Design & Intent

Worth trying but still dubious.
Not only a searing burn
But also arguably easier, too.
Some are good and some are not.
But this idea appealed to us, nonetheless.

Haiku

How can "tears" be one
syllable fucking up my
beautiful haiku?

Public Service Announcement: "Drip the Rag" Accepting Submissions

"Send driptherag@gmail.com a text document with the title of the piece, your name, and the poem itself, formatted as you'd like it to appear in print.

"Any and all previously unpublished poetry will be published.

"No editing, no censorship, no questions asked."

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 3

The World Mystery Convention, Bouchercon, is in St. Louis this weekend, September 15-18, and that seems like a great time to re-post these excerpts from a short story.

Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 10:30 by the time I felt sufficiently revived to venture out of the office into the streets. The first place I went was to the bank where I cashed a check for $100. From there I made my way to a barber shop where a saint with scissors managed to get me looking somewhat respectable.

The next stop was a Goodwill resale store where I picked out a sort of cliche movie detective outfit: dark suit, tan overcoat, and a battered but not beaten fedora. I was hoping that Curt would get the joke. I returned to the office where I changed into my getup. Things had been going well and showed every sign of continuing that way.

When I called the public library to ask for information about Ramiland, I was connected to a very friendly and helpful librarian who sounded like she'd be a lot of fun when she wasn't being a librarian. She didn't know anything off hand about Ramiland but told me that she could locate some sources for me if I wanted to come by and pick them up. I told her that was fine and told myself not to get too excited about the librarian. She was probably about 70-years-old and most likely had a figure like a baby elephant.

She wasn't and she didn't, I found out when I got over to the library. We had a pretty good time talking and she thought my detective outfit was as amusing as it was supposed to be. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to make it out to a club sometime in the very near future. The only sources she had been able to find were articles in two magazines, which she handed over to me with a wink.

And here, dear reader, my story grinds to an expository halt never to recover, except for this brief passage:

It was around 2:00 when I finished reading. The librarian I took the magazines back to was 70-years-old and did have the figure of a baby elephant. She had a pretty voice and I was in a good mood so I flirted with her for a little bit. We didn't exchange phone numbers, though, and I didn't even get a wink.

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 2

The World Mystery Convention, Bouchercon, is in St. Louis this weekend, September 15-18, and that seems like a great time to re-post these excerpts from a short story.

Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

My clothes were in even worse shape than my hair. The Hawaiian tourist shirt had never been the height of fashion and was now just barely wearable. It did go, more or less, with the Army surplus fatigue pants I had on. The splotch of puke, my own or someone else's I couldn't remember, on my right thigh came pretty close to matching the flowers on the shirt. I didn't think Curt or his family would appreciate that too much.

I looked around the lovely Black Diamond Detective Agency for something else to wear but couldn't find anything. I did find my checkbook in a pair of black-and-pink checked pants that I couldn't remember ever wearing. Looking at them now, I was glad that I didn't. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had $450 in my account. It was obviously money left over from the last time I had worked as a laborer on a construction site. I certainly hadn't worked on a $450 case for a least a year. As a matter of fact, I hadn't worked on a case of any kind -- cases of beer excluded -- for 6 months. Maybe I'd been working on too many cases of beer.


(To Be Continued)

Black Diamond Detective Agency, Part 1

The World Mystery Convention, Bouchercon, is in St. Louis this weekend, September 15-18, and that seems like a great time to re-post these excerpts from a short story.

Way back in 1980 I took a fiction writing class at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville taught by Lloyd Kropp, and my final project was a short story that, frankly, doesn't live up the the promise of it's first two and a half pages. Those first pages, though, are worth posting here.

It was 9:45 in the morning when the ringing of the telephone ended my sweet dreams. I know it was exactly 9:45 in the morning when the telephone rang because I'm a detective and I get paid to remember little details like that. It had been a long time since I'd been paid for remembering little details, though, so I did a fairly good imitation of a man leaping out of bed to answer the phone. The imitation was flawed because I was sleeping on the floor of my office and only had to roll over on my side to answer the phone. As far as I was concerned, I was leaping out of bed and it's the thought that counts.

"Uh, yeah, what do you want?" I inquired of my caller.

"This is Black Diamond Detective Agency, isn't it?" I allowed that it was and further admitted that I was George Blake, head honcho. "George," the caller continued in much happier and excited tones, "this is Curt Simonson. I just got into town a couple of days ago and I thought I'd give you a call to invite you over."

