This one was cut from the manifesto.
Read it.
Our ipod Connection
Last night I saw you
Standing on the pine-cone-tree-needle
Floor of an ocean green mountain forest
With a tin-can six-pack of Pabst,
Listening to Eagle
Eye
Cherry
on your iPod.
And You were on your way
to Ukiah and,
I was on my way
to a damn good Haiku
Listening to Eagle
Eye
Cherry
on my iPod.
We were high, and it was cool
I lent you my immunity
And took away your discomfort.
I will never forget you.
I loved you.
I hopped a train into the night
Listening to Eagle
Eye
Cherry
On my Ipod.
It was cool.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
My old Manifesto Assignment
READ THIS AS FAST AS YOU CAN WITHOUT SPITTING
that's how I wrote it...
Go-
Can I just say sometthing like, "This is a Manifesto, take one?"
Go faster-
Sure, poetry is cool. But what makes it cool? Are you cool enough to say to the person next to you, “hey you, here is what makes this here poem cool?” A sonnet about a guy who loves his iPod, a villanelle about a reality show fanatic’s feelings toward a competitor; a sestina about a six-pack of Pabst; a quick haiku about how Ukiah is Haiku spelled backwards written by some kid with an Amish beard; what makes those poems cool? DO you know they are cool before reading them based on their titles (if any) or the reputation of the poet, or because the kid beside you pointed to them? Maybe they were in some new hip magazine published by the friends of some coffee shop or local bar… Are poems supposed to be cool, or funny, or moving? Hey, read my poetry. I mix it up better than that last guy. I don’t just read my poems; I yell them at people from the crosswalk. My poems are all about weed and purple haze and mythological comic book dudes. “I only read the Beats or the New York Schoolers or the classic romantics or whatever doesn’t make sense.” It’s safer to read poems that don’t make sense and poems I can relate to. The poetry I read doesn’t have to make sense, and I don’t know why. Line breaks and stanzas- I consider those arbitrary when I read and write poetry. I like it that way; it makes poetry fresh, unpredictable, and spontaneous, and most of all safe.
[cut out iPod Poem]
But for me, writing poetry is like taking down the feelings and thoughts at any given moment. If I’m pissed at my sister I can write a poem about how she doesn’t get me. I write it in such a way that she won’t get it when I read it to her. That way I can tell her how I feel and she will never get it. She says, “it’s cool,” and doesn’t get it. She just said that the pissed off stuff I wrote about her was cool.
Poems record, for me, the instant connections and feelings of moments. It’s the sensation of linking word descriptions to the feelings and hearings recorded for the purpose of sharing with hopes preservation and appreciation. A kind of “here is how I see the world” Why is Brandy such a fine girl of a song? Is it the tune, the lyrics, or the associations one makes with the song? Perhaps it can be all, or one, or a combination of all the ones.
Read it like you hear it. Forget the line breaks unless you can’t breathe. Add the breaks to make it look like you have thought about them. If they don’t think your poem is cool they may have heard it before. It might just be better if they heard it before. They can say, “Hey, I didn’t know that dude listened to The Violent Femmes and Eagle Eye Cherry. He likes American Music too,” and “I didn’t know music was in his soul.” I like all kinds of music. It reminds me of me, and I like myself best.
Poems come from associations, for me. Words create paths to others words cataloged in my memory. Usually, my poems come from the most beautiful (not pretty, ugly, or cool specifically) experiences and observances in my recollection, or my idea of what might be beautiful. I like to think of my poems as mix-tapes dedicated to those moments, sceneries, etc…
I won’t lie today. I have only a slight clue about form and its role in my poetry. I mix the form up because I think I have to, unless I decide to write in a traditional form, even then I get mixed up. I feel strange copying someone’s form. It feels like I’m using someone else’s eyes to see and their mouth to speak. I’ll use parts of their words, but something feels un-cool about writing a sonnet. I just can’t see a sonnet that way. I can appreciate the challenge as exercise, but when I look at it I feel like it’s not authentic. Sounds like an excuse for not sticking to a form doesn’t it. I hate that in poetry— people who use excuses to not try or to back up some crap they wrote that wasn’t considered cool, not even by the dude who wrote the iPod connection poem.
Some manifesto this is. It’s like an inconsiderate speed manifesto. The best thing to come out of this will be the poem about iPods. I hope this won’t go down on my permanent record.
that's how I wrote it...
Go-
Can I just say sometthing like, "This is a Manifesto, take one?"
