accidentally wrote a poem in twitter. more of a pun, really. but so true.

i wonder if i quit taking the pill, would i regain the ability to conceive -- of the existence of good in the world?

ENVERSIONING

my friend challenged me to write a story about a typo. this is more of a stream-of-consciousness prose poem. i gave up a little too quickly.



It can go one of any number of ways. That's the thing about time. That's the thing about things.

You get up in the morning. It's the 21st century. It's dumb like that. Things occur to you like "I'm going to create my day. I'm going to manifest my desires. I'm going to nurture my artist. I'm going to make him express himself. hey Hey Hey Hey." But it never turns out like that. Every day is the same, in its own unique way. Every day you fail to do this thing.

But it could change. It could change right now.

Imagine, for instance, that insterad of sitting here the way you are sitting, halfheartedly vaguely interacting with a page of wordsk and who knows what they mean or whether they're worth your trouble, you are in fact on a great big clippers hip, sailing from this town to that, in a sailor suit and hat. Seriouisly. Other people have better lieves than you, that's what made them great. They didn't dream it, they be'd it.

Inagine, for instance, that instead of sitting here you are running up that road, running up that hill running up that building running up that electrid bill.

You see, you can't even genuinely put yourself in that picture. You're stuck in the hopelessly quotidian lonely little details of your own personality. You know what you're going to do next? You're going to go buy a tub of ice cream and a bag oc cheetos and go watch Project Runway by yourself. You call that romance?

But it could go any number of ways. You're swerving on an attomic level. You're headed towards Dreamtime. You've got potential. You've come a long way, baby.

So make of it what you will. This tissue of lies.

Thus Spake Biggus Dickus

prompt: Write a poem using only words that start with "s" (duh)

and having done so, can't help thinking of that scene in Life Of Brian where they make fun of people with speech impediments.

Surely science swerved

sunday's sermon

somewhere southern.



Superman salvo

sleeps sans shuddering,

so saith sage serpents.



Sudden shame?

Seek several suggestive shapes

subconsciously severed.

wow, i'd
better post something
so my new comments
settings can take
effect

no more porn
spammers
here

The Small Misfortune Of A Rum And Coke

Sometimes one thing
insufficient in itself
is not improved by addition
of a second thing

noxious rum
in a glass of ice

a person
seeking love

This is a such an evening, my friend
so sit by me
in the dimmest light we can find
and drink.


nothing prompted me today but the desire to produce something. well, and this rum and coke i have here, and a sense of melancholy. and, yes, the unsettling but gratifying knowledge that somebody's actually reading this damn thing. though, knowing this, i have also had to ask myself if i shouldn't be trying harder to write something that might actually be edifying to read...oh well! clearly i have resisted the impulse, so, no need to worry. :)

raw

and this is it. typos and all.
(don't let it scare you. it is possible to generate worthwhile writing with this tool, i just wanted to try out the Publish feature.)


"Write Or Die Poem 6/40/10


Lack of focus or experimental mood
decidedly disollute and like
i saw a firefly dying on my bathroom floor
i couldn't get it to fly away or glow
and i took this as a bad omen

cause where else am i supposed to look for love
having paved every alley
in weird silk and succeeded
in never feeling much for my sex partners

but what if

and what the fuck

so there's me and my paper sack
full of the things i should be doing
and all i can muster is this self-disgust
and the lonely bare bulb of a mind

too scared to go down any imaginative uncertainties
unbelieving
and unsatiable like
a kid who only eats saltines but will not
by any means stop eating

how can you be so hungry for this d unnourishing

we might well ask

and yet this is the right age for it
in all ways, look around

No it's not true it's
a world, still,
and it's full

not hungry

full of reality. and i am within it
one of many tiny moving bits of data
to be processed
and then gone"

Good News For Me!

I recently found out that I'm getting a poem published, in an upcoming anthology of Nebraska women poets, called The Untidy Season. Gonna be released next spring. What's another few months?

This is pretty great news for me. First acceptance in my adult life, and I can't help thinking it'll be ever so slightly easier now that I've got my name in a book. Onward and upward!

My secret? Get on etsy and buy an Oscar Wilde prayer candle, and fucking bribe him with money.

Of course the real secret is supposed to be perseverance, so, I guess we should all really just keep sending out the submissions. If this publication thing is really so important..

I recommend this, hugely

Write or Die by Dr Wicked

so cool; i know many of us have been dreaming of ways to be forced to write. you sure as hell can't take a break to check facebook without this program noticing. and i cannot overstate the helpfulness of that. damn facebook.

I had sort of quit posting here because I wanted to save my best work to submit to the magazines, and at some point I had realized that some of them considered material published on blogs as 'previously published material.'

But in light of certain sentiments expressed on my other blog, it seems appropriate to relax a bit and come back to this. Doing good work is more important than getting published, innit? So since I've found the prompts and stuff helpful in the past, and since, honestly, more people are seeing what I post here than what I post to various editors, well, The Repository is officially re-opened. Besides, I'll totally console myself by putting all these into a book myself.

Though unfortunately it looks like a lot of the blogs I'd been following for prompts have sort of slowed down with the updating. Oh well, soldier on!

I gather a deck
of self-concepts
and choose one
and go up to you.

Have you seen this person?

Your face is hard to read.
I go home to consult
my records, check my thinking.

Who was I?
Who can support this story?

Surely I didn't just
ask you, just like that.


for/from poetry instigator?