I need a slam-bang finish
to a play I haven’t written
but might some day begin.
I don’t have any characters
yet or any concept of plot.
I don’t know what the costumes
should look like or the sets,
and I don’t know how I want
to play with the lights. I’m not
sure if I want the audience
to laugh or cry or if I’d rather
the theater remained empty,
except for me, the Creator,
sitting in the center of the aisle,
mesmerized by my own unknown
genius. Do I need to write something
to please anyone beyond myself?
I hesitate to write the first stage
direction, so that tells me I must care
what outsiders think, but I’d feel
more confident if I already had
that slam-bang finish in place.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Democratic National Convention Descends on Boston, July 2004 (poem)
A stolen Ryder truck with fifteen-gallons
of propane gas dodged armed Boston
security forces and made national
news. But I found out
from a customer, a simple woman
who had just smacked in to Michael
Dukakis on Tremont Street outside
my shop. There was no chance
to fret over either scenario
as protesters on every side
of every issue lined Boylston Street
while anarchists hung dummies
of Bush and Kerry from nooses
on the Common and bomb squads
tucked in yellow school vans
whirred from the Fleet to the South
End, sirens blaring. MPs sauntered
down city blocks as pro-lifers circled
touristy areas in big trucks plastered
with the exploited carnage of partial birth
abortions for children to see. Even DC
residents staged an impromptu tea party
protesting TAXATION WITHOUT
REPRESENTATION. Just move, fuckers.
All of you. I want to diffuse the bombs,
disarm the military stationed on every street
corner, lift the siege on Boston.
I want to walk my miles, live my life
with only the usual amount of chaos.
This is not your city. It is mine. And even though
that Ryder truck was recovered safely, I felt unsafe,
sort of shifty and unsteady as helicopters circled.
I sat, rocking, waiting for the explosion.
of propane gas dodged armed Boston
security forces and made national
news. But I found out
from a customer, a simple woman
who had just smacked in to Michael
Dukakis on Tremont Street outside
my shop. There was no chance
to fret over either scenario
as protesters on every side
of every issue lined Boylston Street
while anarchists hung dummies
of Bush and Kerry from nooses
on the Common and bomb squads
tucked in yellow school vans
whirred from the Fleet to the South
End, sirens blaring. MPs sauntered
down city blocks as pro-lifers circled
touristy areas in big trucks plastered
with the exploited carnage of partial birth
abortions for children to see. Even DC
residents staged an impromptu tea party
protesting TAXATION WITHOUT
REPRESENTATION. Just move, fuckers.
All of you. I want to diffuse the bombs,
disarm the military stationed on every street
corner, lift the siege on Boston.
I want to walk my miles, live my life
with only the usual amount of chaos.
This is not your city. It is mine. And even though
that Ryder truck was recovered safely, I felt unsafe,
sort of shifty and unsteady as helicopters circled.
I sat, rocking, waiting for the explosion.
Cracker Chad (poem)
Cracker Chad
I said he might
write the Great American
Novel, and he agreed,
but said he’d write it
in Russian, a language
he does not know.
And I told him
he should invent
his own dialect, write
his debut in that.
He said he would
if we’d sell it at Hallmark
and I said, sure, but
we’d need decoder
rings to read it.
Meagan, silent until
now, pipes up
with giggled smiles,
said, “Like in a Cracker
Jack box?” He said,
yeah, and you can call me
Cracker Chad, the Great American
Novel Writer.
I said he might
write the Great American
Novel, and he agreed,
but said he’d write it
in Russian, a language
he does not know.
And I told him
he should invent
his own dialect, write
his debut in that.
He said he would
if we’d sell it at Hallmark
and I said, sure, but
we’d need decoder
rings to read it.
Meagan, silent until
now, pipes up
with giggled smiles,
said, “Like in a Cracker
Jack box?” He said,
yeah, and you can call me
Cracker Chad, the Great American
Novel Writer.
Bill Knott's Poetry Workshop (I. thru V.)
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop I.
He told him
“That’s not
what poets
write about”
while insisting he
doesn’t want to argue
“Listen”
he says
“Listen”
He tells her
you can only
be vague when
you overcome
obscurity
“Listen”
he says
“Listen”
I listen in
pale tones,
dread my turn
in the guillotine
and I hope I
listen well enough
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop II.
“What we have in your poem”
he says, twisting his fictional mustache
“is one big cliché
with poorly
placed line breaks”
Recommended solution
to said problem:
Insert head in noose
Kick box away
Hang until death shows up
I look around
for some different advice,
wonder how to become a slave
to Knottsville Poetry Writing, wonder
what the speaker’s social security
number has to do with anything,
wonder why I must disguise fiction
as poetry, wonder if I can find
a map of this Poetryland he keeps
talking about
I ask Chad #2 what the difference
is between poetry and fiction
He tells me line
breaks and phrases
are key and
I stare at him and pray
that this vulnerable piece of paper
is metaphor-free
because I know the noose
will just give me rope burn
Writing Poetry for BK
(Bill Knotts Poetry Workshop III)
I scream into my pillow,
toss my pen and paper
to the floor
and struggle to lift
blocks of concrete
thought,try to banish metaphors
from my Poetryland mind
What about metaphors attracts me?
unreality.
What about unreality makes me create?
abstraction.
It’s easier to talk
about sunlight as matter
than to say
He and I are through
I pull my face
from the pillow and think
about line breaks
and life breaks
and no breaks
and concrete images
that don’t compare
anything
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop IV.
I’m a poetic
Eliza Doolittle,
kept under syllabic
lock and key.
Shut the door
on definition!
I hear.
Open your eyes
to modern verse.
I cringe and fold
my hands in criss-
crossed bundles
in my lap
and don’t know
how to dance
for my Henry Higgins
with all these marbles
in my metaphoric mouth.
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop V.
I got an A
from Bill Knott, Poet Biscuit
Extraordinaire, self-proclaimed
scourge of the syllabic seas
and I laugh because I am
delighted to have survived
my turn on the plank
and readjusted my
sea legs to stand upright
on the higher ground
He told him
“That’s not
what poets
write about”
while insisting he
doesn’t want to argue
“Listen”
he says
“Listen”
He tells her
you can only
be vague when
you overcome
obscurity
“Listen”
he says
“Listen”
I listen in
pale tones,
dread my turn
in the guillotine
and I hope I
listen well enough
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop II.
“What we have in your poem”
he says, twisting his fictional mustache
“is one big cliché
with poorly
placed line breaks”
Recommended solution
to said problem:
Insert head in noose
Kick box away
Hang until death shows up
I look around
for some different advice,
wonder how to become a slave
to Knottsville Poetry Writing, wonder
what the speaker’s social security
number has to do with anything,
wonder why I must disguise fiction
as poetry, wonder if I can find
a map of this Poetryland he keeps
talking about
I ask Chad #2 what the difference
is between poetry and fiction
He tells me line
breaks and phrases
are key and
I stare at him and pray
that this vulnerable piece of paper
is metaphor-free
because I know the noose
will just give me rope burn
Writing Poetry for BK
(Bill Knotts Poetry Workshop III)
I scream into my pillow,
toss my pen and paper
to the floor
and struggle to lift
blocks of concrete
thought,try to banish metaphors
from my Poetryland mind
What about metaphors attracts me?
unreality.
What about unreality makes me create?
abstraction.
It’s easier to talk
about sunlight as matter
than to say
He and I are through
I pull my face
from the pillow and think
about line breaks
and life breaks
and no breaks
and concrete images
that don’t compare
anything
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop IV.
I’m a poetic
Eliza Doolittle,
kept under syllabic
lock and key.
Shut the door
on definition!
I hear.
Open your eyes
to modern verse.
I cringe and fold
my hands in criss-
crossed bundles
in my lap
and don’t know
how to dance
for my Henry Higgins
with all these marbles
in my metaphoric mouth.
Bill Knott’s Poetry Workshop V.
