Infanticide--As Seen on TV!

Hey bros.
I read this last week, but wanted to post it here in hopes of commentary/posterity. So...I am doing that.
For those of you who weren't within earshot, it was based on a dream I had (and also in response to this poem, as per a 206 assignment). Ahem.

Infanticide--As Seen on TV!
(a death poem)
I appear on screen, a skeleton smoking a cigarette
to the raucous laughter
of the studio audience--
a barbaric habit, they know;
what rocky foundations, you have,
beneath your lumpy, pregnable misgivings!
A monument to lasting stupidity.

Did you see me as I went?--notorious,
Infanticide! they clamored.
Did you hear my guitar solo?

At this point, besides my calcified effigy,
I think that's all that's left of me:
a pile of tiny, chewable bones beneath
a movie made for TV:
animated flesh, tender ghost--
forced to reenact its lowest point
between commercial interruptions,
like a dream advertises bare release.

identity attempt III

wrote this standing on a mountain top (surprise, surprise). suspect it needs something more somewhere. suggestions, diatribes, and/or musings welcome and appreciated.

this morning, as we slid
into the sun, the mountains
cared enough to climb
above the clouds, and then
they were islands,
floating black and heavy,
precise as oil drops
against that taut white--

there is a point
at which the sea
and the sky are the same thing;

we are all
strange fish in one body
or another.

I wrote this when I was high

I wrote this when I was high. It has no title.

3/11/09-EDIT FROM 3/15/09
The car was as fast as he was high
on the blanketing
pavement.

Jetting along the roads of purple moonlight and green shadows,
her profile was regal and her eyes squinty but her pierced visage was beautiful
in an essential way of curvy venus
shape and brain
high on the barometer.

We careened carelessly
in the smoky
night that fogged the windshield and my eyes.
the car and my legs the us and the it; ya know, ya know
--he said.

He went on and on in elliptical
eloquence yammering on the velvet underground
and how excellent their lou reed john cale
sound was, ya know, ya know
--he said.

She was confusing
like a hieroglyphic and was just as ancient and antique
as they were are but I found
her knew her never knew her
under a purple phosphorescent black lite moon
and through the windows they

saw us,
reflected. Who
are you? they asked, mouthed lipless lamenting.
Why
are you here in our lands? they asked limbless gesturing.
LEAVE THIS LAND!
they shouted

and we dashed with Craig our
driver but he was not our driver to you he was the other one
it is Jack and Kaylee and Craig
and just that no dileniations
between the Kaylee and Jack
and Kaylee and Jack and Craig
but it is all okay? right?

and the car swerves fast like strokes in a van gogh and the madness
is there in the arcing of the cars arching along alive
abandoned alleyways where days
die homeless never getting to see tomorrow's awful
sunrise.

I wrote this poem to read at the Loeb. It's based on this piece by Agnes Martin. I hope everyone's having a good break.

Some Tricks I Can Do with Squares

Hundreds of square geese

flying in tight formation.

A huddled group of prostitutes

on the grid of Omaha streets.

A sad square careworn

map of my most desperate fears

as they exist on the fields

and farmlands of my mind.

The fracture eye of a honeybee,

therein reflected a hundred ginger lilies.

A thousand of the lived-in

boxes of Hooverville,

cardboard apostles of desperation.

My first memory is a visit

to the stonebreaker's house. The hills

outside of town, square and neatly

arrayed. The son steps softly,

shows me their hammers.

Sledges for the reassembly

of boulders into rubble.

I Once Killed a Pastor, a poem/song by Eric

this is eric, ya'll.

Here's a poem/song I wrote recently:

I Once Killed a Pastor
I once killed a pastor for giving a sermon about love,
said he didn't understand it or what was above;
maybe it's like Berlin bombed,
and maybe all that's left is a song,
and maybe it goes like this one;
maybe it sounds like this one.

The congregation, they all cried.
I told them he had to die.
Hope they comprehend
what I did with my secular hand,
taught them to believe in vacuumed skies,
the chaos of butterflies,
the purity of the first time's blood,
the fact that we don't come from mud.

I once killed a pastor for giving me a purpose.
I laid him down on earth's surface,
told him he was spinning around so fast
and that the not even the trees will last.
So he cried into the useless blades of grass
as he missed the morning's mass
and asked me to explain my song
and I said it would take too long.

a poem for your Tuesday evening

blog blog blog blog blog
Here's a poem I wrote for class, still in its unedited form:

Breath Sounds

In biology I'd trace the respiratory system:
a set of bare birches stemming sideways
beneath twin pink lakes, the transfer of air
to existence easy as banter. When I press
my lips to anything, I think of two salted
mouths sutured at the shore, one body
in desperate rest sighing into another -
how physical we've made our salvation.
The heft of limbs and hands, latched in thrust,
strain to be lung for another, one alike
in rigging, a chemical composite drifting electric
then dull. Circling a nude torso begging at its brink
lets slip the secret: we want the body to fail
in its extremes. Even sex, in its aim and end,
craves the circuitry collapsed in recovery,
for once, nothing; for once, senses loosed
from requisite response.
In this stagnant gap, we praise
the baseline of blue tunneling through forearms,
the relief of systole and diastole sounding
the blood speak. How small my body is,
yet exists still in this torrent. Crowning death
the big event, think how our bodies do not
fall to dust sooner.

I would love your input.
-C.

p.s. there should be an indentation at "in this stagnant gap" but I can't make this thing work.

We have a blog. Awesome

So Vassar College Write Club has a blog. What a momentous creation! Just to remind y'all this blog's purpose is to create a space where we can offer praise, criticism, and/or suggestions on each others work. COOL. And if you find anything amusing or poignant related to writing post it also. JUST POST STUFF, OKAY? Anyway to get this party started I'm going to post this really unfinished, unedited silly poem I had to write for Composition a few weeks ago. It's a "prison poem". It's about the unique structure of my pelvis bone....enjoy.

I am a precious resource, wrap
me in cellophane!
Clear plastic spindles binding
twin tree boughs, in union
to the mother trunk.
Anatomy is destiny
has always been
the joke to leave me sober, breathless
and praying not to god but to the god
of bad girl's eternal karma.
Tupperware is a container, home
is made from bricks; these hips,
life-long punch line, form dictated
by the divine architect.
Picture: The Birth
Of Venus, updated to the hip-
hop culture-sweating
on the treadmill, rejecting denim,
screaming through labor.
The fertility goddess myth, placation
taken from ancient civilization.
Keep your projection away from
my projections.
This particular carriage is
a boarder at wartime. Bullets
fly, sides are drawn, up in arms,
The Mothers and The Whores.