You never came to hold me under the tree that day — the first crack. I can be fine japanese china, tempered in the fire and made what i am there — but take me out — and its the cracks that make the thing — but i’m no thing,
and you never came to me,
under that tree.
Looking out over the water,
at the end of that day,
on the eve of that summer,
the dawn of fall,
the touch of your hand was all.
but you had your doorway, watching,
and i had my tree.
Here’s one, warts and all.
Here’s another one -
brittle chipped plastic
sure to snap if bent,
but never bent.
The other bends,
gnarled perhaps
wooden
but moving with the sun.
There’s a midnight train by my house,
And an ambulance.
All that the men do here,
its in the distance.
They go to work, with their friends,
Finish that and then
Go home to their pets,
Their wives, their television sets.
These men eat their groceries.
They sleep when the day ends,
Finish that and then,
get up, do it all again.
These men travel.
Once a week and once a year
They get up and out of bed,
Dreams still sticking in their heads,
Walking in the park with their pets.
And then, return, to the television sets.
Tiring of once a week and once a year,
They decide, it would be nice
to go somewhere
with their wives, maybe a child
to a place where winter’s mild
where there are plenty of trees
These men board that train
once the first time, and then next year
they do what they like again
These men go on vacations.
And when they return,
they go for groceries and buy their beer,
Mourn the loss of their pets,
Snore in front of television sets.
They wish they could dance,
They wish things would go faster
There’s a midnight train by my house,
and an ambulance.
Everything I’ve not forgotten and a few things I’m sure I should…
If it’s clothes that make the man then I am in this box.
I am on top of me,
jumping on my underwear just to make it fit.
I’m sitting on my suitcase.
There’s not enough room inside,
not enough time tonight,
not enough time in time and I’m sick of it,
sick of zippers that don’t zip, stickers that don’t stick,
and tickets -
when I cash them in and try to fly I come to find
that I can only go with so much
even though I came with so little.
I’m sitting on my suitcase
and would ride it home if I could,
sail a sea of material things,
leave my luggage on the shore.
When the door swings open
on the morning light outside
I’ll take my suitcase, the only thing I own,
to see another city,
sing another song,
see another show,
because I know
that though there’s not nearly enough time in time tonight,
none of the books are long enough,
dirty looks aren’t strong enough
and true love’s not bond enough
to keep me from where I go.
In honor of Halloween, I have decided to republish my teenage angst rag, a zine called Apocalypse Playground. The fist issue of Apocalypse Playground is now available as a .pdf file so you can print it out and hand it to all the morbid people at your lunch-table, or, whatever.
Just, please, don’t hold me too accountable for what I said, or how I wrote back then.
The flies have all fattened, as have the spiders, who have grown in number as well. Amazing, the work of a spider. by looking at a spiders web, you can tell its species and its gender. I wonder if its like that with people. The web that each of us weaves, or the one we weave together, could you pass it by, and at a glance identify the humanity that constructed it, the way you can with a spiders web? There are so many spider webs this time of year.
Its spider time in the woods,
in the not quite summer afternoons,
not quite evenings,
in the semi-light between the trees.
Spider time,
and its hard to go anywhere without.
On the walls, in the corners,
and in the woods,
between trees, right in front of me, a web in my face. I stop, spider right in front of me, and see, a white insect hit the web and stick, just inches to my left, the spider trips over three threads, in an instant and jumps on the bug. The spider dances, spinning the insect into its sarcophagus.
Stops,
and dances differently. hind legs gather silk from spiders back pocket. The back legs, smallest set they gather and throw, gather and throw, gather and … at no time is more then one leg extended, the other leg back. One leg attacks, the other retracts, repeats. Spider hacks, then in thick meat of insects body-skull. Spider sips nectar through silk filter,
and in an instant
back to the center of the web
in front of my face
in the center of the path
between the trees
in the woods
by the stream.
If only it were as easy to get the contents of an actual notebook in an attractive online interface as it is to do so with electronic text.
source: Cameron Moll
Wednesday, October 27, 2004 10:41 PM – 1:09 AM
maybe the muse hits wen the moon ius hiding. I don’t know what it is. Its not exactly as if I had all the time in the world to spare for it, but tonight I took my first crack at revising “Street Preacher.”
I have a friend, a director, who says, “someday, i know you’r ein school now and you have to graduate, but that will be over soon, and why don’t you give me a script or something. I have this idea to do theater on the street like theater in the round, and your street preacher idea strikes me as appropriate.”
