Caught

The colonel twitched
bloodied to a pulp in media gutters
he longed for a bottle of water
sitting at a sidewalk café
looking always looking
anywhere he wanted
glasses dark
fear flickering in everyone
who knew who he was
as he thumped his fist
against the side of his crooked legacy
carved out in bloody revolts.

He tried to control
the viscous gurgle
filling up his throat
and died sounding
like a weak man vanishing
while cell phone cameras clicked.

Brenda Warren 2011
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I wrote this piece from some words pulled from Mike Patrick’s poem, Singing on Murkle. While the gory ending certainly evokes the spirit of the season, it didn’t come out as a Halloween poem. It is what it is.

I used one of the 12 words this week in the title. To see more pieces comprised of words from Mike’s poem, visit The Sunday Whirl.

war’s screaming night

Sky roils its clouds into ragged pillows
spitting jagged blades of light
to reveal a rusted-out river
mirroring rolling flashes of sky.

Foreign soil stretches
under years of rubble
as she mans her position
surveying shattered landscapes
that haunt her dreams
every chance she sleeps.

Straighten up and fly right,
her father used to say.
Straighten up and fly right,
face the light of day.

A bridge under siege
reignites broken connections.

Beneath its girders,
she listens to the cadence
of lightning and bombs.

A bridge under siege
shakes her foundations
drags up beginnings
takes her to a nod
when her father said,
Straighten up and fly right,
face the light of day.

Vengeance softens over bridges home,
forgetting for a moment
the killing
forgetting for a moment
the look in a soldier’s eye,
frosting her present with memories past.

Straighten up and fly right.
She straightens her spine and she smiles.

At that moment, a hand covers her mouth
and pulls her head back to eyes glazed dark with victory .
A blade cuts the width of her throat,
spilling her life in soil
a million miles from home.

Her memories fade into the quiet of war’s screaming night.

Brenda Warren 2011

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This week’s Sunday Whirl words were pulled from The End and the Beginning by Wislawa Szymborska. His piece discusses the idea that someone needs to be there to clean up the messes wars create in a landscape that eventually grows over and is forgotten. Directly after reading Szymborska’s piece and pulling the words on Friday night I wrote “war’s screaming night.”

The ending of this piece was born from a need to use the word “blade” in the wordle. It shocked me when it came, but I left it there through three editings.  It leaves me uneasy.

Vernon Reads

for PN and Sherman Alexie

There’s this student,
in my classroom,
Blackfoot,
quiet, observant,
too cool for school.
Vernon reads because The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
circles hoops around his adolescent brain
toppling his first weeks of school
I don’t “read”itude.

Gathering his ancestors,
words channel compassion,
weaving threads into familiarity,
weaving familiarity into a yearning to read more words.

Forgiveness hovers beneath
broken promises,
trails of tears, and treaties.

Every sign points toward his schooling’s demise,
when Vernon opens books to causes
beyond the intentional negligence of an educational system
that stripped his grandparents
of everything they’d never be again.

His eyes rise from Junior’s story
when RJ, this toppled white kid ,
enters late. Broken by years of hallway ridicule,
broken by a family that you do not want to know,
RJ’s eyes scan the classroom,
it’s a “free seating” day
and a pretty seventh grade girl occupies
his eighth grade seat.
With palpable anxiety he stops and
drops his eyes to his feet.
I move to get up,
when Vernon’s voice rises
deep and gentle, above his book,
“Hey, buddy, sit here,”
he pulls back the chair next to his own.

Blinking tears down into the shallows
of my lower lids, my eyes return
to the book I am reading in class,
thinking of the power of story,
thinking of the power of connection,
thinking of the power Vernon gave RJ,
shouldering his angst,
offering him a Friday home.

Vernon is a hero.
He eats up The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part Time Indian,
deepening his understanding
of what it means to not fit in.
Like Junior, no matter which direction
RJ turns, bolts of misunderstanding
burst in other people’s eyes.
Vernon watches.
He knows it is true.

RJ draws bold dark lines through the pages
of his classroom journal,
while Vernon keeps Junior’s story
quietly to himself.

Chuckling every now and then,
Vernon’s dark eyes shine.

Brenda Warren 2011
*******
Process Notes:
I pulled the words for this week’s wordle from The Powwow at the End of the World, by Sherman Alexie. Visit The Sunday Whirl for more pieces that integrate Alexie’s words.

Process Notes:
One of my students who claimed to never read, is reading Sherman Alexie’sThe Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian. We discussed the book’s mature content, and my expectation that he not point out inappropriate parts to other kids during his reading. I also phoned home to get parental permission for him to read it, because the content is mature. It is a story that Native American kids “get.” They love it. Many of my Blackfoot, Chippewa, and Cree students move back and forth between the reservation schools, and our school. The book’s narrator, Arnold Spirit aka Junior moves to an all white school, so the connection is strong, and Alexie is hilarious.

I wrote the first draft of this piece last night, and then watched Smoke Signals. Alexie wrote the screenplay for Smoke Signals. He based it on stories in his book The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. The movie is on Netflix. It is hysterical, heartbreaking, and liberating, and the soundtrack is memorable. One of the main characters, Thomas Builds-the-Fire, reminds me of Junior in The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian. I woke up this morning, and read The Powwow at the End of the World aloud, trying to channel the lilt of Thomas’s incessant storytelling in my reading. After reading it, I revised this piece, and added to it to tackle that wordle list. Finally I changed the names to protect my students’ identities.

Mr. Alexie, if you happen across these words, thank you.  Your writer’s voice turns young people into readers.  Face keeps me returning to its pages again and again, I love volcano and its mosquito armageddon.  🙂

Roadcrosser

Dreaming of obsolete automobiles
Roadcrosser, the rambunctious chicken,
dances across the road.
Somewhere in her DNA
memories of two-leggeds and the crumbs they threw
fuel her frenzied crossing.
Old Mother Hubbard’s garden and dinner bells
do not ring over fallow fields.

Roadcrosser’s ancestors
zigged and zagged
a headless dance
that fills fowl stories
beyond the demise of yesterday.

Grandmother Chicken danced into the pond
spilling blood from her body
across the barnyard ballroom.
Nailed on a hat-rack fence post
her head squawked a protest song
before the end of everything.

When she reaches the other side,
Roadcrosser imagines the beheading.
Swallowing a lump in her chicken throat,
she sings Grandmother Chicken’s protest song,
unaware of the admiring eyes
of the last remaining two-legged
peering between a crack
in second story curtains
while sharpening her hatchet
and dreaming of Kentucky Fried.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Process notes
The wordle at The Sunday Whirl this week provided a bizarre assortment of words. I thought the best way to tackle them was with something quirky or playful. Friday night, I went to bed with the words dancing through my head. I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and wrote down the phrase: The rambunctious chicken danced across the road. When I went back to sleep landscapes of apocalyptic times visited my dreams. I combined the two ideas in Roadcrosser. It is my fervent wish that Roadcrosser survive, to pass on her Grandmother’s protest song.

Banana Split

for len

circle my lost spirit
church me up with concrete
make me stable
make me strong

I remember how it felt
to be cobbled by passion

crumbling pieces
a myriad of me
dissipate and wait
for a sign
for a passage to adventure
anything but now
circling my lost soul spirit
floundering alone
church me up with concrete
make me stable
make me strong

take me out for hot dogs and holy wafers
let the preacher’s words tell you everything that I can’t say
fearful of my non-reflected face
I cringe beneath dismissal
and hope you know
I love you

in the middle of this shit
you’re the mustard to my hotdog
the banana to my split
Brenda Warren 2011
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Process Notes:
Hoping for a positive piece with the whirl words, I wound up here. Len and I exchanged heated words earlier in the week, and then a conflicted work schedule kept us away from one another. The angst of words left hanging drove this piece.  I’m certain the last two lines are not original, but then is anything, really?

Visit The Sunday Whirl, for some great reads using the twelve words that shaped my piece this week.

turquoise fringe

In downtown motion
she clutches her insides
as passers-by jostle her spirit.

Occasionally swollen moments,
accidents that mirror everybody else’s outsides,
pull her into the human race.

She shops,
she looks in windows, lingering,
pretending she knows how to chat,
how to make others understand
she’s like them

when she’s an outsider
clutching her insides.

Passers-by strolling by homey shops
move in arcs around her
never noticing her hollow eyes
never noticing
she’s like them.

Clenched and unsteady
she clutches her insides
a solitary turquoise stone
cracking in the black of crowds.

Brenda Warren 2011

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Process Notes:
I suffer from crowd anxiety in large shopping centers, and started writing with the intent to explore and exaggerate that feeling. An alienated persona weaves its way through this piece. “She clutches her insides” is inspired by a student.

Visit The Sunday Whirl for more pieces utilizing Wordle 23 a la Viv.

Two Pieces for the Whirl

disheartened spirit

Up from the ashes roaring
like a phoenix we should rise,
proud Americans,
scraping our hopes on the underside of freedom,
building our dreams, simple in the bold bright promise
of pockets one day filling.

Nine-Eleven’s devastation
an urgent Congress passes laws
designed to keep us wary
designed to keep us safe
designed to keep us
under control.

Shift our attention to strengthening our borders,
good fences make good neighbors.
Ron Paul cautions that fences can also be used to keep people in.
America, America, God shed his grace on thee.

