I gave four prompts to collaborating poet Brendan Constantine. He conducted three minutes of “fevered writing” with each prompt. Here are the results. These words comprise the lexicon I’ll use to create my dis•articulations poem.
Mbuki-mvuki (Bantu) — the irresistible urge to shuck off your clothes as you dance
There is no word for this yet, in our young language, for standing at the lip of things, the mouth of the moment, the horizon of an utterance. I need a word for the instant before words. I had a pet cricket once, green as twilight and the size of bullet. He lived in an old box camera on my dresser. I didn’t put him there, it was his idea, like the songs he chose. It takes a large room to admit you’re wrong. It takes a small box to hide your intentions. There ought to be a word for the songs of night just before they’re sung. Perhaps we could keep it in a pocket with everything we’ll never admit to anyone b…
United Airlines Reviewing Death of Giant Rabbit
We are reviewing the death of the giant rabbit, consulting the cameras and their attendants. We have summoned the coroner. Five women and one child have come forward from the parking lot. There is reason to believe the Port Authority and Space Museum should ‘weigh in.’ A carnival psychic and fire eater have volunteered their time. The only un-response so far, the only potential witness to remain silent has been the cloud in the painting of Yosemite. It has asked to speak to an att…
George Clooney Drinks Four Cups of Coffee a Day
He drinks four cups of coffee per day, he sips ten Lake Hurons each summer, he takes, he forgets, he leaves his brown coat on the train, apologizes needlessly, drops four coins in four paper cups on his way to the lost and found. There’s a baby in there, a whole damn baby lying on a bed of sunglasses and lighters, wool hats and sweaters, disposable cameras full of the Empire State b…
Treat your plants like relatives
Treat your plants like relatives; send them cards and invitations, ask them for money. When they refuse, talk behind their backs. That old rhododendron is looking pretty sad, I had to repeat myself five times. Do you want to go to the cafeteria. Would you like to sit in the park. It’s a nice blue day and the fountains are out. The red bougainvillea and the yellow rose bush, the cumquat tree and the Uncle Charlie vine have a sad, sad habit of calling way too…
Brendan Constantine gave four prompts to me. I conducted three minutes of “fevered writing” with each prompt. These words comprise the lexicon that Brendan will use to create his dis•articulations poem.
Sweden Opens Museum of Failure
It looks just like my childhood bedroom and from the speakers blare the sound of my parents fighting. A baked potato hurled against the wall. A pan of dishwater thrown. The Museum of Failure has exhibits dedicated to many of my past relationships; women glare at me from the walls and shine this disapproval down from the track lighting. There is an entire reading room devoted to rejection letters. Maybe I am taking this all too personally. Maybe I’m not really a person, but a wax figure in a sad tableau.
French artist Abraham Poincheval entombs himself inside giant boulder ‘to find out what the world is’
Peace and quiet at last! No more car alarms. No more cell phones going off in the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep. I’m trying to sleep here but the sand is so noisy; sifting silt is surprisingly clamorous. And even here time has a little tick—maybe it’s my breath, maybe my beating heart. My skin ages against the cool damp stone, growing more crepe-y with each passing hour. I thought the world was something different from me, but now I know I am the world.
My girlfriend Jayne works at Starbucks in Sherman Oaks. In the last week 4/19 – 4/23, customers have routinely been heard ordering in this fashion – “Are all the Unicorns gone?”
The man in the leather beanie was irritated to learn they had run out of Unicorns. He gave a scornful sigh to the barrista who only wanted to please him. He had driven a long way in search of this Unicorn; he’d plunked coins in the parking meter and shuffled his way on swollen feet through the doors only to stand before this counter and be told he was out of luck. Why was he always out of luck, as if a witch has whispered over his childhood crib, decreeing, “You shalt have no Unicorns.” Even if others get them.
Dinosaurs honked like Buicks, says expert
Of course, there’s always an expert. There’s always some A-Hole who thinks he knows better than everyone else. Some guy with Poindexter glasses and a sneer of superiority, who never sweats or gets Athlete’s Foot, who is going to tell you what you never wondered about. My uncle drove a Buick. He worked for the Company all his life. He played a lot of golf, but he still died of cancer in his liver. He drank martinis and played a lot of cards. Cutthroat gin rummy, like a brontosaurus.