10. put 2 pieces from the term into 1, finding the link

If were to crush you my fingers would love me.  Nails torn off pure prints all around, in through your head my thumb sinks down, meeting my index finger.  Tinting my palm with speckles of purple yes bloody purple the bloodiest of purples anyone has ever seen.  You are cold.  I like cold.  But I still boil you first, draining the hardness, refreshing your look, preparing you for my tongue.  Pink and purple: we match.  And kiss a kiss that cools off my throat violet lines the lines of my lips the brims of my teeth.  Yes, I have crushed you.  But at least I didn’t stain you.   I wish I was you.  Screaming violet, subtle taste, yes you stain but you’re pretty.  When I was five I stole a cherry tomato because I thought it was just a cherry.  The teacher forced me to eat it.  Bright and tight, sloppy inside.  I am afraid that may be me.    A childhood of cringing at gloppy red, I hated cherry tomatoes till sophomore year in college.  Then I ate them everyday with one slice of turkey and whole wheat bread.  Eventually I left the turkey and bread and resorted to about thirty cherry tomatoes per day.   Now once a week. Did you know that half a cup of boiled sliced beets equals thirty-seven calories?  A perfect blend of calcium and sugar when they’re not soaked in vinegar or pepper a horrible habit of those common eaters.  Once I tried to eat you raw, but you didn’t let me.Once I tried to eat your stems, but you said no.And once I tried to gulp you down entirely,But you screamed me back to the cherry tomato.   

8. change the form or structure of 1 piece

Guanabana A prickly green skin makes you think twice before reaching me.  In colonial times the bark of my tree was adored by the Spaniards.  Now focus on my seeds. Pulverize them and I will take care of that head lice.  Mix them soapy water and I will scare away bugs.  Once my seeds are gone I am just a fluff of cotton balls.  Do not throw away my leaves.  Crush them,heal your skin.  Mix with water, lessen your fever. Sneak me under your pillow at night and I may put you to sleep.But eat me first.  Please.  I promise I am sweet.  

(Original)A prickly green skin that makes you think twice before reaching for me.  In colonial times, the bark of my tree was adored by the Spaniards.  Now the focus is on my seeds. Pulverize them and I will take care of that head lice.  Mix them with soapy water and I will spray away insects.  Once my seeds are gone, I am just a fluff of cotton balls.  Do not throw away my leaves.  Crush them, heal the skin.  Mix with water, lessen a fever. Sneak me under your pillow at night and I may put you to sleep.But eat me first.  Please.  I promise I am sweet.  

(I actually didn’t like this piece when I first wrote it, but I like it in the poem structure now because I am able to pause more and create a slower rhythm for this somewhat instructional piece)

5. change POV

Art: life’s flattering rivalry.  As her pale olive limbs crawled upon his legs, she suspected he could be her rival.  Red wine, he asked.  White grapes are so boring so she said yes.  Too many pores in too many white teeth too many stains.  But she continued to kiss and nibble his lips.  If they had been made of mango, she would have eaten them.  Strawberries she liked too but the seeds ingrained themselves in her already wine stained teeth, and it was ugly.  Mangos would have been more discreet.  Nonetheless, they made it to the week of carrots.  Carrots have an elegant scream, she told him, not to the untrained tongue, but beneath their orange rage and lightly tinted rims, there exists a subtle sweetness to calm any sugar-rushing nerve.  But he still added pepper and she kept quiet.  Which allowed them to reach the week of tomatoes and bread, wheat bread with sesame seeds and sunflower seeds and some other seed and she really really loved them. He coated them with butter, but she kept quiet, nibbling seed after seed after seed, coating her eyes with the tomatoes she diced so well only for her. Mornings: eggs.  The word was enough to disgust her, the yolk pure slime.  So he boiled them, plopped out the middle, and she smiled, though still hiding those purple teeth.    Thank you for the week of nuts, she told him.  She fell so close to love.  Her tongue dabbed chipped almonds on his cheek as hazelnuts grazed her arms and pistachios kneaded into her back.  He kneaded too hard, leaving a trail of black and blue upon her every freckle.  One night she surprised him with her navel: a chocolate coconut kiss.  He rolled over and grabbed bears, gummy bears, biting off heads off arms off paws of gelatin blue and green and red and orange and colors are pretty, but not those, she whimpered.   Then onions.  White onions.  Thin raw rings staring.  From a bowl.  On the table.  And he actually ate them.  Had she known he was miserable she would have rolled carrots in pepper soaked her seeds in butter and given him a bite tomato.  So she says.   But he mashed a mash of onions ballooned her nostrils stung her brain, cracked egg upon egg upon her pale olive thighs, the yolk slivering down in a disgustingly perfect line.  The bears bounced and giggled, a corruption of laughter he cried black she cried nothing with wine-stained teeth she could have done the same with beets.  Glop so yellow drowning smiling masochist seeds, pistachios marching, carrots crushing, a rivalry complete, with a chocolate coconut navel spitting up strawberry wine. (I had not considering doing third person with this piece because I really wanted to get into the girl’s head…but I am now thinking that the third person allows for a more fantastical story, telling what happened once with two people.  This perspective may allow more for embellishment, for it’s a retelling of the past, whereas the present is judged more quickly because it is immediate, and therefore at more risk to be convincing.)

