Eighty-Fifth Entry

Hey guys, I've been sick for awhile and so no poems. But FEAR NOT! Here's an idea I've been working on for awhile. I've been writing poems based on my super-buddy Robert Szot's paintings, particularly his The Generosity of Women series. Here is the first, uh, poem. About that. here's a link to his site. check out the "corresponding" painting

Here's my poem:

THE GENEROSITY OF WOMEN 1

the moment you stopped moving
you became skin, white and white,
in my memory you eat, I remember
Portland, a bare mattress bathed in
pink light, the air lying still
on a plate, it is raining,
you were always
the only blonde, the only redhead,
at first I was repelled
by your eating, but then I enjoyed
your eating, in Portland I ate Greek
chicken, a writhing arm of chicken
that felt like squid, I loved the trees
in Portland, I remember
being in a car, my phone was used
several times, to record your voice
while it was somewhere else.

Eighty-Fourth Entry

Hi! I should have mentioned that the previous poem with written solely by me, without the estimable help of A.Grayson, but he and I are beginning a poetry challenge, the rules of which I'm horribly unclear about. But it will involve us both writing more poems. Today's poem is, I think, free from the restrictions of the challenge. Enjoy.


Here's my poem:

MAGGOTS

Interrupting my sleep,
maggots swell in feverish
fits. The skin I’ve always
assumed was mine bursts forth
like an inadequate sack. It’s
always about sacks with you.
The white of their skin(?)
turned to grey in twilight
I couldn’t see, I was
holding my writhing hands
in front of my face, larvae
swooping inside each open hole.

The next day I was immaculate.
In the mirror, the maggot-white
bathroom wall was there but I
was not, I looked behind me,
then back. Had I been eaten?
Where were my remains? I always
Wanted to have remains, but this
way wasn’t fun.

Eighty-Third Entry

Hi ya'll!

It's been a little while, but I can't keep reclining in the easy chair after NaPoWriMo so A. Grayson Benko and I are gonna write some poems, starting with this little diddy.

Here's my poem:

EYE BLOOD

Enough to fill a teacup.
I live inside the human thorax.
These are my notes.

My finger shivered with the scalpel,
I was looking at the shine of the edge,
enjoying the touch of things is only
half the fun, the hands, like sensitive
mittens. With my free finger I pinch
a shoulder, wipe the blood from the wood.
Only half the book is available
to me now, the blood now wearing
my clothes instead of me, walking
unadorned with an eye-patch,
not consoling the empty socket.

I pretended to be the owner of this great land.
The blood walking down the street in my clothes.
I never liked it. That’s why, when the moment
came, my hand moved swiftly and gratuitously,
scalpel striking deep within myself. Hesitation
was not in me, I have always loved watching
my fingers do horrible things. I washed my hands
but I’ll never be sure that they’re clean.

Eighty-Second Entry

NaPoWriMo is over! No more stress about writing, at least not poetry, and there wasn't that much to begin with. I started the month with an empty slate, with absolutely no ideas and at the end of it I'm completely inspired! I'll definitely be participating next year. And in the meantime I'm gonna write a poem today, and maybe one every day. We'll see.

WARNING!!!!! This poem is not suitable for children of most adults.


Here's my poem:

PURE VOMIT 3

The vomit pail, tin silver
tinged in yellow. a crown
masking liquidated beans.
I grinned mercilessly as I pissed,
dousing the flames of the human penis
I had found smoldering inside.

Squat and disconnected from its host,
the penis, scorched black and a deep
red in many places, soaked with sterile
clear urine, partially nibbled upon
by ants, seemed a subject worthy
of my interest.

How did it get there? I knew it wasn't mine,
as it's skin was a different tone. In my mouth,
with it's squirming white-pink tongue, yellow-
white teeth covered in white mush and pinkish-
orangish gums, bile seemed to wash against
the inside of my lips. I had to do something.
I placed the penis delicately on my tongue.
The ants silently drowned in my saliva,
or else crawled along my gums biting me
in an exquisite and decadent fashion, almost
as if they knew what it was I was looking for,
not that I did. The heft and size and crispness
of its skin surprised me, as did the sharp salt
of the urine and the tasteless crunchiness
of the ants. But in the end of course, I knew
I was being foolish. I knew it would provide
no new information in my stomach, so after
taking one or two good solid bites against
it's tough gristle and cartlidge and swimming
them around as best I could, I, with thumb
and forefinger, fished it out of me and put it
back where I found it.

Eighty-First Entry

Continuing on in my gross poems vain, I warn the squemish that this stuff is gonna get grosser before it gets less gross.

Here's my poem:

PURE VOMIT 2

Rich's vomit was pure red, the Manhattan
sidewalk steamed with this out-pouring,
this shedding of skin, I spooned
the mixture into my already full mouth.
Broken glass, uncooked franks, wine-
flavored sick, watermelon rinds, uncooked
scabs, scabby chicken legs, it took twenty
minutes or so to horribly gag it down.

As I was punched it spewed from my lips,
leaving me new and empty like a fancy chair.
Someone decided to make me taste my blood,
which wasn't as sensory an experience, but
rather like the wine, Rich was nowhere to be found,
and I didn't dare open my eyes. The experience
was perfect as it was. Later, at my focus group,
I tried to re-create the effect with toothpicks,
wet cigars, whiskey soaked raw ham, etc.
We sat in a small circle and discussed. Then later,
I tripped walking down the stairs and tore a hole
out of my left knee (and jeans.)