carla-blaschka
Carla Blaschka took a whack at life and life whacked her back. Ow, she cried, she drank and lied until one night she spied, in black and white no less, an invite for to vie for a Hugo House writing prize. Feeling blessed she took a whack and found a knack for writing fresh and fast, oh what a blast that lasts. Her mundane job pays the bills with little frills but for a cat. She gets her thrills from romps within. Hand on chin she spins again her stories round her prompts. Her characters stay on page and live out all their days, color added to their black and white to make weird and wondrous ways. A challenge for each readers gaze. When at last she takes a nap, she calls it good and done, but she knows, in her writer’s doze that her characters lurk round the bend, ready to come out once again and tell their tale, in terms they alone hone. For any good character that you sow, you know, will grow a life all its own. / / She has published a book of short stories called "In The Soup."
Lucy quickly bit the dust / an electric shock to her ****
Her life was nasty, brutish and short / squeamish lovers of mice retort
But those in homes with mice who fume / must insist upon her doom
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
Blackbirds flit, berries sway
Red with beauty, health, abundance
Many feed the few
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
If only...
If only they hadn't gotten sick
and lost their jobs and their benefits
If only they hadn't been abused as child
they wouldn't have landed in juvey and been a criminal
If only they were strong enough to never reach for relief from life's problems
never drink
or drug
or have *** with strangers
If only they were perfect, like me.
And didn't waste their resources on dinners and drinks and casinos, like me.
If only the never quarreled with their family over things past or get fired, like me.
They wouldn't have any problems, just like me
So why should I be told to care?
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Why should I care?
Just like being gay, they choose to be homeless.
Do they ever consider the problems of not being normal?
I wonder as I pass the debris of Occupy Seattle.
Besides the cold and hunger…
Besides being wet and frozen…
They have the problem of what to do with their jar of ***
Passing by I saw five lined up atop the red brick retaining wall, and I wondered.
When you *** into a jar, your hands get splashed, the bottle is *****
So how do you keep clean and fresh?
And how much weight can you carry every day anyway?
And where can you go to get rest?
Even finding a place to sit and rest is a problem.
No one wants them around.
Did they think about these things before they decided to become homeless?
But why should I care?
Be normal. It can’t be that hard to apply for a job without a computer.
To clean up and get to the interview.
I’m sure they could afford a cell phone to get their messages.
And if they have a phone, then they can call or ask for help from all their family and friends.
Everyone has friends and family who will help.
Everyone normal.
So why should I care?
It’s their own fault, if only they hadn’t. If only they weren’t
Then they wouldn’t need my help
And I could keep it all
My work, my taxes
My reward for following society’s rules.
For being normal
Why should I care?
If only they hadn’t gotten sick
Then they wouldn’t have lost their jobs and their benefits.
If only they hadn’t been abused
Physically, sexually, mentally
Then they wouldn’t be damaged.
If only they hadn’t relieved their pain
Then they wouldn’t be addicted to drugs, *** and alcohol.
If only they hadn’t, if only they weren’t,
then they would be perfect, like me.
I would never waste my resources
By eating too much,
drinking too much,
spending too much
I would never quarrel with my family and friends
And use up my all my social credit, my goodwill by needing help
You will never have to worry about me.
So why should I care?
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
In Iraq teenagers are being killed over a hairdo
Protecting God from Satan
In Uganda, men and women are being ***** and killed for being gay.
Protecting God from human love and diversity
In Turkey children are burned alive
Protecting God from a book called Satanic Verses
In America abortion doctors are killed
Protecting God from those who **** babies
But no one targets the Department of War
No one protects God from the killers
Haircuts, Books and Love
The nuts rattle against the pan until, over heated,
they explode
But only against the weak
Never against those who promote war
or those who communicate by torture
How do you know you are God?
By the ache in your heart and the love you have
for the good, the bad and the nutty
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
No. 1
Bend curl straighten soothe a restless metalsmith's willpower
tortures restless atoms into new shapes
A metalsmith decides the boundaries and limits
Their willpower rules another's world
No. 2
Red accents in air, in hair, floating with a stroke of a pen
The trees hair getting a makeover
with the stroke of each season
Changed again with a pen into indelible images of fall
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
Rewound
[re-‘wow’nd]
Replay
Rewound
[re-‘woo’nd]
The mind’s eye a constant projector.
Throwing up memories I would rather forget
How many times does one have to be
***** rejected and fragged
before the tape fades and breaks
and past events stop projecting my future.
When do I get to see the light?
That pure white light
The light that passes through NO thing.
A blank slate that waits for me
to reinvent and reimage a past
without those memories
The memories that hold my future back
and my present hostage
When will the tape run out
And return to me my life?
When will it return my dreams?
My future?
When will it say “The End?”
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Divisions of the night
Each calculated the same
Staccatoed bursts of sound
At regular intervals
Random quotes stick in my brain
“Where is your favorite place to eat?”
Limp beanbags lobbed at remotes
in futile attempts to change reality.
Fake drama as one
non-sister complains to
another that she will tell
secrets to strangers but not to her family.
But I am no stranger
I follow her life hour after hour
Her fake life in exchange
for mine not lived
except in flickering shadows.
Another weekend wasted watching
lives of the inane and ridiculous
Which is still somehow better than
watching mine
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
Carmen wrote **** **** begged to see her stories handwritten, the large C’s full and heavy, sliding underneath the stroke of her pen, the small a’s, gravity creating delightful roundness, rising in a stroke for the r, circling its soft head, coming out again to **** the m, sliding into the e, its cursive tongue in so many words and finally the hard bulge of the n, thrusting skyward, then finishing off with a long stroke, a generous flourish of release. Carmen considered, the barrel of her pen hard between her moving fingers, her response came, teasingly, a spellbinding yes.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
This is a performance piece. It should be said with energy, it can be happy or tragic, but you need to sell it. Let the audience make up their own stories to go with the comment.
[Point at someone in crowd]
“You, I thought you were my friend.”
[Pause]
[Find someone to focus on each time]
“and you, did you think I wouldn’t know?”
[Exasperation]
“You knew me,
I was right there.
Waiting.”
[Pause]
[Matter of fact]
“You could have done it different.
You chose to do it that way.”
[Pause]
[Smile sweetly, gently]
“I wanted to marry you.
Surely you could guess the reason.”
[Pause]
[Passionately]
“I loved you,
and that’s it?
That box?
[sarcastically] Thanks.”
[Finish]
“No, really, thanks!”
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC