I.
We wore feathered hats and
sleek animal hides, our eyes
gazing skyward while we
slaughtered
The sacrificial lamb on a bed
of toothless smiles and baby
blue eyes, pretending not to
notice
How the blood stained like
satin upon our fingertips.
II.
Mother cried in the corner,
Father wept from the rafters,
and we shot holes in the concrete
supports with Red Rider's, the
BB's embedding themselves like
(the crayons that lack sheaths, waxy
scribbles on sheets of construction
paper, tiny legs and arms of paper
dolls that we ripped and shredded
into colorful confetti
and threw like rice at a wedding
or a kindergarten valentine's party)
mothers tucking their only child in at night,
reading Dr. Seuss to soothe the
monsters in the closet, under the bed,
in the back alleys of our minds and tongues
and black cavity teeth.
III.
I heard talk about Job cursing God,
though it was only a rumor.
I mean, how could a straight shooter
like Job, a wealthy, faithful, God-fearing son
of a gun, turn on his heels with
his middle finger raised in
reverence and yell
Fuck off!
And, how could he then proceed
to the single tree left in his pastures,
where his sheep and cattle and all
his little boys and girls once gathered,
sling one end of his hempen rope over a branch
bent to heaven, and cleanly knot a noose
on the other?
(I would imagine that he stood
on a branch not eight feet
from the ground. Did he
jump, his neck snapping
like a firecracker,
or did the tree rear up as if piloted
by God himself, and strike him
dead upon the earth?)
Tell me, does it seem plausible that
he would slip his head into that noose
and tug it tight?
Jesus wept and
Job hung.
IV.
We sat on top of
The Last Supper,
overlooking the cemetery that was
bathed in pale moonlight, passing
a bowl between us as we partook in
silent communion.
Clouds struggled to take form
under the moons sad smile,
molding themselves into a question
that I could not be bothered with.
I wondered what it felt like to
trespass amongst the gaping craters,
bounding across the surface without
gravity's grip.
I closed my eyes and thought about
(the tree where Matt smoked his last
three cigarettes in succession, the
broken branch where he stood until
it could hold his weight no longer, how
the sky watched helplessly and mourned
late into the morning) how slowly the earth
spins.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Eulogy For the Moon
I throw away napkins
with words like desperado
and shampoo written on them.
They sink to the bottom of
the trash-can and set themselves
on fire. I stick my head inside to
watch the burning closely.
I carve the letters for midnight
on birch bark and place them in the corner.
I sleep better at nights knowing the time.
I hear a cat moaning in the street
and I swear it spoke.
I am an orphan.
Please kill me.
I call a taxi and have it run the damn thing over.
I start to write a eulogy for the cat,
but realize that only the moon
sways the ocean's tides.
I write a eulogy for the moon instead.
Ich bin ein Tråumer.
Bitte töten mich.
I fire my gun into the sky and slap
the concrete with the palms of my hands.
I wring a pigeon's neck and pluck
the beak off. I rip the nails from my fingers
and choke them down. I push my
pregnant head down the stairs and abort
all over the basement floor.
The moon swells my dreams.
with words like desperado
and shampoo written on them.
They sink to the bottom of
the trash-can and set themselves
on fire. I stick my head inside to
watch the burning closely.
I carve the letters for midnight
on birch bark and place them in the corner.
I sleep better at nights knowing the time.
I hear a cat moaning in the street
and I swear it spoke.
I am an orphan.
Please kill me.
I call a taxi and have it run the damn thing over.
I start to write a eulogy for the cat,
but realize that only the moon
sways the ocean's tides.
I write a eulogy for the moon instead.
Ich bin ein Tråumer.
Bitte töten mich.
I fire my gun into the sky and slap
the concrete with the palms of my hands.
I wring a pigeon's neck and pluck
the beak off. I rip the nails from my fingers
and choke them down. I push my
pregnant head down the stairs and abort
all over the basement floor.
The moon swells my dreams.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
A Man Becomes Him
A boy pulls stitches from
his knee and stretches them out
on stone tablets. He eats
a typewriter whole
and chokes.
His letters fall out.
He carves a cavern out of stone and stitches.
A pick axe becomes him.
He secures himself a future
by financing further expeditions.
His letters are fully mature by age twenty.
He learns how to have conversations with them.
He fully integrates blasphemy
into the cave's ecosystem.
A moth brings him berries.
He kills the messenger and molds himself out of clay.
He cannot recall a time where wild-fires spread
this far south. He calls upon himself and creates
a one man fire line.
He re-discovers the typewriter in his stomach.
He finds the word for water and pumps it on the fire.
He finds the word for sky and paints it on the domed ceiling.
He finds the word for life and breathes it on the dirt.
He finds the words for himself.
A man becomes him.
his knee and stretches them out
on stone tablets. He eats
a typewriter whole
and chokes.
His letters fall out.
He carves a cavern out of stone and stitches.
A pick axe becomes him.
He secures himself a future
by financing further expeditions.
His letters are fully mature by age twenty.
He learns how to have conversations with them.
He fully integrates blasphemy
into the cave's ecosystem.
A moth brings him berries.
He kills the messenger and molds himself out of clay.
He cannot recall a time where wild-fires spread
this far south. He calls upon himself and creates
a one man fire line.
He re-discovers the typewriter in his stomach.
He finds the word for water and pumps it on the fire.
He finds the word for sky and paints it on the domed ceiling.
He finds the word for life and breathes it on the dirt.
He finds the words for himself.
A man becomes him.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
White Picket Fence
We were driving in the stakes
of a white picket fence, handkerchiefs
hanging out of our pockets.
A man was whistling
to himself in the distance.
A dog was barking.
The earth was sagging under the post
like an old pair of breasts.
The sun spoke in drawn-out
sighs.
I drank water from a mason jar.
I could taste the dank dirt
beneath my fingernails.
We swung mallets like
a prison chain-gang.
A cow stared at us from across
the way, a wad of cud sifting
between its jaws.
A pile of rocks grumbled
and walked up to us.
We counted our eggs and shot
a rooster out of a cannon.
Hunger hibernated in the pit
of my stomach, so I broke down
and wept.
I squat and defecate in the dirt.
of a white picket fence, handkerchiefs
hanging out of our pockets.
A man was whistling
to himself in the distance.
A dog was barking.
The earth was sagging under the post
like an old pair of breasts.
The sun spoke in drawn-out
sighs.
I drank water from a mason jar.
I could taste the dank dirt
beneath my fingernails.
We swung mallets like
a prison chain-gang.
A cow stared at us from across
the way, a wad of cud sifting
between its jaws.
A pile of rocks grumbled
and walked up to us.
We counted our eggs and shot
a rooster out of a cannon.
Hunger hibernated in the pit
of my stomach, so I broke down
and wept.
I squat and defecate in the dirt.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Chicken Little was right
We lay on a carpet of moss
as saints shone down through
maple and oak leaves.
Vines intertwined with shadows
and choked at our feet.
Our beards grew at an alarming rate.
A sparrow fell dead beside
our heads and God barely glanced
up.
Chicken Little ran out of hiding
and sang us a song.
Our tongues forked
as snakes slithered between our thighs.
We sewed our skin together
with porcupine pins and plastic threads.
My femur erupted in ash and silence.
Our speak was violence.
Lightning burst and-
as saints shone down through
maple and oak leaves.
Vines intertwined with shadows
and choked at our feet.
Our beards grew at an alarming rate.
A sparrow fell dead beside
our heads and God barely glanced
up.
Chicken Little ran out of hiding
and sang us a song.
Our tongues forked
as snakes slithered between our thighs.
We sewed our skin together
with porcupine pins and plastic threads.
My femur erupted in ash and silence.
Our speak was violence.
Lightning burst and-
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sparrow
A sparrow once died in my hands,
its eyes glazed over like ice on a lake.
I could feel the heartbeat slow and
stutter out. I cupped the body of feathers
and beak, breathing softly on the fledging
that was torn from the cusp of flight.
My hands trembled as I dug a shallow grave
next to my mother's garden. I marked it with
a stone the size of my fist, a monument to
fallen sparrows, discarded and forgotten
in tall grasses, in spring rain, in winter's snow,
abandoned by mortality and God's
ghostly hand.
its eyes glazed over like ice on a lake.
I could feel the heartbeat slow and
stutter out. I cupped the body of feathers
and beak, breathing softly on the fledging
that was torn from the cusp of flight.
