I hate it when I start to compose
and the pen runs dry.
It makes me wonder, sometimes
if this universe speaks
in conspiratorial metaphors,
but I could just be paranoid.
You see, I was just trying to write a sestina.
The title was going to be Mr. Happy's Fly Swatter.
It was going to utilize six prompt words
I scavenged out of my favorite Big Poppa E poem.
The girl, she had a big nose.
She was engrossed in a conversation
with a kinky haired guy at the bar.
They were drinking red wine
from fat snooty glasses.
Coke bottle lenses covered her eyes.
Her smiles were magnified across the room.
He said that there was no normal.
I was just standing there eavesdropping
while I waited for my coffee to finish its drip.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I broke in like an unwanted car fart.
I said, “I was the icon of normalcy in America.”
My name is Mr. Happy.
I have a fly swatter.
I love the sound maggots make
when they swim through a tub of honey.
I got a hot water bottle.
I screwed the hose
into to a wet-dry vibrator I found in the laundry room.
It worked great on Ms. Honey’s hole.
She liked it more than the cat did.
So, I dug a shallow grave.
I buried the cat
along with the cat food
I didn’t need anymore
in the back yard.
I threw in the flyswatter
and that empty tub of honey
and smoothed the hole over
with ink that exploded
into my hand from a worthless pen
I bought at super Wal-Mart mega-store.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
I hate it when I start to compose
Friday, December 30, 2011
---William James 3/30/2008
Thursday, December 29, 2011
---William James, 3/2/2008
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
---Purple Mark 122311
- “If you’d like, you can start your transmission after the high-pitched squeel (sic) that will be your cue to make a statement about yourself...” Antero Alli. The Akashic Record Player. (Falcon Press, 1988) page 40.
- “Her skin is white cloth, and she’s all sewn apart and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart.” Tim Burton. Voodoo Girl: The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy And Other Stories (Rob Weisbach Books, 1997) page 51.
- “Then comes at speed, Margaris of Seville, who holds his land as far as Cazmarin, Ladies all love him, so beautiful he is.” Translated by by Dorothy L. Sayers. The Song Of Roland. (Penguin Classics, 1964) page 89.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
---By Carla Blaschka, 12/10/11
Written at Richard Hugo House alongside PurpleMark Wirth and Zoe Omega.
Write By The Park Prompts:
- Things seen on the street
- Songs being played
Thursday, December 22, 2011
On 12/8/2011 Andre submitted to me 6 Words: Competition, Abundance, Good, Evil, Angels, Demons. Andre found this website through me. I met him at a Thanksgiving feast at my aunts house in Salem. I hope you like what your six words became.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
“We are as Gods, We have to get good at it,”
the man said as a preamble to his actual intent.
The woman was unconvinced as to where
this discussion, this meeting was headed.
“How about some sex?” he tried another tact.
“I will gnaw gently on your thighs,”
“I will fuck you until your God is dead.” These words
no more swayed her than his previous ones had.
She did not need sex, though it was apparent
that he did, to fulfill some Alchemical experiment.
At the heart of the Granulation process is the individual’s
ability to judge the moment and the duration of when
these conditions obtain usually a period of only three
or four seconds. His gambit had failed within that brief time.
He was either too direct, too crude
or else he was too abstract, too obtuse for her.
No Alchemical Wedding was going to happen here.
Nor would there be any sex, not today,
maybe not even in the foreseeable future
because he had blown it in a big way.
He went about these things the wrong way,
his approach was simply wrong for this age.
They parted, both of them disappointed
at the result of their rendezvous:
She had wanted what exactly?
A cuddle? A friend? A sympathetic ear?
He had needed a lover for whatever reason.
She was still not sure why he had chosen her.
However, it was not to be or maybe it could never be,
it was an Alchemical exchange that had gone astray.
---Purple Mark 121711
- “We are as Gods, we have to get good at it.” Caleb Klaces. Getting Good At Being Gods: Writing Poetry After Nature And Before The Very End. "Rain Taxi." Vol. 16 No. 3, Fall 2011. Words from Stewart Brand piece. page 18.
- “How about some sex? I will gnaw gently on your thighs, I will fuck you until your God is dead.” Michael Crossley. French Letters. Seattle. (A spoken word piece).
