Three cheers for reconstitution

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Post

Index card found in Hannibal Lecter, My Father by Kathy Acker, Owen D. Young Library, Canton, NY, on 3 March 2010.

Jiggs Redux (I)

Some poetry, I reckon

Wherein I post some stuff I wrote for Techniques of Poetry sophomore year. Take with several grains of salt.



Siege

Bait,
Lay,
Fray,
Fail,
Flail,
Flow,
Glow,
Potion,
Potency,
Procure,
Curator,
Cut-rate,
Cute,
Croon,
Droop,
Broom,
Boots,
Beach,
Peach,
Liege.

Transgressions

We skip.
We Bic.
We fake sick.
We steal shit.
We sip mad lean.
We hog blunts.
We blow xannies.
We rail addies.
We mix brass monkeys.
We pound Mad Dogs.
We flee slow jeeps.
We get so fucked.
We black our eyes
beating
the wrong front doors.

Lament to Benny; or, Voyage of the Beagle

Benny, you worst dog ever sat,
You stub, you nub, you eating machine,
Chewer of Venetian blinds,
Shatterer of flowerpots,
Eater of three-hundred-dollar boots -
Did the rabbitfur tempt?
I've yet to eat a meal that expensive in my life,
Fiend beagle, flop-eared madman.
And your whine, that simpering squeak -
Feedback? Amplified bee? Witch's weep?
I don't need it, dog, but I did need
Those six chocolate cookies,
Those half-dozen donuts,
That multivitamin pill,
That mechanical pencil,
Those artificial flowers you confused for food.
Some puddle-rich, post-rain days, though,
I miss you, fool hound -
A chunk of light brick, kicked, chuckles down the walk
And we're all too sane to give pursuit.

Scavenger Hunts (II)

Everworld: Search For Senna - K. A. Applegate - 1999

• shiny malls
• Taco Bell
• straight-as-a-ruler streets
• stuttering cries
• the bad-ass act
• the feel of chill
• some hardcore jock
• some black guys
• some white guys
• smaller, olive-complected men
• the cracked, white leather seat
• flickering skull-sconce torches
• tarred, split logs
• some insomniac up late
• a memory of a dream

Everworld: Enter the Enchanted - K.A. Applegate - 1999

• the locker combination
• the light of the dragon's fire
• a mocha and a pannini [sic] made with hummus
• freezing black blood
• a sort of tough-girl slut
• another drama guy
• a feral snarl
• National Merit Scholar
• faint flashes in the gloom
• Barnes and Noble
• a god, shrunken to near-human proportions for the moment
  

Bad Scans (III)

Tate Regards A Trampling At The County Fair

The number pinned to my back was itching me
When the dust whipped around
And the crowd made the sound
Of a horrifying afterthought.

Crones in a wet tent cradled paper boats
Of salt potatoes in their laps
When the leathery snap of splitting halter hit.

Not that a horse's fit truly breaks
The ringtoss din, the screech of bolts, the chit-chat;
It was a narrow commotion.

Just like you'd test a cake for doneness
Was how the polished hooves gouged
His legs, his chest.
He balled up, his wounds met.

Each step of the Clydesdale's
Peppery, undignified dance
Hurt him worse.

I don't blame the beast for treading him
But I do blame him for spooking.
Everybody, horses included,
Gets scared when they can least afford to.