My hands trembled as I dug a shallow grave
next to my mother's garden. I marked it with
a stone the size of my fist, a monument to
fallen sparrows, discarded and forgotten
in tall grasses, in spring rain, in winter's snow,
abandoned by mortality and God's
ghostly hand.
My Roots
My roots extend deep into Michigan's soil. They have been burrowing since the day I was born.
My roots are taking walks with my grandmother downtown, the flowers and fountain in the middle of the park that drew me in. My roots are basketballs on the basement floor, metal bat-mobiles and tricycles.
My roots are curled up in the back of my fathers station wagon, looking at stars through telescopes. My roots are playing freeze tag and hide and seek, scavenger hunts and face painting. My roots are water gun fights, watermelon seed spitting contests.
My roots are learning to ride a bike, holding neighborhood races that spanned the distance of one block. My roots are climbing pine trees in my back yard, building forts in the ones across the street. My roots are building dams when it rained, stopping up the water with sand, smashing it all with chunks of concrete.
My roots are private school playgrounds, steel slides and monkey bars. My roots are going to the library and carrying as many books as I could home. My roots are sweat pants and sweaters.
My roots are catching crayfish in the creek at Milham park with my bare hands, scooping tadpoles with yogurt containers. My roots are picnics and feeding ducks, running through groups of geese with my arms waving.
My roots are camping at Van Buren in my grandparents old canvas tent, running up and down the dunes, diving into the waves of Lake Michigan. My roots are watching my father build a fire, collecting sticks and dead brush to feed it. My roots are burnt marsh-mellows and kerosene lamps, katy-dids and crickets.
My roots are frying ants and leaves with a magnifying glass, cutting earthworms in half to watch the two halves squirm, rolling pill-bugs between my fingers. My roots are picking blackberries and strawberries from my mothers garden, stealing mulberries from my neighbors trees. My roots are baking pies and eating rhubarb.
My roots are snow angels and snow-forts, tunnels burrowed into snowbanks. My roots are snow ball fights and snow-men. My roots are hot chocolate that was waiting on the stove for me when I came in from the cold, blankets and quilts that my grandmother made me.
My roots are raking leaves into piles, jumping out of trees into them, burying myself in them. My roots are hayrides and harvest festivals, three-legged and potato sack races. My roots are bobbing for apples, searching for candy bars with flashlights in the dark.
My roots are setting up the christmas tree, decorating it with dozens of colorful ornaments, setting up the model train track around the tree and watching it chug along. My roots are Christmas morning breakfasts, egg casseroles and slices of ham, crackers and cheese.
My roots center me, station me here. My roots are ever-growing, digging and twisting. My roots are myself, are my family, are my childhood and adulthood, my friends, my experiences. My roots will never be severed, only momentarily forgotten.
My roots are taking walks with my grandmother downtown, the flowers and fountain in the middle of the park that drew me in. My roots are basketballs on the basement floor, metal bat-mobiles and tricycles.
My roots are curled up in the back of my fathers station wagon, looking at stars through telescopes. My roots are playing freeze tag and hide and seek, scavenger hunts and face painting. My roots are water gun fights, watermelon seed spitting contests.
My roots are learning to ride a bike, holding neighborhood races that spanned the distance of one block. My roots are climbing pine trees in my back yard, building forts in the ones across the street. My roots are building dams when it rained, stopping up the water with sand, smashing it all with chunks of concrete.
My roots are private school playgrounds, steel slides and monkey bars. My roots are going to the library and carrying as many books as I could home. My roots are sweat pants and sweaters.
My roots are catching crayfish in the creek at Milham park with my bare hands, scooping tadpoles with yogurt containers. My roots are picnics and feeding ducks, running through groups of geese with my arms waving.
My roots are camping at Van Buren in my grandparents old canvas tent, running up and down the dunes, diving into the waves of Lake Michigan. My roots are watching my father build a fire, collecting sticks and dead brush to feed it. My roots are burnt marsh-mellows and kerosene lamps, katy-dids and crickets.
My roots are frying ants and leaves with a magnifying glass, cutting earthworms in half to watch the two halves squirm, rolling pill-bugs between my fingers. My roots are picking blackberries and strawberries from my mothers garden, stealing mulberries from my neighbors trees. My roots are baking pies and eating rhubarb.
