whistling past the potato chip
rips the great tornado
but come the season
the monsoon will bellow
frothing up the ocean spray
—
had a cough this winter? share a five line poem about in the comments. it won’t make your cold stay longer, I can promise that much.
Without being cynical about the arbitrary nature in which we herald in a new year every year (the circle group U(1) and Complex Logarithm come to mind) we as sausage-casing casings usually do need the luxury of a fixed branch (e.g. nightfall or death).
But apart from my cartoon view of the needs and cyclicality of my cartoon view of western culture (and maybe others), there is something to having an anchor. As a mentor of mine helped me converse in light of confusion about existence:
Me: Fuck you, Buddha!
Buddha: Fuck yourself, because I am you.
There’s a lot going on here but, in this moment, it motivates me to seek out new ways of expression, recognize the structures I have created for the barriers to creativity that they can be, and employ a catharsis that is melded with our modern age. This is my radio station; thanks for tuning in. Welcome to this year 2011.
originally posted as “drip” on a discussion on gogyohka junction, it merits being labeled as gross:
i lean my head
to the other side
and the dam of mucous
slowly pours
to free a new nostril
feel free to respond with your own gogyohka, a meter-less, rhyme-less, five-line form more crisply summarized on the front page of the junction, about your recent or past or future nasal drip experiences. the raw nostrils, the sore throat, the gurgling cough. it’s always the cold season, so let it out before you have to blow it out on a tissue.
when i look inside
i see my own sea de jaune
in its special sacks
the balloons stretched large
with a hydrous merriment
to slow my thought flow
pop. leaking into
the thick oaken barrel in
which they hung gently
when i look inside
i see my own sea of red
in there around sacks
balloons that stretch large
like a gummy bubble at
the tip of red lips
pop. bleeding away
from the not balloon encased
in heavy armor
what have you found understand you’r fingernails lately?
surely not a tennis-ball. surely not a shopping mall.
wax
dull glitter (skin flakes)
dried mucous-balls of inhaled dirt
that nethersmell
darkness (in patches along the edge of your finger)
those all make sense. but surely not hope, or freedom, or wonder.
just something completely disgusting. although it isn’t. it will always be you or them under your fingernails.
or clay. or maybe the adhesive from the back of a sticker, like a price sticker on a can of beans.
as I sit in my day ol underwear about to gall asleep, I tweet about cookies making my stomach sleepy instead of posting here about the awful gurgle I feel just wear my asaphogus (spleeling?) meet the top of my stomach? no way. welcome back. please respond with an or all grossness in your tummies.
I have a little tummy
it’s quiet and it’s slow
but when it’s full of chewed-stuff
to poo-town’s where I’ll go
all forms welcome. you’ll hear better from me when I’m not murdered by cookies.
if you’d like to talk about the renga we’re writing, then write a comment to this post. i will moderate all comments away from the actual post that are not part of the renga.
in honor of my first, ever, experience of being in an improvised scene set in feudal japan, i have decided that we are all going to write a renga together. this is a pretty exciting, pretty epic, pretty awesome thing to do. let’s have fun, but this should be sweet. i’ll outline here the rough ideas that i think we should follow.
structure:
i think those will be the only shikimoku, or ‘rules that we follow’, but please study up on the renga terminology to understand it’s structure better if you’re going to participate. i am exciting to be a part of this online kogyo.
to be clear, this can be an ‘epic’ poem, but it is inherently an ‘epic poem’. let’s get started!
when i pick with my fingers
i will often wipe them off
inadvertently, you see,
on my pants pocket
while trying to find a way to express myself about one of my favorite past-times, nose picking, i felt like the 17 syllables of the haiku just weren’t enough to capture what i had to say. so, i turn now to the dodoitsu , another japanese poetry form that has a similarly simple set of rules:
no need to rhyme, no need for meter. just simple, haiku-etic expression with the luxury of 9 extra syllables. what else can you fit in with 9 extra syllables? “Often concerning love or work, and usually comical,” i guess a better example, and more cathartic, might be <5 minute internet perusal pause> what i would have written before reading the wikipedia article on ‘lobotomy’. you’re going to have to search for that one yourself.
aaaaaanyway, poop is funnier than boogers. oh!:
confucius say: go to bed
with itchy butt wake up with
smelly finger. i say: nose
picker, choose wisely
that's gross 