Friday, July 10, 2009

These trees are SICK WITH converting car exhaust and shopper exhale all fucking day!

Oh, Conrad. Here's a snippet from one of CA Conrad's Somatic Poetry exercises over at the online journal Markszine.

THREE: Shopping Mall Trees
for Eileen Myles

Go to a shopping mall parking lot with trees and other landscaping growing between the cars to create this poem. Find a tree you connect with, feel it out, bark, branches, leaves. Sit on it's roots to see if it wants you OFF! These trees are SICK WITH converting car exhaust and shopper exhale all fucking day! Sit with your tree friend. Don't pay attention to the cars coming in and out of the parking lot, you're here to write poetry, not to worry about what a lunatic you appear to be. Remember what our QUEEN poet of merging celestial bodies Mina Loy said, "If you are very frank with yourself and don't mind how ridiculous anything that comes to you may seem, you will have a chance of capturing the symbol of your direct reaction." Public Space is not easy in shopping mall parking lots, but calmly explain yourself to the security guard like I did when creating this exercise. They will train a camera on you, but the sooner you get rid of them the sooner you can train the camera of your brain. Take notes, feverishly at first. Use a magnifying glass to study the dirt, trunk, to look carefully at leaf veins and bark structure. Notes, take notes, writing quickly, as if you've just discovered a sleeping creature that may wake at any moment and ATTACK YOU...
I so get this. The shopping malls of my youth, the spindly trees in their slings, entwined, tagged, uprooted. Sad little trees. Good thing I spent nearly equal amounts of time in the wild, tracking bears and building tree houses...

Sina Queyras, Childhood Landscapes, 2, Guildford

You'll also find some very disturbing conceptual fiction from Vanessa Place. Here is a snippet from "Statement of Facts."
One of the Compton patrol officers who responded to the radio call heard a woman crying inside the home. She unlocked the door with her feet, and the police entered the house. The woman was laying on the living room floor, wearing only a white blouse, her knees and ankles bound with tightly knotted bed sheets. Her elbows and wrists were bound behind her back. Her mouth was gagged with a piece of bed sheet and bound with duct tape, wrapped around the back of her head. She was crying.


VanessaP said...

Not fiction. Poetry. Nothing fictitious about it.

Lemon Hound said...

Surely something conceptual though, no?

VanessaP said...

Yes; excerpt from self-appropriation project, "Statement of Facts." A collection of statements of facts from some of my cases: triple-alienation plus "la chair des mots."

Steven Fama said...

A side note, if I may -- in California )maybe elsewhere too) there is an odd phenomenon, though fading fast:

gas station gardens

Yes, gas station gardens.

Well maintained, often nice, though very small patches of flowers, blooming in concrete planters at the corners of the station property, or in planters right next to the gas pumps.

These gardens have always struck me as mighty incongruous, surreal even, but on the other hand, sometimes the "flash" -- a large plot of orange marigolds, say -- is a sight to behold.