abcprincess' LiveJournal Entries [entries|friends|calendar]
abcprincess

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[09 Sep 2005|04:11pm]
Thought I'd post these. Was reading this shit after years of writing it. Maybe to have it out there will make it seem worse so I can then burn. start it over?


David Lehman

The resin left from folding
and folding might be smoking.
I think I see stacks of it in the distance.
Wasn’t it yesterday I picked us up
some oranges--the pulp left little
bits of sticking around your lips?
I thought then, as I do now, there
are little wars everywhere. Could be
hawk or helicopter flying some white
flag but we won’t notice. We are
shadows to such volume. You might
say we’ve eased into the weeds, David Lehman,
you and I. Then again, you might not.


If You Squint, It Flattens

I wade out until inner thighs are raw.
We thought we worked this equation out,
offered variables of body like bread to birds,
but water’ s-x-sum kept us
from reaching the island of biscuit.
We could make a boat, thin as tissue,
and paddle with our angled fingers,
as if we were ready to be shoveled over
or fractioned by salt. (I didn’ t say knives.
I didn’t say this story would be particular butchery.)
Here, on mainland, the factor between us
is crooked, is a length divided by distance, squared,
add a blanket, and span two of my ass.
We won’t make it
off this shore--it’s this ocean,
(a fractal expansion of ocean) and if you squint
it flattens into a blanket of porn.

Honey, you have pulled us from meshed nets
to stained bathing suits and back to this matter.
And it is math, where land is a lacing
of nerves; it’s the exponential force
of whirlpooling into you that confounds--length
of your legs multiplied in mine. I square you.
I divide me. You slink, slip twice on shore.
I intersect sun and salt water.
This porn blanket, the way it refracts, I do before you.


Outline
I. I would’ ve enjoyed walking from hotel to restaurant had it not been for breath
II. Two miles along backside streets and things are foggy with it
A. It’ s not enough to say “winter” when I can smell onions and pinetree on
the mouth of a stranger
III. Landscapes bore me
A. This particular one resembles the profile of my high school counselor
1. I am not
a. resourceful
b. proficient
c. planned or stimulated
2. because in my own version of heaven I am blond
a. thinner and contagious
IV. No one really dies in stories in these landscapes
A. or between the hours of 5 and 6 a.m.
B. If I could come back from the dead I would
V. Now near the end of the middle stretch of the road
VI. It turns out I am walking in the wrong direction to La Cazuela
A. The smell of tacos drifts from the other side of town
B. I want to sit at a table
1. drink sangria
2. re-read my horoscope in the newspaper
a. the one from this morning
b. that says I should not lean
c. but it’ s a good day to lie
i. flat on my back

Tricycle

Today in the winter air while I tried
not to want a cigarette, it was my love for you
that set me blazing. And isn’t it funny?
how together we seem red
and with three wheels, one there
for its fascination of the other and the back one
like an exposed root or tail, bumper
suddenly tied to with empty cans.
When will we begin to gather how indifferent
this difference of age? Let wildfires take it, finally,
bring your slurpie if you’ re afraid to come alone.
Because this is going to be great, this is--
we're biking towards it like we're going up a hill.
5 smacks|smack me

[01 May 2002|02:23am]
four-letter words

We are on our way to the zoo.
You are trying to teach
me the benefits of washing prior to sex, but I like the stick and sweat
of beforeness. I will not budge
so you pull over and yell jesus!
but I think you mean
jackpot! You hate to lose.

When I want to define gristle,
I explain gripe instead.
I have shown you all my private zigzags but you insist on the long
route. It’s not enough to say
cup when we really mean christ.

These little misunderstandings
have brought us to this—the spilling
of our pea green snow cones while watching zebras shuffle around tighter cages.
If this were a cartoon, my bubble
would be blank. Yours might say
what a shame! as a stand-in for other
finer points. Behind us large cats
kick-up dust and will not settle.
41 smacks|smack me

[18 Apr 2002|02:42am]
damn...some of those stanzas are right margined..anyone know how to do this on LJ??
3 smacks|smack me

[18 Apr 2002|02:39am]
Princess Little-Fingers Flush Left and Right

Pink sheets are a blush, inside
out in the dryer. How strange
it is, this world
of low-light and sub-color.
Note to self:
Must remember bleach.

When Little-Fingers
envisions her Prince Fernypoo,
it is a blue chunk
of a bedroom,
but some thing is off
at the hanger, a closet door stuck—
she can only outline a bottom
half of his body,
belly-button to toe, like a part
ghost that shoe-shoes her away.

Tuesday’s To Do:
de-frost lamb
pick-up slip from cleaners
tiara to jeweler for cleaning

After a day of standing in doorways,
focusing shadows into shape until
they root like follicles, she pulls
cucumber from the fridge, an over-
stuffed raggedy-anne from the shelf.
If ever the twain shall meet,
here is my prince! She casts spells
of white horse variety. Sheets
kick up heels in the washer.
Her little-pinkies keep
time to their rhythm.

Friday’s To Do:
place rent ad
doctor’s appointment
re-alignment


In her dreams as usual
he will wake with an erection
& she will take hold
of all the good spaces left.
Afterwards, sponges of black
run across his eyelids,
she will grab him like this
& what’s that? (he thinks)
an extension of pinkness in black?

Who needs men anyway?
They get old and grow
nose hairs
(the queen says).
If can you imagine
the Princess in real time,
flushed right
by her self in bed,
the fairy tale, like broken
italics, is missing its counter-part—
fingers seem bigger in this dark.
smack me

[13 Apr 2002|08:03pm]
Misconception of Meteorologist


We are weather�
the cumulative unless
as it is sunny
unless the sky
is grey.
I am here
unless I am
there. Fog unless
sun. Your vein
is not particularly
connected. One
less mercury
to read.
We are weather�
whether at or less
to add to my loss.
Less you, I am rain,
less through with
sane. Titter that tat,
pitter me pat.
Your smile
is not particular
sunshine. Your hands
are not particular
cold. You are more
unless you are less.


My Street, an Old-Age-Home

or

bal�loon (bə-lōōn�) n. 1.A spherical, flexible, nonporous bag inflated with a gas lighter than air that causes it to rise and float in the atmosphere. 2.A rounded or irregularly shaped outline containing words. 3.To expand or swell out.


I�ve come to cheek you out, Ms. Bellotte,
you who brings hell to my doorstep.
I saw your fault before you showed it--
I�ve caught your cat before.

To Mrs. Thomas, Harris, and March
who sit on porch swings and sip
(day)
and watch QVC. You let your
tv�s fizzle�their electrostatic mag-
nation turns on my microwave
(at night).

I live cement. I hate this street.
Old ladies whose bagels are mouths
are o�s, let�s take out our teeth
to get a sense of humor. Watch me
watch mayonnaise, watch anything
you can get your hands or beards on.

I�ve heard you, Caliente, verse recite
at the top of your lungs near daybreak�
your childhood poems make me want
to take your baby and crack.
You think I knot write well
i doughnut fink in verds.

What if i were a bag of wands,
a vag-a-bond? Take a left
at Johnson Drive, a right at Howard
who sits in his wheelchair in the middle
of the street. You cannot around him get.
I fashion inflatable out of your pee-bag,
Ms. Hampton. I begin: I balloon
helium, bag, lift (ah)





I've been in a bit of a slump lately--and this last poem is probably the evil-est thing i've ever written...whatever that means--i've been having to write a statement of poetics for my workshop and i think it's fucking with the way i write....so i've added what i have so far on the statement that sucks as well...i can't always be perfect i guess..HA! i'm having a diction problem...ugh



