Category Archives: Prose

Cut-up of Elizabeth Cowie’s essay “Rear Window Ethics” draft.

Desiring demands a fascination tangled with anticipation overlooking a back which time enters in

time becomes us between levels and notes to find verisimilitude, which provides contrast achieving perfect suspense.

The castration blinds one signaling denouement while love follows spatialization which produces referentiality before mastering desire by transformed repetitions to understand contrast in someone voluptuous

holding something glamorous invokes excitement within the window of desire implying a world to experience as being a blind glass to the self.

The camera realizes the romantic violence of cuts with material accompanied by a convention like flowers but then enjoying self-consciousness and breakfast. Nevertheless, desire declares tomorrow that’s phallic, rich, and seduced to imagined lengths in reversals of want, assuming desire is ‘castration’ hidden outside conversation

(narrative begins with mirroring, framing, love—revealing a room and him which noted his drives to want suspense instead of jumping in Lisa’s musical window)

Pleasure is a Rear Window, a mere requirement that introduces understanding in disempowerment to acknowledge her gaze while dancing draws phallic themes (brings our unconscious) localized in loneliness (now noises) referred to as close-up dangers opposed by narrative objects to see, not to be seen, while the gaze is limited, called sensuality, wheels of disempowerment (enclosed in everyone)

celebrated looking as exterior to ourselves to suddenly reverse this large want score its connotations paralleling pleasure in two lonelyhearts. Love closely, kiss quickly, and come swooping around a door

showing such different mannerisms behind a half-lit window where pleasure eats under a body to be explored, recognized, between curiosity and burial

adjoining in recognition of opposition beginning as doubt transformed in the anxiety of creation revealed as sounds mirroring boundaries—

Here love me all firm back into being contrasting pleasures or characters to the opposite window

so if lack is extensions in phones pointing to romance, here the dilemma offered is reversals of potent lonelyhearts.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Essay, Experiment, Poems, Prose, Reading, The Temporal Arts Collective

still exhausting a place

I AIN’T GOT A HOME ANYMORE
to say that name is an extension

So one of us builds        the other
adds the mysterious strobe lights

The design has disappeared
from the Milky Way

just like yesterday
Screw it, who cares

LOVE ME, LOVE
ME SAY THAT YOU LOVE

ME. FOOL ME
FOOL ME

GO ON &
FOOL ME.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

still trying to exhaust a place

What ruins are visible
on my face today

where it once
was forgotten

(the inventor of the bike)
the dish, Riki

I want to see your darkness, dear
golden greensky bluegrass

around you, ugly mug,
great day. Gourmet

adventures, leads me to
hope                I am

closed off,
ugly. Great

day’s gourmet tree town sound
around you        There’s something

beautiful in my mouth
like a tomorrow

that allows us
to bounce off

of each other
to some unearthed gems

like there is a tomorrow
You have a good sense

of style. Can you tell me a little more
about that Pussy

Riot, fragrant world, drowning
in grain, local food.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

excerpt from attempting to exhaust a place

Pick your own apples. Please
and

dare I gently kiss
October,

this isn’t the first time we’ve touched
with experimentation

and—today—
a unique sound.                                Fragrant world employing

a momentum from dark squeals
and

—lips that you can’t place
leading you closer

to some crazy
something you may or may not want

to find            ‘only in America.’
What is that cliché?

Sank you
with goodies for special interest

in a song like
‘In Love’ makes drowning

in grain an understated pleasure,
lets swagger slip in.

