Saturday, May 16, 2009
My final portfolio for CSUN
Well Ive posted all of the poems that I included for my final portfolio. Im baring it all for you guys. I just wanted to show you what Ive been working on for CSUN. Ive been trying to write very differently from my old style, and hope you guys can tell that. Still, the "voice" in the poems, and certain style choices that I used to utilize are still present. Im getting a sense of who I am as a writer. I can recognize my own trade marks like using parenthesis, or the tone, and the images (crows, death, life, Christ, redemption, star light/sun light/moon light) have also remained, even though each one of these poems was written in direct response to a poetry exercise, I am glad that I was able to put some of myself, and my stamp, on each of the poems. Please feel free to leave feedback as I will be editing these still, at this point just for myself as CSUN creative writing has a honor system regarding turning in work that has already been graded. I cant ever submit these for credit in any class, now I get the satisfaction of fixing them purely for the love of the game. I am pleased with the progress the poems have made in just 3 months, and frankly if I never touch them again Im ok with that, but I know that at least a few will be given a second glance. I have my personal favorites but Im eager to hear what yall think, if none of them appeal to you at all I respect that, Ive switched over to a whole new line of poetry and even I feel a little shaky in this new water, but I like the feel of this new ground, as if I were experiencing the sensation of swimming in the ocean for the first time. I will continue to develop and work out my poetry, and I even have plans of returning to more end rhyme oriented sonnets again, but I dont think my work will ever be the same after this class and Im glad to be able to share the end result with you all here on the blog. I hate to take up so much space and time with these posts when perhaps bloggers dont care that much for poetry, or my poetry in specific, but its been a very big part of my life for the last 5 months or so and I thought you all might be curious to see where my head has been at. This life truly is a blessing, love each other, these poems may be about death and despair but honestly they are more about life and hope. Enjoy good friends and smile one time, dont take it so seriously, its all in good fun baby.
Angels (final portfolio draft)
A lightning bolt will cry and sulk
before it leaves the sky behind to
join us here on Earth. Why
do you think it hurts?
Angels weep when witnessing
another baby born. They mourn
because they know (half the time)
we forget our promises to return home.
Awake from sleep and listening
to silence, we hear them whispering
the history of every soul, you know
they say you know.
Their love for us will
never stop, and every drop of rain
forms just one ocean;
they need us to be whole.
before it leaves the sky behind to
join us here on Earth. Why
do you think it hurts?
Angels weep when witnessing
another baby born. They mourn
because they know (half the time)
we forget our promises to return home.
Awake from sleep and listening
to silence, we hear them whispering
the history of every soul, you know
they say you know.
Their love for us will
never stop, and every drop of rain
forms just one ocean;
they need us to be whole.
Old Joe and Death (Sydny edit/final portfolio draft)
Old Joe and Death (20 little poetry projects)
My pen woke me up today just to tell me I was dying.
Death is a baby that smokes a pack a day before it leaves the womb.
I am his mother.
I hear his insatiable cries to feed the habit.
I feel fresh ulcers growing in his stomach as I inhale more smoke.
When he is born his skin smells like tar
and his face is deep sea blue.
He grows up to be a writer and his fans taste Marlboro every time they read his words. Old Joe up on Skid Row is his biggest fan.
Joe doesn’t know how to read.
Death never buys me birthday cards.
He is straight trippin’ to forget his mother.
The lonely face of Death.
Without me where would he be?
Big Steve-o remembers watching Joe go
round and round like planets in orbit around the sun.
Spit in one hand and want in the other and see which gets filled first.
Even the cold sun robs darkness of its kingdom every day.
Ugly children understand.
La vida no es justo.
Old Joe tells his story to his granddaughter but stops for a moment
to cough blood into a handkerchief.
Old Joe can fly like a crow but he rarely goes very far.
My pen woke me up today just to tell me I was dying.
Death is a baby that smokes a pack a day before it leaves the womb.
I am his mother.
I hear his insatiable cries to feed the habit.
I feel fresh ulcers growing in his stomach as I inhale more smoke.
When he is born his skin smells like tar
and his face is deep sea blue.
He grows up to be a writer and his fans taste Marlboro every time they read his words. Old Joe up on Skid Row is his biggest fan.
Joe doesn’t know how to read.