This paper is my attempt at defining a personal statement of �poetry� and how my own poems work within this vein. I do not plan to write on my own �poetics� because as Robert Sheppard, author of �The Necessity of Poetics,� has stated, �writers are notoriously bad at reading their own work.� Yet �poetics� is, at times, interchangeable with �poetry.� A definition of poetics is needed, then, in order to understand poetry as a separate entity. Poet and critic Andy Kissane writes, �It seems that any statement about poetics is necessarily provisional and out-of-date. I do not want to keep writing the same poem and so this statement is more about what I have done in the past than what I will do in the future.� Poetics posits itself between two realms�that of the process of writing and the reflection on that writing. Poetics is always speculatively casting into the future as a dialogue with the activity of making or creating. Poetics refuses to claim poetry; that is, poetry as the zen state of here and now as poetics meanders between past and future. In a letter to Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop writes, �It seems to me it�s the whole purpose of art, to the artist (not to the audience)�that rare feeling of control, illumination�life is all right for the time being� (EBLet 350). Bishop�s stress on the present tense in art is analogous with poetry. One cannot imagine the interchange of the word �art� with that of �poetics.� Poetry, then, is �art� while poetics is not; it is apoetic as it runs the risk of operating as self-justification.
Yet these are slippery terms, especially when one uses the singular of �poetics,� �the poetic.� Poetic seems to fit more closely into the realm of poetry than it does with that realm of poetics as the poetic can refer to a singular occurrence of poetry in the present state. If one takes into account the quote by Adrienne Rich that �the writing of the text itself can be in some ways a negotiation of place, a negotiation that the text itself enacts in order to make itself at home. �Home� is understood finally not as a given, essentialized location, but a consciously constructed relation to place,� then �poetry� and �poetics� is both negotiation and negation. If one sees poetics as creating a home, it posits itself in the present tense just as the reader of this paper is in the present and, maybe, unaware that actual time is slipping away. I write �actual� time because �internal� time seems something different, something more inherent to the mental process in creation than to the large clock at the city�s town square. Somehow I have strayed from my original intent to define poetics versus poetry. In my getting nowhere, it seems that this debate is always open and changing and so I leave it to more articulate prose writers.
If poetry can be likened to a home and a place of the present, it is also a place of experience or a home for experience. In this �home� words and ideas die and are revitalized, not necessarily in that order and not pertaining to an after-life for words (although I�m sure that there is one). My poem �My Street, An Old Age Home or Balloon� attempts to touch on this�the rejuvenation of ideas and words and their locale in generation. But, poetry is also about re-decorating and building onto that home. It was Anne Bradstreet who wrote, �there�s no new thing under the sun: there is nothing that can be said or done, but either that or something like it hath been done and said before.� Bradstreet�s use of the term �something like it� points to the re-decoration of this poetry house. The tenants or owners before you may have lived in the exact same house, �no new thing under the sun,� yet it is your decoration of that house that makes it separate and new. Poems that create different boundaries through the pretense of switching genre do re-decorate or build. �Split Infinities� and �Outline� try to work out this affectation of genre. Specifically, �Outline� asks about the limits of poetry; it asks if it can build a door leading to a brick wall or a new wing onto its house without contracting a builder while �Split Infinities� changes decor style from classic to modern. How much genre-switching can a poem withhold before it is not a poem? Likewise, how many rooms can be added to a house before the foundation collapses? And if the foundation does collapse, what kind of house should be built from the debris? Maybe we shouldn�t re-build a house at all; maybe an apartment building is suitable. How many poets does it take to screw in a light bulb? This is a bad joke (to which I do not know the punch line), but hopefully, you see where I am going with this poetic-house metaphor as it has numerous possibilities in explaining poetry, as does the evolution of language. My poem �Uninvited House Guest� struggles with the world of poetry in a disturbed poetic-house metaphor.
Writing is re-naming. Adrienne Rich writes, �Human lives are full of fantasy�passive day-dreaming which need not be acted on. But to write poetry is not to fantasize, or to put fantasies on paper. For a poem to coalesce, for a character or action to take shape, there has to be an imaginative transformation of reality which is in no way passive.� Not a single one of my poems is reality. I have never lain in a dried-up lake behind my house nor had sex in a bathroom stall. Yet each poem carries its own reality�they are transformations not fantasies, as I do not want to have sex in a bathroom stall. In transforming reality, I re-name that reality similar to imagining a doppelganger. If I were to lie in a dried-up lake, it would not have the same power of reality that poems carry. Poetry, then, is its own authenticity of a reality and it is this authenticity that creates a landscape of new �under the sun� personal experiences.
5 smacks|smack me

[20 Mar 2002|10:24am]
thank you for all the wonderful b'day wishes, my LJ friends!
2 smacks|smack me

[15 Mar 2002|11:46pm]
some new strange shit that's been popping into my head. not very interesting but what the hell...it's my journal, who cares:


its you me or him

i shimmer sweet saccharine,
i shudder as you spread.
i was watching for holes in quiltwork,
i am leaning into your crotch.

