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Trump’s prose Pantoum
(Based on various Pres. Donald Trump's press conferences, Nov. 2017 – Jan. 2018)
They bring crime rapists and some, I assume, are good people. When their people–not all these people were neo-Nazis, were white supremacists. And, they let you do it. You could do anything. When their people – they're not sending their best. I mention all of a sudden I’m a racist. I’m racist. They let you do it. Let you do anything. They’re not sending you. They’re not sending you. All of a sudden, I’m a racist! I’m not. Hundreds of millions of dollars and billions of you. They’re not sending you. Why are all these people coming here? Take billions and even then they vote against crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are having all these people come here… Crime… They’re rapists. And good people.
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Boston's Pantoum
(Based on Pres. Barack Obama's press conference, April, 15, 2013)
We’re continuing to monitor and respond to the situation.
The American people will say a prayer for Boston.
We don’t yet have all the answers –
Americans, united in concern for our fellow citizens.
The American people will say a prayer for Boston
to care for the victims and counsel the families,
united in concern for our fellow citizens.
Police, firefighters, and first responders
care for the victims and families, and
responded heroically, and continue to
police. Firefighters and first responders
responding so quickly and professionally,
heroically, and continuing to do so,
We still do not know who did this
or why so quickly, so professionally.
They will feel the full weight of justice.
We still do not know why they did this.
The free and fiercely independent,
they will feel the full weight.
Bostonians will pull together and move forward.
Free and fiercely independent,
the American people will be with them.
Bostonians will pull together,
continuing to monitor and respond to the situation.
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OULIPO N+7
A Fabrication
Push broom of rotary engine and wheat,
entry word of I forgot,
with writs hard as hammer toes —
that birthmark a slouch —
grip it, strip it, flip it hard —
ramp my share-out.
If Feast of Tabernacles be sexy, a synchronized swim
& a matchlock —
Gone the wayfaring of wax painting & worryguts —
gone like novocaine 2018 —
sweet by nature trail, mean by culverin —
“Goodbye, Lucretius, you idle wheel,”
said George Fox to the Grapeshot.
“I love you,” replied the Grapeshot.
Based off Anna Maria Hong's A Fable, using Oxford Dictionaries' nearby words.
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Break In Hank
The Buick sputters to a stop. Hank pumps the gas pedal and turns the ignition, hoping to get a few miles further. The Buick coughs, the dashboard breaths bright and dims, but the engine refuses to turn. Hank grabs his bottle, climbing slowly out into the snowy lot. Immediately he regrets his jean jacket. Missy likes denim, he thinks. Too bad she won't see it.
He stumbles around to the trunk, searching for warmer material. Scratching the Buick's finish, Hank shoves his key into lock. The trunk springs open, showcasing what little life it has. A guitar case had settled into a mass of rope, old papers and an empty backpack. Hank shoves the case further in, hoping to uncover a hidden jacket. "Nothing," he says, swigging deep from the bottle. "It's just you and me, Jack."
The old papers catch Hank's attention. He grasps at them and crumpling them while searching their contents. The court coloring system aids him while he browses -- white for summons, yellow for verdicts. "She pretends like she doesn't care for me. If tonight had gone well, she would've seen...she would've changed her mind," he rattles his words against the cold night air.
Slowly, sirens fill the silence, softly at first, but growing more ferocious. The tops of the tress begin to gain color, alternating red and blue, as the deputy closes in on Hank. He clutches the papers and takes a shallow breath, choking on whiskey fumes from his bottle.
Hank walked outside the club. "Glad you made it, man," Jed sported a crooked smile while he puffed his Camel. He avoided ejecting the cigarette from his lips when he spoke. "Didn't think you'd come out tonight."
Hank took a step back, smoking didn't rank on his list of vices. "You harassed me enough. The band was pretty good. Who were they, again?"
"You mean who was the girl," smoke clouded Jed's condescension, slightly. "I saw you lookin' at her, man. You were like a puppy lookin' at bacon." He brought his hands up to imitate paws. Hank wished he'd've let them go farther, and put out the cigarette.
"Fuck you, Jed. I only came out because you told me to."
"She's why, man. Jenny said you'd get along." Jed never shut up about Jenny. Hank hated it. "And, I've been thinking you could use some time outta the house. Or, you know, I could use some time with you outta the house."
Hank cringed, and took out his phone. He fumbled through his emails, fidgeting. "You know I don't like being set up." Jed threw his Camel into the street. "Her name's Missy," he said walking toward the door. "It's up to you, man, but she knows you want to meet her."
The mail slot clicked as envelopes fell on the carpet. Hank ignored them at first, staring into the blank television screen. I wish he'd die, he thought, pointing two fingers at the mailman's reflection. Eventually, he raised himself from the Lazy-Boy, shuffling toward the door.
He sifted the post, walking toward the trash can, where he tossed a coupon packet, a "final notice" from the power company, and a post card from Jed and Jenny into the bin. The last letter was return-addressed from the municipal court.
Hank picked at the stamp, dragging his feet. He set the envelope on the TV and sank back into the recliner. He could feel static in his hair. The TV seemed to bow under the weight of the paper. Hank imagined the words "Restraining Order" igniting the letter.
He clicked the remote and the TV flickered to life. He switched the channel, trying to shut out any bad thoughts. And, suddenly, he stopped. A woman held a guitar on the screen. A reporter shoved a microphone toward her. The woman smiled, and shuddered from excitement. Missy?
The strip mall was silent when the Buick slid down the entrance ramp. The door creaked open, spilling a preemptive alarm into the surrounding woods. Hank's boot crunched on the fresh snow, his bottle cracked as he twisted the sealed lid. He stared at the music shop, which appeared blurry through the tears welling in his eyes.
"She left me because I'm no good to her. Because, I," he pushed the bottle to his lips and winced as he choked down the whiskey, "I never give her anything of value."
Hank bounded toward the shop, plopping himself onto a concrete planter. His free hand fumbled for a sizable rock, while his other shoved more whiskey to his face. Having selected his new stone crowbar, Hank looked at his reflection in the storefront window. They'll put me away for this one, that's for sure. He took another swig, looking past himself to the green Rickenbacker just on the other side of the glass. A sign below the guitar advertised a free case with purchase. "Don't mind if I do," Hank said as he hurled the rock into his reflection.
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Cyrus Baker preparing for a show in Albuquerque, NM. Original music by Brett Dennen.
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Rain
When we were kids, we played in the rain. When we were lovers, I thought you were my umbrella. Now that we've split, I love playing in the rain again.
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