wake up, rod

I wanted to write something that dealt with the construction of gendered identities, so I did. It works within a specifically heterosexual lens, which is intentional. Yet, it's not totally critique. There's a kind of mesermizing aspect to the dance of gender: a formulaic, unsympathetic samba toward something monstruous, elegant and artificial. -B. Table of Context i. mater every woman must own a little black dress, must wear it’s simple shape with complexity, learn it’s secret: that every woman is her own secret stuffed into a silhouette. every woman must own a little black dress, must remember where it’s curves meet, feign simplicity or at least the shape of it, learn where to make room for secrets in a silhouette. every woman must own a little black dress, must tuck away the shape of her dreams, learn how to hold herself simply, secret the complexities into the shape of a silhouette. ii. pater a man is an elegy of wood and stone. a man is not allowed. a man is an elegy of 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,...

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'...