She’s more adventurous in bed
than health care

after hours and
the known moons must remain open

for you to receive any
or all of the rewards

which will be credited to
a fourth dimension beyond jeans. Don’t say a thing about

How I Lost My Body
unless

there is a sudden surge of rain
or shine

and laughter,
smoking on the balcony, love

is strange when lit up
like mistakes but basically

good. We believe there’s a
manual crammed with footnotes,

parenthetical asides
of love’s end                                                              come

to light, and I
could go on

and on but
there is only so much

time and I
have many things to forget

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Memoir, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter

I’m everything…sometimes

A bomb converted a city under
railways of clothing and pleasure. Perhaps
continuous, unavoidable as a creature, alive

through lack of simplicity and light
I’m everything you consider biblical, sometimes
something good depending on the skies

this moment. We’re all the logical
marriages of breath made after love
of gold, a round force to
imagine unlimited
. Tell me there’s room

for a future, a spirit beginning
something to share, to construct, explore
and expand our needs situated in
astronomical wetness and longing a location.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

The Wild Paraphernelia

We, vigorous, form one general statement that love
of rapture is inanimate when unspecified, meaning
longing the wild paraphernalia of experience

—breath becoming air known above likeable skies—
something good screaming with
a present concept of rejuvenation.

Alas! saliva perceived a town—something other
to name, whatnot, arrange things and christen
to a cohesiveness. This is immersion.
Put in something logical, alive, various. Repeat,

bite that noun—perfection. Don’t take
this as a thingamabob being pleasant existence.
There’s craving progress when
desire forms a rhythm under a person.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Me and Everything is Color

I

It’s night now
—mist’s
a grey blue voice, speaking
there—
My life is its own condition.

Nonetheless,
come by when I’m gone.
I’m here
, I’m singing still
to the sink,

dear. Hard to believe
each night new
I loved you
—body, inside,

out—for me and I DON’T WANNA.
I shouldn’t do more than that.

II

Leave my heart
in a bucket
on the ground.

Head’s a waterfall
—purple lights illuminating
a possibility—

III

I wanted to start
again from some time-stream
still in mind. There’s a possible heaven
in this place.

I’m going to find
a big-assed fresh sea breeze—
waiting for night
and what it means.

IV

Where I’m going
has a home, of things,
and you. I love you, still, to be something
to love.

You’ll love me,
love, enough to
when you can think
it halfway through.

I’d choose you each time.

V

I need some voice,
her voice, to be happy
hear her voice

to be human unchanged
in memory, light
as air—open and warm.

VI

All quiet here
day after day
,
thin faint clouds dance

to find can’t make love. Who am I
—one, the smallest of that feeling
wanting a meaning
.

There are words I want
still in cement,
thoughtful. I’m sitting, writing

this simple one—the wavering places.
Come with me,
this morning again.

VII

Still some quiet.
Give me something
to look at.

I was something. I could touch
all your love
day’s first light

open to me
big endless spaces.

I don’t care. I trust you
day after day
with curtains drawn.

VIII

Who the hell echoes
the sun, round, soft
sounds going round
myself in lateral tiers—love,
in red, it’s all forgotten—

IX

Blue summer’s come
unsteady when drunk
with wondrous voices—thin
delights to bring you
the small spaces in the sun

eloquent, my heart
my funny valentine

coming home again.

X

KISS ME. Kiss me hard
with the past

all goddamn day
there, now here—

XI

Today without sun. You’re only
all there is. Here I am song,
a thing and I was something
by which light shined for
whatever there was.

(experiment with a book of poems by Robert Creeley. August 28-29, 2012. Ann Arbor and Waterford, MI.)

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Noun Love Letters

Love,

I just saw a beetle bounce out of the grass. I don’t know why I started this note with a beetle bouncing out of grass or why I didn’t write wriggled. (I just like those Bs next to each other.) But… I’m thinking of you. And your dress and the lightning from last night. Perhaps your dress had lightning in it as my pocket is filled with electricity. Now

I am thinking of how your fingers are filled of dawn. Of hope.

I hope I remember to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator before I see you again.

 

Love,

I have a beard of grapes and I love your ice cream lips. I especially love your driftwood eyes and when they land on my land, and how your little arms are little beds of snow and babe, I want to fall all over your land. If you know what I mean. (Wink.) I mean

your voice is a picnic in my ears and I want to carry your heart in a little box in my pocket, love burning with the odor of twilight

 

Love,

I’ve been trying to bracket off my radiator mouth but there’s too much grease in it and a rubber bell that rings like an ice cream truck muffled by my wool throat.

