flexagon: (racing-turtle)
As I mentioned in the last locked-down post, I actually wrote a good poem last weekend. It was about a girl who needs a name... and I'm naming her now, Nycotine. This is not that poem! This is me randomly deciding to write a villanelle tonight, quickly and badly, using my favorite Anne Carson line as one of the repeaters and using some of the same themes as the good poem. I have to admit this was a fun exercise.


One drop of water entirely awake
in a flood of eight million, rising slow,
I want to kiss you, my lovely mistake.

Nothing to prove, no claim to stake,
Slide through the gutter, drawn by the flow,
one drop of water entirely awake.

Once I thought give, now I think take
not opposites as it seemed long ago:
I want to kiss you, my lovely mistake.

The sea, a puddle, a stream, a lake?
We could spend decades aching to know
one drop of water. Entirely awake,

wanting to taste for adventure's sake.
Ask me to stay or tell me to go:
I want to kiss you, my lovely mistake.

It seems the whole city is starting to shake
It's too late to escape from your glow
One drop of water entirely awake --
I want to kiss you, my lovely mistake.
flexagon: (Default)
Ah, the dead zone. No, nothing spooky going on here, the "dead zone" is what I've always called that week between Christmas and New Year's. An entire week! Trapped between holidays, often forgotten about, it can seem to last a long time. (This year, I hope so. Things are peaceful. We have a new coffeemaker. I sit around, wired and relaxed all at once).

One of the things I'm doing with this time is reworking my website. Ostensibly, the goal is to get all the HTML pages to validate as HTML 4.01 Transitional, but while I'm in there editing all my files I'm naturally noticing a lot of cruft and/or finding things that aren't cruft. I just found this prose-poem that I for some reason put into my www directory years ago, but never linked to... it's a tribute to Tracy Kidder and it will probably make more sense if you've read Soul of a New Machine, House, Mountains Beyond Mountains, and the rest of his work. Kidder writes beautifully, you see, but never about himself...



TRACY KIDDER'S BIOGRAPHER

The evening the vaccuum cleaner had kittens I hovered near the ceiling, balding and ridiculous, while he breathed life into the newborn machines. I grew less real the longer I watched him. I could not reach my notepad, could not even touch the floor until the light had gone and the closet was full of a dark electric purr. Where had he gone? He has, I think, a wife and child--or children? He does not look at them, they blur and are lost. I see the bones of the walls rise around me to the shouts of workmen while he remains in shadow. I become less and less, I can fold myself into his suitcase when he travels and still I can hardly see him. Sometimes I am convinced that he wears black loafers. After all these years I haven't written a word. The kittens grow up while I search for a pen. His name folds around me on the wind, as voices shout for this man who saw the world for us all, and they wish they had sent better than me. But the focus is lost. When he is gone they will find only this house, that hospital, these children, perhaps a machine that smiles in the night and remembers his hands.
flexagon: (Default)
Get down off that stupid mushroom
five hundred times and once more
scarlet whore
There was no sound as the wood crumpled to the sides like aluminum foil.




...and a little further down...

she looked in the mirror, but she wasn't there any more.
fucked her severed head
trees bent and wind howled
I am sure that the results of all this will end in suffering.




...and a little further down...

is god a machine?
hum fizz pop
is god an elephant?





If you like you can (get down off that stupid mushroom and) go add your own line to the ever-growing Exquisite Corpse poem.

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flexagon

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