a found poem is one where words, phrases or sentences are taken from one area and rearranged, or altered in some way to bring about a different meaning. this was a found poem i did for a final project in my feminist theories class. it is based on radical feminism. with that being sad, these are not all my words...

DO WOMEN HAVE TO BE NAKED...(a found poem)
To get into the met museum?
"[i portray] sexaliciousity? [...do you?"]

The bitch shows up wearing a wrinkled ass bed sheet - as swole as a pregnant lady's
foot - [carrying] a pot full of deep fried lies. put on [that] beautiful, pleasant face,
and suppress any internal suffering.

[News re(a)l tells us today:]
[story 1:] "trolls will be banned from commentary..."
[story 2:] "mothers killed their babies, then killed themselves..."
- it is not clear what the advantages of cannibalism for the female
could be

"THE LORE RELATED TO FEMALE MANTIDS EATING THE HEADS OF MALES IN ORDER FOR THEM TO
SUCCESSFULLY COPULATE HAS MORE RECENTLY BEEN QUESTIONED. APPARENTLY THE ORIGINAL
RESEARCH WAS CONDUCTED WITH STARVED SPECIMENS." - dress and jackman. a field guide to common texas insects

[why do we portray all] females as villains[?]
-trapped inside a linen closet i began noticing painted toenails.

[mirror, mirror on the wall] who's the FINEST of them all?
[society responds:] snow white you black bitch, and don't you forget it!

Men are just going to have to figure how not to be fucking asshole schoolgirl rapist
barbarians on their own [...]
[so with malice sans reason, she persuades us that] with Barbie, [Ken's] really no more
than a pair of soes or a belt or a purse.

[and that we all live in a glass house, with a] glass ceiling [and glass walls so when people walk past, they can see how we are] blinded and silenced, bound by bloody ropes.

[the news man on tv wants to get into the new woman'a pants. i can tell. so he tries to see it like she does. she doesn't appreciate it.]
[news man:] why is a woman's body considered a fashion accessory at all?
[inside news man's head:] to keep women from getting away with having too much autonomy over their sexy selves. [as he stares at her 34D's]

[so as all the Martha's and Betty's drag her away by her 4 inch leopard print pumps, she yells]
the flying fickle finger of fashion will fuck you up!
[and we think, what nice alliteration.]

Short story 11-27-10

Let’s go to Reno. I hear God lives there. I’m not sure where, tho. We were at Tim’s. My shoes were off. That’s what you do at Tim’s. Take your shoes off so you don’t drag dirt into the house. It makes sense. Any ways, we were at Tim’s and he has all of these pictures around his house. You know, like pictures of rivers flowing down mountains. And pictures of lion prides. And of Mary holding baby Jesus. Then mixed in with everything are pictures of dead people. Lots of pictures of dead people. Mostly babies. It’s weird. I told him that. Any ways, Tim has this girlfriend. Molly, or Holly. Maybe it was Jenny. I can’t remember. She seemed smart. Kinda. Kinda weird too. Any ways, we’re sitting there with our shoes off and she starts talking about this and that. Her uncle in Kentucky. Her mother’s co-worker who joined the Peace Corps after college. Then she says she has this doctorate. Doctorate, can you believe it?! So, naturally I become curious. I press her for details. She says she studied the doodles in the margins of scriptures. Her words exactly. The doodles. I’m not sure I believe this whole doctorate thing, but it seemed entertaining so I went with it. Any ways, we’re sitting there talking about what kinds of things a doctorate in doodles requires. The classes she had to take. The projects she did. I don’t think I’ve told you much about Tim and Molly/Holly/Jenny. Every time I’ve hung out at their house they’re on some kind of drug. I think drugs were involved in her doctorate. Any ways, she starts talking about this class that she took called… “something pictures”. “Hidden pictures” or “meaning of pictures”. Something like that. Doesn’t matter. So she tells us that in this class the teacher had huge framed pictures and paintings and works of art made from string or torn up clothes. Weird stuff. She said every class period they would take apart a picture and describe, in detail, everything. Every little idea they could find. Any ways, she tells us that for homework assignments they were supposed to go to thrift stores and flea markets and find pictures and study them. They didn’t have to buy them, just give detailed descriptions. She said she loved the projects so much that she bought every painting she did her homework on. I guess pictures of dead people became a fascination. That’s why Tim has all of these pictures on his walls. They are Molly/Holly/Jenny’s. Any ways, she goes on to say that her teacher had found some really interesting visions in some of the pictures he had. It sounded kinda like seeing faces in potato chips or a macaroni dinner. Either that, or this guy had done some massive amounts of drugs in his day. She said he showed this painting to her class that was two obese children, standing together, naked except for their diapers. I mean she was describing these as masterpieces. Any ways, she said that her teacher would always go on and on about this painting. You know how people have life long projects? Well, I guess this was his. Except not life long. He had only found it during that semester he taught her. He knew there was something in the painting. She said he had it posted on his wall in his studio. Across from his desk so he would always be looking at it. I guess it kinda creeped her out. And made him go a little mad. I suspect the drugs had more to do with that then the painting. Any ways, they went through the class and the teacher kept pressuring them more and more to find messages. She said he would tell them to shoot their brains out and then sort through and find something. That was a direct quote. I assumed she wasn’t talking literally, but still asked. She said that they would often photograph the pictures to get better detail. Then use them as evidence. Any ways, I guess he stopped showing up for classes. Stopped grading their homework. All because of this stupid painting. I guess she took that class as a junior. And that after that semester, she didn’t see him until she graduated. She said she assumed he hadn’t figured out what the painting said. Or that maybe it drove him too mad. Any ways, I asked if she had talked to him at graduation. She said she asked him if he found anything. And that he got quiet. That he looked away for a minute. And that when she was just about to apologize for bringing it up, he answered. You ready to hear what he told her? I guess this master of finding messages, this guy who spent who knows how long looking at a picture, told her not to eat McDonalds. He said the painting told her it would make people fat. Just like the kids. Then I guess he walked away. Any ways, she said that over the years she had continued to collect pictures. She would go to flea markets wherever she was and would look for paintings or pictures. She said she didn’t study them as close, but they still interested her. I guess there were some that were pretty strange. So I asked if she had a favorite. You know, one that she couldn’t live without or something. I guess she had one that she loved, but Tim made her give it away. I didn’t ask about it. Any ways, she took me into this room that I had never been in and walked over to the far wall. She stopped in front of a small picture and said this one. I walked up to the picture and stared at it for a while. It was simple. A man dressed up like Jesus was standing in front of a billboard. And on the billboard was a message. It said, “God lives in Reno! Come visit”.

revision...

3 a.m.
Our last drink was number 4 past my limit. We should find a cocktail. Let’s walk the streets silently screaming attack us for our crimes. You’re holding my hand. As I kiss your neck. Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a hood rat with some blow. This all happened in a matter of minutes.

3:07 a.m.
- And no one thought?
- People hid their thoughts. It was easier to ignore than to be put in an uncomfortable situation.
- So you were sad all the time?
- I lied to myself to make it easier on everyone else. Found an area in my head where no one could question. It wasn’t obvious why…

3:11a.m.
We stop to pee on the church lawn. A man is laying in a pile of vomit – he stands up and points to the sky. Tells us Jesus lives but kills the sinners.
…we grow numb as he throws words through our paradise.

Tuesday - mid march

You walked into the room.
And now you’re undressed – smoking a cigarette down to the filter.
We’re laying in bed.
Our clothes, on the floor.
Crumpled like the revisions of love letters I throw away.

There was yelling coming from next door.
We’re in the kitchen – you’re cooking Betty Crocker.
There’s no more beer, we’re out of vodka, obviously out of tequila.
I’m not ready for the whiskey.
Two days from now we will see the bruises on her face.
And in three – more yelling.

I’m writing you a love poem
And now we’re sitting on the couch – at opposite ends.
A porn from 1973 on the tv – background noise.
This is our love theme, turn up the volume so the neighbors can hear.
Your smile is distracting me.

A man is running around naked in the street.
We’re leaving the house.
We keep the door unlocked – no longer worried about our secrets escaping.
The man screams about Jesus living under the freeway bridge.
I hand him leftovers of Betty.
Then he starts to pee on our shoes.

Poetry assignment...

He was an Elvis impersonator, a damn good one at that -
With a drive through attitude and knack for things fried golden -
Servicing in the middle class McDonalds two blocks
From our condo- with fingers as smooth as snakes he played –
Rockin’ pianiste was the title he gave himself,
Added the late e to emphasize greatness, prestige.
And because he didn’t appreciate “piano dude”.
I remember eating chicken nuggets with you, graciously
Going through pieces – ecru colored - is this chicken;
Is this meat; what we should expect from a pianist McDonalds
Or can I tip this man for playing Bach with a hairdo in
Tribute to the guru of rock, Mr. Elvis himself?
But then one day it hit me, like the heart attack I
Got from excessive fried-ness and obesity
that this is real life and the man emitting melodies
over deep fryer complaints in his lilac obscenity
is just a rock n roll hound dog in middle America.

Our last drink was number 4 past my limit. We should find a cocktail. Let’s walk the streets silently screaming attack us for our crimes. You’re holding my hand. As I kiss your neck. Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a hood rat with some blow. This all happened in a matter of minutes.

- And no one thought?
- People hid their thoughts. It was easier to ignore than to be put in an uncomfortable situation.
- So you were sad all the time?
- I lied to myself to make it easier on everyone else. Found an area in my head where no one could question. It wasn’t obvious why…

This has become too easy. I have run out of fingers to count the stares. So you lend me yours. That’s why I love you. That’s why they think we are sinners.

But to our advantage,
we grow numb as they throw words through our paradise.

THIS IS MY ODE FOR YOU...YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

I went to visit my rock tonight.
I walked around the dark
Making my way to the river banks,
I once promised her.
To the idea of laughter as a form of medicine.
I stopped on a hill half way down to the shore…
And saw her through the night.
She was laughing.
I told you we would laugh together.
One day in the future.
I walked to my rock
No longer feeling the need to protect.
It was the part where we checked the glue.
Tell me a story…
I asked.
You told me a story…
of two birds who went through trials together.
You said that each time one of the birds flew off in search of something different,
the other bird’s heart broke a little.
Each time the bird that stayed behind
thought it was the last time she would have to go through this.
Each time her heart broke a little,
her soul grew stronger,
her mind grew smarter.
And with each time her mate left,
she was able to rely on other birds around to help her survive.
Every aspect of her life grew and changed.
And each time the mate came back she was stronger.

Well rock, it looks as if your bird has come back to stay.
I asked my rock to promise me one thing
For the future.
I told her to promise she will be happy.
Because I have learned that through happiness
Comes strength.
My rock looked at me and smiled.
She said she will remember the times when her eyes hurt from nights of tears.
She said she will remember her place in my life.
And then she said she will promise to be happy.

Can I ask one more question,
I said.

Can I stay in your life?