For English 302 we could chose from four writing prompts for our poem due Tuesday:

1. Write 5-10 words you don't like and use them in a poem.

2. Write a ten line poem where each line is a lie.

3. Write a poem, that uses overheard conversation as a starting point.

2    4. Write a poem in the form of a personal ad.

4

I I decided to do the second one and here it is:

ALFRED

I brushed my teeth tonight.

I even checked under the bed

For monsters, all by myself.

There was just one under there.

He was maroon and hairy and a little lonely.

 I invited him up for hot cocoa,

He was very honored but he declined.

He asked me if I could do him one favor.

He asked me to turn on the night light,

For you see, he said, monsters are most afraid of the dark.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

       

In English 302 we read Gregory Corso's poem 'I Met This Guy Who Died' and created mimics of them in class. Our professor called on us randomly to read our versions outloud. I made the classic mistake of making eye contact and didn't look down quick enough. But, luckily, it was enjoyed by the class and prof!

Here is the the original poem as well my mimic.

I  MET THIS GUY WHO DIED by Gregory Corso

We caroused

                Did the bars

                                Became fast friends

He wanted me to tell him

                What poetry was

                                I told him

Happy tipsy one night

I took him home to see my newborn child

A great sorrow came over him

“O Gregory” he moaned

                “you brought up something to die”

I MET A PRIEST WHO DIDN’T PREACH (mimic of ^)

We sat in the pews.

Silence hung between us.

I wanted him to

tell me what to do.

But he just sat there, head bowed,

ropes hanging off him

like clothes on a line.

Then, somberly, he said,

“Sometimes, you just

 got to give up”

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit

Today in lab for my English 302 class we had to write a mimic of the Poem 'We Real Cool' by Gwendolyn Brooks. We also had to write two poems about random objects provided for us. The first was a plush garlic toy and the second was a plastic T-Rex toy.

The original poem by Gwendolyn Brooks:

We Real Cool
                                 THE POOL PLAYERS.
                                 SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We 

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

My version:

We Play Ball

                                THE NEIGHBORHOOD BOYS.

                                SEVEN ON THE STREET CORNER.

                          

We play ball. We

Catch calls. We

Trade tricks. We

Sling sticks. We

Ride real. We

Sneak steals. We

Place plates. We

Go state.

GARLIC – Random Object Poem

The garlic’s tang bites at my nostrils,

scraping tears out of my eyes.

I whip them away as focused as a

race horse in the gate.

I chop the garlic, with vicious strokes.

 Taking the day’s anger out on it like

a snake thrashing on the ground with its prey.

The juices from its crushed segments drip onto

the cutting board, like my tears on my palm.

T-REX – Random Object Poem

It snarls at me from its stand,

taller and larger than me.

It gnashes its teeth at me,

and roars a scream like a

lame horse being shot.

It stands there on its platform

glaring out of sockets without eyes

like two holes in the wall.

It’s rancid breath hits me like a

slap in the face but I can walk away,

he’s just a jumble of bones stacked together

for an exhibit at the National History Museum.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

In class quick write. Object: write a poem about any of four people depicted in an image. I chose the man who looked angry.

FATHER

He spewed his bullshit at me

like a mechanical man; no emotions, just sounds.

I didn’t listen to his words, just the

the way his tongue torqued them.

He was angry again, I knew that.

I could tell by the images his words made on the air.

The words he spoke became tangled and matted,

struggling against one another to find my ears.

Instead, they blotted together,

forming a depiction of hell in the air between

the mechanical man and me.

Beasts with two heads and no legs,

recoiled behind snakes with spiders arms,

who struck out at me, begging me to come closer.

Not urging me to listen, but begging me to hear.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

In my English 302 class (different than my Creative Writing class), we have started our second unit, focusing on Creative Writing. We are first going over poetry. Our first assignment was to write a poem about an inanimate object using one metaphor, two similes and as many sensory details as possible.

PUSH-PIN

Your single tooth is a fang,

that snarls at me like a rabid scrap of a dog

as I hold your nobbled head between broken fingernails.

I steady the picture, keeping it straight,

and drive your cruel tooth deep into the drywall.

It’s quiet in the room, just the crunching of

fractures, spawning from your puncture wound.

Creeping up the back of the wall like veins,

you give me the sensation of dripping water tracing my spine.

Your tooth drills into the once clean, innocent wall

that now stands broken and naked between

this room and the next.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

We have started poetry! This is my poem based on the style of Robert Gilbert.

YOU, ME AND THE MOON

The stars kissed me goodnight like my Nana did, while

the moon grasped my heart and wouldn’t let go,

and the first droplet of rain fell, nestling into my skin

like my hand cupping my chin,

while the strong scent of paraffin tickled my nose,

tasting like home on my tongue.

