Living Gets Lost in War

It was somewhere in Vegas

disco hallucination

put out the fire

extinguisher off the wall

blowing smoke

down

the hall with fogged up

faces

brothers just raging

I think she was

Romanian and I cant

stay here

my pants are in

a stairwell

these lights suggest

I’m going to jail

red, white and blue

broken

bottles bled us

open

like street lights

flooding the cement

searching

for death

in the desert

searching for tomorrow

with casino

eyes rolling back

the mind

for a moment

gambling on the

men

we will become

 

*******************************************

Prompt #2 really not sure about this one. I used "disco hallucination" from the text. I know the length is off.

Plywood Walls

There is a brothel

hanging

on my ceiling

what is it about the

unfamiliar

that keeps me so

comforted

at 12am on the top

bed

of a bunk I used to

share

with a kid from

Sarasota

who liked to strum

to Dylan

on the beach

who picked flowers

for a girl

he loved since the

7^th grade

who bled out like a

broken levee

in the back of a half

blown up

humvee

as shrapnel pierced his

19yr old neck

while I clinched tightly his

19yr old hand

and told him everything was

fine

as I watched life drain

slowly

out of his 19yr old

eyes

and I don’t even know

the name

of the guy who killed

him

and I probably won’t

know

the name of the guy who

will kill me

and I definitely don’t know

the names

of any of these women

staring down from the

ceiling

but they are here

tonight

I’m somehow how still here

too

and for the moment everything

really is

just fine

 

Update On Prjoect and Other Things...

Chapbook, well it's coming along. I'm a bit stumped on cover art as of the moment. I really want to use a picture that is of somebody I know, because I have so many military picture....however I can't seem to find one that works all that great. So I might be venturing into the online world of stock photography shortly. Other than that though I think I'm on schedule to get things quite finalized on Lulu by this weekend. Which let's face it, is kind of exciting.

As for submissions, I just submitted my poem "Snapped" to Diagram...which I think is a bit out of my league, but you know it never hurts to try right? And I submitted "Snapped", "Behind the Wire", "You're Not Here" and "Camouflaged" to Madcap Review...it seemed like a nice place to submit, and I was sort of drawn to the name Madcap. I will bring proof of said submission to class to night though.

So that's it, I'm probably going to upload the poetry prompts in a bit, but other than that I guess it's time to knock out the anthology and the chapbook.

I came down with a cold/sore throat yesterday, and am currently running off of a mix of caffeine and cold/sinus medicine...but getting sick before finals week is just a thing to be expected. I always tell myself that Michael Jordan played one of his best games with the flu....it just keeps me positive.

Ashberry Imitation Assignment

The City in July

No, tomorrow is not just a

thing we should expect to

come along and follow our

every today like a shadow.

Or that even this moment is

as concreted as New York.

Where you, o darling, stroll

through the ins and outs of my

mind like the back alley veins

of this city, leaving an impression

on my every thought like the dog

days of summer teaching me to bark.

Camouflaged

Exercise #3

But let me ask you just one last time. Does this match? Do we

match? Let’s blend in to keep ourselves hidden, protected,

conformed with one another. I know what you are going to

say now. Did I wear this dress for you? The answer is no. Or

maybe it isn’t. Do I look like her? I could be exotic too. I can

say words like cantina. And I know a place downtown that

makes really good carnitas. I don’t smell anything like Colom-

bia though. And you can’t fall heavy in my midnight eyes. Mine

are hazel. My mind is hazel. Muted now for the most part. I feel

camouflaged. Falling apart into everything. Unnoticed. Can you

see me? I lied. I did wear this for you. Who else would I wear it

for? Him? He was just complimenting my legs. Really. It was just

the one time. Can you forgive me? Can we forgive each other?

The universe divides us with invisible lines. Lines crossed. Lines

wrapping around you with gravitational pull. You have a choice.

Here is the equator. Are you coming home? Do you even remember

how to get here from there? I can give you the coordinates. What did

you find in the jungle? Men growing money? Or yourself? It wasn’t

me. I’m here. Disguised as a memory. Your memory. And you can’t

find me. You’ve lost me somewhere in the landscape of your mind.

Are you a sniper rifle? Will you heat seek missile me? Do you care?

I’m over there. Between dream sequence and the part of your brain

that registers pain. This system is making me nervous. Let’s get

out of here. Lose our heads all together. Trade them with strangers.

Go on with our lives unrecognized. Here put this hat on. Doesn’t

that look better?

