Sixtieth Entry

Night One of the Grand Ball of Ashbery. It wasn't too bad, many of the readers were entertaining. The Polish poets, who seem to have a feverish love of Ashbery, read with thick accents and quiet intensity. Ron Padgett was great, as was Anne what's her face, the young one. I bet Amy that David Shapiro would talk for half an hour and surprise surprise! But, as I commented to reader Mark Bibbins afterwards "It's David's world, we just live in it." "It's David's world, Kenneth Koch just lives in it," he said. Then Amy and I and some friends went to the Cedar in order to avoid being confused with shmoozers at the Loup. Which of course we are, but it's important to avoid the impression being given. Now on to round two.

Here's my poem:

WAREWOLF

Heads made of destruction derby wreckage,
a pine branch snaps in the glen, aboard
a stealthy clipper I entertain
my crew, dancing the day away, holding
hands with the rough-skinned sailors, eyes
to the heavens, hearts in the water. Only
later are the bodies found below decks.
The highway blurs as the camera
sticking out of a speeding car
is clicked on by the crew, and behind
the lighting display, in a tarp-covered tent
my makeup is applied, hair glued, glue
painted, like the old masters in Europe
might have done, thick with color,
lousy with oil, canvas strecthed like
skin while it's young, expressing
something, being seen by people,
quietly walking through white rooms
looking at walls and talking about
how they understand it.

Fifty-Ninth Entry

I am soooooooo god-awfully sick. It was probably from that date I went on the other night where we walked about 15 blocks in the rain, and me with no umbrella. I STILL think it was worth it though.

In the words of Atom and His Package, "people in this computer lab should shut the hell up."

Today's poem is titled after a Chrome song that I particularly like. My challenge to you fellow NaPoWriMo-ers (if you actually are reading) is to write a poem based on a favorite song title.

Here's my poem:

ZOMBIE WARFARE (Never Let It Get You Down)

Your skins have encountered my faces
several times, unfortunately alone in dark
places, for this I can only shrug my shoulder.
Let's stumble down the street and watch
the fight between bitter dead arch-rivals.
Are there sufficient answers
for our meager, half-pronounced questions?
Enunciating is difficult, the sun takes
its toll, laboriously melting me into
some sort of soup, if possible, we could
eat this soup and gain some sort of power.
Ever since birth I have been obsessed
in a middle-class way with power, having
never really had any, I muse on what
exactly it is. I will probably (now)
never find out, but at least I can walk
deliberately in the street without fear.
No cars are coming, and they would do
no significant damage. Now it is a question
of continuing on, as in "how long
can I continue?" Is there method
here? With whom would I discuss it?
The coffee bar is closed.

Fifty-Seventh Entry

Coming in just under the wire for this one.

There was a blizzard for like a couple of hours and then a clear sky. What the heck?

Here's my poem:

STEALING POLAROIDS

I place them on the stolen refridgerator.
We have a gig tonight. Issac's band
has twelve guitarists who taught themselves
how to play. I take you to a photo booth
and rub my face all over yours. I miss
you now, like I miss home, not because
it was so great, but because nothing else
has happened. When the Beatles were in
Hamburg they went by the name the
Mighty Blue Birds, they had three
guitarists who taught themselves how
to play. When I steal their photographs
I will fashion a medallion of their tongues
and this enchantment will surely,
finally for once, give me some luck.

Fifty-Sixth Entry

Taking a LONG lunch break to write a poem today. Would Frank "Lunch Poems" O'Hara be proud? YOU BE THE JUDGE:

Here's my poem:

OVERWEIGHT VEGANS

The skeletal skull,
freakish alien hood, yellow work gloves
because we don’t want to be tainted.
Curving the blanket around two,
built for one. Now there are four of us,
did you hear that howl? Should I wait
for the swinging whines of the train
to jump or just jump? Why are we eating this?
The trash in the park has developed
a society, often while walking through
I will bear witness to a cultural event.
Often some sort of sporting event
is occurring, often the bridge falls
into the sea as the sun rises, it’s
really very emotional for many people.

Fifty-Fifth Entry

Man, I keep having a hard time sleeping ever since my curtain broke. The garbage truck woke me up at like 6 in the morning today and I haven't quite recovered.

NaPoWriMo seems to be going quite well for people. I have nothing else constructive to say about it.

I'm featured on my college's website with a few sample poems. Goody! And a picture. Although my stupid anti-bush sticker is edited out, which I find hilarious. Go here: http://www.csf.edu/csf/academics/chi/samplework-profiles.html

My poem today is about a Japanese video game called Chu Chu Rocket.

Here's my poem:

CHU CHU ROCKET

Chu Chu Rocket is a video game about sinners, welts, heroin, violence, snot, grime and oil.

Chu Chu Rocket is a game by Bradley in which the spaceman must confront his nimble mistress with his sudden, aching disease while the General Hospital organ music swells.

Chu Chu Rocket is a visual representation of liquid circuitry, denying the existence of the Torah and the popularity of comedians Rowan and Martin.

Chu Chu Rocket sees your alluring creamy naked form, patting the pillow and winking a mile wide, it sees you as a series of ones and zeros.

Chu Chu Rocket injects me (as I play it) with squid sugar and wraps my face in scotch tape like I was Pee-Wee Herman.

Chu Chu Rocket has certain viewpoints about homosexuals.

Fifty-Fourth Entry

New Entry HOOOOOOOOOOO!

Jackson has been singing a song using my poem as lyrics while I've been writing it. Here are the results of our "collaboration."

Here's my poem:

WEARWOLF

Hymen encased in foil.
Now we remember our youths as janitors.
The potion removes skin, encases the lucky ones
in a foul bag of humours.

Claws scratching the midnight, oh you,
Now we remember the minutes with skin
backwards, blown out under the bridge
old newspapers worn by deaf urchins.

I stay away from the doctor at night.
I hide in moss like a secret, yowling
eaten along the path. Moments later
I enshroud the moon with my delights.

Fifty-Third Entry

YAY it's happy NaPoWriMO day! for more info please see Maureen's blog on my links.

I'm writing a poem a day all month. This one's title is again supplied by Shanna Compton.

Here's my poem:

SNACKS FOR THE PARTY

I tell you my intestines are full.
The parasites within them are bloated,
and are relaxing on couches
and are unloosening their belt-buckles.

They are watching the Dallas Cowboys lose.
I am telling you about diseases I could get
that I might enjoy, you are telling me to eat
chex mix because the salt compliments my beer,

and how long have you been a witch? I noticed
the cauldron but of course said nothing
until you threw chicken dumplings in
the hot tub. I was using that,

and you were using me. Our friends
will be along soon, I wonder what
I will do when you’re gone, when
the spell I cast is finally broken.

I like candy, too, but my real
passion is chips, so before
the party starts let’s put a few things out
on the table, and hope no one suspects.