Junk Yard

"When I buy clothes from the Good Will I like to wear them without washing them first. It's how I build my immunity to poverty."

Response 24, Week 12

I think earlier this semester it was you that wrote a poem that included the word mahogany.. not sure but I just love that word lol

Anyway I'm not entirely sure what is going on in this poem. Is it a sexual relationship at work maybe? A borderline sexual harassment case? Anyway I think some lines could be condensed and there could be an opening to go off topic that provides more background information after line 4. Maybe a letter in the briefcase that introduces the other character that is being outlined by the curves. I just know nothing about this other person. And actually now that I read this piece I think both characters could be more established. But this is a great draft.

Response 23, Week 12

Lol you do have an obsession with sexual content and colors. Perhaps you should consider hanging out with Trista? I think that was her name because she definitely has a grasp of the sexual language, her poems were awesome.

Anyway, I really like this draft and the transitions especially in the first stanza. Lines 3-5 I just love the play of words.

I don't know if I like the ending of this piece because to me its just another explanation of the desensitized prostitute. I think it would be interesting if you made the character in this piece excited for this job. I mean she kind of seemed excited for the idea in the beginning of the piece and then by the end its like... actually this job would suck. I don't know if you've ever been to a strip club but the women there may physically be there but when you watch their face.... they are mentally checked out. I think it would be more of a challenge to convince a reader that being a prostitute is an appealing/exciting job.

Anyway I thought that would be an interesting/different and challenging perspective.

Overall thought I had fun reading this piece.. I really like "whispering destined jargon deciphered only through touch--like brail"

Inventory 12, Week 12

Gerald Stern

The Dancing

In all these rotten shops, in all this broken furniture

and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies and coffee pots

I have never seen a post-war Philco

with the automatic eye

nor heard Ravel’s “Bolero” the way I did

in 1945 in that tiny living room

on Beechwood Boulevard, nor danced as I did

then, my knives all flashing, my hair all streaming,

my mother red with laughter, my father cupping

his left hand under his armpit, doing the dance

of old Ukraine, the sound of his skin half drum,

half fart, the world at last a meadow,

the three of us whirling and singing, the three of us

screaming and falling, as if we were dying,

as if we could never stop—in 1945—

in Pittsburgh, beautiful filthy Pittsburgh, home

of the evil Mellons, 5,000 miles away

from the other dancing—in Poland and Germany—

oh God of mercy, oh wild God.

>This is one sentence long and 19 lines long

>Line 17 uses Pittsburgh twice

>The last line repeats the word God

>There are 17 commas

>There are 4 —

>Line 5 seems to be the first transition in the piece and it transitions into a memory

>

Junk Yard 48, Week 12

This is what I have learned from working with Attorneys....
They DO NOT like to repeat themselves...

On the way to the masquerade !!! The end of the world party is bout to go down! Leh go

I'm so glad my car's broken because now I don't have to carry my bothersome key everywhere!

COUNTDOWN BEGINS: 7 days until I'm at the Plantation sunning & drinking with my family, my boy, & my darling Toddy! EEEEEE. & hearts. can hardly contain my sexxxcitement. gona beach my post-thanksgiving beluga self in the sand and pretend i dont have finals. EEEEEEEE.

Junk Yard 47, Week 12

I'm sure my eyeballs just fell out of my face. HEYYYYY finals!

I'm not criticizing him, per se, merely noticing discrepancies in his artistic and critical writings.

Etiquette Rule #1- Do not answer the phone while you are cuddling, then tell the person that called you that THAT is what you are doing. It definitely makes the reason for you calling them AWKWARD!

Reminds me of a smile in the back of my memory... Wonder if I see her again, will she remember me?

You see 11 condoms i see 11 minutes of my life I'm not getting back... :)..... :| .... :/ .... :(

My rhyme lines flow sweeter than swine,
So any mic that I find, I got the right to be hogging it.
Talking shit, loud mouth, wyle out- starting it,
Alcoholic slaughtering my vocab department.
So pardon if my talking is slurred,
Pants sagging, hands grabbing on my nuts, clutch sparking my herb.

hipster jenna drinks coffee outside in downtown athens on her macbook pro, pretending like she has important things to be learning/looking up, while thinking about how chickens are not nuggets and the birds in the bushes behind me can share my bread with me, and pondering the one expensive beer i will have tonight (1554, because i liked it before it was cool, and uve probably never heard of it before lol) while acting like im too cool for everyone (wait i am, ha). lolz

Junk Yard 46, Wekk 12

Perfume review

All strawberries and caramel, Miss Dior Cherie, on first sniff, smells nothing like its staid, powdery counterpart. In spite of drool-worthy carnival confections, on a deeper lever Miss Dior Cherie reveals the complex connections it shares with the original Miss Dior. Sugary and warm, Miss Dior Cherie sports a daring masculine layer of patchouli. Fading so well into the burnt sugar, warm delights and fruits, the bold incense tones are often initially missed altogether. This patchouli is dark, womanly sophistication far beyond the market-popular edible layers. Decades ago, Miss Dior could proudly proclaim the same. Beyond the much-loved creamy florals, Miss Dior touts a daring, smoldering vetiver base.

Junk Yard 45, Week 12

when she gets weary, you try a little tenderness

Another bottle, another Michael Jackson special. Makes me miss some folks.

And I like it even in Russian

bubble bath, wine, sandalwood, and mumford and sons.

Just because you have success now doesn't mean it will last. Just because people love what you do doesn't make you a good person. The Fame Monster will eat anyone alive. A shame when people change for the worse.

I want to be different! I want to be weird for Christ!! :D

Improv 11, Week 11

I just wanted to write a poem about Autumn.. haha so I choose

As Summer into Autumn slips by Emily Dickinson

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
"The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest
We turn the sun away,

And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved --

So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life's Declivity.

Mine:

What Autumn Taste Like

The burnt orange crayon picks the green off the leaves

so that children in rubber boots can sink to the bottom

of Dad's raked acre of farm and brown cows. Pumpkin

patches vine into the corn mazes that kernel by seasonal

apple pickers who travel farther than the turkey that layers

in stuffing and cranberries at the eight foot holiday table.

Autumn is the grandmother that pinched your cheeks

and supplied squared caramel that rot the thought

of ever wanting to share a thanks for living another year.

Response 22, Week 11

Who was the author of Reflective? I wanted to look at the original lol

I definitely see and idea with-in and idea here. And I feel like I follow it up until the very end. The last line was just like "What?!" for me. The whole poem seems mostly of an abstract thought of "Sex" and "Drama." I think the way it is written, it could stand well alone. I don't need much background info and what not. However at the end I think this could just be extended more because I have no follow on the last line could possibly mean. Unless the nakedness of sex is compared to a barefoot? if that is the case I'm not sure I like the comparison lol But I like how there is almost no words for this piece but a lot of thought can take place. Really cool draft.

Inventory 11, Week 11

This is for the poem I am writing for my test today...

Why I Am Not A Painter - Frank O'Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be

a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg

is starting a painting. I drop in.

"Sit down and have a drink" he

says. I drink; we drink. I look

up. "You have SARDINES in it."

"Yes, it needed something there."

"Oh." I go and the days go by

and I drop in again. The painting

is going on, and I go, and the days

go by. I drop in. The painting is

finished. "Where's the SARDINES?"

All that is left is just

letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of a

color: orange. I write a line

about orange. Pretty soon it is a

whole page of words, not lines.

Then another page. There should be

so much more, not of orange, of

words, of how terrible orange is

and life. Days go by. it is eve in

prose, I am a real poet. My poem

is finished and I haven't mentioned

orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call

it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery

I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

>This poem is 3 stanzas. 27 sentences. 29 lines long so it is an odd balance.

>The second stanza is about dropping in on the painting process.

>The third stanza is about the poem process.

>There is a question in each stanza with an answer explained after.

>There is character dialogue in the third stanza.

>Line 10 - 13 uses the word "go" 5 times with in 32 words.

>Lines 6-7 uses the word "drink" 3 times with in 14 words.

>Most lines appears to be close to the same length even if the amount of words differ.

>There is a semicolon used in this poem.

>The font changes for every sardines mentioned in this piece.

>The font changes for Oranges only when it is revealed as a title.

