1. notes

    3 years ago

    Drafting, Calisthenics

    (Selecting lines at random from The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry, then crafting them into something entirely different, then stringing it all together in an attempt to actually write something decent for once. Don’t really think it worked, but oh well. Practice is as practice does.)

    It takes a special obscurity to rot
    bananas like this house does, all
    flapping, gummy rinds spotted
    in the window, hungry deer gazing
    in, then fleeing at the creak on the stairs,
    the percolating coffee. 
    My flea-bitten hip bumps the fruit bowl atop the dish
    washer, and in that moment, I can’t tell what is a
    good war or a bad war and whether my father likes Ann
    Coulter or just likes
    brown, creased apples.

    When I run over the oppossum tonight
    I smell hot, wet pavement and, curiously,
    My brother rains at times, feels unwanted and beats
    his shivering, brand new puppy when it pisses
    hot and fresh
    on his bedspread. The puppy comes back thick and grateful,
    all cow spots and pink belly. My brother will smoke
    until his hands become wise, until his fingernails
    wither. Nicotine and tall tales and thieving for drug-money.
    I don’t want to write about death — they all do —but
    then the bananas blacken and Aunt Fran shrinks
    beneath cancer from the waist up, and I beat
    a single drum on a oppossum with my tires, smash
    a cricket for singing
    too loud in the stems of the peace lily
    and some muggers kill Steve Gale, a friend of a friend
    on the internet, and a motorcyclist lies prone in
    chunks of plastic as I pull over
    for the ambulance. 





    Scrabbling for anything useful to write


    1. pentosword posted this