Improv of Bishop's One Art,
"Accept the fluster / of lost door keys"
Enjoy the blunder of missing mind. The thought
abandoned somewhere from bedroom
to kitchen door, not old age or stress
but the elusive art of long-term
conception and all it's brain jogging
work, like some skill that always rests
on the tongue's tip--a vaguely familiar taste,
no different than rosemary or
the sweet heat of cinammon, even
the bitter taste of adolescent anger--
some child feud forgotten half-way
through playtime, recalled now,
wrist-deep in soap suds, scrubbing
the residue of smothered porkchops--
what once was part of some pig's belly,
now a piece missing and forgotten.
My Critical Commentary:
Diamond Forde, you make me want to eat the lint between my
toes. Seriously.
Let me just tell you what I enjoy most about this improv’:
recycled art.
The whole draft recycles words, memories, the senses,
assonance, syntax, etc.
Totally cool. Though you are already aware: the improv’
isn’t much for narrative/ the logical at the moment. I’m not telling you what
to do; but revise this improv into a working-draft. You have tons of
(im)portable material here. Does that make sense? Whether or not you revise
into form, the bulk is transferable. (I think it would be cool to try and make
this into a villanelle, personally—since it’s all about recycling.) I’m
fascinated by the brain; it’s ability to transport you backwards—simply by
being, to use your words, “wrist-deep in soap suds.” I love being caught in the
smell, the taste and sound, of nostalgia. I’m finding that its sensual texture
evokes more than just tension into a draft.
You’re a baller (or whatever the kids say these days).
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