Experimental Blues Poem Stanza
Her rent-a-car destroys only the flailing, a snow ordinary yet monetary––
Her rent-a-car destroys a malignant fingerprint, she commentaries,
but extinguishes a quarter of the Michelin Tires I had temporarily.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
States
Current States of Language:
Alabama Al: “Lab, am I Alaska? I’ll ask ya if Arizona air is own, yeah? Arkansas are can saw. Los Angeles lozenge all less. Law sand gels us.”
Colorado caller, “Raw Dough:” Connecticut can neck tick cut?
“Delaware aware” – Adele. “Florida floored a floor, duh. Georgia a gorgeous gorge, George.”
“Hawaii, huh? Why? Eee! Idaho? I don’t know.”
“Illinois ill onion in Indiana,” Windy Anna, “Iowa eye. Oh… wha–? Kansas can sass, can Kansas? Kentucky can tuck key, can’t’ya key?”
Louisiana Lu: “Easy Anna. Maine, may’n Maryland mare, a lend? Massachusetts masses chews, sits. Master, choose zits.”
Michigan Misha: "Gain. Minnesota men is soda."
“‘Mississippi misses Mrs. Sippy Missouri’ – Miss or he?
“Montana a tan mon. Nebraska nub, brass ska. Nevada snuff, had a New Hampshire. New hemp dryer? New Jersey knew juror, see?
New Mexico noon.
Mix, sicko. New York knew your core new. Nor North Carolina, nor thick air. Align a North Dakota. No Earth? Duh, quota. Ohio? Ojai? Oh. Oklahoma oak “le hom.” A Oregon’s organic organ organs. Pennsylvania––re: pence sells veins, ya? Rhode Island road I lend. South Carolina, sew thick arrow, line a South Dakota, sew -THUD- a coda.”
– Tennessee Williams.
Texas text is Utah newt talk.
Vermont, firm aunt:
“Virginia, verge gin, ya?
Washington, wash sheen tin.
West Virginia, verge in your west Wisconsin whisk.”
On sin: Wyoming, why owe Ming?
Alabama Al: “Lab, am I Alaska? I’ll ask ya if Arizona air is own, yeah? Arkansas are can saw. Los Angeles lozenge all less. Law sand gels us.”
Colorado caller, “Raw Dough:” Connecticut can neck tick cut?
“Delaware aware” – Adele. “Florida floored a floor, duh. Georgia a gorgeous gorge, George.”
“Hawaii, huh? Why? Eee! Idaho? I don’t know.”
“Illinois ill onion in Indiana,” Windy Anna, “Iowa eye. Oh… wha–? Kansas can sass, can Kansas? Kentucky can tuck key, can’t’ya key?”
Louisiana Lu: “Easy Anna. Maine, may’n Maryland mare, a lend? Massachusetts masses chews, sits. Master, choose zits.”
Michigan Misha: "Gain. Minnesota men is soda."
“‘Mississippi misses Mrs. Sippy Missouri’ – Miss or he?
“Montana a tan mon. Nebraska nub, brass ska. Nevada snuff, had a New Hampshire. New hemp dryer? New Jersey knew juror, see?
New Mexico noon.
Mix, sicko. New York knew your core new. Nor North Carolina, nor thick air. Align a North Dakota. No Earth? Duh, quota. Ohio? Ojai? Oh. Oklahoma oak “le hom.” A Oregon’s organic organ organs. Pennsylvania––re: pence sells veins, ya? Rhode Island road I lend. South Carolina, sew thick arrow, line a South Dakota, sew -THUD- a coda.”
– Tennessee Williams.
Texas text is Utah newt talk.
Vermont, firm aunt:
“Virginia, verge gin, ya?
Washington, wash sheen tin.
West Virginia, verge in your west Wisconsin whisk.”
On sin: Wyoming, why owe Ming?
Thursday, December 5, 2013
K is for Sea
K is for Sea
I developed peanut brittle
bones & soft lips
like sliced cucumbers, lobster
limbs & crab claw toes,
sea snail hair. A gull
is a dirty bird, a scrap
scavenger in gutters.
My hips are crust-
acean shells, stuffed
with succotash,
taffy & tar;
hermit crab stomach.
Screeching gulls
scrounging up sand bugs
with bills I don't have.
I developed peanut brittle
bones & soft lips
like sliced cucumbers, lobster
limbs & crab claw toes,
sea snail hair. A gull
is a dirty bird, a scrap
scavenger in gutters.
My hips are crust-
acean shells, stuffed
with succotash,
taffy & tar;
hermit crab stomach.
Screeching gulls
scrounging up sand bugs
with bills I don't have.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Criterion
Downhill Racer
They couldn’t eat the day
before the competition, their stomachs
pulled taffy. They exercise athletic
practice of self-denial.
He had breakfast with his father,
crackers & cheese, in front of the television,
turned off. Conversation sparse,
cold as the room.
“Winning? Making money?”
“I win today and I make the team for the Olympics.”
“Why do it if there’s no money.”
“I’ll be famous,
I’ll be champion.”
“The world’s full of ‘em.” He drove his father’s Ford pickup
to the event. All the way to the top.
- - -
Revanche
The photograph in his pocket
next to the rocks he collected
next to the lake.
Next to the lake
next to his backyard
his old man played accordion.
His old man played accordion
next to her grave,
next to the lake.
Next to the lake,
next to the photograph of her grave,
he took the rocks in his hands.
He took the rocks in his hands,
next, to his fist
next, to the lake.
Next to the lake
next to the shore
the ripples didn’t stop.
They couldn’t eat the day
before the competition, their stomachs
pulled taffy. They exercise athletic
practice of self-denial.
He had breakfast with his father,
crackers & cheese, in front of the television,
turned off. Conversation sparse,
cold as the room.
“Winning? Making money?”
“I win today and I make the team for the Olympics.”
“Why do it if there’s no money.”
“I’ll be famous,
I’ll be champion.”
“The world’s full of ‘em.” He drove his father’s Ford pickup
to the event. All the way to the top.
- - -
Revanche
The photograph in his pocket
next to the rocks he collected
next to the lake.
Next to the lake
next to his backyard
his old man played accordion.
His old man played accordion
next to her grave,
next to the lake.
Next to the lake,
next to the photograph of her grave,
he took the rocks in his hands.
He took the rocks in his hands,
next, to his fist
next, to the lake.
Next to the lake
next to the shore
the ripples didn’t stop.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Calendar/Dick
Calendar
After Kelly Link
1. Monday I’m in a cab when I have a heart attack.
2. My report, “The Fiscal Revenue of the Second Valve,” is due Tuesday
3. so I tell my doctor that I’ll deal with this whole heart thing on Wednesday.
4. “Well, when you’re dead on Thursday
5. I won’t have to schedule an emergency operation on Friday
6. which frees up my Saturday for golf.”
7. I die on Sunday.
8. The cab driver’s name that time is Mayday, which, moments before I died, reminded me of that James Bond villain. That unattractive diva. The one that works for the evil Christopher Walken without any explained motivations. The one that predictably sacrificed herself. The mine she dies in looked like Hell before and after the explosion.
9. Sewer gators– I’ve always been afraid of dinosaurs– are chewing on my legs. Tomorrow is payday for demons.
10. My report, “Yesterday’s Torture and the Effects of Leeches on the Human Anatomy” is due.
11. I like to think that someday the people in charge will stop asking for these.
12. Maybe I’ll get a break. Maybe on my birthday.
- - -
Dick
After S.S. Van Dine
1. It was my boyfriend. He told me in secret.
2. (See # 11 for where he told me, then return here). Gotcha.
3. They had had sex.
4. My boyfriend was in cahoots with a detective.
5. I don’t remember the names of either of them, my boyfriend or the detective.
6. The detective had talked to me once before. Asked me about my boyfriend, took a photo, left.
7. Then he ran over my cat.
8. My dead cat told me that the detective was schtupping my boyfriend.
9. All my friends agreed with my cat.
10. They said he was also sleeping with Mildred, remember her?
11. Mildred, the butler.
12. My boyfriend, Mildred and the detective.
13. Together they were the Three Muskeeteers.
14. That photo the detective took was replaced with a picture of the three of them tangled together, naked, on the back of a beluga whale in space. And a bill from the detective.
15. Looking back, I still don't see it coming. Especially about Mildred.
16. The photo was dated 10/31/99. I remember that Halloween as the one that I dressed up as DIY Frankenstein. My head was a paper bag from Ralph’s with a grease stain on top that looked like hair. I had some facial masque leftover, so the skin color was a cinch. Some leftover shoe boxes from when I moved where still in the garage so I used them as my giant boots. The pants I already owned and all my shirts were too big anyway. I had created myself. My boyfriend was the Bride of Frankenstein, but he bought the costume at a Party City. He didn’t even wear it. He obviously wasn’t with me that night.
17. They all apologized to me.
18. They said it was an accident.
19. They said it was just business.
20. My cat never meowed at my boyfriend, Mildred or the detective.
After Kelly Link
1. Monday I’m in a cab when I have a heart attack.
2. My report, “The Fiscal Revenue of the Second Valve,” is due Tuesday
3. so I tell my doctor that I’ll deal with this whole heart thing on Wednesday.
4. “Well, when you’re dead on Thursday
5. I won’t have to schedule an emergency operation on Friday
6. which frees up my Saturday for golf.”
7. I die on Sunday.
8. The cab driver’s name that time is Mayday, which, moments before I died, reminded me of that James Bond villain. That unattractive diva. The one that works for the evil Christopher Walken without any explained motivations. The one that predictably sacrificed herself. The mine she dies in looked like Hell before and after the explosion.
9. Sewer gators– I’ve always been afraid of dinosaurs– are chewing on my legs. Tomorrow is payday for demons.
10. My report, “Yesterday’s Torture and the Effects of Leeches on the Human Anatomy” is due.
11. I like to think that someday the people in charge will stop asking for these.
12. Maybe I’ll get a break. Maybe on my birthday.
- - -
Dick
After S.S. Van Dine
1. It was my boyfriend. He told me in secret.
2. (See # 11 for where he told me, then return here). Gotcha.
3. They had had sex.
4. My boyfriend was in cahoots with a detective.
5. I don’t remember the names of either of them, my boyfriend or the detective.
6. The detective had talked to me once before. Asked me about my boyfriend, took a photo, left.
7. Then he ran over my cat.
8. My dead cat told me that the detective was schtupping my boyfriend.
9. All my friends agreed with my cat.
10. They said he was also sleeping with Mildred, remember her?
11. Mildred, the butler.
12. My boyfriend, Mildred and the detective.
13. Together they were the Three Muskeeteers.
14. That photo the detective took was replaced with a picture of the three of them tangled together, naked, on the back of a beluga whale in space. And a bill from the detective.
15. Looking back, I still don't see it coming. Especially about Mildred.
16. The photo was dated 10/31/99. I remember that Halloween as the one that I dressed up as DIY Frankenstein. My head was a paper bag from Ralph’s with a grease stain on top that looked like hair. I had some facial masque leftover, so the skin color was a cinch. Some leftover shoe boxes from when I moved where still in the garage so I used them as my giant boots. The pants I already owned and all my shirts were too big anyway. I had created myself. My boyfriend was the Bride of Frankenstein, but he bought the costume at a Party City. He didn’t even wear it. He obviously wasn’t with me that night.
17. They all apologized to me.
18. They said it was an accident.
19. They said it was just business.
20. My cat never meowed at my boyfriend, Mildred or the detective.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Automatic Writing
Automatic Writing - It's an exercise of the subconscious. Pretty? Organized? Clear? Grammatically correct? No, it's not suppose to be anything except a collection of the rapid images and connections that your mind makes. 10 minutes of non-stop writing. I've done about 20 of these & found only this one that didn't have some weird personal things in them. Scary, dark, strange, unknown personal things. Talk about catharsis.
a feather duster like a white, dirty, feral cat. dead in the middle of the street, beaten to a furry pulp by a large man with a black spaghetti bears and tumbleweed hair. holding a sideways lexicon of pencils in his mouth. in his mouth wet, snail drool like dog drool sawmill tongue tongue tongue tongue like a witches hat skewed at the beginning at curling like toes in orgasm eyes squished tight, folds of flesh making stringy spheres for eye sockets wall sockets look like surprised Disney Alice In Wonderland cards with spade and heart heads pumping blood into backwards music boxes. Spinning jagged rusty metal ballerina. A ballet of decay and nostalgia. The music tinkling like freeway bumps. freeway bumps like freeway bumps pimples asphalt pimples cherries on stems orbit around each other like eyeballs touching. A cricket scurries away from a spider blooming out of a wooden hole in a garage that’s hotter than a dirty kitchen but the cricket makes it’s way to a lazy cat who does nothing. I saw my dog eat a tomato bug once. the juice dripped out of his mouth and when he went to lick it up he left a wet spot on the concrete the color of mud and it was in the shape of a tyrannosaurs rex in a cage. in a cage. a cage is like a cellular phone. cellular phone put into the head an antenna sticking out like Alfalfa from the little rascals who had freckles that looked like meatballs on spaghetti spaghetti spaghetti was diarrhea on a plate chili over hotdogs at a baseball game where the players run like animatronics from a distance and their smells of alcohol and fake cheese and American spirit. The spacebar on the keyboard feels like the underside of a breast that’s dry. dry dry dry dry dry dry dry dry there’s a shade of black that appears when I close my eyes that looks like a desert sun eclipse and my pants are lined like planets in orbit. A snail looks like a USB cord. The inside of a video game cartridge from the 80s reminds me of a cardboard invention of Calvin. Calvin …snowmen wait In hopes of rain, to melt into brothers. Snowmen with crooked arms that wave hello like broken bones. the white in their faces never matching the white on the ground. ground on the ground the ground on the ground underground worms have no eyes, no nose, no faces, no holes, but they hump through soft dirt in straight lines like jellyfish of mud. mud. mud. mud. He lost weight for the role and looks like my father if my father was dead and walking around. Hardwood floor cuts at my feet, making my toes bleed like that time I dropped a cement block on my big toe and my nail came off, turned black and fell away into the grass. My thumb toe without a nail looked like rough bologna and felt like a clump of matted hair, like on a rabid dog that once bit my brother’s leg like a shark bite.