My roots are snow angels and snow-forts, tunnels burrowed into snowbanks. My roots are snow ball fights and snow-men. My roots are hot chocolate that was waiting on the stove for me when I came in from the cold, blankets and quilts that my grandmother made me.
My roots are raking leaves into piles, jumping out of trees into them, burying myself in them. My roots are hayrides and harvest festivals, three-legged and potato sack races. My roots are bobbing for apples, searching for candy bars with flashlights in the dark.
My roots are setting up the christmas tree, decorating it with dozens of colorful ornaments, setting up the model train track around the tree and watching it chug along. My roots are Christmas morning breakfasts, egg casseroles and slices of ham, crackers and cheese.
My roots center me, station me here. My roots are ever-growing, digging and twisting. My roots are myself, are my family, are my childhood and adulthood, my friends, my experiences. My roots will never be severed, only momentarily forgotten.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Mud-Men
We coated ourselves in a blanket
of mud and dozed with the cattails
on the bank.
A man once died not five feet
from here, slumped forward,
his feet fermenting in the cold
water.
We heard his voice in our dreams.
He spoke of nibbling fish and biting
pebbles under our bottoms.
He was a mud-man like us, making
friends with mosquitoes and horseflies.
His hands were caked with dirt
and the juice of onions.
He was a muddy man, composing
morning songs with sparrows
and swallows, and he died
with his sixty-six year old
toes dangling in the current.
Now he sleeps in the sky
and speaks to us in our mud
dreams, with wild grasses and cattails
swaying above our heads.
of mud and dozed with the cattails
on the bank.
A man once died not five feet
from here, slumped forward,
his feet fermenting in the cold
water.
We heard his voice in our dreams.
He spoke of nibbling fish and biting
pebbles under our bottoms.
He was a mud-man like us, making
friends with mosquitoes and horseflies.
His hands were caked with dirt
and the juice of onions.
He was a muddy man, composing
morning songs with sparrows
and swallows, and he died
with his sixty-six year old
toes dangling in the current.
Now he sleeps in the sky
and speaks to us in our mud
dreams, with wild grasses and cattails
swaying above our heads.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Hunter in my Head
There are duck-calls in my head
that go off every time I think.
Often, the insistent honk
of geese follows, as does
A man dressed in dark brown.
I've heard rumors that one
does not need a hunting license
in my head, though I still don't know
Where the man came from.
When I try and think through
this problem, he starts shooting
or calling ducks, and I simply can't
Hear myself over the noise.
I once asked him to quiet down,
but he just stared at me
and fluffed the feathers of
The mallard he was holding.
I can only imagine what his wife
must think of him spending
so much time in my head.
that go off every time I think.
Often, the insistent honk
of geese follows, as does
A man dressed in dark brown.
I've heard rumors that one
does not need a hunting license
in my head, though I still don't know
Where the man came from.
When I try and think through
this problem, he starts shooting
or calling ducks, and I simply can't
Hear myself over the noise.
I once asked him to quiet down,
but he just stared at me
and fluffed the feathers of
The mallard he was holding.
I can only imagine what his wife
must think of him spending
so much time in my head.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The World Ends
There is a man who stands
in his living room and watches
the world ending outside his window.
He holds tickets that he bought
in advance to see the end of the world.
The world is ending outside the man's
window and all he can think about
is the origin of ice cream.
The man watches the world end
and wishes he had mint chocolate
chip ice cream.
The man is eating ice cream
in his head while the world ends
outside.
The man thinks about how he
should have gotten tickets
for his neighbors so they could watch
the world end with him.
The world ends outside the man's
window and the world ends inside
the man's living room and the world
ends on the origin of ice cream.
in his living room and watches
the world ending outside his window.
He holds tickets that he bought
in advance to see the end of the world.
The world is ending outside the man's
window and all he can think about
is the origin of ice cream.
The man watches the world end
and wishes he had mint chocolate
chip ice cream.
The man is eating ice cream
in his head while the world ends
outside.
The man thinks about how he
should have gotten tickets
for his neighbors so they could watch
the world end with him.
The world ends outside the man's
window and the world ends inside
the man's living room and the world
ends on the origin of ice cream.
