Showing posts with label class exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label class exercise. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

what do we call home (draft 2)

The screaming ambulance passes
mother and child at the crosswalk.
The illuminated lemon tree waits
quietly for the children wearing
backpacks on a school day. Cars
wait impatiently for them to pass.
Our neighbor stands in his driveway
bathed in gray sun. A police cruiser
stalks its prey near the dreary liquor
store across the street from the dirty
motel. The congested high-rise freeway
casts a permanent shadow on the street
below. Garish neon alerts passers-by of
the strip club near the intersection.
The abandoned hospital is now a movie
set. The film crew loiters on the sidewalk
as the nearby church remains unchanged.
Apartments surround the aging diner,
while the corpse of the mall decays
into slow ruin. Jets and private planes
fly back and forth like rock doves.

Monday, April 2, 2012

what do we call home (draft 1)

The screaming ambulance passes
mother and child at the crosswalk.
Our neighbor stands in his driveway
bathed in gray sun. The illuminated lemon
tree waits quietly for the children wearing
backpacks on a school day.
Cars wait impatiently for them to pass.
A police cruiser stalks its prey
near the dreary liquor store across
the street from the dirty motel.
The congested high-rise freeway
looms near the intersection of life.
The abandoned hospital is now
a movie set. The film crew loiters
on the street as the nearby church
of our faith remains unchanged.
Apartments surround the aging diner
while the corpse of the mall decays
into slow ruin. Jets and private planes
fly back and forth like rock doves.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Self Portrait: Rejected Pop Song (after Dean Rader)


I am not the metronome
I am not God’s sense of timing
I am not the song stuck in your head
I am not the hit single, not the single

You are not the record company
You are not the music scene, not its artists
You are not hell’s amplified accordion
You are not the Billboard charts

Don’t tell me you’re the pitch corrector
Don’t tell me you’re the _____, the _____
Don’t tell me you’re the golden reach around
Don’t tell me you’re the new Motown

Just tell me you’re the spirit of soul
Just tell me you’re the perfect pair of headphones
Just tell me you’re the brown note, the brown note
Just tell me you’re the arpeggio

No one is the conductor
No one is the violinist’s bow
No one is the Grand Ole Opry stage
No one is the soloist’s anxiety

We are the inspiration
We are the groove
We are the sound, the sound
We are this the

Friday, February 17, 2012

How To Live (Draft 1. After Charles Webb)

Turn the volume of the car stereo
all the way up, listen to your favorite
song. Ignore the stare of other drivers.
Take a day off, drive down to the beach.
Eat your lunch on the pier. Turn off

your computer, write everything down
by hand. Pick a piece of fruit from a tree,
bite into it. Drive aimlessly time-to-time,
remember the journey is what counts most.
Look at childhood pictures of your family.

Don’t be afraid to cry. Remind loved ones
of their importance. Get drunk with friends
once in a while. Speak when necessary,
always listen. Try putting hot sauce
on your eggs for breakfast. Travel.

Read books. Sing off key. Dance as the moment
moves you. Don’t be afraid to be silly. Don’t
always act your age. Tell your parents they were
right. Have kids, or don’t. Talk to the old timer
at the bar. Have a favorite jazz musician.

Become a regular at a business. Visit
the grave of a favorite writer, have a picnic.
Take a road-trip with friends while you can.
Love wisely, love deeply. Never let bitterness
take root. Remember to breathe.

Be responsible. Visit your grandparents.
Look up when it rains, watch. Stay out late.
Laugh as often as possible. Don’t be afraid
to disagree. Learn to speak another language.
Mend fences, both literal and figurative.



Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 3)

This heaven gives me migraine - Gang of Four

Helicopter blades whir and cut the air
over the city of good neighbors. The mall
sits empty between the catholic church
and the police station. The suspect is on
foot through the neighborhood.

Kids at the library after school, the computer
at home doesn't work. Cops station themselves
by the high school every day after class.
"Be true to your school," was written in
a different time, a different world.

Discount stores choke the boulevard
where families flocked to after Sunday
services. A plane takes off from the runway
of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,
flies over the city and towards the sea.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne (draft 2)

                        This heaven gives me migraine.
                                                - Gang of Four

           
            Faint sounds of bygone summers
            linger through suburban avenues. Hotrods
            cruised on Friday nights full of kids
            looking for something to do. Football games,
            dances & hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn,
            another starstruck girl in the city light’s
            shadow, was called Norma then.
            Memory, a misty mizzle, evaporating
            under the warmth of the sun.

            Discount stores choke the boulevard
            where families flocked to after Sunday
            services. A plane takes off from the runway
            of the municipal airport. It gains altitude,
            flies over the city and towards the sea.
            

Self-Portrait as Hawthorne

                         This heaven gives me migraine.
                                                - Gang of Four

           
            Faint sounds of bygone summers linger
            Through suburban avenues. Hotrods cruised
            On Friday nights full of kids looking for
            Something to do. Football games, dances &
            Hamburger stands would often suffice.

            Brian found his voice here. Marilyn was
            Another star struck girl in the shadow of
            City lights. They called her Norma then.
            Memory becomes a misty mizzle evaporating
            Under the warmth of the sun.

            At 3701 W. 119th Street a young boy choked
            Back tears as he stared into the scarred
            Socket where his father’s eye had been.
            He could never let his sons forget
            The sacrifice he made.
            

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Searching For The Wolf (Tradition:draft 2)

Ma soeur was never sure where the 
Lumiere went when it was dark.
"Is it magique?" she would ask me.
"Je ne sais." I would say to her.

"Le Loup swallows the sun every night,"
grandma would say. 'How macabre' I'd think
to myself. "The machoire of Le Loup
can also swallow Le Lune" she said.

Our eyes became Louche watching the heavens
over many nights. It was magnifique
searching for Le Loup every evening.
We are older, yet we look restlessly.

Through my Lunettes I now watch
as my daughter combs the sky.

tradition

Ma soeur was never sure where the
Lumiere went when it was dark.
"Is it magique?" she would ask me.
"Je ne sais." I would say to her.

"Le Loup swallows the sun every night,"
grandma would say. 'How macabre' I'd think
to myself. "The machoire of Le Loup
can also swallow Le Lune" she said.

Our eyes became Louche staring at the sky
over many night. It was magnifique
to search for Le Loup in the sky each night.
We are older, yet we still search the sky.

Through my Lunettes I know watch
as my daughter combs the sky.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Call Me!

Not easy
to
remember your phone number on the spot.
Who calls themselves, right?
Just don't mix it up with your work one.
I have had that happen once before.
That was a very awkward message
I
Left.
That won't be the last time either.

Remember
when
we used to memorize all phone numbers?
Hopefully you do.
Everyone had chunky beige phones then.
It had only one type of ring.
Dulcitone of a bell being rung.
Ring.
Ring.
I don't want to hear your ringtone.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Regrets

Her regret sent me here. Remember?
Yes. Level sneers, vent, revere, express
here. Get between her knees tenderly.
Keep Ben here. She sent the rent Brett.
Get bent! They keep sneers between them.

They knew regret well. They were men.
The perplexed sense between them
never left elsewhere. She knew they
were there. Her element greeted
them well. The net regret never left.