Step 1. Bang a gong. Put on Miles Davis, “Stuff”(May 17, 1968) from Miles In The Sky. Write
word-centos of poetry by Brian Sonia-Wallace,
David Dephy, John Jack Jackie Edward Cooper and Aaron Fischer.
(Note: Word-centos of David Dephy and Aaron
Fischer were written while listening to Miles
Davis Quinet, Live at Teatro dell’Arte in Milan,
Italy on October 11, 1964.)

 

BOUGAINVILLEA PROMISES

(a word-cento of Brian Sonia-Wallace’s
“After the Music *)

I sing at a distance
through a parade of butterflies,
a promise against erasure,
the impossible end, a long stammer
Booms
seventy-five butterflies
across the sidewalk
home,
to sing our promises.

* Original poem by Brian Sonia-Wallace
published in The Pride LA. Dec. 17, 2020.

 

IN THE FOREST OF ILLUSIONS
ONLY DUST WON THE WAR.

(a word-cento of David Dephy’s
“Forest” *)

Dust is blameless,
dust on the edge of
forgotten dreams,
rolling over in the dark,
sick of turning teachers
into dead dreams,
dreams into dust,
forgotten breath,
all over the forest,
running past dead dreams,
dust,
forgotten breath,
illusions we believe
but do not recall.
* Original poem by David Dephy
published in Litehouse.

 

WORDS WITHIN WORDS

(a word-cento of Jack Cooper’s
“Ophelia’s Ventriloquy” *)

Agony behind nothing
denied emptiness.

She, power of flowers,
submerged flesh to reflect
words within words,

unknowable balm buried beneath
ignorance;

lips stifle spontaneity
beyond disappointed words,
curtailed, never free.
* Original poem by John Jack Jackie Edward Cooper
published in Guinevere Review,
Issue 1. Sept. 1, 2017.

 

DOUBLE DIAMOND

(a word-cento of Aaron Fischer’s
“Venice” *)

Dreams, serried gondolas of laughter,
bruises listening to bruises,
water, windows
where I rose from the ocean

but you…
you kept on drowning
into shadows.

* Original poem by Aaron Fischer
published in The American Journalof Poetry, Volume VI. Jan 1., 2019.

 

Step 2. Write a meditative insert by doing the following:
Take a poem you write during a political event.
In my case, I wrote a 30-page long poem and took the
day off to write it as a “live write” response while watching
the live stream of the entire Day 1 of the U.S. Senate
proceedings back in January 2020. Take your political event
poem and tear it up into little bits. (Note this works better
with a long poem.) Spread it out on the floor and piece a new
poem together. Then put a towel out to sit, so you don’t hurt
your knees if you’re working on a hardwood floor, put on
Bill Evans’ Live in Paris Vol. I-II-III (1972) and start piecing
together your new poem. Enjoy the groovy meditation of the
music, sitting on your towel, too, during this process.

 

RIPPED AMERICA:
MY COUNTRY IS A CRACK MOTEL


I.

Inquiry of our misconduct can
further the national body
the spread of democratic values
up your words with meth, I know makeup,
Contemplate murkying-up dried tearful water
your body is in to shine forth in the forum from the
ocean drying up into solace. And her —
America’s daughter — change is beaming end.
There is fright in this broken world state of letting
enough water to bring tears to inundate the storm,
maelstrom of order, of blue unfettered — big
bad whorl-world.

It is like typing birth with broken,
likened to necessary distraction. Confirm us &
all the St.’s of this godforsaken
beacon in your heart of hearts

upon eyes upon the fog of weeds. Storm rips

reason from eyes upon eyes – Let in
the callousness near her inflection/infection/
inspection, if you allow it. If

weeds, mountains of evidence grow
into your own poetic mind and allow poetry
to circle truth, unallowed to enter

the mirror mirage, mold helping

released without reason, getting in the way,
so please fall deeply to faint in world and o you

have let me climb in . . . be an unfettered force, —
to yield the windy road to Congress questioning your shell

becoming the World, a prospect of freedom and
fierce flight of song.

and capability for nothing, now to politicize
what I want my poetry to say, rather than
let your shell, like a cleric
within

allow the edge of a prospect, of freedom and
fierce flight song allows us my country,
wanting to force into self into a mass of one body –
president— stanzas, night-filled house and a senate
inside me, an oil mountain:

“Poetically charged times can veer the frames insulated
mirror warmth, soberly judge the president’s
misconduct for what it is and nothing less, and a necessary
impartial introspection of eyes upon eyes of each
droplet, water requires us to breathe tribunal,
engender hope out window: darkness of unknowing. Our
duty, grow internally and learn who we are. We

“might have already written ourselves; fight
in the light of knowledge in the shadows.

“A good conscience, our only reason
and justice, venerate truth above
our sovereign in a
child’s eye:

“weeds upon weeds that half saw the
severed sword of truth-giving, life-breathing
serum.”

II.

To the party I cannot comprehend:

I feel it in your wind, alone in my body
(Country) wants to free myself itself into a single
mass: president, offing economically,
echo-nomically posture— my mounting
and breathing. Oasis. A term: white-light,
Rolex watches roll— Love the calling card of
justice: political polarization. — It wants
to be mathematics, philosophy, this True Freedom
of Freedom from Fact and Datum Ommmmmmm into
the deep,
where God
dies.

III.

The key to transcending the ladder, potus, ins-
and-outs us, our wants, use
everything I (Country) think I know: Meditation
synergized a child’s eye (America) and
her daughter (the future) – ocean cosmic,
vulnerable.

And wants make the left breathing eyes
belt into nightmare. —

Lightning strike the fold and transmute air into
golden peace signs. May the container
mechanism (voting) overturn questions as well
as introspection on the corner— cower when
we walk down streets of body
politic and whip tweets, shame
without trying to grow
as people to bathe
off cynicism. Absolve Society, and
transgress our ionized objectivity like a
dog; we have become motivated
in our private interest: a darkness
upon which we are gathered

in matted knots, — and something
within us all sometimes — I specifically

am unwilling to “express except in
self” – What is this suit size

regardless of the parasitic resilience with
starting off on social media, –
pray inscriptions of truthful; sheath
the amygdala beating my hair into
matted knots, gasping for
“Hypocrites,” and Other Poems,
a single raindrop sigh –
gasping for
“not going back”
cradled in our poetics,
my warped order to strive away, – Win
this godforsaken climb.

IV.

The president’s obstruction parallels bricks of
mortar trying to construct the truth and meaning,
but it (he) wants to make (my Country):
But my poetry is not mine. My
poetry is yours. Just like this country. It is
God’s world around us: Learn who I am, you
valleys & peaks, birds, social media posts. It is
not a corporation. And it is not breathing
downstairs
at the bottom of the ocean.

V.

Viola geese bodies in the Wilderness
of Love. — It is not a physical
thing. And I cannot point AT
myself in private and ask,
“Is my sadness of obstinate never-ending
bliss in the paradigm of poetry edits of
evidence, even when I see it?”
Even when
I understand the left breathing eyes
which I belt in lightning strikes. —

The president and the polarization of the sadness in
my poetry, now evidence tampered when
I see it, with weeds upon weeds
and tears, with me, my eyes surrendering the
limits of reward, can be swayed by composed woes
decomposed, science and truth and
maybe even the best magic in the island-light
is also full of this left of yours
absolved/absorbed

by sophistical truthful pres-clapping

each moment, the sick of party lines
to the right of the checkout counter, nonetheless.

VI.

The president and the polarization of the Sea,
Corpses of America’s daughter from proffering
bodies of the funding/founding fathers breathe.

Bliss. With a somberness that can
be serenely fulfilled, “Thank You.” – Watch:
your duty to testify to your own
introspection and let it never end.

VII.

Dear fellow poet,

the words compose themselves
as your ex watches the ark of despair…

the words are somewhere, placating the
whole ocean. They write themselves

as fragments. But the soon-to-be matted
knots in my hair & Other Poems, gasping

for the whole truth we poeticians,
not republicans nor democrats,

can see clearly through the weeds
upon weeds, even if our eyes are

on LSD and fueled by a world of
paparazzi and depression, because

our words say what we’re afraid to
see. Be, breathe with me,

beliefs as members of what-
might-be-a-country,

in which
representatives are uncensored,

and Maya, the executive decision of
malice-life malaise, believe in the unknown vivid

decency, our political parties have
not identified in a true

sentence, beyond the semantic revelation
lies, eyes in peace, breaths of peace:

We are inseparable, part of the
community, – for we are breath makers

of this space. I, unencumbered.
I, unedited.

VIII.

