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Sunday, May 11, 2008
My Stepfather Always Used to Tell Me to Get with the Program . . .
the void is more of an aspiration for thought. meaning thought should strive to be snuffed out, like a candleflame lighting only a small space of a room, the dark corners more approachable when all is dark. humanity is only one small form of existence. to get the huge picture of what's going on, zoom out of earth until earth is only the size of a pinhead and then from there, close your eyes.
snuff out the candle, then blow up the room the candle was in, and you have a cloud of smoke covering EVERYTHING
that is my metaphorical spirituality.
snuff out the candle, then blow up the room the candle was in, and you have a cloud of smoke covering EVERYTHING
that is my metaphorical spirituality.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A Conversation
Discussions on art lead the man with the big, floppy hat to think that inside his phone there is a stasis button, a button he can press where he does not even have to listen to the topics of conversation. This distraction unnerves him. With hardly any food in his body, the displaces sculpture on the college campus appears as a moldy mass--perhaps a cheese puff or a green apple.
He was talking with a good friend. They had known each other for many years. The most significant years of my life, he thought, were spent with my friend. It is disturbing to think she is going away. It is hopeful that she has such courage. It is enduring that her skills have also massed, though not like a moldy cheese puff or a green apple. These skills, are they much different from Adam and Even being expulsed? What is expulsion, allegorically? These thoughts all drifted around like the undry splashing of oil paint. He wanted to create a new universe, but all he could think of was the half-empty mailbox that would be completely empty after five minutes, emptied by his own hands, expulsed simply by the changing of the guards. He thought about the mail and he also thought about the sun little more than a cowardly blanket above the clouds, and not some great holy symbol that is was cracked up to be. And he imagined how air outside felt thick and heavy. It was disturbing to imagine all the faults of the oncoming summer.
The call was lost. Quick and redial, he thought. And he did so. It's true, part of him did feel merely obligated to talk to her, to formally say goodbye as soon as it got time to clock into the one point five hour work shift. But it's also true that part of him felt a gentle misery in talking to her, a misery of the past. It was the usual longing, the usual romanticism associated with home. Home as the place he convinced himself never to return to. Home, as the place he associated with suicide. No, he could definitely not live there again, he thought. But how could he solve such a stumper? How could he leap over such a wet, brick wall? He continued to listen to her, a lovely though dispirited or concerned voice. It was her all right. Not being enough, the electric light overhead dimmed as he closed his eyes, setting the telephone down.
He had not had coffee at all, not since fifteen completely separated hours ago. Maybe that was the cause of such absurd, finger-twiddling damperings. Or maybe the combination of two other stimulants inside of him at once, another type of swirl, a type hardly fashionable for someone in his position. Or maybe it was that lack of hunger. That ferocious voracity covered up by guilt, shame, sorrow--all the great piqued traits. Behind him was the past. In front of him was the future. The present was transition, and he looked at it meekly. The optimism of previous days was temporarily damning him. Another juxtaposition, similar to when he had sat on the stone bench and stared at days-old flower bloomings, all bright pink. That day had been a good day. There had been an understanding on that day. Why not this day? Why couldn't he notice the pink on this day?
A little later the man sat down at a desk in the basement. The sounds of mechanical fans whirring behind him went on unnoticed, as they usually do. He talked about sea salt and thought about sadness, and tried to remember single room occupancy in Toronto and the last time his shoelace broke. He thought about his friend and stared at the clock for a while longer, before reaching for an orange highlighter.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Returning to the Warzone
Let's get back, and up, to speed:
Now dreaming through newfangled
medications, things move along
in ways you might not have imagined
(the time we clenched even after
the room went dark and sleep consumed)
and in ways you did not desire
(feeling each pluck of grass
prickling the back behind individual
motion) because life is sometimes
easier to figure out through coils
than straight-faced bored life.
So I've been editing.
Pandora on the Freeway
This is dreaming
of Pandora
on the freeway
riding a giant
box, made of gold,
glittering, and
inside, directly
beneath that
gilded box top,
are tiny scraps of
paper, rolled up
tight like how the
Chinese do it—
wind forces the
lid off, and the faded
scrolls dance beside
the vibrating Woman,
unleashing strings of
pitch-breaking
words, blankets
of scrolls fluttering
on down the
center lane,
seen and known
only through
rearview.
The scrolls’ words
form magically
atop each crack of
the dusted pale
current, and the
distracted will
never see these
sources of fortune,
flame or falter
under the roars
of their engines.
Only the hitchhiker,
sitting entranced,
is able to hear the
ripping paper.
Also, there have been some fresh happenings.
Dancing with Vltava
As it sways, the Charles Bridge is a gently-cropped vision
balancing snowflakes, umbrellas, stretched wrists
and yes you (too swaying forward to damp metal sheens
forgetting about those pickpockets so invisibly soft)
and yes these tourists (mass of bugs knifing like a plow
maybe causing your short fingers to snuggle my icy wrist
offing clumps of snow from skin to stretches of cobblestone)
are part of this scene of stone statues restricted with frostbite
. . . down, down into those frozen plates of ice that sparkle,
chucked rocks shatter our reflections, and then you start spinning,
fast as you can, twirling in the middle of some sunburst field,
then down, down you mimic an angel’s epileptic sputter, an
ecstasy over your mother’s front yard—just a frosted smash of weeds,
and the noon’s frozen phosphorescence picking eyelids apart,
pulling open a halo of color, forming my silhouette, all concrete . . .
Squint and you can make out Josefov, once a center of oppression,
but now a monster of rows, clean-slated apartment faces, capitalism
with its crowned whitewash center: Paris Street, where art is bravery,
where the designers hope the mosques will draw in crowds of coins:
no, that Jewish Quarter is lost in a blanket of thick white haze,
forcing imaginations to lead machinations from your bright mind,
our history as two beggars’ hands weaving folktales and mythologies.
. . . even after the rocks have spiraling, spasming images out
into the jagged ice edges, our eyes still notice below, where
four hands without mittens redden quickly, as spring is summer,
and winter is not far behind, locking competition to delusion:
but the best part is looking past our hands and finding out there
has always been melt here, there has always been a source of water.
The Aerospace Museum
I imagine intellectuals forming intimidating lines,
my eyes clamping shut so I can flee to past loves.
The overarching mental madnesses push me out,
but beyond the glass trolley horns blast me back in.
I feel like I am an ocean of lost balloons, trapped
beneath a ceiling, trying to escape, to burst:
I want to believe that this feeling will pass on, so
I can move my body past the door-guard, to the huge
gallery of traveler’s things, long needling things
that pierce, things that understand the sky’s sides,
whether way up there, or like the weather way down
here, in the land of scurrying sparse-haired creatures
who cannot escape their own damned weight, or
their fate, moving around like ants seen from a car
(these planes will fly far away, through galaxies,
or maybe they will shine as they are shot down
from the sky; loads of debris ready to swoosh
past, and in an interradial blast, we will look,
sending symbols, following the messenger’s way,
colored in the respect of red, in the silence of grey.)
Even with air spinning around me in this corridor,
it appears there's still dust to be touched after all.
Now dreaming through newfangled
medications, things move along
in ways you might not have imagined
(the time we clenched even after
the room went dark and sleep consumed)
and in ways you did not desire
(feeling each pluck of grass
prickling the back behind individual
motion) because life is sometimes
easier to figure out through coils
than straight-faced bored life.
So I've been editing.
Pandora on the Freeway
This is dreaming
of Pandora
on the freeway
riding a giant
box, made of gold,
glittering, and
inside, directly
beneath that
gilded box top,
are tiny scraps of
paper, rolled up
tight like how the
Chinese do it—
wind forces the
lid off, and the faded
scrolls dance beside
the vibrating Woman,
unleashing strings of
pitch-breaking
words, blankets
of scrolls fluttering
on down the
center lane,
seen and known
only through
rearview.
The scrolls’ words
form magically
atop each crack of
the dusted pale
current, and the
distracted will
never see these
sources of fortune,
flame or falter
under the roars
of their engines.
Only the hitchhiker,
sitting entranced,
is able to hear the
ripping paper.
Also, there have been some fresh happenings.
Dancing with Vltava
As it sways, the Charles Bridge is a gently-cropped vision
balancing snowflakes, umbrellas, stretched wrists
and yes you (too swaying forward to damp metal sheens
forgetting about those pickpockets so invisibly soft)
and yes these tourists (mass of bugs knifing like a plow
maybe causing your short fingers to snuggle my icy wrist
offing clumps of snow from skin to stretches of cobblestone)
are part of this scene of stone statues restricted with frostbite
. . . down, down into those frozen plates of ice that sparkle,
chucked rocks shatter our reflections, and then you start spinning,
fast as you can, twirling in the middle of some sunburst field,
then down, down you mimic an angel’s epileptic sputter, an
ecstasy over your mother’s front yard—just a frosted smash of weeds,
and the noon’s frozen phosphorescence picking eyelids apart,
pulling open a halo of color, forming my silhouette, all concrete . . .
Squint and you can make out Josefov, once a center of oppression,
but now a monster of rows, clean-slated apartment faces, capitalism
with its crowned whitewash center: Paris Street, where art is bravery,
where the designers hope the mosques will draw in crowds of coins:
no, that Jewish Quarter is lost in a blanket of thick white haze,
forcing imaginations to lead machinations from your bright mind,
our history as two beggars’ hands weaving folktales and mythologies.
. . . even after the rocks have spiraling, spasming images out
into the jagged ice edges, our eyes still notice below, where
four hands without mittens redden quickly, as spring is summer,
and winter is not far behind, locking competition to delusion:
but the best part is looking past our hands and finding out there
has always been melt here, there has always been a source of water.
The Aerospace Museum
I imagine intellectuals forming intimidating lines,
my eyes clamping shut so I can flee to past loves.
The overarching mental madnesses push me out,
but beyond the glass trolley horns blast me back in.
I feel like I am an ocean of lost balloons, trapped
beneath a ceiling, trying to escape, to burst:
I want to believe that this feeling will pass on, so
I can move my body past the door-guard, to the huge
gallery of traveler’s things, long needling things
that pierce, things that understand the sky’s sides,
whether way up there, or like the weather way down
here, in the land of scurrying sparse-haired creatures
who cannot escape their own damned weight, or
their fate, moving around like ants seen from a car
(these planes will fly far away, through galaxies,
or maybe they will shine as they are shot down
from the sky; loads of debris ready to swoosh
past, and in an interradial blast, we will look,
sending symbols, following the messenger’s way,
colored in the respect of red, in the silence of grey.)
Even with air spinning around me in this corridor,
it appears there's still dust to be touched after all.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Pandora on the Freeway
Dreaming of Pandora
on the freeway
riding a giant
box, made of gold,
glittering, and
inside, directly
beneath that
shiny red ribbon,
are tiny scraps of
paper, rolled up
tight like how the
Chinese do it--
faded wise scrolls
dancing beside the
vibrating master,
singing the calm
words, strings of
circuit-bending,
pitch-breaking,
tire-screeching
words, blankets
of scrolls fluttering
up a center aisle
seen and known
only through
rearview,
the words forming
between each crack
on the dusted
pale current,
where no one
can know fortune
flame or falter
until passed by,
the faint sound of
paper ripping
through the ears--
on the freeway
riding a giant
box, made of gold,
glittering, and
inside, directly
beneath that
shiny red ribbon,
are tiny scraps of
paper, rolled up
tight like how the
Chinese do it--
faded wise scrolls
dancing beside the
vibrating master,
singing the calm
words, strings of
circuit-bending,
pitch-breaking,
tire-screeching
words, blankets
of scrolls fluttering
up a center aisle
seen and known
only through
rearview,
the words forming
between each crack
on the dusted
pale current,
where no one
can know fortune
flame or falter
until passed by,
the faint sound of
paper ripping
through the ears--
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Temporal Sundown
So I've been thinking a lot about my future. I can't say this is definite, but it's the best I have got: the top three things I want to do before I die: go to "midget night" at a strip club; do jail time; ride an airbus for more than an hour.
The honorable mention? Pay off my credit card debt and my student loans.
I think I owe this world that much.
Temporal Sundown
Last night the clock struck again,
for I was a man of cast iron
and single slices of skin tissue
knocking about the roof of my head.
These things were
perfect in their pink-
ness, neckties aside,
strangling the other who
gallopped and broke-back-mount-
ain-ed, I just a little boy
then, in that splintering mind's
eye, that goo-goo-gew-gah forgetful-
ness--
You see, last night
the drums were loud,
really loud.
Last night, there were girls
crying and mothers laughing
and Camery dancings going
on, the goings-on just a thick,
white carnivale smoke-tide--
we watched the Good the Bad the Ugly
and Sam Cooke singing in the backdrop,
no we, just... yes, we: the ghosts and I
the veils and I
the dancing and I
the spacing and I no tide no spacing
just I just I just fear-flickering-fish-eye
Pores draped in dirt
it's been a long day at work
smoke-skin jacket with
undoable pockets
and the putrid flesh a-rotting
has got us all talking
like we did back in the day
what day the day what day
the day the whole world came back
"went away"
imagining pinks and fours
and fives and blues
the coastal rising coming through
the joking and the mything the busting
of lies, the tables crossed the eyes
flashes nothing gold will last dies
Little girl speaks with afro
on her head
and the man at the counter
didn't hear what she said
This house changes people
this house this mad old house
questions like wormholes,
nothing asked will stay
no quest will last
no quest as gold
as the one before last
no quest just a chuckle
just a movement to the right
we turn our eyes
we check our blinds
and fall down inside
Making three wax pieces
out of candlelit destruction
the muse under the dust
is the same one as above
(we think in tongues)
(we think in rhythm)
(we think in signs))(we think
And turn on all those closet door lights
with their woodworking finish targets the
same way our eyeballs are the real
targets of the lights
but we will never displace ourselves
and we will never think in rosebuds or
rosehicks or cherry garlands under-
neath the porchdeck there's a diamond.
It's a body, they say
in the newspapers for weeks
an unfolding case
We are not alone,
no, we
are not alone.
