This Bettie Page painting took the longest of any non-written art project I've done-- 4 days! Certainly not a masterpiece (never claimed I was a skilled painter) but I'm proud of it none the less. Bettie is a little rougher around the edges than I would have liked, but oh well.
I went up to Phoenix on Saturday with my family to visit my aunt, cousin, and some of their friends. I HATE Phoenix but I love road trips. They are so good for my creativity. On the way there I worked on revising some of my poems. For some reason I always do better revisions with pen and paper. It's a more "organic" process I suppose.
I want to thank "Anonymous" for the fantastic suggestions on my last post. Unfortunately I did not read the comment before revising that poem on my trip, but I'll definitely revise it more with your suggestions in mind! I'm still not 100% happy with this version. I think the title change works better but it may not for you guys, and if not let me know! :)
Tuesday Therapy
My hands at the ostrich wheel, driving down Oracle,
reflecting upon the discoveries of the prior session.
How I’ve waded through the sea of nerves,
riding the nausea and confusing it for love.
How the addict crafts a byzantine delusion
justifying their derisive medication,
I’ve seen the slick of desire as the affection of a friend.
Passion, as it has been presented to me, in lashings
long I believed was my bitter necessity.
As tires roll across the gray at 55
my heart pulsates in its new role
as a palpitating open sore untreated.
Exposed, exposed, all I am evolved.
There is liberation to be found
in mental flaying.
I'm going to post two more revisions along with their originals. The first is "Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour," my only published poem. It's been through multiple revisions with help from my poetry class but I revised it even more on Saturday. This is revision #5 with the original (the original is after the revision). The formatting is all wonky because I cannot get it to work, my apologies:
Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
I.
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.
Etching
"Madness"
on a bathroom stall
with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)
II.
Gonorrhea contracted on the sink, damp underwear on the floor,
liquefying bones grounding into musty carpet
burning “regret” into the line of poetry
tattooed on my right shoulder.
III.
And so I wrote it:
The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hopelessness
of a generation.
"I'll speak it and breathe it."
Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.
(Amphetamine fueled crosscountrydaze)
Etching
"Madness"
on the green wall
of a bathroom stall
with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)
Gonorrhea on the sink,
carpet burn branding poetry
into my personified flesh.
Drip Drip Drip
The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hope
of a generation.
"I'll speak it and breathe it."
This next one is titled "100." I think the revision is far better than the original; it's less redundant and wordy. I think having so many parenthetical statements might be overkill though. Once again the original is after the revision:
100
To D. and T.
How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, an electric numbness.
This otherworldly abduction of the senses—
(This is not my body, it is a replacement)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes—
(I did not ask for it, please take it)
the fatigue rattling the mad hands—
(I will throw it away).
A hundred little x’s across your calf,
A hundred little droplets on your sock,
A hundred little words never spoken,
A hundred little lies told instead,
A hundred secrets engraved in skin.
(And oh, we remember all the fingers…and the hundred scar result).
You ask the scent of that water
and I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join sterile seas.
And we recall the esophageal minefield
that keeps us up at night.
The desperate mews into the pillow,
“No more, no more, no more.”
The bondage to our own wrists,
the external shell stapled to our musculature,
how can we revolt?
(A hundred frantic whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)
When we wake from strangled sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves wrapping crusted scabs,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
despising our bodily and intellectual captivity
(A hundred futile complaints?)
Between us there is a pool of self-pity
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Yet when I look up from my Nile,
and take your pruned hands into mine,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.
100
To D. and T.
How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, numb, a potassium drip.
This otherwordly abduction of the senses-
(This is not my body, I do not want it.)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes-
(I did not ask for it, please take it.)
the fatigue madly rattling the hands-
(I will throw it away.)
A hundred little x's across your calf,
a hundred little droplets on your sock,
a hundred little words never spoken,
a hundred little lies told instead,
a hundred grand regrets.
--When you see me now, all dressed and beat,
do you honestly care if it was the cat or the fall?
The plate is empty, the house is clean,
the girl is finally quiet, let her be.--
(I remember all the fingers...a hundred scars.)
The scent of that water, I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join the sea.
The esophageal minefield that
keeps you up at night.
The desperate mew in the pillow,
"No more, no more, no more."
The bondage to your own wrist,
the barcode on your forearm,
how can you revolt?
(A hundred tiny whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)
I join you in a hazy patched slumber;
my brain unlocks a trench of filth,
a blaze of undesired memories,
an hysteric yelp into the pillow
of "No more, no more, no more."
When we awake from cursed sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves and pearl bracelets,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
(A hundred furious tendencies.)
justify frantic impulses and "crazy sorrow,"
(A hundred futile wishes?)
despise our bodily and intellectual captivity.
(A hundred nuclear frustrations.)
Between us there is a pool of misery,
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Weakened by hunger and life we bond
and share our dejections.
But when I look up from my clouds and skeleton
and cast my jaded eyes upon your faces,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.
Since I quoted Kerouac in "Memoir" and the Beat Generation is a continuing source of inspiration for me, I feel it's appropriate to feature a Beat poet (my favorite, actually). I'm crazy about Allen Ginsberg, and I'm crazy about his most famous poem "Howl." Ginsberg and "Howl" (and the Beat Generation in general) remain controversial to this day. Some believe they reinvented the way poetry is written, others believe drugs gave them their talent. Anyone who believes the latter has done zero research on Beat authors. Ginsberg was the son of a respected poet and was mentored by William Carlos Williams. He and Bob Dylan were best friends and wrote together quite a bit. The guy had chops! Granted, Beat fans are annoying, smoking American Spirits and drinking soy lattes and wearing Ray Bans on daddy's money. But the bottom line is don't disregard the Beats because they did drugs. Everyone did in the '60s.
Here is my favorite passage from "Howl." I have the "to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose" line tattooed on my shoulder.
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before
you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow
of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love
into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered
the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies
good to eat a thousand years.
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