Es que no me tienen pasencia

A mi compinche le ha dejado de funcionar la pija. Con sus treinta y pico de años, yo creo que es por estar fumando monte desde los diecisiete. Quisiera poder ayudarlo pero no como el duende escocés que les vende polvo a las hijitas de papa universitarias que regresan a la ciudad durante las vacaciones. En algún momento él le había querido pedir al duende una dosis de Viagra, para evitar la penosa experiencia de la noche anterior; pero en vez de escribirle al escocés, mandó ´Ey, ¿será que me puedes conseguir Viagra?´ a la modelo excéntrica y empática que anoche le había mentido y asegurado que, “¡Es normal! ¡Les pasa a todos los hombres!”
No es la primera ocurrencia de un celular jodiéndole la vida. Mientras en el trabajo platicaba sobre la pelirroja de 21 años con tres hijos con quien se había revolcado la semana pasada, al sentarse, su culo la marco y ésta pudo apreciar sus propias delicadezas personales, la cantidad exorbitante de vello corporal y la rabia sexual que la convierte en estrella porno cada vez que se echa más de 3 tequilas.
Luego está la de cabello castaño con quien mi compinche se había comprometido por seis años, la que lo insultaba por ser muchacho de campo, fanático de Rick Perry y por una falta de predisposición a las intelectualidades. Se rehusaba a tener sexo con él, acusándolo de ser un hombre-puto-borracho. Ella por fin se fue a Nueva York en búsqueda de un trabajo que nunca conseguirá.
Yo creo que es a causa de esta energúmena que estoy en este maldito hospital, esperando a que salga mi amigo en silla de rueda. ¨No le dirás a nadie, ¿verdad?¨ Conmigo está a salvo tu secreto, mi pana, pero de repente en Texas te pueden poner preso por auto-castración.

By galacticrenaissance

Una entrevista seductora

Me dijo que cuando tenía once años había visto a su mejor amiga lanzarse de su balcón en el octavo piso.

¨Rebotó tres veces, cayendo de lado encima de un Toyota. No lloré, solo podía mirar al suelo que parecía sangrar del infierno. Tampoco me exitó en el momento, tuve que recrear y simular el suspenso en mi cabeza para alcanzar orgasmo, pero no fue sino hasta como diez o doce días despues.¨

¿Hablaste con sus padres?

¨No, ni con los míos, ni con nadie. Se me hizo muy dificil concentrarme en algo que no fuera el sonido que hizo ******* cuando se aplastó en el pavimiento. Yo hubiera gritado al haberme lanzado, pero ella no. Ni un solo ruido hasta que, como un tren chocando a otro de frente… me acuerdo que la callé tembló aunque no se si fueron mis piernas que entraron en ritmo del susto.¨

¿Cuando ocurrió de nuevo?

¨¿Que?¨

Tu rol de testigo frente a un amigo suicida.

¨En mi cumpleaños número veintidos. Me había estado acostando con el hermano de mi novia y el día anterior ella había recibido una carta anónima con unas fotos que nos desenmascararon en pleno sexo. En fin, no fue gran cosa. Llegando a mi casa me di cuenta que la puerta estaba abierta y la muy imbecil me estaba esperando con una soga en el cuello. Lloraba y la miré en silencio mientras se me ocurría que nunca antes la había visto tan bonita… Cuando dejo de respirar por completo, llame a la policía despues de lavarme las manos.¨

By galacticrenaissance

Friend posts tongue-in-cheek sonnet solicitation. Jody D sees it. Hilarity ensues.

sonnet

That thy Bite be Louder

Oh, strumpet cur! Thy tooth has made thy bed,
‘Twas oerexpos’d and battered too, by sound
Which emanated from thy mangy head.
Thy lips should be thy purse, and coin surround,
As speech is silver, so it has been said,
Is silence golden. Let thee build a mound
Of ducats then, and like a monk be wed
To muteness, lest responding to thy hound.
Though Duchesses and Ladies prattle free,
Their realm, no muzzle thine exists within.
The noble Knight, shouldst he to heav’n reach;
Shall win his verby Damsel. Yet, to me,
No Hell could be a Hell, shouldst, in his sin,
This Doggerel procure a quiet beetch.

By galacticrenaissance

Here’s a dirge I finally finished

A dirge for the dire

Trying to put into words what 14 years of waiting amounts to in my psyche is not an easy task and as I can only describe my own experience, I will describe the two mechanisms that forced my family and I to abandon what I had considered to be (until my 18th birthday) my ‘actual’ home:

The economic: Pop had always been a man that believed in the power of education and he, sometimes forcefully, instilled this and other parallel values in all three of his sons. When state university checks began bouncing and home investments began to feel like paying rent, he decided to move back to New Orleans, ALONE. For all those lonely nights in a one room studio apartment without his family, for all those lonely meals and TV shows, for all the lost time watching his progeny become young men, for the disenchantment in a home country he willingly believed in, for those three years without my father, I can only blame the policies and pontification of Hugo Chavez.

The social: Ma came from a big family – she placed high value in the magnetism of a high volume of trustworthy people. Her strength and toil through those incredibly taxing four years is deserving of ten-fold years of unencumbered living. I never told her whenever I got jumped, mugged, or robbed but I’m quite certain she didn’t want to know anyway. Through my teenage years our relationship became increasingly frayed and tense through shared hostilities, my own misplaced rebellion & her insistence on trying to be as involved in my life as possible; in other words, being an awesome parent. The tension on the streets and in my personal relationships would manifest itself at home and I acted out like any other teenager. In many ways, I owe her my life.

By galacticrenaissance

Gabe’s challenge.

Well, El Bien Cheapo mentioned something to me a few weeks back about kicking this thing back into action. After heading to the mailroom and NOT finding the book I was looking for in my box, I settled on just beating the everliving shit out of some magnetic poetry composition on the Department refrigerator. I like how this turned out.

as language
as diamond
as chocolate
all is void
eternity a dream
spring honey only bloody drool
these thousand delirious summers
one enormous ugly winter
of crushing blue death
who would want to trudge through it I ask
in the frantic meat apparatus
head feet finger skin butt
but delicate petals chained
under the bitter knife
never after and away we were
but whispers when together
our life like light like love
a lie

Recently titled by Gabe (cause that’s what pro authors do, title each others’ stuff):

“A manifestation of worthwhile litigation”

By galacticrenaissance

NaPoWriMo Day 12!

Our prompt for the day comes from a similar impulse to use the language already around us. Now, many of us took a second language for a year or two in high school, but for poetic purposes, you don’t actually need to know a second language to translate it. You just need to be able to pronounce it — sort of. This allows you to render a homophonic translation — a translation based on the way the words sound, without any care for what they actually mean in the original.

For example, I might take this line in Portuguese (from Ledo Ivo’s poem A Escavadeira):

Os homens já acordaram e voltaram a construer e a destruir.

and homophonically translate it as:

Omen of jacquard, a ram, a volt. A constant read is true.

 

Ladies and gentlemen: 

 

A Travel Linguist

Trey’s Treats!
Taste egrets! Try heron, Trey’s strong oats, Date-tree golds!
Entrees!  Straw goats, Tree goats, Raw Carbon-traced Rear Steaks, Tea Grapes!

 

-Jody D

By galacticrenaissance

Day 11 of NaPoWriMo

“Today’s prompt asks you to write a poem of the five senses. Pick an experience that is very sensory, and of which you have a strong sense memory — like hearing a train whistle, jumping into a rain puddle, catching that first whiff of lilac on a spring day, eating ice cream at the beach. One of those might work for you, or you might have one from your own past (eating jelly sandwiches in the woods springs to my particular mind). Then try to bring all five senses into it. What do you see, smell, feel, taste, and hear? Try to be as specific as possible, capturing that moment across all five senses.Package all that up, and you’ll have your poem. Good luck!”

 

I’ve decided to go all Caribbean for this one.  I do miss that place sometimes, mainly for the people, the partying, the beaches; not so much for the armed robbery, carjackings, and Gestapo police force.

Viva Chavez, pero bien lejos de aqui. Bueno no, mejor que se muera, pues.

Conmigo siempre es la cocina,
Me atrae y me socializa.
Me inspira y me reta.
Llena la casa de olores nostálgicos:
Es cebolla con ajo, y el tomate con aguacate pa coloreá el perico.
Escucho de fondo un Amparito o un Chamo Candela,
Y a veces Oye Como Va o La Bamba que me poniá llorá.
Cortando calienturas, recién del Tosti-Arepa
Pa rellená con queso rallao y caraotas negras.

¿Quién me enseña hace empanadas de cazón?

By galacticrenaissance

NaPoWriMo Day 10

“Our prompt for today comes from a quote usually attributed to T.S. Eliot: Good poets borrow; great poets steal. You can learn all about what Eliot actually said here. But let’s stick to plain old stealing today by writing poems with their first lines lifted from other poems. You can pick a favorite poem of yours to take a line from. If that doesn’t appeal, famous sonnets are always a good way to go. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, perhaps? Maybe try a little “biblomancy” — get a big book of poetry, an anthology for preference, and open it randomly and use the first line from a poem on the page you hit upon. That’s a good tactic if you don’t want to be too influenced by the poem you’re working from — it can be hard to write a completely different poem using a line from a piece you know well. Anyway, happy thieving!”

 

Poe is one of my favorite scribes, his horror stories never really struck me as horror stories and his poetry feels a bit long-winded at times.  Nevertheless, my lasting impression of his style is rooted in his narrative inventiveness and preoccupation with death and the macabre.  Cheers to the Amontillado.

The immurement

“The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could,”
Straight starvin a ninja with a name like that is how gangstas do it in the hood.
Like Dante, Wilde & Twain the theme has been alluded to many a time,
And like the Masons, the walls may be mute, but never deaf nor blind.

The nectar of revenge undresses the soul of righteous men,
And some confounded fool declares, ‘My cough shall not mean my end’
Impunity and insult are both dishes served best cold,
To my enemies and critics alike, I say, For this shit, I am too old.

I’m convinced that masonry should be a skill,
plain for all to use.
For if slights of character could be settled by brick walls,
Dear Edgar would need no booze.

-G. Barbieri

So, I figured, if Eliot wanted great poets to steal, why not steal from him. Again I have preserved the structure and rhyme scheme, much as I did in “To His Koi Fishes” (q.v.). I present, then, a backwards version of Eliot’s SECOND most renowned work. http://www.poetry-archive.com/e/love_song_of_j_alfred_prufrock.html

The Love Song of J. Christopher Dunville

Let us go then, you and I
While the evening is spread out across the sky
Like the books and papers strewn upon my table.
Let us go, through certain half-discarded texts,
The rustling sheaves,
Of long-dead authors and their cheap no-vels,
In sawdust barrooms with their peanut shells:
Lines that contain a tedious argument
And artistic intent
To lead the reader to an overarching question;
Oh, do not ask, “Who wrote it?”

The poem’s the thing, and not the poet.
In my room the pages flip and turn
Talking of Byron, Shelley, and Burns.

The yellow pages that crack and rustle in their aged spines,
The yellow ink that Danielewski prints in their aged spines,
Wormed their way into the corners of my dreaming,
Worked upon the pools of my imagination,
Let fall upon my future the weight that falls from heaven,
Slipped by my guard, made a stubborn stain,
And seeing that they owned this December boy,
Reclined upon the throne, and had their reign.

And indeed there have been times
When the yellow pages that fall beneath my gaze
Have cracked and rustled in their aged spines.
There has been time, there has been time
To prepare a poem to read the poems that I read,
There has been time to copy and compose,
And time for all the words and works of man
That smell so sweet but prick like thorny rose;
Time for Poe and time for Keats,
And time still for a hundred interbreedings
And for a hundred readings and re-readings,
Before the taking of a hood and PhD.

In my room the pages flip and turn
Talking of Byron, Shelley, and Burns.