The same glass that be shiverin'
is the same glass back home, and
time will jump forward
just as rain leaps down, displacement passage
quest journey sequence
this is time this is time this is time
I heard the lace lumping next door
the portly-promise of the flesh
and I despise it as the dreams
you left me in soiled mesh,
a dream of cheesybread
and underwater layers
(Oh please God don't let them
slay us)
Black man white man, how is it mixed to?
can grey ever be attractive in a world of
stone and dynamite?
Last night the clock struck
and I noticed after a gaze
a black man tying his shoe
his eye relentless in that haze.
The honorable mention? Pay off my credit card debt and my student loans.
I think I owe this world that much.
Temporal Sundown
Last night the clock struck again,
for I was a man of cast iron
and single slices of skin tissue
knocking about the roof of my head.
These things were
perfect in their pink-
ness, neckties aside,
strangling the other who
gallopped and broke-back-mount-
ain-ed, I just a little boy
then, in that splintering mind's
eye, that goo-goo-gew-gah forgetful-
ness--
You see, last night
the drums were loud,
really loud.
Last night, there were girls
crying and mothers laughing
and Camery dancings going
on, the goings-on just a thick,
white carnivale smoke-tide--
we watched the Good the Bad the Ugly
and Sam Cooke singing in the backdrop,
no we, just... yes, we: the ghosts and I
the veils and I
the dancing and I
the spacing and I no tide no spacing
just I just I just fear-flickering-fish-eye
Pores draped in dirt
it's been a long day at work
smoke-skin jacket with
undoable pockets
and the putrid flesh a-rotting
has got us all talking
like we did back in the day
what day the day what day
the day the whole world came back
"went away"
imagining pinks and fours
and fives and blues
the coastal rising coming through
the joking and the mything the busting
of lies, the tables crossed the eyes
flashes nothing gold will last dies
Little girl speaks with afro
on her head
and the man at the counter
didn't hear what she said
This house changes people
this house this mad old house
questions like wormholes,
nothing asked will stay
no quest will last
no quest as gold
as the one before last
no quest just a chuckle
just a movement to the right
we turn our eyes
we check our blinds
and fall down inside
Making three wax pieces
out of candlelit destruction
the muse under the dust
is the same one as above
(we think in tongues)
(we think in rhythm)
(we think in signs))(we think
And turn on all those closet door lights
with their woodworking finish targets the
same way our eyeballs are the real
targets of the lights
but we will never displace ourselves
and we will never think in rosebuds or
rosehicks or cherry garlands under-
neath the porchdeck there's a diamond.
It's a body, they say
in the newspapers for weeks
an unfolding case
We are not alone,
no, we
are not alone.
The same glass that be shiverin'
is the same glass back home, and
time will jump forward
just as rain leaps down, displacement passage
quest journey sequence
this is time this is time this is time
I heard the lace lumping next door
the portly-promise of the flesh
and I despise it as the dreams
you left me in soiled mesh,
a dream of cheesybread
and underwater layers
(Oh please God don't let them
slay us)
Black man white man, how is it mixed to?
can grey ever be attractive in a world of
stone and dynamite?
Last night the clock struck
and I noticed after a gaze
a black man tying his shoe
his eye relentless in that haze.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Again, Writing
After reading some Alice Notley, I started writing again. My biggest conflict is trying to merge imagery and style with content. I can usually get one or the other, but combining both without being one billion percent imaginative is trying indeed. I'm not feeling like any are winners, but they are moving in a winning direction. I've also started keeping recording and converting to verse certain diarist / electronic nonfiction bits and pieces, derived from online letters, postings, and conversations. My next goal is to relearn rhythmic skills from oration and performance.
Written on 12-29:
Label Calls
The cat shaped as satin shooting-starred
the rosebush, pretending not to look my way;
corks left in the wine bottles wave like leaves,
their image a trance-signal catching certain
sobrieties, and coaxing fingers along: dance of
the merlot. Would it be fair to remember
cable cars and collars too tight to come off?
I too pretend, the stone giant standing dumb,
lips stained bright purple marked in a circle,
a ghoulish improv hum going unanswered,
another momentary mating call
exploding in secret.
Vision: Lips
Strange is bending to look at light
cascading off inseparable lips,
a pair dry from kleenex-rub upon
urine clean, duties we do not remember
when bending over to give those lips
a little kiss, and this is normal,
those lips, are freed from multiple
meaning, staring red and shined
somewhere.
Written on 12-30:
Apprentice
I am the apprentice,
the one you want,
the chance
for bringing
home dinner.
Turkeys fear
my wrath
just as bullets
fear my courage,
knowing too
(yes, they do know)
that as flesh seekers,
they never signed
up for the job.
I dreamed of white curtains.
I dreamed them all.
Beat hmm.
I smoked too much
these past days
and I am worried,
about all the haze,
all the affectations,
affecting my mind's processes.
And it's true, you
can't get your oil change
in this town, or that town,
on brittle Sunday afternoons--
the horror, just horror.
All you wanted was
one oil change.
And now we must go together,
tomorrow, to Carter's where
we can get our cars fixed
and head to the coffeeshop
and pretend
on brittle wooden seats
that we are kids again,
always will be.
Three Frames
Earlier today mindfield pangs grabbed body
threw body into gumlike transition familiar
texture bussing busily into clothings tight
and worn, from all those before-times
(yes, believe, please believe it to be yesterday)
movement toward breakfast
two eggs scrambled Red Hot from Red Hot sauce
and deep-dreamed eggnog as beverage, how thick, this
body, as on fire, scooped seeds from pomegranite
dreaming of dorm room jewels and cute artist
named Cait, short for nothing just Cait thanks,
another one missed, should've tugged around with
but no, much better in theory not practice,
mind's splinter eye dancing jingles all days and nights
ignored by the by and through turntable synergy so
windswept Cait swept away and now look at this
this sticky red pom-blood varnishing
peaceful blue of quilt up and down shaded countertop
(it better not stain it better not stain
we believed this happened yesterday
but the patterns on the sky oval-shaped
and growing much bigger scream: deception.)
Churning stomach downs soy milk heartily
and grabs broom handle with admission,
the chance of a lifetime blooming into
butterfly precision, the joys of deep voice
echoing into latenight shower stall,
splicing one period of time into two.
accusation coldly creeping:
"You didn't move around
your furniture in your room today
did you?"
response rough and sugary sweet:
"Don't try to make me
the culprate of this
phone debacle."
Vision: Jogging
Dozens of cubist croquet players
dance the wild jack rabbit
across rhombus-shaped greens,
and thouigh shaded by the sun,
swarming black grass blades brush
up the feet of bulbuous-bellied
brawn, the earth-limbs pumping
and padding strangely, those
heavy lights blanketing dusk.
To Sam
Four things:
1) Hello hotstuff.
2) Did you get my message?
3) If not: I'll be in Bristol
the 2nd or 3rd of this month
(ie. a few days) to escape Maine
and look for a fourth job,
and I live in a house now
so if you want to visit you'll
get to see more than just DORM.
4) Why is "RWU Police" on your
interests list? That's just weird.
Vision: Garment
The cold wraps itself around necks
like a scarf or scarves or pile of
bandages, mint and blue, a band
trailing off into the thick sky.
This cold is criss-crossed with our
air, liquid gaseous and volatile,
the change of matter mourning its
own spirited existence as ghost spit,
the kind of tricky stumbling hash
dreams and blistering nights in Maine
redeem these chapped throats with.
The American and the Bidet
After the rise there was the fall:
a burbon binge, a belching bidet,
and trickling peach-colored streams
waterfall across the crux of cheeks,
the stage (yes this is a shit poem),
while millions of American tourists
in Japan hear from darkened Tokyo Mariot
bedrooms one screeching surprise
from the assailed, the man, woman, victim,
with underwear around ankles, and there,
several feet up, the bidet's second speed,
the second intensity level, levels
marked only in the Engrish picture language,
is selected, do not be alarmed:
the asshole is clean, the job is done.
To Amanda
Don't be sketchy. Be bronze brawn
under the majestic vision of
rainbow oil droplets!
Vision: Digital Birds in Conflict
I wake up
and understand
that these parrots,
these squawking
distractions
have been designed
by our lord
(God or Man
or Death itself)
to dislodge me
from my proper
place. I will
them gone and
they remain,
I will them
here and they
are gone, so
I lay still,
waiting for
their beauty
to be drowned
out by plane,
or volcanic
explosion.
Written on 12-29:
Label Calls
The cat shaped as satin shooting-starred
the rosebush, pretending not to look my way;
corks left in the wine bottles wave like leaves,
their image a trance-signal catching certain
sobrieties, and coaxing fingers along: dance of
the merlot. Would it be fair to remember
cable cars and collars too tight to come off?
I too pretend, the stone giant standing dumb,
lips stained bright purple marked in a circle,
a ghoulish improv hum going unanswered,
another momentary mating call
exploding in secret.
Vision: Lips
Strange is bending to look at light
cascading off inseparable lips,
a pair dry from kleenex-rub upon
urine clean, duties we do not remember
when bending over to give those lips
a little kiss, and this is normal,
those lips, are freed from multiple
meaning, staring red and shined
somewhere.
Written on 12-30:
Apprentice
I am the apprentice,
the one you want,
the chance
for bringing
home dinner.
Turkeys fear
my wrath
just as bullets
fear my courage,
knowing too
(yes, they do know)
that as flesh seekers,
they never signed
up for the job.
I dreamed of white curtains.
I dreamed them all.
Beat hmm.
I smoked too much
these past days
and I am worried,
about all the haze,
all the affectations,
affecting my mind's processes.
And it's true, you
can't get your oil change
in this town, or that town,
on brittle Sunday afternoons--
the horror, just horror.
All you wanted was
one oil change.
And now we must go together,
tomorrow, to Carter's where
we can get our cars fixed
and head to the coffeeshop
and pretend
on brittle wooden seats
that we are kids again,
always will be.
Three Frames
Earlier today mindfield pangs grabbed body
threw body into gumlike transition familiar
texture bussing busily into clothings tight
and worn, from all those before-times
(yes, believe, please believe it to be yesterday)
movement toward breakfast
two eggs scrambled Red Hot from Red Hot sauce
and deep-dreamed eggnog as beverage, how thick, this
body, as on fire, scooped seeds from pomegranite
dreaming of dorm room jewels and cute artist
named Cait, short for nothing just Cait thanks,
another one missed, should've tugged around with
but no, much better in theory not practice,
mind's splinter eye dancing jingles all days and nights
ignored by the by and through turntable synergy so
windswept Cait swept away and now look at this
this sticky red pom-blood varnishing
peaceful blue of quilt up and down shaded countertop
(it better not stain it better not stain
we believed this happened yesterday
but the patterns on the sky oval-shaped
and growing much bigger scream: deception.)
Churning stomach downs soy milk heartily
and grabs broom handle with admission,
the chance of a lifetime blooming into
butterfly precision, the joys of deep voice
echoing into latenight shower stall,
splicing one period of time into two.
accusation coldly creeping:
"You didn't move around
your furniture in your room today
did you?"
response rough and sugary sweet:
"Don't try to make me
the culprate of this
phone debacle."
Vision: Jogging
Dozens of cubist croquet players
dance the wild jack rabbit
across rhombus-shaped greens,
and thouigh shaded by the sun,
swarming black grass blades brush
up the feet of bulbuous-bellied
brawn, the earth-limbs pumping
and padding strangely, those
heavy lights blanketing dusk.
To Sam
Four things:
1) Hello hotstuff.
2) Did you get my message?
3) If not: I'll be in Bristol
the 2nd or 3rd of this month
(ie. a few days) to escape Maine
and look for a fourth job,
and I live in a house now
so if you want to visit you'll
get to see more than just DORM.
4) Why is "RWU Police" on your
interests list? That's just weird.
Vision: Garment
The cold wraps itself around necks
like a scarf or scarves or pile of
bandages, mint and blue, a band
trailing off into the thick sky.
This cold is criss-crossed with our
air, liquid gaseous and volatile,
the change of matter mourning its
own spirited existence as ghost spit,
the kind of tricky stumbling hash
dreams and blistering nights in Maine
redeem these chapped throats with.
The American and the Bidet
After the rise there was the fall:
a burbon binge, a belching bidet,
and trickling peach-colored streams
waterfall across the crux of cheeks,
the stage (yes this is a shit poem),
while millions of American tourists
in Japan hear from darkened Tokyo Mariot
bedrooms one screeching surprise
from the assailed, the man, woman, victim,
with underwear around ankles, and there,
several feet up, the bidet's second speed,
the second intensity level, levels
marked only in the Engrish picture language,
is selected, do not be alarmed:
the asshole is clean, the job is done.
To Amanda
Don't be sketchy. Be bronze brawn
under the majestic vision of
rainbow oil droplets!
Vision: Digital Birds in Conflict
I wake up
and understand
that these parrots,
these squawking
distractions
have been designed
by our lord
(God or Man
or Death itself)
to dislodge me
from my proper
place. I will
them gone and
they remain,
I will them
here and they
are gone, so
I lay still,
waiting for
their beauty
to be drowned
out by plane,
or volcanic
explosion.
Monday, December 10, 2007
These are the happiest holidays?
Amy, Jeffrey and I wrote these last night around 1:00am. We've since distributed them out as holiday gifts.
Last Fall Cantos
As told by: Gregory Bem, Jeffrey Brennan, and Amy Falcone
Originally written in the early hours of December 10, 2007
Fragrant supple banter is draining bereaved
apocalyptic nutrition, spasmodic music
tries and trickles to the holistically condemned.
I.
Swizzle like impossible chairs
Flabbergasted in a rain, slowly
Stringy on the hands of earthworms
II.
Denim cluster abound the thing, a skyward
Mechanism prowling distances,
Lucid in such freedom.
III.
Saucer eyes howl innumerably
Buoyant and fallow dips the gentry
Cracking heels ooze
IV.
Grapples with the wheel, and skin-leather snow while the
Armature widens as the light enters and gravel drags...
Propagandization! booming to a close
V.
The precipice looms while bauble guards these
retentively brandished pork forms, who follow
sustenance in wake of patient passages.
VI.
Panama heaves from behind gripped fingers
Porridge tastes foul and rots, congealing wounds
Bamboozled by propriety, now elongate former woe
VII.
Phalanges thumbing dully dense
Novelettes trickling
Botanical symbols streaked in single file prose
VIII.
Brazen, fingertips streak the strange pose hole,
eradicating us from our token tombs;
we, the buttons, evicted from those pockets.
IX.
Schematic filtration system slightly marred
Cardboard up windows with frail tin panes
Basket maker and bowmen contemplate musings
X.
Fornicating, shivering, stalling
Damselian mason's wife, all floured, enamored--
Juxtaposed with purgatory
XI.
Mezzanine coaxed to crumble
Congeal serrated fingertips and divide
Suspension on tight lines, cuts flesh into bone
XII.
Ah! --! Those catacombs rot beneath
all these melodic and transformitory floorbeams--
some volume we find ourselves above.
XIII.
Pontificate trumpets and buff the maze
Hans Castoprian routine dweller and the coughing
"Envoy: a great messenger of our time, you might say"
XIV.
Cantalopean mounds of fickle hash
Skulk and stalk your dripping filth, dropping ash and thimble
Taiga fauna, spherical visage holding silent vigil aglow
XV.
Until the terminal quake bullies its last laugh and
drowsy, a visceral crowd pours forth that same response--
lumber prepared through the fatalist blaze dying dim.
Last Fall Cantos
As told by: Gregory Bem, Jeffrey Brennan, and Amy Falcone
Originally written in the early hours of December 10, 2007
Fragrant supple banter is draining bereaved
apocalyptic nutrition, spasmodic music
tries and trickles to the holistically condemned.
I.
Swizzle like impossible chairs
Flabbergasted in a rain, slowly
Stringy on the hands of earthworms
II.
Denim cluster abound the thing, a skyward
Mechanism prowling distances,
Lucid in such freedom.
III.
Saucer eyes howl innumerably
Buoyant and fallow dips the gentry
Cracking heels ooze
IV.
Grapples with the wheel, and skin-leather snow while the
Armature widens as the light enters and gravel drags...
Propagandization! booming to a close
V.
The precipice looms while bauble guards these
retentively brandished pork forms, who follow
sustenance in wake of patient passages.
VI.
Panama heaves from behind gripped fingers
Porridge tastes foul and rots, congealing wounds
Bamboozled by propriety, now elongate former woe
VII.
Phalanges thumbing dully dense
Novelettes trickling
Botanical symbols streaked in single file prose
VIII.
Brazen, fingertips streak the strange pose hole,
eradicating us from our token tombs;
we, the buttons, evicted from those pockets.
IX.
Schematic filtration system slightly marred
Cardboard up windows with frail tin panes
Basket maker and bowmen contemplate musings
X.
Fornicating, shivering, stalling
Damselian mason's wife, all floured, enamored--
Juxtaposed with purgatory
XI.
Mezzanine coaxed to crumble
Congeal serrated fingertips and divide
Suspension on tight lines, cuts flesh into bone
XII.
Ah! --! Those catacombs rot beneath
all these melodic and transformitory floorbeams--
some volume we find ourselves above.
XIII.
Pontificate trumpets and buff the maze
Hans Castoprian routine dweller and the coughing
"Envoy: a great messenger of our time, you might say"
XIV.
Cantalopean mounds of fickle hash
Skulk and stalk your dripping filth, dropping ash and thimble
Taiga fauna, spherical visage holding silent vigil aglow
XV.
Until the terminal quake bullies its last laugh and
drowsy, a visceral crowd pours forth that same response--
lumber prepared through the fatalist blaze dying dim.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Growing Seeds of a Game
Remember Magic the Gathering and other collectible card games of its sort? Well JB and I had a nice chat about our own idea for a CCG. This one involves writers, and it's going to be big. I've included the full conversation since most of it is pretty laudible in the usual JBGB fashion.
Here's the transcript:
TrainTrackTrees (8:06:31 PM): that's right, i installed it
corrinad0 (8:06:34 PM): nie.
corrinad0 (8:06:36 PM): cei
corrinad0 went away at 8:32:30 PM.
TrainTrackTrees (8:32:33 PM): this is brutal
corrinad0 (8:32:37 PM): why
TrainTrackTrees (8:32:52 PM): because i've never written a long paper on something unliterary.
corrinad0 (8:33:01 PM): hah
corrinad0 (8:33:06 PM): yeah, i hate writing those
corrinad0 (8:33:13 PM): lots of citation
corrinad0 (8:33:19 PM): and objectivity
TrainTrackTrees (8:33:31 PM): i know. that's what i hate. and this paper can't be objective because it's essentially a position paper.
TrainTrackTrees (8:33:44 PM): even though it's supposed to be objective
corrinad0 (8:33:51 PM): what a maniac
corrinad0 (8:33:57 PM): she likes william blake quotes
corrinad0 (8:34:04 PM): i remember that from my critical writing class
TrainTrackTrees (8:34:20 PM): i should just write the entire thing without citing and then go back nad cite it. oh wait, creativity won't be understood by the mandatory peer-reviewers.
corrinad0 (8:34:21 PM): i feel like a baby being shaken
corrinad0 (8:34:27 PM): hahahahha
corrinad0 (8:34:29 PM): YES
corrinad0 (8:34:34 PM): welcome to my history career
corrinad0 (8:34:43 PM): and why i never write papers in groups
corrinad0 (8:34:47 PM): unless its with craig
TrainTrackTrees (8:34:58 PM): now i'm coming down off the one adderall i was able to buy off hilary earlier today and i've got approximately one and a half pages.
corrinad0 (8:35:11 PM): get some of that Rock Star
corrinad0 (8:36:17 PM): boil boil
TrainTrackTrees (8:36:18 PM): hah. i should. want to leave at 10 or 1030 so i
don't get an aneurism?
just so you know what we're dealing with and what your answer depends on, http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/aneurism
corrinad0 (8:36:49 PM): brain bleeds
corrinad0 (8:36:51 PM): love those
corrinad0 (8:37:04 PM): i honestly feel like slow electricty
corrinad0 (8:37:07 PM): damn this taurine
TrainTrackTrees (8:37:21 PM): taurine and doppelgangrine
corrinad0 (8:37:28 PM): thats the worst
TrainTrackTrees (8:39:30 PM): i use Destroyer as one of three epigrams in my paper
TrainTrackTrees (8:39:39 PM): soften up the reader before they get to the shitty material, i guess
corrinad0 (8:39:51 PM): ahaha
corrinad0 (8:39:56 PM): what is the epigram
corrinad0 (8:40:08 PM): what is the topic
ATTENTION (8:46:53 PM): Direct IM session initiated. What is this?
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:06 PM): houssssing foreclousres
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:08 PM): cloures
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:09 PM): closures
corrinad0 (8:47:16 PM): oh yeah
corrinad0 (8:47:19 PM): how boring
ATTENTION (8:47:26 PM): Direct IM session disconnected.
