Poll: U.S. Household Television News

Free writing, News, Poetry, Uncategorized
  1. Did your parents watch television with you as a child?
  2. Did your parents watch television news with you?
  3. Did your parents explain the news to you? (Explain.)
  4. Which parent listens more and who holds the remote?
  5. Did your parents take you to the movies? Whom more often?
  6. Did your parents ever run track?
  7. Did your parents let you decide for yourself?
  8. Did your parents ever run Amok?
  9. Do your parents smoke?
  10. Did your parents escape from somewhere far away?
  11. Did your parents escape from somewhere far upstate?
  12. How old are you?
  13. How old is your mother?
  14. How old were you when your first pet died?
  15. Did your family bury pets?
  16. Where are they buried? (Be specific.)
  17. Describe the dimensions and character of any one.
  18. Do your parents keep old photographs?
  19. Do you intend to keep them too?
  20. Did your parents have old photographs to keep?
  21. Where were you born?
  22. What state do you live in?
  23. What state? (Be specific.)
  24. Which US State do you live in?
  25. What US? (Explain.)

Seventeen Wednesdays

Free writing, Poetry, Uncategorized

illicit solicitations from a foreign enemy

harmless contacts, couches, cuss-words, coffee

under your breath, just a note of restraint

one trillion tons of the Larsen Sea ice shelf

broke off and let surrounding waters run a ribbon

along the clean inexperienced edge, the fringe

of the continent no shortage of data or places

to sit in your apartment. Your room needs a bed.

Some of your song finds that buoyant frequency

 

I’ve practiced over and over in my throat

the only test I worry about is one of patience.

AM I sick to be revived by this?  I think it

 

harmless, I am more careful now.  You Jump

Into the tall lit frame of the window, you tell me

I didn’t look scared.  I retire, warm with my love

a bit bunched slum, limbs were eaten up

by his clothes a few sizes too large, face

bathed in a curious storm of blue light

 

in her sleep.  Furious today, a first peek of vulnerability:

Jupiter’s Big Red Spot, captured by scientists,

fetishized by psychologists, and canonized

by Quantum Field Mechanics heaving toolbelts

of infinite use and possible interactions

small modifications can bring you closer to

the result you want, without ever reaching

complex interaction, walking an integral path

“perhaps the most elegant equation ever devised”

 

I crop up in your rearview, no hands

“one hug” executed deliberately as a button up

or my hot step, guilty but not disgraceful

like masturbating with dirty fingernails

or cumming on the basil plant every morning

no measure of human suffering is not precise.

 

 

ox/N

Free writing, Poetry, Torn Black Paper 'Notebook', Uncategorized

TO BUILD a little boat of experiences

and set it out without a tether

to lose your father’s childhood

attention to the red sail, are my

fixations and yours the same?

Giving you all my undue attention as

unwarranted televised back-un-forths-

unwage unwar unward unknow it uni-verse

unsung unspeaking unheard-of this day-un-age

 

Inane and uncouth generosity bifurcates as it plays too abruptly

to the thoughtless tune of Labor Day Mattress Sales commercials

tricast untelevised lightning storms ungulfing us unside,

 

as a wild boar flares its nose hairs in frustration

as impatient as cremation, as understudies beeline,

 

as I (underlined) afflict others by being

earthly-ever untethered to the undead

 

you, nowhere unceasing never (don’t say it) still

ever quietly alive and affixed to my name.

“There is going to be a fight.”

News
 
This declaration came from Michele Dauber, a Stanford University Law School professor. She’s right.
 
The fight will be against Education Secretary Betsy Devos, and it will be hard won. Devos’s July 12 statements, after a string of meetings about title IX, infuriate many.
 
She’s suggesting loosening federal enforcement of campus rape statutes, strengthened by President Obama. Sexual assault victims and their advocates are expressing their outrage at this suggestion.
 
The shape of the meetings themselves caused a stir. Candice E. Jackson, the top civil rights official at DOE, was “haunted” by the plight of an accused rapist.
 
Jackson and Devos heard out the complaints of the so-called “falsely accused.” The two positioned themselves as concerned with civil rights. They implied that the Obama Administration’s measures of accountability had destroyed innocent lives.
 
Little mention of the justice brought by such enforcement surfaced.

White Ode to THEM.

Free writing
Over and over, the question we ask is “What happened to them?”, not “to us.”
We no longer speak to each other. No real conversations. The stubborn father who will never listen, never ever budge. Oh, woe is him. He doesn’t know he can shift.
We analyze his mindset, rarely question it. When we do, we keep an anthropological distance. We weigh the importance of his statement by the gravity of each syllable. Compartmentalizing cadence and a penchant for a strategic pause.
We refuse the words, the truth they hold. Not held by you or me, yet an immovable truth to them.
Understanding their truths, their stories is the sole way to expand and correct them. Some of their truths are vile and need correcting.
It’s difficult for me not to feel vindictive in my approach. I’m not alone in using such tactics, I am part of a genuine American legacy. Correctional facilities in my country correct very little.
It’s not easy to uproot your worldview. It’s not easy for my “highlyeducated” ass, how in the hell would it come easily to most everyone else? You betray your privilege with your frustration with them.
Every time I’m baffled, it is a privilege not to see it coming from a mile away. I begin to realize how ghastly the whole centuries-old experiment looks in the periphery. Really realize. No longer cordoned off as characters frozen in my history textbook, a magnitude of souls emerge.
I remain a soul without obvious burden. I do not carry my traumas in my coat pocket any longer. I’ve packed them away with 7-year-old crumpled pages of the Times for safe-keeping in my attic. I’m aware of them. I do not wear them.
My burdens are psychological in nature. All my physiological needs met daily, I am still haunted. However, I am fortunate enough to realize how sturdy I am, standing above a proliferation of safety nets.
Polls are best employed with the worthy endeavor of bearing street signs. Public opinion is not something you carry around in your pocket. You discover your opinion the moment someone asks it of you.
I will not presume to understand the story of them. After they speak their piece, I vow to take a breath. I concede that every breath I take is something taken. I will respond, acknowledging the memory of who I’ve taken it from.
I may think them sick to think what they think. I must remember the vile path my genes have forged. Evil sunk deep into the creases of my two white palms.
It was someone’s downfall that lifted me onto this high horse. Those vital books that continue to shape me, printed on the corpse of someone else’s sacred tree.
I am them. I do not get to push the rural white man I despise to the margins and forsake him. I am a white woman raised in suburban comfort. He is my father, grandfather, great-great-grandfather.
He’s got layers upon layers of dried blood on his hands. I will never wash his sin off mine.
Thanks to him, I am left with a choice.
I could fold these two revolting white palms together in my lap with a sigh without accountability. I should (and will) put them to work in the service of us instead.

Seagram’s Gin, $22.99

Poetry
 
I don’t drink gin
anymore.
I once drank gin
and nearly drowned
in the hedges, not again
my guts, in the hedges, swimming
pools are floating bodies
living, digesting bodies, but in me
nothing stays down.
If I could
swim to the bottom and stay down
dig up these hedges’ roots and take their bed
or at least keep these aggressive flies
from nesting in my ears, no thanks
I haven’t touched the stuff in years.
 

 
2012

Newsflash: Bees

Free writing, Poetry
They hide it well.
Poised, their apocalypse arrives on time as promised.
We all know the real story is far more sinister than collusion or Russian hackers (or hookers). Our collapse revolves around the bees.
And while I may scurry to a corner of my balcony upon their approach, I revere them.
Yesterday’s news brought wind of pesticides that trickle into bee colonies. It gets inside them and makes them forget to clear out their dead from the hive.
Is that laziness or reverence? Human beings, before we buried our dead, kept their bones in our living rooms.
Your father’s skull dry-rotting into a smile on the Terre Cotta mantle. Summer brings a smell about him. Insects praise his complex structures with moving mandibles.
We had reached a point of sentimental animation. The machine doesn’t move anymore but the component parts still recall uncanny movement. Something’s gone, but something remains alive and working.
It’s hard to underline the moment the light goes out. That’s because, as you feared, it doesn’t. Not all at once. We imagined that the spirit ascends. Out of proximity, we had begun to learn it’s dispersed.

Chunk of Ice the Size of Delaware

Poetry
Experts now advise
I catapult my computer screen through the ice-
shelf of the endangered Larsen Sea, study all cracks
mostly underwater, at depths of 600 feet
I could signal collapse
steady droplets ascend into safer solids, my apocalypse
frozen, speechless at the poles as if
we put it there on purpose
and left it there to think over its destruction
ages ago, kept far at bay. Well,
in about two weeks,
we’re set to un-shelve it like we once would a dictionary
Thumbed open to “ACC–ACE,” too late
we locate and better identify
synonyms for acceleration.