wake up, rod

In between daily arguments, a new part-time job, daily migraines, managing a visiting ex-boyfriend, etc. - well, let's just say over the last few days my online presence has somewhat diminished. Yet, I am unfailing in my commitment to this blog. So much so that I will get to work as soon as my work commitment for the evening is done. Peace. Love. Good Vibrations. -B.

so this has been heavily revised from the original, to become an entirely different poem, b/c without the form of the earlier version, much of the poem is rendered useless. the following is a potentially helpful diagram. It illustrates what exactly I mean by tetrahedral spiral. The poem is ideally a spiral divided into threes, forming three-dimensionally a tetrahedron (one of the strongest structures) except inverted and spiralled. The idea for the spiral and the poem came from kate's use of cochlea. an organ in the ear, the organ of corti, is responsible for much of the sensation of sound, but three things I liked that it does: mechanical transformation (pressurizing and amplifying vibrations), shearing (the surface of the little hairs that translates vibrations into "sound"), and recruitment (which is the technical term for shit like tinnitus - an unbearable and unnecessary rise in loudness). For the fluid, the medium substance passing through this organ, I used gender,...

Even though a certain Rodder, *ahem,hoo-ah,ahem* didn't subject hisself to Kate's assignment, I'm posting another for general cogitation. I've got a hunger my friends, and that hunger happens to be for badass poetry. Here it is: Optional Step 1) Get schwasted. Approved varieties: whiskey, Pabst, Carlo, or a $10 bottle of champagne 2) Go on a magical internets treasure hunt. The stipulations are as follows: a) A pastiche poem of sorts is to be made, blasted, molded, squeezed out of the treasure hunt. b) The hunt must be multimedia (I'm thinking the triumvirate of music, film, text; but play with this how you want). c) A search engine must be used in order to generate islands along your personal treasure map (this is so we aren't purposely going to sexy sites we've scoped out before). d) We google (or whatever) 5 of the same words/phrases to generate different websites to put on the map. These words/phrases are to be voted and decided on by this SUNDA...

This is super retarded, I know, but I can't figure out how to get my poem to publish with it's correct formatting to blogger. So i'm posting this picture, while I spend time trying to figure out what hoops I have to jump through. the form is a tetrahedral spiral, I just made up an impossible geometrical shape, I know, but that's what happens when Kate gives me an assignment like this. So, until I get it worked out (and I don't want to email it around, b/c that seems uber-lame), this is what I've got.

Kate!  I want to shake you with simultaneous frustration and giddiness.  This assignment was ridick.  Thanks for a good one.  I really do think I tried for the Olympics in this poem & it ended up over the top in a I'm-wearing-too-much-makeup-kind-of-way.  DNA + heredity + dance + silverfish + magnetism + repellence + well you get the idea.   heredities of silverfish i. fishing The dance was not simple rather felt with intention. The wonderbread like earthworms drooped limply on fish hooks. I really did catch fish like that planting differences out of the arms and reach, out of your neck ties lengthening the walls. ii. sticky Salsa is easier when produced from a distance.  A certain push frame repelling the arms it rests on. "You don't learn from touch,  just absence of touch." She showed me a current you can only ride in the chase away  or towards  the cultivated frame. iii. sliver but the halve has more work to do a further flair to coax; we align post to stars, ...

JonJon, B, ADC--you've inspired me. See it here. Some chaos from me to you. This poem was a real struggle to produce. Thanks a lot, self. I. the buzz she cleans up well, but not without a mess; just days ago, she ate her way out of a weevil. wasps are fools for the filling. tsk-tsk. cycle through. pop the skin. age. prick a partner, then again inject some eggs. the slow project quickly speeds ahead. the sway of summer whey, hips in heat, shush-shush. II. you go on ahead without cochlea, I'd come loud every time. escapee from the eardrum doldrums, the fruit bat divulges his secret to nocturnal feeding: with no sound there can be no unsettling. Pamplona's the only place Ms. Plath couldn't push balls-out past the bull. so what hibiscus pouts its pollen unabashed? fleur-de-lis, a design done up in more machination than B ü ndchen daily musters. mollusk-sting the achilles. sea-bottom out. sashay. sway baby, sway. III. we're past patina once fe...

So, I've started carrying my notebook to the gym because there are some neurons that only fire over cog-taut muscle fibers and daytime celebrity television. Oh baby. And, in addition to this extra time sweating & watching E, I've recently spent five hours at the Academy of Sciences' aquarium, an evening ogling the anthropomorphism of the pointy-breasted Pussy Galore in Goldfinger, and too many weeks leering at the lanky torsos of San Fran's Skeletor elite. With all this input, I've been musing on an assignment I know you three can demolish like no other: Write about the oddness of form, transubstantiate from flora to fauna and back again, get fired up about how jellyfish do dress-up, flirt with the eros if you choose but focus (ahem!) on the construction of style, gender, and jive across the organic world. If you want, talk about how these forms play at the imagination in the dreamscape, in art or music. Or, skirt the manied humanness of new machines. Me, I'...

Several N.B.'s: I found it incredibly hard (&emotional &soul shattering, but in the good way) to write this poem. God damn you Jon. +237 points for making me think like a motha fuckah and feel like a poet again. The only way I could conceive of this poem was visually, so for your viewing pleasure, I have attached a drawing of sorts (I'm really hoping this will score me at least 30 points). I saw the assignment as a magnet toward or away entropy, with the first and fifth sections edging on organized, rational, ordered. The second and fourth became increasingly chaotic--entropy at its sexiest. Followed by the middle section: absence/void/the black holy suck force. The way it came out was surprisingly Gertrude Stein-esque. In fact, the title was taken from the poem A Carafe, That is a Blind Glass, from Tender Buttons. I'll shut up now, because it's 2AM. I'm falling asleep & still deciding if this is the best way to look at it and if the theme I chose a...

Zion I(reflect.) the fridge, restless, gotten into wood grain, pressed, varnished an incompletion in the kitchen, cheeks of cornstarch and saffron, architect eye drifting, wandering, obscene the appliance uprising, the discarded army a rosary of sausage, the detritus of the Aesir, I find secret stashes in the subwoofer holes, bits of God, broken into chunks by beautiful air hammers. blue note(specific.) With water of body, from out of myself, I build a monument of blue coral for the broken of body. With a gauntlet of lionfish I fashion striped crowns. Within a pool of salt, burn eye-words with other, strap tin-fish to moans to make the world imperative. raised 4th(hosanna.) declare a bible, break this beast with rocks declare a pit of lions feed the Tigris God, do not delay in sending your prophet. the wolves are hungry and your arrows no longer slay flattened seventh(peak.) strap water jugs to seatbelts, ...

... sort of. Sorry guys, after much rewriting, I ended up breaking the rules; this is a four-parter in which one and four do the mirrored mamba, but I'm left out of the high-fiver symmetry. Deal with it. I love you anyway. Likeness I. Throat hoarse from swallowing the sword of my mother’s silence, too dumb to know I’m doom -struck too, I find nothing easy to be true. 1993. We visited Aunt Sue in southern Jersey where I stood gaping at a naked skeleton, picked clean by a painter’s brush, a coyote, a too-blue sky. What is that? I asked, afraid. Georgia O’Keefe, she said, She’s famous. It’s called Pelvis. Pelvis Two. I stuck out my tongue. Even then, I knew of the coyote, of how his hunger gnaws and gums, seduces, similes just a facsimile of tonguecell barbs. The smooth lick over the hook. Mother. II. Lonely as an unopened letter, clinging to your cotton sweater. 2008. We soaked in subfusc the day of his death until we both smelled of salt and sweet mea...

arguments on penetration Top (I) It’s not enough to want him open you have to pry, wrench, lie, spit, slide your tongue-sounds through his ear-holes, beg like wolf to pig: I will fry you in your own grease. It’s just enough to want him open, the rest is in the finger-mouth-epithet triumvirate, spitting dirt-coarse lies through powdered teeth, wolves are familiar with the things conceived darkly in estrus but pigs know their meat is sweet and salt to taste. Bottom (II) There are limits, but you do not know them, do not heed the ache if there’s more to stretch. There are limits and as you approach them you are full of light, eyes brave with light and lust when light fails. There are limits for the pig crying whee – the wolf knocking hard, blowing, houses bending, the tender meat tendered rough from the ham of the beast – satisfaction lies in the taste of the things prepared darkly. Flip (III) There is one language that flesh speaks: in grunts and gasps, sighs and shudders. ...

Yo, dudes I had to change the format of the blog because I realized that it would never fit our poems in the format it was in. So I made the space longer. As for the colors and stuff, we can reconfigure them. Sorry about that, but I assure you the change was necessary. -B.

lots of rules, easy concept: 1. write a five part poem, sectional, in whatever system you choose 2. the poem must divide and reflect between sections - i.e., 1 corresponds to 5, 2 corresponds to 4. symmetrical in some way. 3. the third section must be unique and non-reflective in itself. 4. use whatever forms and styles you like. the writing can be symmetrical in form, content, approach - you name it, just needs to be there. 5. whaddya say, by Sunday?

alright, one step further. waiting on you katherine rose.

hey kids, first post - once you are all assigned to the blog, i can make you admins and you can make it prettier than I, mr. no-artistic-talent, can. let's wake him up