“The quality which makes man want to write and be read is essentially a desire for self-exposure and masochism. Like one of those guys who has a compulsion to take his thing out and show it on the street.” – James Jones
More collaborative poems with my mentor David Bromige… read more »
‘There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.” – Terry Pratchett
More collaborative poems with my mentor David Bromige… read more »
“A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it to be God.” -Sidney Sheldon
* * *
More collaborative poems with David Bromige, my mentor… and don’t ask me who Janice or Betty is. Or if you do, I’ll tell you they are perfect illustrations of David’s humor. Putting a name like “Betty” in a poem? Writing about a jazz singer we don’t know? David was always reminding me not to take myself nor poetry too seriously…
“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” -Emily Dickinson
* * *
To honor my mentor David Bromige, who passed away this past week, I will be posting some poems written under his tutelage or in collaboration. We would make a cup of tea, set arbitrary rules, and away we wrote~
It is with extreme sadness and spiked loss that I mention the passing of my friend and mentor, David Bromige. I wanted to be able to write a great spread of prose or poetry, honoring his sharp wit, playful creativity, and a life in words.
But for now, I will just provide this link and some quotes I captured during our lazy days writing poetry in the garden of his Sebastopol home… because sometimes things need time to sink in before the words come.
My love and support to his family Cecilia, Maggie & Chris.
DAVID BROMIGE QUOTES / FOUND POEMS read more »
Running around like a chicken with her head cut off, your author neglects (temporarily!) to post new material on NKS… but trust that it is all leading to bigger and better things. You can’t stop this girl from writing; she loves it like breath.
[[-End tedious 3rd person narrative-]] I’m doing another poetry reading this Thursday, working on putting together a chapbook, in the editing (finally!) phase of my grandfather’s memoir, writing mad-hot copy for [confidential!] client, and making headway to return to my other love: Vietnam
And just in case you think I’ve turned soft on you — worry not. I am only a Sonoma County yippie-poet part time. The rest of the week I still perform the Robot-Lego FlashDance that you all know and love.
…Hang Tight.
[Shannon dials A Friend's number, who answers after 5 rings.]
Shannon [enthusiastically:] Happy Halloween!
A Friend: Um, yeah.
Shannon: I’ve made it through Israeli security, recovered from Dengue Fever, and am trudging through Jet Lag Supreme, but I’m BACK!
A Friend: …You were gone?
Shannon: Funny.
A Friend: No seriously, you took off somewhere? Were you on a trip?
Shannon: I went through Israel and Vietnam. [pause] I was gone for almost three months.
A Friend: Oh. [pause.] That went by fast. I didn’t even really noti–
Shannon: Okay, okay.
A Friend: Soooo, what’s up?
Shannon: Gonna celebrate Halloween. Oh! And perform some poetry.
A Friend: Now that is scary.
Shannon: I have another poetry reading!
A Friend: You had a first one?
Shannon [enunciating:] I’m reading at Word Temple on FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 9th at 7pm.
A Friend: I’ll be sure to miss it.
Shannon: I thought you liked poetry?!
A Friend: No.
Shannon: I thought you liked me.
A Friend: A little.
Shannon: [rolls eyes; softly:] …I missed you, too.
A Friend: Are we done here? CSI is on.
Shannon would like to timidly announce her first “poetry” reading this Thursday, where she will be reading all-original, highly-amateuristic, and ever-questionable poems from her stint in Penngrove.
But seriously, I’m excited to be reading with some local poets and friends I’ve made while living in sleepy Sonoma County. I’ve learned so much about humility, the importance of having the confidence to suck, and giving what deserves priority, priority.
And although I’m sure very few of you readers out there can make it to the reading (nor would/should you, in all honesty, want to) I want to the thank you for your readership, your comments, and your support; Not Keeping Score was started as a project to get this young woman to write, regardless of topic, genre, (or quality) — and continued to write she has.
For better or worse.
A MULTI-PART EXPLORATION ON WHETHER PEOPLE CHANGE, THROUGH THE COMPLETELY UN-SYSTEMATIC ANALYSIS OF PERSONAL ITEMS FOUND IN SHANNON DEJONG’S “SPECIAL BOX” AND ASSORTED CHILDHOOD MEMORABILIA*[1] — AND OTHER STUFF, TOO
Part III
Nature’s first green is gold,
Returning from an exciting road trip full of back-country camping (and motel-dwelling… O, the rain!) trail-hiking, Beethoven-listening and poetry-reading through California’s Big Sur, the Central Valley, and Yosemite, your temporarily absent (but ever-mindful) author muses on the present theme of change:
Trinkety, these moments are never quite the same.
Nature’s seasons shift in soft tufts – this, Her subtle game: whispering Transformation behind our fickle ears – kissing necks with Spring’s pink lips, sensuality rolling out the years – but when we turn to gaze upon our warmly kissed nape, it’s but Winter’s icy mouth we see smiling back agape.
And as such – Season’s changing breath breathes heavy sighs against Landscape’s barren body to yield a trembling sprout anew; fresh crop reaching into Tomorrow for what it already knew; and, gleeful, grabs hold of what already Yesterday grew – blooming, bursting forth then bending back; stretching itself, jackknifed, onto that Life-Death rack – folding in on itself until Season’s exhale comes to rest, leaving again the Earth topless and undressed – breath sucking back the riches of the landscape into Her newly, hot, mouth.
(1)
direction.
Thanks for tuning in despite recent void in posts – but never fear, Dear Readers! Your humble author, although suffering from an ongoing affliction of Change (called Transitionitis Ruralus-Relaxinus with symptoms of WritingTravelBoySleepEat:Life), forgets you not! Check back in for at least 1.5 more installments of IN FLUX: DO PEOPLE CHANGE?
*[1]Quite possibly the most lengthy and self-indulgent blog posting on NKS to date
Well, it’s nice to know there’s no one out there among my audience of readers that writes poetry, or rather, no one out there willing to submit their poetry for posting. I’ll take this to mean one of three things:
1) My audience of readers is a very shy group
2) My audience of readers is a very smart group
3) I have no audience of readers
And so, it seems that the burden of bad poetry falls upon the shoulders of yours truly. (I won’t disappoint.)
I will, however, with the following poem, bid adieu to the annuals of Project Sedation as, sadly, my bottle of vicodin proffers nothing but narcotic dust, my martini glass no longer runneth over, and my bottles of codeine are nothing more than sticky, empty vessels of syrupy memories once full of the potential for confused ramblings of intoxicated stanzas… now little more than fodder for the recycling bin (it’s now “hot to be green” — see the cover of this week’s
Oh, settle down, people — I kid!
Truth be told I’m moving on to other forms of writing, trying to check off project ideas that have been a long-time-coming (Generation Now, more Craigslist folly, some JetSet wrap-up) and wipe my writing slate clean for what’s to come in the following months: another round of Slinky, a more journalistic focus, capturing some tendrils of summer, and the beginning preparations for a novel.
We’ll see how it goes. If I don’t ever write another word again and disappear into the irretrievable depths of a complacent existence, never again surfacing into the ever-widening scope of the blogosphere, we won’t judge. And why’s that, you ask?
Because around here, we’re Not Keeping Score.
Only Dirt
What are these two supposed poles
around which I navigate
I see only a black hole
into which I lean, and there’s nothing great
about leaning over an edge
only to get a better view of death
(which sits at Stupidity’s ledge;)
or holding breath
for a moment to be un-weak
as if the world will turn right-side out
for that sinking chasm to become a peak
from which we’ll see God’s snout
Well, let me tell you,
there is no nose of God,
nor a place to climb to –
Only sky, and dirt, and sod
You thought you could escape it, huh? You thought, surely, this whole “poetry” fiasco that we were embarking upon over here at Not Keeping Score was a flash in the pan, over as quickly as teenagers making love. But oh no! Words endure, man. There is more loopy poetry for Project Sedation to be had, because, my friends, there are more narcotic sedatives to be ingested.
And, just in time for the big 4th of July weekend, we’ll be taking poetry submitted by our very lovely Readers (that’s you!) and posting the best (or in the event we only get two, then only two) of the best. True to our muse Mr. Bukowski, there is a parameter: the poem(s) must have been written while under the influence of, inspired by, or in ode to, various forms of intoxication. Sedatives preferred (no one likes a happy poet).
Happy 4th, folks! (Be safe)
The Burrito
I ate my burrito like Life
one large gulp
my mouth forming round around it’s rim
it was so sensual and passionate I was nearly embarrassed
even though I ate
alone the little
rice kernels splooging into my mouth
with globules of cheese, toothpaste-like,
trailing right behind,
my cheeks puffed like a trumpeter’s–
a sensory equivalent of the sound “pttthb.”
this is an odd topic for a poem, I know, but that’s
the way it tasted, the
way it felt. so
that’s the way I wrote it.
I was so proud of myself for
eating a burrito as one should–
wholeheartedly,
and equating it to living a life as one should–
wholeheartedly,
that I smiled while biting in and consequently
almost choked
(but didn’t quite)
but I swear if I had really choked
and died that afternoon,
this death by joyful-burrito,
I would have.
it would have been worth it.
it was drawn out like dancing
a beautiful whole-body stretch that forces
you to make moan-full sounds
or an anticipated kiss
lips hovering just before lips not touching
and when I swallowed those little pintos, they
tumbled down my throat like
dice released from sweaty palm
for the big win
I thought Vegas!
and perhaps you’ve never heard of a
burrito tasting like Life or,
even stranger, Life tasting like a burrito
but let me tell you
every so often
mine does
and I have no choice but to bite deep and
with eyes squeezed shut
silently as I chew, wish:
two sixes, come’on two sixes
give me everything,
two sixes
We Are Not Here
We Are Not Here
to find our peace and contentment –
much less bliss.
We are not here to find our peace and contentment.
We are here
to play witness
to the continual hiccupping
of modest tragedies
that bubble up from the depths of Just the Way it Is
and explode at life’s surface
leaving snot-like scars at our veins
We Are Not Here
to search out answers
to tests given at the end of life’s semester;
We do not have anything for which to study.
We are here
to brave the momentum
of time’s swoop
and do little more than spin our darling wheel brains
in mental acrobatics
until we become afflicted with fatigue,
fall
And then sometimes, on occasion,
we are asked to taste honey
–but don’t swallow!
or cook
on the stovetop
because that shit –
no matter how good it tastes –
is poisonous
[to j.h. - for the inspiration]
On Love
You give to me, so sweetly, such sweet sweetness says he
all cummings-esque knowing he (e.e.) be-
ing her (his most beautiful darling) most favorite poet
,And purrrfectly says she
like a fragile angel bird coyly through
Love’s garden, prancing optimism all the way
not seeing Reality’s hot swollen clouds casting syntax
shadows up ahead
Continuing on the path of current project (Sedation), I present to you more narcotic-induced sentiment in line form. Not a fan of poetry? Then visit my other site: www.toobadforyouilikepoetryandthisismywebsiteipostwhatiwant.com
Hope you enjoy.
something on the cusp of your tightly woven semantics
something on the cusp of your tightly woven semantics
(but not so tight perhaps as my, as you called it,
tight-genius prose) reminded me
of letters boys in grade school who liked me
used to write, with thick heavy syrup-words
that dripped naive tension and sex (so fresh
we said screw the umlaut) — realized
in me as giddy laughter-bubbles to the
throat, which stuck,
almost to choking
as gum would do, but popped instead. perhaps
yours were much dryer, though in a good way;
dryer, not loose, nor flimsy, nor
sloppy,
but, as mentioned in the first line,
tightly knit –
which is new.
which i like.
inside out
walking around and around that damn labyrinth yesterday
it took all I had to click off my brain and just listen
but I did, for interspersed moments, I did
for pure seconds
hear the water slipping over edges of the chalky plaster fountain, trickle
down and then mix with that car horn over there and
the clacking shimmy of birch leaves,
a woman’s cough;
the roses’ white petals screaming to be adored -
and then I was back into it again, plunging headlong into the
drenching play of the mind, a cycle back and forth folding
in on itself like bread dough
like intestines
like the looping circles I was walking
the sharp turns most painful (I like best
long stretches of nothing no change just a forward motion destination-less )
and in my mind
I put my hands to the walls of life and pushed back, but softly
so my wrists at right angles and my palms
just rested with quiet resistance against its sides,
like rubber, certainly with dimension but pliable,
and outside of my mind
I put my hands to my sides and let
in another one of those suspended moments –
or rather, it let me in –
where I swear I could feel the wind turn warm,
swear I could feel its breath against my forearms,
skimming bare skin, ladle and milk,
and it felt just like when I curled up in bed under covers
thick and heavy enough,
not pressing down too hard but with just the right weight to
let me know I was real and not falling
so the feeling of hiding from the world is the same as turning completely inside out
Projects page has been updated. Loopy poetry coming your way:
to take a stand
scores upon scores upon scores of people like ocean waves
have crested and fallen, broken, upon these shores
and still, in that surf I search and I search and I search,
heartbroken for meaning,
as if some tiny starfish is going to emerge gleaming miraculous
when I know there is only heaps of foam to wade through
there being no end to an ocean
but who else more equipped to love but an ocean?
its incessant beatings a true constant affection
there is solace in apathy
the waves only crashing angrily against ankles in defiance of
stability we find in sand’s wetness
because I know
and he knows
and maybe you know, that standing is relative,
and a wet ass ain’t nothing
when you’re crazy, when you’re crazy, you’re crazy.