I got an A
from Bill Knott, Poet Biscuit
Extraordinaire, self-proclaimed
scourge of the syllabic seas
and I laugh because I am
delighted to have survived
my turn on the plank
and readjusted my
sea legs to stand upright
on the higher ground
And (poem)
And she talks about death
as a positive alternative
to life, and I shudder
And wonder if
my father will meet
her grandfather
in heaven,
if my father visits him
now on Earth
And I hear the
respirator ticking
and wheezing
in my brain
as my stomach tenses
from smiling too much,
as my face squeezes
like an accordion pump
until I read away messages
about hospitals
And I feel like
life is helpless
and she’s right
to talk about death
as a savior
as a positive alternative
to life, and I shudder
And wonder if
my father will meet
her grandfather
in heaven,
if my father visits him
now on Earth
And I hear the
respirator ticking
and wheezing
in my brain
as my stomach tenses
from smiling too much,
as my face squeezes
like an accordion pump
until I read away messages
about hospitals
And I feel like
life is helpless
and she’s right
to talk about death
as a savior
After an Emerson College Grad Student Reading (poem)
Everyone tells the same
Bill Knott story. Yet,
every semester, his name
is bandied about as though
he were a newly discovered god
(the god of poetry sledgehammery,
that is) and as we stand
in the Tam, a line of students
breathing smoke-free Boston bar
air, I am reminded how much,
how little binds us as I laugh
once against at the largeness
of the holes in Bill’s sweaters
Bill Knott story. Yet,
every semester, his name
is bandied about as though
he were a newly discovered god
(the god of poetry sledgehammery,
that is) and as we stand
in the Tam, a line of students
breathing smoke-free Boston bar
air, I am reminded how much,
how little binds us as I laugh
once against at the largeness
of the holes in Bill’s sweaters
A Recipe for Disaster (poem)
A Recipe for Disaster
Start with a bowl
smallish-large-ish-wooden-metal
and place it on the floor
in a kitchen, hot, explosive,
unbearably stuffy and add
as many cooks as the room
will allow and then add
seventeen more. Now open
the cupboards and seek out
some sugar, some flour, some fluffy
arsenic. Add two eggs, passive-
aggressive email, a dash of envy, a bottle
of Absolute, Ani DiFranco
and Eminem, a handful of bitter
lemon rinds, The West Wing,
a couple old boyfriends
and their ex-girlfriends,
a whining mother and a shotgun
wedding, half-truths, flat lies,
Christopher Guest, the special
edition Fight Club DVD
a shot of Jack Daniels, a bottle
of Prozac, ladybugs on gravestones,
a crust of bread, a long distance
relationship, a round of orgy
strip poker, AOL Instant Messenger,
some chips and dip, mold scraped
from bathroom tile, a free cup
of coffee, strings attached
to wads of money, a glob
of butter, plastic chop sticks
and a metal fork, a few tiny violins,
justice laced with vengeance,
a handsome drowned man,
a Hemingway novel, wild curls,
a shaved head, nervous laughter,
an orange and some goldfish crackers,
accents, foreign languages, days
at the beach, magical realism,
subway platforms, a Stalin
hockey jersey, wine glasses,
a Boston Red Sox post-season,
ego, Sprite, pages ripped
from Leviticus, crumbs
left in a bag of Chex Mix,
too much curry, not enough spine,
a ball of rejection, half cup
of denial, a negative wind-chill,
text messages, train rides,
a broken chair, three spoonfuls
of Dayquil, six Twinkies
in their wrappers, a sword,
a new trick for an old dog,
The Cat in the Hat,
four tiny umbrellas for tropical
drinks, a reason for spite, a grammar
lesson, a laugh track, Seinfeld and Sex
in the City, a bar
of chocolate -- special dark.
Absence. Presence. Lust.
Stir with your fist, mash it, until
you can’t cry anymore.
Bake until the smoke begins to billow.
Ignore your instincts. Ignore advice.
Be sure to serve yourself
the first big plate. Heap it.
Start with a bowl
smallish-large-ish-wooden-metal
and place it on the floor
in a kitchen, hot, explosive,
unbearably stuffy and add
as many cooks as the room
will allow and then add
seventeen more. Now open
the cupboards and seek out
some sugar, some flour, some fluffy
arsenic. Add two eggs, passive-
aggressive email, a dash of envy, a bottle
of Absolute, Ani DiFranco
and Eminem, a handful of bitter
lemon rinds, The West Wing,
a couple old boyfriends
and their ex-girlfriends,
a whining mother and a shotgun
wedding, half-truths, flat lies,
Christopher Guest, the special
edition Fight Club DVD
a shot of Jack Daniels, a bottle
of Prozac, ladybugs on gravestones,
a crust of bread, a long distance
relationship, a round of orgy
strip poker, AOL Instant Messenger,
some chips and dip, mold scraped
from bathroom tile, a free cup
of coffee, strings attached
to wads of money, a glob
of butter, plastic chop sticks
and a metal fork, a few tiny violins,
justice laced with vengeance,
a handsome drowned man,
a Hemingway novel, wild curls,
a shaved head, nervous laughter,
an orange and some goldfish crackers,
accents, foreign languages, days
at the beach, magical realism,
subway platforms, a Stalin
hockey jersey, wine glasses,
a Boston Red Sox post-season,
ego, Sprite, pages ripped
from Leviticus, crumbs
left in a bag of Chex Mix,
too much curry, not enough spine,
a ball of rejection, half cup
of denial, a negative wind-chill,
text messages, train rides,
a broken chair, three spoonfuls
of Dayquil, six Twinkies
in their wrappers, a sword,
a new trick for an old dog,
The Cat in the Hat,
four tiny umbrellas for tropical
drinks, a reason for spite, a grammar
lesson, a laugh track, Seinfeld and Sex
in the City, a bar
of chocolate -- special dark.
Absence. Presence. Lust.
Stir with your fist, mash it, until
you can’t cry anymore.
Bake until the smoke begins to billow.
Ignore your instincts. Ignore advice.
Be sure to serve yourself
the first big plate. Heap it.
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