wake up, rod

Escape Velocity what word not undone to noise)( the sound of steam pushing through a pinhole what fringe)(not frayed to flare the canopy of nerves rain on down)(rain on temptation take the next )(blankness to bay light the chords of flesh and flesh)(the fire the pot boiled too long to belong)(anywhere momma the sound of steam pushing through a pinhole momma I'm too old)(to come home the sound of steam pushing through a pinhole

I want to write a preface, and there should probably be some official footnotes, or something, but the cafe's running out of internet and I've gotta get this beast up.  Also.  This isn't the poem I was originally going to post, but that one is at home on the back of a Tiger Balm box.  So just paint me pretty & call me Frank O'Hara. PS- The spacing's all messed up.  Sorry. PPS- This beast makes no sense.  Enjoy regardless. To the Over-Fashionable Girls Taking Over-Fashionable Photos at the Bay or Notes on Why I Refuse to Write a San Francisco Poem   What memories I have of you, tonight, &you sitting at promising points wishing realities out of vacations out of the void that slinks between a zero in checking &not.   Simplicity doesn’t want to be gained: no distillation that my lingus could sidle into. But there are brain mush molochs to consider& their mollusking ways, I’ve been nerding to see.   And then a Pelican! A real...

Due to the generosity of my lovely, brilliant friend Rory, I've recently been reading a book called Tolstoy Lied: A Love Story . Despite its myriad flaws, this novel draws attention to an at-least-half-truth: us academics, us rampant intellectuals, whether we embrace post-modernism & Derrida's deconstructionism or not, are afraid of writing about happiness or joy with the kind of sparkle WE KNOW seasons our lives. Fuck, it's hard to write about transcendence with a kind of real nuance, with complexity that works. So, though these effervescent moments comprise the promise that keeps us waking up in the morning, it's so difficult to find this promise in our writing. Thus, I make the following (1) mandate and (2) suggestion for this assignment. (1) Write about some joy, with joy and depth. There must be hope in this piece that is not wholly meta-commentated away. (2) Stuck on boring syntax? Tired of your own phraseology? Have a translation party. http://www.translation...

I'm worried this is damn near unreadable. But I wrote two poems while listening extensively to different dubstep artists, then sorta mashed up the two poems. It's all abstract 'n' shit. But maybe it is a little fun? Who knows. Thought I'd try my hand. It's about dancing in subways. Concurrence (Jellyfish) Chemical orange snaps light, pops fixtures, ripples along metal brackets, coats blacktop grey salt, basalt and flashes of ruby. Move vertically, flex the orbiting percussion through skin. Tripping with a knifey face, the night etches dark raccoon rings around sockets, spreading down squint lines. Red tendrils, rend- ripped jeans gouge slits in sidewalk. Snake chloroform of subway, squeeze into the space between headphone and ear. Recoil against my spine. Bitchassness bustling into the car, tear at the windscreen, fill the car, be fat and happy, be the firestarter, cloak eyes with lids. The jellyfish pulses, rotates, undulates in the stagnant travelled air. Catc...

For Him (Finally) ) and the rest of his life spent running from /- containing principles, kissing /- boys in the Autumn, oblivious to the sound of male smashing /- ceasing /- turning /- staring /- mouthing /- the boosters running for the bleachers. ) fucking pick up the phone, Papas, fucking pick up the phone, Papas, fucking pick up the /- [Mom] and [Dad], in the abstract, prostrated /- before the invisible altar, raising a revenant, ) but he gets out, keeps the )secret) on the inside of his lips, just beneath a ridge of wet cheek. Wrapped around /- his fingers, snaking, scratching up his arms, left in hair matted down from hands. )pick it up man, come on pick up the fu /- The king worships the followers, the skin of a palm pushed into side flesh, the gold gilds the cross, the young hairs on end. ) the inviolate object of the ball, the smell of pig leather and burnt bread curlicueing between parting lips /- parting between the /- parting behind) Send away, elders, for salvation. Call f...

Hey kids, Big Scary can't post up - no innanet, busy trying to make her way solo through the streets of San Francisco. So, for the forseeable future, AD's got a hall-pass. Which is going to change up our Rod-System. We're going to be making shit on deadlines, now. And deadlines are deadlines. The current rotation is JP, K, AD, B. This assignment is due on Friday. On Friday, even if K doesn't have the assignment done, she's gotta post up a new assignment by then, in addition to getting out the last assignment. I'm posting two assignments: one for the group, one for Bendi. Group Assignment: [-:] (inspired by ]Open Interval[ by Lyrae VCS, as she's known on facebook) Write a poem that makes heavy use of punctuation. preferably the punctuation designed would be a new style or form of punctuation, or at least a new interpretation (i.e. the use of "-:" in Lyrae's book). If the punctuation is somehow creative or mimetic or kinetic but not a punctuatio...

Hi all, here's my take on the assignment. No excuses. But, I will share with you guys, who may or may not know this about me, that this assignment was harrowing because I have adult Night Terrors. On average, I remember intense flashes from between 3 and 10 very vivid (and often very violent) dreams a night, and many times I continue to see (hallucinate) the images once I wake up. This is coupled with sleep apnea, which prevents me from breathing through my shaking. When Night Terrors continue on in adulthood, they're sometimes associated with Schizophrenia or other mental health disorders, but luckily, I only see these images immediately after waking up. Here goes. These three segments are some sequences that have recurred, in different iterations, over several years. I miss and love you all. ________________________ I. the force Blindwhite screen fires its own light in a room so large the dark has walls. Click of a projector turning on. I am bound. There are no voices but ...

The theme shouldn't be that hard to ascertain. The dream has stuck with me for a while. I don't know if it's represented here in a way that I'm completely comfortable with, but it's a fairly honest retelling. Cheers. -B. untitled I am certain of nothing. The waking, the wet heat like a blanket, dis- oreinted wet, hot and close. I am certain of nothing, but the dream returns in fragments. I. Steel, or his arms, or the way they give nothing away. I'm sixteen and his eyes are cool, mirrors reflecting only themselves. II. He calls me closer and mind harrows the body: my symptom a stiffness, this stiffness a sickness; I want dear lord, I want. III. There is an innocence in the way we lie, almost chaste head to his hard-soft torso, his metal, flesh and tone his dog tags jingle when I reach for them. When I wake, I am certain only of the wetness, the slick hot heat as sticky as some fading dream.

I've been a bad rodder for a bit, my bad, but my internet is super super sketchy and thusly I haven't been able to really work on my piece for the assignment as I've wanted. As such, I'm extending the deadline to Thurs. but seriously guys, it has to be in by then. -B. ps. Feel better, K. pps. Enjoy SF, BigScary. ppps. Shower hot and shower long, Jim.