Tag: writing

Stream – Morning Pages & stuck thoughts- 12/27/21

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

Part II of The Field Trip


The guy eats vulnerability like a military mission. You had to hand it to him. But with one of those “As Seen On TV” reachy sticks with a gripper you squeeze enough times to get your fist strength back. Sh, don’t tell em it’s a workout. Hand it to em like a nuclear hot potato. Good evening, ye self-absorbed, clenched megalomaniac. Got talent? Sure, sure you do, but it sucks all of the energy mustered out of the room, charges a toll, and wields a lazy privilege based on popularity—I never agreed to it. A delusional mod blink. Someone should stick it to Warhol and counter but anything fabber would be, what, a theme park animatron restaurant. 3D projection on a plate of ads and entertaining stories. Wait, tell me now how myths relate to greater human interest over 300 channels of protagonists yelling drama drama drama makes the world turn. Tell me your story next and make it good.
And hey, bonerfide poet, how’s this for
en
jamb
ment
On my shopping list of prose, I noted to note
the function of imagery in a poem, which is to
produce imagery from a poem. That’ll be $50.
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Next we’ll learn what art is
by studying society,
superheroes, net worth,
pedigreed, the golden bough
of breakdown, negative capability,
and negative urgency.
Movements don’t get old, apparently.
That or postmodernism was the last
great lazy law of least energy.
Dark matter masters conclusion,
and don’t forget to touch on rhyme & movement.
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There’s a difference between hitting the same buttons every day and daily learning new buttons.
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Are we still investigating answers of contrastedly/ dark secrets smiled through Eisenhower era depression. Probably/ no big deal nowadays. My bank teller has blue hair and a tattoo of a symbol that means there must be something more to all of this/ Will counterculture deal with consumerism at last? Does it know what to counter/ or not to repeat
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Rude people throw around the word “honesty” way too much.
We can handle social media IF we don’t go online enough to rewire our brains for scrolling. Can you handle that, brain? Brain? Are you there?
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Hashtag hashbrown
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If someone is not helping you grow as an artist, you might want to rethink that lame relationship.
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Do you ever feel like you’re still that one sperm fighting with all its heart to get to your egg?
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The dogs got into the studio. The one place they’re not to be. Bluebeards.
I’m talking about dogs now so we can all relax. Motion detection on one of the security cameras reveals the most interesting dog in the world wistfully watching the front door.
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Some think After-Death Plan is the name of a metal band which is totally unfair because the fatalistic romantics had the good names before metal ever even came along with its louder tantrum.
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Closest I’ve read of people reaching the source without spirits or psychedelics is with lucid dreaming.
Harlow’s monkey, attachment styles, transference: forget about it. I’m the victim here.
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Holds a mirror up to society. Society: checks hair, takes a selfie.
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What you think is weight loss is just elasticity leaving your clothing.
To stop time, hold your body in a plank position.
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I never bought anything unless I had the cash but my credit score did not acknowledge that wisdom, not until I went into debt with a mortgage. Stupid system.
Please laugh at how crazy you are being.
Do break predictive text.
I am completely unaffected
by circumstance.
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That last part isn’t true
I am affected.

prompts: gravity mantle steeple constellations starved strings floated pause guide enemy risk

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

from the new moon to the full moon in Sagittarius

gravity mantle
Smoke & mirrors collect us
as royal subjects.
In imbalance of power,
lateral thinkers
bow in gravity

It is not weight,
does not dismantle
It attracts—
defines compromise,
value in effort—
Willing past the win
of resistance

Yet the planets seem lighter than this phone.

steeple

Imagination questions without fear,
for no one is listening with an ear to control:
to scold as parent or toddler,
to ostracize as jailers of faith,
or primitive posturing for rank;
to be revered rather than injured,
to be obeyed rather than swayed.

In our steeple of curiosity,
tolerance for ourselves and
tolerance for others
gains accordance.

constellations starved

She grew up playing in the woods, orienting by sun, trees, water, constellations; but was lost here, starved for organic connection. Many had no use for nature but to consume, & nature had no use for them. They’d gladly choose a virtual life if she could only perfect the forebrain.

strings floated

She sent vibrational
strings of thought
looping out
Tethered balloon animals
floated, reshaped,
and popped.
One transformed
into a dove
and flew away
on a silvery gleam.

She let it go.

paused guide

Trauma paused us.
We go back, reenact
where stuck. Neural arms,
flailing to connect, reflect
near easy lovers: fear,
unfairness,
primitive defenses.
Our scarry attempts
to block off, protect
Disconnect like cell death.

A plan will guide us,
laurel us through
genesis.

enemy risk

The enemy-risk effect of the virus was isolation and inactivity. Productivity and trade slowed as the needs of survival shifted. But to Hunter, they were the real enemy and the prey. Meanwhile, all the predative profiteers laughed—a nervous laugh.

prompts: kind stuck spouse vulnerable worry journal conversations worry crisis worthy ribbon oracle rival

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

November 19, 2021 to December 4, 2021

from the full moon in Scorpio to the new moon in Sagittarius


Jake choked off his last shred of objectivity with piercing confidence and rode off into some kind of loner sunset, with only the curtains to hold his hand. Our shared wonder dismissed as magical thinking, wheeled away for correction, argued away as naive—just to argue.

stuck
Kill or be killed, child.
180 shots per intended minute.
Unregistered plastic bag.
Probable conclusion without a scratch.
Presumed protection with intent
to mutilate. Murdered property.
Insurrection.
Hip-hop cowboy, good gang, posse.
Annie, Get Your Gun and a permit.
Marissa, the wall has rights.
Stand your ground unless stuck
interpreting the lunatic
interpreting the reason
interpreting the law

albatross photo


The wandering albatross bow,
widen their wings and scream
at the sky; they circle, preen
and snap at their spouse
in a mating dance for life.

Three million miles
of soaring the skies,
ever to return
to the island
of their love
and birth.


Vulnerable, the reliant pilot hides in a pride of clouds/
seen, the sun comes out/ the complex speaks to the complex/
lowers a bridge open to valuation, closed to faulted criticism/
subject and object scatter, hide in the mirroring sky/
light faces the page, not the eyes


Thanks giving:
Let the worry fall away
from your clear eyes,
For the world turns
and we are in it;
Should joy escape your mind,
allow release to recommit
compliments of reprieve
from lifelessness.

I am your cherisher
thankful for each
delicate moment.

journal photo

Wake and tell us what’s good, love, as the daylight
reaches your mind. Promise to snuggle in deeper,
cross the heart on your chest and hope to die.
Code your secrets in my journal
where I can read between the lines.




“I had conversations, but the upper hand of the masher, phlegm, and baffled stranger would not salute. And the agro. Everything I said was ammo. So I gave him ammo. All of it.”

Cere opened the lid to find furry teal blotches moldering the tops of the apricots.

“Worry eats at your thoughts. I needed to be done with it.”


“Recognize crisis mode. Deflection is a way to cope, but it’s pretext. We eventually have to move past it to understand the dissatisfaction that leads to a major life change.”

“Huh. I’ll think about that,” Greg said. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m working on a new perspective,” she said, taping up the last box. The movers would be arriving any time now. “Ultimately, I’m on your side and hope we get to share a better future. Call me after you’ve answered your own call.”


two crows photo




You are shiny,
like teeth bared
through organic
murmuration.

Is it the love shown
or the love deserved
that makes us worthy?

Two lorn brood
recuperate
in innate pattern,
flockwise;
their calls imitate
a wildish belonging.

ribbon photo
Photo by GEMS by Cherri

ribbon

If I were a ribbon,
I’d curl around your finger
to remind you
that I am always
there. In spills of ink,
siftings of sand, traces,
and twisted strands of hair
Snug between the wanton
hand of death steepling in prayer.

If I were your ribbon.



oracle

She placed her hand on the young king’s chest and closed her eyes: He floated in a river of blood, tethered to a casketful filled with paper money.
Fire cremated the land into black ghosts pillowing the lusty blaze. Through the roar, he heard his name as a boy dipped a toe in from the shore.

The oracle opened her eyes and locked gaze with the young king. “You have enough for now. Do not invade. Take a vacation with your son.”



In returning warmth
that refuses to leave
the season,
mistle breaks,
disturbs a winter silence.
Leave your contortions
where misery can find its
mirthless tune. I’m here
in life’s harmoniacal quietus,
a rival of the snow, parched
as the ground, threshing
its mortal boon.

The Hero’s Gurney

Artwork by LAFogle
~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

It was such a turn-on to have my subconscious hacked, being alluded to often but never directly addressed. You’d weave me in your fictive formula of taking bits from various people, flipping the POV like an atomized burger chef—or perhaps it was remiss unconsciousness steering—then I’d accuse you of witchcraft and here we are. I’m sorry about the knock at your door.

Knock knock knock!

“We know you’re in there! Come out with your pants up!”

But Jake, let’s call him Jake, had never done anything before with his pants up so that request fell on deaf ears, I guess. Jake did manage to get his pirate shirt on and one boot. He bounced and skirted across the floor on a single leg like a pogo stick while trying to put on the other boot. But he had that pogo shoe on backwards, you see—the wrong foot in the wrong shoe—, so with every hop on his left foot, he veered right. Until he bumped right into the windowsill amidst all of the confusion. The single fragile boot fell to the floor as Jake clawed desperately at the window frame. His hip had hit the sill, his weight thrown toward the open pane. She wanted to call out to him but that would suggest she’d been there.

Jake was a self-narrating fool, you see, so she couldn’t admit there was anything there or that would make her the objectified extra. She deliberated over whether this was fair. He hadn’t done anything but try to slip a bit of love to her. It’s just that the ending was clear. He’d ride off into a cardboard sunset, go be a hero somewhere new for a spell. Except he wasn’t a hero, was he? She’d have to write her own history. And while carefully deliberating, poor Jake had only the curtains to hold his hand. Out the window he fell with a final salute. Goodbye Jake, we’re proud of you. I just hope that everyone knew you were set on changing your ways. 

If Only

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

Wow, I held back for so long.
Shamed by how the depth of it
knocked me to the ground.
I am afraid of real hallucination.


Joy, I never gave up my heart to this
shit assessment—mentor delusion.
I’ve a governor. A sea of dead lovers
who speak to me; they say “if only”
from books where loneliest brilliance
never found its soul mate.


You grow better and, you’re welcome
I meanwhile do not have to sit
in the lowly status of idiom’s prowess.
It is miraculous to be heard by the living.


You were right that I am no one
to you—
gladly, to you, I am no one.

prompts: sugarcoat fingerprint primrose retrograde saga dormant hypothetical implores plumes resolve normalize shame

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

November 4, 2021 to November 18, 2021

from the new moon to the full moon in Scorpio

rim glass photo
Photo by _Fidelio_

sugarcoat
The sugarcoat fairy has a white wand that sprays a sweet powder onto desserts, glass rims, and hard truths.
Often followed by the elusive tooth fairy who sneaks in to collect your teeth and the occasional sock.

fingerprint

fingerprint
o your voice
unlocks
cliche
ridges, whorls
veins, shape
disturbs the air
in a lover’s mouth
vowels
of
admission
quicken, thicken
the formant
folds deep
in throat
open and close
tremerous
sympathetic
bones and body
lash and tongue



How fast you move, swift Mercury
how slowly your myth wanes
Appearing to regress backward
as you pass in retrograde

Venus relaxes on cowslip wine
made from the primrose
of youth, when a paused
message of love was new

saga
“Sorry about that! It’s a monthly saga. She sought help but her insurance might as well be a coupon for 10% off Midol.
Her support group changed locations without telling her and, oh no.., I can’t find my wallet—“

“GO!” The clerk said, standing in the rubble. “LEAVE!”

dormant

“The term ghosting is an insult to ghosts.”

Cere cut deep into the burning bush, removing dead weight from the dormant plant to stimulate growth in the spring.

“All you can do is treat yourself better than that—care well for yourself—and love comes back. New love.”

hypothetical implores

It hurts. The expectation.
But it was a lipless hypothetical notion.
A narrative unspoken neither guides nor implores action to reach that forever ending, where pride belongs to everyone.

plumes photo

plumes resolve
plumes of lament
$2k in car repairs
filigreed wreathy elegy
time = money + interest
shearing scytheless stylist
resolve mends or ends
in determination

thoughts
like a fresh
haircut

normalize

“Not everything has to be normalized. You don’t comb the beach looking for the least exceptional rock.” I looked at Ash. “Sorry, the graveyard, seeking unremarkable stones.”

Something like a smile broke through Ash’s stolid face. “Or the bones of sane people.”

shame

I’m a firestarter
A ram bored with shame
Blood cut off from tight reins
Cold hand fumbles matchstick

A shrug-off warms up
this sympathy dance
Great romance cues
the strings, notes
like tears drop
Douse a flame

Relax the grip
gentled baton

rosa gallica

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

classical style from the poetry book, the waywith sun

rosa gallica photo

rose
any of a genus (Rosa, family Rosaceae, the rose family) of usually prickly shrubs w/ pinnate leaves and showy flowers having five petals in the wild state but being often double or partly double under cultivation

Rosa Gallica

O rose, o rosa rose, thou art the same
tho’ rueful romance oft’ has touched thy name;
a passing bitter simmer and a trace
of the sweet scent that simile did taste.

