Little Red Poem (Critique 12)

The Clouded Glass, Mark Rothko

Inspired by George Saunders' "The Red Bow"

the little red bow
fell from emily's head
through the ground

and she has fallen with it
under cold soil
somewhere far away
a little girl plays with her dog

A Story About the Body (Critique 11)

Inspired by Robert Hass's A Story About the Body

FADE IN:

1.  INT. ART STUDIO – NIGHT

A studio designed for multiple artists in an artist colony. All easels are vacant except one.

THE PAINTER, Japanese, almost 60, is the only one in the room. She works silently but earnestly at her easel. Her concentration never breaks.

2.  INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT

THE COMPOSER, in his 20s, is heading back to his cabin after a hard day’s work. He approaches the door to the art studio, left ajar, and sees THE PAINTER. He lingers there, studying her, transfixed.

3.  INT. ART STUDIO – NIGHT

Close up of the Painter as she continues to work. Pan out to see the Composer in the background. He accidentally DROPS A PENCIL he had been holding.

4.  INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT

Close up of the Composer’s face as he cringes with embarrassment. He flashes a goofy, toothy grin.

5.  INT. ART STUDIO – NIGHT

Close up of the Painter’s face as she, with utmost sweetness, returns his grin.

6.  INT. ART STUDIO – NEXT DAY

There are four or five more artists in the studio. The Painter sits in the same place.

7.  INT. HALLWAY – DAY

The Composer power-walks down the hallway. His excitement colors his frantic, jerky walk. He comes to the art studio’s open door and walks in.

8.  INT. ART STUDIO – DAY

The Composer approaches The Painter from behind. He inquires politely about the painting, asking a naïve sort of question like “What is it?” or “What does it mean?”

The Painter turns and smiles demurely. She answers sincerely but slowly and with great effort, as if she were talking to a child. 

Surgery, Betsey Noorzay

Tantalizer (Exercise 12)

L'Ange du Foyer, Max Ernst

my grandmother's body-bronzing luminizer
is called
tantalizer
and I can't get the stains off my
                       under
                       under
                       under
                       wear
                       where
the fire burns sterile
any chances I might have.

My Tea is Cold (Exercise 11)

Oil Painting of China Tea Cup with Spoon, Elizabeth Blaylock

These are the facts:

I spent some morning moments
looking at a girl's lower back
she wore yoga pants
skin peaked out and
I peaked at it and
hated it.
now I don't know if I looked
because I wanted it for my own
because I wanted to destroy it
or because I wanted it to destroy
me.

                   

America the Great and Prosperous (Critique 10)

Inspired by Gerald Stern's "Columbia the Gem" 

Split Level, Jerry Kunkel

They lift this house aching in the nicest suburbia 

The polite neighbor louder than the quiet voice

The smile. The cramped smile 

Their time is reputation 

Here the words can make cute finger puppets

of their hello's and pitying how are you's 

Here the town poor can feel presumptuous stares 

and the privileged upper crust can shut their 

jewel encrusted doors a tad 

Here the house erupts its sticky innards 

and sits, in its thick silence, unlike the others 

among ashes.

It Stands (Exercise 10)

Open Window, Michel Varisco

a slice within a slice within 

a prepackaged laminated entryway 

open window made the sky rain bricks

no more foundation~background blurs

sepia tones filter color powers

beyond the open window there is only

open white 

crinkles and cracks in the bricks like 

lines on grandmother's forehead their

dusty crevices smell of sawdust 

and early morning 

the window stands though the brick

has crumbled 

an infinite entryway 

a slice within a slice within 

a postcard 

it never topples 

Stray Haikus (Critique 9)

Beach Buddies, Carol Allen Anfinsen

Inspired by Mark Richard's "Strays" 

we lie awake and 

listen to the screen doors crunch 

don't burn the house down 

uncle trash plays us 

together we stand buck naked 

don't burn the house down 

the cuts eat children 

we eat sirloins smoke cigars

don't burn the house down 

reel in the stray dog

she cries her white-hot blue-flame

don't burn the house down 

Marjorie Stewart (Exercise 9)

I saw the woman on the subway this morning. I was on my way to my first day of work at Kip's Diner, one of those godforsaken cheesy New York breakfast joints. The subway was crowded with people itching to get moving. They stood clumped together like little toy cars all wound up but given no track to run on. The woman sat in the middle of it, a human stoplight above the traffic. She was much older and had been offered a seat immediately by some guilty twenty-something with an overwrought moral compass. She was dressed in a magenta sweater set with a blazer over it. She clutched a Wall Street style briefcase engraved "Marjorie Stewart" close to her chest, as though it were a young child or a helpless puppy. Ms. Stewart's legs were splayed outward abnormally, her knees a curiously large width apart. Her sizable knee-span contributed to the lack of space on the car, but none of us had the cojones to scold an older woman.

We hit stop after stop and Ms. Stewart remained. Her face was transfixed: mouth gaping, eyes grinning as if they were listening to a dirty secret. Suddenly her delicate knees began to quiver slightly, teetering and tottering like a house of cards dangerously close to kicking it. Her small but determined hands gripped the briefcase and shook it violently. Her smiling eyes rolled further and further back into her head.

Morally compromised twenty and thirty-somethings panicked. Ma'am are you alright? Concerned touches on the shoulder. Someone check her heart rate. Could she be having a stroke? I stood glued to my designated spot by the car door, waiting for Ms. Stewart's brittle frame to turn topple and turn into sand.

Just as a noble man was preparing to call 911, Ms. Stewart thrusted her legs outward, arched her spine, threw her head back and moaned. Silence. The vultures backed away from the carcass. Ms. Stewart loosened her grip and laid her feet flat on the ground.

Once the other patrons realized what had happened, most tried to avert their eyesight. A few stifled their thin giggles.

The car stopped, officially in uptown. Ms. Stewart stood, gathered her briefcase, and turned to leave. As she stood, an unopened can of Coca Cola fell from between her legs. Still cold and dripping with condensation, the can's contents fizzled and popped as it rolled across the car. Marjorie Stewart left without a word. Her special little can went untouched until maintenance cleaned the car late that night.

Mural Painting for Helena Rubinstein, Salvador Dali

The Customer (Exercise 8)

The man still had the lube in his hands when Jasmine and I left. The Walgreens on Magazine Street was popping with activity that Friday evening. The crowd consisted mostly of those whiny college kids, each one searching for something. Some searched for the courage to use their cheap fake IDs, others (drunk already) searched for puffy Cheetos. Jasmine and I didn't fall into either category. She wanted cigarettes and I'd agreed to come with, rather than stand alone on the street corner.

A tall, hairy, irate man gesticulated violently at the woman behind the counter. Spittle shot from his throat as he roared, gripping a cardboard box with one hand and using the other to punctuate his angry, fragmented speech. Jasmine and I stood three people behind him in line. We craned our necks to listen.

The woman behind the counter explained to the man that she was not in charge of inventory and then asked if she could ring up his cardboard box. The man’s paws gnawed at the cardboard encasing two matching bottles of Sexy Jelly: one pink, one blue, adorable.

With a slight stammer, the man explained to the woman behind the counter that tubes of Sexy Jelly were usually sold separately. There was to be a set of his and hers and separate tubes of just his and just hers. The man gasped for a breath and let the air settle in his chest, holding it there to keep tears from falling.

The woman behind the counter sighed and recollected herself almost mournfully. Her eyebrows moved with a pitiful lift as she said she couldn’t help him with that. 

The man’s tired, red hands relaxed for a beat but didn’t let go. He looked through the ground under his feet and said that no one could.

As Jasmine bartered for her cigarettes, I kept my eyes fastened on the lube man. He had stepped out of the checkout line, but hadn’t left the store. He stood a few paces away from the automatic door, his transfixed eyes staring forward, his hands still gripping the cardboard box. 

The little pianist, Michael Maier

The Orgasm (Critique 8)

Inspired by Margaret Atwood's "The Female Body" 

1. The Orgasm is written with a sacred capital "O." The fleeting sensation that runs from one corner of my body to the next with its sticky tail on fire. But the Orgasm is bred in captivity--nurtured and cared for by only a few. Even I at times wish to disengage from this current that puts me at odds with the demands of my femininity. The Orgasm has a trademark stench.

2. The Orgasm laughs at my hands as I try to grasp it and slaps my tiny white knuckles when I try to stuff its volume inside me. It is our God-given right--is it not? For every human being to feel explosions in their belly. The fumes float upward to my brain.

3. How many? How pungent? How long do they last? How long until I catch one? I've set my trap: the pathetic lace of my brassiere, the tired curve of my hips, the gracelessly intoxicating scent of my perfume. I am a girl that has yet to catch the animal.

Bathers, Andre Derain 

Electricity (Critique 7)

Inspired by Mike Doughty's "From a Gas Station Outside Providence"

caresses

Electricity, Man Ray

filtered through the glaring light
of webpages
you are not connected
to the internet
thin line of imagined closeness
like a dark corridor between
two houses in suburbia
that look exactly the same

fierce keyboard touches
such empty bodies
I kiss you with
cell phone lips
Mark Zuckerberg is in control
of my relationship
and I want to beg for it back

smiley face, winky face, heart
I love you
eight letters
three words
what font? what size? what spelling?

I want
the smell of your neck
when your cologne mixes with
your sweat
I want
your caterpillar scruff
when it coaxes my jive

the royal blue bannered filter
for socially awkward gestures
of love
interrupts

the electricity dances inside me
and dies
before it gets to you

Scribbles (Exercise 7)

My mind is: 

a cinder block being pushed down a hill

a heavy door closing on my finger tips

crusty bird poop matted in my hair

a beautiful bouquet of artificial flowers

a marking made in pencil

My mind is jello made to stand on its own. 

Salvador Dali, Temptation of St. Anthony

Beginning (Exercise 6)

Nude in a Wood, Henri Matisse

when I was a child I breathed fairy dust
pastel colored tutus, fluffy tulle, a pair of mother's heels
I stripped my barbies of their tops and bottoms
and stared at the naked plastic
squished barbie and ken together just so just so
just so their shiny silicone bellies touched
when I was a child I didn't understand
I still don't know
how to understand
how to understand
how to understand
how body jelly
congeals.

Incarnation of Unfinished Book Reports (Critique 6)

Father had already thrown the paper at the girl before Mother knew what was going on. Tall, wide, and loud, Father followed the girl around the room with his waggling sausage finger and boisterous voice something about a book report and why haven't you and this isn't good enough and why and paper flies  hot from the warmth of the printer and hot from tears that won't stop coming like his words they drop heavily from his mouth like guttural growls of a bear about to pounce and the girl tries to hide. The chase moves around the house, bear charging toward gazelle and mother appears, standing frozen, watching it all, as tiny feet scramble trying to walk backwards, away from the hands, but suddenly there is no place left to walk and--

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bumblebee around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening, Salvador Dali

Interrogation at the Nude Dam (Critique 5)

Starry Night Over the Rhone, Vincent Van Gogh

The night was too big

The star map for when we are all gone 

A slow comet of perfume hangs over the room 

We spent the afternoon in a world so alien 

The star map for when we are all gone

She unhooks her bra and flings it against a bookcase

We spent the afternoon in a world so alien 

The record spins like a bull's eye 

She unhooks her bra and flings it against a bookcase 

There was something beyond energy 

The record spins like a bull's eye 

History does not explain it all 

There was something beyond energy 

A slow comet of perfume hangs over the room 

History does not explain it all 

The night was too big 

When Words Turn to Ice (Exercise 5)

Mother looked down the thin line of her nose as she saw her daughter approaching.
"Who was that you were talking to, Elizabeth? I've never seen her before.."
"Her name is Chloe. She's new. She invited me over--Mother can I please go, please, please?"
Mother's eyes followed Chloe about the room with a look so disdainful, her cold words froze in midair.
"I've never seen one of them here before."
"One of who? Mother, please just let me go for an hour, please?"
Elizabeth's childlike mind was still unconditioned, unable to grasp hatred so penetrating.
"You have one hour. Go."

Knock, Knock (Exercise 4)

"I've never met anyone with skin so dark," was Elizabeth's first attempt at conversation with Chloe. The meeting had ended and the children sat in silence while their mothers mingled pleasantly.
"I've never met anyone that looks so scared all the time. Your eyes are about to pop out of your head!"
Elizabeth felt a white hot panic well up inside her as her eyes darted to the nearest reflective surface. Her eyes were, indeed, still intact.
"Whoa, whoa I was only joking. You know what a joke is, right?"
"Yes, of course! Funny! Oh I have one: knock, knock!"
"Who's there?"
"...Oh heavens I forgot the second part."
But Chloe smiled anyway and meekly asked, "Do you want to come over?"

