Clock number 1
Image by Leo Reynolds via Flickr

Write a poem that is actually one long sentence.  It must contain one of each of these things:

  • a small animal (i.e. tree frog, gecko, etc.)
  • a brand name (i.e. Mazola, Hasbro, Taco Bell)
  • a synonym for road
  • a color
  • a date (i.e. February 18)
  • the word “scratch”
  • somebody’s name
  • a loud noise

The sequence you use is up to you.  Share your work if you feel like it.


  1. Me and William Faulkner Down by the Schoolyard
    From a little after two oclock until almost sundown
    of the long still hot weary dead fifteenth of September
    afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called
    the “lane” because her father had called it that (though
    no one quite knew why, even if some folk suspected it
    an early symptom of his senility)—a dim hot airless
    room with the blinds closed and fastened for forty-three
    summers because when she was a girl (her father still
    called her “little sparrow” back then) someone had
    believed that light and moving air carried heat and that
    dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shown
    fuller and fuller on that side of the house and beyond the
    barn painted with the Mail Pouch Tobacco advertisement)
    became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes
    which Quentin thought of as being flecks of the dead old
    dried paint itself blown inward with a scratch from the
    scaling blinds as winds might have blown them carrying
    the silent howl of all Southern history and its dead.

  2. The street leading to Burger King is almost magical on this night of December 25th
    as Peter’s pet squirrel climbs a tall tree bedecked with tiny white lights in hopes of finding a delicious nut, but alas, Chester’s desperate scratch cannot yield fruitful results until “Splat” marks Chester’s unfortunate demise.

  3. Something in me rises up mad as a small animal, tender as a tree frog yet rugged as a gecko, actual as a flea, rises up in me tattooed like an onslaught, like a child is born, rabbits, deer and porcupine, like a brand name, like Mazola‘s hierarchy of needs, like take one Hasbro with water every six hours, like she’s got Taco Bell written all Covergirl, something in me rises up when I’m deriving a synonym for road, driving down Route You-n-Me, so drunk I can‘t street straight, something in me to reckon the exact color slate, dark-blue, bluish, the many shades of my itinerary, rises up to meet your eyes in that bar not February, March, April, May or June, it was July 16 or so when the world’s turning went from a perpetual scratch to a ticklish tickling tickly titillative, everything was coming up irises, and where we were was not somebody’s name.

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