just totally blown away by what you all have been coming up with. sometimes it takes a few reads to really appreciate what is going on in the poems and stories.
Something a little different this week- you can watch the video and see how Mrs. Sexton employed the words.
five words from Ann Sexton's "wanting to die"
(she actually committed suicide in 1975)
unmarked
lust
prison
magic
cornea
have fun. write without thought. freedom.
20 comments:
HELLO ANNE SEXTON I GOT NO VIDEO ACCESS NOW
I knew a guy
on Cape Cod
beady-eyed man
had a problem
with his cornea
every since
he got hit wrong
in prison
but his face
was unmarked
otherwise
he studied
believe it or not
with Anne Sexton
in Boston
at Boston University I believe
he's in her biography
Anne
one of the great confessional poets
as if those poets could confess
and the rest of us
would be healed like magic
Robert Lowell
whom I imagine
had great lust for life
though his Bipolar Disorder
made him confess and be crazy
in and out of the psych hospital
and then there's the ethereal
otherwordly Sylvia Plath
who knew
she wasn't made for this world
tried to die three times
and accidentally succeeded
on the third try
the third's times the charm
stuck her head in the oven
her husband the poet Ted Hughes
wasn't around to rescue her
anyway I lied about the cornea deal and prison
but I did know a guy
who studied with Anne Sexton
he's a poet and a retired
rural mail carrier
could have been a professor
if he'd been willing to go
on the journeyman professor
road to Alabama and beyond
but he stayed on the Cape
he's an expert on butterflies
he wasn't beady-eyed
but that's fun to say
he's a long hair man
he did study with Anne Sexton
he's in the book
so it must be real
ANOTHER SAN QUENTIN TALE
always loved those country songs
that tried to put every story
that a country music song
could be made of
into the one song
lost my way
lost my magic
the day my daddy
got out of prison
unmarked unfazed
crazy
like a cornea eyeball blues song
and I've lived in the shadow
of San Quentin
for most of my life
there's guys like Caryl Chessman
the Red Light Bandit
who beat the electric chair
eight times and died
on the ninth date
he wrote books and got famous there
Neal Cassady, the only American
to be the inspiration
for the protagonist
of two major American novels
"On The Road" and
"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest",
he was a literal bridge figure
Kerouac's soul reflection,
Ken Kesey's Merry Prankster
bus driver, for the bus "Further",
a bridge from the Beat Generation
to the peace and love
acid generation
a man of lust and life
dead on the railroad tracks
in Mexico
unmarked
he did two years in Quentin
for a small amount of reefer
and then there's the jazz man
Art Pepper
Art of cool L.A. jazz
a junkie
doing his time
they had a great progressive warden at San Quentin
in the 1940's and early 50's
you can look it up
Warden Clinton Duffy
grew up the son of a prison guard there on the grounds
started a radio station
eliminated corporal punishment
started a prison newspaper
jazz band
work programs
believed in rehabilitation
walked among the prisoners
didn't believe in the death penalty
but oversaw 90 executions
he wrote "The San Quentin Story"
and "Eighty Eight Men and Two Women"
those were the ones that died by execution.
CONVERSATION IN THE LIVING ROOM
She says, "Cornea is hard to work with. How do you casually slip the word cornea in?"
He says, "You just did it. Now all I've got to do is tell people there are thirty three prisons in California."
She says, "And there's no magic in getting out of prison."
He says, "No. Hard to get out unscathed, unmarked."
She says, "You just can't wait for these weekly words to come out."
He says, "You want to say it or do you want me to say it?"
She says, "What?"
He says, "Yeah, it's kind of like lust. Five words to freedom."
AT FIRST, TO THE TUNE OF 'BELLBOTTOM BLUES'
Cornea blues
she makes me weep
I don't want to lose
a lover
oh, she makes me wild
every time I go back to prison
I think of her
she's like magic
and here I am
going out the door
I'm a woman
in love with my woman
I lust for her
every time
the other gals
won't do, I get no peace
there's no such thing
as a world sublime
my vision's gone
half blind, unmarked, crazed
going wrong
raging with fire
lust again
she's my girl
and I'm gone
Jesus, God,
get me off
this long time lock-up train
AMERICAN MAGIC
cornea
retina
big bad heart attack
cellophane
window shade
candle in the afternoon
doom and fire tower
watch out for gloom
hesitation
Jorma and Jack
blues come back
eyeball
gumball
meditation
word by word
absurd
Hot Tuna
cold fish
ninety degrees in the shade
then cloudy today
I'm an marked man
drive an unmarked car
destination
conversation
prison bound
gagged and tied
stop click shutter focus
alabaster rent motel
now from here we can say
the two famous quotes
in American Literature and Music
re motels
you have Jim Morrison, The Doors,
"Motel Money Murder Madness"
or William S. Burroughs,
in Naked Lunch,
"Motel...motel... motel... broken neon arabesque...loneliness moans across the continent like fog horns over still, oily tidal waters...”
which I'll take
as one of The great lines
anywhere
here or there
in prison or out
naked or not
horny bedraggled
filled with lust
filled with doom and gloom
filled with joy
pure magic
motel magic
American magic
THE TYRANNY OF VISION
There's a knowledge
I have about ghost corneas
a cornea harvested
from a cadaver
and then the patient sees
through a dead person's eyes
I lust after the ethereal vision
of a body unmarked by the prison
of time and I seek magic
in this earthbound form
Sweet Candy
Cornea Road at sunset;
an unmarked car sidles to a stop.
About fifteen miles south
of Old Man Shug's prison,
white trash teens wrapped
in the magic and the final rays
of a lust filled
afternoon.
One more for the car.
One more for Old Man Shug.
LUCIFER'S LOGIC
These are my sins.
Could you hurry it up.
Eight thirty.
It's eight twenty seven now.
Gotcha.
I mark the time
and yet am unmarked by it.
Gotcha.
I'm not even giving ideas
I'm just saying things that pop up.
I'd rather say
the time does not mark me,
but that's not one of the words.
Imprisoned by words,
but I'll have to say,
words are my prison.
I hunger for the freedom of choice
but perhaps it is a lust.
In my mind's eye
I see the poem
but not in my cornea.
Trapped within a pentagon
I want freedom
not magic.
The Daisy Field
the marrow bone
steaming in the midday sun
revulsion attraction horror lust
will the fumes of this stinking hulk
rise to heaven will it call down
the magic of the gods
upon this prison
will I sample the delights
of this unmarked corpse
or will I recoil
from the cornea
staring back at me
EYESIGHT FOR THE BLIND
"The cornea
is the transparent part of the eye that covers the iris, pupil,
and anterior chamber.
The cornea
with the anterior chamber
and lens,
refracts light,
with the cornea
accounting for approximately two-thirds of the eye's
total optical power."
What more magic do you need?
How are you unmarked by beauty?
Who thought of the first prison?
Where is the lust we had together?
Why is the darkness here now?
Lonesome At The Sugar Trail Motel
If you read my story last week about staring out across the road to the Sugar Trail, you know I've just about burned out my cornea in the one good eye I've got left, staring and staring. I got tired of staring this week, did a little fishing, which for me is as close as I'll ever get to meditation. Oh, they tried to teach us meditation, relaxation, in prison, but I wasn't having it. I was on the yard, making my way. This week I finally got the truck fixed, I learned about trucks in the same prison, and I learned about 'creative writing', putting words down on paper to get your feelings out. I was more inclined towards letter writing, trying to get me some pen pal women full of lust for a con. I also found a way to keep scheming, working my magic with the ladies, get them to send me money, put it into my account, buy things for myself. Man, I didn't get far with the writing thing, I did a little better with the ladies, but an ex-con isn't as exciting I guess, or is too available for those pen pal women. Most of them disappeared, stopped writing, when I got out. Okay, I got to go. I'm not saying prison changed me, but I did stop conning people, stopped my scams, thieving. Still, I swear I don't trust anybody. Marta Louise used to come by but she moved to Yuma some time ago. I could go see her, she told me that, but I don't like to travel far. I swear, every time I get on the open road, I imagine there's an unmarked sheriff's car following me everywhere. I stay and watch the Sugar Trail, think back to the old days, girls in bathing suits, women in the sun, before I did time, before Marta Louise moved to Yuma. Oh, hell, maybe I will go see her. I'm lonesome I tell you, out here in the world, across from the Sugar Trail Motel.
acid trip
wound down
by
lust pronounced
rythmically
between lips-
a moist labial escape
fire in the prison
of loneliness
she draws my hips
deeply into her
repeated
thrusting
a blackness burst
streaks of light behind
eyelid undone
fingers magic
upon the spine-
unmarked electric
current from the moon
echoes repeat magic
climax and melting
every star
explosion
a cornea
peering from some
other world
heavenly bodies
envious of corporeal
frame and the
implications of sex.
our naked
bodies lie
new and ageless
unmarked by time.
a single hope
within the wasteland.
she feels unmarked lust
his black magic cornea
prison burst open
This deadline is a prison of my own making, a thing I could so easily solve if I’d stop lusting over language, reaching for the magic of a few perfect words. Instead I turn procrastination into an art, refining it, basking in my craftsmanship. Even I bow to the genius of my delay-fish mind and its sudden imperative to bullshit. Who needs accountability when one could, instead, mix up a coffee-based exfoliant scrub (inspired by a do-it-yourself skin care article read while not meeting said deadline)? Paint my unmarked body with the grinds, oil and honey binding the dregs like wet sand, realizing only later that the reason the house/car/office smells of French Roast is, naturally, me. Careful with coffee grinds around the face, don’t want to scratch a cornea in this inspired quest for glowing skin, that elusive well-slept look. Water cascades from the showerhead and draws a river of caffeinated stickiness down the drain, time racing after it, my bright french-pressed face reflected in the shiny chrome fixtures. Somewhere, I can hear the deadline laughing. Oh, honey, it says.
Armageddon vision
lust driven
in an unmarked car
spewing smoke,
choking,
scorching cornea
past familiar presence
into unidentifiable magic.
INTERVIEWING D.W.
Now D.W., you did time, right?
Yeah, I grew up gangbanging way back. Went to the Hall, then the Youth Authority, kids prison it is, then state prison at 18, did some federal time. I was a robber, a counterfeiter, a smuggler. A bad guy.
What changed for you?
Well, back in the sixties, a guy could do his own time, be left alone. Not that I chose that way. I thought the gang was magic. Till they asked me to kill my cousin, who was in another gang.
What did you do?
Well, unlike in the movie, "American Me", which is a good description of early gang life, I wouldn't kill someone in my family. So, my old buddies and I came out of our cells stabbing one day.
How'd that turn out?
Noboby came out of the fight unmarked, untouched, but I survived, and didn't pick up new charges. But I knew then I'd have to get out of prison. Eventually, they'd have killed me, or I would have had to PC up forever.
PC?
Protective Custody. Not a good way to go if you can help it. I had to do it for a bit after splitting with the gang. Too much cell time.
What did you do?
Well, back then you could get out on parole easier. I kept my nose clean, and I learned a little carpentry.
Where you a good criminal?
(Laughs...) Well, when I was robbing places, I was friendly, usually, to people. I was good, yeah. But I was a junkie, too, so you have to rob too much just to keep going. You're going to screw up. But what you might not hear a lot is, robbing places, pulling jobs, is a rush. When it works, it's like magic. There's a high there, in and of itself.
What was your family like?
My father was a big shot in a well known industry. My uncle will die in prison. So, it was a mixed bag of genes.
Did your cousin make it out?
He got out of prison, but he got shot and killed, so...yes and no.
What do guys do that never are getting out?
Well, I'm not sure what my uncle is doing, he caught his last bid late. But a lot of lifers hook up with a sissy and settle down, channel their anger and their lust, and see it out somehow.
You said a man could do his own time in the past?
Yeah. You could do time for murder and still get out, if you played it right. It all changed really with gangs taking over the prisons everywhere, even though I was in one early, you didn't have to be in a gang then. Now, pretty tough not to. And it changed when Michael Dukakis ran for president. He had been governor of Massachusetts when Willie Horton, who was doing life without parole for murder by the way, was put on a weekend furlough, innovative program, and Horton raped somebody, and committed assault and burglary, I think it was. You know, some guys shouldn't get out. Really. Anyway, that killed Dukakis. And now, it's all political. There's no reason for a governor to okay anybody, to sign off on anybody getting out on parole. One guy goes bad, there goes your whole political career.
I hear you talk to kids some?
I talked to some kids a few times, went to juvenile hall, a couple of community programs. Talked to kids facing long prison terms. Told 'em to get ready, when they first hear the steel door of the prison slam behind them, their eyes will go blurry, like their iris, pupil, cornea, the whole eyeball deal will get wobbly, and their knees will get wobbly. Just know it's coming, that'll help.
What else did you tell the kids?
Walk slow and drink a lot of water.
I'm not sure, D.W., that I know what that means. What do you mean by that?
Walk slow because you don't want to be in a hurry, walk around a corner and see something you don't want to see. And drink water, because many guys will be jacked up on coffee, itching to fight, speeding. Don't go that way.
Anything else you want to add?
No, man. Well, maybe, go easy. And really, I'll say it again, walk slow and drink a lot of water.
The Legend of Arbee Stidham
You can look it up.
Ain't been to prison
ain't even cornea blind
unmarked by the devil
who knows about the lust
but man he made a record
"Tired of Wandering"
and most any record where
King Curtis is blowin' sax
has something strong going on.
Lost to the legends of time,
almost, almost gone, there's
quiet magic in hidden music,
bluesman, hints of jazz and gospel,
Big Bill Broonzy taught him guitar,
Arbee Stidham is singing on.
NATE BANANA BLUES
Well we were young once
full of spunk and luck and lust
and we thought we knew the magic
one guy went to prison forever
one guy dove into a river
came out in a wheelchair
we were invincible we thought
we made up whole languages
changed vowels from long to short
pronounced all the consonants
or answered every question with
"Z?"
it's a wild world, been said forever,
true and true again
we had one game, Marco Polo,
in the swimming pool and
you had to close your eyes
cornea hide and
one where we searched out
the unmarked narc cars
downtown at dusk
and at last we'd answer 'yes'
by saying "yate" and no was
"nate" and that's how I got
my name, Nate Banana,
that's what we'd say,
"Yate Banana, Nate Banana"
we thought we'd always
make up words and languages
and live free
MOTHER'S DAY AROUND HERE
move your love
move your love
honey, I'm crying
Lord above,
mother's day's coming
mama's long gone
she done went to prison
after stealing and doing wrong
won't take no visitors
won't see nobody no more
blind bat mama
cornea queen
drowned our daddy
dried him out
poured on the kerosene
they said mama was crazy
chanting strange words
"magic, magic, magic,
you gone old man you gone"
move your love
more your love
find yourself a woman
tell her stories of your lust
just don't do like daddy
just don't do like mama
tucked away long gone
they used the cliches
threw away the keys
one day they'll bury her
in a lonesome unmarked grave
oh mama, oh mama,
you mean old spiteful wench
we think of you on mother's day
down in hell, down in hell,
and you know what's coming, mama,
we wish you well, we miss you,
we wish you well
HER WISDOM
like a magnet of joy
a reserve of fine water
a thread of elegance
how do I get the words
to say what could be said
say this slowly
prison cornea unmarked magic lust
and now how to say this
again and again
to say what could be said
how do I get the words
a thread of elegance
a reserve of fine water
like a magnet of joy
her wisdom
again and again
elegance
intelligence
her
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