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Odin Roark

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Member Since: Jul, 2008

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Books
· Perceptions

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· Said and Unsaid - Vol 1

· 3 WAY MIRROR


Short Stories
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Articles
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· Cavemen in Tuxedos (an editorial)

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· Essay on Poetic Theory


Poetry
· Slippery Banana Peel

· Noiseless Thunder

· We Sometimes Weep

· Happiness Is...

· Maybe Tomorrow Night?

· MIrror, Mirror...

· Projectiles In A Cup

· Revisiting Culture Rot

· Enigmas

· Walking Meditation

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Books by Odin Roark
  Manhattan Punctuation Slam
by Odin Roark
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Odin Roark
•  Slippery Banana Peel
•  Noiseless Thunder
•  We Sometimes Weep
•  Happiness Is...
•  Maybe Tomorrow Night?
           >> View all 1,113


I sometimes wonder if everyone, all people, at one time or another experience the expression/creative “block” known often as the exclusive province of the frustrated writer.


Manhattan Punctuation Slam

New York
windows everywhere
sending forth
a shining
reflecting transition
one always moving
a lexicon
forever rebirthing its language

we look out
the city's portals await

we fling open the paint-caked windows of soul
the gateway to ether not yet sucked dry
breathe in the ever-loud worries
drifting skyward
investing our patience
becoming sentences
no
mere words searching
maybe to become...

our senses return to the streets

dog walker menches

passionately arguing hydrant values
with their best friends
often only friends
wag
pant
lick
conveying their loyalty
to mindless leash-gripping loneliness
the banter of bark and syllabic dialog
drifts upward to our windows

while the iron lids

left by construction workers over open trenches
complain
always complaining
as cabs and delivery trucks
rumble their cacophonous presence
leaving behind the exclamation marks
the quotation marks to what?

we use it
giving us brief pause
respite of hope
before the back story
takes center stage

bar stools

dark booths

enriching the imbibing aura
precious memory shots of worm imbued liquid
jettisoned back and down our mind's gullet
into still further reminders
stories long buried
resisting release

a slap on the back

upchucks the sour truth
we run with our mind in tow
the upright coffin-like toilettes our sanctuary
rancid past fills the tepid air
attaching its history to the walls
like a sticky humid day
its fog encapsulates our mirror with blur
the mist of nightmares buried
swirling
rampaging
until...

we stagger out past the bar stools
into the commas and apostrophes
of half finished sentences
where resolve hangs back
telling us to get home
the word processor awaits
the goddamn rewrite
lurks in shadows
held captive by the scythe of darkness

hurry windows
shut tight

before the passion fades
nail my ass to the chair
thrust my fingers forward
marionette the exercise
pull the strings
you bastard

You bastard!

PULL!




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Reviewed by Regis Auffray 7/2/2012
Your imagery is palpable and your words take the reader where you intend. Very well done, Odin. Thank you. Love and peace to you,

Regis
Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader) 7/1/2012
This reads as a two-party play for me. The keen observance from inside a "paint-caked" window frame, "breathe in the ever-loud worries" and those awarenesses you express as "respite of hope" before Part II presents "stories long buried" and the debauchery that follows and your finale of fury. Excruciatingly crafted visceral piece. ~~ Diana
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 7/1/2012
This one bespeaks of great creative flow generated in the streets of Manhattan. And also the fact that alcohol not only can make one very sick but also feel that one is very creative. However, the feeling passes quickly when one puts one's fingers to the keyboard.

Brilliant, simply brilliant!

Ron

PS: Truman Capote only wrote one. The rest flew over the cuckoo's nest.
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