Holiday Preparation

Between my grandmother’s death, and living so far away from my relatives, the holidays generate more stress than fun for my parents and brother. Regardless, we always pull through with a few good laughs. Today kicked-off our holiday cheer.

It was the Tuesday before Christmas, and all through the house, ALL the creatures were stirring, including the uninvited mouse.

My mother was preparing the bottom cabinets for the inflow of “holiday cheer,” also known as bourbon, and she notices remnants of an unwanted rodent. We occupied this house for eight years, and never found more than one or two beetles lurking around. Does she scream? Nope. Does she cry? Not exactly. So what does she do? “Fuck! There’s a frigging mouse in here! This is not what I wanted to fucking do today.” I have acceptable hearing, and the house lacks substantial square footage, so I continue crocheting on the couch. Mom’s a doer, and this wasn’t about to slow her down.

“Oh, you got to be effing kidding me! Ash, come here!” So I do, and even I’m surprised. In a tipped-over thermos resides a hoard of fresh cat crunchies. The critter made a little house complete with a kitchen. Mom continues to pull Tupperware out from the cabinet like Marry Poppins. Then she removes a severely large, sterling item. I inquire about its purpose, and learn that the magnificent piece of silver is an antique waffle maker. We had a waffle maker my entire life, and I find out about it just now.

I acquire the cord and plug it in. Sixty or so years later, the bad boy still works. We have pancake mix, so I leave the iron plugged in to clean and use. Mom continues to mumble obscenities while Lemon-Pledging the entire kitchen. We pause to yell at the cat for drinking out of the toilet, something he does frequently even though he has a freshwater supply 24/7. Mom concludes her lecture to the cat about proper bathroom and animal habits by digressing back to the original situation: “You need to start killing the son-of-bitches and earning your keep, Dumb Ass!”

The waffle iron resumes my attention, and I open it, filling the kitchen with smoke, from sixty-year-old grease. Officially banned from the kitchen, I decide this is a cute little tidbit and reminder about why my family has a touch-and-go relationship with the holidays and deserves to be written down.

Happy Birthday to Me: An ordinary, but very deserving, girl’s short story

Due to some very unfortunate, yet completely inevitable circumstances, my most valued companion decided it was not a particularly good idea for him to take me to the museum for my birthday. At the time, those words were the most hurtful thing he could possibly utter because of the fact that his reasoning was based solely on his budding relationship with my future female “replacement”. I came to terms with this news and made myself other arrangements for the day. Not a big deal. The new plan consisted of my dear friend/horse trainer meeting Mom and myself early the next day and proceeding business as usual. To make matters even better, I anticipated spending the evening with one of my closest and most interesting female friends.
The night before the event, as I prepared to set out to said friend’s house, my car decided it wasn’t really in the mood to crank. Dad assumed I knew about this issue and lectured me to Kingdom Come about how I need to pay more attention, especially with him living out of state and being unable to deal with these issues as they arise himself. “Take it to the auto store,” he told me. “See if they can read your battery.” I suffered severe difficulty believing this could become any sort of a major project. Therefore, it was.
It took one look at the jack-nut in the store nearest to my house to know this wasn’t going to work. And my instinct prevailed. Their machine refused to read my battery. I became hysterical on the drive to the second store. “Damn him! Damn him! How could he do this to me?” over and over, as I think about how I wasn’t supposed to drive the next day in the first place. Violet mascara plastered my face, my sweat pants flapped, and my neon orange flip-flops flopped as I drag my hysterical self into the store. “Excuse me, but can anyone read my battery? Please?” And then, what I swear to this day was a gift from Gram*, turns around to say “Why yes ma’am, I can.” I don’t know if it was his eyes or stature, but my tune changed real quick.
We exchanged pleasantries, each made a couple of good jokes, and he even answered all my father’s questions satisfactorily via my cellular device. I was suddenly having a great day, minus looking like my horse drug me through Hell and back home by my ankles. Right before I left, this lovely gentleman walks back out of the store to ask me if I’d like to get some dinner some time, and I told him that why yes, I think I would.

Well, things are progressing nicely, steadily, and quietly. Roughly a month later, I’m typing this on his couch as he studies for his Political Science test. Regardless of how this turns out, to have this story makes anything from that point totally worth it.

Walk Normally

Approaching the ominous security line at the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, I wait patiently for my turn to enter the scanner. For the first time, I realize that I am in the busiest airport in the world, and TSA bellows instructions not only in a mediocre American, but also in no other languages. I find this odd.
Within a very acceptable amount of time, I have my liquids, shoes, belt, and bag on the conveyor belt and ready for the x-ray machine. This is when I lose faith in the system: as I walk through the machine I trip on myself, and therefore, the agent asks me to go through again. Okay, no problem. Then he gives me this meanish look, like I’m screwing with him. “Again,” he says. “Walk normally.” Shocked and confused, I walk through again. “WALK NORMALLY!” I’m horrified, truly and absolutely. I have severe back pain, and injured my hip working a horse the day before. My stride was off, but it always is. I hurt. And the tears start. “Sir, my hips hurt! I don’t think I can.”
Self-esteem building never really became part of my daily regime, but that’s not why I was ready to let loose on the waterworks. All that came to mind was some poor woman who had just given birth, or some man who had his pelvis eaten by cancer. But I heard the TSA agent correctly, and he had told me to walk normally. I have no idea what his idea of normal is, but obviously I am not.
After this careless person comprehended my outburst, he says, “Walk all the way through.” Well, I walk through the x-ray and stand by my luggage, including my purse with loads of personal information, which up until this point he forced me to leave COMPLETELY UNATTENDED IN THE AIRPORT. Forgive me for not having confidence in the agent in charge of that specific vicinity. Eventually I find myself understanding this man’s dialect, and I wait in the clear holding cell to have my fingers swiped by those popsicle-stick looking things. They let me go.
Even though I probably have gotten the name of the thoughtless, careless, intolerant man who had the nerve to tell another human being to “walk normally” and filed a formal complaint, I did not. I decided it would be much more fun to go home and write about it. And let him piss off the wrong person.

On a side note, it horrifies me that someone with such a dangerous job can possess such a low level of efficiency. If I had been someone dangerous, even just being me, I had ample opportunities to wander off and disappear into the crowd. This is where I need others to realize and insist the importance of the fact that inconvenience does not and probably never will equal safety. What makes me feel safe is when people work as a unit; one pair of eyes scan for what the others cannot see. I wish I did know the name of the male flight attendant that worked my flight to Boston. He never missed a beat, instructing passengers-who were packed like sardines-, loading luggage, and never had to force or scrape a single bag into the overhead compartment. He did all this while smiling and maintaining a fantastic attitude. Someone, please, get this man a medal.

I might as well admit...

I used to poke horrible fun at people who blog. It seemed like the most ridiculous, impersonal, over rated cry for attention. At the beginning of the semester I felt horrified and slightly embarrassed at the mere notion of placing something in public where others can freely criticize (I've had horrible experiences witnessing the next generation's online opinions). I would have rather run nude through the streets of Cambridge. After several weeks I have found blogging an excellent way to share and receive ideas, knowledge. It's a way to share information on a tricky topic, or post/read examples of a difficult pattern. Also, blogging gives us an opportunity to get to know each other as individuals and not just text on a page. Even though we can't get to know every poet's work we'll ever read, knowing each other on a personal level helps us help each other portray a desired effect. Then the awakening occurred: my favorite source of information in the equine industry, Fugly Horse of the Day, is a blog. A very popular, very funny, very aggressive blog. It really is funny how most of the things we dislike (people, places, and things, but mostly people) usually end up becoming an extremely valuable, irreplaceable resource.

Curious, as Always

Today in class it seemed impossible for several people to come to the same conclusion with the same preference on any particular piece. It amazes me how differently people perceive what they hear. Are such preferences (content, repetition, alliteration, consonance, rhyme, etc.) cultural or genetic? Do people enjoy certain poems or songs because of an internal processing system, or because they became accustomed to a particular rhythm? Do the same people who dislike music dislike poetry? Or do they only appreciate certain types of poetry? Even within the styles, do you think people who are visual learners align with and value more colorful, descriptive pieces? Obviously not everyone who dislikes poetry dislikes music, but I wonder if somehow, on any level, the two have a connection. Also, do any of you think it is possible, to an extent, that maybe some of us dislike seeing elements in other people's poetry because we cannot make them "work" in our own? Even beyond poetry, (at the risk of sounding like a therapist) maybe we disapprove of certain elements in other people's writing because we were chastised for making a similar attempt.

Possible Anaphora?

The Cure-Love Song

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away I will always love you
However long I stay I will always love you
Whatever words I say I will always love you
I will always love you

Technically, due to the consistent line repetition, is this an anaphora? Regardless, poetry, throughout my past and currently, inspires me. I enjoy patterns and receive a great sense of accomplishment when I discover not only a previously unknown (to me) pattern, but a symbol, or even a repeating concept. Although I possess no musical talent, often I hope to write a series of words worthy to be put to music. In each class, when studying a new form, I hope to discover the secret form to create the perfect song. Upon further observation I realize no secret exists. There is no formula, and no particular reason why one form proves better suited for a song than another. Songs reveal themselves in couplets, tercets, quatrains, and every combination. The rhyme schemes are numerous, sometimes obvious, and are equally not present at all. They range from free forms to, possibly, an anaphora. And while I feel as though I should feel disappointed, I am elated; you should be too. Brilliance, although often momentary, comes in every shape and style imaginable. Some of these styles don't even exist yet! We have endless opportunities to leave our literary mark, and that mark is often permanent.

Aubade

The Cure-Just like Heaven

"Show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream" she said
"The one that makes me laugh" she said
And threw her arms around my neck
"Show me how you do it
And I promise you I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"

Spinning on that dizzy edge
I kissed her face and kissed her head
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow
"Why are you so far away?" she said
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you
That I'm in love with you"

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water
You're just like a dream

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe her name
I opened up my eyes
And found myself alone alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You
Just like heaven

This song contains all the major elements of an aubade. A dialogue persists between the lovers, one of them knows they will part, and in the end they are separated. I particularly enjoy the language because of the way the each person's speech is distinct from the other. Also, the description of the waking deeply moves me due to the image of a man who wakes, as if from a coma, and reaches for his lover who left and not to return. The lines "Alone above a raging sea/That stole the only girl I loved/And drowned her deep inside of me" breaks my heart. I am in love with the language and complexity of envisioning someone drowning inside of another. The multiple readings of that metaphor create an interest I often find myself lacking when becoming involved with other literary works.

Ode to a Worm on a Sidewalk

Oh! How I pity your tender rosy body;
Laid to rest on harsh ground by careless waters.
Those giant beasts who pass you by
Pay no respect to your lifeless form.

Forced unto your Maker by harsh sun rays,
You writhe in pain until darkness comes-
Reminding you of your home,
Your birth.

The place you were ripped from
Before your time
Like a premature infant,
With little chance at survival.

That is the place you shall return to,
Soon, but not soon enough.
Not even I, who pities you stops to return you to your home.
No, it does no good.

Your home washed away-
Leaving you to an unfamiliar grave.

I apologize, and am a little embarrassed, but this idea sticks to me every time it rains. I feel horrible for these little critters. They are small, extremely sensitive, and I feel a tiny sense of guilt every time I step on one of them. Also, any suggestions on how to improve this piece? And I apologize if this topic has already "been done" so to speak.

Dictionary

Very often I ponder how it would feel to read and retain all the information in the dictionary. Although it sounds strange, I cannot imagine what one would do with that type of knowledge. But it still skimps across my mind. Being the showoff I am, I'd probably go around using large unfamiliar words correctly and within complicated sentences. At one point in my life I knew a girl who did this. She stayed much more modest with her skill than I ever could. Now a new question emerges. The only dictionary in my parents' house released from publication in 1975 or 1977. Do you have any idea how language transformed in the last thirty years? If you've survived this planet for more than fifteen years, I possess no doubt you noticed the change in the appropriate context for many words. When my parents reached the age I currently reside, "ain't" could not be found within the dictionary. However, it is still considered an informal word of certain dialects. As I check the word count using the Microsoft program, I realize "ain't" ain't even considered correct there, at least not yet. Regardless, it made its way into the dictionary. Things of this nature make me wonder what it would be like to have all those words at my disposal. At the rate language evolves this could turn into a particularly expensive hobby. I may need to purchase a new dictionary twice a year. And here comes another thought: How many words have been discarded? And what did they mean?