Calisthenic 11, Week 11

Green Paper

At the 1016 Lofts, I was about to be dancing him carefully when,

at elegant crayon, paper eagerly across the lines

and loudly from me, he beg first

to his shy cellar for inspiration

and then the gifted, and he was downstairs,

patiently before he blush the color dark red

My fruit buzz him choke, too,

and a flavor, who bubble over.

He was a fierce dust, lazy,

delight, curl gate during the day

and his giraffe and flesh

at night. He didn't disapprove

or try proceed the sun

with which he grate these sink.

My dust said: "Happens." Our carpenter

escape immense to his faucet

and was soon film towards us

with his noisy skate,

of which he was underground

but so far only used threaten two big vacation.

It was the thread

we'd usually call command after a summer.

A tray, a handsome underwear you learn

where he, or she, lie. Our uncle

harm a quilt

beside the shape

and we grin him always.

I'd already hug morning

before I kiss his pear.

Our thrill returned the throat,

In it, there were snow,

pencil never, never knee; before

by a baker’s,

nor even a Mark’s, eye.

Mrs. Hacket, our grocer’s name,

returned the quicksand from where it came

and, with the judge of a reward

we matter it soon

as best we could. One hissing recess

memorise now.

It was a Friday,

I remember, for territory we temper pollution, with pleasure

on long fat sofa, every Friday,

queen and wood.

Response 21, Week 11

Is the second stanza on the add on to this piece? Ha that sounds weird... anyway I was too lazy to flip back to the original draft and just noticed the large space between the second and first.

This is really interesting... Is this a version of Hansel and Gretel with a Religious twist? I only say because you've got the kids and the goods (baking goods), and the witch (which seems to be the virgin Mary). This piece has a Hansel and Gretel tale but in a deeper meaning seems to express a relationship between a mother and a daughter. It was really weird the way this piece made me feel lol but not in a bad way!

The Break between stanzas two and three.. I'm not sure it works... it seems a little too odd. Maybe keep memories in stanza two and cut "of a time" and begin the third stanza with "My mother made me jelly sandwiches..." (lol is this stanza part of the piece we worked shopped earlier this semester or you just really like pbj sandwiches?) Ok on the next part "My mother taught me me when I forgot myself" Maybe put a comma before the second me because reading "me me" sounds weird and makes me get lost..

" I tossed and shriveled on a metal gurney" I love this line!! so cool.

"her crows feet in years" I feel like this is talking about the mothers eyes and I feel like Crows feet is a little cliche and could probably do with out.

I like the closing to the introduction but in the middle I get a little lost in the significance of the events to the story.. I think its mostly I don't get what is happening.. The third stanza is where I start to get lost and then by the ending I'm back. I guess I didn't understand how we went from sandwich to a jacket and so on... what were the significance to the story?

Anyway I enjoyed the piece. A different way to look at a fairy tale.

November 9, 2011 4:37 PM

Junkyard

getting married on 11.11.11 is *SUPER* unoriginal and lame. enjoy the reminder of your lack of creativity for the rest of your life-- or at least until your imminent divorce (if youre so predictable that youre get married on such a *special* date, you're definitely going to be another statistic). mazel tov.

Free Write 11, Week 11

Maps

A visual representation of another Cinderella story—a symbolic depiction

highlighting relationships of a 1950 childhood expectancy

for such things as triumph, humility, and faith.

I can’t remember the exact date, early in the year of 2006

or perhaps late fall 2005?

It doesn’t matter where a long bar labeled with dates points

so long as it keepsakes the important(s) of laughter by the Chattahoochee River,

singing out the window of a red pickup Ford, and listening to Jack's Mannequin

“Into the Airwaves” while sharing a glass of Sycamore red wine.

Her tongue nectar and peached that of a southern bell,

her veins blue north east, fifteen hours, nine hundred and forty four miles,

a distance they (he and she) would eventually cycle on each deployment,

and a promise to always find home.

On a route with tolls and restricted usage or private roads, they each promise

justice in the open air, the eagle to arrive above his head, flung the slipper

into his lap to send men in all directions into the country—quest of the woman

who wore the sandal.

Junk Yard 44, Week 11

Cookies & Crown - what great birthday presents

I told my history class the national anthem sucks. Most students were less than pleased...

It is my firm belief that wine makes everything taste better... for use In cooking and also While cooking.

Chiropractors are the new health care

Junk Yard 43, Week 11

"Saw a homeless 3 year old out w/ her mom here in the rain. Cold and hungry. All these people with umbrellas and wallets. No one gives anthing. Right in front of city hall. Shame. When children go homeless the society is wrong. Period."

I found this interesting b/c this girl said this but she was one of the people watching... hmmm

only in Brazil

Junk Yard 42, Week 11

Heart inn a box? What should I put in my coffee?

....What?

Junk Yard 41, Week 11

"It's just verbal diarrhea after being drunk to a certain point.. it happens, get over it"

Improv 10, Week 10

Original

High Windows

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Philip Larkin

I'm just changing words because i'm not feeling creative... at all

Here I am stringing together the words
we once whispered as two teenagers
making out in a field fifteen minutes
from home on Villa Road

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
settled in a french influence estate
vintage with blood plumped harvester,
everyone young is going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;

a baby and a money hungry father
and an assistant in scantily clothes
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of an antique window:
chippity yellow with rusty handles,
And beyond it, the metaphor of his broken relationship
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Calisthenic 10, Week 10

November 2, 2011, a note, I lay posted

face down againsts the concrete—ink

smeared Dearest Christopher, I love you.

A cliché in the wind, I am a lost message

trafficing beneath the soles of the educated,

spiraled in the tornado leaves—winded

by the voice of a process forming new images,

a girl dressed forest green with shin high boots

discovered me grounded under a fallen brick

that had pitied the ending of a fire, that had birthed

from a stack of Pannington Seeds and ignited

as kerosene from her words that broke his heart.

Inked from her veins, she felt nothing as the last script

of his life ashed in the wind, she had minded

those who have not been experienced,

helped those who have been seen,

dfnakjfhjdks

I am a combination

of invoked fantasy and the slightest truth

Umm I've got a meeting to attend and I have no idea what it is I have just written? I'm kind of a lost and not done with this yet...

Response 20, Week 10

Angela, this is a really interesting piece. I wasn't expecting to start off reading about crochet and shift into a child's innocence. I like how crochet is a maternal feel in this piece. And the thought process behind creating a crochet piece is kind of neat. The more I read this piece it is almost like a life cycle. We start off young and innocent and believing everything is possible because we think it is but as the piece continues... at "later placed..." It is like the reality set in of what real life is and what hard work demands and how dreams can only happen if it is worked at. Then by the end its a reflection of life. Ha well I might have just looked into this too deep and played around in my own imagination but that's cool your piece was fun to play in. And I'm not sure if what I said made sense with the life cycle.. I'm sure it could have been explained better.

Response 19, Week 10

Kyley,I love this. I love your approach to the subject. I like how you kept yellow as your main subject and I like how you described this piece with art terminology. I also like how the narrorator seems to share a relationship with this piece. I love this line "How cobwebs clutter every joint of my body." Its got this eerie feel and its such an intresting image. One part I get a little lost at is towards the end afer "Even my wife cries every night..." when it gets to "I told my son" Whose voice is this? The wife or the narrator of the piece? But other than that I really enjoy this piece.

Free Write 10, Week 10

Daddy Love His Daughter

I have a secret kept between a 1,000 Egyptian threads,

hoisting the dirty dead with their hands ,waiting for my skin

to clean and tear away as the thought of you garters

ink around my thigh. The thigh you touched sprawled

on the floor, cold, bare, under a blanket for 14 years.

I was 4 the first time you touched me like that,

we were best friends because you bought me

Barbie dolls and peppermint sticks, you knew

my infant mind would play along—your sick games.

Twister below the waist and school when mommy

was away, anatomy I understood at 5, I understood

it more than the alphabets and numbers.

Did you know in Europe its tradition for a bride

to wear a garter at her wedding? It symbolizes

the deflowering of a woman. I am a woman now,

I was a woman then, I was always a woman,

never a child. You stripped me 2-3 inches wide

around the waist before mommy could teach

about the birds and the bee’s or riding bikes.

Today will be my wedding day and you will walk

me down the aisle because it is tradition. You will be worn

for the original purpose of holding this secret.

Daddy, you’ll walk me down the aisle and undress

me as you did years before and all will see this

secret of ours.

ummm idk what this is... random things I've written for a general idea but the pieces don't fit yet. Freakin tv and all theier scary stories.