Spending spins out of control,
military build-ups,
war,
now the people’s pockets empty.

Dignity falters and my spirit grows sad,
disheartened at the discontent
of congressional impasse.
Jolted into unimaginable debt,
we can’t even balance our budget.
My country ‘tis of thee
letting the rich run free
cut through those loopholes
that bind the greater we.

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Process Notes:

I am not so naïve to think that restoring equity to America’s tax system is the only thing that will solve her budget woes, but the resistance of the rich gets under my skin. Warren Buffet (the third richest man in the world) illuminates the inequity of the American tax system to a group of his peers, “The 400 of us [here] pay a lower part of our income in taxes than our receptionists do, or our cleaning ladies, for that matter. If you’re in the luckiest 1 per cent of humanity, you owe it to the rest of humanity to think about the other 99 per cent.” Thank you, Mr. Buffet. Unfortunately, the Republican ruled Congress does not agree with him. It makes me so dang angry, that I wrote two pieces….this one was the second, but my favorite of the two. My intent was to go somewhere else with disheartened spirit, but either the words or my muse would not steer clear of the topic.

I think a great deal of what Ron Paul says makes sense. However, he would not raise the taxes of the rich, stating on David Letterman that they “already pay their fare share.”

If you want to read the first piece I wrote with this week’s Sunday Whirl words, it follows.

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Hang the Rich

Build a nation
then cut it down,
jolt it into modern nows.
Curtail false dignity
inflating bold ideation
roaring over the burdens
pausing passersby for pennies
(pennies!) in the street.

Pockets of people
starve and scrape.
Pockets of people
grow deep beneath loopholes
emboldened by the headiness of wealth.

Other faces puff up over dollar signs
faces that purchase control
faces that face an urgent
“we the people” smiling through their teeth.
Simple faces,
smug,
dancing in the glory of their shining yellow gold.

 
“Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and
murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.”
~George Orwell

itty bitty titty ditty

Buttery sweet and birdlike the pallid women perch
quivering at Hell’s Bar studded with hordes of goofy bikers
who bloom like Dakota oil wells in the seventies
hitching their bikes, each to an old lady
lubed up and eager to crawl on back and rumble their
bodacious racks through rural Dakotan by-ways,
working their way to Sturgis where all the little white girls
line up at the bar and pretend to be bad ass biker bitches
but later cry about injustice underneath the stars
worried that the evening air will never salve the wound
of bikers and their bitches seeing straight on through their ruse.

 

Brenda Warren 2011

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Process notes:
With little editing, this piece came through quickly. In my early 20s you could say I was a little white girl, greatly intrigued by bikers and their “bitches.” I had some biker friends and got tattooed, but never quite fit the mold. I always thought that it was okay with me to watch their world from the outside, but after the speed with which this piece came, maybe the wound runs deeper than previously imagined. 😉

My diminutive rack made me certain that I’d fall short of biker expectations and that led to the title. I have driven through Sturgis, but never during the rally.

This piece was constructed around words from Jack Kerouac’s refrigerator. For more info on that visit my other blog, The Sunday Whirl, where you’ll find more pieces with Kerouac’s words waiting for your eyes to devour them.

***political aside (a balm for my conscience)***
The playground white America has made of South Dakota is a slap in the face to the Lakota and other American Indians who consider much of the land sacred. It’s kind of like an ongoing circus in a church parking lot.

Worse yet: Mount Rushmore is named for a white American male, and has the likenesses of four United States presidents carved into its face. Prior to the name change and its desecration, the Lakota called the mountain Six Grandfathers. Where are their grandfathers now?

residued truth

Lemony moonlight turns through the room
ivory smooth and silent
while this day’s residue settles like a dust of breeze
congregated in a fervent sweep of sparkling
that filters truth through perception
into moments embellished like tattooed skin.

Our trunks become vessels for stories
cloaked in ink, symbols to invoke
our life’s residue, ivory smooth and sighing,
as needles filter truth through matter
conceiving and breeching
a human veneer.

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This piece was born from a dozen words offered up at The Sunday Whirl. Visit the Whirl for other pieces that these words inspired.

hey bully

hey bully
you coward
you strange wasted slouch of humanity
screw your cheap revolution
stop pulverizing people smaller than you

spinning cracked ideas of power
weakens your granite façade

exile desperation to the streets
stomp on the disenchanting garbage
you spread like ash

cleanse the hollows of your soul
clear some space for light to shine

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School starts soon. That and this week’s wordle words at The Sunday Whirl, got me thinking about bullies, I always have at least one.  There is a big poster in my classroom that starts with “Bullies are sad little people inside….”  It engenders some interesting discussion with my seventh and eighth grade students.