Mary McCray is the author of Why Photographers Commit Suicide (poems available on Amazon) and the co-author of St. Lou Haiku. Her poems have appeared in Ape Culture, Phoebe--The Journal of Gender and Cultural Critiques, The South Carolina Review, The Wisconsin Review, Switched-on Gutenberg, Literal Latte, Natural Bridge, Tintern Abbey, Eye Dialect, and Mudfish.

Her essays have been published in Book/Mark, Ape Culture and Hermenaut, The Journal of Heady Philosophy. Mary is also the creator of her alter-ego, zine, blog and resource site for Cher Scholar. She was also co-editor of the award winning pop culture zine Ape Culture.

Work posted here is the intellectual property of Mary McCray.

Mary blogs about poetry at http://www.bigbangpoetry.com/
Mary McCray is the author of Why Photographers Commit Suicide (poems available on Amazon) and the co-author of St. Lou Haiku. Her poems have appeared in Ape Culture, Phoebe--The Journal of Gender and Cultural Critiques, The South Carolina Review, The Wisconsin Review, Switched-on Gutenberg, Literal Latte, Natural Bridge, Tintern Abbey, Eye Dialect, and Mudfish.

Her essays have been published in Book/Mark, Ape Culture and Hermenaut, The Journal of Heady Philosophy. Mary is also the creator of her alter-ego, zine, blog and resource site for Cher Scholar. She was also co-editor of the award winning pop culture zine Ape Culture.

Work posted here is the intellectual property of Mary McCray.

Mary blogs about poetry at http://www.bigbangpoetry.com/

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 11, 2016)

There are eight laptops on the table:
An HP, a Dell, my Toshiba and four Apples
all plugged into a six-plug hub.

Four rectangular tables braced
together, a fake wood grain.  
Cheat sheets, memory sheets,
plastics full of liquids.

Wild card expressions
regular on methodical faces.
Dimensions and metrics, conversions and hits,
greatest hits on a histogram.

We’re talking about where geographic
channels drive traffic. Where we stand.
Who we are. What does it mean.
Data, data, data, dream big, world takeover.

How I am a cookie on my computer,
ultimately, mysteriously edible.

I completely crapped out on Napowrimo this year. Wah! I tried to keep going during a business trip that involved two conferences (LA Bookfest and Luminetrics Google Analytics Training). The stress prepping for that crazy trip sent me into a stomach flu spiral on trip day one. So basically I just zombied my way from hotel bed to conference to hotel bed for seven days during which I vaguely watched reality programming on E! and now know more about the various housewife shows than is probably healthy. I thought I would catch up on poems but I have to admit defeat. These notes were taken during the first day of my second conference on the 11th  describing my surroundings and ending on a philosophy. and this is probably as good as it will get for me this year.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 10, 2016)

Rattle
in the talking hours.
One hundred frogs,
a spiritual practice in three lines.
Plainwater, twin cities,
notes on the assemblage.
Bough down ghost girl.

These are the titles of the books of poetry I bought at the Los Angeles Times Book Festival April 10th.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 9, 2016)

I’m writing this at the airport terminal halfway through a nightmare.
My head is full of three classes (two online), one Infinite Jest reading group, one novel and 30 poems.

First there was the business trip I shuffled all my days for.
Three weeks of being hijacked in paperwork and last minute delays.

The day before my trip had me begging a conference admin to let us register for the middle day which had sold out during said bureaucratic delays.

I scrambled to make it work: the packing, the physical therapy, mailing my mother’s 80th birthday gift.

I forgot to check in for my flight and over the last three days temporarily lost various items including my travel paperwork.  I have spilled multiple liquids on important pieces of paper.

I paid for a tea and there was no tea. I went uncaffeinated. My late-night flight was cancelled.  In the week ahead I will lose steam, lose faith, lose my way and throw up twice.

Such maneuverings drag on the world’s caul.

I woke up at 4 am this morning and feel like I should have a good crying jag. Bernie is not a democrat. Hillary is not a socialist. The arguing will not stop. You know forever it will not stop. I am and we are all way behind in everything and it piles up a cacophony of noise.  I am way to tired
and far too heart superstitious to write a single line
in any way tainted with risk at this moment.

Been totally derailed with this. Left Friday for two conferences in Los Angeles. Started taking notes for poems every day but came down with the stomach flu on Saturday and could only manage to do the conferences each day and then crash into bed!

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 8, 2016)

The cherry blossoms
of DC have bloomed in kind—
fair burst of the realm.

Tunnels of cotton
Blush rosier than the rose.
What moral measure.

Looking today at DC Cherry Blossoms online (search National Geographic)  compared to Japans (search Huffington Post)

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 7, 2016)

“I don’t care for a man’s religion
whose dog and cat are not the better for it.”
-- Abraham Lincoln


Poll the polecat for I don’t have, to say, a dog
in this fray, in this tussle of quicksand policy.
No kibble in the bowl of faithful-isms,

the ticks and slugs of sham prisms.
As the maxim goes—if you lie with dogs,
you wake up with fleas and fated policy.

You wake up as compromised as policy
uncompromised, orchestrating schisms
and foul offensives. Beware of the dog

policy, bird dogging and false Emersonian-
                                                                        isms.

I cheated with ism words which were too juicy to refuse.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 6, 2016)

The not-smell of pop fiz on ice
stimulating the hairs in the nose,
caffeine coolness so far down a throat
it touches the brain, frees the sinus
in a chemo-corporate embrace.
The soda jerks are calling for shares
of my stomach, even the crenelated
linings, even the misled calorie,
even the sorrowful marrow of the bone.
Consider the mitochondrial malaise of this,
the very psycho-pathological thirst
that kills what we need.

Yesterday I came across a great article called "Instagram and the Cult of the Attention Web: How the Free Internet is Eating Itself" (https://medium.com/re-write/instagram-and-the-cult-of-the-attention-web-how-the-free-internet-is-eating-itself-909b5713055e#.yyq1037l6) about the Internet's increasing dependency on our attention and how Coca Cola is literally talking about shares of stomachs.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 5, 2016)

When I was a child a relative told me
the English do not eat tomatoes.
And I cannot let go of the false idea,
the tomato-ness of America.
Large Red, Old Virginia,
the Mortgage Lifter—
these all sound gravely patriotic.
As does Martian or Mountain Princess,
like some Appalachian fruit.
Even the almost allegorical
Early Abe. But what about the purist,
the Romaist, if you will, the one-kind
of onion eater who won’t take artichokes
or okra, lives on peas and is a veritable
celery-heart, consumes eggplant only as a slur,
garlic as jewelry; potato is his credo.

Take the speckled small watermelon,
red with evaporating streaks of green.
The part of this and the part of that.
The half breed, the synthesis, the cauliflora
extraordinary. Full of halves. I know
quite a few people who would refuse it.

 
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