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.