you carry yourself on fine threads,
you gargle with salt waters.
you eat danish on Tuesdays,
you were the first to spill jam in my lap.

he left when you were eight,
he thinks good riddance.
he walks towards cotton candy clouds,
hes not looking up.

i cant remember the taste of peanut butter when i sleep.
you curl like the cut-edge of an avocado.
he can go fuck himself.

no sweets today no sweets today no sweets today no sweets

And this one that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me yet........trying to fuck with catch phrases but the actual form of the poem is fucking with me....happens like this sometimes....have i mentioned i'm drunk right now? hmmmm.....

Catch-all, interrupted


its the new improved tattooed you
arising out of the cab!
*
(you curl like the skin of cut orange.
you rhyme with nothing.)
*
shed that second brain in just two weaks!
*
(open your door--light varies its beams
two by two, marco, wear ark you?)
*
ready, set, shimmer.
*
(and so she kept me clenched in her palm.)
*
(there seems a deep mystery in his DNA.)
*
feeling lucky? take a bite out of Barbie.
*
(just watch any child with crime,
sooner or later the torture begins.)
*
refer your medicine. eat your friend.
*
a cock a day keeps the doctor away.
*
(and yet i dont believe its the net
of glitter above
that calls to you,
polo)

And remember that evil ex girlfriend i had...what did i call her on LJ? hmmmm...*thinking*..will have to look this up..can't remember....i guess these were written with her in mind......


Call

Before the night has set, let me just say thisWhen I wake in the morning I will still think of you, of the times we have been naked on my bed, on yours, how the light has played so many tricks on me before, how Ive seen things that arent there or shouldnt be and how I wanted that curve in your back, arch in the hip, turn of the lip to be real. The sound that comes out of your mouth, your innerwhateverwhen you cum and how Ive played that in my head over and over when Im bored or upset or waiting tables and not liking the people that eat salmon and grits. Let me just say this before the night takes over.
That you will be the first thing I think about in the morning. Whether it be raining or not. And especially if its cloudy. But I will not come to you when Im sorry. I will not walk that slow step over and kiss you on the cheek. I will not know what I have done wrong. I will only know the awkwardness in my jaw, the taught in my teeth, the grind in my hip. Im sorry. I cant promise these things to you. I have nothing to show for what I know or have done or might do in the future. I live on words. On those deeds that mean I dont always say what I mean. And I cant explain anything. Before the night has gone, let me whisper what I mean. Let me near what I know is you or what Ive made you into. Because this is not about me. Its about the night and how I can live my whole life waiting for it to set or rise and now that its near, I dont know what to call it.



The Holidays

Holiday I

Ive flown to florida for thanksgiving
with my recently titled ex-girlfriend.
We wake at five a.m.
Its her twenty-seventh birthday;
a security breach in the airport
and we wait five hours to fly.
The night ends with me crying in our bed.
How is it that some holes are never
filled? You try rubber bands, paperclips,
staples, but somehow you are only
like a magnet: attracting random objects.


Holiday II

Like a magnet attracting random objects,
my entire family arrives at the door in one group.
I lock myself in the bedroom to write
but its no use, they want me to come
out. Its been three years. My hair
is red, my body fuller. My cousin
has brought her girlfriend of five years
who just had her stomach stapled.
She only eats squash. And I look
at my ex in the chair across from me
discussing tattoos with my grandfather.
Im fantasizing a way to get her in the bathroom,
sit her on the counter with spread legs,
my mouth a butterfly.

Holiday III

My mouth a butterfly,
I speak softly to my moms best friend
on the phone. Her husband is dying and my mom
has called her in the middle of the meal.
But we talk about nothing and I think
of spinach and stardust. Are we really all from
the big bang? This spinach doesnt taste fresh,
and I cant say anything to make this woman
feel better. My four year old cousin falls on tile
(no stanza break)
The Holidays, page 2
and starts crying. My grandfather has moved
to the couch and is rolling a joint. And some
random man paddling a kayak screams
happy turkey day at us on the screened-in porch.
My parents live on the intercoastal.

Holiday IV

My parents live on the intercoastal
waterway between this world and the next, that other.
Here, I am too old to be told
what to do but too young to not need that
kind of advice. If my ex wasnt with me,
me and my mom might sit in the kitchen,
me on the counter, her looking through
the cabinets, and discuss my life: how I am too
good for this girl that does not love me,
that if I write this poem, someone will
write back. But I cant get it right,
I still use a lot of words
signifying nothing: I have flown to florida
for thanksgiving with my recently titled
ex-girlfriend.
8 smacks|smack me

[02 Mar 2002|05:03pm]

4 smacks|smack me

[02 Mar 2002|04:56pm]
This is for each sudden way


That is your winter face.
So that is your summer wheel.
We stayed up all night looking
for secrets in the back
of your gmc jimmy,
a kitchen sink for a car.
I havent forgotten the stars
of the Sheriffs lodge across the street,
how we thought they might catch us.
We were not tired
of being brave. All night long
I wore you as something
always is the must for something else.
This is the way we work a la lesbian.
This is how lances really lance.
Tomorrow you move
to Minnesota. This poem will
dangle between my fingers
like a smoking cigarette. I can wrap
your each with my both.
This lance, that face, funny
how these things fill and drain.
12 smacks|smack me

[25 Feb 2002|07:50am]
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
smack me

[22 Feb 2002|03:10pm]
Bivalve

So much for maps when youre gone in hardwood.
Not wood but that bridge, not slats but light through
them mazed us. Light: color of bald roots. All birds
resemble biscuits. We can walk in any direction and be
still in this matrix.

So much for picnics
near what we thought would be softwood. Stomachs
ramble ahead, they are our only echoes. Echo: color
of fat pigs. We keep cracking down centers. Biscuits
binary, if you show yourself, can we taste of your color?








AND








Porn You, Pour Into Me2


I will wade out until my thighs
are color of raw sores. We had
worked this out, fed bread to birds
in ripe air but water kept us
from reaching the island of biscuit. We could make
a boat, thin as tissue, and paddle with our crooked
fingers. (I didnt say our fingers were knives
but crooked ones can be length of nails divided by
distance to island, squared and add a blanket
and two of my ass.) We, the landlocked,
obviously, wont make it
off this shoreits this damned ocean,
(a horizon of ocean) and if you squint
it flattens into a blanket of porn.

You have carried us from meshed nets
to stained bathing suits and back to matter.
It is math, the centripetal force of leaning
into you that confounds melength of
your legs subtracted in mine. I square you.
I divide me. This porn blanket,
the way it melts, I do before you.





i guess these poems kinda go together...the title of my book is "Bivalve" and i was gonna have the "bivalve" poem as the first poem in the book and the "porn you.." as the last....kinda a strange way to open and close a book cause the rest of my shit is different, i think..but what the hell.......
11 smacks|smack me

[08 Feb 2002|11:58am]
was driving home from class and there were all these "frat" looking boys holding up signs that said "honk if you support our troops" and blardy dar....it was a strange scene...surreal almost and i'm not sure why...but this came out of it......


Signs Say Honk if You Support Our Troops
--for Gillian Conoley


We Must Make it or Break it
implying a made-ness a maid-less
spinster or maybe more like a he-ness
nearer to me than my hands.
You must make it or take it
out back near the shed and shoot it
into neon pieces. If not, it will creep
in between your spring sandals
and the broom near the door.
Go wrap electrical wire around your house.
Go insulate your car with bubble wrap.
Let it be known, we have been forewarned.

My ex- once told me I turned tongue
into bits of diaper. I dont kiss
her anymore. She learned to take her babies
and shake them or spank them. Me,
all my lucky children are imaginary.
I honk as if I support troops
of girlscouts scouring the woods,
searching for the center of that secret
woman (You go, Girls!), eating
twigs like cookies, careening past rocks
leaving a wake of something like ticker tape. . .
They are my parade and all
around them is blank code for luck.
3 smacks|smack me

[07 Feb 2002|12:44pm]
3 smacks|smack me

[03 Feb 2002|12:04pm]

See which Greek Goddess you are.