12 Minute Poem

Sliders

I'd like to use somebody else's
hands

Preferably yours

Holding me like
a screwdriver

Keeping us
in place

When we egg drop
soup

Crack and disconnect
like static

Scattering the outside
of a balloon

Electrical residue
catching our tongues

Like falling gospel
droplets

Axed

Out of holy water
like a remedy

Run Wild (by Chad Forbregd)

Once I was little. I said my prayers,
I took my vitamins,
and yet I still went wrong.
The truth is, Cleopatra was Greek,
not Egyptian.
She liked her coffee fiery,
bolt cutter strong.
Once, after a shower,
I saw her without makeup.
Like dreams she looked real.
She moved like an animal
or child. Like a shark
she swims backwards in secret.
She liked Miller 64
and lightening bugs.
Her eyes were an extension of the atmosphere.
The truth is sometimes my loneliness gets lonely.
Lonely like the human heart
I have never had to resuscitate.
I spent my childhood saying
somethings in life are real enough for me.

*****************************
I'm in love with the way this poem moves in and out of all these ideas that don't always relate, but work together in the weird world that has been created here. Chad just has the natural ability to wind around like this and land on lines like She liked her coffee fiery/bolt cutter strong or she swims backwards in secret. I'm always thoroughly impressed with Chad's poems and this was no exception. He keeps the same tone here as he does with other poems even though I believe this form differs from most of his others. His confident tone also increases how true his poems feel...even when it's not possible that they are. Well not for the most part. 

Individual Maze (by Elizabeth Miley)

When I die throw the rest of my

tea in my flower garden, but buy me more

every month.

Eat a tuna sandwich for me.

Visit Goodwill on their half-off day and find

me a turtle neck to put in my drawer.

Tell me some bad jokes they are my

favorite.

Don’t sleep on my pillow I didn’t get to

wash it. Go to the beach with me and

bring someone new.

Please just try the tuna…

Don’t worry I just changed my oil.

*****************************

There is something about the simplicity of this poem by Elizabeth that I just love.  There is so much that is said about this person, but really not much was said about them at all. The speaker is very aware of the self....even to the point that they are concerned with their unwashed pillow in a world where they no longer exist.  I just think this was very sweet and that it feels complete. 

Chapbook Update

So I'm going to do this the best I can; chicken pecking at my tablet while my laptop gets repaired. There should be a PSA about the importance of backing up your work. Right now I feel like a part of me is lost somewhere off of Mishawaka Avenue...waiting for strangers to recover it. And hopefully that will be the case. But for now I will discuss the progress of my chapbook project. 
I think it is coming along just great. I took a temporary hiatus over break from writing much, but everything before that has seemed to be working well as singular pieces and together as a whole. I have some poems like "Sixth of August" and "Conveyor Belts" that don't mesh as well visually, but I think  one or two moments of straying from my standard form might be beneficial to keeping things fresh. I think my theme seems to be holding up, and in poems like "Morals" and "Snapped" I hear my voice in a way that is much clearer than some of my other work. I'm really enjoying doing this, and looking through old letters and pictures to try and bring original ideas to the table...which is difficult when writing about war and everything that comes with it. That is probably my biggest struggle. What can I say about this that hasn't already been said? Is there anything left to cover? I guess that is everybody's problem really. Hasn't everything already been said or in some way acknowledged at least once? 


My title right now is: Snapped

TOC:
On a June Day
Disconnected at the Hips
Cauterize
Snapped
Morals
Conveyor Belts
Veteran's Day
Blackbirds
The Sixth of August
Dinner Table Conversations
Shed Town
Chuck
Combat Jack
Observations Made While Running on a Treadmill at Fort Gordon
Fort Bragg
Homecoming

****this is all very rough

Sway

I did not come from

your rib

and we are not

caged

I did come for you

though

to sink into

you

like a ten pound

line 

into

the water

and unhook your

mind

in my hands

and pull it heavy

into me

like a wave.

Erasure Assignment

A Re-Enactment

Jesus

also known as

an explosive device

was a self-sacrificing 

man

he could have done

anything

but he followed his

heart

which worked

in a more dangerous

realm

it's difficult to believe he's gone. 

***************************************

This is my erasure from an obituary that ran in June of 2008 in the Elkhart Truth. I'm not really fond of this poem, but I do like the idea of Jesus being an explosive device. 

Static Line

did

you ever

hear

the one

about

the guy

who

fell from

the sky

like

some violent

angel

being kicked

out

of heaven

by

Jesus Christ

himself?

 

you know

the

one that

ends

with him

landing

on

the nightly

news

while

we idly

watch

as

he begins

to

tear

the world

apart

one

day

at

a time

one

man

at

a time

one

 

at

a

time

left

 

              right

 

left

the joke's on you.

***********************************
Assignment: This is the poem I chose as one that I don't think is as successful as others I have written. I've been working on this one for almost two years now, and I just don't think I have it yet. The breaks never seems quite right, and the second stanza I think could be worded differently. I have omitted the last line several times, but added it back in for this assignment just to show what I'm working with. I'm trying to create the sensation of falling from the sky, but by doing so I read this poem extremely fast when I say it out loud. Maybe one day I will wake up and figure out what needs to be done, but as for now I play around with this one every other month or so...