I thought it would help to construct a blue print, notes to myself that say “when this happens, the main character would do x or say y.” I learned a couple of things by doing it that way. First of all, its easy to write that way. Second, I know I’m only writing notes right now, but the format I chose for them might just work for the final version as well. To write a script like a program. thats the thing.
here are the notes so far. Examples of the kinds of stuff I have in mind, I guess. I dont have much, but its a start.
This train is bound for Glory
This train . . .
This train is bound for Glory
This train . . .
I’ll see my family
On the great white morning
This train is bound for Glory
This train . . .
2. when he begins speaking, or in a lapse between sermons, this is his prayer.
“He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows. We considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. Yet, by his wounds we are healed.” amen.
3. Whitey has decided to say certain things whenever certain events occur in his environment.
for example, when someone passes him without eye contact:
How else could you want to forget, unless you knew?
or
Doesn’t matter if you think you know, you know? Its just that you need to be reminded. You don’t want to be reminded, thats how I can tell you already know.
or
This is an urgent message: I am speaking to you from the other side of glory!
when he gets aprticularly upset, this comes out:
This is an urgent warning. This is an urgent warning: you should know that you have already missed the rapture. Do not – I repeat – do not receive a mark of any kind on your body, especially your right hand and forehead, from anyone, no matter who they are and no matter what the reason. I am speaking to you from the other side of glory. You are special to God. You are special to God. We’re rooting for you. Be a Rebel. Resist to the end. We’ll see you soon.
as an occasional aside, he reminds:
I don’t really mean all of this, not the way it sounds.
When spirits mingle near him, he acknowledges them, more often than he acknowledges the people who mingle.
4. Whitey has a friend who comes to visit occassionally. His name is “the singin’ evangelist. ” The singin’ Evangelist knows several songs. He plays them when the spirit moves him.
one of those songs is the same of whitey’s song.
He takes requests, but he wont do Amazing Grace. He’s sick of it.
another one of the songs is “His Eye is on the Sparrow”
Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.
“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.
Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.
5? After introducing The Singin’ Evangelist, Whitey likes to do a routine with him. Whitey puts him on the spot to do requests, If something is requested that the singer can’t remember or play very well, or if the singer messes up, Whitey demands a “better” hymn. If “Amazing Grace” is requested and the singer will not sing it, and if the audience is incredulous about this, Whity will challenge again, insisting that surely anyone shoul dbe able to think of a different hymn.
you sang a song; I found my hell again.
“tra-la-la I told you so.”
You sang my song would sing of it.
You were wrong.
I won’t sing a thing,
no song at all.
Some things can’t keep a beat you know.
Some things can’t be taken in tidy measures.
You sing for show, for spectacle.
Sing for song.
Sing for something to say
and you’ll find them dancing anyway
Ink pens fit the fist nicely
and stab,
so I cast them away from your hand.
Scribbling in the wind,
they land
on sheets of new words.
Paper turned sideways slices,
quick. shreds, unread, ignored.
I let fly tiny pieces,
stars in the heavens of mess,
that is our space, safe place devoid
of paper cuts, puncture wounds, and bruises.
Avoid paper, pens, words are useless.
Head’s against the wall again.
Hammers on a drum.
Hair in the air.
Pull away, scream,
repeat.
I’m useless.
It’s the wall I can’t defeat.
Every time we took a picture, someone had to hold me.
This time it was mother.
She was thin, then,
and her arms were cold.
I didn’t want to be held.
I could feel the bones.
Cant I run and play?
But I couldn’t talk then.
We sat under a tree.
Dad always had the camera
an old camera
I must have been a toddeler:
blonde hair
big eyes.
She would sing:
“I’m gonna make your brown eyes blue . . .”
and I was terrified
Don’t change the color of my eyes!
She would hold me,
not the way she did in that picture,
sitting beneath that tree,
and I stood,
eyes askew, stance askance.
arms wrapped around from behind.
I can see rainclouds under her eyes
also brown, also round and wide,
deep pits and bones around the sockets.
I’ve never seen that expression on my face
though I know what it feels like to make it,
when I sit beneath my own trees
and wish I could walk away, run and play
but I can’t cause I’m sad,
and I’ve got my own arms around me
I’ve got long arms just like my mother,
even in the picture.
Come in close. Pass and go / over road-kill. /
Women wince through cat’s-eye glasses.
Plastic flowers decorate the dash.
Truck beds gather road dust.
Turn signals flash.
A slow in the flow
brings a grip to the wheel,
laid back,
they play with the radio,
talk on the phone,
come in close, pass and go.
Trees line the street.
No movement,
but blossoms catch the wind.
Stop watching.
Stop, wander, walk into traffic / stops /
another slow in the flow /
I’m sorry, excuse me,
lost / wandering /
alone /
and on down the road.
I’m the one walking home
and this is what they miss.