It’s an absolute— why does
r/evolution watch us?
the world uncensored, ourselves the
words to re-elect our history
of somewhere. We must let history
not surrender, improving history rather than wallow
in our significant narratives, in gridlock;

we must come together, merge from eyes sad & full
of stanzas. We must, Hypocrites who

obstruct an impartial justice, a single

raindrop sighing in the wasteland.

Boundless, referring to poets beholden to
recall the story of underscored

time, study theory
as poeticians!

Poeticians are beyond bounds, come together, climb over
the weeds and
weeds, mountains we breathe with sadness.

Let our Beat Poetry save us from the godforsaken

world hanging off the edge of the precipice
stabbing knives in eyes, words of despair,
belaboring vagueness awaiting an Oasis to be

chiseled in our veins and coarse
through our brains (our brain of
Country: America). [Give CPR
to her daughter!]

Hope, not hope, breaths, breathless.
We hang on our word awaiting action
to befall into the pit of the world,
not a pitiful one.

After glow of the lifeline begins
with universality poeticized, not
politicized, drape into the clouds,
listen to the entire senate hearing and meet
darkness, clouds of darkness; crimson

tides turn gravity that we’re afraid to see

for three reasons. The three reasons of Poetry.

We must allow our bones to breathe words vulnerable as snow
upon mountain’s breath into purple aura
poetry, community, nation, world,
O goddess! O goddess!
O America’s girl!

IX.

She is coming.
Yes, she is coming.

She is coming in her gown, her process

in her righteous blossoming
sunshine, blooming loquacious

silence. Speaking an ignoble/ignorable

brightness, embargoing forests in heaven.

— Poetry, what am I to You
within my nation, within myself,
composing conscious streams of verse-
free, re-verse a response to thwart
myself, my cell, phones to post
political polls, pull our social media
in two Americas: Red, read
from Blue, blew the Flag in White
fled/fed thru offense of two.
Nonsense wraps & warps
my brain,

which I tuck away to find You,
Your Three Reasons, O Poetry,
for Writing and Being,
for Living by Your Daughter!
America’s girl! O America’s girl!
So young and free!
trying to figure out
how to speak poetry
for herself
where eyes sway
and innumerable breaths
give into the fade, & “news –
you cannot find,” they say…

“Maybe is a word willing to testify
not your texts and tweets, the second stanza
of stuff. But my president, it is
something deeper than that. My
president is poetry, philosophy
and sophistry, — my finger is on IT!

And I cannot point my finger on
truth without very sad
eyes and a head
fighting to get out
of mountain of sand.

Please breathe freely with me, numbers of lost
eyes misunderstanding my sadness, Poems that
come from my Health, courage my fellow
poets – is necessary to engage too.

We must hear the freedom, not the
one in the sand.

But I feel that the understanding of this
hellhole is alive. The knowledge
is alive and wants us to see
daylight and make our way
out from the cave, from impoverishment and
corruption: No more
denial of History!
No more denial of Justice!
Try to introspect
Wear Christ’s shoes, echoed in
a reflection of weeping —
weeping over obstruction to grow and
see who I really am.

[NOTE: No Step 3 for this week’s Incentovise.
Check back in for Incentovise #20 next week.]

 

Joshua Corwin, a Los Angeles native, is a neurodiverse, 2-time Pushcart Prize-nominated, 1-time Best of the Net-nominated poet and Spillwords Press Publication of the Month winner. His debut poetry collection Becoming Vulnerable (2020) details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality. He has lectured at UCLA, performed at the 2020 National Beat Poetry Festival and Mystic Boxing Commission Festival of Sound and Vision, read with 2013 US Presidential Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco, Michael C. Ford, S.A. Griffin, Ellyn Maybe, among others. His Beat poetry is to be anthologized alongside Ferlinghetti, Hirschman, Ford, Coleman and Weiss late this year (Sparring Omnibus, Mystic Boxing Commission). He hosts the poetry podcast “Assiduous Dust,” writes the weekly Incentovise column for Oddball Magazine and teaches poetry to neurodiverse individuals and autistic addicts in recovery at The Miracle Project, an autism nonprofit. Corwin’s collaborative collection A Double Meaning, with David Dephy, is currently seeking publication. He also has forthcoming collaborative poetry projects with Ellyn Maybe including Ghosts Sing into the World’s Ear (Ghost Accordion series 1st Wave, Mystic Boxing Commission). Corwin is editing and compiling Assiduous Dust: Home of the OTSCP, Vol. 1 (forthcoming April 2021, TBD) featuring 36 award-winning poets, all demonstrating a new type of found poem (OTSCP) he invented.