Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Waiting Room

a splatter of empty chairs
  outpace a pattern of voided steps
hands hold up my head up
          hold up a gaggle of gasps
              grasping oily, unwashed hair

I want to outpace it all
     all the tremored sighs
     all the wash-cloth stares
     all the hands silent

                outpace the fuck of it all

Monday, February 27, 2012

Blogging for Soup (AJ's Picks)

Here are the three picks that AJ selected from last month's blogathon.  Enjoy:

1.  Scald

  It all happened in one second.  I was getting my strainer ready to drain the pasta when the pot slipped and I got a good splash of near-boiling water on my left hand.  Funny thing is that it took me a few seconds to realize what had just happened, but once my mind wrapped itself around the pain, I immediately ran my hand under cold water.  
  Once I had dinner ready for Helene, I put my hand in a bowl of cool water (after reading that it was not good to ice the hand as it hinders the flow of blood).  The burn was not too bad as long as I kept it in water, but the moment I pulled it out of the water the pain kicked in.
  Helene looked up from her dinner and asked, "daddy, are you going to lose your hand?"
  "No, love, it'll hurt for a few days then heal up," I replied.
  "Oh, if you had lost it, you could have gotten a hook like Captain Hook."
  "True." 

2.  Bacio Vacio

 (This was something I have been meaning to write ages ago.  There is an actual "kissing play" out there...I've spent years trying to find it...to no avail...)

Scene:  Minimalism Studio Apartment.  Black futon sofa center.  Lamp to immediate left.  Fridge and sink to far right.

Cast:

    Boy:  White crew shirt.  Blue Jeans.  early 20's

    Girl:   Flowery summer dress.  early 20's

[Scene opens with Girl on futon reading.  Knock on door.]

Girl:  Thanks for coming over.
 
Boy:  Sure thing.  So what's up?

G:  I have have to practice a play for Drama I tomorrow...[she leans in and smells the air around the boy] are you drunk?

B:  only slightly...So what is the play?

G:  It's called The Kissing Play.

B:  Ok...and what's it about...besides kissing

G:  It's about two theatre students practicing a kissing scene for class.

B:  So we have it half right [B smirks]

G:  [G tilts head and glares at him a bit.  She hands him a photocopy of the play.  Both sit on futon.]

B:  [Boy flips through the pages] So you basically called to use me again.

G:  Don't be so dramatic.  I thought it'd be nice to see you, and I needed someone to practice.

B:  You're too sweet.  [Flips through more pages.]  So what's my "motivation"

G:  Your character secretly wants my character, but wants to hide it.

B:  That might be a stretch for me, might need to work on that.

G:   I doubt that.   I'll start.  [She leans in and kisses him.]

B:  Whoa...you want to stick to the script.

G:  I am. [She points at the script.]

B:  Oh,...[reads...finger runs across page]  guess we should start again.

G:  [Giving him a glance, she leans in and gives him another kiss]

(to be continued)

3.  Ice

  She didn't expect to see her old boss here.  But that was the way of these things...weddings and funerals, we only come together at weddings and funerals.  The boss commented on how amazing she looked, how the little one was so big, how it was great to meet her husband (whom the boss had already met twice before).  Before the end of the night, the old boss asked her, "so, what are you doing now?" Maybe it was the open bar, maybe the blue hue of the banquet room,  but whatever it was, all she could say was, "I'm saving the fucking world.  You're welcome." 


Friday, February 17, 2012

Jim Simmerman's 21 Little Projects Activity

[In my Creative Writing 2 class, I had students do the Jim Simmerman's 21 Little Projects activity in class.  As they were writing, I decided to jump in and write with them.  Here's what I came up with.]

folded
an avalanche of angles
numb to the glue
smelling of shimmering shivers
Betty Davis in blue
unwrapped
blaring over a speaker
¿Sak pase?
Mailed under the table
"Because he did"
Sloppy brick of acceptance
laying a disjointed foundation
Betty Davis in blue overalls
"Vitico no oye"
"You're going to get lost in that mess again."
squelchy pen mark
ergo: all barks are just ripples
"N'ap boule"
the paper reclines and naps
lulled by its lupine ways

Friday, February 10, 2012

Zombie Haiku

Zombie Haiku 1

Crimson leaves flutter
rotting flesh still walks on earth
our autumn begins

Zombie Haiku 2
Atlanta at dusk
Their empty moans fill the streets
Can't wait til winter

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Press

Press

The fire burned more than anything she had ever seen, more than anything she had ever felt for him.  The metal in the aluminum barrel pinged and clanged as she tossed another book in.  She started with his collection of classics, offering Homer, Virgil, and Ovid to the flames.  How he loved his books.  He once told her that he could only ever really trust words.  She should have read more into this statement.  She leafs through Dante before tossing it into the miniature inferno.  Looking at the simple ring on her finger, she thinks of how strange it will feel not wearing it, how the pale white band of skin will eventually be fed by the sun and tan.  She grabs the Chaucer and Shakespeare and throws them into the old metal container.  As dusk settles in, she knows that he will be home soon, so she speeds up the pace, fueling the flames with Cervantes and Quiroga, with Garcia Marquez and Voltaire, with Delillo and Proust, with as many as she can.  How did he feel as he ran his fingers across these pages, the same fingers that ran across her back...the same fingers that broke the sacred bond that they swore? The car alarm chirps in the car port.  The fire holds the fledgling night at bay as the lights in the house come on one by one, page by page.  The cascade of lights ends with the kitchen.  She knows he is there looking outside, but she can't bear to look at him.  Turning back to the flames, she holds up the last offering.  Holding it high, knowing he'll see it, his prize, his restitched first edition of Ulysses.  Something is happening inside the house, a combination of avian shriek and convulsing metal.  She looks up at the book that she now holds in both hands, waits a second more, hoping for some sort transfiguration, but she feels nothing and lets it fall. The flames warp the leather cover, which folds itself, embracing the dying pages, suffocating in the creases, as the embers float up, wisps of orange punctuating the black of the night.