Sunday, December 24, 2006

Merry Christmas!

Monday, December 18, 2006

I'm a busy girl. I have an exam tomorrow. And so I'm writing this to avoid reading that. And that other thing I have to read. Also have exams to mark from myth class. New research position to work on. Website to create for writer.

But really all I wanna do is buy a new dress.

My prose poem portfolio is being returned tomorrow. I expect the worst.

Love, Wendy
Did you memorize the hour your language broke,
by the weight of travel.
a light weight.

in my glass of water
I made a

was it enough to drown in.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Prose Poem

Cinematic scene

Daphne sits, curling her wig hair round her finger, chewing gum snaps against her tongue. Reapplies lipstick. Wanted on set.

Enter Apollo, teasing the make-up girl—bronze appliqué touch-ups; her golden fingertips, his bold thigh.

                Director to Daphne: Stand, reach; it’s like apples and olives. You are the branch that                             grows lemons, figs, car keys. Whatever. Whatever people want. Be that.

                Apollo: I want oranges. If she’s not an orange tree, I don’t want her. I will not chase a                           lemon tree. No desire for lemons.

He smiles.

Daphne walks off set. Apollo follows. Discussion ensues.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Prose Poem


Angel’s Trumpet, on southern descent toward the ground that delivered it—blooms of 8 inches. Stately tents in compositions of light, skin spongy, exposing its sex through the open flaunt of female scent. Young buds spiral to safety, learn lessons from older (middle-aged) cousins.

Held fast to chandelier’s arms not yet spun with wire, electric surge, or pulse; stems lit instead through accidental positions with natural light, not yet matured to radiate an own way.

Attached to stem, the full potential of biology observed. How the cell splits, harrows, burrows a new path; bursts. Then there are variegated moments, streaks of white to peach, pink to grey.

And there are lights that never go out. A world of white-capped cable lighting up our complete lives. Lighting up at midnight. Lighting paths to confession, to drugstores. Even at 5am, the hour a fine time to switch a good dream sequence, there are lights lit up for something. For the birds, maybe.

You can call me RA

That's R.A., not sun-god. Besides, I'm not ready for the responsibility of caring for suppliants, counting libations, being everywhere at once.

R.A., research assistant.

Got me a job for next semester--yahoo. Pays well too. Now I can spend my free time creating bibliographies, searching and compiling and paraphrasing interesting articles on revision in antiquity.

What else am I gonna do with my time?

The two research topics are loosely based on an area I've recently taken an interest in: rhetoric. Rhetoric and revision seem to go hand in hand (hell, rhetoric is everywhere--maybe I'll explore in an essay next term). Also will be discovering texts that have to do with Cicero, Roman rhetorician. Exciting.

Next Term's Classes:

Continuation of:
Ancient Greek
Advanced Poetry Workshop

New additions:
Unspeakable Acts of Cruelty (Advanced Greek Drama)
Intro. to Archaeology

I'm looking forward to reading more of the ancient texts. Once read in English, I can move on to the Greek and maybe understand a little more of what's going on (although the two don't necessarily go hand in hand--they say it takes TEN years to fully appreciate the intricacies of Ancient Greek. Man.)

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

And now we return to our regular programming

Jack Spicer


Because the figtree was sapless
It has cracked at the root.

Oh, you have fallen down on your head
You have fallen on your head.

Because the oaktree was rootless
It has cracked at the branch.

Oh, you have fallen down on your head
You have fallen on your head.

Because I walked through the branches
I have scratched out my heart.

Oh, you have fallen down on your head
You have fallen on your head.

In other news, got an A on my Medea paper. That 15 page paper I wrote in 4 days. Just when you think you suck at writing, turns out it's none so bad.
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