This is where whole nations lost their prayers
where seeds blow…
where the fields burned
This sky does not cry
the way the one at home does
it has seen to much
too many centuries of nothing
where seeds should be thrown to gods,
and not coins.
The sky here has no rhythm, it just is.
It is big, expansive
large enough to encompass every word
in every language that dare describe it.
They had no word for “lie”, you know
as they do now, under that sky
that still begs for the long gone dance.
But they don’t dance.
Their fields have burned,
and their seeds just blow.
For every up I find,
every time I try to spot the top
of this shit, you misdirect it.
I said, you deflect it.
You always turn the upside down.
So, this one’s for you:
If there had never been birds,
the imaginative faculty
would still have captured flight.
Trees climb the sky.
If not them then the insects,
or the water from the seas to come down again
If not wings, then legs.
Yes, destined to fall,
but blessed to jump.
Blessed to jump;
blessed to jump.
blessed to jump!
November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The goal: write 50,000 words within the month, and perhaps get awarded a prize.
I remember. last year, the litblogs out there had several comments about NaNoWriMo. This year I read something on Conversational Reading that basically sums it all up for me:
When I first heard about it, Nanowrimo sounded like a strange and even slightly foolhardy idea, but it really is an interesting time and even if you don’t come away with anything worthwhile (or even want to be a writer) it is highly instructive w/r/t the creative process. After trying to write your own novel, you will notice more in the next novel you read. And it’s a great feeling to be strung out on November 29th and eek your way home to 50,000.
This is something I might actually like to try, if nothing else than to build discipline, but I’m in school right now, and I know better by now than to try to take on too much in addition to school.
Maybe next year…
Baby I’ll stand here with you and say what I gotta say.
I will stand right here with you and say what I gotta say.
You’re the one I’m talkin to. Don’t toss your head away
Don’t lemme see. Don’t lemme see. Don’t you turn your back
Don’t lemme feel. Don’t lemme feel. Don’t you turn your back.
Said you wouldn’t say unless I ask – but, I’m scared to ask about that
I sure with you’d put some words behind your tone.
I sure with you’d put some words behind your tone.
It’s okay to say what you’re thinkin, ’cause we’re all alone.
Said you wouldn’t say unless I ask – but, I’m scared to ask about that.
i just can’t do this i won’t go through this,
i just can’t do it i just won’t do it
don’t turn your back on me
I’ll stop here, shed tears and cry right on the spot
said I’ll stop here, shed tears and cry here right on the spot
and what have you got? you turn your back, thats what i thought.
I came to get,
what I came to get,
even if I have to crawl
through the window @
midnight, I’m
going to get
what I came to get. Even
if you’re here
or nowhere near,
and even if the things
are in pieces,
I came to get
what I came to get.
A syringe in room 212
is lodged deep underneath
the cracked plastic vent
of the radiator,
beneath the window.
Don’t touch a syringe:
company policy.
So, visit housekeeping closet
in the basement
to get the kit,
the one with
biohazard written on it.
Tug rubber gloves.
Grab tongs.
Pick the syringe up,
and stash it in the bag,
the bag which has a color
brighter than any other color,
in all the rooms along the hall,
identical.
I clean them all, each day,
fifteen minutes apiece:
Scrub puke from the floor,
Shit from the walls.
These are the only variety.
This is housekeeping.
This means rent money.
I keep house, honey, lover
and come home to less color
to the hello you forgot
to the person you’re not
lost in the window screen
daytime fantasies
this is your routine.
you’re stuck in the same room too.
Cobralingus is a book by Jeff Noon. I read an interesting review of the book:
To summarize: Each work begins with an “Inlet”, a starting text (most often an out-of-copyright text such as pieces of Shakespeare or Dickinson). That piece of text is then put through a number of “filter gates”, transformation processes. These processes are listed at the beginning of the book but with such ambiguous definitions as: “Control: Brings text down to earth. Forces language to behave itself.” or “Ghost Edit: Kills the text. Calls up a ghost to haunt the language.” (14) As far as the work of constraint goes, these gates are closer to such ideas as the “haikuization”, wherein the process is not explicitly systematized, but rather subjective in use. Occasionally other texts are “sampled” into the process. After each “filter gate” we are given the text created from it. After a number of “filter gates” are gone through we are left with the final text, the “outlet”. Each work consists not just of the “inlet” and the finished “outlet”, but also the intermediate texts, as Noon states in the instructions: “From inlet to outlet, the journey is the goal.” (13)
Look up, Woman and Man
sky is all you see.
You break the bread,
you made the bread
out of the ground
You made the plow,
and mounds out of the dead.
Earth knows nothing of them.
The only thing it feels is feet.