Black Jazz Shoes (Critique 4)

Todd Gray, 1981

Warm summer air coats thick, metal bass strings

Cicadas tick-ticking in time with the trap set 

The Texas heat could never take away my cool

That day;

I was playing with my band. 

Small, dark room houses earnest, teenage dreams

Of thrusting your heart into someone else's 

Of moving the way you move when you set your body free

To make scuffs on the ground with my shiny, black jazz shoes

While the bass thump-thumps in my chest

Just like he did. 

A friend comes in the room to tell us something

Something that murders the vibrations 

Something that paralyzes our dancing feet

The King of Pop is dead

We search for Billie Jean tabs. 

At First Sight (Exercise 3)

Elizabeth took a seat on the ground between Mother and a convulsing woman whose name she did not remember. Although she'd seen it countless times before, Elizabeth could never acclimate to these surroundings. Women and girls, neighbors and friends, all speaking in tongues. Their bodies gyrated as the words sprang forth from their bulging chests. Elizabeth could never make eye contact.

In an attempt to distract herself, Elizabeth peered around the room looking for anything to hold her gaze until the chaos subsided. She looked to the door just as an unfamiliar mother had made her way into the foyer, dragging alongside her a girl Elizabeth's age.

The girl's dark eyes and even darker skin struck Elizabeth as radiantly and exotically beautiful, so different from her own. Elizabeth waited in quiet suspense for the stranger to fill out a name tag, as was protocol for everyone at the meetings.

Elizabeth watched the dark little girl move toward her seat as her name tag, in bright orange marker, read: Chloe.

The Easy Bake Oven (Critique 3)

Springtime, Claude Monet

So much depends upon being


tiny 


and beautiful 

Pink walls breathe Easy Bake ovens

Fluffy tulle begs from Mommy's jewelry box


to go back. 

On Keeping Cool (Critique 2)

Icare, Henri Matisse

I fold myself between the sheets and fabric envelops me, pushing me from all sides. The pretty pink walls close in on me purring the promise of sweet dreams. I shuffle confused legs and lanky arms in the pursuit of the perfect position. Palms grab at the linen's cool exterior. A handful of brisk water hits pale skin when I find the spot where cool caresses me. Cool holds me as I fall asleep. Somewhere a little girl dreams of being a princess. 

Never a Hair out of Place (Exercise 2)

    Though Mother spent exorbitant amounts of time talking about Jesus, Elizabeth never went to church. Every Tuesday and Saturday Elizabeth went to what Mother called "meetings" with people called "workers." Every week a new worker hosted the meeting. 

    On this particular Tuesday, Mother led Elizabeth into a dimly lit room the shape of an oval. Gaggles of women leaned on rickety knees, swaying back and forth with rosaries clasped in their sweaty palms. The sharp, angled carvings of the crucifix left red indentations in their skin where the sorry hands had held too tightly, waited too long to let go. Elizabeth observed the frantic motions: torsos limp like jello made to stand on its own, eyes fluttering open and closed as if desperately running away from the confines of a nightmare--buns of blonde, brunette, and red hair teetering and tottering in time with scared bodies of scared women apologizing for their fear and their follies. 

His Word is Law (Exercise 1)

Elizabeth's sun-kissed blonde hair sat in an airtight, lumpy bun on the top of her head—but Jesus wanted it that way. Mother didn’t let Elizabeth put pretty bows or barrettes in her hair. In fact, Mother didn’t let Elizabeth touch her hair at all.

“Mother, why can’t I get a haircut?” Elizabeth had asked on far too many occasions.

“Because this is our sacrifice to God, honey. How many times have we had this conversation? God likes our hair long and natural. He doesn’t like for us to play with it. He wants us to keep our hair long and pretty because we’re proud to be girls, just like he made us. When you grow up and get married, you’ll keep your hair long to look nice and pretty for your husband. He’ll like it better that way. Little girls shouldn’t go around trying to look like little boys—Jesus says so in the Bible, Elizabeth, and his word is law.”

Mother often got lost in the slippery, tangled thread of her monologues. Elizabeth often got lost staring out the window at the vast expanse of rural Houston terrain. She found that, if she started long enough, she would forget who and where she was. She liked it that way.