part of my very short list of "resolutions" this year is to have fun with poetry exercises.
exercises.
the word itself makes you think of heavy lifting, doesn't it?
so the idea is to make them into challenges, or better yet--games. poetry games are what i'm playing, not sweating and lifting heavy words and bending them into strange shapes.
i'll be taking old exercises that i know and (hopefully) inventing new ones to stir the creative pot. it's part of this new working theory i have about the craft of writing. that, to be a writer you have to write. i know... so obvious, right? but then why is it that every time i sit down to write a new piece, i think of it as having to be divine inspiration? some mystical beam from some other place that delivers something to me, fully formed?
to hell with that. (unless it happens... then i'll be very happy and humble and thank the poetry gods and goddesses and live on the royalties... *cough, cough*)
this week, two examples of a game (see? using the new terminology already) stolen from Terrance Hayes, called a gram of &s. take a word, make a bunch of words from the letters in that word and then use them as the end of each line in the piece you're writing. simple, right?
entity
she stretches to fill his shadow--tiny,
almost shrunken, like a tent
swallowed by the canyon of his size. There are ten
years of apologies lost on his tongue; fish caught in the net
of his mouth (not spoken, not yet).
languid
ding!
isn't a word you can nail
to a cross. you can't close it like the lid
on a coffin, or shoot it from a gun.
it lacks the sting of a bottle of gin,
but late at night it will nag
at you with it's hollow din,
an empty elevator, painted by dali.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
how my mind works
new year's eve, driving to a party. the wind was gusting.
first thought through my mind as i'm hopping in the car: "this would be horrible weather to fly in."
did i mention a) i'm not a pilot and b) it's been at least two year's since i've flown?
first thought through my mind as i'm hopping in the car: "this would be horrible weather to fly in."
did i mention a) i'm not a pilot and b) it's been at least two year's since i've flown?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
pant, pant, pant
ok, so i've been running again on and off for two weeks. things i've learned: running isn't getting any easier, it's hot in southern california, and proper hydration is the key to survival.
listening to good music doesn't necessarily make your legs ache any less, or your feet less sore, but it sure can distract you from thinking about them for a few minutes at a time. today's choice lyrics come from jeffrey foucault (www.jeffreyfoucault.com):
And the girl I loved once
Came to me last night
In a dream with a secret to tell
She whispered close
Can’t you hear the ocean?
As she leaned her earAgainst a shotgun shell
also been holding regular sessions of exercise theater for the past month (exercise theater is my new term for riding the exercise bike while watching movies... again, it doesn't make it hurt any less, but you're not thinking about it quite as much if you're watching something like the right stuff... especially the scene where yeager (sam shepard) takes a jet out for a last test-flight... talk about amping you up for the next 15 minutes!). past victims of exercise theater: the right stuff (obviously), amelie, nightwatch (a russian supernatural thriller type thing), the illusionist, flags of our fathers, casino royale and the incredibles (surprisingly inneffective as a motivator to keep going).
this week (all week) on exercise theater: the lord of the rings trilogy. yep, should take all week, one disc per night (excluding wednesday), or half of each movie per session.
listening to good music doesn't necessarily make your legs ache any less, or your feet less sore, but it sure can distract you from thinking about them for a few minutes at a time. today's choice lyrics come from jeffrey foucault (www.jeffreyfoucault.com):
And the girl I loved once
Came to me last night
In a dream with a secret to tell
She whispered close
Can’t you hear the ocean?
As she leaned her earAgainst a shotgun shell
also been holding regular sessions of exercise theater for the past month (exercise theater is my new term for riding the exercise bike while watching movies... again, it doesn't make it hurt any less, but you're not thinking about it quite as much if you're watching something like the right stuff... especially the scene where yeager (sam shepard) takes a jet out for a last test-flight... talk about amping you up for the next 15 minutes!). past victims of exercise theater: the right stuff (obviously), amelie, nightwatch (a russian supernatural thriller type thing), the illusionist, flags of our fathers, casino royale and the incredibles (surprisingly inneffective as a motivator to keep going).
this week (all week) on exercise theater: the lord of the rings trilogy. yep, should take all week, one disc per night (excluding wednesday), or half of each movie per session.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Friday, December 29, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
hm redux
more from the artwork that doesn't exist. title courtesy of dmitry berenson.
Forty Miles Past
your high school graduation is a hilltop.
Below it is a wide valley.
There’s a house for every day of your life.
The first ones to catch the eye, the obvious ones perhaps,
have exceedingly well-manicured lawns, the type
where you can guess the occupants’ lives at a glance.
They’re the types of houses that have guest rooms
with clean sheets and comforters. Pillows that will swallow
your sins while you sleep, turning nightmares to dreams
in the alchemy of their feathered embrace.
Next are the ones with For Rent signs out front.
Again, clean sheets, warm blankets,
but the pillows ask too many questions.
Then there are the ones
where the weeds outnumber
the blades of grass on the lawn,
the houses whose doors stand open like empty mouths,
but everyone knows better than to step inside,
though some still do,
slipping into their unlit interiors,
leaving behind only faint stains
like hope about forgetting, or finding,
or a handful of pennies, a wishing well
and nothing better to do.
Forty Miles Past
your high school graduation is a hilltop.
Below it is a wide valley.
There’s a house for every day of your life.
The first ones to catch the eye, the obvious ones perhaps,
have exceedingly well-manicured lawns, the type
where you can guess the occupants’ lives at a glance.
They’re the types of houses that have guest rooms
with clean sheets and comforters. Pillows that will swallow
your sins while you sleep, turning nightmares to dreams
in the alchemy of their feathered embrace.
Next are the ones with For Rent signs out front.
Again, clean sheets, warm blankets,
but the pillows ask too many questions.
Then there are the ones
where the weeds outnumber
the blades of grass on the lawn,
the houses whose doors stand open like empty mouths,
but everyone knows better than to step inside,
though some still do,
slipping into their unlit interiors,
leaving behind only faint stains
like hope about forgetting, or finding,
or a handful of pennies, a wishing well
and nothing better to do.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
hm again
so, more from the borrowed title category. not sure what's going on here, yet.
maybe that's good?
Still Life with Wounded Mattress
She spent all morning in bed alone, falling in love.
In the evening she learned to hate.
The first part sounds easy, almost inevitable:
how one walks around with a mouth made of vacuum
(an absence, an emptiness, a longing), while the other has a mouth
carved from glass (transparent, fragile, tender). How they meet.
How their mouths form a bell jar and nothing is as it was.
The second part is a bitch:
one learns the power of puzzle pieces embracing,
the joys of compatibility, and the simple yet satisfying
taste of becoming, at last, indispensable
in a very specific corner of the world.
Then the lesson plan changes course.
Despite duality and the long, desperate nights exploring
the nuances of inseparability, a vacuum will always be empty,
and glass still shatters under too much, or too little pressure.
“Oh, wicked seasons of change,” she sobbed,
trapped in the dusky confines of her bed. “I salute you!”
She knew when she was beat.
No matter how hot the sun burns, the ocean still lifts
its wanton lips toward the tawdry song of the moon.
No matter how the moon is a pale reflection of the sun’s face,
or how the sun is a center, a core, a pulling together,
and the moon is a satellite, an echo, a hand holding a mirror.
No matter the awful weight of the sun’s gravity,
she knew she seemed distant, and felt the tiniest nudge
as she imagined them getting slightly farther out of reach.
maybe that's good?
Still Life with Wounded Mattress
She spent all morning in bed alone, falling in love.
In the evening she learned to hate.
The first part sounds easy, almost inevitable:
how one walks around with a mouth made of vacuum
(an absence, an emptiness, a longing), while the other has a mouth
carved from glass (transparent, fragile, tender). How they meet.
How their mouths form a bell jar and nothing is as it was.
The second part is a bitch:
one learns the power of puzzle pieces embracing,
the joys of compatibility, and the simple yet satisfying
taste of becoming, at last, indispensable
in a very specific corner of the world.
Then the lesson plan changes course.
Despite duality and the long, desperate nights exploring
the nuances of inseparability, a vacuum will always be empty,
and glass still shatters under too much, or too little pressure.
“Oh, wicked seasons of change,” she sobbed,
trapped in the dusky confines of her bed. “I salute you!”
She knew when she was beat.
No matter how hot the sun burns, the ocean still lifts
its wanton lips toward the tawdry song of the moon.
No matter how the moon is a pale reflection of the sun’s face,
or how the sun is a center, a core, a pulling together,
and the moon is a satellite, an echo, a hand holding a mirror.
No matter the awful weight of the sun’s gravity,
she knew she seemed distant, and felt the tiniest nudge
as she imagined them getting slightly farther out of reach.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
hm
so, more from the fake titles series of poems.
again, i'm surprised by what's pushing me in the direction of writing, but am not going to complain as long as it's got my brain trying new things.
The Hirihitos at Home
Kenichi was the first to notice.
This is the way of children,
they are still more question than response.
His parents promised it was just a shadow,
as if the sun had stopped at the wrong station
before getting home, but he chased around
the apartment whispering “Grandfather’s here.”
Uncomfortable spots of darkness followed. First a figure
at the refrigerator, then footprints crossed the living room,
with a separate set near the front door like an extra pair of shoes.
They tried leaving their lights on for weeks at a time,
bought extras to flood the home with illumination
like their local market, its aisles fluorescent, immaculate,
but each time the shadow returned, growing more definite.
His parents felt their breath die the first time
they saw Kenichi talking to the shadow on the couch,
head inclined as if waiting for an answer.
Even worse were the answers themselves.
Hazy at first, the family thought they were kanji
inscribed in the air, words they couldn’t quite make out.
Perhaps they were, but soon they melted
into different types of images, carved from smoke
like a photograph on fire, seen from the corner of the eye.
Children running through orchards, a river, clouds breaking
before the impatient sun, vaguely reminding Kenichi’s parents
of a place they’d seen, or dreamt, or remembered.
Mostly the photos were of summer days.
The trees had lost their bloom. Small clouds of dust gathered
around their feet as the children stood, half-turned, eyes closed
as if waiting for the first strike from the wicked hand of the sun.
Other times the images were of the fall or winter, leaves falling
or gone. The ground was broken as if the sun had lingered too long.
The trees bowed their unburdened shoulders in a long, dreamless sleep
while the children looked around, their eyes like over-ripe oranges,
full of questions that would bear no answers.
There was no sign of spring.
again, i'm surprised by what's pushing me in the direction of writing, but am not going to complain as long as it's got my brain trying new things.
The Hirihitos at Home
Kenichi was the first to notice.
This is the way of children,
they are still more question than response.
His parents promised it was just a shadow,
as if the sun had stopped at the wrong station
before getting home, but he chased around
the apartment whispering “Grandfather’s here.”
Uncomfortable spots of darkness followed. First a figure
at the refrigerator, then footprints crossed the living room,
with a separate set near the front door like an extra pair of shoes.
They tried leaving their lights on for weeks at a time,
bought extras to flood the home with illumination
like their local market, its aisles fluorescent, immaculate,
but each time the shadow returned, growing more definite.
His parents felt their breath die the first time
they saw Kenichi talking to the shadow on the couch,
head inclined as if waiting for an answer.
Even worse were the answers themselves.
Hazy at first, the family thought they were kanji
inscribed in the air, words they couldn’t quite make out.
Perhaps they were, but soon they melted
into different types of images, carved from smoke
like a photograph on fire, seen from the corner of the eye.
Children running through orchards, a river, clouds breaking
before the impatient sun, vaguely reminding Kenichi’s parents
of a place they’d seen, or dreamt, or remembered.
Mostly the photos were of summer days.
The trees had lost their bloom. Small clouds of dust gathered
around their feet as the children stood, half-turned, eyes closed
as if waiting for the first strike from the wicked hand of the sun.
Other times the images were of the fall or winter, leaves falling
or gone. The ground was broken as if the sun had lingered too long.
The trees bowed their unburdened shoulders in a long, dreamless sleep
while the children looked around, their eyes like over-ripe oranges,
full of questions that would bear no answers.
There was no sign of spring.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
office depot poetry
so, i asked a couple of friends for titles of art pieces (any kind: paintings, music, poetry, whatever...) that don't exist. wrote them down and am trying to use them as inspiration for some new poems. not sure i'll use every single one, but i surprised myself with which one provided the first bit of inspiration. seriously surprised.
thanks to the office depot website, by the way, for helping me remember exactly what all types of office paraphernalia exists... i work in one, of course, but once i began writing, i was drawing a blank after the first two items... makes you realize how little we actually pay attention to the unimportant things, huh?
Work song 43
Bert has come to a decision:
he is a paper clip.
First, the obvious:
he holds this place together.
He’s bigger than he looks.
If left in one place long enough, he leaves an impression.
Everything about him speaks of pressure and convenience.
He might have been the stapler at one point
but permanence is no longer his number one priority.
Flexibility is his new keyword,
which is why he is also not the ruler,
pushpins, binder clips, or glue stick.
He left his tendency toward scissoring
in the top drawer after realizing each cut
is an eternity of decisions in the making.
The coffee pot is too comforting.
The eraser admits mistakes.
He’s no longer transparent, so not the scotch tape,
and he’s neither supportive, nor lazy enough to be the dispenser.
Once, he was a time clock,
considered becoming a paper shredder,
and for an entire month he did his best imitation
of post-it notes.
No more, though. He’s accepted this paper clip life,
steel twisting unto itself, thought of as clever,
but not ingenious.
Tonight, he’ll come home, following the pens
and pencils of the world. He’ll wrap one thin arm
across your photocopied shoulders and you might
love him for all the things he’s not.
thanks to the office depot website, by the way, for helping me remember exactly what all types of office paraphernalia exists... i work in one, of course, but once i began writing, i was drawing a blank after the first two items... makes you realize how little we actually pay attention to the unimportant things, huh?
Work song 43
Bert has come to a decision:
he is a paper clip.
First, the obvious:
he holds this place together.
He’s bigger than he looks.
If left in one place long enough, he leaves an impression.
Everything about him speaks of pressure and convenience.
He might have been the stapler at one point
but permanence is no longer his number one priority.
Flexibility is his new keyword,
which is why he is also not the ruler,
pushpins, binder clips, or glue stick.
He left his tendency toward scissoring
in the top drawer after realizing each cut
is an eternity of decisions in the making.
The coffee pot is too comforting.
The eraser admits mistakes.
He’s no longer transparent, so not the scotch tape,
and he’s neither supportive, nor lazy enough to be the dispenser.
Once, he was a time clock,
considered becoming a paper shredder,
and for an entire month he did his best imitation
of post-it notes.
No more, though. He’s accepted this paper clip life,
steel twisting unto itself, thought of as clever,
but not ingenious.
Tonight, he’ll come home, following the pens
and pencils of the world. He’ll wrap one thin arm
across your photocopied shoulders and you might
love him for all the things he’s not.
Monday, October 09, 2006
from a challenge
my friend and i came up with a challenge to write about her dislike for chatting on the phone.
i don't know the entire story, so consider this completely fictional... as... it is.
Three Variations on Lisa Not Answering the Phone
1. She has great ring tones.
Marvin Gaye signals the latest guy to almost make her speed dial.
She holds the phone to her cheek as if it had lips
and wonders what he’s breathing into her voicemail.
Her fingers trace the delicate outline of the speaker… but always,
always he stops singing right at the part where
2. Something is stealing her words.
She used to imagine them pouring out
like an army of ants, lunch pails in hand, hard hats
square on their inky little heads, carrying her messages
along miles of telephone line before emerging
into the sunlight of her lover’s ear.
Now, they spin like lopsided butterflies
from tower to tower, chased by hungry birds
or taking a wrong turn at an accumulation of clouds
that remind her of Albuquerque.
She says, “I’m going to pick up groceries tonight,”
but “I don’t love you. I’m a serial monogamist
waiting for something better to come along,”
crashes like the Red Sea onto the Roman Legion
at the other end of the conversation.
“Why don’t we meet at Muy Thai tonight at 7?”
becomes “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t find
myself interested in anyone who is intrigued
by the emotional wreckage of my life.”
“I can’t sleep because I hate waking up
with a bruise on the other side of the bed,”:
“I have to go. It’s time for me to brush my teeth.”
3. The universe is expanding, the world shrinking.
Every second of every day,
galaxies are moving farther apart than she’ll travel
her entire life, blinking Morse-code torch songs
that would put Billie Holiday to shame,
which will naturally be misinterpreted by newly-christened
lovers as the merry fucking twinkling of stars.
Yet she finds it entirely too easy to dial an ex-
boyfriend who moved to Iowa five years ago
and indulge in late-night longing for his prodigal kiss.
She knows he turns his cell phone off after work,
but calls just to hear him recite his number and promise
to call back. She dials it again and again, and each time
some part of her wants the message to change,
even the inflection of his voice. It doesn’t, of course,
so she snaps her phone shut and wonders
if he’s put his children to bed already.
i don't know the entire story, so consider this completely fictional... as... it is.
Three Variations on Lisa Not Answering the Phone
1. She has great ring tones.
Marvin Gaye signals the latest guy to almost make her speed dial.
She holds the phone to her cheek as if it had lips
and wonders what he’s breathing into her voicemail.