I remember Jack Elliot, in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,

talking his talk about what should be and what really is.

I spun across the hardwood floor,

spinning dreams and wishes for tomorrow.

And the music was bitchin’ and his toes were tapping,

and bass was beating the floor and the chandelier was quivering.

The somber air outside was shut out

by the melody that was tickling my ears.

Our steps were perfecting in unison;

my feet were yours and yours were mine.

Annie twisted her hips as she riffled through records

and our smiles slipped through the window panes,

shattering once they hit the cement outside.

Annie’s record was placed on the player,

beginning to sing before the needle touched.

But we danced until the moon cried

and she wept until the stars fell asleep.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

We have been editing our short stories in class by fours. Mine will be edited next Tuesday so I am interested to see what people have to say! Here is another Thursday scene write, with a little something comforting, if not happy, at the end (for once):

SOMEOME

She sat, back straight against the cold, brick wall. Her fingernails dug into the cement, palms grounded. Her already chipped, garish red nail polish made pink lines on the crumbling sidewalk as her fingers quaked. A silver chain charm bracelet with the signature Tiffany heart, the only charm, made soft taps on the ground as her body tremored. Her soft brunette, barrel rolled curls were drawn half up; revealing her tear stained, make up blurred face. Despite the fact that there was a light dusting of snow on the ground, she wore a sleeveless, black dress. The A-line lay in a pool in her lap, barricaded in by her bent knees. She was only seventeen, I knew that.

I was sitting in my beat up Ford F-150 in the St. Barnabas Catholic Church parking lot, hands still on the steering wheel, even though I’d been there ten minutes already. I was in my black suit, dark grey collared dress shirt and brown oxfords. I should have already been in the church; I was late already, but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the truck. I knew I’d have to pass her; knew I’d have to say something, I couldn’t just walk by. It wasn’t just that though, I was strangely mesmerized by her. She sat there, in the frigid air, crying over the death of her junkie mother who hadn’t given a shit about her. Why did people do that? I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell her mom would be acting the same way if the tables were turned, and yet, here Maia was.

But I realized the answer, as I sat there hands gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating. She didn’t have anyone else. Even the pathetic shell of a mom she had a week ago wasn’t there anymore. I released the wheel and, without taking time to process my thoughts, opened the truck’s door. She didn’t look up when the door slammed shut; still in her desperately alone world. The air was colder than I had guessed and I shrugged my shoulders up against the biting wind. I sat down on the severely cracked sidewalk beside her, her head moving up a fractional amount, eyes darting sideways at me. As she looked at me, I saw some of the anguish in her eyes replaced with exhaustion, so I stayed sitting.

I don’t know how she tells the story, but that’s the only part of the funeral I remember anymore.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

Another Thursday scene write:
This one was from an assignment in class in which we were to describe a very specific setting and then add in a single person.

LIGHT

A single florescent bulb glared down onto the stained concrete of the back parking lot. The once white lines of the six parking spots were worn out, nearly unseen. There was a crow picking at the regurgitated remains of someone’s lunch as the single light flickered in and out, in and out. The needle pricks of light that strained through the churning, purple sky were the only hints of nature in the cement wasteland. There were black gum stains half way up the dirty walls of the building in front of the lot. Sheets of barely legible paper covered one another, each advertising something else, each ripped and shredded from years of existence. Sitting on the filthy, decrepit pavement was an immaculate woman. She was dressed in a carnation red strapless dress, bedecked in tulle and lace. Her dress rested half way down her shins as she sat, back against the reproachful wall, eyes closed, feet together and in front of her. Encasing her feet were black patent leather kitten heels, which shone, in the fractured light emitting from the lone bulb. Her professionally made up hair was squashed unceremoniously against the dank background.

Besides the crows’ relentless picking at the vomit lying mere feet away from the red woman, the only other movement was the unknown woman’s head, rolling left and rolling right, pushing hard against the concrete wall. Her lips too were moving, but unlike the slow motion of her head, they were rapid. Soft, raspy whispers occasionally escaped her flying lips, as her finger nails clawed terribly into the sidewalk.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

This is the first short story that we have had to write for my creative writing class. There were only three requirements: It must be a maximum of three pages, it must involve two main characters and it must include a shitty job. So this is my first draft that will be butchered by peer edit groups come tomorrow afternoon.

FORGET ME NOT

I left the house late, a quarter to five and the sun was just rising. I opened the old Ford pick-up’s peeling dusk blue handle and swung one leg inside the truck. Using the steering wheel as a balance, I hoisted my other leg into the cab and just sat for a moment, eyes closed, air leaving my lungs heavy. I could remember her sitting next to me. Pale yellow sundress, red bow in her hair, a supple smile turned towards me. The glitter of her laugh touched me as if raindrops were kissing my balding head. Harsh wind blew into the cab from the still opened door, whisking her away too. I opened my slow, tired eyes without rush and sighed deeply, turning the key in the ignition.

As I drove I felt her next to me again. I could feel her long hair tickling my neck as it swirled around her face, strewn about by the wind pouring through the empty windows. Her head lay nuzzled somewhere between my shoulder and neck. My mind hardly knew where I was driving, but my body took control of the wheel. I was caught up in the rich aroma of her sweet, succulent perfume that seemed to linger on the air as I paused at every stop sign.

I had swooped into my parking space some minutes earlier, but the truck was still rumbling. It took me a few moments before realizing that I had arrived. Shaking myself out of my reverie, I turned the keys, quieting the engine and, again sat, eyes closed, waiting. Time seemed to drift between wanderlust and fantasy as I felt her soft lips graze my cheek. Eyes still closed I chocked out a stumbled whisper, “Miss you, Ev.” One of her small fingers traced my jaw line and I sighed, my breath fluttering her out the open window.

                Hand still resting on the door handle, I pushed it open and stepped outside. The thick, sweet summer air tickled my nose, the heat clinging to my skin. It was barely day yet and mirages were already dancing above the pavement. I walked up the short path with different shades of greenery lining the sides to the entrance of the hospital. The sliding glass doors rushed open when I approached; the familiar feeling of death entered my soul as sickness cloaked my heart.  My body went through the paces of finding the elevator, my mind in a different realm. I joined the morning shift cue that waited for the large metal doors to open with a soft “ding.” Most of us got off on the third floor, heading for the locker room. I nodded a ‘good morning’ to the few other doctors already changing from their street clothes into blue scrubs. With a still numb mind, I wound my combination lock, feeling the click and opened the locker door. I took off my regular clothes and replaced them with the periwinkle scrubs. I felt my motions quickening, it was now almost 6:45, I had a few minutes before I needed to do inventory. By the time my leathery, nobbled knuckles had finished a sloppy job of tying my black tennis shoes I could feel my breath quickening.

                I slipped out the locker room door, with the agility of a younger man and headed for the elevators. This time when I entered, I was alone; I reached for the wall of buttons, my fingers finding the embossed number 5.  When the doors slid open, the large metal sign that alerted new visitors of their whereabouts was positioned halfway up the crème wall opposite the elevator. In bold, red print, ALZHIMER’S WARD was etched. This time my body followed my heart as it led us down the hallway to the left. The horrid feeling of death that had followed me from the downstairs levels mingled with a sense of confusion and fear.

                I reached room 526 where a small plate below the room number read EVELYN MARLOW and pushed down on the handle, walking into the room. The nurse was just setting breakfast down on the side table when she looked up at me. She was roughly my age, somewhere in her seventies, with close-cropped grey hair, “Hey Charlie, she’s doing well this morning.”

I nodded and she left the room. I walked to the side of the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the shrunken figure covered by a pink and yellow patchwork quilt from home. I began to stroke her white hair with my left hand, remembering her once thick black hair. Her green eyes, once bright and alive, looked up into mine, a subtle smile turning up the corners of her lips. “Hey there, Ev,” I whispered.

                “Darling, I’ve been waiting for you,” her voice was rushed and she was almost panicky, “the nurse said you were probably just running late. Oh, but I was worried.”

                Evelyn’s eyes searched my face for some comfort, “It’s alright, it’s alright, I was just running late,” I said softly, trying to soothe her.

                She still seemed unsure that I was alright, so I lay down in the bed next her both of us on our backs, her right hand in my left and I began to sing, “Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema was walking.” Evelyn let her head sink onto my chest and I hugged her close, as I butchered the tune she whispered, “I’ve just been so scared, Charlie.”

                “I know, babe, I know. I’m here now though, right here.”

                Evelyn lifted her head an inch turning so that her lips were inches from mine and she whispered softly, “Forget me not, Charlie. Whatever I forget, don’t you forget too. Forget me not.”

                I cupped her head with my left hand, holding her close to me, wiped tears away with my right, “Never, Ev, you’re always with me.” She fell asleep with her head resting on my chest and I snuck out, scared she would wake up and I would be another doctor in scrubs not her husband.

                I stood in the elevator for a few moments, without pushing buttons or thinking much at all. Finally, I pushed for level A, where my rounds were to take place. When the elevator doors opened into the morgue, the rush of loneliness, death and disparity greeted me as I began my Monday morning shift of tagging the freshly dead bodies of the previous night.

More to come!

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit