Sign Inventory, Post 10, Week 12

Start
Marin Sorescu

Often the start went wrong,
the bang wasn't loud enough
or it wasn't heard,
and the competitors, sent back again and again to their places,
covered themselves in ashes, broke
their legs and threw sand into
the spectators' eyes.

The track, the whole stadium,
was often red with blood,
the start went wrong so many times.

Once
a man with the starting-gun
out of fear of the imminent disaster
fired not into the air
but through his head.
As though by a miracle this time
all the runners won.

The death of the shot man
was hardly noticed.

Ever since, tradition demands,
whoever signals the start
puts the weapon to his forehead.

The instrument that brought in so many gold medals
has landed up with me.

Already the runners rest
their left knees on the chalk line,
their eyes have run on far ahead,
their nostrils quiver.

All they're waiting for is the bang.
It's all up to me.

-the "bang" is a recurring idea throughout the piece. It is the starting point for the race, and if no one hears it, there is a huge riot. I think this can be applied not only to the race in the poem, but to any starting point in life. The need for life to be "fair" is very prominent in today's society, and has been for a long time. People reject even scientific facts that suggest that we are not born a blank slate, thereby putting some ahead of others genetically. It's no wonder that such an obvious source of unfairness incites such behavior.

-the gun-to-forehead tradition is an interesting tradition. I don't know much about it now, but it might be worth taking a look into. I had previously thought that it was just a version of a salute, but I guess not. I did a quick Google search but it didn't turn up anything. I'll have to keep looking.

Improv 2, Post 9, Week 12

Poems of the Pope
Nicanor Parsra

I

They just elected me Pope:
I'm the most famous man in the world!


II

Now I'm at the top of the ecclesiastical profession
and I can die in peace


III

The Cardinals are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too solemn?
but I'm the Pope goddamn it...


IV

First thing tomorrow
I'll move into the Vatican.


V

The title of my address:
How to Succeed in the Ecclesiastical Profession


VI

Congratulations are pouring in
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page

and one thing's for sure:
I look much younger than I really am


VII

Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be Pope
why's everybody so surprised
I worked like a dog
to get what I wanted


VIII

Holy Mother of God
I forgot to bless the multitude!



Poems of Michael Jackson
Casey LaRue

I


My family is thinking of starting a band:
I'll be the most famous kid in the world!



II


Now I'm at the top of the charts
and can live without worry


III


My friends are angry
because I don't treat them like I used to
too rich?
But hell, I'm Michael Jackson...


IV


First thing tomorrow
I'll move into Neverland Ranch.


V


The title of my next song:
Thriller


VI


Sales are through the roof
every newspaper in the world
has my picture on the front page

and one thing's for sure:
I look much smoother than I really am


VII


Ever since I was a boy
I wanted to be a singer
why's everybody so impressed
I did what I loved
to get where I wanted

VIII


Holy Mother of God
I guess this is it!

Improv 1, Post 8, Week 12

At Thirty-three
Hans Magnus Enzensberger

It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusting Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Greenish batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Greenflies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
to 1512, and References to Them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings, and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.


At Twenty-three
Casey LaRue

It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Only one wheezing Ford for the two of them.
At one time she was almost engaged.
First she tried teaching, then writing.
Now she just tries for a paper.
Not enough men attempt to satisfy her.
One man convinced her to tithe, but she did not sing.
Her family makes sure she doesn't starve.
When she thinks of the Middle East she draws a blank.
Her last lover, the drunk, always wanted her to cry.
Blue jeans and T-shirts, the only clothes that can keep up.
She can only grow a cactus.
Really she wanted to sing, or surf.
Her major, Mass Communications with
a minor in English, her native tongue.
Grades, drafts, and a box of rejections.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her apples.
Fake ballet in the living room, a cat and a dog,
crying for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I will keep my heart.
When she giggles she sounds like a child.

