Writing Exercise #19 (Part One)

The ingredients are:

1. Three historical moments that happened the day/week(s)/month(s) BEFORE you were born. Wikipedia your year. Just type in, say, "1967" and it will give you a good long page of events that happened. Mine through it. Choose an event and write it out.

2. Five things that did not happen (yet) THAT YEAR.

3. Three features you think of when you think of your mother or father (or both.)

This should take some time. Research the year you were born. This will supply you with #1 & #2. Write each event out. If a ship sank, write about the lone person in the cold water. Write their last thought. Write the one crucial line of the farewell love letter they rehearsed in their head. Was something discovered? Did an important person pass away? Choose an empathy point from these events and write write write. Finally, have these moments affect your #3. The drowned sailor in your mother's soft blonde hair. The shrapnel lodged in your father's mustache...

Paint a picture. How it was before you came. This is part one. This is probably gonna take time. Part two is coming on Monday.

This poem will be in parts. You can break it up however you like. "Part One." Or just "I." Or, "The Beginning of The blah blah blah"

Signs Found During Poetry Adventures in the U.S. of A

Detroit, MI

Found this guy during the week of the Women of the World Poetry Slam. I have a zillion amazing photos from the Heidelberg Project, as well. More on that later (as a writing exercise.) I want a sandwich this big. I will drill a hole in it and sleep on a bed of lettuce. I will pull my hammy comforter up to my chin and dream sweetly.

Somewhere in upstate NY

Ironically enough, this was found on my way home from a writing workshop I was teaching in the Adirondacks, via the WoWPS. I was going to lie and tell you I am the Woodmen of the World Axe Juggling champion, but I thought that was going a little too far.



This was incredible because the actual motel looked like little gingerbread houses. Insert witty Faust references here.


Off the highway, somewhere in Virginia

aka "a turquoise jewelry convention."


Pennsylvania

These fried potatoes are more intelligent than your fried potatoes. They also know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. And will punch you.

Williamsport, PA

I'm sure they have really long hot dogs.

Somewhere outta Virginia

In fifth grade, I wanted nothing more than to have Chad Campbell hold my hand and skate in circles with me. Listening to Chaka Khan. Eating too many Red Hots.

Santa Monica, CA

Yes, I know, it's Sears. But look at that font! Much of Santa Monica is like this. If I worked here, I'd wear polyester pantsuits and frosty pink lipstick. And I would be crispy.


Portsmouth, OH

Bet you five bucks your potato salad has a crinkly hair in it.



1897, dudes. The year Frank Capra & Moe Howard were born. The year Dracula was published. The year Mark Twain was reported as "dead," only to announce to the New York Journal, "The report of my death was an exaggeration." The year one of my favorite writers was released from prison.

Hey Peeps. Put out some good juju for a poetry goddess in need, a'ight? Thank You in Advance.

In between diapers and cupcake making

I try my best to make time to answer/send emails, brush my teeth, write a poem, save a dolphin... Someone recently asked what my work space looks like. So here it is. Complete with an empty jar of milk, the crust of today's turkey sandwich, my lucky rock, an undoubtedly belated birthday card for poet Jane Cassady, my favorite mug (chock-full of pencils), a beetle encased in glass and a crap-ton of books and papers and what appears to be a piece of my boo's rotisserie grill. Splendid! What's in that pink notebook behind the phone, you ask? Well, lemme tell you!

It's my little book of word lists, images, poem ideas and spells. If a word pops up in my head, I write it down and then decide what other word best compliments it. "gasoline pacifier" is a fun word combo, though I haven't put it anywhere yet. I also like "dashing rifles" and "cast-iron thrill." I do not actually write any poems in here. I started writing poetry during my last office job (criminy! that was 9 yrs ago!) and for some reason, I can't seem to write unless I'm "sneaking it in" and clackitty clacking at a keyboard. (Preferably one adorned with spilled milk and bread crumbs.)

Of course, this post would not be complete if I didn't show you my literary Jesus Juice. Some poets drink whiskey, some pretend to smoke Virginia Slims, others have an i.v. hook-up of coffee, but I'm a multi-tasker, remember? I like to write poems while building stonger bones. BAM!!!

Writing Exercise # 18

I took this photo [click on it to enlarge] while adventuring with the fam deep, deep in Ohio. I love the sag and bow. The aching windows. How the corners are like a child's tippy toes, trying to reach the ground from grandpa's big chair.

What would you do if you saw this house in the supermarket? What would its voice be made of? What small and furious thing(s) have taken over? Where does this house sleep? What songs does it not remember? What forgotten things are waiting inside? What does it eat? Who would you name this house after, and why? Where does it hide its condemned hands?