Critique of "A Very Short Story"

Ernest

Hemingway wrote

A very short story

About a love that never was.

The end.

Critique of "Jack Culberg, 79"

Dear Jack,

I'm going to need you to retire.
And don't forget: if an erection is sustained for more than four hours, please consult your physician.

Sincerely,
A college student who wants your job

P.S. All those years writing business memos worked out in your favor--way to keep it straightforward.

P.P.S. I'm looking for a summer internship please contact me by e-mail or phone, whichever you feel most comfortable with.

Critique of "Beer Bottle"

Like cats,
Sometimes beer bottles
land on all fours when they're
Tossed to, what should have been, their death.
But, no.

Critique of "Incarnations of Burned Children"

I find it disconcerting when people sing David Foster Wallace's praises. It makes me question their genuineness. As far as I'm concerned the DFW train is full of ticket-less squatters--supposed fans who base their "love" for DFW on one book, maybe even on the movie version of that other one book directed by that one dude from the Office, you know, the one who got married, no no not that one, the other one... Just google it.
I'm sorry, but the fact that you committed suicide, David--if I may call you David?--does not make me anymore likely to read your literature. The sadism within the book-reading community that attracts readers to authors who've killed themselves disturbs me.
Now that that's out of the way, I would like you to know that I thoroughly enjoyed reading your short story "Incarnations of Burned Children." It was pretty cool (pun intended).

Critique of "Guns for Teachers"

Warren J. Bowe's epistolary essay "Guns for Teachers" is an example of good ol' American sarcasm. By pretending to be in support of legislature that would provide teachers the right to bear arms in schools, he questions the rationality of idea. It is strange to me, however, that Modest Proposal type of writing falls into the category of "essay." While it is non-fictional if the reader understands the sarcasm, the words themselves are fictional, not reflecting the author's sense of truth. Bowe is presenting a persona who sees logic in the idea of the gun-toting teacher.

Critique of "Facing It"

Yusef Komunyakaa's poem "Facing It" makes me question the ethics of war memorials. Supposedly intended as somewhat, not to be belittling but, of a "thank you" to deceased veterans, from the speaker's reaction to the memorial, it doesn't seem to have a positive effect. What does it do for the veteran who's still alive to see it? The speaker, who is presumably a Vietnam veteran himself, seems consumed by the memory of the deaths of his comrades. The opening lines of the poem say, "My black face fades/hiding inside the black granite." I interpret that to mean these memories which have materialized in the form of the Memorial have evinced his identity--he can only see himself in the reflection of the dead men who fought alongside him. There is a sense of paranoia when the speaker sees what he perceives to be a woman "trying to erase names," as if this erasure would impact him negatively somehow. But in actuality, she is just brushing a boys hair.

Critique of Mark Richard's "Strays"

That woman, that man, them children--they a whole family of abominations. You know she waltzed in here today, not a single "thank you" for all I done while she was away where ever she had gone leaving her children with her trifling, gambling, God-forsaken brother-in-law. Them boys call him Uncle Trash, and I'll say there ain't a more fitting name for that man, no. He ain't nothing but po' white trash. Leaving them children in that house like that, letting them burn it down. Then she have the nerve to come into my store tryna buy cigarettes on credit--I say, "Miss Missy, your credit been exhausted long time 'go. It's 'bout time you and yours take your business elsewhere until you can pay us Cuts back for all we done gave you out of our pocket." These white folks 'round here think we ain't got no sense, think we 'on't know how to run our own business. Buying on credit all the time--I know they don't try them tricks at no white stores. If it was up to me, we wouldn't let nobody pay on credit--no colored folk, no Indian folk, and sure not no white folk. But Mr. Cuts, he think he wear the pants 'round here, and he just pity them po' li'l country white folk so. When I proudly told him what I said to that woman, he told Russell to hand deliver them cigarettes to her for free.