What in your properties do awaken,
from the stem, the thorns, the leaves, or the scents,
analogies of transient emblem?
O perfect love, but likened to be kept.
The cut keeps the fragrance everlasting,
the thorns defend the attempt;
trail flower

I follow the bloomed blaze of vast retreat;
thy path of five petals, count thy wild beat
Fast in the wilder; Gallica scent for me
What lovely name? O rose, thou art the same.

rosa gallica by LAFogle from the book the waywith sun

the muse left me / exposure to the abyss

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

writing published August 22, 2021

The muse left me

The muse left me for a polyamorous cad who grew tired almost immediately. Now our visits are plain-spoken, almost sad. Take place on the ground without wing or abstraction. It is as if we are at a holiday party catching up with a run-down of our accomplishments: How was your year? Well, I’ve been fine. Ron has faced some changes. They rounded up the men and put them in a pecker house where they were trained to work as peckers. He took right to it; world’s oldest profession. 

One very lucid day, the muse was going on about Venus being a disco ball. And “Kiss me with the radio on. The waves they bend my favorite song.” It was a complete creative cop-out. I think the muse was trying to look unaffected by the actions of the cad so broadcast this big happy-happy-joy-joy routine. It was hollow. 

Here’s hoping the muse will become tender again without needing a twelve-step program or a priest. I will wait and meanwhile try to provide a motivating soundtrack. 

Exposure to the abyss

A good friend will hold you by your feet and dangle you over the abyss to show you the footholds in the walls. A good friend will suggest a twist or kick for momentum or that you use bat technology to scream yourself off the walls. They’ll send you training tools like books or quotes or brushes; suggest new mediums: bristles dipped in tears, malleable dreams where sleep is a long luxurious blink. How it all works together to flush the sight of shards of memories worked around the nerves in sympathy. The body forgets its process while a good friend refuses your censorship, rides the shame to shamanic exodus. Holds the flashlight while you climb out of the abyss.

prompts: trust signifies cafe innocence intimacy accidentalist hurt foreshadow sleepwalk

~ LA Fogle ~ Leave a comment

October 20, 2021 to November 1, 2021

from the full moon to the new moon in Libra / Scorpio

trust

Back to the wilder
from collapse
under stacks
of undecayed
inorganic
matter—
It’s all temporary

Underground digs
in sentiment trapped
Prone to lucid dreaming’s
involuntary maw
Steps into the yawn
of your own pitfall

Take to the trees
like Tarzan—climb
your agile mind—
swing from trust-
worthy vines

signifies

In his ghast and livid beam, no colors absorb; absence signifies his subject in virous torrents of rayed devastation.
I am spared—my eyes cauterized at first sight. Mere ash beside a vacuum, patient for the Spring. Cremains in the kindness of a friend.

cafe
I’m a tourist in their cafe
where they talk over a good song;
Collectors of the medium/ who trade
the pain of kids who don’t belong.

It bounces off the reclaimed beams—
factoids, brag, gimcrackery;
lathers popularity
without a sole
analogy/ of us

on the island of loneliness

innocence

Innocence is a gift—mingled in commitment—of passage.

It has been slain on the altar of infant helplessness sulked in vengeance.

It has been saved by the certainty of power relinquished in permanence.

One day you won’t give your heart to bargainers.

intimacy

At the corners of their bed sate epic tales of wind, fire, earth, and sky loving the anthropomorphized form of their senses, conjured from the aromatic pyre; a tinder nest, intimacy the tender.

Not even the fires of hell refined worked so well to warm the dead.


She was an ‪accidentalist in one great big song about obedience.
More deistic than contrarian, because those small-town panderers just couldn’t be the gatekeepers of divinity.
They sounded more like creations of comedy.

hurt

“You’re being emotional and kinda paranoid,” Maena said. “Read the situation like a book.”

“Like look at a few words, jump to conclusions, and cry into my pillow?” Cere asked.

Maena smiled. “No, we don’t read books like the words are going to ‪hurt us.”

foreshadow
In the afterglow
of a gamma-ray
burst/ in her hard
bright light

His silhouette whistles—
harsh foreshadow,
blocking the lumen;
inkling black hole,

a cold hero’s trope

sleepwalk

I sleepwalk & talk
expose the bare truth
that fear & pain
hang from the pall
that covers the life of day

Mantle worn by soothsayer
who blankets infantile babe

There, in low waves
while the mind hides
memories, ring words
of the dissembler:
vestments
unpicked to rags

©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle