Writers' Studio
Welcome... Welcome writers. This is a place to think about writing. Any genre, any level of completion, and any writing-other hybrids are welcome. Comments on writing can happen at any time, because a good comment is worth the wait. This is an alternative to traditional structured writing programs. In order to participate please fill out the contact form for the group. (Please feel free to comment on the writing of this introduction to the group.) Hopefully everyone participating will all learn something about writing and teaching writing.
Happy writing!
Two thousand days and nights (Unfinished)
Final Version:
My armor weighs more than I can still carry,
A cage for my skull,
Five years empty inside.
Circean shapeshifters sold me this
Sheathing.
In shadows they flitter, in daylight they hide.
Remember:
Effortless solstice of winter,
Sleeping,
Turning, legs and arms twined.
Human cocoon
Of breath, skin, Elysium,
Flawless empyrean, fullness of mind.
Now
Skating the precipice, dragging my baggage,
Punch hard,
Pierce through this carapace shell.
With unguarded organs
I squint through the scissure,
Unable to tell if it's heaven
Or hell.
Exoskeletal shedding takes trust,
Though I can't seem to know when it's false or it's real,
But If i touch heat then
I'll maybe be able to
Cry
and then actually, finally
Feel.
Waking
up with the wide
end of an August morning
you turned into the
warm sheet of sun
brushing your cheek --
whatever god is
I found it in your
flushed breath when with
a close-eyed smile you
folded me into your sleep
and I fell deep in the
glow of your collarbone
a ridge of yellow
rustling birch a susserous
that murmured dream
in the amber below
the canopy of your hair --
god it was there.
Delhi
Look at us hiding on the roofs!
Atop hotels and restaurants lining
the square looking at
each other's blanched faces
looking at
the street
below:
souped crowds
rickshaws and bikes
bellowing through the smoking
trash that I
feel is all our fault
and the cows, just
eating it
beside the hawkers'
cries,
a woman
in yellow, a glimmer
hair so neatly
plaited
is weaving in
the thick
throngs
and out
and out
finding no
one's eye
especially
not mine
on the roof
watching.
Come
Last time we talked,
Your two year old twins,
Your cramped condominium,
Your nonprofit job insecurity,
You found a guy with my name,
My face, my job, your husband, he was away,
Far away, away in the desert at burning man.
You cried and you used the L word twice.
You missed me still and I felt the same.
Fifteen years and I still felt the same,
And you were still the same and
If I had said the word, Come,
You would have, I know,
But I wouldn't
And I didn't.
I didn't.
Holdback
I caught myself
Wanting, what a stupid thing to do, wanting
Something almost perfect but not
Exactly right or even
Possible to begin with
Anyway.
Home and Garden
Home and Garden
Island life is hard on a house sitting beside a shed named Mouse House.
How like a horse is a house,
tender I wonder.
Where is the boundary between wild and wonderful?
Swelling plants
will swallow the water hose whole.
Dwelling place
cobwebs are the burglar alarm for daddy long legs.
Class Dismissed
Hedge fund managers and CEOs,
Captains of Industry, Masters of the Universe
Walk their little dogs down my street
Clutching
little bags
of dog shit.
Hurricane Plus Nor'Easter Equals?
Nantucket Island never lost electricity,
Though winds swept sand into my eyes and the sea spewed.
It wasn’t the perfect storm, Hurricane Sandy.
Murray’s Liquor was last Main Street store to close surely;
The pharmacy counter got tipped twenty for food.
Nantucket Island never lost electricity
Sand bagging the strip was proven unnecessary;
Below the sidewalks well-behaved floodwaters brewed.
It wasn’t the perfect storm, Hurricane Sandy.
Brussels sprout stalk in the fireplace were pretty smelly,
But my best friend insisted firewood should be valued!
Nantucket Island never lost electricity!
A cottage in Madaket was swept into the sea;
Residents weren’t surprised, the owners subdued.
It wasn’t the perfect storm, Hurricane Sandy.
Posting flood photographs on Facebook makes New Jersey
Friends worry about me, while waiting to be rescued.
Nantucket Island never lost electricity;
It wasn’t the perfect storm, Hurricane Sandy.
Lunch Invitation (Post Script Series)
Craving-
Bay scallop leaves
Harbor for boiling water, bay leaves
White wine, yellow onions, potatoes, corn, butter,
Cream, garlic, salt, pepper, parsley, and
More thyme.
The not last taste
Overlays scallops and corn
Of Zea mays var. saccharata out
Of season, there is no sexy way to say I miss you
Words discarded with shells at Jetties parking lot
The shellfish
Is always selfish in chowder.
Still, try to see the blue bowls garnished with parsley,
And pats of butter on beautiful cold days.
Recipe for a specific experience.
Oh Iowa sweet!
Become my yellow-white bouquet summer man.
the Mall
Climate controlled consumption
Line forms here.
Time released mineral hydration
Now hiring greeters, $12.00 per hour.
Senior speedwalk, Sears to Macys.
Code two to home fashions
Segway security
High school outcasts trying to buy cool
Ancient eyebrow threading
Adolescent courtship in the food court
The great denim event
Misshapen men sipping sodas.
Perfumania
Teen moms push plastic racecar baby strollers
Dial up your dazzle.
Double meat, just add $1.29.
Outlier
I run alone.
Keeping my distance.
Pushing through pain on a glacial moraine.
Of knees, fog and false friends
And it takes five miles for the endorphins to kick in.
No one believes it and the rest can't see
I really am what I pretend to be.
You break it down to rebuild it
But every day is exactly different.
I'm my own worst enemy and my one true friend.
It's another day in paradox,
But the world was still then
Partly black and white when I was born
So I don't need your facebook platitudes.
I was once built for comfort,
Never for speed, but I'm now made to last
because it's what I need.
Too young to get old
But nothing will rust on the moon
I am told.
Don't want to be your accountant.
Not going to curl your hair.
Don't need to track your position.
Dispose of your dossier there.
Plotting (Post Script Series) (X series)
I am the three-dimensional problem represented by the two-dimensional graph. The derivative tells the story of how a function changes as its input changes. The function is why is the narrator. The first derivative of gives velocity, the second acceleration, the third jerk, the fourth jounce.
The derivative of the function at a particular point is equal to the slope of the tangent line. You only need two points to plot a straight line. Now, how to determine the equation of the line? (y = mx + b) B is the y-intercept; the point where the line crosses vertical axis. M is the slope, rise over run. Slippery slope? Slippery brain? Slippery brains fall easily in love. B told me I had a sexy brain. That is the best compliment to a neurobiologist.
Begin with B robing me in terrycloth and brewing fresh coffee. We sat in his air-conditioned garage while he smoked an American Spirit. Inside, B simply handed me a toothbrush. It was shiny and new and he gave me a travel case too. I keep it on my bookshelf.
X gave me a toothbrush last night. He instructed me to leave it on the nightstand on my side of the bed. The plastic and cardboard packaging was misshapen. I teased X about who used the toothbrush. The bristles felt too soft. His brussels sprouts are perfectly soft. X’s been rehearsing this for days, I know. I was sad.
What lies between B and X?
This is only one tangent; there are infinitely many more…
Forgotten Poem
Maybe
Psychothermal Irony
Sincerity
