by Nathan Moore and Dana Guthrie Martin

My fleeting Lesbians,
passive, delicate. My girls
come quickly; move through me
and into my sinus passages.
Queue up your daring digital appetites.
Eat acrid soil, incite remorse.
You come desiring homes on the Internet.
With what omniscient care you lube your cars,
jets of oil lacing your doldrums.
Acquiesce to the ardor of gravity’s tomb?
Better to hang like a possum under a branch:
to levitate like animals — reassure us!

* * *
Process Notes

This poem was inspired by Nathan’s inspired poem bullshit for Poetry x 12. You can find that poem bullshit here. You can find the piece by Catullus in Latin here.

Step 1
First, realize that people can tell when they are about to write a poem. There is a distinct difference between feeling like writing a poem and knowing you are about to write one. Learn to tell the difference between the two states. When you are about to write a poem, your mouth will produce a lot of saliva and you will feel an unusual heaviness in your throat.

Step 2
Place your head over your writing table. Try not to tilt your head forward. Keeping your head up will make it easier on your chest when the poetry-writing begins.

Step 3
Hold your nose shut with your index finger and thumb to prevent words coming out of your nose. If this does happen, the words will burn and leave an unpleasant smell in your nostrils for a long time.

Step 4
Watch how long you remain at the table. If you keep trying to write a poem but nothing comes out other than a few dry phrases, take several deep breaths. Step away from the table if needed, but don’t stray too far — the poem could spew forth all at once at any moment.

Step 5
Avoid drinking or eating anything directly after writing a poem. You don’t want to irritate your body any more. After a few minutes, try sipping water slowly — don’t gulp it down. Lay off any stronger beverages or food for a few hours, even if you feel fine.

Step 6
Attempt to get rid of that telltale writing aftermath as soon as possible. You may want to wash your writing table off more than once if you don’t want to see or smell the mess.

Step 7
Use mouthwash or toothpaste to get the last traces of words out of your mouth. Words can sometimes contain impurities that can get trapped in your teeth during the process of writing a poem.

* * *
Process Notes

This is a “found” poem, which I am submitting to Nathan Moore’s Found Poetry group over at Read Write Poem. I took the steps from wikihow’s “How to Vomit Without Making a Mess” entry and modified it a bit, obviously.

I
the corridor is a throat
that breathes like a stem

II
flesh is expensive and vast
mosquitoes move by way of jets

III
point to my body
explain how to negotiate lungs

IV
weight retains breath
terracotta controls sunset

V
what I regret most is language
rocks sinking in water

VI
as if last impulses were ground
to pigment and sifted into air

VII
and sickness renders itself in realia
the smell of plums a cologne

VIII
a broken vein washes the heart
the incompetence of filled space

IX
underneath orange
a shifting blue apology gasps

* * *
Process Notes

Man, oh man. This is my response to this week’s Read Write Prompt over at Read Write Poem. It was not easy! I can’t believe I made people do this prompt. I’m really sorry if it was difficult for other members. (I bet it wasn’t — you all probably sailed through it with no troubles whatsoever.)

OK, now let me talk about my process for real: I took one of my own poems and dropped it into a translator then translated it to German, French and Italian. I would say that the resulting poem is probably about half transliterated. It’s also only a tiny fraction of the poem I put in the generator: This much material is about all I could work with in the end. It’s not that I couldn’t transliterate more than I did, but rather that I could not come up with anything that hung together at all. I liked individual phrases and lines but didn’t feel they added up to anything.

Killing a woman is not a difficult task, provided you have the stomach for it. Follow these steps to slaughter a woman humanely and without making a mess.

Step 1
Prepare the area for killing the woman. Set out a bucket and a sharp knife beforehand. You might also want to get a chopping block and some towels ready.

Step 2
Catch the woman. Surprise her in the bedroom by grabbing her firmly around the feet and sweeping her into the air. She will struggle and panic, but if you hold tightly she will eventually calm down.

Step 3
Decide on your killing method. You can either wring the woman’s neck or chop off her head. The latter might be technically faster, but in takes more preparation and ends up in a mess.

Step 4
Wring the woman’s neck by firmly gripping the neck while you hold the woman by her feet. Pull down on the neck, and then quickly bend it upwards until you feel the neck snap. Make the movement in one strong, fluid motion.

Step 5
After you snap the woman’s neck, the arms will start to flap as a last reflex. Let the woman run around in an enclosed space until the nerves have released their energy. The woman will then die.

Step 6
Use your knife to cut the woman’s jugular, without cutting through the back of the neck. Hang the woman neck down over a bucket to let the blood drain.

* * *
Process Notes

This is a semi-found poem written for Nathan Moore’s Found Poetry activity at Read Write Poem. I substituted “woman” for the words “chicken” and “bird” and substituted “her” or “she” for the word “it.” The original piece is “How to Kill a Chicken” from eHow. My friend Jeremy Halinen sent me the link so props to him.

I am a victim intent on stripping :: my corsets exit the room

Think of memos for the reporters :: how our story would read backwards

More clumsy news :: you emerge from the hallway and call me an exit

Reassured by equations we arrive at retractions :: no and no

Help arrives in enormous heads :: who will publicize the injury

Routine is discouraged :: all signs point to another sticky outcome

When we walked hand in hand they whispered fool :: was it unwise to listen

* * *
Process Notes

This poem originally appeared at Mutating the Signature when Nathan Moore and I were using that site as a shared blogging space. It’s here now. I wrote it April 11, 2009, during NaPoWriMo. I don’t think this is even the latest version, but I have no idea where the latest version is, so this draft will have to do.

1.
Before fear hovers the variable chord.

2.
The chord hopes?

3.
Because the diminished chord teaches the major chord to ache.

4.
Before the performance, the chord fiddles over an angry roster of tired symphonies. The chord threatens to turn inside out.

5.
The chord wades its own notes like an alcoholic. Why can’t the brown notes sound as pure as the white ones?

6.
Against a chord sleeps the imprecise moment.

7.
The earliest attempt appropriates the chord.

8.
This chord glimmers, a bull illuminated by a disco ball.

9.
Underneath the oboe scratches a restless chord.

10.
Ambitious chords stretch sound over hides.

11.
An unpredictable chord informs the vocal body.

12.
When will the jaded chord overlap the romantic chord?

13.
Then a confusing chord roots for the cheap seats.

14.
Afterward, the chord is swallowed whole.

15.
When the chord hums.

16.
The shouted chord has the least resonance.

17.
How the chord congratulates decay.

18.
These chance chords.

19.
The chord becomes jelly, becomes circumstance, becomes lubricant.

20.
The chord calls and responds to calls.

21.
If every chord is a construct.

***
Process Notes

I had a process for writing this poem, but I am not revealing that process yet.

Your submission was received without the customary
and necessary self-addressed, stamped envelope.
Do you have any idea what this does to me?

I am writing you to let you know that,
when I receive submissions not accompanied by
the customary and necessary self-addressed,
stamped envelope, I feel I am being manipulated.

It’s like I am in high school again —
the time the popular guy, Wolfgang,
asked me out but it was only a on a dare.
Or was that a movie? It’s hard to tell.

What isn’t hard to tell is that this submission
has no envelope, other than the one
it came in, which I’ve managed to shred.

This means very little to you but what it means
on my end is I had no return address. I had to search
for your address on whitepages.com so I could send you
this postcard letting you know I had no address
to which to send your submission.

Then I had to buy a plane ticket and rent a car
so I could drive by your house to make sure
it was really where you lived.

Most editors would simply discard submissions
such as yours because it is impossible for us to afford
the return postage, plane fare and car rental.

(Not to mention the time spent squatting in the bushes waiting
for you to emerge from your house so we can be certain
you live where we think you live. We wouldn’t want to send
a postcard to the wrong residence, after all.)

But I am a poet, too, and as such I want to help you.
It’s very important for me to send you this postcard
letting you know I am rejecting your work.

This is why I’ve gone to such lengths to convey
how bad it is. I’ve never seen anything like it
and hope to never see anything like it again.

I still have your submission on file. I will not return it
until I receive the customary and necessary self-addressed,
stamped envelope. Then and only then will I release
the submission with major rewrites and cryptic comments.

I also hope you will consider sending me some stamps
so I can continue to send postcards to people like you
who don’t include the customary and necessary
self-addressed, stamped envelope with their submissions.

I look forward to hearing from you. I would love
to see more work from you in the future.

* * *
Process Notes

This silly poem originally appeared at Mutating the Signature when Nathan Moore and I were using that site as a shared blogging space. It’s a 30×30, meaning I had to write 30 entries in 30 minutes, FaBoStaMe style. I actually wrote the 30 entries in 20 minutes, then allowed myself 10 minutes to shape the piece into lines and stanzas that I found pleasing.

The poem is based on a postcard I had just received from a journal editor. I failed to include my SASE. That was a big mistake. Of course, I’ve taken some liberties with the letter. Obviously. And it’s all meant to be in good fun.

by Nathan Moore and Dana Guthrie Martin

• a fixed annual risk of giving birth
• a good source of cocoa butter
• a nutrient-rich additive when growing persimmons
• a score whose parts we cannot play
• accosting fireflies
• active with data-entry processors
• all over the map
• already infected
• always thrown out by their expiration date
• among us
• an inexpensive gag gift
• an open-mouth kiss
• as common as common activities
• avoiding the sex shop
• aware human-sheep arousal is problematic
• bereft of the necessary information to protect themselves
• best viewed under ultraviolet light
• capable of holding normal jobs
• cross-referenced with “sex myths”
• easily removed with a stiff brush
• getting younger and younger
• handling finger foods with caution
• impaired by infirmity
• instantly identifiable
• mistaken for epileptics when exhibiting display behavior
• more effective
• more likely to perceive that they have control of conception
• more than welcome
• mutually exclusive
• no less qualified for enlightenment
• not given any chance to ruin the fabric of society
• not your neighbors
• one in ten Americans
• out of advertising dollars
• part of the pubic transportation system
• recommended
• remaining in prison during their parole
• scratching their ears
• shadows of slant across your desk
• slouching in front of a screen
• smart enough to use the condoms at all times
• strong and comely
• subject to a constant fertility force
• targeted by religious leaders for liaisons with the devil
• usually killed off
• what you say you are
• whispered instructions
• writing poems for virgins

* * *
Process Notes

Nathan Moore and I wrote this piece in response to Nick Carbó’s prompt at Read Write Poem this week. This is our first draft, and we are certain we will continue working on it, unless something else strikes our fancy, which is entirely possible.

The ‘A’ student handles flaws harder and that is exciting and passionate. She is language. Her work often has bright nearly perfect hands. She may or may not take characters to class. She is loosely organic but basic. Her thighs cancel out her luster. Her purpose is to flatline when we want her curves to rise. She must perform. She must interest us. She is syntactically incorrect and our lack of originality misses her. We approach her with calipers. Our memory of her is spotty. She loves the letter ‘F,’ which is a serious problem. We are looking for a remedy. We are cutting class to find her. We have no. 1 and no. 2 pencils for bait. Our lack of ability should not keep her from our work. Sixty percent of all students wind up running in the woods at some point during their studies. Seventy percent of our job is to lure them back to campus. We can’t use the word stay or the phrase please, please stay. Our contracts prohibit begging. We can, however, crawl. So we crawl.

and bit the mango I left in the car and should be able to make it to the end of the block if I untie my ankles and steal a bike and just this once can I locate the leash without a struggle and please Jesus listen to me when I ask for help and purr in my ear your distant support and whose boot print stains my floor and when did the lamp strike the wall and how can I decorate around the mark and if I hung your pashmina there as camouflage would I stop to smell it every morning and would I embrace it and in embracing it would I scratch the wall with my chewed nails and would I weep tears the shape of our last argument and would those tears nourish the cat and would the cat find its way back to its real home across the street and if I keep the blinds closed no one will ever see how I slink around wearing a bandanna for a top and a paper hat the shape of a sinking ship and never shoes in the house and never dresses in the drugstore and I go out in my poor and worn silk suit and allemande left with my shadow and my shadow does not know left from right and it is always wearing black and it says only I hear the square dance caller so it never knows what moves to anticipate until I move this way or that and it tries to follow along and three days ago I inadvertently got my shadow in a strangle-hold when our signals crossed and even though I apologized and brought flowers it still will not speak to me and runs off every time it sees me coming and though it is scared (and I know it is scared) its running is so graceful that I drop to my knees at the sight, grateful I nearly strangled it because, without that much fear that much beauty would never have followed and I need something beautiful and there it is again hop-skipping up and over the neighbor’s chain link fence in one contiguous motion and now my shadow’s rubbing the neighbor’s shoulders and now they’re having drinks on the patio and now my shadow won’t respond when I clear my throat and stare and my neighbor smells like stale beer and fried meat and he never closes his blinds and I’ve seen things in the bowels of his house that I have the decency to not share in detail but I can say that there were objects involved and that those objects were not being used for their intended purposes and that sometimes I think about the fact that a few raps of his lion-headed door knocker from Pottery Barn and a nice platter of chocolate-dipped holiday cookies offered to break the ice are all that stands between us and the joy of a stranger going at our erogenous zones with a Dremel tool and then I come to my senses and think about how many shadows have entered his house never to return and how strange it is to see residents walking around smiling but without shadows while their cars and dogs still have shadows and this of course reminds me that you are now more like a shadow than ever and I can barely remember a time when my thoughts did not pass clean through you

* * *
Process Notes

Nathan Moore and I started this poem as a wall post on his Facebook page. Then we did some more work on it over here. Now we are finishing it up over on a super-secret Tumblr account. When we’re done, we will share the final version on our sites.