Backlogged Haiku

0116072012
Hot wind, summer tongue
Laps at the base of my neck
Western world roves east.

0104072012
Slender dragonfly
Green body at rest, black wings
Yet blue in motion.

0204072012
What does heat feel like?
How can we explain such things
Without sharing them?

0304072012
Independence Day
People free, eagles aloft
War of species on.

0105072012
Haiku for morning
Stuck in my stiff jaw bruise-like
Syllables and cant.

0205072012
Write write write write write
Words do not pour; they must pus
Wounds from life and love.

0108062012
Wooden spoon, pitcher
Twist open orange cylinder
Make juice with Mother.

0208062012
Orange juice concentrate
Run warm water over can
To thaw frozen lump.

0308062012
Making juice with Mom
Just add three cans of water
Mix with wooden spoon.

0408062012
Thump, lump concentrate
With wooden spoon as it melts
In orange juice pitcher.

0104062012
Bacteria bones
Ballast Mexican bodies
Science News reports.

0204062012
Antidepressants
Make cannibals of yeast cells
Science News reports.

03040602012
Irish immigrants
Flooded America's shores
Bedraggled masses.

0404062012
Describe what you smell,
The writing book prompts writers:
Exhale life's perfume.

0504062012
Females ignore me.
As a person, who am I?
They demand product.

0604062012
His dragon tattoo
Reads at first like a bruised hand.
Stories don't need ink.

0106062012
Ray Bradbury dies
As Venus transits the sun--
Shadow play and light.

02060602012
Ray Bradbury dies
As Mars One proudly debuts--
The future is now.

0306062012
Ray Bradbury dies
I learn on my vision screen--
Alone, together.

04060602012
Ray Bradbury dies
Hereafter the air I breathe--
Squirrel scampers o'er bark.

0506062012
Typewriter clamor
Pages spooled warm of ink soul--
Thorough impressions.

0606062012
Ray Bradbury lives
Man is his words as birds song--
Something forever.

01052012
Sudden leaf cover
Surrounds me and honey bee--
May's canopy dropped.

02052012
Sitting on the ground,
I am but the insects' guest--
Fragile on both ends.

03052012
Little bee escapes
Absent spider's silky snare,
Somersaults through air.

0130042012
When your intestines
Fail you as a little girl
How must the world seem?

0127042012
Three deer unafraid
Splash through mud and forage greens
In Warnimont Park.

0129032012
Beachcomber hauls tires.
Blackbird bends Phragmites' bow.
Fog un-enshrouds shore.

0120032012
Heaps and mounds of steel
Mined, melted, fused, cut into
Single bent staple.

0118032012
Heat knows no season.
March? June? Boltzmann is constant.
Air warms air warms air.

0218032012
It's a tough question
"What is your novel about?"
One learns by asking.

0318032012
Skewered vegetables
Await searing hot metal--
Ritual of fire, food.

0104032012
Neon tennis ball
Iced amid stones in lake's wake
Slobbered for no more.

0204032012
Mislaid dollar bill
Washed up but never washed out
Belies water's cost.

0304032012
Reek of potatoes--
Rotting fish smell pussing forth--
Kitchen source unknown.

0404032012
Memory of Zayre's
Round red star meant aisles of toys--
The past: buried dream.

Yellow Dress, Black Woman, Bus Stop

The dress was her grandmother's which had been worn in the ghettos of Chicago when times were really tough, not like today: eating rats and drinking soup and standing for hours in line outside the WPA. That was her grandmother who died last night and now the funeral was over and she was free. It was raining. God it was raining. She was a washerwoman no more.

***

This is a snippet of "flash fiction" inspired by the writing prompt issued by Robert Vaughan at the Alchemy for Writers 101;-) event we hosted July 15 at Alchemist Theatre.

Alchemy for Writers 101;-)

http://projectemptyspace.wordpress.com/alchemy-for-writers/

Looking forward to Sunday afternoon's Alchemy for Writers 101;-) event at Alchemist Theatre. Thanks for all who worked to bring people and resources together for what should be an energizing experience with 50 registered participants.

Story in Bay View Compass

My story on the criticisms of Sweet Water Organics is now online at http://bayviewcompass.com/archives/11665.

Sprawling splendor of a nonlinear story

Russ Bickerstaff has been writing a hypertext novel for some time and it's fascinating.

What's a hypertext novel? Imagine a cross between an old text adventure game and an experimental literary novel where the characters are somewhat aware they're characters, then click on the link to see for yourself.

https://sites.google.com/site/blakemorely/

What's also impressive is the sheer volume of content he's written, which should serve as an inspiration to writers everywhere.

Powell’s latest feels playful and honest

Courageous. Charming. A lot of laughs.

That’s the staccato lead describing my reactions to In Love…Yet Again, Jason Powell’s comic musical romp at the Alchemist Theatre that chronicles a man’s lifetime of failed relationships. If not for all the kissing, dating, and alleged lovemaking his eponymous character actually experiences, it felt like Powell was retelling significant chunks of my own life history with respect to females.

Powell repeatedly falls for beautiful, brainy, occupied women, then writes them a song that utterly fails to win their hearts.

He describes his romantic exploits to an unnamed female friend onstage (Joanna H. Kerner), who prods him on like a wry psychoanalyst. Two able actresses (Katy Johnson and Ashley Retzlaff) rotate roles as the girl of the moment, reenacting key scenes with Powell, who plays both the reflective narrator and lead actor in his own (presumably quasi-autobiographical) story. The play is directed by Mallory Metoxen with tech by Sydonia Lucchesi.

The romantic exploits start in grade school, with Powell crushing over the nerdy girl at the back of whose head he stares for seven hours a day. They trade love notes and are urged to kiss on the playground tire swing, but alas, it was not to be. This pattern continues into adulthood and via new media with much comic effect. I could relate.

The night I attended was a blast not only because of what went right but also because of what went wrong. When Powell bursts out from behind the curtain singing and doing a little jig, I admit my expectations were upset. I was anticipating a narrative play with characters and plot, but instead he starts delivering a singing monologue about his dating history. What was I in for?

The happy accident of knocking over the guitar broke the ice. 

Mid-dance, Powell picks it up like a wounded bird and strums away. But when he sits down to tune the guitar for the next song, I could sense seething expletives unspoken as the musician’s tool has now been rendered out of tune. Yet the show must go on! Powell and company use the damaged guitar to their advantage, joking about it to incorporate it into their presentation. From the moment the guitar fell, the landmine of self-referential self-importance was defused and a bond with the audience formed. This wasn’t going to be a perfect show about a whiny guy; this was a real show, warts and all, about something more universal—relationships—delivered for our entertainment as the more-or-less real guy, warts and all, bravely pokes fun at scenes reimagined from his own life. That kind of exposition of self takes courage.

I got the feeling that this show was something of a tour de force for Powell, its writer, musician, and lead actor.

His plays tend to include a trio of cute chorus girls and In Love… is no exception. Credit must go to the versatile supporting cast, who play the parade of women in Powell’s life and are able to counterbalance and appropriately undercut Powell's sometimes heavy narrative. Johnson worked with Powell in Fortuna, reprising here as a feisty redhead with a clean, high singing voice. Retzlaff hails from my alma mater, Ripon College, and delivers a captivating performance with an impressive range of facial expressions. Kerner holds everything together, plays guitar, and alternates as the mysterious recurring Zoe character by donning a ridiculous blonde wig.

After intermission, Powell calls an audience member onstage for a “date” during which both are suitably embarrassed as he serenades her with the lyrics, “I want to fill you up…with my babies.” As the audience started singing along a cappella, it felt like we were lifting lighters and swaying together to a wedding song everybody knew.

Powell’s catchy music, which feels like a cult indie folk album, blends all the dense geeky silliness we have come to expect following Invader and Fortuna. I woke up the next morning with the titular song in my head.

From an evolutionary biology perspective, In Love…Yet Again is also the perfect calling card broadcasting the fitness of the presumably single male who created it. It’s birdsong advertising Powell’s matured availability. It projects the character of a sensitive, creative guy who’s been wounded a few times, caused a few wounds himself, but remains buoyed by an innate boyish optimism that might best be called human.

If the honesty is genuine, then I wish the man much luck, for such a character deserves another chance to love and be loved. But whether or not it’s genuine for him or for us, and whether or not we're boys or girls or in a relationship or not, isn’t that what we all want?

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