4. take the ending of a piece, and make it the beginning (write it backwards)

Thirty years later, one of her many visits back home.  Mommy, how is Colombia?  Oh my gud I had three buñuelos for breakfast and then we had almohabanas and pan de bono and coffee and tamal.  And what did you do afterwards?  We went to the plaza and oh my gud we ate curuba and salpicon and later your aunt made me jugo de maracuya.  And what else are you going to do today?  Later we are eating arepas and oh my gud they have so much cheese I’m going to drink like two Colombianas.  Will you bring me coffee when you come back?  No, no, no I dun’t have room I’m already taking six pounds and I have to give one to your abuela and one to your tia dun’t tell anyone else and when you go to Colombia in two months I need you to bring me three packs of Chocoramos and go to the bakery and get me a cake una torta negra because I dun’t have anymore room, and it better be fresh. When I was seven she told me a story of a girl from school who had money and she was not a nice girl because she never played with mommy because mommy was poor and had polio but my mommy didn’t care, she ran up the mountains like nothing, okay sometimes she was carried, but anyways, that rich girl never wanted to play with my mommy and my mommy knew she was rich because every day after school she would buy a tall tall ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles and walk by my mommy and never ever offer her any, that stupid rich girl.  That was in Colombia.  Where Pony Maltas and Chocoramos were not nasty malt and vanilla packaged cake; they were the extra pesos not needed for rent not needed for potatoes not needed for rice.  Newspaper filled the holes in her shoes, broom strokes filled the dents in her back.  A stray dog here, a stray dog there, and a butcher pinched her nipple when she was twelve.  Any given morning, white cheese plopped in hot chocolate with buñuelos, warm bundles of dough, lightly fried and preciously golden.    Last night she did complain about the salmon (too much fatty sauce), and the vegetables (unnecessary butter), yet managed to eat everything, twice, and gulp down Pepsi (though she hates it, just hates it.)  Now we are ready to go, contemplating calories risk of heart attack, and she disappears.  Five minutes later, panting, she tells me, quickly, we must leave now.  She just poured the rainbow sprinkles over her cone (her third cone that night) and they spilled all over someone’s chicken and she ran away before she could get caught.  A few giggles slip as her mouth turns vanilla.  This is my mommy.   

3. put 1 poem w/line-breaks into prose

She placed a curtain upon her eyes so she wouldn’t see it, delicately spreading the navy blue linen, teasing each lash, she placed a curtain upon her eyes so she wouldn’t see it.  She painted red on her nails she couldn’t touch it, stroking enamel strokes of flowing curtains soaked in liquid, she painted red on her nails so she couldn’t touch it.  She placed a golf ball in her mouth, now no biting.  Because that may just cause fighting, torn curtains and piercing eyes. 

But you want her to bite, don’t you?  You want to be stained with her bleeding polish and you want that golf ball to almost sink in her throat, but not to the point of scaring you.  Last night you stood in front of the frozen mist, staring at the water oblivious to stillness.  Now place the curtain back on her eyes, fan her nails, and find somewhere else to stare.

2. put 1 piece of prose into line-breaks

Red wine, you asked. 

White grapes are so boring,

so I said yes. 

My lips were violet by the end of the night. 

Too many grapes

too many pores

too many white teeth. 

Art: life’s flattering rivalry. 

As my pale olive limbs

started to crawl upon your legs,

I suspected you could be my rival.   

And a red pulp rained. 

Blood orange, you whispered. 

Blood orange, I smiled. 

The pulses of our thumbs combined

and I forgot which heart was beating. 

Hours of

squeezing and

staining and

squeezing more

squeezing and

dripping and

drinking

everything of yours

everything of mine.    

You gazed. 

I thought,

if I could paint you, I wouldn’t.  

Morning: eggs. 

The word is enough to disgust me,

the yolk pure slime. 

And then you mashed a mash

of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain. 

So I hid the onions

pulled your hands

with my eyes and

kissed you two more times. 

