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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 4, 2013 19:44:02 GMT -8
Untitled
Stepping out, the light pierces the pupil Constricts. Three-ninety to seven hundred nanometers, The ultraviolet ricochets through gas and fluids, Pinballs in the sockets, burning and corrupting.
This moment isn’t real.
The stuttering beat of thirty frames per second Plays out at ten. Starlings take to the wing, A languid ballet of feathers and golden motes, I need another line in this quatrain.
This moment isn’t real.
Chuck T. cuts through air like molasses, The concrete echoes, the slap becomes ominous Like a flock of doves in a John Woo film, The coast is clear but that’s no consolation.
This moment isn’t real.
The warm touch of sun scorched steel, Like a treble hook in the jaw drags me Back down to the hot asphalt, the pressing mass of air Anchors me to the spot, the dread, the return.
This moment isn’t real.
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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 4, 2013 19:45:09 GMT -8
Veterans Affairs
On the road to work, I listened to the blues, On the road to work, I listened to the blues, Thirty minutes early, I turn to work with aught else to do.
Throughout the day I burn, picking up the slack, Throughout the day I burn, picking up the slack, If I can find the strength, I might finish the day off flat.
The calendar is loaded, weighing on my mind, The calendar is loaded, weighing on my mind, “Here’s one more thing for you, if you can find the time.”
Alprazolam and Percocet to get her through the day, Alprazolam and Percocet to get her through the day, Addled, loopy, worthless, and she questions what I’m paid.
Finally she disappears and with her goes the drivel, Finally she disappears and with her goes the drivel, No longer needing to hold her hand, my productivity triples.
Eight hours work in one-and-a-half and thirty more to go, Eight hours work in one-and-a-half and thirty more to go, When I break free, I tear away; drop my work like a stone.
Bring the work home, the deadlines and the acid, Bring the work home, the deadlines and the acid Reflux consumes epithelium, but for a Prilosec habit.
Too many responsibilities, eat late or not at all, Too many responsibilities, eat late or not at all, Sleep in fits, awake too early, and to the bathroom crawl.
Brush my teeth, plan the day, the mountain I must climb, Brush my teeth, plan the day, the mountain I must climb, Leave the house early, though knowing what I will find.
On the road to work again, I listen to the blues, On the road to work again, I listen to the blues, Thirty minutes early, I turn to work
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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 4, 2013 21:50:23 GMT -8
Impossibly long, impossibly far to the other end of the hall A door is there, ajar it seems though it's impossibly small
In between, many doors lie closed tight, securely latched What happened there's beyond me now from my mind the dream's been snatched
Dark, perhaps, do traumas lie? by false memories concealed Though truth is true, is there to gain in memories revealed?
I hear the tales of others' youth and envy what they had But do we all whitewash the panes to bury what was bad?
I grasp for meaning in the now as if what was were not But hollowness usurps my joy in every clamoring thought
Square footage, cars, and fancy ties ground me in suburbia But is it me or someone else drowned in a flurry of
Hectic thoughts and slanders on my fragile ego break Like crushing waves of cruelty how much more can I take?
What life is this imprisoned with my greatest enemy I'm sure some day this hateful track will be the end of me.
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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 13, 2013 21:27:28 GMT -8
This isn't a poem, but it's about a poem and it seemed kind of poetical. I think it fits here, if anything does. A Close Reading of Mark Doty’s “Oncoming Train” by Brett Shelton
In Mark Doty’s poem “Oncoming Train”, he delves into the milder, self-destructive side of the Freudian id (as opposed to the indiscriminately destructive side). Doty explores a recurring impulse to throw himself in front of a speeding train. The impulse is more aimlessly destructive and thrill seeking than suicidal, though Doty is not ultimately sold on that interpretation himself.
Doty sets the scene, clearly enough that it brings me back to the cavern of the Bay Area Rapid Transit station at Lake Merritt; “I hate that moment when the train’s coming / into the station, hurtling, inviting, so ferocious in its forward momentum” (1-2). I can feel the rush of air and hear the clamor of steel-on-steel as the train emerges from the tunnel at almost unreasonable speed, seeming as though it couldn’t possibly stop in time, as if it had no intention of ever stopping. The initial rush of air is followed by a reversal of pressure, as the void left behind the train draws air into the tunnel, backward through the narrow opening between the speeding train and the wall, a subtle but insistent beckoning.
The poet’s choice of the word “ferocious” evokes a sense of intimidation, but when juxtaposed with “inviting” it paints a different picture for me, leaving the distinct impression that perhaps Doty is drawing a parallel between this particular self-destructive impulse and the choices he makes in relationships as well.
Standing in that place, the pressing and awesome power of the train flying past, just beyond your reach as you stand dutifully behind the yellow line, it is almost inconceivable that it would not occur to a person what it could do to a body, if the two happened to come together at that moment. Everybody living in a big city with a mass transit rail system has heard stories of deaths, or known a person who knew person whose estranged bipolar aunt threw herself in front of a train under the influence of some manic delusion. Perhaps imagining putting one’s self in that position is less common than I might think, perhaps I’m just deluding myself, but it seems a natural train of thought.
Like Doty, I have doubted my own intentions, wondered at my subconscious self. There is no want or desire to be dead, and certainly no fascination in suffering, just a morbid curiosity, the rush of adrenalin, the sudden and violent change in direction, momentum, velocity (7-10). Could we do it? Would we do it? What would it take? Where is that yellow line in your mind that tells you to stay back?
The commute being what it is, there is now a ride, compressed perhaps between loud and warm bodies, anonymous and alone in your reverie, or maybe it is a solo ride in a car that seats 55 ghosts and you, tearing through the dark arteries of the city with nobody to keep you company but phantoms of automatons and that impulse, that impulse that raced your heart and galloped your pulse for a breath or two or four. This is prime time for philosophizing and rationalizing. Is it simply an obsolete nerve complex triggering some antediluvian reflex that has no utility or analog in this modern world or is there something there, something with substance and weight, something that, just perhaps, might merit some attention? Doty tackles these thoughts towards the end of the poem.
—that moment is the clearest invitation and opportunity
to strike against time, to refuse to accede, to win some power over what no one controls… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
Or no: To hurry time, to make him run—that is a radical form of submission. (10-17)
There is a common theme that recurs in the suicidal ideations of the distraught. It is a fight for power, a fight for independence, to take the wheel of your life back from a world that seems intent on driving you into the deepest, darkest swamp or the most terrifying, fevered jungle and leaving you there to die. If one were to personify Life or Fate, to grow it from discarded cells in some alchemical experiment gone awry, that strange homunculus would have but one singular goal for every man, woman, and child: cold and inevitable death. And so it occurs to some unfortunate (or wise) people that the ultimate power one can take for themselves is in determining the time, place, and manner of their death. For these people, to bypass the suffering that Life had planned for them, to move directly to the end, to make Life play catch-up, to “make him run” to meet their deadline is the ultimate and final victory, to submit and yet not submit, “a radical form of submission” indeed (17).
Doty, Mark. "Oncoming Train." School of the Arts: Poems. New York: Harper Perennial, 2006. 30. Print.
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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 17, 2013 20:18:35 GMT -8
Untitled D&D Epic
Setting the Table
Day one with the rules, don't even try to tackle the THAC0, We'll play 3.5, three pages of rules on how to grapple. Time to figure out your stats, you roll 6 times 3d6, STR and DEX of seven for your wizard, he's got creaky hips.
There's a half-goblin bard, plays a jaunty tune on his cornetto, Start a brawl in the inn, what's the ass-kicking foreshadow? The gendarmerie show in force, put the party in shackles, Rogue offers a bribe and with the guard begins to haggle.
Then in rolls an important and well-dressed gent, But your fighter gives him guff, she's impenitent. The lord's desperate for some help, so he lets it pass, He warns you though the king won't take such sass.
In the audience of his highness you learn the situation, The town is haunted by the dead, there have been nightly exhumations. They kill whole families and abscond with the infants, Baleful green lights in the bog portend maleficence.
The king offers a full pardon for the damage you caused, Provided you investigate the evil and defer this holocaust. Your cleric steps up to speak, practices diplomacy, Her words carry weight, sharing the king's theosophy.
Time to gear up for adventure, to raid the armory, Best gear for your ranger who practices archery. Ten-foot poles, hemp rope, grappling hooks and some torches, Try to find a magic sword, but they don't have the resources.
As the morning sun rises, the party gathers at the stables, Six horses and six mules, packs of rations and staples. The Sergeant-at-Arms and a platoon of his soldiers Stand by to be sure, that you follow your orders.
This verdant shrouded road clearly sees little traffic, Save for deer, boar, and game birds, though even that is sporadic. The officer nods grimly and then offers a grave salute, Eerie whistling unsettles, but it's just the bard with his flute.
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Post by Dr. Maneep Pamplemousse on Nov 18, 2013 20:40:23 GMT -8
Overland Travel
Three miles per hour, mules’ overland movement, Carrot and stick, barely suitable inducements. Three-quarters movement on swampy mud trails, Kurtik Meander sings a lament for the gaols.
Low hanging mosses and scaly gray lichens, Random encounters give Game Masters guidance. Surprise Round a reward for failed Listen checks, A dire boar charges, most clearly distressed.
Errolyn Gansfedern finds his boots uprooted, The gore attack striking the elven archer flat-footed. Seven frenetic rounds later a lightning bolt checks, Next time a little sooner, the party requests.
The priestess Highwater brings the wounded together, Cure Moderate Wounds a fine blood loss suppressor. A few Healing checks later and a full night of rest, Two hit points per level leaves the party refreshed.
On guard duty each hears a distant, heavy grating sound, Stone giants and golems, from imaginations endowed. Dawn breaks to Lady Tessa making her clerical devotions, Imbreth Embril studies bat guano explosions.
To Errolyn the day dragging footprints uncovered, A mile he tracked them to a wake of grim buzzards. Through dense branches they spotted a necropolis flooded, From open vaults, upturned headstones, emerged bloated gray puppets.
The lacedon climb the ragged, rain-battered levee, While Hyzer and Kremin try to fend off the deathly. Tessa lifted high her lord’s mark with an oath, And with a beacon of pure light, the dead horde was smote.
From the morning fog burnt under Pelor's gaze, Emerged under moss and fern a steep moraine. At every nook and blackened cranny indolent buzzards dozed Near a darkened hollow, the wind flapped a line of bright red underclothes.
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