Snapped

I’ve seen pictures

that I wasn’t supposed to see

taken near the edge

of a burning poppy field

men dressed in white

jaws

   hanging

           open

bullet holes exiting the

left       or         right

sides of their heads

brown skin

blending in with the ground

and you kneeling down

next to them

like it’s the first day

of shotgun season

and you just bagged

a ten pointer

but it’s not even November

and this is not like

the stuff they show in the movies

this looks real

maybe

because it is

or maybe because you’re

real

to me

even though this isn’t you

in some sense

this is another universe

and we don’t even know each other

and I don’t even have to love the man

in this picture

but I do

need to ask

what was said before this was taken

Just one more, I wasn’t smiling in that last one?

**********************************************
Assignment: So I think this poem works because I just wrote it, and it's midnight...but also because I can hear my voice in this one, you know? I feel like the line breaks are in the right places to accurately represent my persona in this piece, and I think the language feels clean to the point that it does what it needs to do without weighing the poem down.

Untitled

and sometimes i write more
like Bukowski
when i'd really rather be writing
like Berryman
and sometimes i just want to be wanted
more than anything
like O'Hara
and i wrote a poem once on a blank page
in the back of
The Great Fires
and i found it two years later
and everything about it was still
true
and sometimes i'm still alone
at 12:52 a.m.
and you're in bed and everything
has changed
and nothing has changed and
i'm still writing these poems
and your still far away somewhere
one room over

Observations made while running on a treadmill at Fort Gordon

Pvts. not being very

private

about scratching

their privates

in front

of a mirrored wall

reflecting

their minds like

mirages

of who they want

to be

or be with

in

    private

(besides themselves)

maybe

just once?

On a June Day

I was cutting through the heat

on my Trek bike

Winding past the Barbee Hotel

stopping at the bridge

To admire the beastly carp creeping

near the mouth of a drainage pipe

Getting lost the way everybody should

on a June day

But not the same way you did

Misplacing your body parts in a dried up

river bed

Shattering yourself from the ground

up disconnecting         this

            limb

                        from that

                                                limb

Confusing hands for feet for flesh for bone

for dirt

I still find pieces of you everywhere

Disconnected at the Hips

"I accept the fact that as a ranger, my country expects me to move further, faster, and fight harder than any other soldier." 
     --Ranger Creed

Disconnected at the Hips

my days stop

for maybe twenty minutes

before the next one

begins

they call this droning

i quit wearing underwear

last week

you know? to save time

and i started chewing

tree bark

yesterday, i saw a black bear

but nobody believes me

and the day before

i split my pants

my nutsack just hung there

like a tree ornament

since i wasn’t wearing undies

and all

today, i sold my lunch for forty bucks

to a private from boston

he pronounces hooters

whoo-das

i could definitely go for some hot wings

and a beer

well, i’m getting ready to jump

into the everglades now

by the way

i really miss you

*****************

This is my Mary Ruefle imitation poem. I tried to create something that seemed disconnected and "fragmented" like the original title was. But I also wanted to create a world that seems outside of reality.  This poem was inspired by letters my husband wrote me during his time  at Army Ranger School. 

Jay Dee Lewis

Going through old pictures. This is my grandpa Jay. A man that has been the inspiration for several of my poems and my life in general. 

Donkey On by Mary Ruefle

(This poem can be found in Trances of the Blast. Published by Wave Books)

Donkey On

When I am alone I make a sound
the lord does not understand.
Then he makes the sound of a helicopter receding.
Then my sound goes after his sound.

My sound sounds like an ordinary bowl of oatmeal
that can sometimes be almost liquid
and sometimes effect a crust.

His sound is small and bitter,
capable of great strength
and universal flowering,
as if the world will never stop expanding
once helicopters are gone.

Of course, I can only make one sound a year
so sometimes it sounds like
Please guess what I want to tell you

And he says
Without a mother it would be good to know English?

And I press this question into a photograph album
without a comma,

which is severely inadequate to the task of
reconstructing a life.

So I say
Perhaps I am too handmade?

And he says
It is spring, I am the peppermint king!

And then he does something generous:
he drops me a private year
wrapped in plastic,
tied up with string.

The only question is how to spend it,
so I carry it on my back
like a mule bringing ice cream
to the sun.

****************************

This poem is odd and brilliant and I doubt I understand all that is going on here, but that doesn't  mean I can't enjoy how weirdly amazing it is. I like this idea of the helicopters, and that God sounds like a "helicopter receding." I'm not sure that she is playing with the idea of war and when she says the world will endlessly expand once helicopters are gone? But regardless, I like that very odd idea. I also enjoy the dialogue between her and God, because it's like they have their own understanding of one another. I love that he says, "It is spring, I am the peppermint king!" because that just seems very childish of God to say and I think that is funny. I also love that I'm left with the image of a mule carrying ice cream to the sun.

No One Would Be Home by Noelle Kocot

No One Would Be Home by Noelle Kocot (This poem can be found in The Bigger World. Published by Wave Books)


Ann finally let go of her
Dead husband. She wrote him
A letter, burned his name in
A candle on her stove,
She took his aftershave
And razor that were sitting
On her dresser and threw
Them away. She then took
His pictures that lined her
Computer desk and put them
All on the dresser. She felt
The need to tell the world,
But now the world looked
So big, and Ann was small,
Like her name. Would she ever
Find someone new? What
God wills. She wasn't at all
Concerned, but needed to be
Ready to obey. She took
The garbage out and had
Some iced tea. She called
Her best friend and left a short
Message. Dinner was imminent,
And tonight it would not be alone.
She quieted herself, she
Quieted herself, and realized that
When she left, no one would be home.

*****************************

The reason I really enjoy this poem is because it just reads very quietly, yet the realization that one's husband is dead and nobody will be home when she left is incredibly heartbreaking. I love how it says everything without saying anything overly emotional. "But now the world looked/So big, and Ann was small,/ Like her name." Instead of being dramatic and emotional she writes passages like this that sum her feeling up very simply and brilliantly. 

Old 15

And dry roads. 

Chapman

Ready for open water again. 

Veteran's Day

Your death we celebrate today,
nothing more American than a dead soldier.

Let's drink to that.

The good ol' boys will proudly raise
their cheap bottles at the bar
for you, Sir.

Because that is the proper
thing to do.

Patriotism.

They will salute the flag,
and turn on some sad country song
about a truck
or a dog
that somehow reminds them
of a story.

Back in high school when you
out ran the county cops
on a dirt road
with your headlights off
at 2 in the morning.

Don't you worry,
today they will make you
a legend.

Your name will be told
to every stranger
that walks into this place.

They will talk about your
bravery
they will talk about your
honor
but not a soul will talk about
how or why

You died.

And why you keep dying,
day after day.

For a folded flag
given to your mother
at a closed casket service.

Nobody wants to hear about that.

Especially not the patrons
at this local dive
with that sweet gleam of ignorance
in their eyes.

It's too much for them to take,
so I just take it myself.

They wouldn't believe me
if I told them anyways.

Or they'd forget it
by tomorrow.

Because honestly,
only today is

Veteran's Day.

Cauterize

Yes, I suppose it is possible
to grow tired of stepping on
flower petals buried under dirt
roads. And knowing exactly how
melted skin sticks to metal doors.

...but wasn't it you? Digressing
like an afternoon. Barking bite
sized bullets like bees. Pollinating
hillsides of the Hindu Kush. With
blood, sweet like honey. Dripping
bits of life. Staining the tops of
your boots.

Yorktown

Yorktown

We danced. You used to dance me to sleep.
In that house by White River. Where the backyard
flooded every spring. And you wore a wool hat
every summer. When a meandering moccasin made
its way to your back porch. And you would catch it.
The same way you did that rat in a backroom
dryer vent. But better than the way you caught
your mind. Forgetting. Slipping. Forgotten. Gone.
Just like it never happened.

Shedtown

Shedtown

He was raised that way. Back then they all were. Built like
statues. Growing up. The way their fathers taught them. To
take a fist like concrete jaws. Of generations past. That beat
life and wars with twelve ounce gloves. A glass of cheap
scotch. And a loaded shotgun. That painted holes in the wall.
Of the house by the ball diamond. Where your brother lost
two teeth in an alley. One finger in a bar fight. And three years
in a jungle.

Homecoming

Homecoming

I’m sorry dear,

but lately I can’t
fight
this insatiable need
to use
my hands

for

   something

to

  do

    something

anything at all, really

like reach into

the back
of my mind
&
remember what
it was like
to
hold you
before we became
strangers

before we became

two people
chasing
shadows
of what
our lives used
to  be
like

before.

before.
before.

Blackbirds

Blackbirds

Blackbirds look like pepper
in the sky
and go
whomp, whomp, whomp
when men jump
out
of their bellies.

Blackbirds breathe like jackhammers
pounding the air
and spit
lead teeth
when they kill
their prey.

Blackbirds cry like bottle rockets
on the 4^th of July
and piss
clouds of smoke
when they crash
to earth
with their broken wings.

Blackbirds steal your men like ladies
of the night
and whisper
sweet nothings
in their ears
when they begin
to remember
their way back home.