Critique of Carolyn Forche's "The Colonel"

Aside from the pistol on the couch and the the broken bottles on the outer walls that were intended to "scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs," the Colonel's family, with whom the speaker and her friend have dinner, is, to her expected readership, a typical, upper-middle class household with pets, a maid, and fluency in English. His daughter takes pride in her appearance, his son spends time with friends, and his wife is a good hostess.
The Colonel himself? Well he, like many do in their leisure, collects things--not rocks, coins, or army paraphernalia, but human ears. His collection of these ears is presented as being almost cannibalistic. After dinner, he carts them into the dining area in a grocery bag as if he was offering a store-bought cake for dessert. The speaker says that they looked like "dried peach halves." He places one in a water glass. In the midst of these estranged ears, the Colonel finishes off his glass of wine. The speaker is emphasizing his complete comfort with food in, what for most, would be a wholly unappetizing situation.
In his defense, though, the Colonel's one redeeming quality is that he stores his ear collection in a re-usable grocery sack in true environmentalist fashion, and for a third world country in the 70s, I'd say that that's rather remarkable, wouldn't you?  

Angry Black Woman Poem for the Month of November 2012

Shortenin' Bread,
Mama's li'l baby don't love no more.
Can't afford to get. White boy/girl wasted
Their parents' money on a college education that they don't need cause they was born knowing the [wh]ight people
So they gon' get that job whether they fail or
Passed out on the sidewalk in front of a bar being felt up by a middle-age man.
You can't even help cause the Don Imus who dispresepcts a straight haired "ho" sure as hell ain't giving you nappy headed ass' dignity
A second thought:
Across the street, the university police assume that a nigga on a campus ain't no better than a nigga no where else
With or without a bloody glove or a championship ring,
Never Never Land or a platinum record,
A prostitute or a dream,
A white wife or a narrative,
A gun or a ten-step plan,
An afro or consciousness.
They say, "be on the look out for a black male 5'4" to 6'4" darkishly light brown skin wearing black Converse."
--Kareem Al Dujabar?
And do they know that that describes every penis-laden human about whom I give two shits?
Brother daddy, brother brother, brother cousin, brother bruh, and brother lover
And that same white kid woho couldn't describe the suspect beyond the shared color of his skin and kicks
Think he's cool cause he listens to our music
Reciting Public Enemy verses
And I'm wondering if he knows what it means when Flav talks about the grafted.

Text Message Cinquain to My Landlady

The rent
Is due, but I
Won't have enough money
To pay it until next Friday.
Sorry.

Cinquain on Curious Customers

The ex-
Cess red nail
Polish makes it look like
All my cuticles are bleeding.
They aren't.

Pantoum on Lines by W.E.B. Di Bpos

"How does it feel to be a problem?"

Two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings

It is a peculiar sensation

Many a man, and city, and people have found in it an excuse for sulking

Two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings

The sobering realization of the meaning of Progress

Many a man, and city, and people have found in it excuse for sulking.

Progress I understand is necessarily ugly

The sobering realization of the meaning of Progress

Few know of these problems

Progress I understand is necessarily ugly

We are on ground made familiar by study, much discussion, and little philanthropic effort

Few know of these problems

It is a peculiar sensation.

We are on ground made familiar by study, much discussion, and no little philanthropic effort

How does it feel to be a problem?

Cinquain to the Hypocritical Environmentalist

As the
Smoke coated her
Lips, she said, "Eating meat
Is bad for the environment."
Thank you?

Cinquain to Dirty, Honking Men

To YOU,
Strange me honking
At me as I wait at
The street-car stop innocently:
Fuck you.

Part Three: A 23-Year Old Redhead Makes a Phone Call...

By the next morning, four non-English speakers, nine blue collar workers, two marines, and six Jefferson Parish residents had responded to Amanda's craigslist post. Her iPhone notified her of the the hour and the 25 new emails in her inbox, which she read from bed--immediately deleting the 21 that didn't fit her specifications. Only four potentials remained in the running to become Amanda's next top beefcake:

• Brian--A blonde 26 year old from Kentucky, Tulane MBA student, shirtless picture at the beach, nice body, maybe a little too eager
• Guy--in his third year at Tulane Law, cute but not particularly photogenic, curly brown hair
• David--a New York transplant, a journalist, Colombia grad, no picture (?) , wants a phone call  
• A.H.--didn't include his name (?) or a picture (?) , from New Orleans, an engineer, former frat boy, seems normal

She planned to respond to Brian, Guy, and A.H. when she got to the cafe. She'd call David on her way to maximize time. By the time she got out of lab she'd definitely have at least one date scheduled. The pragmatic approach to internet dating.
Amanda got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet and looked between her legs at the brown ring that had settled at the top of the sitting water. She did her business. She considered taking a shower, but ultimately decided that she needed as much time as possible to carve the perfect response to the emails. She threw on a wrinkled cream blouse that had once been white but would probably end up being the color visible only under her arm pits.

To Nig, It Is: Election Follow-Up

When he was born, they told us he wouldn't live past age four. He had a disease for which there was no precedent in the United States. The doctors did everything they could to help, but after dozens and dozens of conference calls with their German and Scandinavian colleagues, the doctors said that the future looked bleak for our baby. They hadn't had any experience with the disease there either. Finally a South African doctor contacted us, who we thank whole-heartedly on a daily basis. Things have become more hopeful. Although he's still got the disease, they say he'll live to at least see age eight. Today's the first day of his fifth year of life--a day we never thought we'd get to see. I would like to wish a very happy birthday to our four year old Post-Racial America!

Critique of Yusef Komunyakaa's "Nude Interrogation"

The speaker in Yusef Komunyakaa's prose poem "Nude Interrogation" successfully creates a setting without explicitly telling readers that the action is set in the "interrogator's" bedroom following the speaker's return from Vietnam where he served as a U.S. soldier. He uses imagery to explain the context--Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix posters, a record player, her multi-colored miniskirt, and burning incense. In the introductory paragraphs to the chapter, Burroway writes, "[Any writer] will tell you that creating the sensuous particularity of a place and period is crucial to writing" (Burroway 133). Komunyakaa creates the particularity of the United States young adult culture during and immediately following the Vietnam War.  

Critique of Ted Kooser's "Tattoo"

The speaker in Ted Kooser's poem Tattoo creates a narrative for an tattoo-ed old man who he observes at a yard sale. In just 15 lines, the speaker describes this old man as being permanently marked by the bad decisions of his youth because of his tattoos, and it seems that for the speaker this is especially sad because the old man looks like he must've been "someone you had to reckon with,/strong as a stallion" in his younger years. The poem ends with the line "his heart gone soft and blue with stories," which I interpreted to be a parallel between the faded soft blue ink of his tattoos, the taming of the 'stallion's' heart with age, and the decreasing efficiency of his physical body. 

Kooser's speaker characterizes the old man for the reader through a combination of the character-as-desire and character-as-image methods. The speaker describes the tattoo and the old man's physical appearance--including how he flaunts the tattoo with "his tight black T-shirt rolled up to show us who he was." In doing so,  we get the sense that the old man's driving desire is to be young again.

Critique of Alice Walker's "Beauty: When the Other Dancer is the Self"

In her personal essay "Beauty: When the Other Dancer is the Self," Alice Walker recounts the childhood accident that blinded her left eye and left a permanent scar, and she explains how that scar affected her academically, socially, professionally, and as a mother. This essay is properly placed in the Voice chapter of Burroway's book because Walker creates a clear persona through her diction and style of writing. Walker looks in retrospect at how the scar, in many ways, shaped her life--acknowledging the negative effects regretfully, but noting how her toddler daughter's innocent remarks about her eye changed her perception of what she perceived to be nothing more than an ugly reminder of an ugly incident.

RE: 23 Y/O Redhead Seeks Attractive W/M for FW(out)B Relationship - w4m - 23 (Garden District/Uptown)

[A barefoot 20-something white male wearing a white Run DMC t-shirt and black fitted jeans sits in a high-backed faux leather rolling chair browsing the Craigslist personal ads. An agenda, a checkbook, a receipt pad, and various unidentifiable papers lay scattered on his glass-top desk threatening to fall onto the hardwood floor with each spin of the ceiling fan. But the small study, which is accessible from his bedroom and the living room, is generally tidy with the exception of a few balled up papers that lay around a stainless steel trash bin--failed three pointers. He scans several ads within two minutes with titles like "Cute, Curvy Blonde - 21," "Sexy College Student - 18," and "Young Hopeless Romantic - 24" appearing on the screen of his Mac Book Pro. He clicks on the post entitled "23 Y/O Redhead Seeks Attractive W/M for FW(out)B Relationship - 23," reads over it twice, highlights the anonymous email link, opens his Yahoo! email account in a new tab, clicks the compose icon, pastes the link into the "To" line, and begins to type. The vibrant, green leaves of a two and a half foot tall plant shake as the window unit a/c a few feet away blows at it. The rolling chair squeaks as he nervously bounces his right leg up and down.]

David: [He types.] Hey, how's it going? I saw your ad on CL [he deletes the "CL" and types "Craigslist"], and you sound like my kind of girl. [He pauses, re-reads his two sentences, chuckles, shakes his head, looks around pensively, and continues typing.] I'm a freelance journalist with a masters in creative writing from NYU. I just moved here a few months ago. I haven't really gotten used to the change of pace yet, maybe you could help me? I'd love to hang out sometime. It's always nice to meet new people especially when you don't really know anyone--as I do not.

[He re-reads all that he's typed and adjusts the grammatical errors. He leans back in his chair and rhythmically pats his knees as he thinks about what he'll say next. He pulls his computer to his lap.]

David: [Typing...] The perfect first date for me would be a picnic by the river behind the zoo at sunset. We could get a six pack of Abita Amber, walk barefoot in the grass, and just hang out and get to know each other. I make great pies. I could bring one. Lemon merengue is my personal favorite but I'm willing to compromise I suppose. Sorry for not including a picture, but I've never done this whole Craigslist personal thing before and I just don't feel comfortable sending a stranger my photograph. I hope you'll understand. Also, if you could call in response instead of emailing that'd be awesome. I just like to know that I'm talking to a real, non-prostitute woman sooner than later. My number is 917-700-6512. Hope to hear from you soon. David.

[David closes his laptop, assesses his desk top, and shuffles his papers into a stack with no particular order.]

23 Y/O Redhead Seeks Attractive W/M for FW(out)B Relationship

Hi there, I'm a 23 y/o grad student at Tulane's School of Pubic Health. I'm an attractive, fun-loving, intelligent, down-to-earth, hard working, and adventurous Julia Roberts look-alike who is looking for a friend man. I'm 5'4", 126 lbs, and have a sexy bod (I have C cups and 36 inch hips). I enjoy reading, working out, jogging, listening to music, shopping, watching sports, travelling, and helping make the world a better place :) I plan on working in third world counties.
As much as I like going to bars, catching live shows, and hanging out with friends, I'm usually too busy to do so because I'm so studious, so I rarely have opportunity to meet guys the "traditional" way. I figured I'd give CL a shot.
I'm looking for a physically fit, D/D free, intelligent, well-educated, well-read, professional, family-oriented, w/m between 25-32 who is at least 5'10" and has obtained at least a masters degree in either a liberal arts or business related field in which he is currently employed and makes at least six figures for a non-platonic relationship without sex.
YOU MUST: live uptown, have your own place/car, be attractive (and able to prove it), and speak proper English.
No dick pics please! If you've seen one, you've seen them all.    
Respond with your idea of a perfect first date and maybe we can make it happen.

To Nig or Not to Nig: The Question of the 2012 Presidential Election

I lost my identity when America extended an olive branch to black people in the form of President Obama's election. All of a sudden I'm no longer an "other" and racism doesn't exist... HOW THE HELL DO YOU THINK I'M SUPPOSED TO FEEL?!
Now, when I get followed in department stores it's because the clerks have something really important to tell me, and when my brother gets pulled over by the police, it's because they think he's lost and want to offer directions (and I can only call my biological brother "my brother").
So, I'm taking a survey: we either start a support group for people who feel their personality has been displaced by the absence of racism or we work to support the Romney campaign.

Option A--Support Group: 
As we try to stifle our perceptive and analytical abilities, we will work together to come to grips with the fact that the treatment we formerly believed to be a manifestation of racism actually stems from the unique ability of white Americans to perceive the flaws and needs of persons whom they do not know.
We will also refine our math skills because, as we are well aware, one black president in all American history signifies our equality. So one now must equal 41.

Option B--Campaign for Romney:
This is pretty self-explanatory. We immerse ourselves in the campaign for Mitt Romney's presidential election because if he were to be elected chances are things will return to normal: Racism will be resurrected and the olive branch retracted. The need for a support group will therefore be null and void.
Sure, he's a Republican and he's not too fond of women's rights; but he couldn't possibly have any negative feelings towards black people while Obama is still in office.  Once he's gone, though, Romney'll hopefully be a real racist  Reagan Republican--exactly what we want!

I personally believe Option A to be the better of the two because--let's be real (excuse me, realistic)--Romney's not going to win unless there's a repeat of 2000. In which case, it would be an actual accident if thousands of black Floridians' ballots go missing. *Crossed fingers*

Critique #2: David Sedaris's "What I Learned"

In the essay "What I Learned," David Sedaris juxtaposes his metaphorically primitive and barbaric college experience first as an undergraduate student at Princeton and later as a graduate with his parents's ideals of the opportunities an Ivy League education would create. Readers follow Sedaris's reflections on his journey from acceptance to Princeton to the publication of his first book and his parents' opinions along the way. He uses imagery masterfully. Sedaris weaves the story of the metaphorical Princeton that burns failed students alive, that offers patricide and matricide majors and idol-worship classes, and whose graduates go on to become rat catchers with non-fictional accounts of his excessively proud father and his father's heavily bumper-stickered station wagon, living with his parents after graduating, the puppy that replaced him in his parents' home, and his parents' disappointment with his first book. Sedaris does not simply tell readers that he attended Princeton many years ago... and it was a lot different... because back then the grading was different... and they expected students to be humble... but his dad constantly boasted about him being a Princeton student... and when he became a literature major his parents thought it was a waste of an Ivy League education... and when he graduated he was one of several in his class who was not immediately employed... and his parents gave up hope on him... but then he wrote a book... that they didn't like. The story itself could be summed up in a horrible run on sentence like the one above (not a particularly interesting run-on sentence at that). But because he provided vivid imagery instead of delivering blatant facts or opinions, the essay is more engaging. For example, instead of just saying that the pass-fail system employed in his day fucked over a lot of people, he says that those who failed were burned alive "on a pyre that's now the Transgender Studies Building" (27). He provides an image that appeals to both the sense of smell and the sense of sight, when he says, "Following the first grading period, the air was so thick with smoke you could barely find your way across campus. There were those who said that it smelled like meat, no different from barbecue" (27). In saying that, he successfully conveys the thought that many students failed to make it to the second semester.

The Plumber

"It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things."
--Stephen Mallarme

Our reality-clogged silences clean up the poetry of creating word things around the job it is by.
Our job-clogged reality is it. Poetry silences the things to clean by creating around of word up
Silences. Our things-clogged clean by creating the job of poetry it is up around of reality word
Word-creating is the clean up job. Our poetry silences reality by creating around things clogged of it
Clean-clogged poetry is job of the Word. Our reality things creating silences up it by around