If your lips had been made of mango,

I would have eaten them. 

Strawberries I liked too

but the seeds ingrained themselves in my teeth and when I smiled

it was ugly. 

Mangos are more discreet. 

We made itto a week.

And ate boiled carrots. 

The next week, you brought pepper.

So we ate boiled carrots with pepper. 

A touch of insult to the carrot

but I kept quiet. 

Because I loved dessert:

cherry pits and

cherry stained lips

stained my lips thighs my thighs and

everything in between. 

But it still wasn’t mango. 

The following month

a phase of tomato and bread,

wheat bread with sesame seeds

and sunflower seeds

and some other seed

and oh! 

How I loved them. 

You drowned them in butter

but I kept quiet. 

Nibbling on my own seeds

itsy bitsy sharks nibbled my fingertips. 

But the tomato diced well.   

The week of nuts

I thought I heard love 

from the bottom of your lip

and the tip of my tongue,

shaved almonds resting on your cheek. 

Pistachios up and down my arms

but you kneaded them

into my skin piercing

every freckle

remnant trails black and blue.        

I still surprised you with a chocolate coconut kiss.

I was always sweet. 

But you bought gummy bears. 

Biting off heads

off arms

off paws

of gelatin

of red

and blue

and green

and orange

and yes!

Colors are pretty. 

But not those.   

I tried to dye my coconut green.But you didn’t believe me and stuck to the bears.     

Then onions. 

White onions. 

Thin raw rings

staring at me.  

From a bowl. 

On the table.   

And you actually ate them. 

Had I known you were miserable I would have added ketchup mustard five tins of pepper.   

But you mashed a mash of onions

ballooned my nostrils

stung my brain,

burnt my nerves, 

egg yolk now slithered down my thigh. 

Seeds soaked in butter,

smiling masochist seeds. 

A parade of green,

a dance of red,

a flip of yellow,

orange cartwheels. 

Bears bouncing and giggling,

a corruption of laughter,

wine stained lips

I could have done the same with beets. 

Onion after onion

peeling out my eyes, 

evaporating the carrots,

all rims left behind.  

And a lonely chocolate coconut kiss

spitting up strawberry wine.

1. cut 1 piece in half

Art: life’s flattering rivalry.  As my pale olive limbs crawled upon your legs, I suspected you could be my rival.  Red wine, you asked.  White grapes are so boring so I said yes.  Too many pores in too many white teeth too many stains.  But I continued to kiss and nibble your lips.  If they had been made of mango, I would have eaten them.  Strawberries I liked too but the seeds ingrained themselves in my teeth already wine stained, and it was ugly.  Mangos would have been more discreet. 

Nonetheless, we made it to the week of carrots.  Carrots have an elegant scream, not to the untrained tongue, but if you pay close attention, beneath their orange rage and lightly tinted rims, there exists a subtle sweetness to calm any sugar-rushing nerve.  But you still added pepper.  And I kept quiet.  Which allowed us to achieve a week of tomatoes and bread, wheat bread with sesame seeds and sunflower seeds and some other seed and oh!  How I loved them.  You coated them with butter, but I kept quiet, nibbling seed after seed after seed, coating my eyes with the tomatoes I diced so well for me only me.

Mornings: eggs.  The word is enough to disgust me, the yolk pure slime.  So you boiled them, plopped out the middle, and I smiled, though still hiding my purple teeth.   

Thank you for the week of nuts in which I fell oh so close to love.  My tongue picked up chipped almonds from your cheek as hazelnuts grazed my arms and pistachios kneaded into my back.  But you kneaded too hard, leaving a trail of black and blue upon my every freckle. 

One night I surprised you with my navel: a chocolate coconut kiss.  You rolled over and grabbed bears, gummy bears, biting off heads off arms off paws of gelatin blue and green and red and orange and yes!  Colors are pretty.  But not those.  

Then onions.  White onions.  Thin raw rings staring at me.  From a bowl.  On the table.  And you actually ate them.  Had I known you were miserable I would have rolled carrots in pepper soaked my seeds in your butter or given you a bite tomato.  You only needed to ask.   

But you mashed that mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain, cracked egg upon egg upon my pale olive thighs, the yolk slivering down in a disgustingly perfect line.  The bears bounced and giggled, a corruption of laughter you cried black I cried white with wine-stained teeth I could have done the same with beets.  Glop so yellow drowning smiling masochist seeds, pistachios marching, carrots crushing, a rivalry complete, with my chocolate coconut navel spitting up strawberry wine.  

workshop last week

don’t tell anyone, a love story, latin american cuisine

To numb hunger (workshop 3)

I’m tired. 

