Who put Bella in the wych-elm?

Hum out your trapezeries
this maid is more at peace
re-earthed in primacy of lore
ungorged and unjostled if
simple carnations, a simpler
incarnation, your tale
simplest coined. Press into
the wych-elm only if
a want to see your own
unhanded remains her
hair her unhurried
frame. Even by Socratic
approach the wary wain-
scoting shushed
and slid in place, a creased
garment ensconced
espionage in history’s
most lurid hand. Which
munitions this winter
under new jurisdiction
her foreign asylum
brings minerals a case-
ment to tower these affairs in
the local most branch the

executive head.

Abbreviated Systems and Components

1. Sonorous and
2. sabertoothed it
3. waits on an awe
4. to be punctilious
5. princely even
6. humble of work
7. then the minute
8. is let out some
9. thing nicely rewitted
10. the differentials
11. spitshine words
12. abandoned to an arduous
13. twenty-some not
14. not inspireless nor
15. virtuoso mammals
16. likely a win you discuss
17. mascot types
18. with your dietician
19. only some ballast
20. among those untugged
21. easier even a once
22. summoned shirt
23. twining so if
24. you stuttering it
25. fluffed you back
26. ing even the sly chapters
27. a buffer 'tween
28. you and a list
29. up up foibler
30. visibly and with some tact

Congratulations, Dathon: you passed your
Dissertation Proposal Defense Exam!

Poem Prompt for Anna: Get Thee to the Internets!

1) Start with one interesting [polysyllabic] word.

2) Go to www.thesaurus.com and type in your word.

3) choose ten words from the resulting list of synonyms (or antonyms). Choose words with sounds you like but also think of deviating slightly from the word’s most common meaning.

4) Double that list by making a sound association for each word. This could be a real or invented word, a phrase, a name, etc.

5) Make three pairs out of those words that you find particularly amusing or unlikely. Do a google™ search for each of those pairs, and poke around in the results, jotting down anything interesting.

5) Good Lord, by now you should have enough material to craft yourself a poem. Craft away, ye sabertoothed Referees!

Draft 1 of my prompt poem

Klang Valley’s maiden attempt
a palatial symphony in A minor
a rather uninspiring performance
that by sheer length alone persevered

the palace was rendered symphonic
despite twenty pigeon holes in the south gable
and persevered by sheer size alone
dummying the church, the duty-free market

twenty pigeon holes in the south gable
and inside, girls having discussions
the church clergy dumbfounded
by the witch stones predicting rain

sidelong discussions about the girls
the ebullient Sir Walton whetting appetites
reining in premonitions of witch stoning
TV crews to investigate the waters

Sir Walton, appealing to the wheat farmers
who were these organic, vegetarian types?
Invigorating the watery TV crew
to exchange partners with frequency

The spartan organic vegetable market
and the new county mascot, the platypus
partnered with the frequently shortchanged
porpoise, a new anti-paranormal regime

and the new county mascot, the platypus
was Klang Valley’s maiden attempt
to repurpose its anti-paranormal regime
its preference for the a rather awe inspiring

They are a Colorist

Swiftly and before you could know it
orange hues, creeping a real live look
while somewhere between sheep
and bleeting sheep, they’ve found you
thinking all wilds of things when
thoughts runnel off parlored.
There is a skill to this lifting,
others always pausing, clocked
to the newest phrasal tinge.
Even in the grotesqueries, you
are thought on, each and every
system incorporating you evenly,
and it is not a necessary grace.
The moon, abandonment,
and other off-limit tropes appearing
as laps to you and an ear to tuck behind,
the world promising you toasts
and stipends and your children,
plentiful, their intelligences to the floor
and scaring the pets away. There
you are to scoop them up, your ensemble
in flame-tones. Not orange. Tangerine.
Found greedily in most intermezzos,
we are allowed to tire of you. We tire of you
because we are allowed. Rest, knowing
you are known. Rest because rest
tends toward powdered values. Silver the dish
where you’re paid, plaid the bag
you fold you wares. Some are stayed just
by the fullness of the apothecary they supply
in native plants: dusty purple, creamy yellow,
the perfect shade of pink to read by.

Your Versatile Table as a First Impression

A simulation of party food preparation reveals gaps in cool colors
and a preference for alternating carbohydrates, stacked.
One tries to choose unpredictable platter shapes,
to arrange things intuitively toward their necessary serving devices.
An all finger food spread suggests insubstantiality, regardless
of actual caloric value, portends a main dish.
Too many utensil-necessary dishes detract from socializing.
One hovers on these nodes of buffet construction, mindful of fruit,
which, though finger-accessible, requires at least a napkin. Also,
remembering names of others' significant others. The social elements
come on suddenly, are best unrehearsed. There is a margin of error
and one can rest easy in foretold reciprocal graciousness,
allowing others to blunder without consequence, save an offer
of a refreshed drink, alternative condiments.

After revisiting, for grant purposes, all the POG flyers I designed, I decided to retroactively add myself to the Karla Kelsey flyer. It's a pretty flyer, and I was happy with my reading.

http://chax.org/2007/04/bonnie-jean-michalski-and-karla-kelsey.html

Closer

The locking parts of a mammal, how like Christ
it moves, afloat and fairly weathered,
despite the weather, icy. Viral hands,

chancy hands. Toward the even girth,
wearing the clock into carpet-like.
Its circling, then, bears of the bear cult,

verbs of the everyday cult. Hest out
of your welling envy; clock each time,
breathing out, you imp. Christ,

his last set playing itself out,
the yaks only listening to. Locking
withers to ice parts, troving in virile calm.

The cult toasts its lasting disciplinarian.
It mends Christ his interlocking hands.
A branch in meagerly affairs, the worst, even.

Who mends the rail; this disciple and that
man toasting one god his chance luck. Lastly,
an affair proves handy to a couple what floats closer.

poem for Paul

It’s a wonder these Eastwood blockbusters.
And it’s always the gore is set down nicely,

primed with shrock as we sit nicely,
spillproof technology for our soda or juice.

He plays the sidearm as if stage combat
were widening construction. His payout

is his long stare, his witsy parting words,
his slow origami affectation.

Friday rolls out and it’s back to the projection box.
We’re feeling sassy and maybe a bit demanding.

Work us asunder with this next one, we say.
Make us daft with your special lights. We trust the Key Grip.

Anagram Headline Prompt, Take III

The Last Silver Koala and The Knorg

If you let go this timepiece
can’t save you, no match
for the Knorg. Timely
enough its make

can’t match you save
reverence for Dogma,
enough made of it
in grave event. Maiden

of Dogma referencing
all six of us lessened,
made gravelly. Eventually,
cent for fern, fern for cent

and all six of us lesser
a count of ourselves as dissidents
fern for cent, cent for fern.
This household

can’t count itself descendents
of those smilvered houses
nor all of this household
who might just let this go.

These smilvered households
wilt the scented ferns—
those who have let go.
Let see you fevered amongst

the will to furnish cents,
pocketed with ferns uncented, ‘til
seen with you against feverish
hiring, the youngest for sainthood,

pocketing, like ferns. Senseless.
There is no time machine
hired to make youth for sainthood.
Hold tight, all you, this timepiece;

time will only machine
for the Knorg. Proves timely,
such tight holding of a time piece,
lo if you let go this timepiece.

Hoa Nguyen's Writing Exercize 60: Another Collage Poem

Detective Fritterwhisker knew it was you
Harumphed the Cheese, belabored the sneeze
And we sang the between, Elizabethan we
Wheeled in Legendary Bodybuilt Steve

To ladder the rose, to rise to the pose
And we, glitterprone, teased to the knees
Did slip on the tile, made fall for the spoon,
fuzzied the wine in its geotrick shelf,

wanted to wed you despite the debris
but you sugartailed and slipped us the solar-freeze
were thusly finned through the secondest gate
gone AWOL at last from the rodent brigade.

You sugared the cootiebug, installed your harangue
Now this mascarpone posy is all that remains.


















Valley Victorious!


She marched her armies overland, jaundiced as they were, wearing the red cape, the crested helmet. A benevolent dictator she was counting out, controlling all the wedding plans. She was like the working part of a lock. She was a tumbler. Without her see-through, sod-busting acumen no forgotten malcontents could bloom. She kept herself abreast. Some logistical problems. An allergy to many-cornered pollens. Trace of Salmonella in the mousse. And nobody wanted to dance! Which rather put her off. It was supposed to be a lurid affair: troupes of masked and naked men, two flag teams wound in ribbon, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing all the hits of Hair! No, never would there be a day like this. The only presentation of her whole and lonely self! She must! She must! It radiated on the dance floor like a strangulation. All quailed, she quelled them with a single shimmy, it was longer than anyone could stand. A fete, a proper indication of her military strength.

Two to the Mat

i. An Upturned Past/A Peridot Pendant/a Wrestling Match

This is my penchant for pendantry. You listen and I’ll keep roundly on
about tactical strikes, about mat-manners. I’ll keep it ago.
I’ll dangle it singly, centered on the breastbone
of this whole slate of athleticademia, this my thesis. I go theoretically through,
link by link and clasp the whole thing through the lap lane, waters a’ripple,
whether the water or the sky be shaded peridot. A glimmer bulb, fastened hookish,
while all convene to dub me bookish. But all I delve is lateral, that I know
what I know. God told Moses and Moses told Stephanie’s Dad
and Dad waved his movie know-how like it was Library. I underwrote it; Steph broke it.
I promised them my birthright was stoneset. Sworn by a matron’s most secretive fart
to snip apron strings from Poulsbo to Buffalo.
If you missed the demo of the Fireman’s Carry, I won’t be blamed
for your being Russian Dragged, your narrow self-lock as a twisted mouth.
I knew it was hard for you, tiny slapped mat that you were. I know
it still facets you, facets me, too.



ii. where they have you lie on a mat and.


It was a Woosh! Right up the.
Schlitterbahn, and I was wearing this waitress
Get-up, all lieder-hose and a really tiny.
I was kind of upset.Really hard to straighten up
But then it should have been a joke, right?
Enchanted Fun Park and all that kind of.
Tea cup, plunge-type ride, and the man in the duck suit.
Just wiggling his ass at me, sort of suggestive,
Really Fat! I thought.
Crouched down in the pool with a mysterious painful.
On the way up everyone was chanting my name,
Just terrified of.
A little tap-dancing outfit, inching my way out and then
It was a Woosh! Right up the.

Salamandra, Salamandra

Party @ Dawn & Erin's

A Collaborative Bio-Poem

I say HELLO to all the ducks I say I LOVE YOU

I say hello to the dogs, to the cats, to the fish

I say it's GOOD to be alive.

I AM ALIVE and I LOVE YOU in your best brassieres

Your duck busts brightly worn

I touch you in your best brassiere

with all my heart I touch and never ever judge the ducks, and I say HERE

Here just lay on this table and you needn’t remove your bust

just like a butterfly does I

like a butterfly in my lightly worn descend upon your lack of trust

Your duck in its best pick-up

All the sightly ducks that truly love and EVERYBODY

and I tell it to make for me a tiny flapping

of the truck parts like my busted truck my butterfly

is big enough to haul your Truck Love

landing like a duck upon your love cloud

and I tell it YOU ARE ALIVE

and I tell it I AM SO PROUD OF YOU AND YOUR DUCK LOVE!