a feather duster like a white, dirty, feral cat. dead in the middle of the street, beaten to a furry pulp by a large man with a black spaghetti bears and tumbleweed hair. holding a sideways lexicon of pencils in his mouth. in his mouth wet, snail drool like dog drool sawmill tongue tongue tongue tongue like a witches hat skewed at the beginning at curling like toes in orgasm eyes squished tight, folds of flesh making stringy spheres for eye sockets wall sockets look like surprised Disney Alice In Wonderland cards with spade and heart heads pumping blood into backwards music boxes. Spinning jagged rusty metal ballerina. A ballet of decay and nostalgia. The music tinkling like freeway bumps. freeway bumps like freeway bumps pimples asphalt pimples cherries on stems orbit around each other like eyeballs touching. A cricket scurries away from a spider blooming out of a wooden hole in a garage that’s hotter than a dirty kitchen but the cricket makes it’s way to a lazy cat who does nothing. I saw my dog eat a tomato bug once. the juice dripped out of his mouth and when he went to lick it up he left a wet spot on the concrete the color of mud and it was in the shape of a tyrannosaurs rex in a cage. in a cage. a cage is like a cellular phone. cellular phone put into the head an antenna sticking out like Alfalfa from the little rascals who had freckles that looked like meatballs on spaghetti spaghetti spaghetti was diarrhea on a plate chili over hotdogs at a baseball game where the players run like animatronics from a distance and their smells of alcohol and fake cheese and American spirit. The spacebar on the keyboard feels like the underside of a breast that’s dry. dry dry dry dry dry dry dry dry there’s a shade of black that appears when I close my eyes that looks like a desert sun eclipse and my pants are lined like planets in orbit. A snail looks like a USB cord. The inside of a video game cartridge from the 80s reminds me of a cardboard invention of Calvin. Calvin …snowmen wait In hopes of rain, to melt into brothers. Snowmen with crooked arms that wave hello like broken bones. the white in their faces never matching the white on the ground. ground on the ground the ground on the ground underground worms have no eyes, no nose, no faces, no holes, but they hump through soft dirt in straight lines like jellyfish of mud. mud. mud. mud. He lost weight for the role and looks like my father if my father was dead and walking around. Hardwood floor cuts at my feet, making my toes bleed like that time I dropped a cement block on my big toe and my nail came off, turned black and fell away into the grass. My thumb toe without a nail looked like rough bologna and felt like a clump of matted hair, like on a rabid dog that once bit my brother’s leg like a shark bite.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Scraps
This post is a bit different. Over the course of my occupation at Magic Mountain & Walmart, I would bring a folded up piece of paper to work (not my writing notebook because it would get greasy at MM & ridiculed at Walmart). I have a stack the size of a tiny bible (which is where I stored them, now the binding in the bible is all screwy) and decided, out of the blue, to go through them. Here are scattered images, lines, thoughts that I discovered that somehow interested me.
My 13 year old
dog needs surgery
for a tumor on his lip;
it balloons
in the sun, grows dark.
Do I have to pay
for the surgery if he...
dies on the table?
No more whispering
in his ear what a good dog
he was.
***
From Breast to bottle
No you can't speak to Jackie Chan (Damn,
he ain't gonna be in Rush Hour 3)
Hello Benjamin!
Collection of vegetables.
***
Papa loves Mambo, but what about Mom?
Is a double cross twice as religious?
***
Left/right K
N, but backwards.
***
Don't worry about the drive, your feet know the pressure to get home.
the song of the windows
Like the persistent sound
of clipping your toenails.
***
To My Brother (Who
Never Had a Disney Pass)
I'm sorry we left
early when you wanted
to stay until midnight.
The lights were just
turning on & the sun
just setting. I apologize.
***
But
***
I'm a junkie for the pricks
***
6:23-6:38
I drove by two girls in sleeping bags, camping on a driveway. White flashlights in hand pointing to the stars, laughing. What do they talk about? Do the stars listen? I only ever camped in the woods, back never kissed concrete. The woos stars were always beaming, but lacked orange fluorescent glow, flashlights, the sound of cars driving by, wondering.
***
fifty-eight year old with lover body of a sixteen year old volleyball playing bird.
***
Shhh...
"Do you know them?"
"No."
"I know you."
"You do?"
"Yeah, from school."
"Did you know her?"
"No."
***
A mushroom cloud of yellowed
grease stains the tacked on wallpaper
Onion rings evaporate at 350 degrees
Buffalo sauce vapors blitzkrieg nostrils
Chemical warfare (From what I can remember/tell, this is the first note I ever wrote at work)
My 13 year old
dog needs surgery
for a tumor on his lip;
it balloons
in the sun, grows dark.
Do I have to pay
for the surgery if he...
dies on the table?
No more whispering
in his ear what a good dog
he was.
***
From Breast to bottle
No you can't speak to Jackie Chan (Damn,
he ain't gonna be in Rush Hour 3)
Hello Benjamin!
Collection of vegetables.
***
Papa loves Mambo, but what about Mom?
Is a double cross twice as religious?
***
Left/right K
N, but backwards.
***
Don't worry about the drive, your feet know the pressure to get home.
the song of the windows
Like the persistent sound
of clipping your toenails.
***
To My Brother (Who
Never Had a Disney Pass)
I'm sorry we left
early when you wanted
to stay until midnight.
The lights were just
turning on & the sun
just setting. I apologize.
***
But
***
I'm a junkie for the pricks
***
6:23-6:38
I drove by two girls in sleeping bags, camping on a driveway. White flashlights in hand pointing to the stars, laughing. What do they talk about? Do the stars listen? I only ever camped in the woods, back never kissed concrete. The woos stars were always beaming, but lacked orange fluorescent glow, flashlights, the sound of cars driving by, wondering.
***
fifty-eight year old with lover body of a sixteen year old volleyball playing bird.
***
Shhh...
"Do you know them?"
"No."
"I know you."
"You do?"
"Yeah, from school."
"Did you know her?"
"No."
***
A mushroom cloud of yellowed
grease stains the tacked on wallpaper
Onion rings evaporate at 350 degrees
Buffalo sauce vapors blitzkrieg nostrils
Chemical warfare (From what I can remember/tell, this is the first note I ever wrote at work)
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
June 24, 2013
June 24, 2013
PEOPLE exclusive
Krisin Cavallaris'
WEDDING album!
Jennifer the REAL STORY
Aniston Paris Jackson
Wedding in CRISIS
on Hold?
Why Jen & Justin Face Transplant
Postponed their plans SURVIVOR
once excitedly planning After Tragedy
Jen has now put off her big $3.99
day, sources say
UPC #
PEOPLE exclusive
Krisin Cavallaris'
WEDDING album!
Jennifer the REAL STORY
Aniston Paris Jackson
Wedding in CRISIS
on Hold?
Why Jen & Justin Face Transplant
Postponed their plans SURVIVOR
once excitedly planning After Tragedy
Jen has now put off her big $3.99
day, sources say
UPC #
Afterword
Afterword
I'm sorry I followed
your lips & tongue, lip-synced
over you. I needed to know
their design (after you
told me I wasn't enough like you.)
I'm sorry I wore out your clothes
& you ditched me
in a place I've never been (after
I laughed at your attention
to the snails.) I'm sorry
I furnished our home with cactus
& sand instead of flowers (seeking eyes
wandered too far west) I'm sorry
on the nights when I can't smell myself
on my fingers, only you.
I'm sorry I followed
your lips & tongue, lip-synced
over you. I needed to know
their design (after you
told me I wasn't enough like you.)
I'm sorry I wore out your clothes
& you ditched me
in a place I've never been (after
I laughed at your attention
to the snails.) I'm sorry
I furnished our home with cactus
& sand instead of flowers (seeking eyes
wandered too far west) I'm sorry
on the nights when I can't smell myself
on my fingers, only you.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Diptera
Diptera
Flies land on your food,
vomit, mush
up in their hands. You
do the same thing, only
backward & on me.
You keep vomit covered
hands in my back
pocket; warmth, only backward.
I swat the fly off.
You refuse to touch me after
You smoke, ash
falls in my coffee.
I don't grasp your neck
when our tongues crumble
into each other. Instead
I rub my hands together,
prepare for my meal.
Flies land on your food,
vomit, mush
up in their hands. You
do the same thing, only
backward & on me.
You keep vomit covered
hands in my back
pocket; warmth, only backward.
I swat the fly off.
You refuse to touch me after
You smoke, ash
falls in my coffee.
I don't grasp your neck
when our tongues crumble
into each other. Instead
I rub my hands together,
prepare for my meal.
Close Shave
Close Shave
I had to teach myself how to
shave my own balls & legs. Off
grain, bleeding like high school
experiments, turns my hands red.
Do I start from the bottom
& cut up, or reverse?
I shave where my body splits
in two, in between
my sack & my asshole,
between both & one.
Cut loose skin
like an episiotomy,
give birth to a thousand
sexless specks. My lover
asks me not to shave, the stubble
hurts him. I want to look like I have more
experience, but it doesn't improve
my two inches.
I had to teach myself how to
shave my own balls & legs. Off
grain, bleeding like high school
experiments, turns my hands red.
Do I start from the bottom
& cut up, or reverse?
I shave where my body splits
in two, in between
my sack & my asshole,
between both & one.
Cut loose skin
like an episiotomy,
give birth to a thousand
sexless specks. My lover
asks me not to shave, the stubble
hurts him. I want to look like I have more
experience, but it doesn't improve
my two inches.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Shadow
Shadow
arrival
i drove (nervously)
by your house (the other night)
with my (windows down)
music loud (banging at your front door)
hoping your music would (bang back)
pierce the metal (in my head, my mouth)
but your window (with silent ejaculation)
remained dark (watered whiteness)
departure
i drove back (let down)
the wind (your hair)
with sighs (and sing)
remembered our tune (of Red)
Vines & Vaseline (among other things)
don’t get old but (between you and me)
i’m looking for endless (wasting away)
summers with you (on the beach)
our sandy fingers (dissolved grain together)
grinding down teeth (as I drive home
alone
arrival
i drove (nervously)
by your house (the other night)
with my (windows down)
music loud (banging at your front door)
hoping your music would (bang back)
pierce the metal (in my head, my mouth)
but your window (with silent ejaculation)
remained dark (watered whiteness)
departure
i drove back (let down)
the wind (your hair)
with sighs (and sing)
remembered our tune (of Red)
Vines & Vaseline (among other things)
don’t get old but (between you and me)
i’m looking for endless (wasting away)
summers with you (on the beach)
our sandy fingers (dissolved grain together)
grinding down teeth (as I drive home
alone
Excuses For Not Going to Underwear Parties: Written While on Break at Work (& Transcribed at 2 a.m.)
Excuses For Not Going to Underwear Parties: Written While on Break at Work (& Transcribed at 2 a.m.)
Naked comrades,
& their gyrating
music curves,
arouses your fingers down
your clothed stomach.
Shave hair through fabric,
turn to silk.
Feel bitten-at
nails scratch fragile flesh
away from clothes.
Remember your genitals
bled when you last shaved
& forgot...
Lay down. Spread legs.
Bend knees. Flip legs
over head. Grab sack.
Hold breath...
Inhale sharply as one,
testicle, then
the other, slips,
hugs tightly in fleshy nest
back up in body. Hold
there. Tape shaft back, balls
up. Finally,
get ready to go:
Eat your heart out, John
& Davy. This baby
came out
with bra & panties...
But five o'clock pubic
shadow gnaws,
chafes, pre-
vents enjoyment
& you haven't
got a thing to wear
anyway.
Naked comrades,
& their gyrating
music curves,
arouses your fingers down
your clothed stomach.
Shave hair through fabric,
turn to silk.
Feel bitten-at
nails scratch fragile flesh
away from clothes.
Remember your genitals
bled when you last shaved
& forgot...
Lay down. Spread legs.
Bend knees. Flip legs
over head. Grab sack.
Hold breath...
Inhale sharply as one,
testicle, then
the other, slips,
hugs tightly in fleshy nest
back up in body. Hold
there. Tape shaft back, balls
up. Finally,
get ready to go:
Eat your heart out, John
& Davy. This baby
came out
with bra & panties...
But five o'clock pubic
shadow gnaws,
chafes, pre-
vents enjoyment
& you haven't
got a thing to wear
anyway.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Woodland
Woodland
Maybe I could have had friends
in the 5th grade
who discovered Playboys
in the Hills
but they didn't share with
me anyway. Not understanding
all the holes, the differences.
Maybe I could have explained.
We could have played doctor,
perform invasive surgery
on each other.
Maybe I could have had friends
in the 5th grade
who discovered Playboys
in the Hills
but they didn't share with
me anyway. Not understanding
all the holes, the differences.
Maybe I could have explained.
We could have played doctor,
perform invasive surgery
on each other.
Cheeks
Cheeks
The back of my hand
is cushioned with short hair
& bulging veins
my finger extends
to stroke the itch
on my face flesh
against flesh I know
the back of my hand
when covered in cucum-
ber-y seeds, divots
in my cracked pores
from the same sickness
giving me the itch
in my skeletal cheeks.
The back of my hand
is cushioned with short hair
& bulging veins
my finger extends
to stroke the itch
on my face flesh
against flesh I know
the back of my hand
when covered in cucum-
ber-y seeds, divots
in my cracked pores
from the same sickness
giving me the itch
in my skeletal cheeks.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Patron Saint of Artillerymen
Patron Saint of Artillerymen
I'm a foward thinking
forty year old
woman. Balding
at 22, want to travel
to Butan & reminisce
about Monet dress-up
parties & slipping beyond
the veil; Esotericism
at it's finest & most
delicious. Hang-
glide to forget the child
lost in sleep-
less nights fire-
fighting. Eat strawberries
covered in chocolate at hotels
in Hawaii because you think
they're free-
eat them anyway.
I'm a foward thinking
forty year old
woman. Balding
at 22, want to travel
to Butan & reminisce
about Monet dress-up
parties & slipping beyond
the veil; Esotericism
at it's finest & most
delicious. Hang-
glide to forget the child
lost in sleep-
less nights fire-
fighting. Eat strawberries
covered in chocolate at hotels
in Hawaii because you think
they're free-
eat them anyway.
Farmer Man
Farmer Man
"Individuals don't win.
Teams do." Sam Walton.
Tell that to Olympic Gold,
Sammy Boy. Your silhouette
is written in tongues:
Integrity, Nyay, Fiducia,
Trust, Nyay, Vishwas,
Respect, égalité, Nyay,
honestitad, Nyay You,
Nyay, You, Nyay, You. I think
someone graffiti'd Hitler's moustache
on your blue & white face, but
it's only a shadow
speckling your stiff upper lip.
"Individuals don't win.
Teams do." Sam Walton.
Tell that to Olympic Gold,
Sammy Boy. Your silhouette
is written in tongues:
Integrity, Nyay, Fiducia,
Trust, Nyay, Vishwas,
Respect, égalité, Nyay,
honestitad, Nyay You,
Nyay, You, Nyay, You. I think
someone graffiti'd Hitler's moustache
on your blue & white face, but
it's only a shadow
speckling your stiff upper lip.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Falling Angel
Falling Angel
first lines from chapters in Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg
It was Friday the 13th,
666 Sth Ave. was the unhappy
six-year old Chevy
I drove back.
It grew dark outside
after midnight, when
(Monday morning was fair)
when you're not on Broadway:
two bars, seventh avenue,
uptown BMT,
found cigarette behind departed
pharmaceuticals. By the time I'll get
to the path, I'll burn
in Hell.
(Intention is to echo the tone of the novel with a sense of confusion/surrealness that the narrator represents...)
first lines from chapters in Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg
It was Friday the 13th,
666 Sth Ave. was the unhappy
six-year old Chevy
I drove back.
It grew dark outside
after midnight, when
(Monday morning was fair)
when you're not on Broadway:
two bars, seventh avenue,
uptown BMT,
found cigarette behind departed
pharmaceuticals. By the time I'll get
to the path, I'll burn
in Hell.
(Intention is to echo the tone of the novel with a sense of confusion/surrealness that the narrator represents...)
MJ Should Have Left Cisco
MJ Should Have Left Cisco
I've never seen San Francisco
fog, but it looks like grains
of rice avalanching photography
& they say, "you can't see
your own hand revealed before
your face" & "don't drive."
Beautiful frauds: The fog
is milk & we drive with our hands
over our eyes anyway; blinding
sight of Holy Holy
Holy shit-
city that sunk
when Ginsberg drowned
Kerouac & they were all beat
by the mass of naked crazed youth
Burroughsian-rimming their geniuses with nothing left
but shit-lip spewing mouths
& bad breath.
I've never seen San Francisco
fog, but it looks like grains
of rice avalanching photography
& they say, "you can't see
your own hand revealed before
your face" & "don't drive."
Beautiful frauds: The fog
is milk & we drive with our hands
over our eyes anyway; blinding
sight of Holy Holy
Holy shit-
city that sunk
when Ginsberg drowned
Kerouac & they were all beat
by the mass of naked crazed youth
Burroughsian-rimming their geniuses with nothing left
but shit-lip spewing mouths
& bad breath.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Weiners
Weiners
I saw cock & wond
-ered how
I could use it
in a poem. Subs
-tit
-ute cock
for dick? Dr. Seuss
-ian rhymes with schlongs?
Medical penis? Attach
genitals to genitals –
testicles to loose labia,
shaft inser
-ted, head on
clitoris. Male nipples
on female breasts. Cocks
designed in my own image:
sensitive, gush
-ing, breathing
through ears with flex
-ible tongue exploring taints
& anus. Licking
medical words. But
cock only seems to fuck
-ing fit in my verse
where taboo becomes typ
-ical, daring be
-comes predictable.
I saw cock & wond
-ered how
I could use it
in a poem. Subs
-tit
-ute cock
for dick? Dr. Seuss
-ian rhymes with schlongs?
Medical penis? Attach
genitals to genitals –
testicles to loose labia,
shaft inser
-ted, head on
clitoris. Male nipples
on female breasts. Cocks
designed in my own image:
sensitive, gush
-ing, breathing
through ears with flex
-ible tongue exploring taints
& anus. Licking
medical words. But
cock only seems to fuck
-ing fit in my verse
where taboo becomes typ
-ical, daring be
-comes predictable.
18:04–18:19/ 23:06–23:21
18:04 - 18:19
there's this faucet at work
dripping...unceasing.
clocking in dripping
flesh door dripping
cheerios dripping
cute teacher dripping
going to meal dripping
roll on dripping
wet kisses dripping
cardboard boxes dripping
bills dripping
back from meal dripping
crowning dripping
cord dripping
flat tire dripping
aisle dripping
pill dripping
stuck dripping
blood dripping
funeral dripping
clocking out dripping
unceasing...dripping
the damn faucet at work
on my brain.
23:06 - 23:21
the free cookies
came in broken
boxes, stale.
the original brand's,
"the Bakery's," "baked
with pride," logo's
a rolling pin with bulbous tip.
net weight: 28
veiny, hairy, girthy
ounces of chocolate
chip cookies.
there's this faucet at work
dripping...unceasing.
clocking in dripping
flesh door dripping
cheerios dripping
cute teacher dripping
going to meal dripping
roll on dripping
wet kisses dripping
cardboard boxes dripping
bills dripping
back from meal dripping
crowning dripping
cord dripping
flat tire dripping
aisle dripping
pill dripping
stuck dripping
blood dripping
funeral dripping
clocking out dripping
unceasing...dripping
the damn faucet at work
on my brain.
23:06 - 23:21
the free cookies
came in broken
boxes, stale.
the original brand's,
"the Bakery's," "baked
with pride," logo's
a rolling pin with bulbous tip.
net weight: 28
veiny, hairy, girthy
ounces of chocolate
chip cookies.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Questions for the President Prescription For America
Questions for the President Prescription For America
Might I suggest or may I suggest
a cigarette, Red Vines or Twizzlers?
Put or pull out method?
Method Man’s method, man?
Why are Polish men? When man lies
R Kelly Fiesta Remix (Dirty Remix)
dirty girl mud run sun mudfish
Fishy va-
lentine’s sayings for him or for her?
May I or can I
holla at ya?
Might I suggest or may I suggest
a cigarette, Red Vines or Twizzlers?
Put or pull out method?
Method Man’s method, man?
Why are Polish men? When man lies
R Kelly Fiesta Remix (Dirty Remix)
dirty girl mud run sun mudfish
Fishy va-
lentine’s sayings for him or for her?
May I or can I
holla at ya?
Save Money. Live Better.
Save Money. Live Better.
for Jacob
4 p.m.
I unload
pallets and pallets at work.
Bombing down dusty aisles,
my ten-foot cardboard monsters,
at breakneck speeds of five mph,
scream with rusty wheels. Customers
freeze in terror, never get out of my damn
way. Departments: Chemicals pills
sporting good clothes
food crafts bedding
auto electronic furniture.
7 p.m.
Racks and racks
of hanging apparel
delivered to a lady who
never appreciates a job
well done. Burnt backs
pushing their Sisyphusian carts
with honking car vultures
circling.
Midnight
I get off at one
o’clock on the dot
(no overtime, never over-
time) and time again
recycles, it's already
the next workday.
The sky is black, starless,
except for the humming white
fluorescent moon against
abyss. Literally starless––
a tarmac draping
over the lot, a wall over the mart.
1 a.m.
Every night we’re visited by
a coyote that will eat
out of your hand. My coworkers
named him “Jacob.” His head guides
his slim body toward and away
from me like the tides,
ears never stop pointing.
I don’t give him a name.
I don’t call him anything.
It needs to get away
from the emptiness
of a nighttime parking lot:
I want to lie in the dirt with
the coyote, let his fangs tear
at my jugular first, work
their way to my chest and stomach, turn
me and dirtied blood mud ground into one
pile that will never be discovered. Just me
and the coyote, rotting in a Californian chaparral
under a starry sky.
Sometimes I hear my name
on the radio and turn it off,
wait for a wild call that never comes.
for Jacob
4 p.m.
I unload
pallets and pallets at work.
Bombing down dusty aisles,
my ten-foot cardboard monsters,
at breakneck speeds of five mph,
scream with rusty wheels. Customers
freeze in terror, never get out of my damn
way. Departments: Chemicals pills
sporting good clothes
food crafts bedding
auto electronic furniture.
7 p.m.
Racks and racks
of hanging apparel
delivered to a lady who
never appreciates a job
well done. Burnt backs
pushing their Sisyphusian carts
with honking car vultures
circling.
Midnight
I get off at one
o’clock on the dot
(no overtime, never over-
time) and time again
recycles, it's already
the next workday.
The sky is black, starless,
except for the humming white
fluorescent moon against
abyss. Literally starless––
a tarmac draping
over the lot, a wall over the mart.
1 a.m.
Every night we’re visited by
a coyote that will eat
out of your hand. My coworkers
named him “Jacob.” His head guides
his slim body toward and away
from me like the tides,
ears never stop pointing.
I don’t give him a name.
I don’t call him anything.
It needs to get away
from the emptiness
of a nighttime parking lot:
I want to lie in the dirt with
the coyote, let his fangs tear
at my jugular first, work
their way to my chest and stomach, turn
me and dirtied blood mud ground into one
pile that will never be discovered. Just me
and the coyote, rotting in a Californian chaparral
under a starry sky.
Sometimes I hear my name
on the radio and turn it off,
wait for a wild call that never comes.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Read Aloud/Red Allowed [Experiment]
I took words & phrases out
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
[Eye took word s/and fray says out
of a Tex book, too song s/and won move 'e,'
Rote theh mons craps
of pay purrs, through theh m/in
the air. This izz how thay lan dead]
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
[the ter mismy met ick
Sough-ish shent moe men/ts]
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
[Doo az the ban/d say/s/o
the ban/d says: "Doan/'t
bee uh hor/"n eye ill aye shun
of bee/g innings, eff furry won cry ying
as thacy yore pair uh dice
stow len knot lost. "Thefft,"
so the ban/d says-a sign knee'ng
thefft too maw th's. Doan/'t bee
doan/'t bee a new cle/air...]
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
[I tur n'd Gins burr/g
up psy/ down butt ike 'h'ood'n't
chain'j thuh colur office psy'd-
burr'ns.]
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
[smallis panic boize shou/tat
mike ar,win doe/s
roll'dup frumuh str/eat
corn or in fron tough sum
read play scald Alf e-o's]
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
[Butt a vary clear/y mage
of/fer peep ill hav/ing
shade, the son on there feat
foth ir/muh/ th'r
dot orson, buh ruh thur.]
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
[Eye took word s/and fray says out
of a Tex book, too song s/and won move 'e,'
Rote theh mons craps
of pay purrs, through theh m/in
the air. This izz how thay lan dead]
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
[the ter mismy met ick
Sough-ish shent moe men/ts]
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
[Doo az the ban/d say/s/o
the ban/d says: "Doan/'t
bee uh hor/"n eye ill aye shun
of bee/g innings, eff furry won cry ying
as thacy yore pair uh dice
stow len knot lost. "Thefft,"
so the ban/d says-a sign knee'ng
thefft too maw th's. Doan/'t bee
doan/'t bee a new cle/air...]
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
[I tur n'd Gins burr/g
up psy/ down butt ike 'h'ood'n't
chain'j thuh colur office psy'd-
burr'ns.]
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
[smallis panic boize shou/tat
mike ar,win doe/s
roll'dup frumuh str/eat
corn or in fron tough sum
read play scald Alf e-o's]
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
[Butt a vary clear/y mage
of/fer peep ill hav/ing
shade, the son on there feat
foth ir/muh/ th'r
dot orson, buh ruh thur.]
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
For those interested: An essay I wrote defending feminist readings & criticizing 19th century gender ideologies in Twain's novel and Chopin's short story. From the perspective of Huck and Jim having a debate.
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
A small raft, piloted by a lively young boy in torn denim and the large man standing over him, tumultuously rolls over waves created in a sudden storm. C’mon Jim, says the boy to the man, pointing to a houseboat they see at the side of the river. They find the houseboat empty and Jim asks the boy where the lady of the house might be.
“Jim, ain’t you read the story wrote about us? And ain’t you paying attention to this ‘Storm’?” says the boy.
Jim responds: “Why no, what of it and what’s this storm got to do with where the women are? Storm like this and they ought to be more home than when the sun’s a-shining.”
“There’s no sense in that, Jim. Listen, Mr. Mark Twain wrote Adventures of Huckleberry Finn mainly about men and boyhood, but he don’t withhold giving attention to the absurdity of ‘female roles.’ And I wasn’t talking about this storm, but “The Storm,” a short story by Kate Chopin. Even in the male-driven novel by Twain, female agency shows through Judith Loftus and Miss Watson and, in Chopin’s “The Storm,” an arguably more feminist story, 19th century ideologies rear their heads even though Calixta shows more female agency outright. It’s like floating down a wide river so as no one can see you in the dark versus trying to be hidden in a narrow channel with other boaters.”
“Well, shucks, Huck, you’re sure sounding ‘sivilized.’ That’s mighty difficult things you’re saying.”
“You bet they are,” grins Huck, beginning rapidly until Jim tells him to, “explain ‘em slow-like.”
“In Huck Finn, Judith Loftus, a female playing a male game, uses her logic, meta-awareness and self-determination to elevate herself above gender ideologies. I thought I had her right fooled in my girl get-up, but Mrs. Loftus set up her own tricks and called me out saying, “Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain” (168). Unlike Tom’s Aunt Sally, who is wholly fooled by similar deceptions, Loftus uses reason, a characteristic associated with men, to see through my girlish clothes. She is, in fact, the only female character to take part in some form of fraud, and without repercussions. The Grangersons and Sheperdsons both had corpses at the end of their lies and the Duke and the King were tar’d and feather’d! Even I got stricken with guilt after my ploys with you, Jim. But Mrs. Loftus got away with it, showing her subversion of the binary that males are, by nature, logical and women emotional.
“Why, Judith Loftus even acknowledges gender dichotomies when she tells me the ‘proper’ way to act as a lady. After being caught, she teaches me to not, “hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it…And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff…like a girl…” (168). Her meta-understanding (‘How do you meet an understanding?’ Jim inquired.) of the absurdities of gender roles, seen in how she addressed the various ‘correct’ and ‘lady-like’ ways of performing tasks, shows her complexity amongst other flat characters in the novel. Before she outed me as a boy, she threw her own stone at a rat and, “said ‘Ouch!’ it hurt her arm so” (166). Of course, she was only putting on face, an example of Mrs. Loftus’ awareness and long-lasting fraud: acting like a woman should in the presence of men. It occurs to me now that she was also dominate over her husband. She told me, about my secret, that she’ll, “keep it; and what’s more, I’ll help you. So’ll my old man, if you want him to” (167). What an implication! That she or I, at the time dressed as a woman, could make a man do something on our behalf.”
“Huck, I reckon she was the logical female that also figured where we was, on Jackson’s Island (165), but if she was so self-determined and showing ‘female agency,’ how come there’s no fuss at her being forced to pretend and be confined to the house?”
“I was getting there, Jim, hold your horses. The other ladies in the novel juxtaposed with Mrs. Loftus are the complaint. Aunt Sally, when Tom and I got rats in the house and she caught sight of them, “she was standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her” (292-93). Put them rats next to Loftus’ rats and there’s the frustration of an able-bodied woman being helpless. Let me get to Miss Watson to explain. Watson, at the beginning of the novel, is the very embodiment of 19th century gender ideologies. This is reflected in how she tried, and failed, to teach me to be proper and teach me about heaven, “…the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever” (132). Clearly a product of the ideologies embedded in her, her views about religion are the same as hers in position to men. Watson never puts up a fight, and even the judge gives custody of me to my father before her and the widow. But it’s mostly her role as a teacher of ‘civility’ and as a follower that shows her subscription to the engrained beliefs.
“Now, Jim, follow me closely on this: If Miss Watson and the other abundance of female characters are all flat in that novel, with the exception of Judith Loftus, what of Miss Watsons’ final action? When you was about to get shipped off back to slavery, we learned that “Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will” (307). A flat, female character gained depth in that moment, and, more importantly, illustrated her own power to act according to her own will (a clever play on the word “will“). Her final action, associated with Jim being in constraints, like herself, shows a symbolic death of the docility and passivity of the female. Showing her ability to cause a drastic change, be an active role, to the story reconciles the inability of Judith Loftus as a functioning character and the novel’s sense of female agency. Meaning, Miss Watson’s “will” speaks of a freeing of gender constraints on behalf of all the women in the novel because it is done without the overseeing of men.”
“It warms my heart to hear the freeing of chains, Huck. That Mr. Mark Twain should’a spoken more clearly though. He rambles a bit, makes it unnecessarily hidden and confusin’.”
“That’s where Chopin’s “The Storm” comes into play. After the crashes of lightning and the subsequent flashes of passion between Alcée and Calixta, Calixta looks up at the soon-to-be lover and “the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire” (559). If “female agency” is the power of self-determined action, than desire is a clear signifier of that agency because desire exists solely within oneself, within Calixta. And, more importantly, it is her physical manifestation of this desire in having sex with Alcée that shows action over thoughts. What’s more, when her husband and son return after the storm passes, after the affair ends, she and her family “relax and enjoy themselves…[and] at the table they laughed much and so loud that one might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s” (561). She laughs to show her family that nothing is wrong. She laughs to show herself that nothing is wrong. She even laughs to show Alcée that their act is not something weighing on her mind. Her laughter is a sign that she feels no remorse, no regret, over such a taboo act. If that ain’t heard loud and clear enough, Jim, I don’t know what else would be.”
“Huck, I recall them stories now, about us and about Calixta. I hope you don’t mind me killing two crippled birds with one gender ideological stone. And apologies for being so adult-like with it, but there ain’t no two ways about saying it. Mark Twain and Kate Chopin couldn’t never escape the ideologies of women as sexual objects and as sexually submissive. The advice Judith Loftus told you when want to act like a girl shows this: “…don’t hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it” (167). The needle, with an oval opening, is a yonic symbol and the thread is obviously a phallic one. She advised that the proper way for a woman to “thread a needle,” or have sex, is to not use the needle as the object (and I do emphasize on the word ‘object’) of action, but the thread that pokes at the stationary needle. It is not the needle’s position to be dominant over the thread, the female over the male.
“And that poor Calixta. Why, her having sex with Alcée might have shown her female agency, but it’s how she did it that contradicts itself. Kate Chopin, in the text, only describes the physical attributes of Calixta as M’sieur Alcée sees them: her “blue eyes still retained their melting quality,” her “warm and steaming” face, her “lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed,” her “full, firm bosom,” her “creamy lily” skin and her breasts that “gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips” (559-60). Calixta is portrayed as the object of the male gaze and, even partaking in the sexual act, does not get out from or subvert that gaze. Like her breasts “giving up,” she also falls back into Alcée’s arms and, at the peak of their sexual encounter, “he possessed her” (560). Like Loftus showed with her symbols, Calixta isn’t permitted to be dominant over the male. It’s her ‘place’ to be taken, to surrender, to be possessed by Alcée. And the quiet rebellion of both these ladies against traditional gender ideologies does occur within the confines of their domesticity, just as the authors where in the confines of their own era.”
“ ‘But hang it Jim, you’ve clean missed the point––you don’t get the point.’
“ ‘Blame de pint! I reck’n I knows what I knows’”(178).
The rain stops pattering against their found shelter and the two return to the raft and the calm river. Still, neither of them saw, or see, a sign of a woman at that house.
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
A small raft, piloted by a lively young boy in torn denim and the large man standing over him, tumultuously rolls over waves created in a sudden storm. C’mon Jim, says the boy to the man, pointing to a houseboat they see at the side of the river. They find the houseboat empty and Jim asks the boy where the lady of the house might be.
“Jim, ain’t you read the story wrote about us? And ain’t you paying attention to this ‘Storm’?” says the boy.
Jim responds: “Why no, what of it and what’s this storm got to do with where the women are? Storm like this and they ought to be more home than when the sun’s a-shining.”
“There’s no sense in that, Jim. Listen, Mr. Mark Twain wrote Adventures of Huckleberry Finn mainly about men and boyhood, but he don’t withhold giving attention to the absurdity of ‘female roles.’ And I wasn’t talking about this storm, but “The Storm,” a short story by Kate Chopin. Even in the male-driven novel by Twain, female agency shows through Judith Loftus and Miss Watson and, in Chopin’s “The Storm,” an arguably more feminist story, 19th century ideologies rear their heads even though Calixta shows more female agency outright. It’s like floating down a wide river so as no one can see you in the dark versus trying to be hidden in a narrow channel with other boaters.”
“Well, shucks, Huck, you’re sure sounding ‘sivilized.’ That’s mighty difficult things you’re saying.”
“You bet they are,” grins Huck, beginning rapidly until Jim tells him to, “explain ‘em slow-like.”
“In Huck Finn, Judith Loftus, a female playing a male game, uses her logic, meta-awareness and self-determination to elevate herself above gender ideologies. I thought I had her right fooled in my girl get-up, but Mrs. Loftus set up her own tricks and called me out saying, “Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain” (168). Unlike Tom’s Aunt Sally, who is wholly fooled by similar deceptions, Loftus uses reason, a characteristic associated with men, to see through my girlish clothes. She is, in fact, the only female character to take part in some form of fraud, and without repercussions. The Grangersons and Sheperdsons both had corpses at the end of their lies and the Duke and the King were tar’d and feather’d! Even I got stricken with guilt after my ploys with you, Jim. But Mrs. Loftus got away with it, showing her subversion of the binary that males are, by nature, logical and women emotional.
“Why, Judith Loftus even acknowledges gender dichotomies when she tells me the ‘proper’ way to act as a lady. After being caught, she teaches me to not, “hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it…And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff…like a girl…” (168). Her meta-understanding (‘How do you meet an understanding?’ Jim inquired.) of the absurdities of gender roles, seen in how she addressed the various ‘correct’ and ‘lady-like’ ways of performing tasks, shows her complexity amongst other flat characters in the novel. Before she outed me as a boy, she threw her own stone at a rat and, “said ‘Ouch!’ it hurt her arm so” (166). Of course, she was only putting on face, an example of Mrs. Loftus’ awareness and long-lasting fraud: acting like a woman should in the presence of men. It occurs to me now that she was also dominate over her husband. She told me, about my secret, that she’ll, “keep it; and what’s more, I’ll help you. So’ll my old man, if you want him to” (167). What an implication! That she or I, at the time dressed as a woman, could make a man do something on our behalf.”
“Huck, I reckon she was the logical female that also figured where we was, on Jackson’s Island (165), but if she was so self-determined and showing ‘female agency,’ how come there’s no fuss at her being forced to pretend and be confined to the house?”
“I was getting there, Jim, hold your horses. The other ladies in the novel juxtaposed with Mrs. Loftus are the complaint. Aunt Sally, when Tom and I got rats in the house and she caught sight of them, “she was standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her” (292-93). Put them rats next to Loftus’ rats and there’s the frustration of an able-bodied woman being helpless. Let me get to Miss Watson to explain. Watson, at the beginning of the novel, is the very embodiment of 19th century gender ideologies. This is reflected in how she tried, and failed, to teach me to be proper and teach me about heaven, “…the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever” (132). Clearly a product of the ideologies embedded in her, her views about religion are the same as hers in position to men. Watson never puts up a fight, and even the judge gives custody of me to my father before her and the widow. But it’s mostly her role as a teacher of ‘civility’ and as a follower that shows her subscription to the engrained beliefs.
“Now, Jim, follow me closely on this: If Miss Watson and the other abundance of female characters are all flat in that novel, with the exception of Judith Loftus, what of Miss Watsons’ final action? When you was about to get shipped off back to slavery, we learned that “Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will” (307). A flat, female character gained depth in that moment, and, more importantly, illustrated her own power to act according to her own will (a clever play on the word “will“). Her final action, associated with Jim being in constraints, like herself, shows a symbolic death of the docility and passivity of the female. Showing her ability to cause a drastic change, be an active role, to the story reconciles the inability of Judith Loftus as a functioning character and the novel’s sense of female agency. Meaning, Miss Watson’s “will” speaks of a freeing of gender constraints on behalf of all the women in the novel because it is done without the overseeing of men.”
“It warms my heart to hear the freeing of chains, Huck. That Mr. Mark Twain should’a spoken more clearly though. He rambles a bit, makes it unnecessarily hidden and confusin’.”
“That’s where Chopin’s “The Storm” comes into play. After the crashes of lightning and the subsequent flashes of passion between Alcée and Calixta, Calixta looks up at the soon-to-be lover and “the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire” (559). If “female agency” is the power of self-determined action, than desire is a clear signifier of that agency because desire exists solely within oneself, within Calixta. And, more importantly, it is her physical manifestation of this desire in having sex with Alcée that shows action over thoughts. What’s more, when her husband and son return after the storm passes, after the affair ends, she and her family “relax and enjoy themselves…[and] at the table they laughed much and so loud that one might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s” (561). She laughs to show her family that nothing is wrong. She laughs to show herself that nothing is wrong. She even laughs to show Alcée that their act is not something weighing on her mind. Her laughter is a sign that she feels no remorse, no regret, over such a taboo act. If that ain’t heard loud and clear enough, Jim, I don’t know what else would be.”
“Huck, I recall them stories now, about us and about Calixta. I hope you don’t mind me killing two crippled birds with one gender ideological stone. And apologies for being so adult-like with it, but there ain’t no two ways about saying it. Mark Twain and Kate Chopin couldn’t never escape the ideologies of women as sexual objects and as sexually submissive. The advice Judith Loftus told you when want to act like a girl shows this: “…don’t hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it” (167). The needle, with an oval opening, is a yonic symbol and the thread is obviously a phallic one. She advised that the proper way for a woman to “thread a needle,” or have sex, is to not use the needle as the object (and I do emphasize on the word ‘object’) of action, but the thread that pokes at the stationary needle. It is not the needle’s position to be dominant over the thread, the female over the male.
“And that poor Calixta. Why, her having sex with Alcée might have shown her female agency, but it’s how she did it that contradicts itself. Kate Chopin, in the text, only describes the physical attributes of Calixta as M’sieur Alcée sees them: her “blue eyes still retained their melting quality,” her “warm and steaming” face, her “lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed,” her “full, firm bosom,” her “creamy lily” skin and her breasts that “gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips” (559-60). Calixta is portrayed as the object of the male gaze and, even partaking in the sexual act, does not get out from or subvert that gaze. Like her breasts “giving up,” she also falls back into Alcée’s arms and, at the peak of their sexual encounter, “he possessed her” (560). Like Loftus showed with her symbols, Calixta isn’t permitted to be dominant over the male. It’s her ‘place’ to be taken, to surrender, to be possessed by Alcée. And the quiet rebellion of both these ladies against traditional gender ideologies does occur within the confines of their domesticity, just as the authors where in the confines of their own era.”
“ ‘But hang it Jim, you’ve clean missed the point––you don’t get the point.’
“ ‘Blame de pint! I reck’n I knows what I knows’”(178).
The rain stops pattering against their found shelter and the two return to the raft and the calm river. Still, neither of them saw, or see, a sign of a woman at that house.
Fishing Bait
Fishing Bait
I was playing in the sandbox when the shovels came./ They wouldn’t stop digging, so I
went to the river/ with Dad. I was in charge of the tackle box. I got bored
after five minutes, started to play/ with the worms. I wondered / what part my dad
skewered: the brain or the butt.
I got bored after five minutes and started to play with the fish/ Dad had caught. Its gills
opened like blinds/ and its eyes/ visibly/ dried./ I put worms in the fish mouth, the
closest I’d get to burying it. When my dad wasn’t/ looking, I wriggled a worm into my
own/ mouth. I didn’t like feeling dead, like a fish. Bored
after five minutes, I became the worm./ I didn’t know brain from butt, this time I didn’t
care./ Dirty and skewered and drowning. But the water was cooler/ than the summer
dirt and at least
I knew that the hook burrowing/ through me belonged to someone/ strong. Dad, with one
last tug/ on the fishing/ pole,/ said we were leaving for the day. I told him I was bored
after five minutes.
Back home in the sandbox, the shovels came again and they wouldn’t stop digging up
worms.
I was playing in the sandbox when the shovels came./ They wouldn’t stop digging, so I
went to the river/ with Dad. I was in charge of the tackle box. I got bored
after five minutes, started to play/ with the worms. I wondered / what part my dad
skewered: the brain or the butt.
I got bored after five minutes and started to play with the fish/ Dad had caught. Its gills
opened like blinds/ and its eyes/ visibly/ dried./ I put worms in the fish mouth, the
closest I’d get to burying it. When my dad wasn’t/ looking, I wriggled a worm into my
own/ mouth. I didn’t like feeling dead, like a fish. Bored
after five minutes, I became the worm./ I didn’t know brain from butt, this time I didn’t
care./ Dirty and skewered and drowning. But the water was cooler/ than the summer
dirt and at least
I knew that the hook burrowing/ through me belonged to someone/ strong. Dad, with one
last tug/ on the fishing/ pole,/ said we were leaving for the day. I told him I was bored
after five minutes.
Back home in the sandbox, the shovels came again and they wouldn’t stop digging up
worms.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Traffic Revelations [Rough Draft]
Traffic Revelations
“And when you see the face of God you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Godly man and Godly woman. And prayers will be eternally upon your lips and there will be nothing more to look for except God. And this is all a dream with an end that––”
Alright, who’s the idiot that was fudging with my radio presets? It was all very precise to how I wanted it. One was my go to for classic alternative rock, always the safest bet. Two was my alternative alternative rock station in case I didn’t like the song on One. Three and Four were pop music stations that I only listened to for the sake of others. Wait, those are my FM stations, this must be AM. I don’t think I’ve ever set any AM stations. The car salesman, or at least the guy I bought the car from, told me that dealerships preset FM country stations and AM Christian stations because of various polls and studies. I wasn’t really listening because I didn’t care, I was more worried about the car.
I told him the seat looked too close to the wheel.
He said that the adjustment lever was broken.
I showed him that I couldn’t fit past the wheel.
He told me that it wasn’t his problem I was too fat.
I told him to fuck off.
He shoved the chair back with force.
It’s still broken and a metal rod is sticking out through the side of the seat, but at least I fit.
When we had made the deal official, he shook my hand just long enough to make me worry if I had grabbed wet naps on the way out that day. He might have been right about the car being a classic beauty despite it’s current appearance in his posting of it in the paper, but my knowledge and appreciation of cars is about as full as my pockets were when I bought it.
Sitting in the traffic of the parking structure, I look around and make a list of the things I know about my car. It’s a faded red. The seats are uncomfortable leather. It smells. There’s a layer of dust that’s so engrained in the clear plastic that I can’t read the digital display underneath that shows the time and station number. When I opened the glove compartment for the first time it smelled like the retirement home room that my mother died in. Radio reception would probably be stronger if the antenna didn’t look like a coat hanger does after being used to jimmy a car lock.
“…through this great sea of blackness that I’ve penetrated and I went through this last segment with the dark serpentines and I penetrated to the most high God and you will believe you’re mad, that you’ve gone insane. There are many wonders sitting there today thinking they’re insane, that they saw something that’s unreal. But they see it through the light of God, the way I saw it through the light of God. And when you see the face of God you die.”
Ambient noise is playing underneath his ramblings to make it more…More what? Poignant? Moving? This guy could describe my car with the same emotion and same music and it would probably sound like something important. But this car would still be the same piece of shit. And when you see the granola bar wrappers on the dirty mats you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Driver man and Driver woman who don’t care about the trash in your car. And the car wash is too expensive to clean the mud off the tires, the tires of your life. And I’m penetrating through the darkness of this parking structure with the black, serpentine SUV in front of me. And when you see the bends of your antenna, you die.
I actually should give this preacher credit because he’s had me listening for this long at least. I hit the AM/FM button to switch over to my One preset.
“…and when you see the face of God you die!” Damn it to Hell, I haven’t moved an inch in this damn traffic and now my radio won’t switch over. Do I deal with silence or more of this lunatic? I push in the volume button in to stop the nonsense ravings.
“…the face of the Godhead three. A face of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and when you see this face you die.” Oh, come on, I’m sick of this damn, brainless goof! I try pushing in the power button, the AM/FM button, the One button and the Two button, but still get nothing. That is to say, I get the “face of God” thrown back at me again and again.
Look, preacher, you’re performance is getting goddamn stale. At least real actors do multiple takes with various techniques. Like, right now, to show my frustration, I’ll honk the horn and shift violently in my seat, but I won’t keep doing the same thing repetitiously. I swear, you’re like itching a bug bite, the more I try to get rid of you the more annoying you becoming. No wonder I don’t listen to the goddamned AM stations. Plus, you have it backwards. I won’t see the face of God and then die. I’ll be dead already when I see the face of God.
“…you will not be dead before you see the face of God.” The radio goes silent. I redistribute my weight towards my legs with an amused smirk, the coincidence of words shaking off the veil that was draped across my mind. Did my radio die completely or was the broadcast over? If the broadcast was over, there wouldn’t be silence. Damn it to hell, I guess my radio is really broken. Piece of shit car. I push my foot harder on the break to tense up all the muscles in my leg. And my radio is a piece of shit and my car is a piece of shit and this black SUV in front of me that hasn’t budged in ten minutes is a piece of shit and this Goddamn preacher is a piece of––
“BUT BECAUSE OF YOUR HARD AND IMPENITENT HEART YOU ARE STORING UP WRATH FOR YOURSELF ON THE DAY WHEN GOD’S RIGHTEOUS JUGDMENT WILL BE REVEALED.” I jump in my seat and cover my ears at the intense volume of the radio and turn the volume knob in every direction to try and stop it. My eyes are closed at the shock and noise when I push every button my fingers land on, all of them at the same time.
“WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE.” What the hell? I know people are staring at me. Shit. I put the car in park and turn off the car, my foot still on the brake.
“…YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU…” My hands grow hot around ears and it feels like I have a bloody nose, but everything’s dry. The car speakers are making that static fart noise when they’re about to be blown out and the bass of the voice and the volume are working together to shake the car and pound at my rib cage. When I tear my eyes open, I see the SUV in front of me is white instead of black and pulsing red and blue lights are assaulting my eyes.
“AND HE WILL SAY TO THOSE ON THE LEFT “DEPART FROM ME YOU CURSED INTO THE ETERNAL FIRE PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS…” There’s a wetness against my mouth and the pounding on my lungs feels rhythmic. Something tingles at my feet, like the pins and needle feeling when blood stops circulating. The pins work their way up my legs but the ones at my feet start to push harder and harder, as if they are pushing all the way through my foot. The penetrations work their way up my legs and hips, shoving into my spinal cord and cascading over the back of my head and down towards my face. When the needles bury into my eyes, I see the Godly woman in all white with a set of wings atop two snakes around a staff pinned on her chest. She bends down and touches her lips against my dry ones, her blonde hair brushing against my unmoving cheeks and neck. The kiss is a familiar one of “goodbye.”
A darkness slides into vision from my peripherals like a serpent. A pain erupts at my heart as if the sting of every stubbed toe, every paper cut, every headache, every violent shout, every punch, every divorce, every night spent alone is pushed into one syringe that’s plunged into the last piece of flesh operating in my body. And the last thing I see is the digital clock on my dash, but there’s no time displayed. And I wonder how long I’ve been in this car, how long this agony has lasted. And it feels like an eternity. And the lips are gone. And I’m sorr––
“And when you see the face of God you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Godly man and Godly woman. And prayers will be eternally upon your lips and there will be nothing more to look for except God. And this is all a dream with an end that––”
Alright, who’s the idiot that was fudging with my radio presets? It was all very precise to how I wanted it. One was my go to for classic alternative rock, always the safest bet. Two was my alternative alternative rock station in case I didn’t like the song on One. Three and Four were pop music stations that I only listened to for the sake of others. Wait, those are my FM stations, this must be AM. I don’t think I’ve ever set any AM stations. The car salesman, or at least the guy I bought the car from, told me that dealerships preset FM country stations and AM Christian stations because of various polls and studies. I wasn’t really listening because I didn’t care, I was more worried about the car.
I told him the seat looked too close to the wheel.
He said that the adjustment lever was broken.
I showed him that I couldn’t fit past the wheel.
He told me that it wasn’t his problem I was too fat.
I told him to fuck off.
He shoved the chair back with force.
It’s still broken and a metal rod is sticking out through the side of the seat, but at least I fit.
When we had made the deal official, he shook my hand just long enough to make me worry if I had grabbed wet naps on the way out that day. He might have been right about the car being a classic beauty despite it’s current appearance in his posting of it in the paper, but my knowledge and appreciation of cars is about as full as my pockets were when I bought it.
Sitting in the traffic of the parking structure, I look around and make a list of the things I know about my car. It’s a faded red. The seats are uncomfortable leather. It smells. There’s a layer of dust that’s so engrained in the clear plastic that I can’t read the digital display underneath that shows the time and station number. When I opened the glove compartment for the first time it smelled like the retirement home room that my mother died in. Radio reception would probably be stronger if the antenna didn’t look like a coat hanger does after being used to jimmy a car lock.
“…through this great sea of blackness that I’ve penetrated and I went through this last segment with the dark serpentines and I penetrated to the most high God and you will believe you’re mad, that you’ve gone insane. There are many wonders sitting there today thinking they’re insane, that they saw something that’s unreal. But they see it through the light of God, the way I saw it through the light of God. And when you see the face of God you die.”
Ambient noise is playing underneath his ramblings to make it more…More what? Poignant? Moving? This guy could describe my car with the same emotion and same music and it would probably sound like something important. But this car would still be the same piece of shit. And when you see the granola bar wrappers on the dirty mats you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Driver man and Driver woman who don’t care about the trash in your car. And the car wash is too expensive to clean the mud off the tires, the tires of your life. And I’m penetrating through the darkness of this parking structure with the black, serpentine SUV in front of me. And when you see the bends of your antenna, you die.
I actually should give this preacher credit because he’s had me listening for this long at least. I hit the AM/FM button to switch over to my One preset.
“…and when you see the face of God you die!” Damn it to Hell, I haven’t moved an inch in this damn traffic and now my radio won’t switch over. Do I deal with silence or more of this lunatic? I push in the volume button in to stop the nonsense ravings.
“…the face of the Godhead three. A face of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and when you see this face you die.” Oh, come on, I’m sick of this damn, brainless goof! I try pushing in the power button, the AM/FM button, the One button and the Two button, but still get nothing. That is to say, I get the “face of God” thrown back at me again and again.
Look, preacher, you’re performance is getting goddamn stale. At least real actors do multiple takes with various techniques. Like, right now, to show my frustration, I’ll honk the horn and shift violently in my seat, but I won’t keep doing the same thing repetitiously. I swear, you’re like itching a bug bite, the more I try to get rid of you the more annoying you becoming. No wonder I don’t listen to the goddamned AM stations. Plus, you have it backwards. I won’t see the face of God and then die. I’ll be dead already when I see the face of God.
“…you will not be dead before you see the face of God.” The radio goes silent. I redistribute my weight towards my legs with an amused smirk, the coincidence of words shaking off the veil that was draped across my mind. Did my radio die completely or was the broadcast over? If the broadcast was over, there wouldn’t be silence. Damn it to hell, I guess my radio is really broken. Piece of shit car. I push my foot harder on the break to tense up all the muscles in my leg. And my radio is a piece of shit and my car is a piece of shit and this black SUV in front of me that hasn’t budged in ten minutes is a piece of shit and this Goddamn preacher is a piece of––
“BUT BECAUSE OF YOUR HARD AND IMPENITENT HEART YOU ARE STORING UP WRATH FOR YOURSELF ON THE DAY WHEN GOD’S RIGHTEOUS JUGDMENT WILL BE REVEALED.” I jump in my seat and cover my ears at the intense volume of the radio and turn the volume knob in every direction to try and stop it. My eyes are closed at the shock and noise when I push every button my fingers land on, all of them at the same time.
“WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE.” What the hell? I know people are staring at me. Shit. I put the car in park and turn off the car, my foot still on the brake.
“…YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU…” My hands grow hot around ears and it feels like I have a bloody nose, but everything’s dry. The car speakers are making that static fart noise when they’re about to be blown out and the bass of the voice and the volume are working together to shake the car and pound at my rib cage. When I tear my eyes open, I see the SUV in front of me is white instead of black and pulsing red and blue lights are assaulting my eyes.
“AND HE WILL SAY TO THOSE ON THE LEFT “DEPART FROM ME YOU CURSED INTO THE ETERNAL FIRE PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS…” There’s a wetness against my mouth and the pounding on my lungs feels rhythmic. Something tingles at my feet, like the pins and needle feeling when blood stops circulating. The pins work their way up my legs but the ones at my feet start to push harder and harder, as if they are pushing all the way through my foot. The penetrations work their way up my legs and hips, shoving into my spinal cord and cascading over the back of my head and down towards my face. When the needles bury into my eyes, I see the Godly woman in all white with a set of wings atop two snakes around a staff pinned on her chest. She bends down and touches her lips against my dry ones, her blonde hair brushing against my unmoving cheeks and neck. The kiss is a familiar one of “goodbye.”
A darkness slides into vision from my peripherals like a serpent. A pain erupts at my heart as if the sting of every stubbed toe, every paper cut, every headache, every violent shout, every punch, every divorce, every night spent alone is pushed into one syringe that’s plunged into the last piece of flesh operating in my body. And the last thing I see is the digital clock on my dash, but there’s no time displayed. And I wonder how long I’ve been in this car, how long this agony has lasted. And it feels like an eternity. And the lips are gone. And I’m sorr––
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
MotherFather
For the sake of them all being in one place: I've compiled a list of all these different ways that I've written to describe parents. Not my parents, mind you, just single sentences that I think would sum up characteristics succinctly.
"My father was a scorpion & my mother was a six pack" - Pete and Pete
My father was a haircut & my mother was the scissors.
My father was a farmer & my mother was the rabbit.
My father was an onion & my mother was crying.
My father was Trouble & my mother was Sorry. I was Scrabble.
My father was a monocle & my mother was 20/20.
My father was a novel & my mother was a magazine.
My father was a magazine & my mother was a novel.
My father was a fishing rod & my mother was a hunting knife.
My father was a shark & my mother was a wave.
My father was a lion & my mother was an umbrella.
My father was a safari & my mother was an oak.
My father was an is & my mother was a was. I, will be.
My father was a cop & my mother was dirty.
My father was a steel girder & my mother was blind.
My father was dead & my mother was dead.
My father was crimson & my mother was black.
My father was a heart attack & my mother was bloody.
My father was a moustache & my mother was sideburns
"My mother is a fish" - As I Lay Dying
My father was perfume & my mother was a thorn
My father was a metaphor & my mother was pissed.
My father was a drunk & my mother was an ashtray
My father was a poet & my mother was words.
"My father was a scorpion & my mother was a six pack" - Pete and Pete
My father was a haircut & my mother was the scissors.
My father was a farmer & my mother was the rabbit.
My father was an onion & my mother was crying.
My father was Trouble & my mother was Sorry. I was Scrabble.
My father was a monocle & my mother was 20/20.
My father was a novel & my mother was a magazine.
My father was a magazine & my mother was a novel.
My father was a fishing rod & my mother was a hunting knife.
My father was a shark & my mother was a wave.
My father was a lion & my mother was an umbrella.
My father was a safari & my mother was an oak.
My father was an is & my mother was a was. I, will be.
My father was a cop & my mother was dirty.
My father was a steel girder & my mother was blind.
My father was dead & my mother was dead.
My father was crimson & my mother was black.
My father was a heart attack & my mother was bloody.
My father was a moustache & my mother was sideburns
"My mother is a fish" - As I Lay Dying
My father was perfume & my mother was a thorn
My father was a metaphor & my mother was pissed.
My father was a drunk & my mother was an ashtray
My father was a poet & my mother was words.
Hello
These is an idea I had the other day and I liked the image. I don't plan on writing this into anything or expanding on it, but I wanted to write down these scattered ideas. It's not in any way fleshed out or developed, just sketches of something interesting. It's not something that's fleshed out in any way, complete or developed beyond an outline.
Imagine your body as more cavernous, roomy. Remove the guts & blood & bone & muscle. Deconstruct the insides to rebuild it as Hell. Remove the limbs, there's no running, no grabbing on to where it hurts.
The head: Entrapped in a prison of the skull, souls are entwined in the labyrinth of nerves running through the brain. Electric currents pumping through them endlessly. This is the punishment for Pride.
Gluttons get a buffet. They get to choose to dine on snot & boogers or saliva & vomit. The gluttons in the mouth are stuck between the teeth like a popcorn kernel, eternally begin gnashed and chewed. All the while being assaulted by bad breath. The demon in charge is the tongue, often swallowing itself to induce vomit.
The gluttons in the nose can see their freedom, they forever swim against a flow of snot being sniffed back. The sniffing takes out all of the air from the orifice, as if a vacuum being held up to the lungs. Unable to breath, the souls take in snot. The demons in charge are the impish nose hairs, prickling the souls & flogging them with their boogery bodies.
The eyes are the punishment for Envy. The demon in charge is the pupil, looking inward at the souls floating in the goopy orb. The souls are stuck re-watching, reliving the collective sorrows of the other souls with them.
The ears belong to Wrath. Unable to move in the bitter earwax they are drowning in, their own ears become hypersensitive to every sound, like a nail being hammered into the side of their head. The demon in charge is the eardrum, constantly banging on himself to cause booming reverberations, to cause screams.
Greed gets the gut. Boiling, melting, dissolving in the vat of stomach acid.
And reigning over the slimy, cavernous flesh, suspended in the center of the Hell entity is Satan: The Heart
The gluttonous being eternally pumping, thrusting, providing the rivers of blood that connect every damnation. Each new soul entering through his ventricles, distributed to their fitting torture.
Imagine your body as more cavernous, roomy. Remove the guts & blood & bone & muscle. Deconstruct the insides to rebuild it as Hell. Remove the limbs, there's no running, no grabbing on to where it hurts.
The head: Entrapped in a prison of the skull, souls are entwined in the labyrinth of nerves running through the brain. Electric currents pumping through them endlessly. This is the punishment for Pride.
Gluttons get a buffet. They get to choose to dine on snot & boogers or saliva & vomit. The gluttons in the mouth are stuck between the teeth like a popcorn kernel, eternally begin gnashed and chewed. All the while being assaulted by bad breath. The demon in charge is the tongue, often swallowing itself to induce vomit.
The gluttons in the nose can see their freedom, they forever swim against a flow of snot being sniffed back. The sniffing takes out all of the air from the orifice, as if a vacuum being held up to the lungs. Unable to breath, the souls take in snot. The demons in charge are the impish nose hairs, prickling the souls & flogging them with their boogery bodies.
The eyes are the punishment for Envy. The demon in charge is the pupil, looking inward at the souls floating in the goopy orb. The souls are stuck re-watching, reliving the collective sorrows of the other souls with them.
The ears belong to Wrath. Unable to move in the bitter earwax they are drowning in, their own ears become hypersensitive to every sound, like a nail being hammered into the side of their head. The demon in charge is the eardrum, constantly banging on himself to cause booming reverberations, to cause screams.
Greed gets the gut. Boiling, melting, dissolving in the vat of stomach acid.
And reigning over the slimy, cavernous flesh, suspended in the center of the Hell entity is Satan: The Heart
The gluttonous being eternally pumping, thrusting, providing the rivers of blood that connect every damnation. Each new soul entering through his ventricles, distributed to their fitting torture.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Found Poem
I took words & phrases out
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
---
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
---
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Recipe: Banana-Rum Splits
Recipe: Banana-Rum Splits
You’ll Need:
"- ½ Tbsp butter - 2 bananas
- 1 Tbsp brown sugar - 2 Tbsp dark rum or bourbon
- 4 large scoops vanilla ice cream - ¼ cup pecans, toasted and chopped
- 4 Tbsp dark chocolate syrup - Light whipped topping” (Goulding)
- Decades
* * *
Prep: 5 minutes
Mrs. Brown, my kindergarten teacher, looks sick when a truck that isn’t my mom’s finally comes to pick me up in front of school. Her face twists funny when my mom walks out of this strange car with no hair and a moustache. My dad introduces himself and says sorry for being late. “Family emergency,” he says. I take off my backpack in the truck, stretch my shoulders and ask him what took so long and where Mom was. He apologizes for being late. “Family emergency,” he says.
* * *
Step One: “Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat.”
My mom comes out from behind the corner of the kitchen before I’m even halfway through the living room. The house feels muggy, like when I accidentally left my space heater on overnight and Mom got mad. I woke up sweaty, looking like Mom’s face does now when she stops me in front of the couch. We don’t sit down.
“Do you remember your cousin, Chad?” I see her face isn’t sweaty, but that she’s been crying.
“Yeah.” I don’t though.
“Chad’s passed away.” I can’t see a face, and I am still unsure exactly what a cousin means. I think we’re related. Mom goes back to the kitchen crying again and I start wondering if I’m going to have to do my homework today or not. My brother comes home ten minutes later with Dad. Why didn’t we get picked up together? I thought.
* * *
Step Two and Step Three: “Slice the bananas in half crosswise, then lengthwise, place the banana quarters in the hot pan with the brown sugar and cook on one side until deeply caramelized”
The coastal drive to Santa Barbara is my favorite, even if no one in the car is talking. I prefer sitting in the way back of the van so Jed and my mom and dad can each have their own aisles.
I imagine living on the beach. Not in a house by the beach, but in a shack I’ve made for myself out of driftwood, rocks and my furniture would be made out of sand. I’d have to move everyday when the water washes it away, but the ocean would always bring new materials.
Aunt Nancy’s house is behind a gate that has plants growing all over it. It smells like I think the bottom of the ocean should smell. Before we get to the door, Jed explains that Aunt Nancy’s kids are my cousins. I’m still unsure if that means I’m related. Cody, my “cousin,” is in his room when we’re hugged at the door by Aunt Nancy. She says Uncle Mike has been in the garage all day. There’s other people here, but I don’t know them. Everyone walks into the kitchen with the big window to the backyard, but I don’t follow them. They’re all crying and I’m not, but Jed comes back and gets me anyway.
* * *
Step 4: “Turn the bananas over and cook for another 30 seconds.”
“Chad was Aunt Nancy’s oldest son.” Jed says to me when we’re in our own room that night. I like Aunt Nancy’s house at night because I can hear the ocean.
“I know dying means you don’t come back, but doesn’t everyone die when they’re suppose to?” My mom comes in to check on us and leaves. She thinks we’re asleep. I hear people talking in another room.
“Well, I guess in the way that God has plans for everything, yeah.”
“If Chad was suppose to die, then why is everyone crying and why won’t Cody leave his room?”
“Because Chad wasn’t even thirty yet. Everyone is sad that he should have lived longer.”
“So why didn’t he?” Jed doesn’t answer. I am in a sleeping bag on the floor and Jed is above me in a bed so I can’t see his face. I think he’s sleeping. “Jed?” It’s stupid that Chad’s dead since it just makes everyone cry.
“Chad did…bad things. Do they tell you to say no in kindergarten? Probably not. Aunt Nancy told us that Chad went to bed at a friend’s house and never woke up… Chad use to give me haircuts whenever we came down here. He’d take an electric razor and run it right through the middle of my hair giving me a reverse mohawk. You, Chad and Cody would laugh every time.” It sounds like Jed is talking more to himself and I don’t want to be rude and listen. Jed stops talking soon and the ocean makes my eyes sleepy, but I keep them open because I’m afraid I won’t wake up after the bad things I’ve done.
* * *
Step 5: “Remove from the heat and add the rum. Be careful––even when the pan is removed from the heat, the alcohol can still ignite.”
I wake up and Jed’s not in the bed. I go out to the kitchen because I hear sizzling and I see Cody in front of the oven. He reminds me of someone else who was in this kitchen because of how tall he is. I also remember a bald head. I think I’m starting to remember Chad and Cody says, “Morning.”
“What are you making?” It smells good, like the bottom of the ocean should. Cody picks up a bottle that looks like the ones my mom use to twist her face funny at my dad for drinking.
“Breakfast.” I see an ice cream container on the counter to the right of him, the one next to the big window out to the backyard where the garage is. I look out but I don’t see anyone.
“You can’t have ice cream for breakfast.” Cody moves the pan off the stove and over to the counter away from me but tilts it down to show.
“Look, there’s bananas, that’s breakfast, right?” He smiles and pours the bottle over the bananas. Now it smells like the ocean really does, not like it should. Cody takes out two bowls with names on them that I can’t read, but quickly puts them back and takes out two more.
“Here, we’ll have ice cream for breakfast today and no one will know. Just you and me.” I think about Chad and the “bad things” and how he died in his sleep, but Cody has already made the bowls and I think that he wants me to eat with him. I don’t know where anyone else is, but I imagine Cody and I eating ice cream from bowls with names on them every morning in my shack on the ocean, waiting to see what the waves would bring in.
“Here, we’ll have ice cream for breakfast today and no one will know. Just you and me.” I think about Chad and the “bad things” and how he died in his sleep, but Cody has already made the bowls and I think that he wants me to eat with him. I don’t know where anyone else is, but I imagine Cody and I eating ice cream from bowls with names on them every morning in my shack on the ocean, waiting to see what the waves would bring in.
* * *
Step 6: “Place 2 banana quarters and any accumulated liquid in bowls.” Let it cool. Wait for it to settle in. Serves three. Look at the bowls that are full, not empty. “Top with ice cream, nuts, chocolate, and whipped topping.” Enjoy.
Works Cited
Goulding, Matt and David Zinczenko. "Banana-Rum Splits." Cook This, Not That. New York: Rodale Inc., 2010. 324. Print.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Borough Boys: Part 1: D-Day of the D-D-Dead
The Borough Boys: Part 1: D-Day of the D-D-Dead
Despite all the activity within the first month of the uprising, I can't remember what month it was. The year was two thousand and two, the year of our lord, and, then artist, P!ink had just had a hit with "Get the Party Started". The P.O.O., or Point of Outbreak, as the special military unit calls it, was Meadows Elementary School's sixth grade dance. One kid, who all the girls had nicknamed "Fuzz" because of his buzz haircut and the guys because of his very early onset puberty, was inventing a move on the dance floor he was hoping would attract his crush, Mallory. P!ink sung on and the CD only skipped once.
The following week was to be that class's graduation. I arrived on the scene a week after that. From the only intel. that the commanding officer had at the time, it appeared that someone had been distributing meth at the party via the fruit punch.
The school cafeteria had been on lockdown since.
"What's it look like in there?" I overhead a cop asking his superior.
"We haven't seen the inside since the third day." That's what I was there for. I was their inside man. The last person who had gone in was the 6th grade math teacher. She survived twenty minutes longer than the science teacher, but if elementary school math had taught me anything, it taught me: 1 dead science teacher + 1 dead math teacher X 3 piles of bodies = 1 hot mess.
At the time, the military figured that if the students were responding to authority in some way, why not go for broke? I was the President, rather, I was to portray the president. We couldn't actually get permission for my title to be the President of the United States, so I was to be the President of Bulgaria. Close enough.
A majority of the story is the same as every bankheist-hostage-negotiation-movie, so why bother with all the details? It's what's on the inside that matters.
"Do you remember that national tragedy a year ago, Dirk?" Sergeant Dirk Ruffin asked me as the team prepped for my insertion.
"How could anyone possibly forget? And don't they keep telling us 'Never Forget'?" Sergeant Dirk Ruffin had the same name as me, but there was no relation or similarity. I just called him "Tool." I had once caught him making out with his secretary in his office and he made a similar grunt to Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, hence the name.
"I'm not talking about 9/11! I'm talking about yoga. Watch yourself in there, I think these kids are classically trained in yoga."
"Okay, so why am I wearing KFC buckets as shoes? More importantly, why are they full of mashed potatoes?"
"Are you questioning my authority, son?" I hated it when he called me son. "Are you questioning the only person to enter that building and get out alive? I think I know what you need to be prepared. We're hoping that when they go for your feet, the food will distract them. All kids love mashed potatoes."
"Without gravy?" I retorted.
"Crap. Call up the Colonel and get some gravy down here, stat!"
Despite all the activity within the first month of the uprising, I can't remember what month it was. The year was two thousand and two, the year of our lord, and, then artist, P!ink had just had a hit with "Get the Party Started". The P.O.O., or Point of Outbreak, as the special military unit calls it, was Meadows Elementary School's sixth grade dance. One kid, who all the girls had nicknamed "Fuzz" because of his buzz haircut and the guys because of his very early onset puberty, was inventing a move on the dance floor he was hoping would attract his crush, Mallory. P!ink sung on and the CD only skipped once.
The following week was to be that class's graduation. I arrived on the scene a week after that. From the only intel. that the commanding officer had at the time, it appeared that someone had been distributing meth at the party via the fruit punch.
The school cafeteria had been on lockdown since.
"What's it look like in there?" I overhead a cop asking his superior.
"We haven't seen the inside since the third day." That's what I was there for. I was their inside man. The last person who had gone in was the 6th grade math teacher. She survived twenty minutes longer than the science teacher, but if elementary school math had taught me anything, it taught me: 1 dead science teacher + 1 dead math teacher X 3 piles of bodies = 1 hot mess.
At the time, the military figured that if the students were responding to authority in some way, why not go for broke? I was the President, rather, I was to portray the president. We couldn't actually get permission for my title to be the President of the United States, so I was to be the President of Bulgaria. Close enough.
A majority of the story is the same as every bankheist-hostage-negotiation-movie, so why bother with all the details? It's what's on the inside that matters.
"Do you remember that national tragedy a year ago, Dirk?" Sergeant Dirk Ruffin asked me as the team prepped for my insertion.
"How could anyone possibly forget? And don't they keep telling us 'Never Forget'?" Sergeant Dirk Ruffin had the same name as me, but there was no relation or similarity. I just called him "Tool." I had once caught him making out with his secretary in his office and he made a similar grunt to Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, hence the name.
"I'm not talking about 9/11! I'm talking about yoga. Watch yourself in there, I think these kids are classically trained in yoga."
"Okay, so why am I wearing KFC buckets as shoes? More importantly, why are they full of mashed potatoes?"
"Are you questioning my authority, son?" I hated it when he called me son. "Are you questioning the only person to enter that building and get out alive? I think I know what you need to be prepared. We're hoping that when they go for your feet, the food will distract them. All kids love mashed potatoes."
"Without gravy?" I retorted.
"Crap. Call up the Colonel and get some gravy down here, stat!"
Development
Development
My grandfather's ashes
in a box on the ground
under the bed, shares company
with photo albums. Dead people,
my family. All of the firsts,
on vacation, "holidays," my father
my sisters and me. Never met
relatives. Who took these?
Frozen things are easily broken
like ice cube trays. The bindings
are ripped and frayed. Last page:
Just another photo of a girl
with a gun to bore me.
My grandfather's ashes
in a box on the ground
under the bed, shares company
with photo albums. Dead people,
my family. All of the firsts,
on vacation, "holidays," my father
my sisters and me. Never met
relatives. Who took these?
Frozen things are easily broken
like ice cube trays. The bindings
are ripped and frayed. Last page:
Just another photo of a girl
with a gun to bore me.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Fall, Aural Analysis
Oral.
(Creative analytic writing for English 368 - Gay Male Writers...for those interested)
(Creative analytic writing for English 368 - Gay Male Writers...for those interested)
Reckon Balls
The mind
struggles to say no, the body disputes with “yes” and the pyramid of power,
that ubiquitous hierarchy, will hear of neither. The life of the budding
homosexual on the verge of his story’s climax, the finding and acceptance of
self in society, is a curious one, among other clichés. Fortunately, E.M
Forster and W.H Auden, in their works Maurice and “The Platonic Blow,”
respectively, avoid such banal stereotypes, but instead dip their appendages in
deeper terrain. What does a homoerotic love triangle and oral sex escapade have
in common? Other than the obvious, Maurice and “The Platonic Blow”
challenge the knowledge versus body binary and, in doing so, subvert, if not
completely demolish, the established hierarchy.
Why should
these works and their authors want to tear down that patriarchal,
heteronormative hierarchy, shake the very foundation in which they’re writing?
The characters’ internal monologue or external concerns expose the answer.
Forster’s Maurice, on the first page of the novel, eyes not even fully adjusted
to font type, addresses the triviality of the conventional hierarchy as the
narrator describes the education system in which the “pupils did not do badly
in the long run, became parents in their turn, and in some cases sent him their
sons” (9). This menial cycle ignores emotions, goals, dreams, potential in
education, let alone personal lives, but, thank God, at least the educators
have higher hopes for the students who “seemed to [the junior assistant] a race
small but complete, like the New Guinea pygmies, ‘my boys’” (10). Of course,
why would those at the upper end of the echelon reflect different ideas than
what they were taught? Where else should this ceaseless sequence stop but in an
undesirable conclusion: shame of unaddressed passions?
In order for
these texts to effectively destroy any form of ranks and conformed conventions,
they must find the root of rebellion. Since nothing is as easy as it seems, especially
for a homosexual text, even roots have roots. Unfortunately, those original
roots are rooted in internalized homophobia due to institutional homophobia. “The
Platonic Blow,” which is, because of it’s sheer openness a celebration of
homoerotic sexuality, even suffers this. Auden’s speaker is out, presumably
cruising, when the speaker stops and:
watched
the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our
eyes met, I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I
couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.
In
a blur I heard words myself like a stranger speak. (8-11)
Cloth conceals, and, if the cliché rings true and eyes are
the window to the soul, then, when the cloth is removed and the speaker’s naked
eye is faced with the naked truth, the truth of his own lusts, the speaker of
the poem ought to be elated. Instead, there’s been instilled within him an
institutional homophobia that stops his motion, turns his stomach and makes his
own speech sound foreign, untrue to himself. Other than merely stating the actions,
or inactions, of the speaker, Auden also drops word play, alliteration and
consonance and instead adopts a formal and professional tone, simply stating
the facts: “Present address next door./ Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest.
From Illinois./ Profession mechanic. Name: Bud. Age twenty-four” (14-16). Auden’s
speaker loses his fun personality, feels shameful, sick even. Hold up a mirror
to this situation and the black and white reflection of the Maurice text
is reflected.
Maurice’s
struggle with his homophobia lasts much longer than a few lines in a poem, and
the climax of his story isn’t necessarily as messy, but, like the poem, there
is the first seed that reveals his conflict. Maurice, growing into a man at
school, is caught dreaming in class and he realizes, “[his] secret life can be
understood now; it was part brutal, part ideal, like his dreams. As soon as his
body developed he became obscene” (23). Where to begin? Maurice’s secret life,
not open or true to self, is split, as most things homosexual. Split between
brutal and ideal, what he truly lusts for and how the omnipresent “they” force
him to view that desire. Torn inside, Maurice begins to see his body as
obscene, a word with not exactly the most positive of connotations. Maurice,
subconsciously, does not view his body as obscene. There’s a cloth, perhaps the
same as in “The Platonic Blow,” that is shielding how Maurice’s body is true to
himself. These roots of shame are at the bottom of these homosexual’s
experiences, but the roots higher up begin to crack through the asphalt,
tripping bikers and hikers alike, making its presence known. The roots of the
body.
Forster and
Auden begin to seep past the concrete, knowing the best way to further
penetrate cracks is with the body, not the mind. Maurice, long before accepting
his homosexuality, begins to fall asleep, alone, “bit by bit, and first of all
his brain, his weakest organ” (40). Surprising that Auden is not the one to
play with the word organ, but Forster. Binaries work in such a way that they
hold analogous relationships, such as how brain versus body relates to reason
versus emotion relates to strength versus weakness. By accusing his mind of
being his weakest organ, the narrator’s subverting the chain of doubles.
Maurice isn’t the only homosexual with a struggle in the novel, as Clive, too,
is forced to face head on, and in, with dualities and homophobia. Clive,
immediately before he seemingly stops being homosexual, is reminded that “the
body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable” (118). While,
traditionally, the very word that has a target on its chest, knowledge relates
to strength and the body relates to weakness, the body here is made stronger,
the concrete splits. But Clive does turn the way of a straight, heterosexual
throughout the remainder of the novel. Was his homosexuality an act of rebellion against the heteronormative or
confusion? Clive’s fate will prove the destruction of the established system,
but first, with the brain on the ropes, the body will deliver the final right
hook. When reason loses to emotion and passion and the traditionally weak puts
its run-down boots on the defeated chest of the strong, the stiff roots will
have erected a new ground to walk on.
The body is
the contender, and there is no stronger muscle behind it than with an oddly
repetitive, yet effective, odyssey through W.H. Auden’s intrepid, fleshy poem.
Like sex, “The Platonic Blow” uses rhythm, energy and images to build to a
climax, a climax that ends in a glorious defeat. As stated before, the poem
begins with a sense of nervous tepidity and formality, but once the pants drop
and bodily fluids flow, the vigor of the “sexcapade” takes form and moves the
poem towards that peak. As hands and “knobs” (46) touch and expose themselves,
Bud, the lover, is described, or at least Bud’s bits, as “noble,” (36) “royal”
(44) and “luxuriant but couth“ (62). The hierarchy is taking form within a text
that is challenging it. From formal to refined, Auden transforms a base
homosexual desire and masculine, bodily, features beyond the realm of the
tangible when he describes Bud’s balls as “herculean eggs” (67). The change of
command is already lost as Auden enters higher territory by curiously exploring
more of the skin. Continuing the “treck of inspection, a leisurely tour of the
waist” (88), the speaker of the poem begins “straddling my legs a little I
inserted his divine” (73). His member, slurped, has surpassed supernatural into
the celestial. Bud’s body is traveled by the speaker “down the shaggy slopes,”
(98) “through the forest of pubic hair/ to the range of the chest” (107-108).
The body as nature signifies the body as a divine, pure creation. Which,
naturally, leads to the Romantics. Namely, William Butler Yeats’ poem “Sailing
to Byzantium.” Auden’s speaker begins “slipping my lips round the Byzantine
dome of the head” (113). As in Yeats’ poem, Byzantium represents a divine
beauty or nature that is eternal, unlike the nature of the orgasm still to come
(2040). Lastly, at the penultimate moment of Bud’s intercourse, the edge of the
inevitable, Bud “melted into what he felt. ‘O Jesus!’” (132). Jesus, part
divine, therefore eternal, but, most importantly, part man. The assimilation of
divine and flesh represented at one of the most, at its core, bodily functions.
With this, the body, now not only elegant, not only mythical, not only natural,
not only divine, not only eternal, but all of these within flesh, has
dismantled the body and brain binary by Bud’s bobbing, budding and bursting.
The ladder
of power, the vertical chain of command has tipped over as the concrete has
given way to the extending roots of opposition, refusing to be forced under.
Fallen ladders are now in a horizontal position, similar to a position found in
“The Platonic Blow,” face to face. Within this horizontal realm of the
transcendent flesh, any form of upper or lower echelon cannot exist. Maurice,
along with Bud and the poem’s unnamed lover, take advantage of this position
and, with their newly open and accepted bodies, stomp on the hierarchy.
Maurice, rising above the heartbreak and homophobia of Clive, with his new
lover, Alec, knows “they must live outside class, without relations or money;
they must work and stick to each other till death” (239). Alec, a lower-class
servant to Clive, brings forth that rebellion against oppression within
Maurice. Maurice shouts to Mr. Borenius, who represents institutionalized
homophobia by speaking rumors to Alec against Maurice (216), “‘do look at the
sky––it’s gone all on fire,’ but the rector had no use for the sky when on
fire, and disappeared” (239). Success goes to Forster and his characters for
shaking even the most certain of things as the color of the sky. Borenius
disappears and takes his hierarchy with him, he has no use for this new fiery
sky, nor the horizontal world that rests under it. Is the subversion at its
end? The Victorian model followed within the times of these works’ publications
call for a tragedy or punishment of homosexual desires or actions. While
Maurice and Alec live, implied romantically, happily ever after, Clive “did not
realize this was the end, without twilight or compromise” (246). If Clive’s
ending is tragic and Clive had a relationship with Maurice, then the
hierarchal, Victorian model rings true. However, Clive’s acts of homosexuality
were not a rebellion against the heteronormative or acts of confusion, but his
tragic desire to love women, resulting in his marriage to the affluent Anne, is
instead a rebellion against his homosexuality. There’s a role reversal that
leaves Clive stuck in the jurisdiction of the now subverted heteronormative
hierarchy. A tragic ending for Clive? Yes, but for a Clive who did not remain
true to his queer self but sold himself to heterosexuality to end up, in a way,
as collateral damage. However, Maurice and Alec aren’t the only duo who dare
dispute the domineering social system.
The narrator
in “The Platonic Blow” shows obvious signs of heretofore unaccepted differences
than Bud. Education is typically a sign of at least mild affluence and the
speaker’s inclusion of alliteration, consonance, loquacious, scholarly words
such as “divulged,” (6) “viscous,” (60) “consummation,” (101) and “voluminous”
(124) prove his culture. On the other hand, Bud, his soon-to-be lover at the
time of his description, is narrowed down into, “Half Polish, half Irish” (15)
and “Profession mechanic” (16). There is no sense of Bud’s vocabulary other
than his eruptive ejaculation at climax, but a mixed-race mechanic in the
1940s, the time the poem was written, would not be a sign of an upper-classman.
