i meant to say something nice
about you
say social justice warrior like it's a
bad thing
nice about you one cannot stop no
matter the temperature
i meant to say something nice
about you
to you skin is
the
perfect procedure
i meant to say
something nice
the opposite of poet laureate
i meant to say something nice
about you
let's not stop now
halfway though the
gods know
a bad thing
an efficient thing
about
you
i was wrong
about your cool spots
i meant to say something nice
about you
you
did not stop
the procedure i meant to engage with
your totalitarian layer i
meant
to say salt isn't enough
i meant to say salt
If you find yourself unable to write, don’t write. Play with your words.
Here’s a great unplanted seed for a writing exercise: Go to your favorite website and find an article that contains a not negligible amount of text. Highlight a paragraph and the copy it to your clipboard.
I’ll do this with you. I’m going to nytimes.com. BRB:
Sunayana Dumala tried once again to enter the worship room she and her husband, Srinivas Kuchibhotla, had created in their home for daily prayers. Mr. Kuchibhotla had built an intricate wooden shrine by hand two years ago, a small sacred edifice where they would kneel each morning. Months after his death, it became a place where she would honor him.
Now pick a number. (I chose 3.) Go into the text an erase every X word. It’s SORT OF an arduous task, but at least your brain is spending time with the words and their meanings and connections. Then, I’m going to get rid of all the punctuation and make every letter lowercase. BRB:
sunayana dumala once again enter the room she her husband kuchibhotla had in their for daily mr kuchibhotla built an wooden shrine hand two ago a sacred edifice they would each morning after his it became place where she honor him
Now invent a form based on numbers and letters that have significance to you. If you have tarot cards they can be helpful in this step. I’ll do that. King of Coins. That features a pentagram in this deck. Five lines per stanza. The card I’ve pulled in this deck features a self-portrait of Dali restraining a leashed leopard. There’s also a gentle, prone cow in a yellow fog blowing up and out of Dali’s head. That makes me think of a certain hunter/hunted duality. A certain predictable unevenness.
I’m going to alternate my line length 5, 10, 5, 10, 5. This kind of stuff is dumb, for sure, but it just gets your brain going.
sunayana duma
la once again enter the room she
her husband kuchi
bhotla had in their for daily mr kuchi
bhotla built an wood
en shrine hand two a
go a sacred edifice they would each
morning after his
it became place where she honor him sun
ayana duma
Now move the lines around in any way you see fit. Let go of all the rules. Do something that you don’t understand. Translate some words and phrases into Italian.
la once again enter the camera she
bhotla had in their for quotidiano mr kuchi
go a sacro altare they would each
it became place where onora il sole
sunayana duma
her husband kuchi
bhotla built an wood
morning after his
ayana duma
en shrine dare due lettere
Play with it some more. Trim off the fatty, hard-to-chew bits. Smell what the rock is cooking. Don’t question yourself. Find ways to make new phrases, invent new tastes. Create meaning where there was none. Skewer meaning where there was some. Boil down all the excess, tasteless liquid. Make the phrases economic. This is for your ears and heart only, no one else’s.
la once again enters the camera she
had in their for quotidiano mr kuchi
a sacro altare they would each
upon it became place onora il sole
sun burnt her enemies
just as her husband mr kuchi
built a wooden mooring
the morning after his
second skin graft parchment
enshrined dare due lettere
That’s it. Eschew rationality, meaning and “good taste”. Don’t worry about judgment, neither from outside nor within. The exercise is just meant to get your brain good and juicy. To force you to conceptualize in weird corners of consciousness. Make the process your own. Don’t listen to teachers. Unless they’re good teachers.
When your engine is warm and you’re ready to write that big important thing that comes from someplace personal and genuine and urgent, your mind will be nimble, flexible, willing to go where it needs to go to put heart to mouth.
“The minority groups in present-day industrial society who shout for freedom and human dignity are really clumsily asking that they be given a sense of primary heroism of which they have been cheated historically.” Ernest Becker
Eat broken dreams
And water their tiresome sit-ups swimming
Go to town to do schoolwork arend go to town
For umbrellas of Scotch for 5 p.m. errands
At the state liquor store tiresome sit-ups
Swimming takes me to town for pushups
All right time and hunger and swimming pools
Which I get home and hunger and water
At the tiresome details to what ten towns
Run errands do pushups and swim
Lean and buff water $5 a fifth at the nearby
Municipal swimming unmoored like
A middle-aged man like me
Like jazz lots of Scotch too town
There are when I do arrange myself
To myself it was heart-breaking that pool which
I took with supper eating broken dreamers, dearest Jane
Sources:
Simons, Seth. “From Winston Churchill to Tim Cook:
The Sleep Routines of 7 Brilliant Minds.” Van Winkle’s.
Casper, 17 Feb. 2016. Web. 21 Feb. 2016.
“Love.” Dir. Dean Holland. Netflix. 19 Feb. 2016. Streaming video.
Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: Free Press, 1973. Print.
The Fourth Night of the Fifth Year
Stop reading: Things have gotten tense
Between the Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer locked in the barn. Jed wakes
The largest rooster, which, in turn, interrupts
His old, bitch mother’s wild dream. Night
After night drunk as if pulled through a kaleidoscope
Basal carcinoma breeches its surface
A mighty flip for the almighty then back — BACK
Through the airlock. It’s silent here amongst no chicks
Which switch as though ejaculated. Standing nude, monolithic
In the sun, the Farmer forced to clean up after the Bodybuilder.
Stars drip from the padlock lovely beneath the latch.
I can see you, Jed.
The Sixth Night of the Fourth Year
You can continue to stop reading: Things ain’t well
Between the Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer has kept in the big, red barn
And Milk, who, it is written,
Whether or not anyone reads, has continued to
Dream prodigiously like a pig eating its own shit
The Caesar wears like a pendant. Butchering’s 50 percent
What isn’t written, she always said, and that is to say:
Milk’s lunches have gotten slim.
Less meat landing at the padlock, less meat on the Farmer.
One man opening his hand toward another
Will take something for memory. Jed takes
But won’t remember.
The Eighth Night of the Third Year
You mustn’t read on: Mother is dead
Under a blanket dancing all of her little ones
Their loudest cottons torn along floorboards
Dancing through the eye of a needle.
No mountain passes but saying—oh—saying there are
Mountain passes cut and in between
Remind me: The Farmer and the Bodybuilder
The Farmer locked in the big, red, burning barn
So many years ago, still, are cocooned back-to-back and hung
From the bark of the Alamo tree. I, the poet, sing to them every night
After night drunk as if pulled through a kaleidoscope
Hoping you will love.
preoccupied
father again
wonder again
another
chalice-full of vinegar
strapped to this cluttered table
again
Charles Olson again
pinot noir again
sony again
starbucks again
menu and ravenous tin
the New York Times again
exclude burning past lives
holding the hand of wonder again
pushed into the street again
ring finger, palm
palm, ring finger, palm
suddenly with such speed. morning again.