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without a prompt write a poem

About Something

Something about the difficulty of taping together a moving box alone. Something about how wisdom teeth can shift everything even when we're standing still. Something about how departure is ecstasy, arrival is anticlimatic, and in- between is something we might call life or death. Something about no cars parked in front of the house and the windows wide open and me wanting to steal all the trappings inside that are already mine, and how easy that would be and how impossible. Something about either/or somehow being less than neither/nor. Something about raisins being grapes, and pickles being cucumbers, but not vice versa. Something about an empty bird feeder becoming a bird house and a dry bird bath becoming nothing. Something about a fly alighting on my coffee cup rim, right where my lips have just been and will be again, despite landing surfaces everywhere, despite everywhere being a surface -- something attractive about the residue of living we leave behind -- something about it that remains for a day or two, a few months -- something about how it leaves unexepectedly and all at once, no matter if the touching has gone on for years, door knob or rosary -- something about this daily disappearance that is always on schedule, but can never be scheduled.

hannah huff 10/14/2014 7:44 pm

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There is

Something about the precise calculation of glaze on a re-fire bowl. Something about how proper metal fabrication methods electric and gas preparation are more alluring than a green chrysanthemum glow.  Something about different sensations all together cast a floaty sheeplike electrified intensity - cold sweat  and a thousand pinpricks on your face. Something about touching  moon jellies for the first time with your lover even though it is not your first time. Something about how her nipples are perkier  than perched sea urchins on giant rocks, slivers of softness on mounds of flesh. Something about how morning grey clouds ooze. Something about the familiarity of poached eggs on lox on  pumpernickel mustard seed and dill and frostbites. Something about dry knuckles on cold nights whiter than calcium deposits  in a bathroom that is not yours but somehow you’re moving out of anyways although you don’t technically live with her yet. Something about driving alone and being lonelier despite knowing that she loves you. Something about eating  sauerkraut in the centre of piccadilly circus. Something  about the scavenger hunt on her pockmarked face to reclaim your own limbs. Something about the jolt of crocus.  Something about grapefruit in a carafe that pillows  your gaze at her arm across an ihop table while sitting next to then respective lovers. Something about sassafras  in the deadest part of night. Something about waking up to her now with post wisdom teeth pulled blood breath.

jax ntp Sunday 10/19/2014 @12:24PM 

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virginia woolf - orlando - erasure poems - 196, 81, 274

Virginia Woolf - Orlando - Erasure jaxntp 12:08am 09 march 2014

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hannah huff 4:59 pm 03/10/2014

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hannah huff + jax ntp: est. 20jan2014:: poets&lovers

february 2014: our first valentine’s day. her 25th. our first month. 

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First birthday with my girlfriend Happy 25th.

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Take a picture of an object seen through liquid.

If I’m trying to photograph the spine of Federico García Lorca’s Collected Poems set on the top bookshelf and seen through clear liquid in a glass glass and the meniscus, in cahoots with the unwilling crane of my shoulder socket, gives his face a perpetual double-chin, I need only sip. And if this becomes a gulp because that is what we do most fluidly, drinking without thinking, I still have leeway to set the book upright on the table and take the picture upward from a lower angle. And if the new liquid line turns his head into a sorrowful buoy and I decide he’ll be better off already submerged than with the threat of fathoms just tickling his collarbone and if I go get more water in a new glass because I don’t want to leave him vessel-less while I walk to the sink and if while waiting for the thought of drinking water slipping through miles of corroded pipes to leave my mind I end up watching the rain trying to squeeze through each square on the screen, then the book will still stand vertical, pages conversing with the coffee pot, floating Lorca staring out the window. Cuando se perdió en el agua, comprendí. Pero no explico.

-hannah huff 12:02 am 02/07/2014

cafe cup + saucer seen thru halfyard bong glass @ yardhouse, costa mesa, ca. - jaxntp - 07feb2014 - 7:08pm -

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winter 2013 newport beach, ca. 

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My girlfriend 21jan2014 8pm

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Happy MLK

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The attraction-spurred synchronicity in frequency and velocity of function words is interesting, but it is the so-called “content” words which are at the heart of what keeps two people talking. Two lovers must first understand each other’s vocabulary and then motivate its constant expansion. Let’s ear-drop on these two people who have been falling in love.

I like the resonance of your presence.

Thank you. I like the turbidity in your eyes.

Thank you? I like the polysemousness of your compliments.

You’re welcome. You make my tongue sundry.

You make me dandle hungry.

Oh perhaps we should order the vichysoisse? Sorry, I was distracted by your ferntickle.

Apologies make anybody sound impuissant. Nix that.

Impossible, spoken words are invisibly perdurable.

Don’t you mean durable?

No, that indicates tangibility. My implication is more incorporeal, as in perpetually endurable.

You mean enduring?

Yes.

Concessions are sexy. I love you.

Oh.

What?

That’s it? Your emotional expression is just so exiguous.

You’re a twunt.

Excellent portmanteau.

1/1/2014 11:52pm hannah huff

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what are you doing? nothing because i can. to do nothing is an action. marzipan marzipan did you know there’s a certain sweetness to things left undone. you mean the way you can’t seem to be finished with me? 

when was the last time you acted before thinking about the aftertaste? the moment i realized my face needs your face and my buttcheeks needs a tending to. i have a  matcha green thumb for tending the garden of your body.

for sake’s sake i just want to remain a tourist in my own hometown. i’ll be the cream to your sherbet in any city. i love you. you are lemonade ice cream fresh. muss me. 

3:45pm 07 january 2013 jax ntp

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An Excursion into Pareidolia: Discover a face in a random inanimate object. Write a short passage for a novel in media res where the protagonist meets this person whose face you found.

Fallen leaves traipse jauntily in the crosswalk, revived by wind. It’s a green light so I drive through the intersection, flattening them and continuing until I pull into the parking space that is the parking lot of the florist’s shop. I had been to a florist’s only once before with friends to pick up their corsages for prom. Pretending to size up a hanged asparagus fern, I had nuzzled my cheek into the lenient needles until the tiny rustle of foliage on earlobe was louder than the chitchat between clerk and customers.

Whereas that store had been sterling silver glint, the shop in front of me was as effusive as lava with its wares spilling towards my bumper. I grabbed Jay’s order from the glovebox and went inside. The counter was a mere podium in a dark recess. A middle-aged guy with opaque square glasses – the kind of glasses worn only by people who lost them daily on the top of their heads – leaned against it. His flat-line mouth sat slanted on his face like a permanent cartoon character smirk or like he was mulling over cud and had been mulling over it long before I walked in. I had never seen a man with such a blunted square head, though I had seen many such women when they finally removed their hats and plopped down on the armchair in my bedroom.

12/25/2013 11:58pm hannah huff

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wide steps. not faster, just take wider steps. tallulah chants to herself. but she couldn’t take wider steps because her shoe laces are coming undone. to stop and retie them now would put a damper in her itinerary. but she couldn’t fathom double knotting nor could she fathom being fired from a job that she can no longer steal from. after three weeks, she’s catching on that they’re catching on to her.

fifteen minutes late but she didn’t miss her bus thanks to the commuters’ egregious inability to stagger themselves upon the same tubular vehicle promptly day after day after cloying day. the same cloying stomach upturn post coitus with the bloke tallulah can’t retire. the same way she couldn’t give up the puppy she doesn’t care for especially because now the puppy is a full grown beast. when too late is last year’s story, all that can be done is to let it cling.

tallulah fetches her coveted seat mid-bus. the best place to stare at the rubber sling folding and unfolding on right turns. across from her posts a mother, a thick jawed jovial woman. infant holding. the child’s head is thrown back loosely strung over the left shoulder, mouth ajar, the way you leave a child’s bedroom door ajar so the hallway light can slip in because she’s too old for a nightlight, but a conversation about fears of darkness would be too embarrassing.

the child’s skull is deflated, one third of the head sunken in up to the nose bridge. a soggy english muffin stained with egg yolk at the end of a morning’s plate. a lopsided clementine over thumbed by aggressive housewives. gruyère oozing out of its casing and there’s nothing more fitting to do but stare. mouth ajar. 

01jan2014 11:29am jax ntp

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Write a poem: Respond to this quote & use three words from it.

“We burned down rooms. We knew what everything meant. We understood terror and fury as no one else had. It hurt to be together and hurt more to be apart. Our mouths clashed. Our teeth scraped. Our arms ached from the meld. We knew each other’s smells and heard each other’s voices and told each other things that no one else ever had.” - James Ellroy

3 words: clashed, scraped, meld

bursts of genius, spurts of longevity 

"my boobs are heavy with missing you: rainwater-full gourds and it’s still pouring" -hannahhuff: 121213: 17h43m my intestinal tracts are tangled christmas lights your lips are patient hands igniting nervous inertia  a place where scoliosis snowmen shrivel and scrap nylon bristles mimeo mimeo cymbals mud meld run your fingers thru my hair locate earlobes and then, rumness. lay down and declare your hand klished clashed alloy emollient now malted barley 

12dec2013, 11:44pm, jaxntp

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3 words: burned meld hurt triple dog dare just steel pale with cold, tongue, and red octagon above. stop. you wanted to say there were six boys in knit caps, fur collars, and fat mittens egging you on, but you were alone in the lunar chill in frost-cuffed jeans and tee thin as an unfolded napkin. curiosity had quickened your step, not ice, but electric curiosity that burned at the thought of drool turned to glue, the fusion of hot and cool into metallic flesh permanency   and in an instant there it was, chosen itself on the way home from so many before and after. you knocked the pole with a knuckle. bone dinged, dang, but then maybe the hurt was all in the reverberation, maybe a gradual meld would be as painless as sat-on-feet-fallen-asleep-when-asleep, but then would it be better to put just the oh-so-tender tongue tip against metal or to lick a large arc with the blunt broadside of total palate – all taste buds clinging to the circumference like suction cups, but then maybe…

12/19/2013 1am hannah huff

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Trace three different shadows on a single piece of paper. Photograph the result in light that creates another shadow on the sheet.

08dec2013, 7:41pm, jaxntp

hannah 121013 6:28pm

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Write a poem: How to ferment something not into alcohol but into something equally potent.



schrödinger's cat

a girl across the room, the shoulder pressed against the car-speeding-past passenger window, the uncaptured yawn-grin just before the camera flashes. in the flashes, the sear, in the lack  of seeing clearly, the scar, the acerbic hubbub that bubbles upward from groin to heart to brain like a fart in a filled tub. the throat glub at the thought of yourself at dinner with this her while that her you saw once in a dazzle dips the tip of her tongue into the meniscus of a martini and beckons for him to come  here, the effervescence of there, always here.

08dec2013, 3:44pm, hannah huff

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june bug gum sole - unstrung tizzy to drowse in a wintry blotch of sun - adagio lounge swill in heaps of second helpings almost pewter green almost chroma static sostenuto - the curves of forgotten things rehearsing presque vu - crisp fat tongues face veiled in syncopation in  tinged hoodwink moonlit cores of opium blues an apropos of hemp wicks - lines no longer in between a sound repeats until it becomes a noise a déjà vu that won’t keep vu-ing in sodium orange pick - that coldest spot of sun, to stay

08dec2013, 6:18pm, jaxntp