Death never buys me birthday cards.
He is straight trippin’ to forget his mother.
The lonely face of Death.
Without me where would he be?
Big Steve-o remembers watching Joe go
round and round like planets in orbit around the sun.
Spit in one hand and want in the other and see which gets filled first.
Even the cold sun robs darkness of its kingdom every day.
Ugly children understand.
La vida no es justo.
Old Joe tells his story to his granddaughter but stops for a moment
to cough blood into a handkerchief.
Old Joe can fly like a crow but he rarely goes very far.
I'm from (final portfolio draft)
I’m from
After Origins by Jeffrey McDaniel
I’m from electric lights that rob the sky of stars
I’m from Bloody Mary in the mirror and ghosts in the garage
I’m from don’t make me knock your teeth in on Thursday
and who wants to go to Disneyland? on Friday
I’m from denim blue Osh Kosh overalls matched with alligator labeled collared shirts
I’m from the kitchen table where my mother called Columbus that rapist son of a bitch
I’m from real Mexicans speak Spanish puto
and my fists in love with crimson lips because English was always cooler
I’m from shouting as porcelain figures of baby angels smash against the floor
I’m from a Dr. Seuss bedtime story lulling me into a sea of dreams
I’m from late Saturday night booze cruising
and early (light hurts) Sunday morning mass
I’m from John Wayne wannabe’s shooting pistols at each other in the streets
I’m from a murder of crows cawing in the park as my father and I fly kites
I’m from Looney Tunes comes on after He-Man
and Super Street Fighter until dawn
I’m from fast cash on the corner with a box cutter in my back pocket (just incase)
I’m from three schools in two years
I’m from soft promises whispered under the Santa Monica Pier to a green-eyed girl
who never believed I had come back to life, even after I showed her my wounds
I’m from familiar handcuffs around my delicate eleven year old wrists
I’m from watch them try and stop me now that I have nothing to lose
After Origins by Jeffrey McDaniel
I’m from electric lights that rob the sky of stars
I’m from Bloody Mary in the mirror and ghosts in the garage
I’m from don’t make me knock your teeth in on Thursday
and who wants to go to Disneyland? on Friday
I’m from denim blue Osh Kosh overalls matched with alligator labeled collared shirts
I’m from the kitchen table where my mother called Columbus that rapist son of a bitch
I’m from real Mexicans speak Spanish puto
and my fists in love with crimson lips because English was always cooler
I’m from shouting as porcelain figures of baby angels smash against the floor
I’m from a Dr. Seuss bedtime story lulling me into a sea of dreams
I’m from late Saturday night booze cruising
and early (light hurts) Sunday morning mass
I’m from John Wayne wannabe’s shooting pistols at each other in the streets
I’m from a murder of crows cawing in the park as my father and I fly kites
I’m from Looney Tunes comes on after He-Man
and Super Street Fighter until dawn
I’m from fast cash on the corner with a box cutter in my back pocket (just incase)
I’m from three schools in two years
I’m from soft promises whispered under the Santa Monica Pier to a green-eyed girl
who never believed I had come back to life, even after I showed her my wounds
I’m from familiar handcuffs around my delicate eleven year old wrists
I’m from watch them try and stop me now that I have nothing to lose
I see my reflection
I see my reflection (Corpse I)
As if it weren’t enough that yesterday ended,
(its quick to decompose) water turns to dust,
and my disappointment tastes like lead. My heart felt like
death must feel when it strikes with no guilt.
I love that you still think that I am me.
Peel the scab off of your eyes, let the reality bleed in.
I am a hollow coconut shell. Your hope lingers on like a fine gray thread
wrapped around my finger to remind me not to forget something important.
Being with you is like the life cycle of the grandest red delicious once bitten
and exposed its quick to decompose.
I see my reflection fractured in the ice of a shattered pond, gazing at the moonlight as time ticks away, I can see how the whirly bird of wealth doesn’t always fly. My tongue
pronounces words as if I were brain damaged. I’m in prison and I see my cell melting into a cloud, which continues to float up, like a kite floating in the prison yard to remind the inmates what freedom looks like. My wife comes to visit and her accordion tattoo across her chest has drooped down to her pink painted toes, its tune has grown flat and low. Many men seek for that which they have yet to discover while crimson cheeked cherubs flutter in their heart’s; a symphony of crazy parrots
screaming what has already been said.
As if it weren’t enough that yesterday ended,
(its quick to decompose) water turns to dust,
and my disappointment tastes like lead. My heart felt like
death must feel when it strikes with no guilt.
I love that you still think that I am me.
Peel the scab off of your eyes, let the reality bleed in.
I am a hollow coconut shell. Your hope lingers on like a fine gray thread
wrapped around my finger to remind me not to forget something important.
Being with you is like the life cycle of the grandest red delicious once bitten
and exposed its quick to decompose.
I see my reflection fractured in the ice of a shattered pond, gazing at the moonlight as time ticks away, I can see how the whirly bird of wealth doesn’t always fly. My tongue
pronounces words as if I were brain damaged. I’m in prison and I see my cell melting into a cloud, which continues to float up, like a kite floating in the prison yard to remind the inmates what freedom looks like. My wife comes to visit and her accordion tattoo across her chest has drooped down to her pink painted toes, its tune has grown flat and low. Many men seek for that which they have yet to discover while crimson cheeked cherubs flutter in their heart’s; a symphony of crazy parrots
screaming what has already been said.
Saturday morning
While others swim within
a sea of dreams I sneak
barefoot past the
sleeping giants to
find forbidden treasure.
Its hidden in the
kitchen where my mother
keeps the dishes that
we only use on
Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Delight pours through
me as I pour myself
a colossal bowl of
the Captain Crunch. Sweet
freedom in serving oneself.
I (inhale) tip toe towards
The living room floor to sit and
watch my favorite X-men.
Mutants fly through the sky
shooting lasers from their eyes until
You better not be eating in front of the TV!
I dash back into the kitchen leaving
a trail of milk and tiny pieces of
candy coated cavities behind
me as I go (exhale).
Morning mom. I was hungry
so I… (never was a good liar).
Seeing her sleepy smile,
my body tenses up with guilt as if
I was entering a confession booth.
a sea of dreams I sneak
barefoot past the
sleeping giants to
find forbidden treasure.
Its hidden in the
kitchen where my mother
keeps the dishes that
we only use on
Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Delight pours through
me as I pour myself
a colossal bowl of
the Captain Crunch. Sweet
freedom in serving oneself.
I (inhale) tip toe towards
The living room floor to sit and
watch my favorite X-men.
Mutants fly through the sky
shooting lasers from their eyes until
You better not be eating in front of the TV!
I dash back into the kitchen leaving
a trail of milk and tiny pieces of
candy coated cavities behind
me as I go (exhale).
Morning mom. I was hungry
so I… (never was a good liar).
Seeing her sleepy smile,
my body tenses up with guilt as if
I was entering a confession booth.
The new me is becomming (final portfolio draft)
The new me is becoming
old fast.
Like a cherry car that depreciates
in value (is fucked)
the minute it’s driven off the lot.
I’m a collector
of karmaflies and
every time (I feel)
I have enough
I see in the distance two more fluttering desires.
I must have them!
So I enter the night with a dream
catcher in hand,
searching and seeking for
something(someone?) that I know
is waiting
for me,
like white diamond stars in
the black sky whose glow can be seen
throughout eternity.
They are lighthouses guiding blind ships
towards the rocky shore
of knowledge (home).
I’m a collector.
but every time I think I have enough
I see in the distance two more fluttering
about elusively as if to tantalize
(haven’t I been here before?)
This is becoming
old fast.
Must keep moving forward or you’ll
stand still for too long and they will ask for your name.
Than you cant be you anymore. In an instant
you’re a statue, fixed solid in one frame of time.
Remember(what was I talking about again?)
Before this dream began (I was seeking for….)
I’m a collector.
old fast.
Like a cherry car that depreciates
in value (is fucked)
the minute it’s driven off the lot.
I’m a collector
of karmaflies and
every time (I feel)
I have enough
I see in the distance two more fluttering desires.
I must have them!
So I enter the night with a dream
catcher in hand,
searching and seeking for
something(someone?) that I know
is waiting
for me,
like white diamond stars in
the black sky whose glow can be seen
throughout eternity.
They are lighthouses guiding blind ships
towards the rocky shore
of knowledge (home).
I’m a collector.
but every time I think I have enough
I see in the distance two more fluttering
about elusively as if to tantalize
(haven’t I been here before?)
This is becoming
old fast.
Must keep moving forward or you’ll
stand still for too long and they will ask for your name.
Than you cant be you anymore. In an instant
you’re a statue, fixed solid in one frame of time.
Remember(what was I talking about again?)
Before this dream began (I was seeking for….)
I’m a collector.
The wind never caught me
“No, no a thousand times no”
I said, my hands like Jesus’ when
he kissed Judas, knowingly
embracing my death.
“But I must leave” you said;
Sitting on the edge of
the bed. You checked
your compact mirror
one last time.
That’s all I ever wanted.
Up is like down
in this dream where
I’ve smoked you’re love
and everyone can tell that
I’m high (except me).
Our relationship reminds me
of the bum
on the corner of Fifth
and Broadway who you
would give change to
after we got our fix.
Do you remember?
The wino took to coma
like a dog greeting his master
when he finally
comes home.
In those days
you held my life
in your hands as if it were
grains of sand slipping
through your fingers.
Even as a man I
was a child in
school. A baby bird
learning to fly but
the wind never caught me.
I said, my hands like Jesus’ when
he kissed Judas, knowingly
embracing my death.
“But I must leave” you said;
Sitting on the edge of
the bed. You checked
your compact mirror
one last time.
That’s all I ever wanted.
Up is like down
in this dream where
I’ve smoked you’re love
and everyone can tell that
I’m high (except me).
Our relationship reminds me
of the bum
on the corner of Fifth
and Broadway who you
would give change to
after we got our fix.
Do you remember?
The wino took to coma
like a dog greeting his master
when he finally
comes home.
In those days
you held my life
in your hands as if it were
grains of sand slipping
through your fingers.
Even as a man I
was a child in
school. A baby bird
learning to fly but
the wind never caught me.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Defeating Insurgent Wars with Math
So I know that at the very least Lorenzo is going to love this, but this may trip out the rest of you as well. These guys have taken data about conflicts around the world and come up with a constant that represents the organizational structure of terrorist forces in an ongoing campaign. The magic number is 2.5 apparently. If that number can be pushed up, the forces get fragmented and can potentially be left alone to fall apart. If that number can be pushed down, then their organization becomes more robust, but small enough that they can potentially be negotiated with to end fighting. Watch the vid, the main speaker will clarify this stuff far better than I.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Zombie Ants!
(Not really, but it makes a good title)
A couple days ago, I stumbled across an article calling itself "Ants may be the undead." It turned out that wasn't exactly what it was about, but it did get my attention and the real subject was still interesting. The theory is, to aid in the disposal of dead comrades, ants always have chemicals signaling "dead ant, take to the garbage heap" on them. While they're alive, they also produce other chemicals signaling "just kidding, not dead yet, still a live worker ant." Researchers tested this by putting the "dead" and "not dead yet" compounds on ant pupae (which would usually be carried to some safe nursery location) and leaving the pupae around the worker ants, who either left them alone as if the pupae were also live worker ants or hauled them off to the garbage pile as if they were dead worker ants.
Well, it was more interesting than my work at the time anyway. At least it should prevent things like this:
Monday, May 11, 2009
The grand tour of Cyrusse's cube
This is what we call filler content or I'm too lazy to write a real post. Anyway, welcome to the grand tour of my cubicle, yay....
This is the view from the deck on the roof of the third floor where I go to try to nap in the sun when I don't want to work. Unfortunately, my boss has figured this out and come out to find me and make me work.
This is my lovely desk. Half of the time there's a big mound of fruit on the green book. I must have run out. Note the random animal pictures (including a marmot card from Crow) and not terribly visible shoddy drawings on post-it notes from Lisa in the cube over the wall.
And here is the highlight of my cube: the squeeking lobster hanging from my desk lamp and other assorted weirdness. I'm not sure it's visible, but the purple origami frog has a nose ring made out of a piece of wire I found in my drawer. I'm not entirely sure what the thing behind the green frog's butt is, but I got it from the janitor who teaches Filipino stick fighting. I think it's an alien making photo copies of itself, but I could be wrong.
So that's my work space. Yay!
And for good measure, a picture of the turkey leg stretching. She says "magaow" to everyone. I think that means "hi." It could mean "fuck off," I'm not really sure. Let's pretend it means "hi."
This is the view from the deck on the roof of the third floor where I go to try to nap in the sun when I don't want to work. Unfortunately, my boss has figured this out and come out to find me and make me work.
This is my lovely desk. Half of the time there's a big mound of fruit on the green book. I must have run out. Note the random animal pictures (including a marmot card from Crow) and not terribly visible shoddy drawings on post-it notes from Lisa in the cube over the wall.
And here is the highlight of my cube: the squeeking lobster hanging from my desk lamp and other assorted weirdness. I'm not sure it's visible, but the purple origami frog has a nose ring made out of a piece of wire I found in my drawer. I'm not entirely sure what the thing behind the green frog's butt is, but I got it from the janitor who teaches Filipino stick fighting. I think it's an alien making photo copies of itself, but I could be wrong.So that's my work space. Yay!
And for good measure, a picture of the turkey leg stretching. She says "magaow" to everyone. I think that means "hi." It could mean "fuck off," I'm not really sure. Let's pretend it means "hi."
I'm from (my first entry into my portfolio)
I’m from
After Origins by Jeffrey McDaniel
I’m from electric lights that rob the sky of stars
I’m from Bloody Mary in the mirror and ghosts in the garage
I’m from don’t make me knock your teeth in on Thursday
and who wants to go to Disneyland? on Friday
I’m from denim blue Osh Kosh overalls matched with collared shirts with alligator logos
I’m from the kitchen table where my mother called Columbus that rapist son of a bitch
I’m from real Mexicans speak Spanish puto
and my fists in love with crimson lips because English was always cooler
I’m from shouting as porcelain figures of baby angels smash against the floor
I’m from a Dr. Seuss bedtime story lulling me into a sea of dreams
I’m from late Saturday night booze cruising
and early (light hurts) Sunday morning church
I’m from John Wayne wannabe’s shooting pistols at each other in the streets
I’m from a murder of crows cawing in the park as my father and I fly kites
I’m from Looney Tunes comes on after He-Man
and Super Street Fighter until dawn
I’m from fast cash on the corner with a box cutter in my back pocket (just incase)
I’m from three schools in two years
I’m from soft promises whispered under the Santa Monica Pier to a green-eyed girl
who never believed I had come back to life, even after I showed her my wounds
I’m from familiar handcuffs around my delicate eleven year old wrists
I’m from watch them try and stop me now that I have nothing to lose
After Origins by Jeffrey McDaniel
I’m from electric lights that rob the sky of stars
I’m from Bloody Mary in the mirror and ghosts in the garage
I’m from don’t make me knock your teeth in on Thursday
I’m from denim blue Osh Kosh overalls matched with collared shirts with alligator logos
I’m from the kitchen table where my mother called Columbus that rapist son of a bitch
I’m from real Mexicans speak Spanish puto
I’m from shouting as porcelain figures of baby angels smash against the floor
I’m from a Dr. Seuss bedtime story lulling me into a sea of dreams
I’m from late Saturday night booze cruising
I’m from John Wayne wannabe’s shooting pistols at each other in the streets
I’m from a murder of crows cawing in the park as my father and I fly kites
I’m from Looney Tunes comes on after He-Man
I’m from fast cash on the corner with a box cutter in my back pocket (just incase)
I’m from three schools in two years
I’m from soft promises whispered under the Santa Monica Pier to a green-eyed girl
I’m from familiar handcuffs around my delicate eleven year old wrists
I’m from watch them try and stop me now that I have nothing to lose
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Happy Mother's Day!
Yeah, yeah, I know none of you have ovaries or boobs or uteri, and thus will never exactly be mothers (barring sex change and adoption, hmmm.. hehe), but I thought I'd share my little gizmos I made for my mom and grandma for Mother's Day with you all. I always have a horrible time finding cards that I like and I'm not good at buying gifts for people, so I try to make stuff when I can. These are meant to be place mats (you know, so people like me don't get their meal all over the nice clean table). I'm not entirely sure they're functional. The sun and flower appliqué may make plates sit weirdly. But they were fun to make and I didn't even break any needles on my sewing machine (this is actually a bigger accomplishment than it should be). So... let me know if anyone wants a custom order place mat dealy, since apparently I can make them.
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