3 smacks|smack me

[01 Feb 2002|11:41am]
i have a job interview today, a tree crashed through my back window, i need to write my 20 page paper, Lyric is pissed at me (with reason, i suppose).....the lists.....we went to a bar last night...i got into this conversation at the bar before the band came on (while lyric was talking to other friends) about this girl's life...how she has 10 other siblings, 9 of those are adopted including herself, how she can't find her parents, how she hates her adopted parents, that we are both pisces and have BA's in english, etc etc...and then the band came on and she asked "do you wanna finish this in the bathroom?" and i know she's not gay--her boyfriend is sitting next to her and she makes 3 references on how much she loves him (although you never know--but whatever)...so i say "sure" although i do think twice cause it doesn't look too good even though it is harmless....so we go in the bathroom and talk....people come in to pee, we talk..they leave, we leave...this whole episode was probably around 30 mins i guess...and i come out and some boy is talking to lyric...i sit and drink...then the boy and lyric are finished talking..i jokingly ask her "did you notice i was gone?" and she says, "no" and i laugh...so then i tell her about this girl and her life and how i thought it was a bit circumspect that she wanted me to go in the bathroom, but she really just wanted to talk to someone about herself..and blah blah.............time passes.........we drink..............i tell lyric she can't drive home and she tells me to "stop doing this"....so eventually she looks like she can drive so we go home. We get here and i ask her a question while she's on the computer about GA tax forms or something...and she answers in annoyance....real annoyance, not the sighing kind...she's annoyed as hell.....so i'm kinda confused and upset (although i should've just let it go...she's allowed to snap at me every once in a while...even if hse does do it every time she drinks).....this eventually turns into a fight about how she needs time for her cause making me happy is exhausting...this all comes from the fact that she DID notice i was gone with that girl and lied about it......??....why? i don't know.....maybe she didn't want to make a scene at the bar? yeah. who knows.....but we eventually wind up crying...and a friend we were out with calls me today and asks if lyric is pissed at HER because of something that happened with a bouncer...."what? i don't think so"....but who knows? maybe she is.....and lyric says she's never been able to express herself before so it's hard for her...apparently, to tell the truth when it comes to her feelings.....if she's pissed, i find out 5 days after the incident in some other way...jesus....am i supposed to read her mind? yes, i know i have my faults...i know things about me are very difficult, etc etc but i do know what my feelings are and i know how to express them....i just don't know what to do with this situation.....and she's probably going to read this anyways and be kinda annoyed i wrote anything about her but she won't tell me.....lol.......i wish she would've told me "good luck on your interview" this morning when she left.....but she forgot anything about it.....she somehow thinks that buying me things makes me "happy" in the fullest sense of the word....i guess i gave her that impression...and i know this relationship can't always be about me......but i just don't get how she feels she needs to think about her when she does already...she says she thinks about me all day but, that's not the same as remembering my job interview, per se......i guess she thinks that she is always trying to make me happy because i vocalize what i want and she doesn't....i'm really trying to sit back and look at this whole thing objectively..and when i do, i know that i should stop asking for things....for anything.....just let them come...i just feel that by asking, the other person knows where you stand and they don't have to be a mind-reader....just seems easier all the way around.....she did let me borrow her car the other day, which made things difficult on her....and she does lots of things...the problem, in part, is that she thinks i do nothing....like she's the emotional and monetary "breadwinner" (which is true in the money sense) but where did she get the emotional part from?? I don't get panic attacks--not that i can use that against her but i don't get how she can be the emotional breadwinner when she can't express how she feels! and why is there a breadwinner here anyways?? why does hse feel that she carries everything in this relationship?? what do i do about this?? ugh! i'm off to stop thinking and to get ready for my interview....tune in for next week's episode (like sands through the hour glass) of psycho babble....
4 smacks|smack me

[19 Jan 2002|07:01pm]
so a friend of lyric's has a little girl who sent a poem to that awful national library of poetry....and they sent her a letter saying she won a trip to disney world but must pay 600 bucks to get her there! HAHAH....so the mom asked me what i thought....i told her that it's a scam...that national library place is like the national enquirer for the poetry world....i told her everyone gets published and is a winner....so she wanted me to submit one of my poems to see...and apparently i've won 1k bucks!! yeah right...check's in the mail...i mean who gives away that amount of cash for one poem?? no chapbook....nothing...just one poem?? that isn't even good....i wanna figure a way to put these people out of business......*thinks*
1 smack|smack me