"Oh, hello, Curt. It's been a long time. You've been off in Africa or someplace, right?"

"That's right. I've been doing fieldwork in Ramiland in eastern Africa. The political situation got pretty hot so I decided it was about time to come home to the family for awhile."

"So you're back at "the Mansion," eh? I think I can still remember how to get there. What time do you want me?"

"Around 3:30, if you can make it. And, George, I may have to ask you to mix a little business with pleasure."

"That's fine with me. Lord knows I could do with a little of both. I'll see you at 3:30, then. 'Bye." I hung up and began getting ready for the upcoming reunion. The first thing I needed, I saw when I finally located a mirror under a pile of old newspapers on my desk, was a shave and possibly a haircut. A haircut soon became a necessity when it became obvious that no amount of combing was going to produce any style other than grubby. It'd been a long time since I'd dealt with anyone who would mind hiring a detective whose hair was grubby.

(To Be Continued)

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

Camera Obscura

You make a pin-hole camera
from an old cardboard box
with film stuck inside at one end
and a hole pricked in the other

You uncover the hole and
light streams in exposing
the film and then magic
and science work it out
and a picture is made

Exposure of the film to light
can be minutes
not even seconds or
fractions of seconds
time enough

The still is captured sharply
but the moving
blurs and becomes
indistinct

After you make your camera
someone says
hey, let’s make a picture of us
fucking

And so you do and the picture
shows skin on skin, yes
but neither bulging veins
nor butterfly labia
nor, clearly, is any
penetration revealed

On the periphery but not out of sight
captured in their quotidian glory are
a broom and a dustpan full
it is true

Published on Troubadour 21 on September 7, 2010.

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

The Wedding Dress

He had moved his mother's wedding dress
time after time, from apartment to
apartment, city to city

Friend to friend, lover to lover

Until we found him hanging
A white apparition in a candlelit room
Acrid myrrh failing to mask the death-stench of shit

"A fruit on a loop," the cop called him

[Note: Inspired by an anecdote CA Conrad told on the Poetry Foundation's "Off the Shelf" podcast.]

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

The Boy's Hand

could at last have his
hands which were
together on one bed playing
he muttered slowly
hands in her lap
the tips of his fingers
traced a smooth curve
was wet and his and
his finger as he felt
the boys hand
over it, the girl and then
him to his feet
to her, pushing the girl
to one side of the bed
there, holding on
between the palms of her hands
she set it down again
the boys hand

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

The Mystery Dance

(for Declan Patrick MacManus)

She was ready. But he felt
Ignorance -- as if he had not
Heard of it before, but as for her:

She switched position and then
Pulled down her pants as if
Only to make him laugh
At what she was about to do.

He had never seen anything.

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Monday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

The Dangerous Point

This was where he crossed his fingers. "Today,"
he said as he anticipated her next move.

Make of it what you will.

"That was like some kind of book," she said
after they had passed the dangerous point.

Reading at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" at Dressel's on Tuesday, September 6

I will be reading on Tuesday, September 6, at "Poems, Prose, and Pints" held at Dressel's, 419 North Euclid, in the Central West End. Reading begins at 7:00 p.m., and admission is free. Other schedules readers are Billy Foster, Pat Piety, Jason Dockery, Dawn Dupler, Sarah Kuntz Jones, and Stef Russell. Music by Kevin Renick.

On Continuing

One day she realized she had
failed -- there was no use
worrying. She didn't know how
little they had advanced. For
some time their recent relations
had been neither this nor that.

He seemed to think she should
know something. She smiled faintly,
"before you go." That startled him.
Then there was a touch.

Swift strokes, then the thickening,
the stiffening, the electric rise
in her hand. On the brink of it,
he had to turn to watch, her
hand straight ahead across.

Finally he came, falling gently to
her naked. There was nothing they
could not see: the sky, the early
spring snow, the nature of continuing.

A House But Not A Home

I will be reading tonight as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

A House But Not A Home

The process of bringing the

house up to the standards of

Jean Harlow's ghost was

difficult, to say the least.

[Originally posted March 20, 2009. Written circa 1979.]