Go faster-
Sure, poetry is cool. But what makes it cool? Are you cool enough to say to the person next to you, “hey you, here is what makes this here poem cool?” A sonnet about a guy who loves his iPod, a villanelle about a reality show fanatic’s feelings toward a competitor; a sestina about a six-pack of Pabst; a quick haiku about how Ukiah is Haiku spelled backwards written by some kid with an Amish beard; what makes those poems cool? DO you know they are cool before reading them based on their titles (if any) or the reputation of the poet, or because the kid beside you pointed to them? Maybe they were in some new hip magazine published by the friends of some coffee shop or local bar… Are poems supposed to be cool, or funny, or moving? Hey, read my poetry. I mix it up better than that last guy. I don’t just read my poems; I yell them at people from the crosswalk. My poems are all about weed and purple haze and mythological comic book dudes. “I only read the Beats or the New York Schoolers or the classic romantics or whatever doesn’t make sense.” It’s safer to read poems that don’t make sense and poems I can relate to. The poetry I read doesn’t have to make sense, and I don’t know why. Line breaks and stanzas- I consider those arbitrary when I read and write poetry. I like it that way; it makes poetry fresh, unpredictable, and spontaneous, and most of all safe.
[cut out iPod Poem]
But for me, writing poetry is like taking down the feelings and thoughts at any given moment. If I’m pissed at my sister I can write a poem about how she doesn’t get me. I write it in such a way that she won’t get it when I read it to her. That way I can tell her how I feel and she will never get it. She says, “it’s cool,” and doesn’t get it. She just said that the pissed off stuff I wrote about her was cool.
Poems record, for me, the instant connections and feelings of moments. It’s the sensation of linking word descriptions to the feelings and hearings recorded for the purpose of sharing with hopes preservation and appreciation. A kind of “here is how I see the world” Why is Brandy such a fine girl of a song? Is it the tune, the lyrics, or the associations one makes with the song? Perhaps it can be all, or one, or a combination of all the ones.
Read it like you hear it. Forget the line breaks unless you can’t breathe. Add the breaks to make it look like you have thought about them. If they don’t think your poem is cool they may have heard it before. It might just be better if they heard it before. They can say, “Hey, I didn’t know that dude listened to The Violent Femmes and Eagle Eye Cherry. He likes American Music too,” and “I didn’t know music was in his soul.” I like all kinds of music. It reminds me of me, and I like myself best.
Poems come from associations, for me. Words create paths to others words cataloged in my memory. Usually, my poems come from the most beautiful (not pretty, ugly, or cool specifically) experiences and observances in my recollection, or my idea of what might be beautiful. I like to think of my poems as mix-tapes dedicated to those moments, sceneries, etc…
I won’t lie today. I have only a slight clue about form and its role in my poetry. I mix the form up because I think I have to, unless I decide to write in a traditional form, even then I get mixed up. I feel strange copying someone’s form. It feels like I’m using someone else’s eyes to see and their mouth to speak. I’ll use parts of their words, but something feels un-cool about writing a sonnet. I just can’t see a sonnet that way. I can appreciate the challenge as exercise, but when I look at it I feel like it’s not authentic. Sounds like an excuse for not sticking to a form doesn’t it. I hate that in poetry— people who use excuses to not try or to back up some crap they wrote that wasn’t considered cool, not even by the dude who wrote the iPod connection poem.
Some manifesto this is. It’s like an inconsiderate speed manifesto. The best thing to come out of this will be the poem about iPods. I hope this won’t go down on my permanent record.
CHAP BOOK
Tomorrow is the day I release Shark in the Dark and Planet of the Consummate Loner, my chap book for WRI 441. I think it contains nineteen or twenty poems that were written from screenplays like the poems on the blog. I have to get a picture of the CB for the site... Maybe you'll get one? Maybe you'll buy one? Track one down...
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Planet of the Consummate Loner
This one is from "Planet of the Apes" and "Taxi Driver" with the Consummate Loner sbstituted for Travis Bickle and Taylor. I feel like I need to include more dialogue.
Anyway...
Planet of the Consummate Loner
Int-
Cabin of a Spaceship-
Close up on Astronaut-
The Consummate Loner
has the smell of sex about him.
A solitary spermatosoan gliding
through the womb of the Universe.
No more than a mote
in the eye of eternity.
He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette,
turns to look through one of the portholes
into the astral night.
Ext-
Manhattan side street-
Consummate Loner’s point of view-
Twelve “Horsemen” suddenly emerge
from a large midtown porno theater.
The Consummate Loner is starring in silent fascination.
The CRACKING SOUND of rapid fire pistol shots
fills the musty air. A Gorilla hunter stands over a dead man,
Another Gorilla says, “Smile.”
Young TEENYBOPPERS are dancing.
Anyway...
Planet of the Consummate Loner
Int-
Cabin of a Spaceship-
Close up on Astronaut-
The Consummate Loner
has the smell of sex about him.
A solitary spermatosoan gliding
through the womb of the Universe.
No more than a mote
in the eye of eternity.
He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette,
turns to look through one of the portholes
into the astral night.
Ext-
Manhattan side street-
Consummate Loner’s point of view-
Twelve “Horsemen” suddenly emerge
from a large midtown porno theater.
The Consummate Loner is starring in silent fascination.
The CRACKING SOUND of rapid fire pistol shots
fills the musty air. A Gorilla hunter stands over a dead man,
Another Gorilla says, “Smile.”
Young TEENYBOPPERS are dancing.
Shark in the Dark
Here is a poem I'm working on right now. I posted one earlier, but I have made some changes.
I'm working with screenplays from "Jaws" and "Interview With A Vampire." I threw in Shark in the Dark: Vampires (Night/Dark) Jaws (Shark). You get it, right? I was worried about the idea, but as I get going I learn what I'm doing... I limit myself to the text as it appears in the works, but I substitute "Shark in the Dark" for names. Read it tell me what your thoughts are...
Shark In The Dark
_-Shark! Shark! Shark in the dark!
Shark in the Dark sees things
from a sharks point of view.
Looking out at the onrushing undersea
world at night. HEAR!
Landslide, metabolic sounds,
sounds of the innerspaces rushing forward.
The rare secret noises that certain undersea creatures
share with each other.
Twisted and distorted by the depths.
Ext-
Beach-Night-
Sharks Point of view-
ANOTHER ANGLE—
It is a pleasant moonlit night.
HEAR a number of voices singing.
It sounds like an eastern University’s
Alma Mater. Weepy
Ivy League anthems.
Canaries singing in a cage
and considerable necking activity.
Shark in the Dark looks at the crowd.
A spotlight uncovers a mortal woman.
Ext-
Room-Night-
On a warm Night-
ANGLE LOOKING IN-
Shark in the Dark is dressed
in an old-fashioned suit.
His face appears inhumanly white.
He is a spirit with preternatural flesh.
We hear the scampering toenails
of two cocker spaniels.
A series of police sirens go by.
Ext-
Beach-Night-
Another part of the Beach-
Shark in the Dark finds them,
still, on the beach.
HIS feet tangled in his pants.
HER throat is long and slender.
HER breasts are gorgeous.
Shark in the Dark floats down
on top of her. She is helpless.
Her eyes mist over.
Whatever she feels
makes her open her mouth.
Shark in the Dark stares
with a dreamy expression.
Ext-
Beach-Morning-
Man is Pointing frantically at the sea-
ANGLE ON THE WATERLINE-
Fat Lady is bobbing around.
The bodies of a thief and a whore
float by. Shark in the Dark goes by,
dog paddling along, producing
bizarre underwater vibrations.
More to come...
I'm working with screenplays from "Jaws" and "Interview With A Vampire." I threw in Shark in the Dark: Vampires (Night/Dark) Jaws (Shark). You get it, right? I was worried about the idea, but as I get going I learn what I'm doing... I limit myself to the text as it appears in the works, but I substitute "Shark in the Dark" for names. Read it tell me what your thoughts are...
Shark In The Dark
_-Shark! Shark! Shark in the dark!
Shark in the Dark sees things
from a sharks point of view.
Looking out at the onrushing undersea
world at night. HEAR!
Landslide, metabolic sounds,
sounds of the innerspaces rushing forward.
The rare secret noises that certain undersea creatures
share with each other.
Twisted and distorted by the depths.
Ext-
Beach-Night-
Sharks Point of view-
ANOTHER ANGLE—
It is a pleasant moonlit night.
HEAR a number of voices singing.
It sounds like an eastern University’s
Alma Mater. Weepy
Ivy League anthems.
Canaries singing in a cage
and considerable necking activity.
Shark in the Dark looks at the crowd.
A spotlight uncovers a mortal woman.
Ext-
Room-Night-
On a warm Night-
ANGLE LOOKING IN-
Shark in the Dark is dressed
in an old-fashioned suit.
His face appears inhumanly white.
He is a spirit with preternatural flesh.
We hear the scampering toenails
of two cocker spaniels.
A series of police sirens go by.
Ext-
Beach-Night-
Another part of the Beach-
Shark in the Dark finds them,
still, on the beach.
HIS feet tangled in his pants.
HER throat is long and slender.
HER breasts are gorgeous.
Shark in the Dark floats down
on top of her. She is helpless.
Her eyes mist over.
Whatever she feels
makes her open her mouth.
Shark in the Dark stares
with a dreamy expression.
Ext-
Beach-Morning-
Man is Pointing frantically at the sea-
ANGLE ON THE WATERLINE-
Fat Lady is bobbing around.
The bodies of a thief and a whore
float by. Shark in the Dark goes by,
dog paddling along, producing
bizarre underwater vibrations.
More to come...
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