Peer Response 2, Post 7, Week 12

In response to Emmanuel's "Free Entry, Week 12":

First of all, I'm really glad you wrote this. I agree with Tim that "The Meat Skin Lady" is engaging, but I feel like this is a more working title and could use a little refining. "Meat skin" is so specific, but "the...lady" is very vague. Maybe you could work her name into the title somehow, or get rid of her there altogether. I don't really know any example to give you, but I'm sure if you just work with it you'll come up with something.

The part about the saints rejoicing is a good idea, but it needs to be played with a bit more. When I think of saints in a church, I usually think about stained glass windows, which could be included in something like:

"Even the window saints long for their stained-glass wallets, translucent mouths watering for plain, barbecue, or salt and vinegar."

That's VERY rough, but hey--it's a start.

You write in line 16 "On the sofa, we hold hands." Since you're in a church, I would imagine a pew rather than a couch. If it's really a couch, we might need to know why it's not a pew. Another consistency comment: in the beginning, the meat skins cost a dollar, but at the end they're free. Just some things to be conscious of. Good draft!

Peer Response 1, Post 6, Week 12

In Response to Tim's "Free Entry, Week 12":

I think the subject of this piece is interesting, especially when it's studied in such a different way than we're used to seeing. However, I will say that some of the questions make it difficult for readers to not answer. I will admit that I answered the question in the first line immediately with "The objects in the way of the sound waves, duh." I then didn't want to hear you wonder about things I already knew. This is not a stab at your intelligence at all. I'm sure you know how sound waves and echoes technically work. I'm just suggesting that you take a look at the questions and make sure they can't be answered immediately and then discarded by a pretentious reader.

The next thing I would like to address begins in line three. There you mention a stubbed toe that causes you to curse near the children's section of the library. It's hard for me to imagine someone stubbing their toe in a restroom (although this might be my dense reader moment), especially a public one. I could much more easily see someone hitting their elbow or something (which plays into funny bone, humor section, etc.).

The section about Tommy and his mother is confusing to me. You talk about the yard, then Tommy's face, then an engine and upholstery. You compare Tommy (or yourself?) to a dead king, and then shift to the mother with grass behind her eyes, and end with "the want for solitude," which is not mentioned anywhere else.

I think this is a good draft, but it just needs a little refining and elaboration. Good luck!

Free Entry, Post 5, Week 12

Leaves

I love to drive over them,

aiming at a large orange or yellow frond,

my head hanging out the window

like a dog, hair-tongue

playing catch-up to my ears,

which are pricked and pointed to catch the crunch.

I stomp on them;

I like to imagine

they’re spiders, tiptoeing on

curled limbs, brown bodies

floating just off the pavement.

They skitter along the sidewalk,

tripping and tumbling with the grass

and the wind.

If the sky calls them,

they take to the air

clumsily, like balloons

only half-filled with Helium.

Gaining speed, they jump

higher and higher until they clear

the building, and there is nothing

left but a dim shadowy circle

against the sun in my squinted eyes.

Junkyard Quote 4, Post 4, Week 12

"The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it."

This was an error message I got today while trying to log in to Twitter. When I hit the back button to try again, it took me to my home page, already signed in. It was really weird, but I thought it was interesting that the server sounds like it has free will and can just do whatever it feels like.

Junkyard Quote 3, Post 3, Week 12

"It's better than a fortune cookie."

I'm sure most of you remember this from last week, but I really like it. Because, in the end, what's better than a fortune cookie? Nothing. It's a little dessert with a mystery person telling you something nice. You don't have to thank them. You don't have to say anything back. You just eat a cookie and bask in fortune's glow.

Junkyard Quote 2, Post 2, Week 12

"Hairy-assed Jesus"

This quote came up in my CNF course today. A classmate had written about changing a tire. In the piece, he mentions how his pants fell down and he showed the world his hairy ass. Later in the story, he calls the lug wrench a "disproportionate crucifix," which made him a hairy-assed Jesus.

Junkyard Quote 1, Post 1, Week 12

"I'm a tree hugger, but I'm a leaf crusher."

I was talking about how most of my poems lately had been about nature, and a friend of mine called me a tree hugger. So I said this in reference to one of my pieces (which will probably be my free entry this week).