Summer, Washington University in Saint Louis

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

Summer, Washington University in Saint Louis

(for Rhett Miller)

five smokers outside in a circle
four boys and a lone gal
in black and white stripes

the first guy shuffles his feet and paws
at the ground with his right foot
like a horse, a stallion, a randy
thoroughbred

the girl swings her arms in front of her
back and forth until she suddenly

hugs herself tightly and then
explosively un-hugs herself and then

she begins to swing her arms again
the next guy in the circle
begins to shuffle and paw

And He Fell

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

And He Fell

he remembered where he was and

then he had to open the door again

and he heard her kisses and a high, thin

laugh for a space into which he had

fallen into morning and now,
no, more then than now, he was

doubtful of the night, of the sound,

of the fashion, big and visible

then he saw it and he fell

Roldo the Fish-Headed Boy

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

Roldo the Fish-headed Boy

Roldo was a boy
(that is, he was a young human
with a penis)
who differed from the rest of his society
in that he had the head of a fish

Roldo was a bright boy
he was good at math
and at reading and writing
and he could ride a bicycle like
nothing
but, still, he had the head of a fish

Other boys were often cruel to Roldo
girls, (young humans with vaginas)
were also cruel to him
they (the boys and girls) made up a song

The song was about Roldo
when he would ride by on his bicycle
they would sing:
Roldo the fish-headed boy
he’s so ugly we want to cry
he’s a fish and he should fry
and then they would laugh

The singing and laughing hurt Roldo
but he loved riding his bike too much to
stop

Roldo would often ride blocks
and blocks out of his way to avoid
other children and thus was sometimes
late in arriving at home
where he mother and father would be
anxiously awaiting his return

Mother and Father were worried about Roldo
they felt guilty about inflicting a fish-headed child
on the world and the world
on a fish-headed child
and they were afraid that something would
happen to him and somehow their guilt would be
revealed

But, still, they loved Roldo and when he would
return in tears they would hug and kiss him
and tell him that everything would be alright
and though they hadn’t really believed it
as the years passed things did begin to get better

Roldo’s fish-headedness became less and less
Until one day Roldo was just an average
boy
and went out riding his bike
and no one laughed or sang

The Red Drapes

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

The Red Drapes

(for Roman Polanski)

She was totally paralyzed after
A few glasses of champagne and
After all that noise, she
Stayed there and opened up

He examined her, approving

She did not consider
What had occurred
When she saw the heavy red drapes
Early in the morning over
And around her long legs

"Goodbye," he said,
"You figure it out."

What Remains of the Day

I will be reading this Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

What Remains of the Day

(for Lori Blue)

Drunk and broiling in the summer sun
Telling a dude from that one band
About how you'd killed yourself
With a gunshot to your head
One of their songs playing on
Endless repeat.

What remains of the day remains to be seen

I remember his sad, shocked stare.
What could he have said?
He was only the guitar player not the singer.

Times Square, 1973

I will be reading on Friday, August 26, as part the second installment of the Readings at La Mancha series. La Mancha is located at 2815 North 14th Street, right behind Crown Candy Kitchen in Old North St. Louis. The reading begins at at 7 p.m. Along with me will be St. Louis poet Treasure Shields Redmond. This will also be your last chance to see the work of local photographer, Sylvester Jacob.

Times Square, 1973

A smell barely remembered reminds her
of the day when the two of them met
and went to a Times Square hotel. She
should have known better than to skip
lunch and pick him up. He sometimes
complained when she did. But the fashion
has changed, she said. In the room,
she imagined rather than felt
the breeze from the open window
that he gazed out, humming quietly.
She asked him to come nearer and like
a long fall slowed she reached out
and touched him and it stood up and
went hard into the pink and together
they moved rhythmically. He could not
stay with it long but he could move
as she moved and then he shivered slightly
and with delight shuddered. They turned
aside and she stared at the lights beyond
as if awakening on the other side.

A Slow Twist

he's being carried past us.
it is, as a thing, a new way of looking,
a slow twist,
a kind of indignation.
we still feel it, though,
but not as much as before,
this emptiness in the middle.

(for Elvis Presley)

Wikipedia says:

Elvis Aaron Presley (January 8, 1935 – August 16, 1977) was one of the most popular American singers of the 20th century. A cultural icon, he is widely known by the single name Elvis

Found Poem

Hark, could this be the poetry
of which I have heard the praises
sung? 'Tis like the gibberish of babes.
(Exit, pursued by a bear).