Like, Maurice and Alec, the mixed race of Bud shows the challenging of class to
class relationship norms, gender norms, as well as racial norms. The
differences between the two are no longer relevant when the clothes fly off,
exposing the all-mighty body. Once again, without the punishment for the lewd
acts of love, “The Platonic Blow” ends with an apropos happy ending. The last
lines of the poem uproot any trace, if any is left, of the hierarchical system
while representing all aspects of revolt up to this point. With his fingers in
Bud’s rosebud and his mouth around his member, the speaker feels “His ring
convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,/ His hot spunk spouted in
gouts, spurted in jet after jet” (135-136). “Ring” connatates a wedding,
something sacred, a divine institution “where the two will become one flesh” (Holy
Bible, 831). “Rich,” describing Bud’s semen, further shows that a monetary
value is second to physical or lustful value. Lastly, “jet after jet”
connatates a long distance or traveling, the cumshot heard ‘round the world.
Unlike the famous Revolutionary War myth, this shot does not start a war, but
ends the upheaval of a repressive system against homosexuals that instills
shame and homophobia and calls for a menial cycle of tragedy.
The
pleasure-wave of the destructive orgasm has rolled over and laps back and forth
on the beach, now what? With no concrete walls and floors to hold back the new
sense of homonormativity, or a homopolis, the future is as optimistically
ambiguous as Maurice and Alec’s metaphoric riding off into that flaming sunset,
like two gay trail-blazers. “The Platonic Blow’s” flaming sunset is of the
slightly more naked variety. Regardless, with no tragic endings in sight, only
the horizon, the last question to pose is: “Who gets blown next?
Works Cited
Auden, W.H. “A Day for a Lay.” 40-44. Web.
Forster, E.M. Maurice. New York: Norton, 1993. Print.
The Holy Bible. Michigan: Zondervan, 1984. Print. New International Version
Yeats, William Butler. “Sailing to Byzantium.” The Norton
Anthology of English Literature: Volume
2. 8th ed. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: Norton, 2006. 2040.
Print.
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Naked Bunch: An Argument In Five
Parts
Muscles
begin contracting, the spinal cord slightly curves and the pelvis spasms.
However, the inevitable orgasm is without bliss but burns. An orgasm is
reached, but not the French la petite mort. “The little death” cannot
occur, the spirit cannot leave, when forced into a rigid position.
Specifically, a constructed position within heteronormative expectations. The
orgasmic burn is like a sadist tied up, desiring to break out of their bondage
and have their way. William Burroughs’ “The Wild Boys” and André
Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name are the muzzled sadists, struggling and
fingering at the knots of gender roles. From the outside, through a
stereotyping, heteronormative peephole, an opinionated person watches the
dissenting homosexual texts, the tribes of “The Wild Boys” and Elio, the
passionate, peach prodding wild boy, penetrate and cultivate rituals that
extend beyond gender fluidity all the way to gender and sex destruction.
* * *
Part 1: The Scopophallic Room
Heteronormative
eyes adjust to the limited sight of the peephole and focus on the most obvious,
the visual. A tribe of Burroughs’ wild boys called the Warrior Ants, “wear
aluminum bikinis and sandals and tight steel helmets…wash and anoint their
bodies with a musk of genitals, roses, carbolic soap, gardenias, jasmine, oil
of cloves, ambergris and rectal mucus” (160). The bikini, stereotypically a
type of clothing worn by a female, is instead on a male wearing a phallic
helmet.
“But note
the construction of the bikini,” says the eyeball through the wall, “of hard,
durable metal. These traits are surely of male persuasion and appropriate the
wardrobe. The bikini no longer has relation to the female.” But a bikini isn’t
only of sight. Lifting a nose to the peephole, there’s a whiff of the male
mixed with the female on a wild boy. A musk of masculine genitals with a scent
of feminine flowers and soaps and finally the reek of rectal mucus, both feminine
and masculine. The latter a destruction of the male role versus female role
binary. After all, everyone has rectums. This decisive piece of knowledge does
not escape Elio in Call Me By Your Name as he looks the motific peach up
and down. While inside the peach, Elio invents a Ovidian story in which “an
ill-fated young man and young girl who in their peachy beauty… had turned… into
a peach tree, and only now after three thousand years, were being given what
had been so unjustly taken away from them.” The peach has then transcended
genders.
The eyeball
lightens up, “You’ve dug your own grave with that. The peach is, first, only a
fruit and already without gender and, second, it does not show Elio questioning
or subverting any binaries.” Elio recalls a moment of thought, before his
affection for Oliver is spoken, that, “no one my age had wanted to be both man
and woman” (25). Furthermore, the physical positions of Elio during sex, his
domination over the “rape victim” (147) fruit, his submissiveness with Oliver
their first night together where “I let him do things to me…spurred them
on…begging him” (135) and at the end of his affair with Oliver when, again
dominating, Elio “let my left hand rub his buttocks and then began to stick my
middle finger into him” (171). Before the voice behind the hole could retort
that Elio was merely exampling gender fluidity, it overhears Elio’s and
Oliver’s sweet little nothings such as the reversal of names and “my body is
your body” (172). If Elio’s body is Oliver’s body and vice versa, then the
feminine weakness and masculine power occur simultaneously within Elio and
Oliver, not a back and forth between the two. Even the wild boys, in their
orgiastic lifestyle, take expected sexual positions to task when a “boy who is
being masturbated rocks back hugging his knees against his chest” and “a
yellow-haired boy straddles a copper-skinned Mexican” (161-163). The roles of
control and obedience, masculine and feminine respectively, do exist in the
gender fluid wild boy culture, but aren’t assigned to genders. The eyeball
moves away and is replaced by a mouth, but before it can propose an argument,
or concede, a finger is thrust in its mouth as the texts call him fool, if,
indeed, that is a finger.
* * *
Part 2: The Assy Knoll and the Second
Shooter
Above the
opening on one side of the wall might read “peephole,” but, unsurprisingly,
above the erotic side of Burrough’s and Aciman, “gloryhole” is etched with
eighteen-inch bowie knives. With their god given asses, the wild boys convert
the orifice on the other side of the wall to another of their conquests. After
all, sexual orientation is anything but black and white in the gay rainbow. In
the same breath that Elio said he wanted to be both man and woman he also
confesses he wanted to be “with men and women” (25). Pretending that Elio
didn’t blatantly state his, at the least, bisexuality, the peach poking scene
illustrates his desire. There’s a muffled grunt behind the wall. When Elio
starts thrusting he, “finally succeeded in tearing it apart with my
cock…holding each half in either hand firmly against my cock” (146). While not
classifying himself as a trans identity, Elio deals with the internalized
duality in the asexual masturbation session. Thinking of neither sex, he,
desiring to be both man and woman, is engaging in sex with both man and woman.
His desire foreshadowed at the start of the novel is stickily realized and when
Elio cums he can purely enter the realm of la petite mort, not
restrained by being conscious of bodies unlike the peeping tom. Pulling away
for a gasp of air, the mouth at the hole asks, “I understand the peach fucking
is representative of Elio’s desire to be with both sexes which supports the
fluidity of sexual orientation, but what about the arguably misogynistic nature
of these wild boys?” Sexual orientation will be made nonexistent by “The Wild
Boys” as well as in Call Me By Your Name. “So why argue sexual
orientation flexibility in Aciman if it will be invalid later,” asks the mouth,
sore from the thrusting of the argument. In order to achieve a complete
destruction of gender and sex binaries, gender roles, heteronormative sexual
orientation rigidity and even the binary of male sex versus female sex must be
disassembled to make the asexual, genderless realm’s glory whole.
* * *
Part 3: A Banana Clit with Nuts
Steam rolls through the hole in the
wall and the face behind it grows sultry with sweat. The haze of the steam
makes the scene before the eye in the wall nearly indecipherable, as well as
the identities of the bodies writhing on the other end. Elio, after entering
the fruit, notices, “that its reddened core reminded me not just of an anus but
of a vagina” (146). Earlier, Elio compares Oliver’s butt to that of an apricot
and, when tossed an apricot, Elio feels that, “touching the apricot was like
touching him” (35). The apricot is compared to the peach like the anus to the
vagina: interchangeable in a dark or steamy room. Inserting his “apricock”
(35), to steal Aciman’s wordplay, into the peach, Elio is inserting himself
into something with the appearance of Oliver’s round mound, as well as
anonymous, genderless anus’ and female vaginas. The transposable nature of the
male and female sex within only one object reveals a split in the “established”
differences of sex.
“Elio’s
sordid actions with the peach is still only fluidity of his sexual orientation
since, after all, a peach is without sex to begin with,” the self-assured grin
is felt from behind the wall. Elio, no doubt, has a sex though? “Naturally, as
is the way of the world.” The essentialist thinking behind the heteronormative
wall is incorrect. The sex of the peach is both man and woman, as Elio desires,
and while jerking off Elio hears the peach “say to me, Fuck me, Elio, fuck
me harder, and after a moment, Harder, I said!” (147). Recall that
Oliver and Elio refer to each other by their own names during lovemaking (134).
Therefore, Elio embodies the peach in the masturbation session and loses his
sex.
“This damn
peach! But you, wild boys, you’re just personally dissimilating yourselves with
your genderqueer ways, but the sex binary as a whole still stands. And you
don’t have any peaches to fuck,” the eyeball argues loudly. Burroughs’ wild
boys are, naturally, posed to attack. They take the argument one step further
than Aciman from metaphoric to literal. Promptly, they make their way to the
cutting room where, “they are going to take a cutting from the rectum…arrange
him on a table with his knees up rubber slings” (165). The physical position of
legs in stirrups is associated with a woman in labor or a gynecologist’s
office, neither of which are present in the cutting room. Physically, the wild
boys are taking on a the female position while the ritual itself is fusing the
genders contradictorily by fission. Opening the anus and cutting from it is
metaphorically transforming the hole into a vaginal opening. Once again, a
constructionism perspective trumps essentialism as the wild boys create for
themselves a female genitalia on their body. While not exactly intersexual, the
wild boy, with their penis’ and vaginas show the variability and uncertainty of
sex. To punctuate the point, when the cutting ritual occurs, “little phantom
figures dance on their bodies, slide up and down their pulsing cocks, and ride the
cutting tubes” (165). These phantom figures have no sexual category or gender
and are having sex with a penis while a vagina is being cut into an anus. The
Burroughsian blurring of sex and gender is evident.
Still wiping
their mouth from the wild boys, the voice behind the wall scoffs, “despite the
argument, this wall still stands. You speak of the rituals of the wild boys and
the ritual of masturbation, but the sex binary cannot be destructed. Even the
Greeks new the purpose of the females was their reproductive qualities. Need I
remind you that only those with actual vaginas are capable of that, not
split rectums and peaches.”
* * *
Part 4: Sexpocalypse
Without
warning, a two by four strikes the head of the arguer. The eye through the hole
spells the shocked confusion that struggles to come out through it’s mouth.
“But, the sex binary can’t collapse, I just said how it couldn’t.” After the
wall entirely falls around it, the peephole is unnecessary as the eye is seen
attached to a face attached to a naked body. Elio’s masturbation doesn’t simply
peter off, there is an orgasm as “carefully, aiming the spurt into the reddened
core of the open peach as if in a ritual of insemination” (147). But the
pregnancy goes outside the peach and into Oliver’s awaiting stomach as Elio
“watched him put the peach in his mouth and slowly begin to eat it” (149). A
physical part of Elio enters Oliver and so does Elio’s love. The metaphoric
pregnancy is Elio’s acceptance of himself growing and nurturing within his
relationship with Oliver. A creation of a new Elio.
“But
metaphors aren’t strong enough to result in this. This…where am I exactly,“ the
naked body queries. The steam, the showers, the lockers. It’s a YMCA and “The
Wild Boys” is about to partake in the final step in the day of reckoning for
gender and sex binaries. Immediately after being cut, which has its own
connotations, a wild boy “walks over to the blackboard and rubs out the word
MOTHER” (165). The naked body tries to cover up while arguing, “clearly a misogynistic
act as I labeled the boys earlier. Weakening a gender or sex doesn’t annihilate
a binary, it’s only subversion. To truly eliminate a binary, a fusion must
occur. Much like Aciman and Burroughs did when they merged the male sex v.
female sex binary.” The rubbing out of the word, among other things, doesn’t
eliminate the female gender, but assimilates the gender into a new form that’s
free of stereotypical gender and sex expectations. The boy also returns the
apple to the teacher (165) in an act of defiance against associating with
original sin. How this associates with this argument is that it is a denial of
both the male and female act of Adam and Eve. “Snake boys,” a tribe, use
“venomous speckled sea-snakes” and “black mambas” to fight their enemies (164).
Snakes, the ubiquitous metaphor for Satan and sin, is used to rebel against the
heteronormative soldiers. The boy erasing the word “Mother” is as much a
statement about binaries as a dissent against biblical creation as a whole.
“You’ve lost
me. Why does religion peek its head in this argument?” The ritual in which they
do so transcends a ceremony and becomes religious in its own right. Despite
what Larry Kramer might have said, these faggots are fucking themselves to
life. After several repeated steps done with precision on a large, blue rug
surrounded by other boys, one boy in the middle conjures up a mist and moulds a
shape and “slowly the boy penetrated the phantom body I could see his penis
inside the other and as he moved in and out the soft red gelatin clung to his
penis thighs and buttocks… spurting sperm inside and suddenly the red boy was
solid” (168).
“But now
you’ve cornered yourself! The female has been extracted from the binary
if these wild boys give ‘birth’ to boys. Not destroying it, but replacing it
with a unary.” The naked arguer is taken to a chair and has their rectum cut,
then placed in the middle of the rug. Minutes later the ritual is done and “two
attendants stepped forward with a littler of soft leather. Carefully they lifted
the Zimbu onto the litter and carried him to the blue tent” (169). “Zimbu” is
what shuts down the last strand of the argument. Burroughs and Aciman don’t
give birth, literal or metaphorically, to any person of an established gender
or sex within the binary. A male is a male and female is a female, but a
Zimbu…A Zimbu with neither entirely masculine or feminine traits or genitalia.
With no preference to male or female because a Zimbu is neither. By all means,
a Zimbu is a peach.
* * *
Epilogue: Many Ways To Have a Good
Time
Where do the
peachy Zimbus go from here? The steam rises from the shower at the YMCA and,
from another wall, another eyeball is seen peering through a peephole. Another
dysejaculation, an orgasm that only brings burning. Like a needle pointing
north, all the wild boys and fruits turn to the walls.