Of you crawling into my mind switching me on and off, subtly staring leading me to believe you’re mysterious you’re thinking you’re possibly deep.  But you’re the same as the whistle, the same as the wink: a split-second intrigue that you turn into a question into a number into a smile into an illusion my illusion that my smile will last more than a split-second. 

And I let myself fall. 

Atop bumps pavement bumps making holes little holes that only dent the idea of coffee in bed and a damp sheet ridden between my legs.  A two time smile a one time grin a tongue-less kiss and away I’d go.  But the collection of dents and a smirk too many smirks leave yellow-stained teeth rotting inside. 

And I try to chew. 

With the insides of my cheeks and the buds on my tongue, you creep down like tar. Sticking, stuck, to my throat, piling upon yourself.  I want to gorge you, I want to peel you, I want to twist you I want you out.  But I swallow.  Continue to swallow.  No notion of neck no notion of throat only notion of barking of scratching of crumbling upon, a black tar pit, personalized.   

a love story (workshop 2)

Red wine, you asked.  White grapes are so boring, so I said yes.  My lips were violet by the end of the night.  Too many grapes too many pores too many white teeth allowing the grapes to seep in.  In a book I can’t remember, I had read, Art: life’s flattering rivalry.  As my pale olive limbs started to crawl upon your legs, I suspected you could be my rival.   

A red pulp rained.  Blood orange, you whispered.  Blood orange I smiled.  The pulses of our thumbs combined and I forgot which heart was beating.  Blood oranges hadn’t graced me in years too many years.  Your salty fingers disrupted the sweet acidity, but my tongue still lingered behind.   

Breakfast.  Eggs.  (The word is enough to disgust me, the yolk pure slime.)  And then you mashed a mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain.  So I hid the onions pulled your hands with my eyes licorice eyes and kissed you two more times.   

You gazed.  I thought.  If I could paint you, I wouldn’t.  Your eyebrows cried black.  Little caterpillars that flickered every time you laughed.  If your lips had been made of mango, I would have eaten them.  Strawberries I liked too (but the seeds ingrained themselves in my teeth and when I smiled it was ugly).  Mangos are more discreet. 

The next week, we ate boiled carrots.  One day you brought pepper, little flickers everywhere.  So the next next week, we ate boiled carrots with pepper.  A touch of insult to the carrot but I kept quiet.  Mayonnaise?  Never.  At that moment I almost loved you.  For dessert: cherry pits and cherry stained your lips stained my lips and my thighs and everything in between.  (But it still wasn’t mango.) 

We then had a phase of tomato and bread, wheat bread with sesame seeds and sunflower seeds and some other seed and oh!  How I loved them.  You drowned them in butter but I kept quiet.  (Nibbling on my own seeds itsy bitsy sharks nibbled my fingertips.  Those caterpillar eyebrows were starting to sink in, slightly crushing your brain.)  But the tomato diced well.   

The week of chocolate I fell very close to love.  Dark and milk of course never white under the pillow one truffle two truffles three truffles, nuts!  On the bottom of your lip was the tip of my tongue, a chipped almond on your cheek, pistachios you caressed up to my shoulder, down to our palms (and kneaded into my skin piercing my every freckle leaving trails of blue.)  Shells lined the floor the decor of my future wedding aisle.    

And my navel: a chocolate coconut kiss.  (Not the navel of the kumquat that you licked before me and followed with coffee.  That was bitter.)  I was utterly sweet.   

Yet you bought gummy bears.  Biting off heads off arms off paws of gelatin of red and blue and green and orange and yes, colors are pretty.  But not those.  Carrots have an elegant scream.  Not to the untrained tongue…but if you pay attention, beneath the orange rage and the lightly tinted rims, they have the ability to calm your sugar rushing nerve.  But you didn’t believe me and stuck to the bears.     

Fine. 

But then onions.  White onions.  Thin raw rings staring at me.  From a bowl.  On the table.  Next to the carrots.  And you actually ate them.  Had I known you were miserable I would have added ketchup mustard five tins of pepper.  You only needed to ask.   

You mashed a mash of onions ballooned my nostrils stung my brain, burnt my nerves, egg yolk now slithered down my thigh.  Taffy soaked in butter, smiling masochist seeds.  A parade of green, a dance of red, a flip of yellow, orange cartwheels.  Bears bouncing and giggling, a corruption of laughter, you crying black me crying nothing wine stained lips I could have done the same with beets.  Onion after onion peeling out my eyes, evaporating the carrots, all rims left behind.  And a lonely chocolate coconut navel spitting up strawberry wine.