Found

The Saint Louis Evening Standard 5 Star Summer Special
Hello Saint Louisians everywhere. Today the Evening Standard of greater St. Louis
Declares that this newsletter is the prince and pauper of the publication world.
Larger publications such as The Post Dispatch, The Globe Democrat, The Argus,
The Saint Louis American, The City Journal of Saint Louis all live on creating job
Opportunities and raising publication dollars by providing advertisements for
Customers in print. The Evening Standard is a document that only exist to create
An interesting muse for our fan base.
Grammatical Mistakes are common place and our conversations are many.
Job Opportunities and providing Advertisements is not, I repeat is not, the purpose
Of this publication at this stage of the Evening Standard.
We really only concern ourselves with amazing bylines and keeping a story out there.
That being said, Our major headlines in this issue declare a circulation war with all
News outlets in the country. The Evening Standard will achieve Supremacy nationwide.
Horace Greeley the patron saint of the evening standard calls out to old and new readers
Of the Evening Standard. Grab your copy because it is better than any New York Paper
Ever was. To Quote T.E. Lawrence, the will of the evening standard is written in the
stars.
This statement is derived from the seven pillars of wisdom.
Now the covenant of sports! Anyone who reads the Evening Standard knows that this
Publication only covers Washington Baseball. It probably is our most interesting of
Features because we are a Saint Louis paper and only cover the toy soldiers of D.C.
From a Historical Perspective Washington Baseball is 8 and one half games out of first
Place. Philadelphia and Atlanta lose out to west point on the final week of the season.
How about that folks ! It's raining! Root Beer Floats.
Boston verses Washington in the Fall Classic. October 18,2011. Don't forget your
Peanuts and beer.
Weather for Mid Summer in Saint Louis is Hot, Hot, Hot, and humidity out of this world.
Winds bring jet stream from west to east this cooler air is in contrast with winds from the
south, sending the Canadian Geese further north to say the likes of Northern Prairies of
South Dakota. Menu Suggestions for summer anything cold and yummy.
For more information concerning this publication send a post card to P.O. box 190162
Mackenzie Point Post Office Affton MO. 63119. William T. Rogers Editor in Chief.

Found Poem

What is with that crazy tropical-sounding bird in your back yard?

It messes with my naps.

i don't know. it seems angry at
the pig

and it has a slingshot

On Continuing

One day she realized she had
failed -- there was no use
worrying. She didn't know how
little they had advanced. For
some time their recent relations
had been neither this nor that.

He seemed to think she should
know something. She smiled faintly,
"before you go." That startled him.
Then there was a touch.

Swift strokes, then the thickening,
the stiffening, the electric rise
in her hand. On the brink of it,
he had to turn to watch, her
hand straight ahead across.

Finally he came, falling gently to
her naked. There was nothing they
could not see: the sky, the early
spring snow, the nature of continuing.

The Dangerous Point

This was where he crossed his fingers. "Today,"
he said as he anticipated her next move.

Make of it what you will.
"That was like some kind of book," she said
after they had passed the dangerous point.

A Cautionary Tale

I
should say
that I might
have known. I guess
those who know about pushing
higher into the ether should have
told me they had nothing for me.

The Mystery Dance

(for Declan Patrick MacManus)

She was ready. But he felt
Ignorance -- as if he had not
Heard of it before, but as for her:

She switched position and then
Pulled down her pants as if
Only to make him laugh
At what she was about to do.

He had never seen anything.

Answers Found In Dreams

He realized that he had forgotten
To ask about it. It had always been.

Gravitated away and would not kowtow.
Could possibly have before, but now.

Back in the chair, going down, slowly.
This way not only simple but also holy.

Can You Find Me?

Perspiration, it was all over.
Shadows, along the ridge.
The room, already to bed.
He sighed quietly, she had gone.

Swore to himself, as if to keep a chance
To be right, but uninterested in the trouble.

& In the Listening

(for John Ashbery)

Who's to say that theirs
Are less than ours. And

In the listening to or
In the talking with, or

Another, breathing hard.

Curiously, I signaled.
We were almost ready.

All right you know how it is.

I gave a reason to be. Can you?

His right hand quivered.

The Magical Scientist

To him it was an actual event that
He would be able to explain:

"It's bad luck to be too superstitious."

The day before when he was alive.
Everybody was. Then he was dead.

On the Assassination of John F. Kennedy

"The President's been shot," he said seriously.
We heard about it; it was what we talked about.
Brains and blood and bones in an upward curve
And his body across the woman: that's what we imagined
Though we'd be proven wrong by slow motion film
Showing his body just as if we were there with him.
But we didn't stop looking; we haven't stopped yet.

Astonishing Thing

They stripped -- worked rapidly
Turned from it, shirtless and sweating
All the same, when they reached
The verge, he hestitated then shrugged
Knelt down and stroked
"Like hours," he said
She came then -- she drew back
She did -- for a moment --
Began to see -- "You are an
Astonishing thing" -- he returned

Too Familiar

Cautiously, feeling tenderly with her
Hands. It was absurd.

Too familiar. Though it was
Too soon. There was still some...

Might be. She started to...
On her own. Deciding there that...

It happened to him. He turned back.
And wondered what wasn't and who had.

"Rrose Selavy" by Robert Desnos (Translation)

2. Rrose Selavy asks whether the Flowers of the Evil have changed her pud's manners: What does Maude think?

7. O my head, a fading mother-of-pearl star.

15. Lost on the endless sea, how will Rrose Selavy eat iron after eating her hands?

27. Time is a nimble eagle in a temple.

53. It is more important for a poet to be honest than to be polished.

-- Robert Desnos

[Note: I don't read or write French so I used an on-line translator to provide the literal translation and worked from there.

"27." is as translated by the fine folks at Babelfish.

In the original "2.", Desnos plays on the similarity of "phalle" and "Omphale," who enslaved Hercules and forced him to do "woman's work" such as spinning wool. The best I could do was to allude to Bea Arthur.

Click here to read all of Desnos' Rrose Selevay poems in French.]

Falling

Falling upon it, she left.

Not walking but falling.
He ran after her, and he fell.

He should not have run.

As If It Was

i was daydreaming when i pulled up
it was not generally considered
she had asked the question
the woman said, and the answer was
experience no matter what

we were all a little
we knew we should leave
driving slowly down
our energy spent. partly it was
youth, i suppose, and all
but however as if it was

to the last, we
raised our eyes and saw

this then, it is the

that which always
that had always been
never find her in this

never find her moved forward up
two steps forward one step back

The Wedding Dress

He had moved his mother's wedding dress
time after time, from apartment to
apartment, city to city

Friend to friend, lover to lover

Until we found him hanging
A white apparition in a candlelit room
Acrid myrrh failing to mask the death-stench of shit

"A fruit on a loop," the cop called him

[Note: Inspired by an anecdote CA Conrad told on the Poetry Foundation's "Off the Shelf" podcast.]

Resolve Steeled

For Dan and Pat

Even though he felt his chances small
He would resolve to steel his resolve
To ask the young woman out on a date
To share his love for dancing to jazz

Western Romance

Kiss (Tony)

Elizabeth Peyton, "Kiss (Tony)," 2000, lithograph.

"Impecunious" means you're one broke-ass nigga
Pissed-off that you can't afford to drink away the
Shitty feeling following an equally shitty
One-night stand with some dude who had you
Convinced that he could cop some excellent weed
That he said this trippy scene sorely needed
Looking back now so many details seem portentous
And you're going to have to emend the story if
You don't want it to end with you caterwauling
The veracity of your being one broke-ass nigga

* * * * * *
[Note: Written as a continuation of an exercise introduced at a workshop called "High Art/Low Language: Experiments in Poetic Style," conducted by Eileen G'Sell at the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, where Elizabeth Peyton's exhibition "Ghost" is currently on display through April 18.

Participants in the workshop viewed the exhibit and picked two images to write poems about, choosing from five "high culture" and five "low culture" words that they had drawn from a hat. For this exercise, I used all of the words in the order I wrote them in my notebook.

My poem from the workshop is here.

Song for the South

So there he was, Ezra, impounded in Pisa, accused of treason
Now trading tobacco with fellow inmates forbidden to talk to him
Colored mostly, soldiers fighting for a country

That hardly fought for them. Taken away like Louis Till after
3:00 a.m. line-ups to be hung for murder and rape.
Not even 3 weeks in the gorilla cage could keep him from

Praising Il Duce in 11 lines on a piece of toilet paper
And later writing his cantos on a table made from a packing crate
B H.H. Edwards after he had gotten the charity.

Would he or anyone have guessed that 10 years later
Louis Till's 14-year-old son would be brutally murdered
For the crime of whistling at a white woman in a store

In Mississippi, where the accused were acquitted? Though
After the trial they were happy to brag to Life magazine
About what they had done as if they had done no wrong.

Distinguished Senators Stennis and Eastland looked, then, at
Louis' hanging and announced themselves satisfied that the
Same bad blood flowed in the veins of the son as the father.

Asked and Answered

"There," he said, turning toward her
shouting out the phrases that
now seemed to him as he
closed the door behind him to
answer the questions she had
voiced.

[Slightly edited from original post on Casino*Town*Poets, January 13, 2011.]

The Boy's Hand

could at last have his
hands which were
together on one bed playing
he muttered slowly
hands in her lap
the tips of his fingers
traced a smooth curve
was wet and his and
his finger as he felt
the boys hand
over it, the girl and then
him to his feet
to her, pushing the girl
to one side of the bed
there, holding on
between the palms of her hands
she set it down again
the boys hand

Gone

an impression of what had happened

sure what it was about

knew about it that was that

the point was in. there was nothing

because to us, the story was over

all that she carried

we who have had almost

and were not there couldn't of course

The Finding

we had heard about it on the
television once and knew
it would amuse him -- yes -- that
we would one morning find him -- too --
lying on his back, his bed
covered with a worn quilt
loose enough to hide -- well --
not enough. it did not matter.
we held his hand, moved it.
we began to realize
therefore, why we were frightened;
why we began to fall back.

What Remains of the Day

Drunk and broiling in the summer sun
Telling a dude from that one band
About how you'd killed yourself
With a gunshot to your head
One of their songs playing on
Endless repeat.

What remains of the day remains to be seen

I remember his sad, shocked stare.
What could he have said?
He was the guitar player not the singer.

Drifting

he had kept the peace
had drifted nearer
yet there was nothing
and if she was still
given to asking questions
but one of them must
at that instant
and then he was and
he saw that
he did not know
and as much as it went
he had come to the end
heard no sound
it was not what he was
but what he had done

Frustration

laying naked in
his bed waiting desirously
but he sent you home

Dead and Drunk Everyone

everyone was dead and i went on drunk.

dead was drunk everyone and i went on.

everyone was drunk and i went on dead.

drunk was dead everyone and i went on.

dead was everyone and i went on drunk.

drunk was everyone and i went on dead.

dead was drunk everyone and i went on.

i was dead and everyone went on drunk.

drunk was dead everyone and i went on.

i was drunk and everyone went on dead.

dead was drunk everyone and i went on.

on i went dead and everyone was drunk.

on i went drunk and everyone was dead.

Pornographic Poem for Charles Bukowski

"Baby," he said,
spattering
on her lips.

"Jackie and John (Jackie fixing John’s hair)" After Elizabeth Peyton by Claire Medol Hyman

Elizabeth Peyton, Jackie and John (Jackie fixing John’s hair), 1999

Encased enframed by waning waves of blue blocks
Forlorn, tears not worn embodied the white princess trite
Patting not a jock's cap on dweeby boy, wet behind the ears.

A pair, Her Fairness rains down splat at that whatchamaallit's hair
Eton style hiding youth's Rock a hard guile, organ loss, his
          Mojo is a toss.
At heel a watch dog's pace in white space, a triangular
          gumshoe tails
a Dicks' opposing pace.

Not a fleshly rhythmed walk, bi-unisoned march. Ready up? Hup,Hup.
Letting gas, no faults imbued, bespoke at mass. B'rup, b'rup.
Native American White Soxed princeling S.O.B. steps in tune to
          pie-hole dishonesty
Clothed up tight they walk our rights under camera bites.
To be or Naught to be wussed out on vicissitudes as mother
          Jack's off, ew! surreptitious frights.

-- Claire Medol Hyman

Note: Written as an exercise at a workshop called "High Art/Low Language: Experiments in Poetic Style," conducted by Eileen G'Sell at the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, where Elizabeth Peyton's exhibition "Ghost" is currently on display through April 18.

His Heart Is One Color

Elizabeth Peyton, "Kiss (Tony)," 2000, lithograph.

Impecunious he leans against the wall
Knee to chest, Hand to heart,
A tear on his cheek, trying
Hard not to caterwaul
Thinking of his idols -- Kabuki-faced
Indomitable heroes who never fall

Note: Written as an exercise at a workshop called "High Art/Low Language: Experiments in Poetic Style," conducted by Eileen G'Sell at the Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, where Elizabeth Peyton's exhibition "Ghost" is currently on display through April 18.

In brief, the exercise was to look at one of Peyton's prints representing someone from "low" culture, in this case a young man wearing a t-shirt with a picture of the rock band Kiss on it, and write a poem in response using words drawn from our own observation of the print as well as randomly chosen "twenty-dollar words." (The randomly chosen words that I used were "impecunious" and "caterwaul.")

A further challenge was to attempt a traditional verse from such as a sonnet. In the short time in which we had to write that didn't work out so well for me. I did manage to rhyme "wall," "caterwaul," and "fall."

A fun exercise and a great workshop.

The Velvet Underground

Glass windows that hid them.

Her boots white. His black vinyl.

Leather across their backs.