving train.
I don’t mind waiting if it takes a long, long time.
and I don’t mind wasting the best years of our lives.
and I don’t mind racing through our goodbyes.
Helene
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[29 Jun 2005|06:40pm] |
helene has ink stains.
tina's got the farmer's market connects.
sam is sweating like me.
me? i'm listening to cool. -mars
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| she does not know |
[29 Jun 2005|04:24pm] |
| [ |
music |
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Various - B.Marsalis & The Impressions / Fool For You |
] |
she does not know how white her neck,
you keep them a stranger, a stranger who's a friend
we've had our first fatality
speaking of motivation,
chaz has a posse
it was roaring down the stormtracks
that way lies lobster apocalypse and that way lies salvation. the choice, ye gods, is yours.
it's been a long road of forgetting & leaving
the age of innocence
sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as themselves to fall a prey.
of the milky way at frightful speed
i so hope she got in trouble for that... that evil, evil woman.
i daresay it would even give a merry toot -- and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag.
extra special thanks to my family, my bad i'm forgetful
i love how seagulls swoop past my window
-yellowfist (marlon)
-sonto (sonnet cento) taken from LJ friend entries the last hour
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| A cento of punchlines. |
[27 Jun 2005|10:44pm] |
From "Jokes and Their Relation to the Conscious" by Joseph Epstein:
To the connoisseur a well-told joke is a poem of sorts, having its own special rhythm. In my head, punch lines from jokes rattle around quite comfortably alongside lines of poetry, taking on a poetic status of their own. I close with a poem made up of punch lines -- a joke addict's wasteland:
Oh, was I thoisty!
The Kuala tea of Mercey is never strained.
You don't like my brother -- eat the noodles.
An hour later you're hungry for power.
After lunch the captain wants to go water skiing.
How much do you tip the whipper?
Comfortable, I don't know; I make a nice living.
Hit the ball and drag Irving.
I'm crying because we lost India.
Patience, jackass, patience.
Is not hell for Khrushchev -- is hell for Marilyn Monroe.
And you'll keep singing it till you get it right.
What do they know about fornication in Findley, Ohio?
So what's this vulgar crap?
Funny, you don't look Jewish.
You're velcome.
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[27 Jun 2005|01:07am] |
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kay pee oh five!
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