**I'd really love to get some feedback on how to structure this poem. I've never really studied or written poetry (at least, not since the rhymed couplets of grade school assignments) but I'd like to fit the ideas I have down here into some sort of cohesive form.**
how do i speak about the other world?
earnestly, without forced reverence,
in testament
not to what it was to me
(i was changed, yes),
but to what it itself is?
can i paraphrase awe
without the sallow tinge of exoticism,
without crippled pity, assumed shame,
or is it corrupted in the utterance?
am i naive to suppress
the insinuating murmurs of history,
like tropical vines encroaching upon
the delicate organic matter of our
bus stop banter?
i fear for our small tender friendship exposed
to cynical prose
burning against our bare skin
like the deadening noontime sun above Probolinggo.
can i admit that there
i shed the careful habits of my education
or forgot them in my luggage?
insisted i could see without the collegiate spectacles
which reveal around one's vision
the reddish aura of Context,
born of a dozen piled syllabi and
edged with the blood of Latin and Greek affixes?
i couldn't think about the symbols:
the mournful, howling minaret,
or the boy's baffling colonial primer
marked and smudged by three generations of eager hands,
edifying eager heads with
scenes of 'taking tiffin' with one's British nan.
carefully, i print an address on the last page.
am i false in the gesture?
speaking through the primer he shouts
against the droning elegy,
embrace me, Misses!
there is no subtext
in the half-moons of his fingernails
along my sunburnt forearm.
your theories have no place in this moment.
to subject the vestiges of our afternoon
to interpretation
would be itself demeaning to him and me
and what is human.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Thermostat
After I learned you
would keep the apartment
I sat so still on the steps
behind my sister's
building that the motion-
triggered floodlights
turned off.
Turned out
I couldn't leave after
all — they kept
my car at the shop
for the weekend.
Couldn't figure out why
the engine overheated
when it idled.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Miscellaneous
On Friday morning, Maggie phoned with the seed of a plan.
“I need to bury my pills. I’m thinking someplace rural.”
Jess, who was backing away from a memory like a hiker retreating from a bear, stuck a finger between the waist band of her pants and rubbed the indentations already forming. That morning, her train delayed at the station, she’d seen a homeless man kick the receivers off the telephones, then run away. Her empathy not for the man, but for the plastic molded ear pieces worried her. Sitting at the edge of whatever was coming, she needed to force herself up and away.
Jess slumped in her chair, lowering her head just below the plastic troll doll border patrol positioned around the perimeter of her neighbor’s work station. A drawn out groan came out of the phone. “Stretch louder,” Jess said, then under her breath, cupping the receiver in her hand. “Sharon’s plastic army will think I’m stroking the kitty. Which pills are these? That pack from the university trial?”
Maggie always had some issue with her birth control. One gave her vertigo, another made her feet swell up a full size. An entire weekend in Madison, which included a stolen drum from an Ethiopian restaurant and $500 in parking tickets, was later ascribed to a hormone regulator implant. Jess hadn’t been aware of any problems recently, but evidence wasn’t always a requirement in her best friend’s emotional trials.
“The Estrocese?” Maggie yawned. “No, remember, I dropped those out the drunk trolley on St. Pat’s? These are garden variety. ‘Clears your skin and won’t jack your libido! I know, because I’m a woman doctor.” Those ones. But they’re giving me night terrors like whoa. Got to get rid.”
“Got to get rid”—a trap door trigger for any unwanted element in Maggie’s life. Woe to the man or small furry creature that heard those words. These expulsions meant a ritual needed to be planned, a mild prayer said for lost plans. When the wheels of Maggie’s life train jumped the track, everyone needed to stop and listen to the grate and whistle of steel changing course. She was a part-time nanny and masseuse, professions with normal connotations for Jess, at least until they became the foundations for Maggie’s retro-adolescence.
Jess composed spreadsheets for insurance policy mediators and once threw away a live goldfish. She did not say a prayer when she realized her mistake.
Looking up, she immediately locked eyes with her manager, a dead-eyed MBA with the weight of a luxury sedan lease resting on his narrow shoulders. Simultaneously, he typed furiously on his standing efficiency desk and bored a hole in the wall two inches above Jess’ head. She’d forgotten to get a tardy slip from the transportation desk. Her face warming uncontrollably, she looked down and spied a post-it note sticking out from under her ergonomic wrist pad, unnoticed when she first came in. “Where are you?” she read aloud.
Maggie stopped listing her music choices for the ride. “Alright, alright, I get it. Go. I need to get Kaydon from his breakfast enrichment play date anyway. Do you need any clothes?”
Jess folded the note into an origami bird, but messed up the beak. “No, I’ll just sleep in my underwear.”
“Yeah you will. Or maybe less. Whacca Whacca Whacca. Porno.”
Five minutes past five, Maggie pulled up in her hand-me-down Saab hatch back, a loaner, pumping out the smell of fennel and matted woven fabrics from its owner. Accordion and guitar spilled out of the open passenger side window. Her drunken Medusa curls coiled around her bare shoulders. Kayden, her 8-year old charge loved to draw her. Crayon portraits covered most of the surfaces of her coach house. “I’m kind of squiggly,” she’d shrug, by way of explanation, sweeping a hamster’s nest of paper off her kitchen table.
Maggie dumped two brown bags in Jess’ lap, which contained effortful snacks-- pistachios, seedy crackers and spreads. “You’re on assembly.”
Iowa had been an afterthought. First they chose a highway by the number alone, eventually pulling over to check the traffic report, just in case. They focused on the spontaneity, allowed the planning when it was necessary and inconspicuous.
Sedans and vans pooled behind tollway turnstiles, jostling under floating food courts and keychain depot. Their favorite radio show came on around dusk, and both girls realized they’d never heard it live before, a deadening side effect of so much downloadable information. They laughed together, actively listening to the other for a cue, for a reaction they might have missed on their own. Jess would place a slice of salami on a cracker, spread some anonymous olive dip, perch a shelled pistachio on top, then guide the structure as delicate as blown glass into Maggie’s hand waiting in a pose of supplication.
**
Maggie’s head dropped two times before Jess guided the steering wheel to the Rip Van Winkle motel, a sleeping giant cut out splayed over the entrance in repose. They both took pictures pretending to sleep standing up in front of it.
A pick-up with a camper in the bed was parked kitty-corner from the reception area, the only other vehicle in Van Winkle’s courtyard. Remnants of a barbeque sat in the gravel under its back tires, and an alarmingly fresh-looking smoke stain crept up the two-story building.
“Let’s hope those are unrelated.” Jess imagined them standing over the railing with wire hanger skewers roasting marshmallows in the giant fire pit. The room key was attached to wooden paddle like those brandished by nuns. Maggie grabbed the ice bucket and slapped Jess lazily on her way to the vending machines.
Jess lay on the acrylic floral comforter, making sure not to touch it with her face. She thought about what she had left behind or misremembered or what hadn’t happened at all. The echo of an image that she couldn’t immediately recall, while chopping carrots near the sink: the ca-chunk of the knife against the cutting board, a resonance in her privates and a drugged look of recognition.
The bouncing of flimsy plastic cups, crinkled saran wrap, running water into an ice-filled glass. Maggie held the water within Jess’ opened hand. “Drink me.” She dug around in her bag, pulled out a pill dispenser and swallowed one.
“Are those the pills we’re going to bury tomorrow?” Jess asked, still facing the ceiling.
Maggie crunched one between her molars. “Eh. I’m almost done with the pack.”
They looked out either side of the sliding front window for signs of life. “Do you really want to walk along this road at 11 at night?” one asked the other with her eyes. Maggie stood with her hand on the doorknob for a few moments, but failed to say anything definitive. She kicked off her leather sandals, flopped on the bed with Jess and turned on the TV. Everything played under a layer of dust. The local news drained of color, an old western ran like a historic newsreel.
Maggie was dead sleeper, performing simple unconscious regeneration when needed. Jess tossed and turned. She’d read that she shouldn’t lie in bed and think for more than 20 minutes when trying to fall asleep, that getting up and walking around was better in the long run. She focused on her breathing, batting back the cataloguing and analysis of daily life that tried to sneak in.
Nights before she would try to go to sleep, only to wake up a couple hours later in mid-run, taking solace in half-finished crosswords and DVDs. She lost weekends to unnecessary errands and spent time planning meals. She’d begun to forget small appointments for her boss. She forgot to listen when she turned on the radio in the shower. Her sheets took on the rigid sterility of the hospital bed. Dead set on forgetting this impending memory, she was only successful at amputating components of her present.
Two hours later, at the ledge of the courtyard, Jess eyeballed the persistent lamps above the truck stop. The camper in the parking lot was gone, now just two tracks leading through the gravel until they ended where the road began.
The clear cobalt sky cut down in the distance, cleaving a horizon among distant houses and cows like razor wire. From the gravel shoulder of the elevated road, valleys spilled out, up, and down in perfect ice cream scoops of land.
“I’m going back to nature! I am going to run naked through these fields!” Maggie whipped off her shirt like it was on fire, exposing a generic nude bra with tags cut out. She ran, arms and legs pinwheeling behind her, stumbling down the hill until she rolled, flattening dandelions and tufts of long grass in her wake. Splayed out before a stack of hay bales twisted as perfectly as cinnamon rolls, she breathed exaggeratedly, in through her nose and gasping out of her mouth.
Jess followed, managing a laugh when she came to a stop. “You realize that we’re probably on somebody’s property. A farmer with a shotgun won’t take your Mother Earth word as bond.”
Maggie looked out into the distance, sighed. “You misunderstand the source of my entitlement.” Saying these self-consciously uncharacteristic things, things you’d say at a lectern or in-close up on screen, was her request for silence. True or not, they always had the desired effect.
A jet slowly made its way over their heads, tethered to its own contrail. “Get up,” Maggie said, though she was the one who was down. She walked over to the hay bales, planted her feet shoulder-width apart before them. Silhouetted, a rebellious pear in only sandals and corduroys, the outline of the pill dispenser embossed on the seat of her pants, she contemplated the best means of attack.
“I need to bury my pills. I’m thinking someplace rural.”
Jess, who was backing away from a memory like a hiker retreating from a bear, stuck a finger between the waist band of her pants and rubbed the indentations already forming. That morning, her train delayed at the station, she’d seen a homeless man kick the receivers off the telephones, then run away. Her empathy not for the man, but for the plastic molded ear pieces worried her. Sitting at the edge of whatever was coming, she needed to force herself up and away.
Jess slumped in her chair, lowering her head just below the plastic troll doll border patrol positioned around the perimeter of her neighbor’s work station. A drawn out groan came out of the phone. “Stretch louder,” Jess said, then under her breath, cupping the receiver in her hand. “Sharon’s plastic army will think I’m stroking the kitty. Which pills are these? That pack from the university trial?”
Maggie always had some issue with her birth control. One gave her vertigo, another made her feet swell up a full size. An entire weekend in Madison, which included a stolen drum from an Ethiopian restaurant and $500 in parking tickets, was later ascribed to a hormone regulator implant. Jess hadn’t been aware of any problems recently, but evidence wasn’t always a requirement in her best friend’s emotional trials.
“The Estrocese?” Maggie yawned. “No, remember, I dropped those out the drunk trolley on St. Pat’s? These are garden variety. ‘Clears your skin and won’t jack your libido! I know, because I’m a woman doctor.” Those ones. But they’re giving me night terrors like whoa. Got to get rid.”
“Got to get rid”—a trap door trigger for any unwanted element in Maggie’s life. Woe to the man or small furry creature that heard those words. These expulsions meant a ritual needed to be planned, a mild prayer said for lost plans. When the wheels of Maggie’s life train jumped the track, everyone needed to stop and listen to the grate and whistle of steel changing course. She was a part-time nanny and masseuse, professions with normal connotations for Jess, at least until they became the foundations for Maggie’s retro-adolescence.
Jess composed spreadsheets for insurance policy mediators and once threw away a live goldfish. She did not say a prayer when she realized her mistake.
Looking up, she immediately locked eyes with her manager, a dead-eyed MBA with the weight of a luxury sedan lease resting on his narrow shoulders. Simultaneously, he typed furiously on his standing efficiency desk and bored a hole in the wall two inches above Jess’ head. She’d forgotten to get a tardy slip from the transportation desk. Her face warming uncontrollably, she looked down and spied a post-it note sticking out from under her ergonomic wrist pad, unnoticed when she first came in. “Where are you?” she read aloud.
Maggie stopped listing her music choices for the ride. “Alright, alright, I get it. Go. I need to get Kaydon from his breakfast enrichment play date anyway. Do you need any clothes?”
Jess folded the note into an origami bird, but messed up the beak. “No, I’ll just sleep in my underwear.”
“Yeah you will. Or maybe less. Whacca Whacca Whacca. Porno.”
Five minutes past five, Maggie pulled up in her hand-me-down Saab hatch back, a loaner, pumping out the smell of fennel and matted woven fabrics from its owner. Accordion and guitar spilled out of the open passenger side window. Her drunken Medusa curls coiled around her bare shoulders. Kayden, her 8-year old charge loved to draw her. Crayon portraits covered most of the surfaces of her coach house. “I’m kind of squiggly,” she’d shrug, by way of explanation, sweeping a hamster’s nest of paper off her kitchen table.
Maggie dumped two brown bags in Jess’ lap, which contained effortful snacks-- pistachios, seedy crackers and spreads. “You’re on assembly.”
Iowa had been an afterthought. First they chose a highway by the number alone, eventually pulling over to check the traffic report, just in case. They focused on the spontaneity, allowed the planning when it was necessary and inconspicuous.
Sedans and vans pooled behind tollway turnstiles, jostling under floating food courts and keychain depot. Their favorite radio show came on around dusk, and both girls realized they’d never heard it live before, a deadening side effect of so much downloadable information. They laughed together, actively listening to the other for a cue, for a reaction they might have missed on their own. Jess would place a slice of salami on a cracker, spread some anonymous olive dip, perch a shelled pistachio on top, then guide the structure as delicate as blown glass into Maggie’s hand waiting in a pose of supplication.
**
Maggie’s head dropped two times before Jess guided the steering wheel to the Rip Van Winkle motel, a sleeping giant cut out splayed over the entrance in repose. They both took pictures pretending to sleep standing up in front of it.
A pick-up with a camper in the bed was parked kitty-corner from the reception area, the only other vehicle in Van Winkle’s courtyard. Remnants of a barbeque sat in the gravel under its back tires, and an alarmingly fresh-looking smoke stain crept up the two-story building.
“Let’s hope those are unrelated.” Jess imagined them standing over the railing with wire hanger skewers roasting marshmallows in the giant fire pit. The room key was attached to wooden paddle like those brandished by nuns. Maggie grabbed the ice bucket and slapped Jess lazily on her way to the vending machines.
Jess lay on the acrylic floral comforter, making sure not to touch it with her face. She thought about what she had left behind or misremembered or what hadn’t happened at all. The echo of an image that she couldn’t immediately recall, while chopping carrots near the sink: the ca-chunk of the knife against the cutting board, a resonance in her privates and a drugged look of recognition.
The bouncing of flimsy plastic cups, crinkled saran wrap, running water into an ice-filled glass. Maggie held the water within Jess’ opened hand. “Drink me.” She dug around in her bag, pulled out a pill dispenser and swallowed one.
“Are those the pills we’re going to bury tomorrow?” Jess asked, still facing the ceiling.
Maggie crunched one between her molars. “Eh. I’m almost done with the pack.”
They looked out either side of the sliding front window for signs of life. “Do you really want to walk along this road at 11 at night?” one asked the other with her eyes. Maggie stood with her hand on the doorknob for a few moments, but failed to say anything definitive. She kicked off her leather sandals, flopped on the bed with Jess and turned on the TV. Everything played under a layer of dust. The local news drained of color, an old western ran like a historic newsreel.
Maggie was dead sleeper, performing simple unconscious regeneration when needed. Jess tossed and turned. She’d read that she shouldn’t lie in bed and think for more than 20 minutes when trying to fall asleep, that getting up and walking around was better in the long run. She focused on her breathing, batting back the cataloguing and analysis of daily life that tried to sneak in.
Nights before she would try to go to sleep, only to wake up a couple hours later in mid-run, taking solace in half-finished crosswords and DVDs. She lost weekends to unnecessary errands and spent time planning meals. She’d begun to forget small appointments for her boss. She forgot to listen when she turned on the radio in the shower. Her sheets took on the rigid sterility of the hospital bed. Dead set on forgetting this impending memory, she was only successful at amputating components of her present.
Two hours later, at the ledge of the courtyard, Jess eyeballed the persistent lamps above the truck stop. The camper in the parking lot was gone, now just two tracks leading through the gravel until they ended where the road began.
The clear cobalt sky cut down in the distance, cleaving a horizon among distant houses and cows like razor wire. From the gravel shoulder of the elevated road, valleys spilled out, up, and down in perfect ice cream scoops of land.
“I’m going back to nature! I am going to run naked through these fields!” Maggie whipped off her shirt like it was on fire, exposing a generic nude bra with tags cut out. She ran, arms and legs pinwheeling behind her, stumbling down the hill until she rolled, flattening dandelions and tufts of long grass in her wake. Splayed out before a stack of hay bales twisted as perfectly as cinnamon rolls, she breathed exaggeratedly, in through her nose and gasping out of her mouth.
Jess followed, managing a laugh when she came to a stop. “You realize that we’re probably on somebody’s property. A farmer with a shotgun won’t take your Mother Earth word as bond.”
Maggie looked out into the distance, sighed. “You misunderstand the source of my entitlement.” Saying these self-consciously uncharacteristic things, things you’d say at a lectern or in-close up on screen, was her request for silence. True or not, they always had the desired effect.
A jet slowly made its way over their heads, tethered to its own contrail. “Get up,” Maggie said, though she was the one who was down. She walked over to the hay bales, planted her feet shoulder-width apart before them. Silhouetted, a rebellious pear in only sandals and corduroys, the outline of the pill dispenser embossed on the seat of her pants, she contemplated the best means of attack.
Modern Poetry Article
I enjoyed this recent Slate article on modern poetry from Robert Pinsky. He's kind of a dick at certain points, but I think in a somewhat enjoyable way if you're a writer. Most of his responses end up just being lots of poems used as examples, some of which I thought were very good and many which I had not seen before. I certainly agree with one of his underlying themes: "Art, and particularly poetry, doesn't have to be old to be good."
Monday, April 21, 2008
Archaeology
This was our archaeology: no such thing as a border, as keep outs and not in my backyards, as I don’t know you and don’t want to know. You could be loved and hated so rashly that it seeped to your core. I hate you, you’d yell with every artery bulging and nerve tingling, then trounce the concrete’s faults for a few minutes more, only to return home again because you were loved, because you were loved. It was where nothing can stay except the exhaust and grime cutting through winter wind, and stop signs tagged and dealers in the back alley pushing and sirens leering over the sinks and sidewalks did. As he had done--eliding time, as shapeshifting as the neighborhood angling its features beneath the seasonal muck and sludge and slope.
At our lookout over the lakefront, I always tried to feed the fish we anticipated underwater and the gulls that never rested there for long. We thought we would be able to let them go, to release underneath full moons and harvest moons and the skies’ bowstrings, your eyes glowing like the streetlights. When people stood to say felt there was just something in the air he had been breaking down wood by the alley after getting the pushers drunk so they would leave the corner and try again another day. Dust-air thickens to brick when it comes from junk lumber kicked up from pavements and scraped of paint, the scrap people burn and hurl in fireplaces when the heat gets turned off or shut off and that’s all there was to it, that and some shots to keep warm when wind off the water ravaged the roofs and you could hear clapboard screaming. I always dreamed that some day the two of us would visit distant destinations and find ourselves as part of street traffic in faraway continents, in foreign landscapes that were ours. I invented stories of future secret identities, of shorelines, shadows along routes of places I had never been. New constructions.
I always knew seeming was not saying; it was an invented something that you would keep unused. Like the measuring tape that I constantly saw in his hands, its little ticks matching the creases of his skin where it was disintegrating near vein. He kept the gauge mere feet away from him, perhaps from fearing he would soon be losing track—but it never had far to go. Sometimes I stepped into the bedroom or the backyard to find him scrambling things over themselves and then returning them to their original position, mumbling that if things weren’t right you had just better shut up about them until they are. And since they never were, you pretty much better just shut up. Never say what you mean, as he one day, sanding in the backyard, skimmed his finger with the sander and swore, Your mother, your mother! crying out that she had done something to move the power cord on the ground. I had imagined her specter keeping nascent hands busied, applying antibiotic and gauze and bandage while murmuring I’m sorry, I am so sorry, pursing lips as her eyes welled glass walls until she vaporized. I had imagined it then when I watched him rest his head against the gates and convulse like an inhalation. I had imagined it again when I watched him crumple to the sidewalk of the back alley, loving more than anyone can love a thing that’s made up of invisibles.
This is our archaeology of excavations: of our unvisited locations, the words of ours that refuse to say what they mean. They camouflage our breathing while channeling the marrow of years, events, and moments sight-read. I tremble at the marking hand you will extend to me to chart this course, when I no longer became able to place your landscape after the city abandoned its shelter. Where you stay now, imagine this, and be able to see me.
Walking upon the expanse from an unrecognizable harbor, I dive off the docks, land on my feet, and wander eastward. The skyline dissolves into frost behind me as my steps grow longer and further apart, and the snowfall exhumes the heaviness beside my hands as it unfurls into the horizon. Here are the fish underneath puddles. Here are the gulls flying overhead. Here are the clouds that will cover us. And here, here are the concrete fences and concrete gates and concrete stones etched with single years, events, moments; here is the winter wind intercalating our vista as I step onto the rows beneath the ice.
At our lookout over the lakefront, I always tried to feed the fish we anticipated underwater and the gulls that never rested there for long. We thought we would be able to let them go, to release underneath full moons and harvest moons and the skies’ bowstrings, your eyes glowing like the streetlights. When people stood to say felt there was just something in the air he had been breaking down wood by the alley after getting the pushers drunk so they would leave the corner and try again another day. Dust-air thickens to brick when it comes from junk lumber kicked up from pavements and scraped of paint, the scrap people burn and hurl in fireplaces when the heat gets turned off or shut off and that’s all there was to it, that and some shots to keep warm when wind off the water ravaged the roofs and you could hear clapboard screaming. I always dreamed that some day the two of us would visit distant destinations and find ourselves as part of street traffic in faraway continents, in foreign landscapes that were ours. I invented stories of future secret identities, of shorelines, shadows along routes of places I had never been. New constructions.
I always knew seeming was not saying; it was an invented something that you would keep unused. Like the measuring tape that I constantly saw in his hands, its little ticks matching the creases of his skin where it was disintegrating near vein. He kept the gauge mere feet away from him, perhaps from fearing he would soon be losing track—but it never had far to go. Sometimes I stepped into the bedroom or the backyard to find him scrambling things over themselves and then returning them to their original position, mumbling that if things weren’t right you had just better shut up about them until they are. And since they never were, you pretty much better just shut up. Never say what you mean, as he one day, sanding in the backyard, skimmed his finger with the sander and swore, Your mother, your mother! crying out that she had done something to move the power cord on the ground. I had imagined her specter keeping nascent hands busied, applying antibiotic and gauze and bandage while murmuring I’m sorry, I am so sorry, pursing lips as her eyes welled glass walls until she vaporized. I had imagined it then when I watched him rest his head against the gates and convulse like an inhalation. I had imagined it again when I watched him crumple to the sidewalk of the back alley, loving more than anyone can love a thing that’s made up of invisibles.
This is our archaeology of excavations: of our unvisited locations, the words of ours that refuse to say what they mean. They camouflage our breathing while channeling the marrow of years, events, and moments sight-read. I tremble at the marking hand you will extend to me to chart this course, when I no longer became able to place your landscape after the city abandoned its shelter. Where you stay now, imagine this, and be able to see me.
Walking upon the expanse from an unrecognizable harbor, I dive off the docks, land on my feet, and wander eastward. The skyline dissolves into frost behind me as my steps grow longer and further apart, and the snowfall exhumes the heaviness beside my hands as it unfurls into the horizon. Here are the fish underneath puddles. Here are the gulls flying overhead. Here are the clouds that will cover us. And here, here are the concrete fences and concrete gates and concrete stones etched with single years, events, moments; here is the winter wind intercalating our vista as I step onto the rows beneath the ice.
Breaking the Seal
Hi everyone. Just thought I'd put something here so the first person didn't face a stark white page. I think the best way to do this would be cutting and pasting your piece into a new post, giving the post the title of your piece, and if you have any comments for the reader(i.e., anything you'd like us to pay special attention to, whether it's finished or not, etc.), then put them in the Comments section. Remember to be careful about formatting changes when you paste.
I shall now break the ceremonial champagne bottle against the hull of this literary ship. (*Smash*)
I shall now break the ceremonial champagne bottle against the hull of this literary ship. (*Smash*)
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