colossal panther mechanism

I.

fuck the horse you rode in on, ride
the lightning. fingers ride the blade
edge like thighs on stripper poles. wrap
your fingers in her hair, grab ‘n’ tug,
hold thunder like hips, like shoulders,
like a TSE. spread-eagle in hair, spread
thin, butter on toast, oil on feathers, stuttering
like quarters on china. absorb in darkness,
wet like ink, damp with void, the kind of
darkness age fears. the kind of darkness
that only makes sense huge, that only makes
sense when senseless. play it out like phobic
Kabuki. blade step hari-kari with a pen,
with x’s and o’s, with geometry. promiscuous
with bias like a giant is promiscuous with air.

II.

flee
quick
giants
quickly
approach.
fluctuate
giantesses
snowballing
moth-catchers,
child-catchers,
agriculturally
Caufieldesquely.
superskeletalsex.

III.
not enough holes to hide in, all
the things they don’t teach you on
groundhog day. billy used to
push you facedown in the dirt,
let you taste the earth, what a
simple gift from such an ass.
the act of panther avoidance
is incapable of sustaining metaphor
longer than nine lines. just don’t tell the
panther that.

IV.

I lust for things I do not lust for,
in-between dusty blinks, damp
pervades sheets. If you could be a
sex constellation, which would you
be? a pearl necklace means far
too many uncomfortable things, especially
past midnight. The underside of my chin
bobs like a croaking frog, determining
determinism as though decided. Yelling,
we navigate. compass-less, we divine.

V.

like sledgehammers two-stepping,
I untangle my legs from soft grass.
no sound is softer than the sound
of submission. no one touches
lighter than one who succumbs
to giants. the tiny shall grow and
be tiny again. riddles make hearts
grow found in the winter. like a
colossus, I wrap myself in layers
not to keep warm, but to mask
old healed over knifewounds. gotten
from ill-timed poledances and ill-
gotten losses. like sledgehammers
unraveling, disintegrating, particulating.
giants are no closer to heaven,
they just see more empty sky.

sangwich (notes)

since no one has posted a real shit sandwich yet, read the poem above.
a little light notation:
-this is one of the black panther mechanism poems.
: the wrinkle is, this one uses tropes from Team Ico's "Shadow of the Colossus." because I thought it'd be weird.

-II is a oulipo form called a snowball.

*don't judge me on this. this is an experiment.*

I'm a compulsive blogger, shoot me.

Tinder box god head

i.

I kindle the tinder box god head and
righteous noises catch the catechisms
of impotent saints, work it in – full on
jack off session, petals, boughs and all,

come constellations spider silk tender
erase at the touch, becoming just wetness.

ii.
pragmatic excuse-maker, sand sifting lips
smoothed and raw opaline kissable.

(Is the pulse of modern
man

the modem’s hum?)

Sibylline Confucius-speak rhetoricized erectile
puzzles in judeo-christian, I only speak English.

I disinherit lies, my love,
this means you.

iii.
Dilettante rosary-kisser wet with imprint,
impresario of infatuations in low-cut bikini,
hypoesthesia sets in
I mistake it for arousal, but
honey, you’re a goddamn nosebleed.

iv.
tinder box god head rescues all the hindu gods
from a 10 story blaze

spinning plates on wine glass
stems. Mars rover blows up, much tumult
approaches with the wind, nature reclaims her spoils:
virginity and all.

I had half a quart of gin &
chronic ills plagued every drop.

Eventually, I will fall asleep
to a kinder lull but for now

I’m far too busy raising hell.

:P

Le Challenge de Poetry

I was trying to write a place poem, but couldn't, because it didn't feel right or fresh...or anything for that matter. So I got to thinking, what if we were forced to write outside of our experience all together? You might say, "But Bendi, I just wrote a poem about Sylvia Plath's suicide last weekend!" and I would respond, "Did Sylvia Plath describe her suicide to you? No? Then this is different." I think there's something in the personal element of story telling combined with responsibility of doing justice to experience (which poets understand so well) that opens an avenue for moderately challenging work

Here's the challenge: Someone describes to you an authentic experience of theirs and you flesh it out in a poem that is in return 'authentic,' or as true as possible to the person's original experience. As a safe-guard from boredom/complicator, the experience when described should be communicateed with as much concision as possible.

The point here is not to actually produce something that is a facsimile of what someone else experienced, but to be immersed in the process of creating using someone else's frame of reference. At best, it will be an exercise in empathy and we'll all learn something about the displacement of self. At worst, this is a stupid idea.

:P

Monogamy (formerly, Accident #21)

I know I said, "forever, forever" placating hands
smearing promises on the dashboard, britney
spears pantomiming vocals on the radio. You bare
faced hoping I'd concede to we, but -

in walks a blond mane flopping
sheepish grinning powder blue covered
he-man, god man! Is he a man, or what

were we talking about, again?

Third World Countries or My Time in West Campus

In the better interest of the blog and not so much of myself, I am posting a generalized story loosely linked to literature in hopes of sparking a little something something. This is my fourth year living on campus, and I'm tired. A bomb went off today at noon preceded and followed by a tirade of those monster truck rally air horns. I'm literally living on a construction site--the "West Campus Housing Initiative." The part of the dorms I live in, Founders, has that very foundering air to it. I think the ghosts of the founders are wandering around coercing me to be rebellious. The other, new! dorms are cookie cutter monstrosities that are creepily reminiscent of oppression. And in the middle of all of this old and new is a gigantic chasm in the earth.

"We live in a war zone" is the most repeated phrase these days. The atmosphere is tense and begging to be popped. As a part of a "getting to know you activity" we painted bricks as door stops today. In my building there is not one public refrigerator. In the cookie-cutters there are several thousand on each floor. I feel like I am a part of a lost generation. I lived in what is now that chasm in the earth not so very long ago and met some excellent people and had some excellent times. Now there is rubble and no proof. In my naivety and hopefulness I believed the spirit of my old building (aptly titled "The Class of '26) would live on. It hasn't yet, and I'm just sitting at a computer, writing my ass off, waiting for the fall out.

Hopefully Mr. President's secretary gets back to me soon, no one wants another red bud incident...at least not in this heatwave.

Bamboo??

So here's my problem. I've ariticulated this to a lot of you, but I'm stuck by my own form. During one of my many successful internet searches performed while "working," I came accross a little thing called the "Black Panther Mechanism." Brief history of the mechanism: L. Ron hypothesized hilariously in Dianetics that all human action can be explained by a man named Gus (first problem: the human Gus will explicate human action?). Gus is sitting in his living room, in his futon, or perhaps his ottoman. Gus has had a long day of selling George Foreman Grills to poverty-level school districts, and just wants to lie down in his bed and relax the night away. But there's a huge black panther (as in the animal) on the steps to his bedroom. And, as L. Ron and Scientology make pains to point out, this is an angry panther. As he would be if he was stolen from the jungle and transplanted into a Miami Beach nursing home. So our Gus (his real name. That part I'm not making up.) has five options, Hubbard says. He can attack (which means strangle the panther, because Gus can't use tools for some reason) the beast, he can flee the panther, he can avoid the panther (which apparently means sneaking to the bedroom via some undisclosed route, but really, if Gus has a separate set of stairs, why are we having this conversation? Gus would go up to bed and call animal control or something, which incidentally is something Gus can't do [get help from others]), he can neglect the panther (don't understand this one. Maybe the panther dies from loss of love.), or he can succumb to the panther (which unless he's dramatic about it, is not a solution, unless Hubbard is being incredibly fatalistic about humanity).

So problem & five incredibly restrictive ways to approach it. I love the sound of it. I can conjure up infinite computations of it, working in formal elements and possibly even my crack addiction to oulipo. But I find myself in a place where I literally cannot write a word, because I feel this oppressing need to reckon with the fact that this is from Scientology and I don't necessarily have to believe in it to use it. Granted I am interested (cue backing track of Alice and Rima singing "exoticism! Exoticism! in ducet harmony) in eastern forms and in dialects, but usually I can make use of these without too much reference to the fact that I am using them. I'm having an unbelievably hard time even getting through the first stanza before being sucked under by a dragging current of L. Ron mockouts, like a seventh grader.

I'm sure this problem will be solved soon, naturally, and I'll get the hang of it, but I'm thinking that it's a matter of opportunity. To be honest, I've had too many friends lose their families, money, and good name by the Church of Scientology to be a-okay with it. So to use a form without doing some meaningful work with the original subject within in this case feels like a grave disservice. I'm in a PICKLE. What Would Alice Do? (WWAD, in case you want to make braclets)

I'm currently listening to Menomena, the new Foo Fighters video (what can I say? Ice rinks and explosions of blood are just a part of who I am [http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/page/forkcast/45032-foo-fighters-the-pretender]), and thirty seconds of new MIA songs, excepting "Jimmy" because it makes me cringe in a big way.

-jon

(next blog to feature a discussion of gender, mother-hatred in soofyan's music, and the incredible sexuality-myopia of fantasy writer Robert Jordan's the Wheel of Time series, because if I'm going to read shitty beach fantasy novels, you BET! I'll try and make a case for its worth when Waffles starts laughing at me. I will also attempt to mirror Butler's mellifluous prosaic style.)

{and I think it'd be fun for everyone to be admins and just go ape-shit on this blog, so email Alesia, who's name is bigpurplebroccoli or something. and adminit}.

Here we go

I am bigscarygiraffe. I am Alesia Caroselli, or AD Caroselli, or AD, or CarrotCelerey, or any other amusing anything you can call me.

Okay, so, blogging. Jon and I had a convo.. I'm not entirely sure, but there is no chocolate rain allowed. I'm hoping this will be a place where we can throw up online. About anything. It will probably turn into a lit-based blog...but then again everything is based on words or sounds or something.. I forget.. ask Kate. Anyway. Go my beauties. Up-up-chuck and away.

I'm getting there.