Eye Socket
I thumbed your eye sockets
as though your lashes and lids
and eyes had fallen out, as if I
were sponging dough on the dining
room table.
I could hear your brain matter moving
like goulashes sinking into mud.
As I recall it was a rainy day,
though with my thumbs in your eyes
all you probably recall is the pitter
of the raindrops on the roof.
My thumbs were in your eyes,
and my palms were pressed
into your cheeks, red with fluster
and embarrassment.
I could feel the blood breathing
under your skin, the motion
of a snake sliding through your arteries.
You clawed my arms and forked
your tongue. Thunder rattled
the storm windows.
I pulled away and vomited
in the corner.
as though your lashes and lids
and eyes had fallen out, as if I
were sponging dough on the dining
room table.
I could hear your brain matter moving
like goulashes sinking into mud.
As I recall it was a rainy day,
though with my thumbs in your eyes
all you probably recall is the pitter
of the raindrops on the roof.
My thumbs were in your eyes,
and my palms were pressed
into your cheeks, red with fluster
and embarrassment.
I could feel the blood breathing
under your skin, the motion
of a snake sliding through your arteries.
You clawed my arms and forked
your tongue. Thunder rattled
the storm windows.
I pulled away and vomited
in the corner.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sentimental Hallmark Fluff
Here I am, browsing through lists
of literary magazines in hopes
that I find one to submit to,
when I glance over number two-ten
and damn near fall out of bed,
a site called Forpoetry and
it's talking about how it aint open to
beginners' submissions, and I'm thinking
to myself how thats pretty shallow of them,
seeing as everyone gots to start somewhere,
and then they go on about how they don't want no
city posing punk junk, no corny sentimental
hallmark fluff, no academic workshop
imitations, which got me thinking
about how much I suddenly want to
write a poem about posing
my city nude with it's sagging
skyscraper tits, tattooed anarchy ass,
rivers of varicose veins, or maybe a poem
about growing up in my bare
chested city, how her alleyway
snatch hadn't smelled of stale fish
and only two cars could chug through
at a time, and I'm starting to wonder if
any teacher has ever given an assignment
to write about how my city would
stretch out on that PunkBoy centerfold,
the black top steaming in the heat
of summer, spreading her legs
on either side of the tracks, pregnant
with panhandlers and pedophiles,
looking like a sexed machine for Detroit
or Philly to hang above their beds
and jack off to each night, and I'm thinking
that if I ever wrote a poem like this, I would tidy it up real nice
with a title like "Butterflies" or "My Childhood Memories",
fold it up in an envelope with stickers of rainbows
and unicorns to make it look pretty, then ship that
shit down to the editor at Againstpoetry where it belongs.
But then again, maybe not.
of literary magazines in hopes
that I find one to submit to,
when I glance over number two-ten
and damn near fall out of bed,
a site called Forpoetry and
it's talking about how it aint open to
beginners' submissions, and I'm thinking
to myself how thats pretty shallow of them,
seeing as everyone gots to start somewhere,
and then they go on about how they don't want no
city posing punk junk, no corny sentimental
hallmark fluff, no academic workshop
imitations, which got me thinking
about how much I suddenly want to
write a poem about posing
my city nude with it's sagging
skyscraper tits, tattooed anarchy ass,
rivers of varicose veins, or maybe a poem
about growing up in my bare
chested city, how her alleyway
snatch hadn't smelled of stale fish
and only two cars could chug through
at a time, and I'm starting to wonder if
any teacher has ever given an assignment
to write about how my city would
stretch out on that PunkBoy centerfold,
the black top steaming in the heat
of summer, spreading her legs
on either side of the tracks, pregnant
with panhandlers and pedophiles,
looking like a sexed machine for Detroit
or Philly to hang above their beds
and jack off to each night, and I'm thinking
that if I ever wrote a poem like this, I would tidy it up real nice
with a title like "Butterflies" or "My Childhood Memories",
fold it up in an envelope with stickers of rainbows
and unicorns to make it look pretty, then ship that
shit down to the editor at Againstpoetry where it belongs.
But then again, maybe not.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Mary Ruefle
When I read your poetry,
I envision you as my mother,
or grandmother even, with a voice
of a dying songbird. Your angel thin
hair must make for an excellent nest.
I sometimes see you as an old friend,
or an old friend of a friend, the kind
full of wise words and God and
yourself. I wonder if I will ever be full
of you.
I once tried memorizing
an entire book of yours, starting
from the back and moving
backwards still. I quickly found myself
reading in circles, for my brain
has room for ten poems only
before it forgets how to brush teeth
and blaspheme.
I like the thought that you are
the only person that reminds me of you.
One day we will meet
and I will tell you these things,
though I know that all you will say is
'It looks like rain.'
I will smile and nod my head
and try to remember a poem you wrote about an owl or snow,
but all that will come to mind is
heigh-ho little moon, heigh-ho.
I envision you as my mother,
or grandmother even, with a voice
of a dying songbird. Your angel thin
hair must make for an excellent nest.
I sometimes see you as an old friend,
or an old friend of a friend, the kind
full of wise words and God and
yourself. I wonder if I will ever be full
of you.
I once tried memorizing
an entire book of yours, starting
from the back and moving
backwards still. I quickly found myself
reading in circles, for my brain
has room for ten poems only
before it forgets how to brush teeth
and blaspheme.
I like the thought that you are
the only person that reminds me of you.
One day we will meet
and I will tell you these things,
though I know that all you will say is
'It looks like rain.'
I will smile and nod my head
and try to remember a poem you wrote about an owl or snow,
but all that will come to mind is
heigh-ho little moon, heigh-ho.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Letter to my English Professor
Dear Keith, I like English. In grade school, I was the oddball that admitted how much I enjoyed grammar classes. For some reason, I liked learning how to construct sentences, what each part was called. I have long since forgotten the small details I learned in grade school, but forgetting them has been a gradual process. Through experience, I have learned to feel what makes a good sentence, storing the knowledge somewhere in my unconsciousness. I have learned how I like to write, which rules I follow, and which rules I choose to ignore (I still am learning).
In middle school, I was introduced to the five paragraph essay, which I hated, and poetry, which I loved. Whenever my teacher assigned a five paragraph essay, which was rather frequently, I would sit at my desk and think about how stupid it was. It felt like I was writing the same thing over and over, just adding different words for different topics. This turned me off of writing. I started viewing it as this boring act, tedious busy work. Although I did not like writing them, five paragraph essays taught me how to construct a paragraph, which is invaluable.
Towards the end of my eighth grade year, we started learning about poetry in English class. Here was a form that took everything I had grown to hate about writing and thrown it out. I was free to break the rules that I had just spent years of my life learning. I felt free, writing was now something that I enjoyed and looked forward to rather than something I avoided avidly. Though new structures and terms were introduced, I relished learning them.
I started keeping journals in which I wrote (terrible) poetry and anecdotes. I discovered online blogs, with which I shared my words with the world. I was feeling good about writing, it was an enjoyable activity for me. That is, it was until I started my English class in the winter of freshman year. Our teacher assigned us one boring book to read and report on after another. Writing once again became unattractive to me. I hated writing the summarization of a book that I found boring, feeling like I was not actually saying anything at all. I quickly forgot all about writing and reading for enjoyment and moved on to trying to fit in.
My sophomore year was worse. The English teacher was a hard-ass who hated me, at least that's what it felt like. Our assignments consisted of reading a classic work of English literature and answering a list of seven questions, the most important one being "What is the theme?" We then had a research paper that was all we worked on for two months straight. Me being the procrastinator I am, I waited until the last minute to complete each part, sometimes giving up altogether. I hated writing more than ever. The teacher also taught us that there was only one interpretation to a text, and that it was located solely within the text. She claimed that this was the only way of viewing a text and everything else was full of shit. I later learned in your Literary Analysis class that this is called New Criticism, and that there are in fact a multitude of ways of viewing a text.
Junior year, I had a teacher who was the polar opposite. She taught us that a text means however we interpret it to mean. She also conducted class different than I had ever experienced. Each weekend, we were assigned to write one page minimum about whatever we wanted. I found myself looking forward to writing each weekend, sitting in front of the computer and typing out small stories, snippets of my life, and the occasional poem. I started writing again, not just on the weekends for class, but whenever I felt so inclined. I filled notebook after notebook with my musings. In class, the teacher also encouraged discussion of literature, listening to us students as much as we listened to her. English once again felt alive to me.
I had the same teacher for my senior year English class as I had sophomore year. It was much of the same thing, though I found my voice in her class this time. I started challenging her in my assignments for class. I started to realize what I believed, what I wanted out of life, where I wanted to go, and had the knowledge and experience to put it down on paper. I learned to argue effectively with my writing that year.
After high school, I continued to write on my own time. I wrote poetry mostly. I attended Western Michigan in the fall, and, overwhelmed by the freedom of moving out of my parents and the burden of living off campus, soon started to second guess my decision to go to college. Most of my time was spent at the coffee shop writing and smoking cigarettes. I stopped going to classes and failed all but one. The next semester I vowed to go to all my classes whenever they met, but quickly fell back into my old routine of waking up at noon and spending the day at the coffee shop.
It was about the middle of my second semester that I realized that I wanted to devote my life to writing and all that it entails. I considered dropping out to pursue writing full time (which I pretty much was already doing), but was convinced otherwise. I again failed my classes, and was booted not only from Western, but also lost the Kalamazoo Promise.
I got my act together this past year, attending KVCC and getting my grade point average back up. I am currently pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing, transferring back to Western next year. I also want to attend grad school sometime in the future to get a masters degree. I spend much of my time writing and editing poetry and short stories. I look forward to the next eight weeks in your class, and I enjoy the way you teach.
Sincerely,
Jesse Duke
In middle school, I was introduced to the five paragraph essay, which I hated, and poetry, which I loved. Whenever my teacher assigned a five paragraph essay, which was rather frequently, I would sit at my desk and think about how stupid it was. It felt like I was writing the same thing over and over, just adding different words for different topics. This turned me off of writing. I started viewing it as this boring act, tedious busy work. Although I did not like writing them, five paragraph essays taught me how to construct a paragraph, which is invaluable.
Towards the end of my eighth grade year, we started learning about poetry in English class. Here was a form that took everything I had grown to hate about writing and thrown it out. I was free to break the rules that I had just spent years of my life learning. I felt free, writing was now something that I enjoyed and looked forward to rather than something I avoided avidly. Though new structures and terms were introduced, I relished learning them.
I started keeping journals in which I wrote (terrible) poetry and anecdotes. I discovered online blogs, with which I shared my words with the world. I was feeling good about writing, it was an enjoyable activity for me. That is, it was until I started my English class in the winter of freshman year. Our teacher assigned us one boring book to read and report on after another. Writing once again became unattractive to me. I hated writing the summarization of a book that I found boring, feeling like I was not actually saying anything at all. I quickly forgot all about writing and reading for enjoyment and moved on to trying to fit in.
My sophomore year was worse. The English teacher was a hard-ass who hated me, at least that's what it felt like. Our assignments consisted of reading a classic work of English literature and answering a list of seven questions, the most important one being "What is the theme?" We then had a research paper that was all we worked on for two months straight. Me being the procrastinator I am, I waited until the last minute to complete each part, sometimes giving up altogether. I hated writing more than ever. The teacher also taught us that there was only one interpretation to a text, and that it was located solely within the text. She claimed that this was the only way of viewing a text and everything else was full of shit. I later learned in your Literary Analysis class that this is called New Criticism, and that there are in fact a multitude of ways of viewing a text.
Junior year, I had a teacher who was the polar opposite. She taught us that a text means however we interpret it to mean. She also conducted class different than I had ever experienced. Each weekend, we were assigned to write one page minimum about whatever we wanted. I found myself looking forward to writing each weekend, sitting in front of the computer and typing out small stories, snippets of my life, and the occasional poem. I started writing again, not just on the weekends for class, but whenever I felt so inclined. I filled notebook after notebook with my musings. In class, the teacher also encouraged discussion of literature, listening to us students as much as we listened to her. English once again felt alive to me.
I had the same teacher for my senior year English class as I had sophomore year. It was much of the same thing, though I found my voice in her class this time. I started challenging her in my assignments for class. I started to realize what I believed, what I wanted out of life, where I wanted to go, and had the knowledge and experience to put it down on paper. I learned to argue effectively with my writing that year.
After high school, I continued to write on my own time. I wrote poetry mostly. I attended Western Michigan in the fall, and, overwhelmed by the freedom of moving out of my parents and the burden of living off campus, soon started to second guess my decision to go to college. Most of my time was spent at the coffee shop writing and smoking cigarettes. I stopped going to classes and failed all but one. The next semester I vowed to go to all my classes whenever they met, but quickly fell back into my old routine of waking up at noon and spending the day at the coffee shop.
It was about the middle of my second semester that I realized that I wanted to devote my life to writing and all that it entails. I considered dropping out to pursue writing full time (which I pretty much was already doing), but was convinced otherwise. I again failed my classes, and was booted not only from Western, but also lost the Kalamazoo Promise.
I got my act together this past year, attending KVCC and getting my grade point average back up. I am currently pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing, transferring back to Western next year. I also want to attend grad school sometime in the future to get a masters degree. I spend much of my time writing and editing poetry and short stories. I look forward to the next eight weeks in your class, and I enjoy the way you teach.
Sincerely,
Jesse Duke
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Tree
I.
In the heart of the forest stands a tree
with crooked branches and
scraggly teeth, whose eyes
are daggers, who commands
the crows and carpet moss.
Sometimes I sleep amongst
her roots with fleshy worms
rubbing against my thighs. The damp
nose of a mole poking at my back,
the black soil wedged between my
fingernails, I dream in solitude.
I dream of a bullet and
A belt. A bike. Broken records.
A canopy of blue. A man singing.
A man dying. A parade. Candy. A mother.
Me.
It is the caw of the crows that wakes
me each morning. I slowly dig my way
up through the soft earth, and it falls in clumps
from my hair as I stand straight
and breathe deeply. I can feel
the tree's eyes piercing my back
as I part its branches and stumble
out into daylight. It knows
I will be back tomorrow.
II.
Today, there is a man nestled
in the branches, asleep with the
nose of a mouse poking
out from his cupped hands.
He is snoring softly, like a train
in the distance, like a chainsaw
or jackhammer muffled by the haze
of summer. The tree is a hammock,
its branches swaying as the man naps.
I wonder if we dream the same,
the man and I, or if he dreams
of hickory and scotch, of maple
and meadow, of mice and men.
I sing to him softly as I sleep
in the soil below.
III.
Termites have taken to the tree,
gnawing at it from the inside out.
The crows are quiet and the man
is now a permanent resident.
I can tell the branches are breaking
under his weight.
Tomorrow, I will put it out of its misery.
IV.
Ten parts gasoline
One part match
The fire pulsates late into the night
In the heart of the forest stands a tree
with crooked branches and
scraggly teeth, whose eyes
are daggers, who commands
the crows and carpet moss.
Sometimes I sleep amongst
her roots with fleshy worms
rubbing against my thighs. The damp
nose of a mole poking at my back,
the black soil wedged between my
fingernails, I dream in solitude.
I dream of a bullet and
A belt. A bike. Broken records.
A canopy of blue. A man singing.
A man dying. A parade. Candy. A mother.
Me.
It is the caw of the crows that wakes
me each morning. I slowly dig my way
up through the soft earth, and it falls in clumps
from my hair as I stand straight
and breathe deeply. I can feel
the tree's eyes piercing my back
as I part its branches and stumble
out into daylight. It knows
I will be back tomorrow.
II.
Today, there is a man nestled
in the branches, asleep with the
nose of a mouse poking
out from his cupped hands.
He is snoring softly, like a train
in the distance, like a chainsaw
or jackhammer muffled by the haze
of summer. The tree is a hammock,
its branches swaying as the man naps.
I wonder if we dream the same,
the man and I, or if he dreams
of hickory and scotch, of maple
and meadow, of mice and men.
I sing to him softly as I sleep
in the soil below.
III.
Termites have taken to the tree,
gnawing at it from the inside out.
The crows are quiet and the man
is now a permanent resident.
I can tell the branches are breaking
under his weight.
Tomorrow, I will put it out of its misery.
IV.
Ten parts gasoline
One part match
The fire pulsates late into the night
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Chapbook
Hello everyone. I haven't updated in a while and thought that it was about time I did. I am currently working on a chapbook of my work, titled Driftwood. If anyone would like a copy, let me know. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.
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