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:28 PM): If that is what it takes
to be a stone, a stone's throw from your throne,
no man has ever hung from the rafters of a second home.
corrinad0 (8:47:35 PM): hahahh
corrinad0 went away at 8:47:40 PM.
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:52 PM): yeah, the quote... from a great song with the title of a publishing company
TrainTrackTrees (8:48:00 PM): farrar, straus and giroux
TrainTrackTrees (8:48:03 PM): (sea of tears)
corrinad0 (8:48:07 PM): nice
corrinad0 (10:01:41 PM): new monster avenue
corrinad0 (10:01:44 PM): sad f*cking tune.
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:01 PM): listen to... High Doses #2 of the acoustic version of Sunset Tree
corrinad0 (10:02:11 PM): yeah, i just did
corrinad0 (10:02:14 PM): for the first time
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:12 PM): awesome
corrinad0 (10:02:20 PM): a few minutes ago
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:23 PM): you trickster mindreading hero
corrinad0 (10:02:36 PM): just call me nestor
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:38 PM): man, one bottle of wine is not going to make us pass out. good thang i gotz weed, nigga
corrinad0 (10:02:45 PM): nance E nestor
corrinad0 (10:02:48 PM): haha
corrinad0 (10:02:49 PM): same.
TrainTrackTrees (10:03:02 PM): tho maybe H-luke von Skywalker has more of the Danielson
TrainTrackTrees (10:03:07 PM): i can't believe i just wrote that
corrinad0 (10:03:27 PM): haha
corrinad0 (10:03:40 PM): what a meta-conversation
TrainTrackTrees (10:04:15 PM): i should use it as an appendix for this paper. maybe nance (e) will find it groundbreaking
TrainTrackTrees (10:04:17 PM): or just breakage.
corrinad0 (10:04:31 PM): worth a try
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:14 PM):
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:19 PM): is that blank?
corrinad0 (10:08:31 PM): ?
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:32 PM): i'm assuming it is
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:53 PM):
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:55 PM): oh well
corrinad0 (10:09:20 PM): http://www.jstor.org/view/00267910/dm980900/98p0254a/0
corrinad0 (10:09:26 PM): really cool article
corrinad0 (10:09:44 PM): modernist fascist
corrinad0 (10:09:59 PM): ugh, that should've been my paper title
corrinad0 (10:10:05 PM): er, topic
corrinad0 (10:10:17 PM): but we didn't discuss enough Eliot
corrinad0 (10:10:24 PM): and I guess I know Beckett better
TrainTrackTrees (10:10:34 PM): eliot! great killer of modern poetry!
corrinad0 (10:10:53 PM): ok charles olsen
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:00 PM): hahaha. and williams and rexroth
corrinad0 (10:11:10 PM): kenneth.
corrinad0 (10:11:13 PM): nuff said.
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:14 PM): we should have a fantasy writer league.
corrinad0 (10:11:25 PM): guy had a bone to pick, straight up.
corrinad0 (10:11:30 PM): ok
corrinad0 (10:11:41 PM): i get shakespeare and dante, you get everyone else
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:41 PM): or come up with a trading card game like magic that utilizes novelists, dramatists, and poets
corrinad0 (10:12:01 PM): i like the idea
corrinad0 (10:12:08 PM): we've been throwing this around for years
TrainTrackTrees (10:12:04 PM): i was thinking something a little less lame than that. you antiquitous bumble breath
corrinad0 (10:12:13 PM): hahaha
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:39 PM): should each writer get like 3 special "abilities" or "attacks", or should we have a more quantatative way of going about it, with certain categories of stats
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:40 PM): ?
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:51 PM): or both
corrinad0 (10:16:02 PM): i think it should be relativly simple
corrinad0 (10:16:05 PM): so kids get into it
TrainTrackTrees (10:16:10 PM): fair enough
corrinad0 (10:16:37 PM): Schopenhauer's power will be to spread a bleak malaise on your opponent's morale...draining their manna
TrainTrackTrees (10:18:47 PM): mana? i was thinking we could use a system that replaces mana and life with logic / rationale and passion / irrational or something
corrinad0 (10:19:01 PM): hmm
corrinad0 (10:19:14 PM): yeah, and use some of those famous A's
TrainTrackTrees (10:21:03 PM): the A's could be other card types. if you played magic, then you know there were cards like "instants" and "land" -- instead of having this game be based primarily on physical movement and physical battling (though due to Pound's physical isolation, for example, we'd have to have a minimal physical part) we could have the game be based primarily around spiritual / philosophical / mental environments and gameplay. so then we could have Alienation be a card type, Authenticity be a card type, et cetera et cetera
corrinad0 (10:21:34 PM): interesting
corrinad0 (10:21:47 PM): how would hit points be determined
TrainTrackTrees (10:21:59 PM): maybe the alientation would be the way to incoporate the physical, though it would have extreme affects on the spiritual. again with pound as example, if he gets locked up at st. elizabeth's, he's not going to be able to function very well.
corrinad0 (10:22:39 PM): perhaps all players get sent to an asylum upon defeat
corrinad0 (10:22:40 PM): to recover
corrinad0 (10:22:46 PM): but then return weakened
corrinad0 (10:22:49 PM): until the next battle
TrainTrackTrees (10:23:08 PM): it'd be more interesting to have a sliding scale that balances logic with irrationality. go too far to logic and you might kill yourself. same with the opposite? i think that'd be an interesting thing... to keep yourself sane. but you could sacrifice a character like Nietzsche (special power perhaps?) to benefit all your other writers in a great, great way
TrainTrackTrees (10:23:18 PM): yeah yeah, that sounds good good
TrainTrackTrees (10:24:14 PM): i guess we have to start out with "what's the goal of the game?" since we're talking aesthetics and purpose as winning and losing. perhaps intellectual liberation? or some kind of nirvana type thing? i don't know.
corrinad0 (10:25:22 PM): i suppose we'de have to be the first to successfully define what it means to be a successful artist
corrinad0 (10:25:38 PM): Stephen King would wreck Samuel Beckett, for instance
corrinad0 (10:25:58 PM): Wallace Stevens would be in Bedlam within 10 minutes of meeting Maya Angelou
corrinad0 (10:26:17 PM): Should we also have an Oprah card that boosts the reputation of a writer exponentially
TrainTrackTrees (10:26:20 PM): hahahah
corrinad0 (10:26:45 PM): and I think critic cards should be modifiers
corrinad0 (10:27:10 PM): In descending order from era and l'ouvre
corrinad0 (10:27:23 PM): like, Hazlitt would outweigh Frye who would outweigh Bloom
corrinad0 (10:27:27 PM): that fat-ass
TrainTrackTrees (10:28:56 PM): yes... there's got to be a "community" aspect that enhances how characters function. for example, you have a level of "aspiration" or "ambition" (two ideas) that exists separately, and only be having it at certain points are writers able to perform certain actions. joyce can't automatically write ulysses... you've got to raise the meter a certain amount. writing portrait would require less ambition or aspiration. but by doing portrait it would raise the bar enough to write ulysses. OR there could be a system where certain cards (a type of card called "work") would have a prerequisite before it could be played. the origin of species would be requires for maggie a girl of the streets to be played. something like that.
corrinad0 (10:29:52 PM): cool
TrainTrackTrees (10:29:52 PM): hahah yeah the critics... forgot about them. certain cards could be unaffected though. shakespeare's critics would be his fans i guess... some writers wouldn't even be able to be affected by critics... like Homer, for instance.
corrinad0 (10:30:05 PM): How would you do that with poets though
TrainTrackTrees (10:30:15 PM): do what?
corrinad0 (10:30:28 PM): especially a work like the Cantos
corrinad0 (10:30:34 PM): or Faust
corrinad0 (10:31:01 PM): or Les fleurs du Mal
TrainTrackTrees (10:31:11 PM): lifelong poems you mean?
corrinad0 (10:31:19 PM): or guys like Rimbaud who give up on poetry at the age of 25
corrinad0 (10:31:20 PM): yeah
corrinad0 (10:31:30 PM): to run guns and have anal sex
corrinad0 (10:31:50 PM): haha, there could be a social conventions! card
corrinad0 (10:31:52 PM): censoring the work
corrinad0 (10:32:13 PM): as a defense by the opposition
TrainTrackTrees (10:32:06 PM): i don't know. special rules for each writer perhaps? certain works require the writer to die in a certain amount of time after they are written, or certain works like the cantos are more than one card that has to be played in a chronological sequence?
TrainTrackTrees (10:32:17 PM): definitely censoring
corrinad0 (10:32:25 PM): hmmm
TrainTrackTrees (10:33:12 PM): there could be mythology cards, or model cards, where the idea of Faust would have to be played for Marlow to write Faust or Goethe to write Faust
corrinad0 (10:33:26 PM): can we leave
TrainTrackTrees (10:33:26 PM): soon, in a few minutes
corrinad0 (10:33:37 PM): ok
Here's the transcript:
TrainTrackTrees (8:06:31 PM): that's right, i installed it
corrinad0 (8:06:34 PM): nie.
corrinad0 (8:06:36 PM): cei
corrinad0 went away at 8:32:30 PM.
TrainTrackTrees (8:32:33 PM): this is brutal
corrinad0 (8:32:37 PM): why
TrainTrackTrees (8:32:52 PM): because i've never written a long paper on something unliterary.
corrinad0 (8:33:01 PM): hah
corrinad0 (8:33:06 PM): yeah, i hate writing those
corrinad0 (8:33:13 PM): lots of citation
corrinad0 (8:33:19 PM): and objectivity
TrainTrackTrees (8:33:31 PM): i know. that's what i hate. and this paper can't be objective because it's essentially a position paper.
TrainTrackTrees (8:33:44 PM): even though it's supposed to be objective
corrinad0 (8:33:51 PM): what a maniac
corrinad0 (8:33:57 PM): she likes william blake quotes
corrinad0 (8:34:04 PM): i remember that from my critical writing class
TrainTrackTrees (8:34:20 PM): i should just write the entire thing without citing and then go back nad cite it. oh wait, creativity won't be understood by the mandatory peer-reviewers.
corrinad0 (8:34:21 PM): i feel like a baby being shaken
corrinad0 (8:34:27 PM): hahahahha
corrinad0 (8:34:29 PM): YES
corrinad0 (8:34:34 PM): welcome to my history career
corrinad0 (8:34:43 PM): and why i never write papers in groups
corrinad0 (8:34:47 PM): unless its with craig
TrainTrackTrees (8:34:58 PM): now i'm coming down off the one adderall i was able to buy off hilary earlier today and i've got approximately one and a half pages.
corrinad0 (8:35:11 PM): get some of that Rock Star
corrinad0 (8:36:17 PM): boil boil
TrainTrackTrees (8:36:18 PM): hah. i should. want to leave at 10 or 1030 so i
don't get an aneurism?
just so you know what we're dealing with and what your answer depends on, http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/aneurism
corrinad0 (8:36:49 PM): brain bleeds
corrinad0 (8:36:51 PM): love those
corrinad0 (8:37:04 PM): i honestly feel like slow electricty
corrinad0 (8:37:07 PM): damn this taurine
TrainTrackTrees (8:37:21 PM): taurine and doppelgangrine
corrinad0 (8:37:28 PM): thats the worst
TrainTrackTrees (8:39:30 PM): i use Destroyer as one of three epigrams in my paper
TrainTrackTrees (8:39:39 PM): soften up the reader before they get to the shitty material, i guess
corrinad0 (8:39:51 PM): ahaha
corrinad0 (8:39:56 PM): what is the epigram
corrinad0 (8:40:08 PM): what is the topic
ATTENTION (8:46:53 PM): Direct IM session initiated. What is this?
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:06 PM): houssssing foreclousres
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:08 PM): cloures
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:09 PM): closures
corrinad0 (8:47:16 PM): oh yeah
corrinad0 (8:47:19 PM): how boring
ATTENTION (8:47:26 PM): Direct IM session disconnected.
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:28 PM): If that is what it takes
to be a stone, a stone's throw from your throne,
no man has ever hung from the rafters of a second home.
corrinad0 (8:47:35 PM): hahahh
corrinad0 went away at 8:47:40 PM.
TrainTrackTrees (8:47:52 PM): yeah, the quote... from a great song with the title of a publishing company
TrainTrackTrees (8:48:00 PM): farrar, straus and giroux
TrainTrackTrees (8:48:03 PM): (sea of tears)
corrinad0 (8:48:07 PM): nice
corrinad0 (10:01:41 PM): new monster avenue
corrinad0 (10:01:44 PM): sad f*cking tune.
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:01 PM): listen to... High Doses #2 of the acoustic version of Sunset Tree
corrinad0 (10:02:11 PM): yeah, i just did
corrinad0 (10:02:14 PM): for the first time
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:12 PM): awesome
corrinad0 (10:02:20 PM): a few minutes ago
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:23 PM): you trickster mindreading hero
corrinad0 (10:02:36 PM): just call me nestor
TrainTrackTrees (10:02:38 PM): man, one bottle of wine is not going to make us pass out. good thang i gotz weed, nigga
corrinad0 (10:02:45 PM): nance E nestor
corrinad0 (10:02:48 PM): haha
corrinad0 (10:02:49 PM): same.
TrainTrackTrees (10:03:02 PM): tho maybe H-luke von Skywalker has more of the Danielson
TrainTrackTrees (10:03:07 PM): i can't believe i just wrote that
corrinad0 (10:03:27 PM): haha
corrinad0 (10:03:40 PM): what a meta-conversation
TrainTrackTrees (10:04:15 PM): i should use it as an appendix for this paper. maybe nance (e) will find it groundbreaking
TrainTrackTrees (10:04:17 PM): or just breakage.
corrinad0 (10:04:31 PM): worth a try
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:14 PM):
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:19 PM): is that blank?
corrinad0 (10:08:31 PM): ?
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:32 PM): i'm assuming it is
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:53 PM):
TrainTrackTrees (10:08:55 PM): oh well
corrinad0 (10:09:20 PM): http://www.jstor.org/view/00267910/dm980900/98p0254a/0
corrinad0 (10:09:26 PM): really cool article
corrinad0 (10:09:44 PM): modernist fascist
corrinad0 (10:09:59 PM): ugh, that should've been my paper title
corrinad0 (10:10:05 PM): er, topic
corrinad0 (10:10:17 PM): but we didn't discuss enough Eliot
corrinad0 (10:10:24 PM): and I guess I know Beckett better
TrainTrackTrees (10:10:34 PM): eliot! great killer of modern poetry!
corrinad0 (10:10:53 PM): ok charles olsen
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:00 PM): hahaha. and williams and rexroth
corrinad0 (10:11:10 PM): kenneth.
corrinad0 (10:11:13 PM): nuff said.
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:14 PM): we should have a fantasy writer league.
corrinad0 (10:11:25 PM): guy had a bone to pick, straight up.
corrinad0 (10:11:30 PM): ok
corrinad0 (10:11:41 PM): i get shakespeare and dante, you get everyone else
TrainTrackTrees (10:11:41 PM): or come up with a trading card game like magic that utilizes novelists, dramatists, and poets
corrinad0 (10:12:01 PM): i like the idea
corrinad0 (10:12:08 PM): we've been throwing this around for years
TrainTrackTrees (10:12:04 PM): i was thinking something a little less lame than that. you antiquitous bumble breath
corrinad0 (10:12:13 PM): hahaha
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:39 PM): should each writer get like 3 special "abilities" or "attacks", or should we have a more quantatative way of going about it, with certain categories of stats
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:40 PM): ?
TrainTrackTrees (10:15:51 PM): or both
corrinad0 (10:16:02 PM): i think it should be relativly simple
corrinad0 (10:16:05 PM): so kids get into it
TrainTrackTrees (10:16:10 PM): fair enough
corrinad0 (10:16:37 PM): Schopenhauer's power will be to spread a bleak malaise on your opponent's morale...draining their manna
TrainTrackTrees (10:18:47 PM): mana? i was thinking we could use a system that replaces mana and life with logic / rationale and passion / irrational or something
corrinad0 (10:19:01 PM): hmm
corrinad0 (10:19:14 PM): yeah, and use some of those famous A's
TrainTrackTrees (10:21:03 PM): the A's could be other card types. if you played magic, then you know there were cards like "instants" and "land" -- instead of having this game be based primarily on physical movement and physical battling (though due to Pound's physical isolation, for example, we'd have to have a minimal physical part) we could have the game be based primarily around spiritual / philosophical / mental environments and gameplay. so then we could have Alienation be a card type, Authenticity be a card type, et cetera et cetera
corrinad0 (10:21:34 PM): interesting
corrinad0 (10:21:47 PM): how would hit points be determined
TrainTrackTrees (10:21:59 PM): maybe the alientation would be the way to incoporate the physical, though it would have extreme affects on the spiritual. again with pound as example, if he gets locked up at st. elizabeth's, he's not going to be able to function very well.
corrinad0 (10:22:39 PM): perhaps all players get sent to an asylum upon defeat
corrinad0 (10:22:40 PM): to recover
corrinad0 (10:22:46 PM): but then return weakened
corrinad0 (10:22:49 PM): until the next battle
TrainTrackTrees (10:23:08 PM): it'd be more interesting to have a sliding scale that balances logic with irrationality. go too far to logic and you might kill yourself. same with the opposite? i think that'd be an interesting thing... to keep yourself sane. but you could sacrifice a character like Nietzsche (special power perhaps?) to benefit all your other writers in a great, great way
TrainTrackTrees (10:23:18 PM): yeah yeah, that sounds good good
TrainTrackTrees (10:24:14 PM): i guess we have to start out with "what's the goal of the game?" since we're talking aesthetics and purpose as winning and losing. perhaps intellectual liberation? or some kind of nirvana type thing? i don't know.
corrinad0 (10:25:22 PM): i suppose we'de have to be the first to successfully define what it means to be a successful artist
corrinad0 (10:25:38 PM): Stephen King would wreck Samuel Beckett, for instance
corrinad0 (10:25:58 PM): Wallace Stevens would be in Bedlam within 10 minutes of meeting Maya Angelou
corrinad0 (10:26:17 PM): Should we also have an Oprah card that boosts the reputation of a writer exponentially
TrainTrackTrees (10:26:20 PM): hahahah
corrinad0 (10:26:45 PM): and I think critic cards should be modifiers
corrinad0 (10:27:10 PM): In descending order from era and l'ouvre
corrinad0 (10:27:23 PM): like, Hazlitt would outweigh Frye who would outweigh Bloom
corrinad0 (10:27:27 PM): that fat-ass
TrainTrackTrees (10:28:56 PM): yes... there's got to be a "community" aspect that enhances how characters function. for example, you have a level of "aspiration" or "ambition" (two ideas) that exists separately, and only be having it at certain points are writers able to perform certain actions. joyce can't automatically write ulysses... you've got to raise the meter a certain amount. writing portrait would require less ambition or aspiration. but by doing portrait it would raise the bar enough to write ulysses. OR there could be a system where certain cards (a type of card called "work") would have a prerequisite before it could be played. the origin of species would be requires for maggie a girl of the streets to be played. something like that.
corrinad0 (10:29:52 PM): cool
TrainTrackTrees (10:29:52 PM): hahah yeah the critics... forgot about them. certain cards could be unaffected though. shakespeare's critics would be his fans i guess... some writers wouldn't even be able to be affected by critics... like Homer, for instance.
corrinad0 (10:30:05 PM): How would you do that with poets though
TrainTrackTrees (10:30:15 PM): do what?
corrinad0 (10:30:28 PM): especially a work like the Cantos
corrinad0 (10:30:34 PM): or Faust
corrinad0 (10:31:01 PM): or Les fleurs du Mal
TrainTrackTrees (10:31:11 PM): lifelong poems you mean?
corrinad0 (10:31:19 PM): or guys like Rimbaud who give up on poetry at the age of 25
corrinad0 (10:31:20 PM): yeah
corrinad0 (10:31:30 PM): to run guns and have anal sex
corrinad0 (10:31:50 PM): haha, there could be a social conventions! card
corrinad0 (10:31:52 PM): censoring the work
corrinad0 (10:32:13 PM): as a defense by the opposition
TrainTrackTrees (10:32:06 PM): i don't know. special rules for each writer perhaps? certain works require the writer to die in a certain amount of time after they are written, or certain works like the cantos are more than one card that has to be played in a chronological sequence?
TrainTrackTrees (10:32:17 PM): definitely censoring
corrinad0 (10:32:25 PM): hmmm
TrainTrackTrees (10:33:12 PM): there could be mythology cards, or model cards, where the idea of Faust would have to be played for Marlow to write Faust or Goethe to write Faust
corrinad0 (10:33:26 PM): can we leave
TrainTrackTrees (10:33:26 PM): soon, in a few minutes
corrinad0 (10:33:37 PM): ok
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