And indeed there have been times
I wondered, “Do I care?” and, “Do I care?”
Times I looked back on when I lost a girl so fair,
And shore the locks that tangled in my hair–
(They all said: “How his hair is so unique!”)
My couture jeans, my beard so lumberjackish on my cheek,
My bandanna just a dollar, but always matching to my sneak–
(They all said: “What days is he behind the bar next week?”)
Do I care
Complete my education?
In a study there is time
For leavings and readings which more study does occasion.

For I have read them all already, read them all:
Have read the sonnets, novels, villanelles,
I have measured out their lines in anapests and dactyls;
I know the poets writing with a crying call
Beneath the witty puns and verbal swells,
So I wonder, what the hell?

And I have known the rhymes already, known them all–
The rhymes that finish up a clever turn of phrase,
And when I am turned so clever, armed with degree
When I’m degreed and teaching in a hall,
Then how should I agree
To spit out all the book-ends of my raves and faves?
And I wonder, what the hell?

And I have known the yarns already, known them all–
Yarns that are folkloric and bold and bare
(But under scrutiny, came from who knows where!)
Is it must from a library
That makes me wax so airy?
Yarns that lie, and are called fables, or myths about the gods.
And so then, what the hell?
And how should I agree?

Shall I say, I have gone all night through ancient tomes
And watched the words that glide along the page
Of drunken sots with quill pens, dreaming of sublime?

I should have been a pair of nerdy lens
Poring over problems of dynamic flow.

***

And in the afternoon, not in the evening, I sleep so needily!
Drained by long sessions,
No sleep… must write… answer questions,
Stretched over years, debated among the academy.
Should I, after Forster and Conrad,
Understand what made Chinua Achebe so mad?
And though I have wrote and revised, wrote and fixed,
Though I have seen my prose (grown slightly over-long) cut up by my professor,
I am no Master– and here’s some foul weather;
I have felt the strength of my resolve shudder,
And I have heard the Rhetoric division lower voice, and mutter,
And in short, I was depressed.

And will it have been worth it, after all,
After the texts, the articles, the plays,
Among the first editions, among some class discussions on some days,
Will it have been smart time,
To have left the Promised Land in search of rhyme,
To have squeezed an education out of it all
To move towards some difficult profession,
To say: “I am Hemingway, come from the dead,
Come back to write it all, I shall write it all” –
If one, who I left behind instead
Should say: “This is not what I want at all;
This is why I left, after all.”

And will it have been worth it, after all,
Will it have been smart time,
After the theory and the pedagogy and the freshman class,
After the novels, after the teaching, after the girls that wear their letters on their dress–
And this, and so much less? –
It is improbable that I have written what I mean!
But as if Tim Burton took a book and aborted it on screen:
Will it have been smart time
If one, who I left behind or failed to bring along,
When I cantered off to Knoxville, should say:
“This is not my want at all,
This is why– you left me, after all.”

Yes! I am not Holden Caufield, nor want to be;
Am a Wizard of the Crow, one that won’t do
With less than revolution, plus win a heart so true,
Revise the canon; no doubt, a savvy cool,
Influential, glad to pay his dues,
Stylistic, well-read, and gregarious;
Full of tight sentences, never too obtuse;
With lines, in fact, diamantiferous –
The best, at rhymes, in School.

I’m still young… I’m still young…
I shall sing the songs that need be sung.

Why not grow my dreadies back? Do I care what others think?
I shall wear matching bandannas, and some sneak that’s blue and pink.
I have read the critics gossip, stink upon stink.

I do not care if they gossip of me.

I have seen them bashing untoward on the books
Considered by my green eye to be great
When the winds of scholarship blow debate.
I will linger in the stacks of the Hodges
By volumes bound in linen red and brown
Till I walk across the stage, in hood and gown.

By galacticrenaissance

NaPoWriMo Day 9, feelin fine!

Our prompt for today is to write a persona poem — a kind of dramatic monologue. Here’s Rita Dove channeling Beethoven, and Robert Browning giving voice to a very grumpy monk. The Summer 2008 issue of Poemeleon furnishes many more great examples. So pick a character to inhabit — a person from history, an imaginary or mythical person (like Snow White or Zeus), or just someone you’re not (an Olympic marathon champion, perhaps? I know I’m not one of those), and write in their voice.