[19 Jan 2002|02:26pm]
sitting here drinking coffee...woke up at 1:30 in the fucking afternoon!! guess i was a bit tired....have friends from atlanta coming in tonite....and i'm excited about seeing them but want some time with lyric...it seems that we keep fighting over stupid shit--last night was the fight over where schizophernia comes from (after seeing "Beautiful Mind"....which is sweet but a bit flat). And in the end, we (or she) realized that we were both saying the same thing the entire time anyways......language..ugh! that slippery smooshy thing called language....how is it we were both saying the same thing but both thought that it was different?? it's almost like you have to explain the connotations and menotyny that you have with each word each time you speak....that could take years to explain one sentence....it's been raining all day here...it's nice....listening to van morrisson.....i should be at the library but i don't think it's appropriate in bad weather...hehe....so i'd rather sit here and say a bunch of nothing to LJ.....my cat is trying to get into my closet....she just looked at me like "what?? i've done nothing wrong, lady...god! why are you always on my back?"...it's like i have a teenager...well....in spirit atleast.......
smack me

[16 Jan 2002|12:24pm]
Split Infinities
It sees half a woman,
the muse of the storm
still searching its center,
that room that does not move,
around which the house collapses.
Andrea Hollander Budy


That other life is the one to watch
out forall its tricks and tears, tripping
you up on the sidewalk at crossing
the street as if a hand reached up
out of the gutter, grabbed your ankle.
Its that inanimate world or what your other eye might see: hitting your hip
on the edge of a table, striking half a hand on the bookcase, half the moon floating in half sky, the one you can see with your right eye. You dreamt last night of a large house covered by fog. Your body and soul sat in separate rooms reading the same newspaper. Your mind sliced peppers and pieces of your heart into the same sizzling pan. Your mouth ate and your fingertips
watched the clock.
When it was time to leave, your left
eye searched for the doorknob, only your right one noticed the lines like ribbons connecting that door to the outside world, unfurling fast to nowhere.



Written evolution is driven entirely by the never-ending battle between pressure and gravity. As imbalances are reached, the poem is driven to find a new energy source. Each new stage in written evolution is hence marked by a different energy mechanism: The main sequence poem has a simple structure as pressure and gravitational forces are equal. The poem is stable and its core is sufficiently hot to fuse ambiguity into concrete. A post-main sequence poem has two chemically different zones, a core of concrete surrounded by an envelope of ambiguity. Since the concrete has two protons in its nucleus then the fusion of concrete requires a higher temperature, to overcome this electrostatic barrier, than the fusion of ambiguity. The entire poem is somewhat out of balance. The core collapse occurs because gravity exceeds pressure- the collapse is also aided by the pressure that the burning shell exerts on it. Now the core of the poem has heated to a temperature of 100 million degrees Kelvin, which is the threshold temperature for the fusion of the concrete into the last lines. The poem is again stable as pressure and gravity are equal. The luminosity generated by the core fusion of concrete into the ambiguous is far greater than the shell luminosity associated with the fusion of ambiguity into the concrete. Consider what happens to a poem that runs out of fuel: the core collapses and heats up. The outer envelope, heated by the core, is ejected thus creating a capitalized mass M=1. Mletters will eject 0.4 Mletters of gas into outer space, leaving a 0.6 Mletters poem behind. The ejected outer envelope forms an emission nebula surrounding the poem, a poetical nebula. The pressure within a poem depends only on density, not on temperature. At a mass of M=1.4 Mletters, the radius of the poem is squeezed down to nothing, and the density shoots up to infinity.



-----this is supposed to be formatted into two columns...the one about the poem as stars is the right column in italics....and the line breaks are all fucked up here...hmmmm.....
4 smacks|smack me

[15 Jan 2002|11:27am]
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHANNON!!! you old fart, you!! heh ehe
1 smack|smack me

[12 Jan 2002|02:30pm]
oh my!! Anois was mentioning something about searching her name on the internet...and i tried it and how freaky!! newspaper clippings and the like actually came up...and there was one about this girl with MY name who apparently is on a volleyball team in north dakota or something. But the rest of them were actually about me. Now i'm freaked. Not that anyone is actually going to search my name on the net or anything. strange strange though..hmm
1 smack|smack me

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]