Angry

I'm sorry. I'm having some kind of posting problems tonight--I can't get this damn poem to single-space to save my life. The hell with it. At least I wrote it, even though it sucks. Grrrr.

 

Attractive Nuisance

 

He said filling in the pond

would improve the drainage,

would keep the mosquitoes down.

What did I know?

He was the man.

When it was done, we had

a great gray plain, suitable for foursquare

or hopscotch. Perhaps a place to park

his motorcycle, if he hadn’t taken it.

When nature reclaims this tract,

when this empty house and its kin

are gone, will some tortoise wander back,

looking for water? Will some blind osprey,

following tradition,

dive into the still, hard lake?

RIP, Brett and Charles

I'm struggling with words here--worse, struggling with sentences. My structures are dull.

I decided to play MadLibs/Match Game by taking sentences found on nearby bits of writing and changing out many of the words. Here's a template.

The NOUN was first PAST VERB PREPOSITION a ADJECTIVE NOUN with SUBSTANCE. From the NOUN we VERB, we could not BLANK the BLANK. The NOUN does not seem to BLANK. PLURAL NOUN of the SUPERLATIVE NOUN harbor many PLURAL NOUN. We could not BLANK the BLANK. Be sure the BLANK is closed. Be sure you BLANK before you BLANK.

I'm gonna work a few variations on this one and see whether it gets the juices flowing.

The sulfur was first drunk from a silver goblet with gauze. From the bucket we carried, we could not propagate the marrow. The basin does not seem to dance. Carillons of the highest tones harbor many murders. We could not anticipate the sorrow. Be sure the lock is closed. Be sure you speak before you walk.

The fall was first found under a green flask with Rohypnol. From the chance we tattled, we could not deliver the goods. The door does not seem to hear. Maenads of the bluest nation harbor many cups. We could not force the gate. Be sure the wrist is closed. Be sure you gallop before you swoon.

By the time I started on the third one, I'd switched out "closed" for any adjective/past-tense verb I wanted.

The capsule was first enchanted using a pocket compass with bravado. From the marshmallow we nosed, we could not rake the missile. The missal does not seem to break. Divers of the most sacred drum harbor many handles. We could not hush the scarab. Be sure the skein is buried. Be sure you name before you swallow.

The bell was first scratched with a broken spoon with eyes. From the hair we ruffled, we could not see the sea. The cat does not seem to miss. Umbrellas of the tallest timbers harbor many fungoes. We could not paste the moon. Be sure the lathe is limber. Be sure you melt before you burn.

One more, and then I'm home to ruminate.

The dress was first fried using a summer day with raisins. From the mess we made, we could not calculate the pitfall. The crutch does not seem to budge. Diadems of the bleakest chanteuse harbor many flies. We could not make the gravestone. Be sure the tide is closed. Be sure you overturn before you tumble.

No, really--I'm a very happy person

Downhill

Atop the spinet she left the score,
one word underlined in red,
for the cops:

glissando, too pretty a sound
for the deep fall, unhesitating.
from the ledge. That mark

she left, emphatic, echoed its coda.
Dog-ears drew back, children stammered
as they passed. It was an ugly effort,

inferior to her schoolgirl debut.
That crank from the Times,
shameless: She just went downhill.

That break, midface,
a death by misadventure
he called a smile.

Not quitting my day job

Zygomycosis

A thirty-year-old man was brought to us
from the field hospital three days after
his platoon, on patrol, drove over
an improvised explosive device (Figure 1).
Samples were taken, and clinical doses
of drugs were delivered to his mouth and,
later, when dehydration set in, his veins.

Cultures were run in three separate laboratories
far from the field. Studies revealed
a new variety of sporulating fungus.
Death calls to life, and in the empty places
the authors found these flowers,
framed in slender dishes (Figure 2).

These were assayed and identified as
beauty that could not find a root
in metal and therefore yearned sunward
from the place he kept his wallet, the place
his savior bled, the place he waved goodbye.

Identification came too late for antifungal measures.
His family requested palliative treatment.
The isolate, a member of the order Mucorales,
was named for the field.

Figure 1. An IED.

Figure 2. Flowers are better than bullets.

Figure 3. A roadside in Kabul.

A room

Tonight I watched YouTube footage of Sandy Denny that I'd never seen before. Her ring and her slender bangle on her wrist as she played "The North Star Grassman." Her hair, so blonde, a curtain across her face. Her voice a big, rich flag unfurled; her body slightly tense through the shoulders.

A first draft. I got out of bed to write it. Rob is worried that I am thus losing sleep.

Glove Box

I smell the blue cotton
of your dress, taste your smoke,
touch the red hairs of the dog

in that other room behind the sheets
in that other place my copy lurks

a demi-me, a portion, what little soul
will slip through the barrier

a pair of hands, a pair of eyes,
some half a mind, heart split
as, elbows bent,

I search the room spied
through the dim glass
with only music to bind us

they say you can never enter a room
without taking something
without leaving something

and I wonder what dust of my skin
I leave on your body
as I pull back

Radiator (draft 1.5)

Radiator

She crouches on the cold seat
and picks at the milky-green flakes.
Each day, the land expands,
acre by lead acre. It never matches
the maps on the school globe, so she knows
it is a place she’s made
on this hard planet,
this quadruple arch, sometimes too hot
to touch, usually chilly, always with
that bird’s head, beak down, crown pointing
toward the door.

A valve, with the paint
of countless careless landlords
frozen into a beak.
She knows what it is, but she makes it
that creature that carries worlds
on its hard back, a bird that might even
break the pipes and fly. That sad fist
of a girl, making voids into continents
while she pees.

Here goes nothing

I've been dog-belly low for a long while, as far as poetry is concerned. The only way to pull myself up is to do stuff, as far as I can see. So I'm back here for another workout.

I'll post today's poem later today. I wrote it in my head in the car. Does that sound right? ("As opposed to my head in the house"?) Oh, jeez, I guess this editing job is affecting my sense of freedom as a writer. I've got to find balance somewhere, somehow.