Wow, I’m ten days behind on National Blowetry Month. I am ok with this, as Blowetry has never adhered to a schedule. It poops out at the most inconvenient moments.

30 DAYS OF BLOW-ETRY: DAY 4 FOUND BLOW-ETRY

30 DAYS OF BLOW-ETRY: DAY THREE

The awfulness of moods is something to be bookmarked. To press your hand against your head and remind yourself that you are here. That bruises surround the forest. How the blackened bloom becomes the cure.

30 DAYS OF BLOW-ETRY: DAY 2

To understand what it means to be within an inch of one’s life. Yes, I can throw this body across your lap and let you see it for yourself. However, several questions remain. For starters: what is the metric conversion factor for the lifeline? Can this sort of math be done in your head? And what must be done with the remainder?

30 DAYS OF BLOW-ETRY: DAY 1

Dear April,

Today I admitted I was a poet and then cried out APRIL FOOLS!

The last time I got this close to a literary faucet, I nearly drowned.

I spill out of myself without a container. APRIL FOOLS!

I spill out of myself despite the container.

I think this is part of the problem.

When spring comes, everyone is convinced to rebuild.

APRIL FOOLS! Everyone is forced to rebuild.

My experience of pain, after all, has been mostly scaffolding.

As writers, we are given tools to make the necessary repairs.

Jackhammer her plot-holes. Correct the ass-phalt.

It’s sometimes difficult to discern the writers from their tools.

APRIL FOOLS! The structure is pre-constructed for your poetic convenience.

APRIL FOOLS! You cannot separate oneself from a Tool.

I WISH THIS WASN’T A JOKE.

30 DAYS OF BLOW-ETRY

I haven’t written a “poem” in a very long time. It happens. I moved. I went through some tough work things. The world became complicated. Because I was burnt out, I gave myself the separation I needed.

A brilliant former student of mine asked if I was participating in 30/30 for National Poetry Month. I hadn’t thought of it, but I’m glad she suggested it.

I will be writing 30 poems for 30 days of April. The catch: I’m only posting the worst of the worst, because I hate the smell of polish.

Onward,

Christine Friedlander

pleatedjeans:

ah yes, the majestic Word Bank. [x]

(via newsweek)