 

Love,

Call me Roberto, and I’ll be Roberto. Call me granite because I’m hard to cut through, though

I hope if you call me skull it’s because I’m in your head. Call me insomnia and I’ll be in your bed. Call me a grenade and I’ll be an explosion like those in Afghanistan till you feel my love in your teeth at night while you sit on the porch, watching lightning strike the grass as you feel the wind comb through your hair to graze your face as I am both a grenade and the wind at night.

Love is no mirror, it’s a pit and you’re the pit

of a peach that I want to taste as night begins I multiply more than electricity. I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me. Love

 

Love,

There’s not much to write about today.

Last night I sat on the porch and watched the lightning comb through the sky.

DTE turned off the electricity yesterday and I have grapes and ice cream and ghosts in the refrigerator that I must eat soon. Shall we have a picnic?

I am heating the house with driftwood I gathered from the beach and I found my heart there, too. Weird. I thought I left it resting on the radiator.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poetry, Prose, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Hello

Hello

I am happy on the hillside
and you are
all a blur.

You are so [         ].
(Complete the word.)
I don’t know.

Hello

I didn’t want to speak
of certain things, how
all the days burned
so cheaply as a symbol.

Already it’s time and nothing is
on the beach. Desire is
a moment long enough for a hand without sweet-talk
in the mouth
.

Hello

I didn’t notice the
fragile things. Color begins from

the season’s memory of
desire turns into a river.

I am called lava and water.
I am everywhere.

Hello

You are my light
sparkling up, coming back home.
Say: here is room
enough for you
and an orange.
I miss you. In the summer

everything becomes
never any closer, not quite there,
far too much
in the present
I could be the night unfolding
that place where sound is a… hush now.

I’m hot as hell, thin and
lonely with the hope… I don’t know.

Hello

Some nights,
I come back home
to scrape heaven’s
kind of silence

thou shalt not
take this sound

filled with mist to
appear infinite falling in love

with a tongue, falling in love
each morning, shaping
this small place and I said like a child:

The rain begins
promising continental breakfast.
I am gourmet in my bed.

Hello

The wind simply takes you
to all the scattered ideas,
once home not home yet
maybe of love, one is plenty.

Tonight, I was a little bird,
brilliant and something beautiful.
I said wait, stay with me with broken metaphors.

No—I wanted a tale free of the hypotenuse,
the tricky algorithm.
I can’t deny the flowers
in your blue tongue stuck with sweetness.

I had made something like this,
a whole life, in the dark.
Love, you can sway, it’s summer.

Hello

The eucalyptus trees
in my heart could be loved
if I could
be a priest.

(experiment with the Fishouse anthology.) August 14th-17th, 2012. Reconstructed in Ann Arbor, Milford, Waterford, White Lake, Michigan.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Put something to my lips

lines from collaboration with Nick and Jonah from Temporal Arts Collective.

I

“and you said a promise to sing me home”

I was trying hard to cling to
some other thought: I want
to write myself
away and back to you

in the present
—all the words
come out all wrong
when I’m trying not to shatter.

Come smoke me with yer body
in the cool mist
and bind our little parts

of speech with something that’s lovely.
Whatever it’s going to be
is what I need to know.


II

We have forgotten that sort of feeling
rips away
more easily and with less danger others,

that perfume transmits information that’s not historical
the instant we touch. Please, under no circumstances, speak of love.


III

Put something to my lips.
I feel you taste as fancy candy does,
so sweet, so wow.

Can I catch the perfume
of yer laughter in a flower?

 

IV

There’s nothing to write about.
This evening passed as usual
but still the soul asks for causation
:

I’ve been trying to find
a new mouth in the cruel night of clouds
dim from end to end as the heart or a leaf.

Oh how I want acts of terrifying gorgeousness.
Truth is, I am lonely
for a little light to come down
and touch me but I look up and it’s gray
and I have no desire left for the world.

Sometimes I feel fine, fine, but
my hands very much want
people who care passionately
for what sex is all about very little love
and but I have remained closed for so many years.

Please, under no circumstances, speak of love
when I’m trying not to shatter.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Form, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Spring, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing