Dogcatcher: Issue 3 - I'm in a hotel

Dear internet,
We're sorry we left you all by your lonesome for so long.
We'll never do this to you again.
We got you something to make it up to you.

Dans' face-washing induced insomnia

This is a lil stanzalet of a poem I hope to finish some day when I figure out more about what the future would be like if it were a steamy presence that enters the bathroom when you are bathing. Got the first line from part of a line in an Angela Ball poem that I read a few pages of during the 'short and not sweet except for pie' Thanksgiving break.

The future arrives
while I'm still in the shower,
climbs the splintery wooden steps
of my drunken nightmares, and
raids the medicine cabinet as
bath steam, touting Excedrine
over Advil.

It's so little and cute, huh? Then I thought to myself "What else is the future" and I thought of some pretty funny things that don't really fit with my stanza...like:
The future is a small-time tornado scattering rural cows,
quitting before break time. "Guys I think I'm done tornadoing
for now. Wanna go out for a drink"

And "the future is an encylopedia of lust being written presently in cuneiform". (I don't think this makes sense at all)


Ya'll,
What is the future??????????????????
Sincerely,

Danielle

Dogcatcher: Issue 2 - like an elephant is always a sad gray thing

something eric wrote when he shoulda been working

At the zoo,
with a camera,
capturing like a poacher.

I tell a woman and her daughter
to go into a monkey cage, where the animals rape
them; I'm brilliant.

Who are you to say
I murdered
to extinction?

The spectator's
revulsion
was symbolic

like sex
in marriage and killing
by electric chair. But it still hurt.

I think
of myself as an artist,
ya know?

You wouldn't expect it, but the lions
are the easiest to photograph.

Hey! I want to show y'all something..(I wrote this during Composition! (!!!!) )

"People prefer what they see first..."
He said.
I wanted to talk but had nothing to say.
One hundred million hearts will beat together as
one
"Sweep the fireflies under your net!"
He said.
But I clutched at the cloth
And breathed in its brown soil
What are the secret possibilities of trees?
Their whispers control me
even in my sleep.

"The word love should never be written down,"
my Father told me.
Still, I think of the things that have ended
and their clinical ways.
The heart. And the dark. And its noises.

I tied my cloth around its trunk
And shuffled to my spot.
The man in the mask smiled down on me
And told me not to worry.

Down went the tendons of my sugar maple.
Its felled body soft and shapely in the dusk.

some comp. poem

I submitted this for Comp. Now I will submit it to yall. Look at that, I just realized I started it during a Write Club prompt.

Bridal Portrait

Gloved hands mar,
peel the pearled
bodice, not knowing
the hook & eye trick
of it - how pins stitch
the excess, mannequin
in a wedding dress,
its blue flesh sheen.
Make my daughter
an insensitive thing,
bark blushed to pretty
slip-pink & indifferent.
Give her the neglected
lilt of newswomen,
parade float carnations
left out in the rain,
I am only here
because I don't know
how to leave,
the plastic coverings
in the dry cleaner's,
pulsing prideful ghosts,
careening headstrong
around the same theme:
to watch a girl stare
indefinitely at a fixed point
until it haunts me, until
she traces a word on her thigh
like flood lines on aluminum
siding in Sea Bright, or any
fading laceration. She ran
into a spigot off the fire
hydrant and never found
her way home. Alone, wading
knee-deep in rain water. A man
kayaks in front of the 7-11,
a man makes it onto the news.

This poem I am posting is like the pennies that nice people throw into those red containers that salvation army bell ringers stand by, singing Christmas carols badly out of tune

I support this blog. I thought I would show my support by posting a poem. It is about attending a moving musical experience with your best friend. Sorry if it is boring to you because you weren't there. Sorry that you weren't there. Oh yeh, this is Danielle.


Lost in the Trees

There were rumors of live music tonight. We paid
the fee after an antemortem debate
in the parking lot a funeral home.
We would stay if it cost five dollars or less. What about six?
And suddenly, there is an eleven piece folk orchestra playing
on the Tatami mat stage of a Japanese style tea house.
We bargained six dollars down to five, less
than one dollar per instrumentalist.
An Australian man with a prominent nose, who
would end up singing vocals, bend down and told us,
"We are going to need a little more room up front". Still,
we never expected tiny violinists dressed in revival linens.
The leather boots of the accordion player growing roots,
anchoring her to the stage, so she had to bend
at the hips to hit the bells with her mallets.
I did not expect the involuntary sway of my hips
to mime the rhythm of a seated listener's ponytail
in mutual understanding, that their silver-maned drummer
is a conductor on the Northeast Corridor line.
Tonight's Special Tea is a draught of their
chilling choral harmonies, mouths open
like a family of young owls.
The synchronization of their bowing
their picking and
the depression of their finger tips
on nodules of shined metal was
the antithesis of mechanical.
Precision approaching the intrinsically human
reverberation of the heartbeat.
Music to act beautifully to. And she did.
Eyes still locked on the tuba's gleaming rim,
she seamlessly shifted her grey wool coat
beneath her visitor's head, a high-mannered charmer
from Rhode Island, who was unknowingly satiated
by her invisible ability to be everything
to everyone
all at once.