Emma

Jellyfish Muscles

2007-11-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

Ignoring peripheral things
rumbled in memory
muscles like jellyfish
aid the growing skyward

coalesced in eagerness that shimmers
the black coward cloak dispensed
spreading out branches thick as man
grappling with a new handle

silken manes flutter with tossed heads
the eye of the world
whipped up on rainbows
this new lid aside of lashes
opens up.

honey cakes and meat pies,
off the other begin.

Latent spark plugs

2007-11-17T13:06:00.000-08:00

The sliver moon asleep on jam futons,
time envious of world,
blind sighted the youth press buttons,
measured in pressure
evolution is egged on.

the hunter-gatherers are vacant parking lots,
coupons for nature never clipped out,
forged on plastic grasses
holidays are American history.

Natural beauty the cover girl enemy,
forests insignificant beside ipods and jogs,
even the purest
suffers from widescreen eyes.

Who can hear among cellular ears,
vibrating on cancer coded frequencies,
we levitate to height in airplanes
ignoring the panorama land we see ourselves beyond.

Gang symbols on plain white T's,
who will drink water when there's nothing to eat,
Drought, Drought,
garbage our mutated mountains.

From oil rig to oil rig
from landfill to landfill
from sea to sinking sea,

privacy is irrelevant for "reality" based life.
Every ones listening,
every ones watching,
every ones enjoying
this everyone planet.

"Curiouser and Curiouser", Cried Alice

2007-11-17T13:02:00.000-08:00

In the land of rotting grapes
a raisin is queen,
These geese eating dominoes demolish empire grounds.

Auditory wrinkles, peyote pillows, and water color ripples,
bargain with battlefields.

Cuter then a hot fudge taco,
On a meadow carpet hallucinating feet,
All becomes tangled in objective.

A seabird amidst tomato soup cans finds Venus in a house of pies.

Public libraries,
home to red patients,
this blue couch reveals the illustrated world.

The true angel lives inside highways orbiting the planet a musical rose.

noise

2007-10-16T08:04:00.001-07:00

A rooster clears his sinuses
as she rolls in like a peach basket, swirling to the toughness of dreams.

They grew when she laughed, a nightingale harness.
larger then any one mans desires, she dresses a harlequin.

Sick of jasmine and kicked dumb by cauliflower, no hocus-pocus is involved;
just a saline lolly pop to cleanse out maidens.

Dusted with crumbs of eternity's pigeons a heavy black fountain pen remains desk 'ed.

Supple eyes become the daylight,
a brim of the blues.

Voluptuous venus volcano

2007-10-16T07:53:00.000-07:00

Wishing for "Other-where" undisturbed by this snub,
a perfectly intelligent glance, devilish drunk.

Judicious snips become a jot of care.
A fawn colored eyelash becomes pregnant with mystery.

Guinea gold hair resembles the question mark,
the curl of keepsake divulging the place to rascals.

beckon the odious creature this way for a possible boy-girl attachment
the sprigs of thorn hedge are thrusting now to be groped.

viper

2007-10-16T07:43:00.000-07:00

His fists wring out her tears.
Pounding, he erases pleasure, hope, and love from her limbs.
Pressed, forcing his way inside her, he dismembers her content and switches off life.
Blood leaks from all cracks inside such walls,

inside his nose rests the power to pull triggers.
he waits for her , not under the bed, but rather on top a visual monster

with verbal fangs before breakfast he breaks apart her shell as an egg in the pan.
The soft wimper escapes her mouth amist the bubbling.
he takes pleasure in such rancid taste.

Inspired by Julie's Myspace poem.Because i too, have no life and browse blogs always

2007-09-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

If bagels were elegant,
and cassette tapes were anti- war movements,

If windows were plexi-glass;
and rain were merely available with an "on" or "Off" switch,

If coffee were an aphrodesiac and the breeze a pulse,
one coould be enough to satisfy.

If ashes were a comfortable carpet,
and tracks rested imobile enough to follow,

If beer was a bitter birthday.
socks could be enough for public and vocabulary un-nesscary.

If pictures were and could be,
lust could flatter waist bands.

" I flock to Fuggs"- (My friend Lauren)

2007-09-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Real truth from old lips.

time and how it moves,
to be ripped from earth, and considered food.

Memories unflinching cannot be mistreated.
stained floors cuddle to cobwebs,
and newspaper dishware suds on.

It melted.

Caved in resolutions, high with run-on sentenses,
wrong with excitement for roads.

there is a house for the young.

To relish those that know hunger.
if only those dirty sneakers meant magnolia pirate ships .

what is the color of the ocean floor underneath all that sand.

" If You had to surrender one of your senses, which would it be"

2007-09-18T08:07:00.000-07:00

First I would take your smile,
and make it the worlds circumference.

Then in your limestone hands,
I would cradle earthquakes and purify balence.

Your feet would become hills of the world,
reaching air and descending upon admiration

Your eyes the botany, become the breeze.

On your chest rests an ocean, a river, a lake.
Your ears the bridges,
connect internal reality to external disguise.

2007-05-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

Even Uni bombers smile
in the flippers of dolphins there are five skeletal fingers
she has the blues, astronomer betrayed by starlight
looking through filters...
two mushrooms
you aren't thinking of cranes this morning

ah the thumb
either give us a kiss
or get out of here

Eerie light of indefinable dimension
peering through the grass
if you'll tell me
ill turn you loose
crunchy granola in bedsheets
reptile in our totem
dirty burps of bitterness here are the cobwebs
huddled together in anxious stupor
the emblem of life

Stein

2007-05-20T18:07:00.000-07:00

What I like most about Gertrude Stein is her voice, even in writing about grammar, a subject most dull in ordinary conversation, stein makes it interesting, she makes it poetic. Stein says that when she first began writing, she felt that writing should go on. It should not merely pause or stop due to bad grammar points or semi-colons. I like the metaphoric twist on grammer and literary composition, how she compares a comma to holding your coat for you and putting on your shoes.she speaks of punction in prose, but I feel that as Stein talks about punctuation, she speaks in prose. I found no powerful ending lesson from her piece this week, but I did find interest. I may not go out , cross the street, and dot my semi-colons, but i sure do appreciate the way stein made me experience an " I remember poem" in the study of grammar. Stein starts almost every change in topic with " I remember when" its as if stein doesnt just study language she experiences it. I think we can all learn a thing or two from such an approach.

From the Medium of a quiet Iron Madien

2007-04-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

Blond razor curls fall
into a skirt of insecurity
away cuts the knife at bullshit
she is tired of internal blood
callused, there go her hands
empty
Again.
Lifting and leaving the broken ends
her fit fin at a waters edge, awkward
doesn't seem so.
wrapped in binge she remembers the comfort of such blankets
in beds
hallways
cars
lie to her
break her
take her lungs

lost orgasm she is the piteous empty tunnel
The maiden she swims, aqueous Aquarius
she adventurous
you drown her at the pit of your mouth

The Arrangement of Things

2007-04-29T16:27:00.000-07:00

Sorry it has taken me so long to talk to everyone this week. I'm sure Jess informed a few of you of my sickness, but enough about me, lets talk Zukofsky. I noticed the mention of the sincerity of words, revolving around the structure and arrangement of those words and the degree of power within their meaning. I like the concept of sincere objectification, if you talk about a mug like its love, then that mug better be overflowing with romantic sincere words. Although for me, Zukofsky seemed to argue that the poem itself was the object. An interesting argument yet at the same time, I disagree, the poem is not a "job" as Zukofsky suggests. The poem should be arranged in a way that's pleasing for the author, the audience, the adjective; yet it should not be a work that the mind mulls over like stale bread. Instead it should be the objectification of the inmost internal working. Am I right? I understand that it is in fact hard to write a poem. Yet i find Zukofsky reading to deeply below the lines, what about the surface? the initial reaction to the words on the page? The first gut instinct to feel love for a mug, or cry at its missing pieces. It seems odd to me that such stress be placed on the working of the thing, rather then the work itself. Although, maybe i love mugs to often. Maybe i look for the most basic of feelings rather then the deepest written struggle. Opinions?

No water, No Juice, No ice creams

2007-04-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

Lost eye balls gummy and plain
I dry them on flannel sleeves
the blue shoe, i remember heavy breathing

robots surrender to the moon and her vicious cycles
if only it were a personal universe
sand covered feet
banana Popsicles build a melted house
i remember hands
the restaurant is crowded
red hair, the Phoenix that constantly dies
i am no lady Lazarus
in frog boots by the willow tree
jam your tongue in my
pathetic time

Statements on Poetics-Charles Olsen

2007-04-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

I liked what Olsen said about the assurance of the ear. I find my ear on poetics (of course) to be in the highest of categories. Yet Olsen's work felt like such an audible piece; so much was emphasized literally on the page, words like "HEAD, EAR, SYLLABLE,HEART, BREATH,LINE" I found myself ignoring the essay and following the bold words, like an idiot, but i found that in doing so the message was clearer. Olsen suggests to my ear a type of poetry passed on the pulse of the human hand as it writes. It is the "MOVE INSTANTER OBJECTS" and the"LAW OF THE LINE", I'm not sure Olsen was advocating a transfer of energy but instead the acknowledgement of energy, the record that is...Poetry. Its like the "TA-DA" moment at a magic show, when the trick is revealed. Olsen says ta-da! poetry is here, in your face, like an energy bullet. I like that he says that "where breath has its beginnings, where drama has to come from, where the coincidence is, all act springs" poetry is such an act, i feel like half the time I'm writing I'm holding my breath till its over. I imagine Olsen was trying to underline a similar universal feeling of "wow if i could just say it"

A Defence of Poetry- Percy Bysshe Shelley

2007-04-08T19:03:00.000-07:00

I want poetry to set my body free. A cliche possibly, yet what I felt while reading Shelley in relation to my intense need for freedom, was a sense of happiness. A sense that what he too was describing was imaginative freedom. Adding inspiration to the reason; To the base desire of humanity versus the imaginative reason of the poet. Shelley even uses the metaphor of poetry as the "Tree of life" feeding the imagination, the base instinct , to ignite more expression in the mind. Shelley states that " Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds", I like the thought of poetry as happiness. I like comparing the mind of poetry, the free expression of whatever to the scientific realm, to the philosophic, and even to studies of alchemy, as if poetry combined reason and imagination to create this expression of something. Something solid legitimate, " the pencil and the picture, the chisel and the statute, the chord and the harmony."
In class we mentioned the hypocrisy of this piece. Yet i find the work simple, For me the message is not definite or confined, it is free, free like the expression that it represents, it is the combination, the fine delicate ( i hate to say it) tweaking of things to create a mental existence, a word existence that changes the evolution of things. Shelley focuses on the most conscious forms of expression. Reffering to the poet as a "Savage" and honestly, I agree with this statement, i want to produce an existance based upon that which surrounds me in the most brutal light. Maybe it is "chaos of a cyclic poem" but maybe its all relative to the expression we see within the cycle. Shelley does not describe poets as prophetic, yet he does point out that we as we are, as speakers, as word workers, "make beautiful that which is distorted," it is here in Shelley's message that i find the happiness of his perspective on poetry. The syntax of Shelley's narrative even matches the beautiful language of poetry, it does not claim fame or chart with special stars, it is the " very image of life expressed in its eternal truth."