Improv. 5 (Week 9)

Practice with a refrain 

Brittany with her suffocating pants and Strawberry crushed bangs naked.

Kyle with the smoke of his writhing hair and tattoos sallying

“Only god can judge” whose eyes bore

Through her woven fleece jacket.

Kyle with the smoke of his writhing hair and tattoos sallying,

His mountain man jaw slacked from wintermint abuse.

They comfort me.

I can read them like sundials cracking into the night.

Eschewing words of wisdom from Language Lessons.

Brittany with her suffocating pants and Strawberry crushed bangs naked,

Cowering behind internet affections.

She shows her peach blush occasionally,

Fairer than any Kate Middleton.

Brittany and Kyle.

The green onyx of the usual,

Love I suppose we’d call it.

Reflecting on strawberry crushed bangs and smoke infused hair,

They fall deeper into the quagmire.

Brittany,

Devouring words: like, hate, and green onyx.

Recklessly chasing the world while her curls flake.

He scratches himself.

Improv. 4 (Week 9)

Prositity( new word i made up) practicing with a prose piece and see how it shapes. Rough draft.

I saw a man sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon eating a donut. When I sat down he was pushing the frosting of the donut off his fingertips into the open. He claimed he was “feeding the canyon”, that it must be starving after spreading its mouth so wide. A giant bellowing from the ravine, embracing him while he was flicking the donut residue off his fingers.   He kicked his shoes off to continue feeding the canyon and I noticed a ring of folded gardenia stems suffocating his ankle. A tinged yellow and purple. He said it was a bunch of flowers from the hospital he ran away from. He started ranting, frantically tossing his clothes into the canyon till I saw his back. A flesh skeleton with blue feet.

Improv. 3 (Week 9)

Practice with this idea of a failing relationship

White blotches spurt

Out of ripped jeans, torn sleeves, some faded blues.

Where have you gone?

Did you slithered up the nape of the neck?

Noticed those widowed bangs drooping

Over the fall of your shirt.

Breathing cracked air, moistened words

As they seep out the rose lips.

Heavily hoping that your buttons won’t catch wind

Or the dribble of fallen eyes

Won’t you talk to me?

Speak raspy breathes into my ears,

Wet words into my lips.

Your bitter lip gloss seething,

Lathering slowly.

I want to choke you

With desire.

Watch your spit filled tongue

Turn turquoise blue, get locked in your vulva

And get spit out again.

You keep killing me.

Keep kissing me with salt and gloss.

Improv. 2 (Week 9)

Practice with "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota" by James Wright. This idea of a paradise in the first couple of lines hit me so i wanted to toy with the idea.

We’re sitting, legs sprawled, you 

lodged in between while I press start game. 

Shrilling noises fill the room as you grab your controller. 

“This will be 16-1 you slowly hum.” 

"Yeah" I huffed and started. The games flew 

while I just watched your hands. 

How the mark in the middle seems to vibrate, 

shiver at the sound of your fingers skirting 

across the controller, waving your hands 

calling checkmate and lean back. Your shoulder 

drive feels like wind dusting the gravel off the mountains. 

I press start game again. You kept drumming 

to the sounds of your victory as your hair tussled 

under the weight of your wins, sweat forming.  

Improv. 1 (Week 9)

Practice with C.K. Williams "Loss"

The mother gently grabbed some magic 
cake mix, cupped the flap of the box, 
bent a strip back and strained lines into it.
When it popped, she measured the mix in 
memories: The scuffed handkerchief laced H.M 
stained with blood from the fall last week,
the smell of fall leaves dipped in scotch
from cans of Febreze. She walked to the window pane, 
scooped mix out the bowl with her fingers 
as if to bake it with her interlocked hands. 
She thrust it outward and let it fall.