December 2010
1 post
listening to "Walcott - Vampire Weekend" →
October 2010
3 posts
listening to "We →
Perfect fall song, can’t you just hear the leaves crunching under the six-string?
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fall and the things that tend to accompany it
It’s October 18th and beautiful for me here in Denver, Colorado. One could argue it is perhaps the most beautiful time of fall. The freeze has yet to happen (an event that serendipitously seems to coincide with Halloween) and the leaves are golden (or as golden as they can be here in semi-arid Colorado).
Fall, I feel, will always have a feeling of rebirth for me. The kiddos are back in...
September 2010
4 posts
listening to "The Persuaded - Faded Paper Figures" →
Great song, smart lyrics, namedrops Adorno, Clotaire Rapaille (#culturecode), Chomsky. “Things, we’ve got to have our things.” #quote
listening to "Nirvana - Lithium" →
“I like it I’m not gonna quit.”
tempramemory
I’ve just noticed that my red string bracelet has found it appropriate to leave my wrist. A Buddhist priestess put it there roughly two months ago when I climbed up the 8 steps of a temple hidden in the jungle, sparsely roamed by tourists in the maze of Angkor Wat and Angkor Thomh temples that litter the jungles of Cambodia.
In Buddhism, you must remove your shoes and bow below the head of...
August 2010
2 posts
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Apples, Reflections, and the Anato-Emily of a Blog
This post is in response to an assignment in my Communication and Technology class at Regis University. I was asked to read a chapter in the book Exploring Web 2.0: Second Generation Interactive Tools - Blogs, Podcasts, Wikis, Networking, Virtual Worlds, and More, and write a reflection of it.
Well, I picked the chapter on blogging. I blog and have been blogging for a while now.
Ann Bell, the...
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Cambodia so it seems
7/7/10
—> It is July 7th and I sit here in an eleven dollar fifty cent hotel room scratching at my mosquito bites and hoping for breakfast. Last night after our bus drug us into Phnom Penh, we went to Dream Bar (LP recommended) where the Westerners were plentiful.
What else? [A sickening crunch I can’t forget in downtown Phnom Penh, watching as a motorbike merged...
July 2010
1 post
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Things You Don't Remember (a collection of stories...
four . five . one D . I . A 7/3/2010
I . P . A continuing my pre-trip tradition of visiting the airport bar prior to departure. This bar is always packed; the Sky Bar (down by my gate) is dead. I prefer this bar, this energy, this color palette. Just talked to Alex, which is great because he’s been to Southeast...
June 2010
2 posts
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“…if you could read people’s thoughts as they were passing you on the...”
– Liz Gilbert
Eat . Pray . Love
This is a quote I always take with me on my travels. What will be Hanoi’s “word,” will it complement mine? I once lived in Los Angeles, and the word that the majority of those smoggy Angelinos are running around repeating in their heads according...
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There’s failure in your sentence and arsenic on my...
and the police lights dot the highway sway from side to side
outside my apartment a man is getting arrested
yes he is Mexican
and the lights are flashing bright red blue on my knuckles clawing the wheel like a catatonic psych cat and they churn through my eyes until the nausea comes and welcomes the asphalt like a surprise like you meant it to be with the lights off and everybody called your name...
May 2010
10 posts
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bookhouse
I have a bookhouse it tends to my friends. stacked up wards, stacked sideways
requiem for a morning, east of darkness paralyzed from the last word you tasted— on the page you dog-eared with a coffeepot hand shakeside waysgrin. And I’ll find it again, stumble to the page walk over to the word, tap the shoulder of the conductor ...
BryeMye: how to be a banana →
a solitary chimpanzee sits eyes downcast on a labratory floor, sees his reflection, shrugs. in the space of a silence pierre lights a cigarette, finding his date a cliche. the banana on the counter was found peeled and standing upright in the quiet and alone. still standing, it weeps, picks…
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Rolling along the French Countryside
Our train rattles through the French countryside at dusk. Mist sprinkles the landscape as cobalt overtakes the magenta horizon.
Inside, we drink Bordeaux as we snack on baguettes & parmesan. My hand rests on my forehead and sweat threatens to break my skin.
Across the train compartment,
Sarah looks at peace & adds in the occasional comment.
She shows me the moon & I smile ...
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Sometimes I wonder why it is I write
For it is a terribly poisonous habit. And I do things like C B A cost . benefit . analysis maybe cowboys would say “is the juice . worth . the squeeze . ?” but maybe they wouldn’t say that.
There is money . but little catharsis a robust Greek word but a writer loves words
and that is the primary problem. I would much prefer to work with oil, rubies, gold bricks....
So I thought I would share the writing exercise that brought me to that grotesque poem below. It’s called Five Easy Pieces.
1. Describe the person’s hands. 2. Describe something he or she is doing with the hands 3. Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. (apparently for me, a church, or rather a wedding day at a church is exotic) 4. Mention what would would want to...
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Five Easy Pieces
His hands, outstretched & overgrown fitting to a six four form kneading & twisting a pulpy piece of flesh, red hamburger meat, a kidney, the left ventricle of a heart.
He’s preparing for his wedding day— A small vestibule in the back of the church, droplets red on his rented tux.
I see him through a confessional window ask, “who’s heart are you playing with in your hands?” He...
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candid.
I think it’s kind of candid— that you smile while you snooze it leaves me lopsided. In awe what your dreams did to make you smile like you do. I think it’s kind of candid—
that you are left-handed, the way you tie your shoes it leaves me lopsided.
Somehow you know it did, that I lose my head over you. I think it’s kind of candid— that your plane just landed and you are all the news, it...
April 2010
1 post
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scrawl
This is the last time my pen will scrawl over parchment because you asked it to.
Instead I will carve symphonies on the arcs of your shoulder blades
on the roof of your mouth
my name will bleed.
March 2010
3 posts
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paper faces
I’ll make you a world out of paper & pen. I’ll draw you stick figures they can be your friends. And if they’re lopsided I’ll draw them again. And if they’re still ugly I’ll write and I’ll write.
I’ll crunch your world up & I’ll write it again. I’ll make you a world that you can live in. Because you only like pretty people and...
January 2010
5 posts
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The Working Girl-1890s
She would continue walking that street and with time the street would change.
She changed with it, instead of being from Oklahoma; she was a small town girl from Sterling, Colorado. Mansions now lined the streets, her rates went up. She would cruise the theatres, the bars, the gentlemen’s clubs. If she wasn’t allowed in, she’d linger outside on the wooden-planked sidewalk. The men smelled...
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________________________________________________________________________ ————- ————- ————- ————- ————- ————- ...
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“Old long since” by emily d stine
It’s the drop of a ball or ten thousand balloons that fell from the ballroom and land at your shoes. It’s the air, bubbles in your champagne, as they fizz and they pop, go right to your brain. It’s the “old long since,” that song that you sing when the p becomes an a and dances with the m. The words are a blur but the melody rings, something you remember, a black &...
November 2009
3 posts
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The Punkass KID
It was one of those fall days most people would be shitting themselves over, like “Wow, can you believe how beautiful it is today for this time of year? It’s uncanny really.” Actually wait, anyone who would say something as stupid as that would know what the fuck uncanny means. It just annoyed the hell out of him, the way people tried tomake pleasantries. He probably...
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The BUM
Cars zoomed by the exit ramp in a callous kind of way. He was all but invisible. “Fuck it,” he said to no one in particular, “I gotta git the hell outta here. Fuckin suits!” Just as he exhaled this thought with a crescendo of gingivitis, a black SUV approached him pausing next to him while the stoplight was red. He readjusted his sign, this one always got the laughs. The man in the driver’s...
October 2009
1 post
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The blank-faced businessman
He works off of Denver West Blvd and Colfax. The nice part of Colfax, with malls on either side of the boulevard. He drives from Highlands Ranch every day. Where the rich people squirrel away their money to buy homes that are indistinguishable from any other on the block.
He takes C-470 all the way down into Lakewood. Kisses his four children on the head on his way out every morning at 6:30....
September 2009
1 post
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pieces of a story. prologue
The Street
As children, the first thing we learned about a street is how dangerous it is to cross one. You must first find someone, preferably an adult to hold hands with whilst crossing. Second, locate a crosswalk. Third, if you are really lucky, there will be a kindly larger woman there with a STOP sign and will make traffic stop so you can proceed along your childlike way.
I’m not sure...
August 2009
2 posts
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pausing to write on the side of my mind
45 days without a bit of emmy appleseed I’ve missed writing. I have. The click clack clatter of my fingers as they negotiate with the keyboard for a thought or two. Lately the thoughts have been stopped up in my mind, detoured so they recycle and eventually fade. Call it writer’s block.. That would explain the detour. Stupid guys with their orange vests (not the real ones, the ones...
July 2009
1 post
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Trial Run
No one yells “All aboard!”
When you get on the train in Pittsburgh
But they do blow
The whistle as loud as they can
I’m facing the back
Of the seat in front
Like in a plain
Or the backseat of Dad’s
Rosewood Honda Accord
The conductor
The one whose job it isn’t
to yell “All aboard!”
Is giving us a tour of White
America over a crackling loudspeaker
Altoona, Paoli, Lancaster,...
June 2009
36 posts
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"I heard a fly buzz when I died" a tribute to em...
I heard a fly buzz when I died I saw the fish splash into the sky Went to church to forgive my sins drank the blood only to find it was kool-aid instead
Wrote my will read it aloud but a buzzing fly alone in the crowd Finished with a bow and turned my eyes to ground an overture an encore a stark realization death had me found And with my last gasp & glance a fly to hold my life and my...
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stream of consciousness poem
settling my self into a chair of inadequacy and beat emotion. i loathe my fingertips and wished they would play symphonies. i try to type but feel myself washing up under your shoes step by step. And I’m sticking like gum, yesterday chewed and spat out onto a concrete conscience where i met my hubris and kissed its sandals.
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follower versus non-follower
You might think this is an article about Twitter. Thank goodness it’s not. No that there’s anything wrong with Twitter, it’s just not going to be the focus of this em d stine rant. Today is more about what I think about influence in art, like “oh my god, his clouds are cumulous like monet.” or in writing, “that had such a da vinci code element of...
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My Travel Story in New Desert Times →
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post script. i'm in love w/ love
Love is such a lovely thing to write about.
On Twitter for a while, I was keeping a “How to Love a Poet” list. I’ve been in love once or twice.
But love always seems to come in the wrong package. Somebody loves you and you most certainly do not love them. You fall in love only long enough to fall right back out of it.
I think that might be the worst, you’re able to...
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pneumatic melody
If I write you a line will you play me a jig?
people love the pretty poetry that drips from my tongue and falls to the page elegant inkdrops
but
I find with you I can’t siphon my thoughts to my pen. the images ill-formed the word run dry.
so
take a gander if you please to the poetry hapzard hidden in my head. decipher my thoughts play my lines, let the tunes hum around your head and...
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