Today I protested, and it was awesome. This is improv. 4th week

I attended the Rocky Horror Picket Show. I believe I saw Dr. Davidson drive by. Hi, Dr. Davidson. Nice car you gots there. I waved at you, and I think you saw me. It was a completely awesome experience, and I was glad to see so many people supporting the cause. I was all fired up, and I am afraid I may not have any voice to work with soon.

Whatever the cause, griping is not going to be doing me any good here, so I will improv off of a poet. Time to GLOW! These imoprov posts are what kill me. I start to write them and then stare for hours instead of making progress, and eventually give up and leave. It causes a complete breakdown.

I am using Ellen Bryant Voigt and her poem "Winter Field" because it is so very strange and yet tells a story. I like taking parts, so I will take another part of this one. Not the whole thing.
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from: Winter Field
by: Ellen Bryant Voigt

[After they'd pierced a vein and fished me up,
 after they'd reeled me back they packed me under
 blanket on top of blanket, I trembled so.

 The summer field, sun-fed, mutable,
 has many tasks; the winter field
 becomes its adjective.
                                 For those long hours
 I was some other thing, and my body,
 which you have long loved well,
 did not love you.]
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I like this because of the interesting way that she never even says she fell in an ice lake, but the reader knows she fell in an ice lake and had to be pulled out and blanketed. She talks about herself like a fish to be caught. Then talks about being packed, also like a fish, which is confusing and strange, and then it moves into a description of winter as it pertains to summer, and has a strange line staggering, likely signifying that there is a change back to the other story. I love how she tells what she needs to tell.

Attempt to riff!!!

After they'd laid the dynamite and burst the rocks,
after they'd bored through thick stone they laid the track
steel on top of steel, they labored so.

The laden breadbasket, sun-filled, perfect,
feeds many mouths; the wooden planks
become its proxy.
                         For those harsh days
They were some other thing, and their bodies,
which had always served them well,
were lain to rest.

Well... that's that... I have a piece of a riffy poem fragment now!