Poetry to Me

Horseback riding, in America, developed into two major disciplines, English and Western. Within each of these categories lays numerous, more specific categories. English, to name a few, hosts: hunter/jumper, dressage, park, saddle seat, etc. The same concept applies to Western which hosts: roping, reining, pleasure, trail, stock seat, barrel racing, pole bending, etc. I find this concept applies to poetry. To accomplish a certain effect, one uses a couplet, tercet, or even a combination of stanzas. Even within the Sonnet, there are two main types. A solid foundation remains the leading cause of success. As aspiring writers, it is essential that we learn and practice the rules before trying to manipulate or disregard them. No one gets on a horse for the first time and jumps six feet in good form just like no one writes a perfect pantoum their first time. On that same note, once the rules and foundations are established, a certain amount of liberty may be extracted. I've run barrels in a hunt seat saddle, and I've jumped in a trail saddle. I recommend neither. In both arts, a very select few people are blessed with a shred of natural talent. It happens, it's rare, it's nothing to fret over. People who spend thirty years in the saddle have accidents the same way authors who write their whole lives still find themselves overwhelmed with writers' block. At the end of the day we're looking at two beautiful, remarkable arts. This is how I make poetry make sense to me.

Were the Poems Lost?

It seems very nearly inappropriate to label found poems as "found." Since poetry revolves around the proper placement of words, I find this a legitimate concern. Do these poems know that they were lost in the first place? Maybe they are not "found" poems, but "hiding" poems. How do we know we're not upsetting these poems by finding them? Actually, it seems that naming this style hiding poetry is more appropriate and particularly to the serious observer and/or writer of the poetry. I am convinced of this fact because when we look seriously, when we want to see nuggets of inspiration, we see it hiding among the ordinary. It's hiding in the clouds, in the rhythm of a knife on a cutting board, in a recipe, and sometimes in a magazine article. The fun fact is that they are there all the time! It is not as if these poems slink around the house, avoiding our minds and pens, trying to keep us from "finding" them. All the same, it remains quite a wonder to me how someone can see anything, and use it to create another piece of something, very nearly on command. I get a bigger "kick" out of watching someone writing than I do out of watching a series of magic tricks. This probably stems from me knowing that anyone can hide a deck of cards in their blouse. Not everyone can learn how to raise awareness with a few well placed phrases.

Listing Poem

This poem is inspired by an article published in the magazine Family Circle. The intent of the article is to relay twelve ways to be happier every day. Two of the twelve are left out. I whipped out my creative license, and...

Domestic Bliss

Being positive takes effort.
1. Count your blessings-make a list
2. Look again-you needed stitches, but at least the doctor was attractive!
3. Don't stew-you're perfect the way you are! No need to compare!
4. Tell someone they look great-lying makes everyone feel better.
5. Nurture Relationships-anything can be salvaged with enough paste.
6. Get lost-until it's time to pick up the kids, clean the house, make dinner, do laundry, and feed the pets!
7. Remember when...-nothing takes you back like thinking about life before marriage.
8. Pursue a long neglected goal-how about hunting down a reliable sitter so you can get your hair trimmed?
9. Cope calmly-it's in bad form to upset your family with talk about bankruptcy, bills, and Daddy's affair!
10. Forgive-if you want to be happy, you must let go of your anger. Even towards the college roommate who slept with your fiance.

Sexism

In my practical criticism class, sexism and the perception of women in "our" culture is the topic of debate as of recently. This image, which I found on the internet via google image search sexism, sums up my feelings towards the subject perfectly. If a woman is constantly aware of how she is being perceived and how she perceives herself, then why is there a problem? And yes, men and women are being treated differently. Should they be allowed the same opportunities at the same rate of pay and completion time? Absolutely! However, there are some things one sex does better than the other. It's not sexism, it's evolution. If women and men were identical in problem solving, stature, over all intellect really (NOT to say one is better, just different), than the human race would die off. Men and women wouldn't need each other. I, as a woman, personally feel that the only problem with "sexism," is that sometimes women still don't realize they are being objectified. An even bigger problem arises when they do not wish to be viewed in that fashion, but they allow others to gaze regardless. To conclude, I wish to state another problem I feel gaining momentum. Society tells women (girls too, but until one reaches a certain level of maturity, I'm not sure one should make this particular decision) that if you don't want to be seen as "this," you need to dress like "that." Pardon me, but I feel as though that intrudes on personal freedom. Why not tell women, "demand to be treated with respect regardless of what you're wearing, and regardless of you're body type. Don't ever do, or say, or wear anything that makes you feel uncomfortable"?

Opinion on "Drinking Song"

The first line of the first stanza initially put me off to this poem because it feels so cliche. For some readers, the line "I want to die in the saddle" creates a point of familiarity because it is a common theme for songs and movies. When I read it, I heard someone who gave up on his existence because of the poor personal choices he made. Of course he wants to die...nothing is more painful than navigating a horse while nursing a nasty hangover. The next stanza, "I'm going to be a child about it and I can't help it, I was/born this way" frustrates me because, again, he's making excuses for his circumstances. I wasn't born to do math, but I found a tutor and pulled through, so don't give me that crap. And, if he's going to act like a child, then it may be in his best interest to stop drinking and get a job instead of fishing. Oh...but he had a job. However, he quit because his wife left. Well, let's see here, losing a spouse probably means you're losing half your income, so it might not be a good time to quit. Besides that, she left because he's a childish alcoholic. Maybe he should be evaluating his actions. "whiskey is good for the brain." If you're trying to pickle it! "What else am I supposed to do in these last days but fish and drink?" How about apologize to your boss, find a job, and beg your wife for forgiveness?
I am fully aware that this poem is a token to creative license, and it captures images and utilizes the words perfectly. Also, this is the best example of the form I have been exposed to, but with my inexperience, I need to explain why I respond negatively to certain pieces.

Poetry and Culture

Poetry seems to reflect a predominate trend in culture. We know from our readings that forms evolve to accentuate a language. Upon establishing a suitable pattern, who ultimately decides what the content should consist of and why? The most acceptable answer I found is the way a poem is organized. The organization of stanzas and syllables seems to dictate whether a confession, season, or argument will emerge. This seems to be where the issue of translation enters. An infinite amount of words may exist to replace one of a separate language. Under that circumstance, who decides if that content and poem form should be removed from its original "context"? I wonder this because it seems as though the combination of words in their precise order directly reflects a need, issue, and/or common concern within the culture that establishes the new or improved "form". If a form is removed from its culture, is the purpose and meaning, to an extent, lost? Do you think that altering a form or content within a form distracts from the deliberation it was created with? Sometimes I feel that by making these said changes I am in a way disrespecting another culture and creator.

Writers' Block

The more often I engage with the art of literature, the more I find writers' block to be equally inconvenient to a bad case of the sniffles. Most people grow up being told "write what you know," and this is something that pops up at least once a week for me. Actually, I'm having a problem with it right now. Sometimes it helps to sip a cup of hot tea with cream. Others find inspiration during a hot shower. One time I was told by a charming young writer "my best ideas come to me naked." I very much would like to know what you do. Sometime sketching relieves that appropriately named "block" from my brain, as does jogging and stretching. Every now and then a stubborn entity feels the need to block my creative flow and all focus dissipates. It seems like the little flashing icon that the letters sprout from upon the screen (I'm over tired, please don't mind me) is telling me to hur-ry hur-ry. First of all, that is simply rude. Second of all, I find I preform at my best the second an assignment is assigned. I am also curious to know, those of you who preform under pressure, what specifically makes that your preferred method? And does it always work?

My Favorite Collins Stanza

Quatrain out of "Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles from Tintern Abbey"

Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, Back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.

This stanza painfully reminds me of the moments I have, that we all have, when in a single instant we fudge up. It takes less than a millisecond to alter the course of a relationship, life, and ideal. Of course, that same second possesses the ability to illuminate a truth, moment of compassion, or secure a friendship, but I find discussing the element and meaning of chaos to be more fun.
That moment of change is the one before you realize your breaks have no intention of working during rush hour traffic. It is the moment you acquire a case of word vomit and fall victim to passion, rage, etc. Once those precious collections of characters and syllables fall from one's lips, circumstances change. Worlds dissolve. All other arrangements of characters are rendered useless. You might be left lifeless, a victim, a criminal, and there is no physical possible way to return to the second before the incident occurred. This stanza references the realizations one has to how perfect the imperfections of their lives were, and will never, ever be again.

Form is Everywhere!

Lost Cause
Beck

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave you alone
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
No one left to watch your back now
No one standing at your door
That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

While trying to enjoy some mindless entertainment, which seems impossible now that I'm being trained to see patterns, signs, and symbols, I noticed a familiar pattern. Aabb. Then I heard the abcbb. It presented me with an urge to turn this melancholy song into a consistent poem of the aabb ccdd etc. rhyme. For the purpose of this exercise I removed the chorus, or refrain; I'm not sure which is the correct term. Also, note that I limited myself to about eight syllables per line.

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave alone
Leave you here wearing awful wounds
Waving your guns at someone new

So few people already know
They see you come they see you go
They know your tears and you know theirs
This town is crazy; no one cares

There's a place where you seem to go
No one left to watch your back now
Never again you'll be before
The power of your big oak door

Pulling my dreams out of your wings
But what could all of these tears mean?
The war is over; we both lost
While fighting for a useless cause

Any suggestions on how to alleviate the awkwardness of the last line while excluding the extra syllable?

Even Metal Heads are Well Read

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalities
So fragile yet so devious
She continues to see it
Climatic hands that press
Her temples and my chest
Enter the night that she came home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

She is everything and more
The solemn hypnotic
My Dahlia bathed in possession
She is home to me

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Hard to say what caught my attention
Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction
Carve my name in my face, to recognize
Such a pheromone cult to terrorize

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

(Yeah!)

(oh-oh)
I'm a slave, and I am a master
No restraints and, unchecked collectors
I exist through my need, to self oblige
She is something in me, that I despise

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!
SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!

She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)
She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)

This is a song, Vermilion, by the metal band Slipknot. Even in the counterculture of the "metal heads," literary references are rampant and force alternative meaning and depth into the songs and the over all style. "Rings of past fatalities" seem to me a reference to Dante's Inferno. "The night she came home forever" can easily be interpreted as a reference to Browning's poem "Porphyria's Lover," and the final stanza can be interpreted as evidence to support this claim. "Dahlia" clearly refers to Black Dahlia, the Massachusetts murder victim who inspired a vast amount of literature and film. The Dahlia is also a flower, and the phrase "Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction" is a poetic notion that compares her to the flower, and him, to a bug, an aphid, that cannot help but ravish her. Think on the phrase "Such a pheromone cult to terrorize." It's stunning and odd, but is open to interpretation. Since pheromones are what aids attraction, and a cult is a collection of people who partake in nonstandard thinking or practice, often times harmful ones, then how do these words offer different meanings depending to the reader? "I'm a slave, and I am a master" is a clear Biblical reference. The list goes on infinitely; it is far longer than the word requirement allows. My point is, even the most obscure of cultures look to classical poetry and literature to influence their work. Also, signs are everywhere waiting to be analyzed. Before you write a song off as noise, observe and question the content. It's shocking.

Creative Process

I'm quickly discovering the magic of revision. Here is the first draft of a haiku I'm trying to "make work." Please bear in mind that I chose to this particular form because I want the concentration in the tone, even though the subject matter is not the norm.
Bones beneath the skin
Shimmers as ice on the like
Warm as the cabbin

It didn't have the coherency I wanted, so I move some words around.
Warm as the cabbin
Shimmering ice on a lake
Bones beneath the skin

I wanted to incorporate more of the weather inspired, seasonal elements so I tried to make the bones less predominate.
Warmth from the cabbin
Like bones hovering beneath
Shimmers on the lake

Still, I'm not satisfied with my current draft. I'm looking for words to secure the content but ease the subject matter into the message. The idea is convey an image of the light reflecting off the ice in the same way light bounces off bones hovering beneath the skin. Imagine a mother's hands. That's a lot to accomplish, I know, but poetry is about creation. I want this message in this form. Now I need the best words to convey it.