Lit blog

[DeepAsleep]

Alright, let's talk about women.



Identity, part 1
by Diona


there's no point arguing covalent bonds while falling
into the sun: this kind of gravity
doesn't care who your friends are.

it takes an unimaginable amount of violence
to make a woman. start with hydrogen, a swirl
of yes/no bubbles in a stirred cup, collapsing
in on themselves into helium, argon, all the way up
to iron: this is not enough. you need a supernova
for the sort of chaos life has in mind.

there are more bacterial cells in our bodies
than human ones. maybe they're doing
all the thinking, maybe that's why cyanide
cures depression.

fewer than ten genes determine the color
of skin; around a hundred prescribe
the shape of an ear. we need more
cunning ways to say we're stupid and
frightened, that we don't know
what any of it means.

worse: that it means
nothing,
meanings impotent spells we mutter beneath
our breath for a sense of continuity or
solidarity with-- what?
an ear that could pass for our own?

this is not about nucleotide pairs.
begin with hydrogen and end with the atomic weight
of god pressing against what you swore was your
eardrum; photons fleeing your sluggish
microbial thoughts, still in orbit
around a knot of iron.


Diona's been in the back of my mind, forever, though we were always both stuck in relationships and settled for sometimes looks across tables. It started with this poem:

so you wanna be friends
by Diona


what can i tell you about me
that won’t evoke contempt, or pity?

my name is diona.
i am bipedal.
i don’t have a favorite color.

it’s your turn: is your sex life fulfilling how’s your relationship with god if you
could change anything about yourself name three things you wouldn’t.


please don’t consider it rejection if i prod
you with a sharp stick.
this is for your own good. that’s
bullshit: this is for my own protection.

before we talk about poverty,
before we talk about depression
and sexual abuse and social anxiety
and cockroaches,
i need to test your perception;
how many fingers am i holding up?

if you don’t recognize my fingers
when they’re curled into my palms,
how will you know what i’m
lying about?

maybe we should stick to politics
and religion.

maybe i shouldn’t tell you
how i love you already despite
everything i don’t know (which
is everything), because
otherwise, what’s the point?

the spirit is a blackout lamp-
it only shines through the cracks.

how many feelings am i holding up?
i’m sorry if i’ve made you queasy:
i only lie about lying.
otherwise, what’s the point?

my name is punkin d dona diona nicki nicole [last names removed].
i walk to the erratic rhythms of voices
inside and out. i don’t
have a favorite color;
i want them all.


We were at a poetry party at a friend's house, there was a bonfire between us, and i went home smelling like woodsmoke and wondering, "Was that about me?" And judging from the way we kissed, last night, it was.

I don't want to fuck up, don't want to fuck her up, but she scares me, a little. It's strange to see the potential for never going back in someone else. She has this quiet way about her that always settles me, inside. Even if I didn't respect and like the way she handles the world, for the most part, that would be a huge attraction.

It's been sweet, the last few months. Nice to feel fifteen and excited when my pinky touches hers for a quarter second.

Let's not lie and say that putting me in a ralationship isn't the same as throwing gunpowder on a bonfire. Does gunpowder lament the explosion? I've been out of relationships for a couple of months, now. Avoiding them like the plague, same as the bottle.

A drunk won't ever be good for anyone, and I don't want to be that. So, I'm not. Fuck AA. I've got a will of my own. I've spent so long hopping from bed to bed and bar to bar, and I want it to stop, and I'm doing it - slowly. The job's part of that - ten to twelve hour days keep you out of trouble same as a parent, but with more tired, at the end of the day.

She has children. This scares me more and less than I thought it would. Less, because I think I can accept it, and more, because I have no idea what I'm accepting. It's important to me that I recognize this. (I suppose I'm still patting myself on the back for growing up, some.)

Still. Slowly. SO MUCH SLOWLY.

I'll never say I shouldn't have kissed her, but it was a thought. I don't want to push this more than it needs. It's nice that she's good.

 

[Angeline]

Alright, let's talk about women.



Identity, part 1
by Diona


there's no point arguing covalent bonds while falling
into the sun: this kind of gravity
doesn't care who your friends are.

it takes an unimaginable amount of violence
to make a woman. start with hydrogen, a swirl
of yes/no bubbles in a stirred cup, collapsing
in on themselves into helium, argon, all the way up
to iron: this is not enough. you need a supernova
for the sort of chaos life has in mind.

there are more bacterial cells in our bodies
than human ones. maybe they're doing
all the thinking, maybe that's why cyanide
cures depression.

fewer than ten genes determine the color
of skin; around a hundred prescribe
the shape of an ear. we need more
cunning ways to say we're stupid and
frightened, that we don't know
what any of it means.

worse: that it means
nothing,
meanings impotent spells we mutter beneath
our breath for a sense of continuity or
solidarity with-- what?
an ear that could pass for our own?

this is not about nucleotide pairs.
begin with hydrogen and end with the atomic weight
of god pressing against what you swore was your
eardrum; photons fleeing your sluggish
microbial thoughts, still in orbit
around a knot of iron.


Diona's been in the back of my mind, forever, though we were always both stuck in relationships and settled for sometimes looks across tables. It started with this poem:

so you wanna be friends
by Diona


what can i tell you about me
that won’t evoke contempt, or pity?

my name is diona.
i am bipedal.
i don’t have a favorite color.

it’s your turn: is your sex life fulfilling how’s your relationship with god if you
could change anything about yourself name three things you wouldn’t.


please don’t consider it rejection if i prod
you with a sharp stick.
this is for your own good. that’s
bullshit: this is for my own protection.

before we talk about poverty,
before we talk about depression
and sexual abuse and social anxiety
and cockroaches,
i need to test your perception;
how many fingers am i holding up?

if you don’t recognize my fingers
when they’re curled into my palms,
how will you know what i’m
lying about?

maybe we should stick to politics
and religion.

maybe i shouldn’t tell you
how i love you already despite
everything i don’t know (which
is everything), because
otherwise, what’s the point?

the spirit is a blackout lamp-
it only shines through the cracks.

how many feelings am i holding up?
i’m sorry if i’ve made you queasy:
i only lie about lying.
otherwise, what’s the point?

my name is punkin d dona diona nicki nicole [last names removed].
i walk to the erratic rhythms of voices
inside and out. i don’t
have a favorite color;
i want them all.


We were at a poetry party at a friend's house, there was a bonfire between us, and i went home smelling like woodsmoke and wondering, "Was that about me?" And judging from the way we kissed, last night, it was.

I don't want to fuck up, don't want to fuck her up, but she scares me, a little. It's strange to see the potential for never going back in someone else. She has this quiet way about her that always settles me, inside. Even if I didn't respect and like the way she handles the world, for the most part, that would be a huge attraction.

It's been sweet, the last few months. Nice to feel fifteen and excited when my pinky touches hers for a quarter second.

Let's not lie and say that putting me in a ralationship isn't the same as throwing gunpowder on a bonfire. Does gunpowder lament the explosion? I've been out of relationships for a couple of months, now. Avoiding them like the plague, same as the bottle.

A drunk won't ever be good for anyone, and I don't want to be that. So, I'm not. Fuck AA. I've got a will of my own. I've spent so long hopping from bed to bed and bar to bar, and I want it to stop, and I'm doing it - slowly. The job's part of that - ten to twelve hour days keep you out of trouble same as a parent, but with more tired, at the end of the day.

She has children. This scares me more and less than I thought it would. Less, because I think I can accept it, and more, because I have no idea what I'm accepting. It's important to me that I recognize this. (I suppose I'm still patting myself on the back for growing up, some.)

Still. Slowly. SO MUCH SLOWLY.

I'll never say I shouldn't have kissed her, but it was a thought. I don't want to push this more than it needs. It's nice that she's good.

Both poems are really, really good. The second seems more finished to me than the first. In the first, I really like the third and fourth strophes; they feel like the heart of the poem to me. I also thought it would be great to get feedback from Annaswirls on this one because she writes about science so well.

Something I noticed immediately. Here:

we need more
cunning ways to say we're stupid and
frightened, that we don't know

Take out "ways" or maybe put a comma after "cunning." Seems redundant to me.

The prose after the second poem feels like another poem waiting to be born.

Just sayin. I know you didn't ask, but those were my visceral reactions.

 

[Paris_Garters]

Sorry; I was trying to post a like and screwed up. Will try again later.

 

[Tzara]

Both poems are really, really good. The second seems more finished to me than the first. In the first, I really like the third and fourth strophes; they feel like the heart of the poem to me. I also thought it would be great to get feedback from Annaswirls on this one because she writes about science so well.

Something I noticed immediately. Here:

we need more
cunning ways to say we're stupid and
frightened, that we don't know

Take out "ways" or maybe put a comma after "cunning." Seems redundant to me.

The prose after the second poem feels like another poem waiting to be born.

Just sayin. I know you didn't ask, but those were my visceral reactions.

Hey, Angie. Just want to point out these aren't DA's poems. Yeah, you know that, I know, but think about it: These are good poems by this girl (<--here I use DA Speak, not meant rudely, just accurately, and remembering my own youth, as it was so) but it probably wouldn't work on his romance well for him to tottle on back to her with a sheaf of notes saying "Hey, this gal I know at this pornoetry site says you should ditch this line & c."

She writes really well, DA. Well enough to make me envious. Oh, and about science!

Excuse me a moment. I always swoon here.

Now, while her also writing poetry may not be That Thing That Makes This Love, I'll just say that things in common make a difference. Big difference. It helps to share values, however one thinks of that.

Can't advise you about the kid thing. The wyf and I were first marrièds. We never conceived. I rather envy someone having kids, even stepones. Would have freaked me out at your age, though. I think I would welcome it now.

Way it goes.

Aw, shit. I am being old and stupid. OK, nevermind. Here's the Sex Pistols!






What? What do you mean you don't know who they are? Effin' kid.

 

[Angeline]

Hey, Angie. Just want to point out these aren't DA's poems. Yeah, you know that, I know, but think about it: These are good poems by this girl (<--here I use DA Speak, not meant rudely, just accurately, and remembering my own youth, as it was so) but it probably wouldn't work on his romance well for him to tottle on back to her with a sheaf of notes saying "Hey, this gal I know at this pornoetry site says you should ditch this line & c."

She writes really well, DA. Well enough to make me envious. Oh, and about science!

Excuse me a moment. I always swoon here.

Now, while her also writing poetry may not be That Thing That Makes This Love, I'll just say that things in common make a difference. Big difference. It helps to share values, however one thinks of that.

Can't advise you about the kid thing. The wyf and I were first marrièds. We never conceived. I rather envy someone having kids, even stepones. Would have freaked me out at your age, though. I think I would welcome it now.

Way it goes.

Aw, shit. I am being old and stupid. OK, nevermind. Here's the Sex Pistols!






What? What do you mean you don't know who they are? Effin' kid.

Nope, I thought they were his, That's what I get for skimming poems in between editing and cooking. I wondered why he put them in this thread. lol.

Thanks for pointing it out to me. Really.

But my comments stand. Especially the stuff about the third and fourth strophes of the first poem. I've been an editor for so long, it's hard for me to look at anything and not start finding ways to revise, which may be helpful...or not. I remember that the woman who taught me to edit (copyread) told me "this will ruin reading for you." Not really, but sometimes I wish I could shut off the voice that says "take this out; move that there."

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

ah Yawn, my fingers are rusty....



Ross, good to see you around...

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Alright, let's talk about women.
***
Diona's been in the back of my mind, forever, though we were always both stuck in relationships and settled for sometimes looks across tables. It started with this poem:
***

We were at a poetry party at a friend's house, there was a bonfire between us, and i went home smelling like woodsmoke and wondering, "Was that about me?" And judging from the way we kissed, last night, it was.

I don't want to fuck up, don't want to fuck her up, but she scares me, a little. It's strange to see the potential for never going back in someone else. She has this quiet way about her that always settles me, inside. Even if I didn't respect and like the way she handles the world, for the most part, that would be a huge attraction.

It's been sweet, the last few months. Nice to feel fifteen and excited when my pinky touches hers for a quarter second.

Let's not lie and say that putting me in a ralationship isn't the same as throwing gunpowder on a bonfire. Does gunpowder lament the explosion? I've been out of relationships for a couple of months, now. Avoiding them like the plague, same as the bottle.

A drunk won't ever be good for anyone, and I don't want to be that. So, I'm not. Fuck AA. I've got a will of my own. I've spent so long hopping from bed to bed and bar to bar, and I want it to stop, and I'm doing it - slowly. The job's part of that - ten to twelve hour days keep you out of trouble same as a parent, but with more tired, at the end of the day.

She has children. This scares me more and less than I thought it would. Less, because I think I can accept it, and more, because I have no idea what I'm accepting. It's important to me that I recognize this. (I suppose I'm still patting myself on the back for growing up, some.)

Still. Slowly. SO MUCH SLOWLY.

I'll never say I shouldn't have kissed her, but it was a thought. I don't want to push this more than it needs. It's nice that she's good.

She is, among other things, an amazing poet.

Gunpowder does not regret the explosion. It is what gunpowder was born for. Flowers and gold-paper-wrapped firecrackers are beautiful, but their ultimate job is to die for something even more beautiful.

I am a lover of someone with a rather similar profile to yours, at least in the surface details. I am his reward for making similar commitments to the ones you've made. Two years in to our relationship and eight years into his clean time, he feels very much that it was a worthy exchange.

You asked no one for advice or feedback, so I offer this with complete, happy willingness to be ignored. My best blessings.

bijou

 

[Paris_Garters]

Power, or its opposite

Sometimes I go and fuck with this guy who likes to be fucked with. I keep him hard, I bind up his cock with thick white rope because it looks so beautiful, those stacked loops of rope against dark red. I pose myself above him just out of reach. I don't tie him down. All I do is say, Let's pretend I've ordered you hold on to these ropes no matter what happens. He has strong hands. I fuck with him until he starts to groan and whine, and say god god god and then he shifts and focuses down, and his eyes go gray and he starts to chant you fucking bitch, fucking bitch, you fucking bitch and that's when I know it's time to give it to him.

 

[DeepAsleep]

Sometimes I go and fuck with this guy who likes to be fucked with. I keep him hard, I bind up his cock with thick white rope because it looks so beautiful, those stacked loops of rope against dark red. I pose myself above him just out of reach. I don't tie him down. All I do is say, Let's pretend I've ordered you hold on to these ropes no matter what happens. He has strong hands. I fuck with him until he starts to groan and whine, and say god god god and then he shifts and focuses down, and his eyes go gray and he starts to chant you fucking bitch, fucking bitch, you fucking bitch and that's when I know it's time to give it to him.

Me, too.

 

[DeepAsleep]

...i think i like the poem i just edited 'mispronounce' into the best of what i've written, so far. it says everything that I want it to, in just the way I wanted to say it.

I have succeeded, in my own book, and tonight, I'll allow myself to be content with that.

PS, Ms. Tolchovsky, it's nice to see you, too.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

ok, I am doing something wonderful hedonistic this year and going on a heliski trip I can only pray that if this is the one and only time I do this that some force will nock me over dead when it is over because I will be in a supreme state of bliss, perhaps I will be able to acheive Nirvana. I know that it will be wonderfuly humbleing to stand before such gradure. My heart, may just very well explode.
On another note, I have been doing two hours a day at the gym for five days a week for a month now trying to get into shape for this. I,ve lost ten pounds and three inches off my waist, not to brag I am just feeling good....

My eldest daughter told me she wants to be a ski bum when she grows up and I could not have been prouder of her.

 

[DeepAsleep]

if anyone has any feedback about my 30 in 30 #9, I'd appreciate it immensely.

Thanks.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

1.
I mispronounce your name,
because I know where it comes from,
you Titan, you Mother.

2.
The year we met,
Cassini took a photo of the moon
that shares your name,
on my birthday.

I do not believe in omens,
but I respect probability.

3.
We are only embraced by God
at the molecular level;
she only dances with electrons.
Call it magnetism, call it Mother Love.

4.
I woke up this morning and could
possibly have been crowned
a man. I understand the fallibilities
inherant in the title.

5.
Science cannot prove anything.
To point out the flaw
in modern science, say:

Men cannot disprove enough theories
to show us how, or why atoms react.

We are infinitely collapsing
waves of probability.
Invent any law you like,
all things are possible.

6
To say that time
is the same as distance,
would be a lie and the truth
all at once.

If we put tomorrow against
the space between us,
we end up with velocity,
though i wonder if we are ever,
truly
allowed momentum.

7.
At the molecular level, we do not exist.
When our skins touch,
God waltzes,
turns a pirouette, and steps
lightly between us.

8.
God has more in common with statistics than religion;
Witness: the number zero,
Witness: binary
Witness: algorithmic progression
Testify, Geometry,
Hallelujah, Physics, Amen.
Pythagoras,
Newton, Einstein,
I hear your prayers.

9.
In a wave of infinite possibility,
I am singing,
always,
your name.




ok, to me this feels more like prose than anything else but some how you are missing the juxtaposition needed, not that you are missing the relation between the subjects but the flow seems stillted to me. I really like this poem but the numbers detract from flow, (think of water) all moving atoms attaining a similar goal...all water runs down hill all atoms are moving nothing in life is truely stationary. I guess what I am trying to say is that the breaks make this segmented in strange ways to me but overall with some editing I think it would make a fantasic poem. Do you mind if I play with it a little Ross?

 

[WickedEve]

Her daisy bra, unhooked
from the front,
slid over her skin, releasing
a waft of Marlboro into the clean, Irish
countryside.

When I come home from Hugo's and my daisy bra and peephole panties smell like a pack of smokes, I begin to reach for my whip and chair. Back! Back, you dating/relationship beast! My God, the stench saturates my red overnight bag, permeates the length of my black coat and... Is that the stink of feet in my suede boots? No! It's cigarettes! I believe it's even deep in my skin -- my lily white, freckle-assed skin. But we have plans, so how can I leave chain-smoking Hugo while plans are still lit? Sure, I could fly alone to Ireland. Surely, not!

"Drive past the front of the store, Hugo. The front!" Poor Hugo is confused, because the store seems to be all fronts, squatting in the middle of a circular parking lot. He tells me that my directions are ludicrous. My sense of direction is... well, if someone were to drop me like an unwanted stray, I'd never find my way back. I can't imagine being on my own in another country. If I want Ireland, then I need Hugo. Besides, he is suppose to be John Wayne to my Maureen O'Hara. Our plans are Quiet Man plans. We shall have a "Sir! Sir! Here's a good stick to beat the lovely lady" adventure.

Hugo tells me that we can rent an entire castle for the same price as a new Hyundai. Why bother? We can just sneak down into the dungeon. That's all he really cares about. He'll bring the homemade floggers that he bought from the hillbillies and we'll defile some medieval dungeon... wait... can one defile a dungeon? Maybe with afghans and lava lamps.

Anyway, what is this blog entry all about? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's about offending my olfactories or it's about looking for excuses to stay in a relationship, since commitment makes my hair fall out and my nails brittle. It could be about Ireland and finding the perfect bdsm experience in the bowels of an 800-year-old castle. Or it's all about the appreciation Hugo and I have for the movie The Quiet Man. After all, the movie is vintage bdsm -- submission and ass whipping in its purest form.

 

[WickedEve]

Hugo, seated on porcelain, stares out a window. Hitchcock scene: The Birds -- and fat, orange persian, animated in the cold sunlight.

Toss
Up, up, up
Down
Toss
Up, up, up
Down
Toss

Hugo, uncomfortable, breathes in the hot sauce air. He can still taste it. Oh, the sauce, the sauce. Yet, there is more than gurgling misery. There is fascination; it lies in the distraction -- like flashing lights or flashing tits. His focus is on the dark object that is tossed high. It hits the ground and crawls a few inches before the cat snatches it up once again. Up, up, up...

Suddenly, well, suddenly enough, one crow lands on a nearby branch, its gaze not going up, up, up. Then another crow comes into the scene. Its eyes do not move up, up, up. They watch the cat -- the round persian with warm, morning fur. The mouse is weak and easy but only a mouthful to rip apart and share.

Hugo is distracted by an empty cardboard tube. The scene is vacant now and he pulls down the shades. Hugo calls and tells me a fantastical tale about a crows' nest made from a hollowed persian.

 

[DeepAsleep]

ok, to me this feels more like prose than anything else but some how you are missing the juxtaposition needed, not that you are missing the relation between the subjects but the flow seems stillted to me. I really like this poem but the numbers detract from flow, (think of water) all moving atoms attaining a similar goal...all water runs down hill all atoms are moving nothing in life is truely stationary. I guess what I am trying to say is that the breaks make this segmented in strange ways to me but overall with some editing I think it would make a fantasic poem. Do you mind if I play with it a little Ross?

that's fine, go ahead.

 

[Tzara]

I spend a lot of time in airports. That's a story in itself. It's not this story, though. This story is about beer cans.

Yes, I hear you: What?

Well, it's like this: I was lounging in the Burbank airport the other day, on my way back from an engagement out west of there—Oh, hey, by the way, Burbank (Bob effing Hope Airport) is a very nice airport to relax in. It's not crowded, has plenty of chairs, free wireless access, and is, you know, like very pleasant—& well anyway, I was reading a book. This is not unusual. I read a lot of books, and I especially read a lot of books when I am traveling. It passes the time.

So.

So, I'm reading this book (a novel from 1977) and it says something about the main character opening a beer by "pulling the tab" or something like that.

Don't know that I have captured that exactly right, but that's the idea. Pull tabs.

You had to have been there. If you don't know what I am talking about move on. Ancient technology. Dead, thankfully, to the whole world. So, nevermind.

On the other hand, if you do remember, let's prod a bit at your age. Do you remember steel cans? Church keys?

Ah? Ah ha? Yeah, remember that?

I never drank a beer from one of those. I don't think. Soda, maybe, though I don't remember. I do remember my dad and his confreres puncturing cans. Spritz! was kind of the noise on the first punch. Then they would make a cursory punch directly opposite that to vent air, so they could drink the stuff.

Why is this a memory that wants to surface here and now? I drink beer in stay-pop cans. What do I care about these memories?

Uh, 'cuz they are part of me?

I guess.

Hey, kids. Take some mental photographs as to how things are right now. (Yes, cell phone pics would help.) I'm telling you this a'cuz it won't be anything like that way some years from now. Whatever you think is stable in your life won't be. Won't be.

It just won't be. Trust me.

Or effin' don't trust me. Take a lot of pictures anyway.

Your kids might find it interesting.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

She's gone, for another year or so. I am to write more often, call more regularly. I am to apologize for not showing up to support her for Grandma's funeral two years ago. I am to behave myself during the prayer over the food in restaurants. I am to try to understand her better, try to have a better relationship with her.

I must be finally becoming an adult. This time I'm not angry; I have no urge to go drink and smoke and fuck and sin and shake my fist and bare my ass at her faith and her God. I'm a little tired, and mostly peaceful.

This time I wasn't as tempted to scream, to interrupt her little stories about feeding me from muffin tins and cutting off my curls when I was four, to be angry when she gives people the impression that my childhood was normal and that she did those normal mother-things.

It was fifteen years of my adult life, after I got away from you, and multiple thousands of dollars in therapy, before I was able to say I was quite sure I'm not possessed by demons. I was thirty before the Apocalypse ceased to haunt my dreams, before the visions of Satan rising at the foot of my bed to drag me to hell finally stopped altogether. Tell people those stories. Tell them about how your husband had to shove his cock in my nine-year-old mouth because I was a whore, because I willfully, because I gleefully, gave succor to a seductive demon, Babylon living in my throat, forcing him to return to me over and over. Tell those stories, mom. Make sure they know that part too. You remember just as clearly as the muffin tins, as the hand-sewn halloween costumes, as the fresh-baked bread. You remember, don't you?

She doesn't. She can't. How could anyone, how could she, how could I as a mother afford to look back on that and remain sane?

This time, and for the last several visits, the pity has far outweighed the anger. Both are heavy loads, but I find, suddenly, that I hope that she doesn't remember. I hope she forgets, keeps forgetting, and I hope she lives the last part happy, knowing she was a good mother, knowing she did her best.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Feedback for DA as requested.

9, with edits, and adding 8.2 as a verse
why i infinitely mispronounce your name


1.
I mispronounce your name,
because I know where it comes from,
you Titan, you Mother.

2.
The year we met,
Cassini took a photo of the moon
that shares your name,
on my birthday.

I do not believe in omens,
but I respect probability.

3.
We are only embraced by God
at the molecular level;
she only dances with electrons.
Call it magnetism, call it Mother Love.

4.
I woke up this morning and could
possibly have been crowned
a man. I understand the fallibilities
inherant in the title.

5.
Science cannot prove anything.
To point out the flaw
in modern science, say:

Men cannot disprove enough theories
to show us how, or why atoms react.

We are infinitely collapsing
waves of probability.
Invent any law you like,
all things are possible.

6
To say that time
is the same as distance,
would be a lie and the truth
all at once.

If we put tomorrow against
the space between us,
we end up with velocity,
though i wonder if we are ever,
truly
allowed momentum.

7.
At the molecular level, we do not exist.
When our skins touch,
God waltzes,
turns a pirouette, and steps
lightly between us.

8.
God has more in common with statistics than religion;
Witness: the number zero,
Witness: binary
Witness: algorithmic progression
Testify, Geometry,
Hallelujah, Physics, Amen.
Pythagoras,
Newton, Einstein,
I hear your prayers.

9.
In a wave of infinite possibility,
I am singing,
always,
your name.

This is really strong, and quite charismatic.

I understand this as a list, and I like it. To clarify, what if the title were "The reasons why I mispronounce etc." or "9 causes for..." or something like that?

I think, honestly, that there are two, possibly three, seeds for separate poems here. The marriage of them occurs in the last section, and as gorgeous as that verse is, I think it's the ending to an entirely different poem, a whole new piece that must be written to support it.

Maybe what I'm saying is simply that I want to see you talk a lot more about all of these topics: about the synchronicities around your relationship and affection with this woman, about God and science and probability, about the entirely separate poem that is section 4, and about the separation between humans at every level.

As to that last, I need to say this: Section 7 says, in an extraordinarily succinct way, a thing I have been burying in less efficient words, enormous mountains of attempted and failed words, for years and years. In fact, whole journals could be condensed into an even shorter edit:

At the molecular level, we do not exist.
When our skins touch,
God steps
lightly between us.

Because you have managed to do in seventeen syllables, in an early draft what I have been trying to do in volumes for most of my adult life, thus far without real success, I say this, with the deepest respect and affection and honor:

fuck you.

(insert various grinning smileys here for further emotional clarification)

bijou

 

[DeepAsleep]

Feedback for DA as requested.


This is really strong, and quite charismatic.

I understand this as a list, and I like it. To clarify, what if the title were "The reasons why I mispronounce etc." or "9 causes for..." or something like that?

I think, honestly, that there are two, possibly three, seeds for separate poems here. The marriage of them occurs in the last section, and as gorgeous as that verse is, I think it's the ending to an entirely different poem, a whole new piece that must be written to support it.

Maybe what I'm saying is simply that I want to see you talk a lot more about all of these topics: about the synchronicities around your relationship and affection with this woman, about God and science and probability, about the entirely separate poem that is section 4, and about the separation between humans at every level.

As to that last, I need to say this: Section 7 says, in an extraordinarily succinct way, a thing I have been burying in less efficient words, enormous mountains of attempted and failed words, for years and years. In fact, whole journals could be condensed into an even shorter edit:

At the molecular level, we do not exist.
When our skins touch,
God steps
lightly between us.

Because you have managed to do in seventeen syllables, in an early draft what I have been trying to do in volumes for most of my adult life, thus far without real success, I say this, with the deepest respect and affection and honor:

fuck you.

(insert various grinning smileys here for further emotional clarification)

bijou

Thank you.

And, you know, fuck you back.

>=]. I understand.

 

[Sara Crewe]

I bet it's fun to fuck DA and Bijou.


Just sayin'.

 

[Tzara]

I bet it's fun to fuck DA and Bijou.


Just sayin'.

Oh my.

I now am having naughty thoughts. It is your fault, Ms. Crewe.

I, as always, am faultless.

 

[Sara Crewe]

Oh my.

I now am having naughty thoughts. It is your fault, Ms. Crewe.

I, as always, am faultless.

As always, I am happy to be the cause of naughty thoughts.

 

[Angeline]

Why I hate myself

Reason #427,692,311.

My author is coming over to pick up the first part of my editing job. And I can't give it to him. Why? Because I can't print anything. Why? Because my printer won't work. Why? Because one of those little elastic ponytail thingies fell into the paper holder and got pulled just far enough in by the rollers so that I can't retrieve it even though I tried any number of creative ways to coax it out. Why? Because in spite of my mother's voice that plays endlessly in my head ("a place for everything and everything in it's place"), I pile crap all around me until I can't stand it anymore and put it all away. That might take weeks. And if I hadn't carelessly pulled that ponytail thingie out of my hair the other night and dropped it in the most convenient spot (on top of the printer), it wouldn't have fallen in there. Now I have to either get this one fixed (way too expensive) or buy a new printer (probably cheaper).

My author won't care. He's totally laid back and won't mind waiting a few days. But grrrr. I could just kick myself. And I hate it when my mother's right. Why? Because she always is.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

My cat has discovered that watching me floss my teeth is fascinating. I'm not sure if she thinks the thread is for play and is waiting for me to stop tasting it and begin the game but each night and morning she takes up her position on the vanity to watch my every move. She knows not to sniff the toothpaste, very distasteful and she keeps well back from the sink. When I've rinsed she knows the show is over and jumps down, seemingly content to have been amused by one of those strange habits we humans have.