Surely you are all familiar with:

A Plumber’s Lament

Will ever it come to an end, this work?
8 bits an hour is undoubtedly some weak pay,
Adhering to the whims of an adolescent jerk
Isn’t why I first agreed to play.

Sure, it’s fair to offer bonus loot
If I get it finished in short time,
But I think it might be moot
Cause the pipes are so clogged with slime!

A plumber’s job is hazardous,
To deal with fungus and with reptiles, too
O let me be raised up like Lazarus
If I should die in service unto you.

But since I don’t wish to be dead
I need be paid in coin,
So I will mash and bash my head
Some payment to purloin.

O, let me solve your problems, player
And not cause you any hassle.
And now that I’m atop them there,
“MY PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE?!?!”

-Jody D

In the spirit of Jody Dee’s ode to my favorite plumber, here’s one in honor of my favorite leisure suited (anti) hero.

Larry is God

In the land of the lounge lizards,
I am one with the universe,
I am well-versed in the art of seduction.

I’ve rendered women powerless,
merely with a bouquet and
a well-presented preservative.

Sierra gave me a world to inhabit,
Lost Wages, NV as it came to be,
was where I would become a legend.

Surely you’ve heard of my adventures,
muggings, VD, slot machines galore.
I’ve always been despised, you see,
For sleeping with a whore.

Not Fawn, nor Faith, nor Eve,
but simply “Best Fantasy, Role Playing or Adventure Game of 1987″
I counted 2 hundred fifty thou legit units,
But the piracy ratio might be 6:1.

-G. Barbieri

By galacticrenaissance

NaPoWriMo Day 8

And now, our prompt for today! Go outside. That’s about it. Take a walk, on this lovely Sunday. Or a drive. (Or if it’s not lovely where you are at all, maybe just remember your last good walk or drive). Take along a notebook if you can. Take notes. Maybe take a picture or two. And then sit down in a park or in your yard or on the corner, and write.

Not much to say about it. Just writing!

A Sunny Sunday, Knoxville, Tennesee.

Why would I go walking
When I have at my disposal
One Green Hornet?

Others might celebrate
With hams, or chocolate eggs,
Or other hardly Kosher,
But left up to me,
The stations of the Cross are more of
An opportunity to revive
Something that should, by all rights,
No longer survive.

So fire up the ’72 I do,
And under cloudless
Perfect mountain sky
I blaze a couple blocks;
Drop off my laundries;
Answer questions, his and hers,
About the Hornets
Birds and bees.

I guess it’s cheap of me to say
I’d just as soon Pass over
The details of the resurrection;
But I haven’t time to explicate
A carburetor’s workings
Any more than Gabriel K,
New York City, Medical Doctor,
Has to explain the pulmonary corrections
That cured the cancers,
Even if his is a model
Made in ’54,
And therefore somewhat prone
To more regular questions without answers.

Three days hence, again I rise,
Too early for my taste,
And surely prone to cold-water coughing,
Then twist the key in its place,
To wonder at the miracle
That,

ON THE THIRD CRANK
HE AROSE FROM THE DEAD,
ASCENDED INTO SECOND,
SHIFTED BY THE RIGHT HAND
OF JOD WHO BOTHERED,
ALRIGHTY?

From thence, I picked up
The sheets for the bed,
Some holey t-shirts,
A reunion of pants.

And carried them home
In the back of a chariot
Swung low.

That’s Tennessee
In the springtime,
Where driving
Is flying
Is walking
Dontcha know.

-Jody D

Here’s a scathing piece on Texas summer and how it begins in March and ends in November.

Como siempre, la ola tejana se muestra más temprano que nunca,
It has always been and will always be.
Sin sombra, te empapas de sudor en tres minutos,
Poolside Keystone to forget that it’s barely April.

If you’ve never survived a Texas summer, then frankly,
No sabeis lo ques ‘la calol’
If you’ve never loved someone in the Texas heat, then honestly,
Tranquilo, que ahora es que falta pa que se acabe.

-G. Barbieri

By galacticrenaissance