ways to deal with stress by lisa pasold

after Jennifer K. Dick, Barbara Beck, Amanda Deutch, Sandy Florian


1. hide a little towel, there, down in the belly of the fish.

2. chew the stick. chew the stick. chew the stick.

3. heaven is orange cake, that slip of metal.

4. fidget with the rat next door.


now,

over to you.

After "Awakenings" by Sandy F, "Burlesque" by Amanda D, " & "Aire Tropicale" by Geo V

Echoes
by Jennifer k Dick

impel me toward
gnarled ironwood
spaced undertow

your voice pokes places forgotten
toward
flightless life-death

line
it’s you on the
don’t call back neon

marquises—what would it mean, shelf life,
toward a shapeless world: globules, static,
hold to glue to

keep in 3 am fluorescence
green light corner stores
together stains

toward
how I remember blaring
so the flame preserved

might still be kept alive
walk toward a voice, to a voiced
white light

nights kept unduly wide
even at ten am
awake, fall to sleep

gruel underwhorls
fingertips
prints and then backtrack

toward sound
now
this refraction mirroring

After Bale by nm, Fragment 2 by sd, I Wandered As the Lonely Crowd by lm, I IS ANOTHER by Amanda Deutch

I is Another


err slur ur blurring
this I and I and I

ack ack lady is
at it again
screaming “ack ack ack ack ack”
at her window all day long
a reliable performance
pulling open the curtain and ack ack acking
till someone sees her
then she disappears

ack ack ack she goes
slowly churning minutes
with her sounds
untamed
projection of
primal core that we confine
in delicacy
and distance
drawls of color

you know you sometimes want to
“ack ack ack” away the afternoon

squacking squeaking gravel voiced
errring release this I
between eye and eye

loosen the reigns
a gallon of dark
drip of the ripe here.

After Jen Dick's Intuition Incorporating Sandy Florian's Fragment 2

Bale

by Nicholas Manning

rains
reigns in the love we
a gallon of dark
core
d-apple-d
antecedents
drawls of gravel
draw colours by the fading
of to hear your ear errs
to hear this awe or
to hear this drip
of the ripe
spring
in
the darkness

INVESTIGATION, After Sandy Florian's AWAKENING

in response to Sandy's poem, 'Awakening'.
by Amanda Deutch


Speaking of air
filth of the night
something barely discernable to the eye
soaked in duplex and pearl

one must ask oneself sometimes
“Why do I insist on staying awake?”
It is simply that—an insistence.

reflection in the métro
mistake it for someone else
wave

dirt under your eyes (lids)
eyes’ lids
and yet more staircases

maison de l’air

house of air

LIKE A WAKENING..., after Florian's AWAKENINGS

Like a Wakening Form of Being
Response to "Awakenings" by Sandy Florian, posted 5 Oct 2007,
By Jennifer K Dick, also posted on 5 Oct 2007

so that the flame preserved might still be kept
.....................so that I may be so unduly, so undulatingly
wired in the incandescence of this
…………………….whirling after the six-shooter in the near day
asking for intervention, waves
…………………….askance in the alcove of all this
so that I may be sleeping may be preserving
…………………….so that the horn-hymn-whipporwhorl birdcall
in the ignition of the bic of the zippo
…………………….interminable stance sentence of the sun’s scope
or captain’s wake devoid king
…………………….or son’s of kings on the angled threshold
thrush of neck exposed to the dark of this
…………………….threat of a legend of a whispering wind
under marked doors dimples dire demands
…………………….ululating dime stores and piled pick-ups dusted
perchance pleased or pleading
…………………….prayer-bound-up in mesh, rugged roped, cuffed
or simmering in the knelt-by furnace
…………………….or encroaching desert, mounds, and burials
should impel, me to compel, me to
…………………….sons and then the staunch vermillion, the burgundian
sky of this or broached topical units labelled lineage
…………………….scraped shoulder putting the back up to beam to
veer past the mythology and behold
…………………….eye in the, still central nervous brachial retchings
flame fortuitous as language, Babel or Babylon,
………………flagging in the lugged-along limping of what could only be
tide-netted
…………………….a state

FRIDAYS, after Sandy Florian's THURSDAYS

After Thursdays By Sandy Florian, originally posted by her on Aug 2, 2007

Fridays
By Jennifer K Dick
5 Oct 2007:

its like bewildered widened wakening to the blank lack of milk in the caffeinated beverage unmurkily re reflecting black back at’cha, atta girl, goin’ get ‘em she’s right round the bend of the blizzard this buzzard pecked bleak beaker of “what cha drinkin’ tonight Sal? sale? Sarah? Sonia?” shrill seal her back into the mire, my eyes stealing a thrill shut-eyed momentaneous blinking until I think it is mid afternoon, no, it IS mid-afternoon, so where or wired the day dawning drawing droop droning on then to don her had, her head, her hope would picket her fence or that cat-in-the-hat nature of the tipping goldfish bowl in a land where her memory is as long as a red elephant, a blue dish, dance that old fandango, eat a mango, chop it all up to the slop shop, hand me a boa, she’s a doll caterwauling ‘long the catwalkline, keepin’ her in mine, is all, ‘tis called fall girl in the green flesh of it petting zoos or feeding bins, the land’s a scrape, a pine, a pencil scratch in the fogged over windowless lace of her cut out cubicles, or I am then wading in the waiting against the wooing her on the phone sitting like a heavenly bee blitzed out on the spandangles of her glitter, this diamond in the gruff smoke-stack ten-pack a day voice, that bull’s a dyke you can’t get over your knee, so strapped on, the bald peal or her laughter’s a sweater sweating angora down into your nostrils, lips, tongue, taste the tattered matter, the hat madder of her maidenformula, this One is forty weight transformer oil, a Buick in the rough, ‘gotcha get it on, tra la li and humpty dumbed it down for Madame four-eyes or -years or -o’clock on this tick, tack of it staged or straggling, zipped into them chaps, her chops not gonna knock any me, any more, down and then where would Alice be, a top, a bottom, pressed in or being pressed to below, or above, the bottled kizmit of Blondie r&b if only Beyoncé were free for dinner we’d dine her, weed diner, and the silver bullet train’s sidling past the cur, the cub of craps-line curbs to lay 50 on red or reeds in my ears shimmering, high C, or see to call it out, to check in with the ump, to give it up, my eye, give it a wink, then let her go