Her fingers trace the delicate outline of the speaker… but always,
always he stops singing right at the part where
2. Something is stealing her words.
She used to imagine them pouring out
like an army of ants, lunch pails in hand, hard hats
square on their inky little heads, carrying her messages
along miles of telephone line before emerging
into the sunlight of her lover’s ear.
Now, they spin like lopsided butterflies
from tower to tower, chased by hungry birds
or taking a wrong turn at an accumulation of clouds
that remind her of Albuquerque.
She says, “I’m going to pick up groceries tonight,”
but “I don’t love you. I’m a serial monogamist
waiting for something better to come along,”
crashes like the Red Sea onto the Roman Legion
at the other end of the conversation.
“Why don’t we meet at Muy Thai tonight at 7?”
becomes “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t find
myself interested in anyone who is intrigued
by the emotional wreckage of my life.”
“I can’t sleep because I hate waking up
with a bruise on the other side of the bed,”:
“I have to go. It’s time for me to brush my teeth.”
3. The universe is expanding, the world shrinking.
Every second of every day,
galaxies are moving farther apart than she’ll travel
her entire life, blinking Morse-code torch songs
that would put Billie Holiday to shame,
which will naturally be misinterpreted by newly-christened
lovers as the merry fucking twinkling of stars.
Yet she finds it entirely too easy to dial an ex-
boyfriend who moved to Iowa five years ago
and indulge in late-night longing for his prodigal kiss.
She knows he turns his cell phone off after work,
but calls just to hear him recite his number and promise
to call back. She dials it again and again, and each time
some part of her wants the message to change,
even the inflection of his voice. It doesn’t, of course,
so she snaps her phone shut and wonders
if he’s put his children to bed already.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
long days
and little sleep lead to odd poems, i guess.
here's something new that i've been working on the past week or two.
The Day the Earth Stood
The world didn’t stop today.
In this city, where buildings grow tall
and cast shadows across the river like
they belong there, nobody took an awkward
half-step as filing cabinets and fax machines
strained to slow their momentum,
swaying like some underwater ballet.
No secrets were whispered to lawnmowers,
silencing the snores of their larcenous mouths.
There was no lack of fires reported today.
Accidents.
Murders.
None.
The radios and televisions didn’t cover
their eyes, their ears, their mouths.
The computers didn’t blink their sleepy
faces and turn in for the night.
No hush swept across the bridges,
shushing impatient cars, busy with the gossip
of their angry indifference.
There were no signs of a man whose smile
would probably remind you of a compound fracture,
and he wasn’t sitting on a concrete bench
in a cemetery, facing west.
Most certainly, he didn’t have a fishing pole.
Lacking, as he was, in fishing paraphernalia,
he didn’t wait, facing the sun as it slid down
the stair-rail of the sky, casting his line over
one headstone after another before reeling it back
with a slow shake of his head.
The hook didn’t clink off marble angel wings,
or clank on the smooth, bald pate of any stone
friars. It didn’t swing in a lazy Sunday afternoon
arc at the end of the line until it wrapped itself so tightly
around a cross he had to wade through the verdant
lake of stone to get it back.
He wasn’t thinking about a girl whose smile
would make you think of scars, or how she liked
to make shadow puppets with a pair of scissors
and any conveniently placed wrists.
At no point did he not imagine a tug at the line,
didn’t feel it go taut, thrumming like a guitar string
just out of tune, an awkward note spilling across the skyline
like a stone creasing the sleepy surface of a pond.
He didn’t imagine happiness as a fish swimming upstream
in this sad little river of a world, where desire was bait dangled
on the fish-hook of love, where life was a house on a hot summer evening,
where memory was a fan softly caressing your face with brush strokes
of the past, where time was a record player sitting in another room,
stuck at the end of an album whose name you can’t quite remember,
where you are a song that finished playing an hour ago,
but I can almost hear it again in the rumble of the needle’s kiss.
here's something new that i've been working on the past week or two.
The Day the Earth Stood
The world didn’t stop today.
In this city, where buildings grow tall
and cast shadows across the river like
they belong there, nobody took an awkward
half-step as filing cabinets and fax machines
strained to slow their momentum,
swaying like some underwater ballet.
No secrets were whispered to lawnmowers,
silencing the snores of their larcenous mouths.
There was no lack of fires reported today.
Accidents.
Murders.
None.
The radios and televisions didn’t cover
their eyes, their ears, their mouths.
The computers didn’t blink their sleepy
faces and turn in for the night.
No hush swept across the bridges,
shushing impatient cars, busy with the gossip
of their angry indifference.
There were no signs of a man whose smile
would probably remind you of a compound fracture,
and he wasn’t sitting on a concrete bench
in a cemetery, facing west.
Most certainly, he didn’t have a fishing pole.
Lacking, as he was, in fishing paraphernalia,
he didn’t wait, facing the sun as it slid down
the stair-rail of the sky, casting his line over
one headstone after another before reeling it back
with a slow shake of his head.
The hook didn’t clink off marble angel wings,
or clank on the smooth, bald pate of any stone
friars. It didn’t swing in a lazy Sunday afternoon
arc at the end of the line until it wrapped itself so tightly
around a cross he had to wade through the verdant
lake of stone to get it back.
He wasn’t thinking about a girl whose smile
would make you think of scars, or how she liked
to make shadow puppets with a pair of scissors
and any conveniently placed wrists.
At no point did he not imagine a tug at the line,
didn’t feel it go taut, thrumming like a guitar string
just out of tune, an awkward note spilling across the skyline
like a stone creasing the sleepy surface of a pond.
He didn’t imagine happiness as a fish swimming upstream
in this sad little river of a world, where desire was bait dangled
on the fish-hook of love, where life was a house on a hot summer evening,
where memory was a fan softly caressing your face with brush strokes
of the past, where time was a record player sitting in another room,
stuck at the end of an album whose name you can’t quite remember,
where you are a song that finished playing an hour ago,
but I can almost hear it again in the rumble of the needle’s kiss.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
horror and sci-fi and poets oh my!
been holed up all weekend with a pile of books. started with the mammoth book of horror (2005), some eric nylund (signal to noise) and a stack of poetry books, including jennifer michael hecht's new book funny. not to mention opening my head up and listening to the quiet roar as i dive back into jorie graham's overlord.
A couple of samples:
Blind Love
Lady says, Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, Lady, this is a bank.
Lady wanders out, it's winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.
At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been
rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
clatter of silverware drawer, a quarter
on her bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared
inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot into her room.
Coin and cutlery grow red; wood glows golden in the hall.
Outside, ivy tendrils find new purchase on the wall.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht
Little Exercise
The screen is full of voices, all of them holding their tongues.
Certain things have to be "undergone," yes.
To come to a greater state of consciousness, yes.
Let the face show itself through the screen.
Let the organizing eyes show themselves.
Let them float to the surface of this shine and glow there.
The world now being killed by its children. Also its guests.
An oracle? --a sniper, a child beater, a dying parent in the house,
a soil so overfedd it cannot hold a root system in place?
Look--the slightest wind undoes the young crop.
Are we "beyond salvation"? Wil you not speak?
Such a large absence--shall it not compel the largest presence?
Can we not break the wall?
And can it please not be a mirror lord?
--Jorie Graham
A couple of samples:
Blind Love
Lady says, Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, Lady, this is a bank.
Lady wanders out, it's winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.
At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been
rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
clatter of silverware drawer, a quarter
on her bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared
inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot into her room.
Coin and cutlery grow red; wood glows golden in the hall.
Outside, ivy tendrils find new purchase on the wall.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht
Little Exercise
The screen is full of voices, all of them holding their tongues.
Certain things have to be "undergone," yes.
To come to a greater state of consciousness, yes.
Let the face show itself through the screen.
Let the organizing eyes show themselves.
Let them float to the surface of this shine and glow there.
The world now being killed by its children. Also its guests.
An oracle? --a sniper, a child beater, a dying parent in the house,
a soil so overfedd it cannot hold a root system in place?
Look--the slightest wind undoes the young crop.
Are we "beyond salvation"? Wil you not speak?
Such a large absence--shall it not compel the largest presence?
Can we not break the wall?
And can it please not be a mirror lord?
--Jorie Graham
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
penile festival?
yeah. so, my friend sent me a link to a festival for um... penises.
you read that correctly.
penisfest2006.
evidently, it's the festival of kanamara in kawasaki, in japan. fertility.
check it out. giant phalluses on the streets. and candy.
yep. you guessed it.
http://arunosan.free.fr/Arunosan_v2/diapo/affiche.php?c=133
you read that correctly.
penisfest2006.
evidently, it's the festival of kanamara in kawasaki, in japan. fertility.
check it out. giant phalluses on the streets. and candy.
yep. you guessed it.
http://arunosan.free.fr/Arunosan_v2/diapo/affiche.php?c=133
Sunday, August 20, 2006
CD, Baby
so, one of the new and fun things that i've learned about just this week, from cdbaby is that part of their distribution deal includes making you available through a variety of digital distribution services.
including itunes.
yeah...
so, sometime probably next week, i'll be able to download myself. or... you can.
woot.
more news soonish-ish.
including itunes.
yeah...
so, sometime probably next week, i'll be able to download myself. or... you can.
woot.
more news soonish-ish.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
the simple answer
being the best, how come it takes us so long to arrive there sometimes?
is fate some kind of train system, or demonic public transportation? i know, i know... journey.
journey can kiss my ass. there are some days when i'd prefer to wake up and say, "oh that's what's going to happen, and i understand why."
yeah?
is fate some kind of train system, or demonic public transportation? i know, i know... journey.
journey can kiss my ass. there are some days when i'd prefer to wake up and say, "oh that's what's going to happen, and i understand why."
yeah?
Friday, August 04, 2006
follow up
to said experiment... i dreamed in blues riffs last night.
this morning and then this afternoon... put together the track for the cd that has been driving me apeshit for the past few months.
okay, so it didn't make me an accomplished musician overnight,but hey i got enough inspiration to figure out which direction to head.
now, music lessons?
this morning and then this afternoon... put together the track for the cd that has been driving me apeshit for the past few months.
okay, so it didn't make me an accomplished musician overnight,but hey i got enough inspiration to figure out which direction to head.
now, music lessons?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
an experiment
before you go to sleep tonight... whisper to yourself 33 1/3 times, "anything is possible."
see what happens.
see what happens.
Monday, July 31, 2006
one week (and some change)
ok, so back from the wilds of idyllwild. if a place that has a pretty darn nice chinese restaraunt can be referred to as wild, of course.
first things first... what a great time up there hanging out with friends and talking poetry.
and the hiking was great. i have the bruises to prove it.
second, what a great time at the oc fair last night. watched x (great band, great show), rollins band (henry is still angry after all these years, bless his angry heart) and a new band from austin, who were worth the price of admission alone just for watching the lead singer climb around the first few rows of the pacific amphitheatre and scream punk lyrics at an oc grandma. all this while having an incredibly tasty cinammon roll. cinnapunk. nummy.
not to mention one of the longest, best, tastiest and happiest gorging fests in recent... hell, in any memory. still burping.
'scuse me.
finally, or almost finally, still hard at work on the cd. which reminds me... joe henry. alt-country? i dunno, but tasty good work. check it out, you won't regret it. (for example, from like she was a hammer: Like she was the Roosevelt's funeral in the street. Like she was the wireless voice out of the jungle Like she was the only thing calling out to me.)
and finally, finally, really finally, something new, and something revised. sorry about the long post, but i was actually busy not writing here for a few days instead of just slackin' off. nice, huh?
A Poem Still in Search of a Title
A thunderstorm passes overhead
and I think, this is how it should have been:
a slow gathering of tension, electricity,
earthquakes in the air.
But like so many things in my life,
it began as a half-hearted joke.
In this case, it was a question about a goodnight kiss.
There was a pause that stretched
from the open door of your car
to the end of my street.
You said, “Get in.”
So we drove, the way we had after so many late-shifts,
carrying an unasked question like a phantom passenger;
except now he was a hitchhiker we should never have picked up.
We parked, and there we were, half-draped across each other’s seats,
our tongues exploring the landscapes of new mouths,
our hands trying to appear calm while they deciphered
the secret language of button hooks and button flies.
I remember thinking,
What a marvelous machine, this mouth, these hands,
this knee slowly convincing your legs to part.
How incredible their design and ability to learn,
while I stand outside the passenger door
of a car on a street I nearly grew up on,
once-familiar trees reflected in windows dense with steam,
where you are about to half-moan “We have to be safe.”
Then suddenly I’m here again, and you’re there,
only somehow, I have a finger inside you.
All I can think of to say is a nod.
So we drive to the 7-11,
nearly get lost beneath the fluorescent lights,
try to become translucent as we slip down the aisle
with cough medicine, combs and Visine;
allow strangers’ gazes to pass through us
as we browse thickness and thinness, shapes, sizes and flavors;
promise ourselves a trip somewhere tropical
if we manage to escape.
We never took that trip.
We didn’t put any thunderstorms to shame.
If we were anything that night, we were the shadows of clouds,
rain clinging to leaves before it finds the ground,
and perhaps for a moment, just a moment,
we were lightning coaxing fire from trees.
dictionary entries about ex-girlfriends
nan·cy
: the sound of squeaking as a car door closes
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
ma·ggie
: to simulate the appearance of rapid movement, while remaining completely still
he·len
: the faculty or phenomena of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this
gi·na
: bridesmaid
ell·a
1 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of cinderella
dar·cy
: an alternate title for one of Houdini’s early escapes involving handcuffs and submersion
ra·chel
1 : a scattering of mobile homes 2 : from the old English: halig; akin to hal--whole, complete
kim and tra·ci
: marked by or containing elements of the apocalypse
da·na
1 : an exaggerated feeling of culpability for offenses 2 : impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
jenn
: first and last hour of sunlight, when lighting is softer and warmer but shadows may shift rapidly
first things first... what a great time up there hanging out with friends and talking poetry.
and the hiking was great. i have the bruises to prove it.
second, what a great time at the oc fair last night. watched x (great band, great show), rollins band (henry is still angry after all these years, bless his angry heart) and a new band from austin, who were worth the price of admission alone just for watching the lead singer climb around the first few rows of the pacific amphitheatre and scream punk lyrics at an oc grandma. all this while having an incredibly tasty cinammon roll. cinnapunk. nummy.
not to mention one of the longest, best, tastiest and happiest gorging fests in recent... hell, in any memory. still burping.
'scuse me.
finally, or almost finally, still hard at work on the cd. which reminds me... joe henry. alt-country? i dunno, but tasty good work. check it out, you won't regret it. (for example, from like she was a hammer: Like she was the Roosevelt's funeral in the street. Like she was the wireless voice out of the jungle Like she was the only thing calling out to me.)
and finally, finally, really finally, something new, and something revised. sorry about the long post, but i was actually busy not writing here for a few days instead of just slackin' off. nice, huh?
A Poem Still in Search of a Title
A thunderstorm passes overhead
and I think, this is how it should have been:
a slow gathering of tension, electricity,
earthquakes in the air.
But like so many things in my life,
it began as a half-hearted joke.
In this case, it was a question about a goodnight kiss.
There was a pause that stretched
from the open door of your car
to the end of my street.
You said, “Get in.”
So we drove, the way we had after so many late-shifts,
carrying an unasked question like a phantom passenger;
except now he was a hitchhiker we should never have picked up.
We parked, and there we were, half-draped across each other’s seats,
our tongues exploring the landscapes of new mouths,
our hands trying to appear calm while they deciphered
the secret language of button hooks and button flies.
I remember thinking,
What a marvelous machine, this mouth, these hands,
this knee slowly convincing your legs to part.
How incredible their design and ability to learn,
while I stand outside the passenger door
of a car on a street I nearly grew up on,
once-familiar trees reflected in windows dense with steam,
where you are about to half-moan “We have to be safe.”
Then suddenly I’m here again, and you’re there,
only somehow, I have a finger inside you.
All I can think of to say is a nod.
So we drive to the 7-11,
nearly get lost beneath the fluorescent lights,
try to become translucent as we slip down the aisle
with cough medicine, combs and Visine;
allow strangers’ gazes to pass through us
as we browse thickness and thinness, shapes, sizes and flavors;
promise ourselves a trip somewhere tropical
if we manage to escape.
We never took that trip.
We didn’t put any thunderstorms to shame.
If we were anything that night, we were the shadows of clouds,
rain clinging to leaves before it finds the ground,
and perhaps for a moment, just a moment,
we were lightning coaxing fire from trees.
dictionary entries about ex-girlfriends
nan·cy
: the sound of squeaking as a car door closes
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
ma·ggie
: to simulate the appearance of rapid movement, while remaining completely still
he·len
: the faculty or phenomena of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this
gi·na
: bridesmaid
ell·a
1 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of cinderella
dar·cy
: an alternate title for one of Houdini’s early escapes involving handcuffs and submersion
ra·chel
1 : a scattering of mobile homes 2 : from the old English: halig; akin to hal--whole, complete
kim and tra·ci
: marked by or containing elements of the apocalypse
da·na
1 : an exaggerated feeling of culpability for offenses 2 : impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
jenn
: first and last hour of sunlight, when lighting is softer and warmer but shadows may shift rapidly
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