quick hits
i tend to go long. here's some shortie practice. (sorry i dont have any flavorful sports analogies)
TRASH: don't pick it up / don't take my life a-wayyy. NY DOLLS, 73?
TRASH CULTURE/POP CULTURE/CONSMER CULTURE/FOLK CULTURE: this distinction is shot to hell. doesn't mean its not important, or that an instinct (john waters/steven spielberg) isn't a fine place to start. we live in the midst of this shit(dove and ipod billboard, pomegranite juice, tour de lance). how can the culture we breathe not be worth our consideration beyond quick yeas and neas (beyond consumption and its refusal).
POETRY: lately it seems like a catch-all for the work that's not genre prose. drama comes in at an angle. its a wide, wild, bottomless river. or the bottom is somewhere beyond my dangling toes. which doesn't mean don't get wet. i want to trust the current. but getting wet doesn't mean i comprehensively "know" the river. study, like play, is without ends.
MY POETRY:
yesterday i wrote:
The order before him. Through such canvases as the mind
makes it so, brambles cut back, foreskin discarded
As waste, we know better than the first factory
Our womb. Such forfeit of mirth to survey the scene
Even in its laughter spangled, retarded, a 12 stepping
Anonymous. This paper, unsigned, no signatory
a skittered glide before flight. An implied familiarity –
dimple obscure but recognized with each new
Inevitable smile. Misspelling the words might break
The spell, new colors, new fabrics from Egypt, Guatemala,
What’s left of Milan. The never-be-divided, in the headlines
Reads nothing but. And counting lines before the apocalypse
Or changing the channel, this page, between others, here,
Here is a boot cut, here is James Dean, here a hero travels
To her father’s house to confront him, on the very date
Khrushchev, or his player, left-field, adds the final loping Cyrillic v.
this is a voice i often start from when i pick up writing poetry. then the project becomes: how to move thru/past this? is it just cause i'm restless, or this is unstable ground?
today i wrote:
The great SS Coherence
Set out upon the sea
There ne’er was a grander ship
To part the salty breeze
which goes on for 12 more screechy pirate fight song/sea chantey verses. talk about trash. or delicious.
i am gleefully in trouble and back in the game. thanks to everyone who I've been in conversation with the last few days, posters too - this has all been most welcome/helpful. freeing the trapped little mind.
HORCHATA: see delicious.
Have a jolly wknd.
TRASH: don't pick it up / don't take my life a-wayyy. NY DOLLS, 73?
TRASH CULTURE/POP CULTURE/CONSMER CULTURE/FOLK CULTURE: this distinction is shot to hell. doesn't mean its not important, or that an instinct (john waters/steven spielberg) isn't a fine place to start. we live in the midst of this shit(dove and ipod billboard, pomegranite juice, tour de lance). how can the culture we breathe not be worth our consideration beyond quick yeas and neas (beyond consumption and its refusal).
POETRY: lately it seems like a catch-all for the work that's not genre prose. drama comes in at an angle. its a wide, wild, bottomless river. or the bottom is somewhere beyond my dangling toes. which doesn't mean don't get wet. i want to trust the current. but getting wet doesn't mean i comprehensively "know" the river. study, like play, is without ends.
MY POETRY:
yesterday i wrote:
The order before him. Through such canvases as the mind
makes it so, brambles cut back, foreskin discarded
As waste, we know better than the first factory
Our womb. Such forfeit of mirth to survey the scene
Even in its laughter spangled, retarded, a 12 stepping
Anonymous. This paper, unsigned, no signatory
a skittered glide before flight. An implied familiarity –
dimple obscure but recognized with each new
Inevitable smile. Misspelling the words might break
The spell, new colors, new fabrics from Egypt, Guatemala,
What’s left of Milan. The never-be-divided, in the headlines
Reads nothing but. And counting lines before the apocalypse
Or changing the channel, this page, between others, here,
Here is a boot cut, here is James Dean, here a hero travels
To her father’s house to confront him, on the very date
Khrushchev, or his player, left-field, adds the final loping Cyrillic v.
this is a voice i often start from when i pick up writing poetry. then the project becomes: how to move thru/past this? is it just cause i'm restless, or this is unstable ground?
today i wrote:
The great SS Coherence
Set out upon the sea
There ne’er was a grander ship
To part the salty breeze
which goes on for 12 more screechy pirate fight song/sea chantey verses. talk about trash. or delicious.
i am gleefully in trouble and back in the game. thanks to everyone who I've been in conversation with the last few days, posters too - this has all been most welcome/helpful. freeing the trapped little mind.
HORCHATA: see delicious.
Have a jolly wknd.
posted by Kyle at 4:33 PM
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