Reflections on the Process—Yvonne M. Estrada


My Dearest Terry,

Well Lovey, thank you for inviting me to play. I have participated in many fevered writing sessions before, and have even extracted a few surprising lines for poems. This process was a little different, but the surprise factor was still there. I found it like being given a particular palette of colors to start with, and seeing what image would be born. Like any poetic form the “rules” are what bring on the brainstorm for me, digging deep for the meaning I am after; this bring its own surprise. The freedom to choose any prompt, the freedom to write anything during the fevered writing, and the freedom to reorganize the words in any sequence made dis•articulations an adventure that took me to a poem I didn’t know was waiting for me. Bring it on!


December dis•articulations poem — Yvonne M. Estrada

Human Recipe Story

Overdue laughter
triggered a high-tech

Everything was reborn
lucky, flowers yellow
and sky blue.

angels’ wings
sweep everything.

Centuries of memory
become paths
to heaven.

Miles and miles
of illusion


December Fevered Writing — Yvonne M. Estrada

For our dis•articulations collaboration, Terry gave collaborating poet Yvonne M. Estrada four writing prompts. Yvonne engaged in fevered writing with each of them and gave the results back to Terry. These are the words she will use to construct her dis•articulations poem.

republicans are not the condom police
but really they are they want to see what you’re doing in the bedroom they want to make sure that there’s a hole in every condom more women to control all the better their perverse enjoyment. their ancient relatives fucking sheep on a boat inventing venereal disease and beastiality simultaneously. they drive around in their  little police cars pulling people over to see if they have their condoms on, they lie! they are the condom police! it’s all their fault they are the Dickheadz of the millenium

written on beasts
is the true creation story.  the man made ones are so predictable.  the words are tattooed by tapping a sharp stick dipped in ink from a net full of octopi pulled from the ocean and lugged back to the stortellers hut where the wild horses flinch but do not run away they must spread the word they know no one else will bother

of being engine red the fire starts of being sky
blue because the wind can only be felt of being gold are our friends we knew before the age of computers of being brown there are those that will never know of being crushed until there is nothing left bit a good way to die

when it’s dark out 
I play it in the ambrosial hours only. once the sun rises i no longer understand the words. at night there are  so many people that can overhear. I need the cover of the dark so I can see what’s going on without being detected. Under the radar I listen to albums by rap stars. under the stars I listen to G easy and his new album. when it’s dark out I can breathe I can see I can feel the warmth coming up from the sidewalk of the day’s sun. things are quieter the hush of traffic. children gone to bed.


Readers are encouraged to write poems in response to the prompts or to the fevered writing. The best Reader Poem we receive in December will win a $25 prize. All poems submitted will be posted to the blog.