- "At the heart of the successful conclusion of the granulation process is the individual’s ability to judge the moment and the duration of when these conditions obtain, usually covering a period of only three or four seconds." Oppi Untracht. Jewelry: Concepts And Technology. (Doubleday Press, 1982). page 357.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Let God Arise
A soul in white has entered here;
white for all that's pure and fair.
Dipped into a cleansing font,
the spell which brings to end all want
and dissolves torment into air.
Come to rest beneath the sign
composed of intersecting lines;
traced upon the virgin head
brings resurrection from the dead,
a restoration for our kind.
Confession is the blessed soul's aim,
and through renewal of the heart
remission of our sins we claim;
a fire is kindled, clear and bright,
which rises to a sacred flame.
---Don Comfort (formerly from) Newberg Oregon
(now a monk in a Russian Orthodox order).
The piece was found on Tuesday, August 16, 2011 while sorting and packing.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
"We just buried my mother, Ariel,"
She enlightened the waiter who didn't ask.
Roger didn't know how to respond
When I told him to, "Throw the shoe into a pit."
She explained how she wanted it to Ariel.
He jotted down her order with intensity
As if he had just ringed a horse shoe against the stake.
He yelled to the cook 'cross the diner.
"Roger scribbled strange symbols on a pad.
It was a voodoo spell he cast long ago," she said.
The cook leaned across the grill to spit
Flem caressed the frying egg like foreplay before a cyber rape.
Roger’s voice sounded like a voodoo spell cast
into a gust of freezing drizzle.
She was fondled in a cyber-room rape.
Richard Hugo was her mother's undoing.
His heart broke in a gust of freezing drizzle.
In Silence, Ariel listened enraptured by her story.
He pondered over the footprints of her mother's demise.
"She's gone," she said, "buried under a glacier of permafrost."
Friday, December 16, 2011
4 Cliff bars in Seasonal Pumpkin Pie are in a pile
along with Still-Life vegetables past their prime
from a brochure about Gage Academy of Art.
There is a copy of Jhereg by Steven Brust with a dragon
hatching on the cover and there was the book
On Writing Blocks by Victoria Nelson that lay on the table
“Hit The Road Jack”drifts in from the front room
along with other Jazzy Riffs and the additional tapping
of computer keys as their accompaniment.
The Writers of NaNoWriMo are now gone:
either well-pleased by their Novel endeavors or
thoroughly depressed by their lack of progress.
Novel Writing on a strict schedule with a one month deadline
was not my idea of a good time, though as a discipline
it might work to break the logjam of thoughts.
We write in relative peace of this gray drizzly day
while outside someone “Whoops!”and “Whoops!” again
before his Whooping causes him to cough and curse.
Synthetic-Ice Skating rink set up, but there are no Skaters.
Even Bobby Morris Play-field is bereft of its usual ball-players
though it is not especially wet or cold out.
Hugo House is calm today with none of the usual
comings and goings of groups upstairs and down.
We are the only writers here for this space of time.
At our exercises ending, our readings shared similar themes seemingly picked out of the Gestalt by default or maybe it was
the benefit of being in a building built with words.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Rain And The Posterer
The rain spattered on the pavement
an even randomness of drops like lacework
upon the slabs of man-made stone.
The man rose, grasping his umbrella
like a riding whip about to do battle
with the elements, though he would lose.
It was drizzling and everything glistened:
the sidewalk, the cobblestones, the grass
poking between the cracks in eternal war:
Life seeking the upper-hand in a world
which was being paved by the hand of man
though in the end it would indeed triumph.
He grumbled about his livelihood:
the putting up of posters that would soon be
shredded, burnt or papered over for events
which might get a few random people to attend,
but might not: the music scene had changed,
the world wasn’t so affordable anymore.
Purple Mark's Prompts:
- "The man rose, grasping his umbrella like a riding whip," Graham Greene. May We Borrow Your Husband: Two Gentle People. (Viking Adult; Limited First edition, 1967).
- "It was drizzling. Everything glistened: the sidewalk, the cobblestones, the grass poking between the cracks." Mercè Rodoreda. Rain.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
An Interpretation of Song of Solomon
Let her kiss me most beautiful among women,
all over my body with kisses from her mouth.
This sensation of being in your hungry embrace
is more delightful than sipping
chocolaty cappuccinos under Zion’s evening sky.
When your name is spoken, “Jezebel,”
it drips off my tongue like buttery honey
my ear smells it like amber perfume
wafting through the courtyard of your gardens.
That is why all the young men want you, desire you,
“Jezebel,” when they imagine your dance,
their eyes glaze over at the first mention of your name.
Draw me into your sultry embrace
I will eagerly follow you to Zion’s edge.
Bring me into your bed chamber most beautiful of women.
Kiss me all over with kisses from your mouth.
THE LOVER AND HIS GARDEN II
I have come to this garden, my lover, my bride.
I have come to gather your fragrance and your spice.
In my mouth, I savor your taste like I savor honey and chocolate.
I drink my coffee and I eat cherry muffins
Recollecting memories of last night.
Who is this coming up from the desert,
leaning so sensuously upon her lover?
Under the apple tree I awakened you;
it was there, under that tree,
that your mother and father conceived you;
it was under that tree,
illumined by the mother’s spring warmth,
that they first consummated their love.
Where has your lover gone
most beautiful of women?
Where has your lover gone
That we may seek you without him?
My lover has gone down to the valley where his garden is,
to rest in the beds of your spice,
to browse through the mounds admiring white lilies.
My lover belongs to me and I to her.
She browses, aimlessly, among the lilies.
---written on December 5, 2002. The poem was found (on 8/23/11) in a Journal of other peoples poems I used when I busked poetry at Pike's Market in the Summer & Fall of 2004
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
|A bolt falls out on the ground
The car moves on
A spring rattles loose
Clinks quietly on the highway
Black smoke billows out the back
The engine sputters to a halt
The driver gets out
Lifts up the hood
Steam rolls out the headers
The startled driver jumps back
Away from the searing heat
Falls head over heels off the road
Breaks his neck against a rock
The socket wrench clatters to the ground
Without a sound
Prompt: A bolt, A rusty spring, and a 8mm socket
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Watched And Watching
I’m being watched by many
and I can’t move or watch them in return
because for most of an hour
I’m their model: a Star of Seattle.
I keep my eyes on the one chair
that no one sits in, high in the corner.
As my rods and cones give out
parts of the chair disappear
its horizontals and verticals fade
and its shadows become more real than it.
While I’m still, the others are in constant
movement; looking at me,
then at their drawings, over and over
with almost birdlike motions.
Others drift in and out of my peripheral
vision in odd displacements of color
becoming purple or blue themselves
though in truth they are mostly black.
One guy cycles through the red orange range
as he walks across the room crowded by easels.
My eyes water, dried out by my need
to keep them focused on that unused chair
and I find that my balance is not so stable
as I try to remain unmoving.
By the time my session is done,
my legs are trembling with fatigue.
I’m handed a drawing of myself done in pastels
for my efforts and the next model
in red is ready to take the stand.
---Purple Mark 120311b
Carla's Prompt: To watch or being watched
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
We live by the gun
die by the machine of war
nations rise and crumble
armies march scour the earth
Iron fisted rulers take power
liberty has perished
the age of freedom is finished
Chaos begets decay
Madness torches the earth
branch and root withers
the seed of the noble perished
The dawn draws neigh
A blazing fire consumes
the proud and doers of evil
will sizzle in wombs of terror
November 2007 seemed to be the month I wrote song lyrics instead of poetry. This was another piece I found will packing up my Apartment on 8/16/2011.
Monday, December 5, 2011
The comfort of the warm light dimmed as thin clouds crossed the sun's face.
I was being watched
I glanced at the watcher and he came over and filled my cup.
A light breeze ruffled the napkins, set one free and a waiter gave chase.
I was being watched
I glanced at the watcher and saw him drool. When he saw my glance he shifted on his hind legs and stared harder and with more hope.
There was a honk, a curse and a whiff of diesel oil as the bike swerved and kept pace.
I was being watched
I glanced at the watcher. He tried to catch my eye and smiled an introduction. I looked away
On the end of my tongue I put the tip, and the flavors of chocolate and strawberry exploded in ecstasy.
I was being watched.
I glanced at watcher and looked past his ragged beard and shuffling feet, making the long trek from nowhere to nothing, and who with eyes dimmed, gazed with longing at my waste.
I was being watched
---By Carla Blaschka 12/3/11
Written alongside PurpleMark Wirth, Philip Bernier-Smith, and Priya Keefe at the
Capitol Hill branch of the Seattle Public Library.
Theme: Being watched, eating food