Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Swaths of Ham, Harms of Swats
1.
The early results are in.
I'm loving your manuscript.
For reasons I'll try.
To articulate gladly.
At some later date.
But it does.
The trick.
Of walking for you.
2.
Everywhere they are talking.
The gray talk of industry and.
What passes for friendship.
To put this manuscript.
In the middle of all of that.
Ordering more salami.
Less artichokes.
When oh when.
Will my niece get married.
What about the rain.
They are poor predictors.
All of them.
It's brightening theses.
Also.
Like attending a good barbecue.
Where real things happen.
With you.
I guess the articulation is already.
Kind of happening.
Too.
4.
or
thank you for breaking
the lines
where you have
for remaking
wilderness
only
kinder
and with more
eyes
5.
he heads toward the George Washington Bridge
with not only
knowledge of new caves
(dug inward)
but
lights for spelunking
6.
because the poet
is free
all the dancers
are free
7.
light-shifting
is
upon us
and all the heavy lifting
exposed
as heaven
lifting
The early results are in.
I'm loving your manuscript.
For reasons I'll try.
To articulate gladly.
At some later date.
But it does.
The trick.
Of walking for you.
2.
Everywhere they are talking.
The gray talk of industry and.
What passes for friendship.
To put this manuscript.
In the middle of all of that.
Ordering more salami.
Less artichokes.
When oh when.
Will my niece get married.
What about the rain.
They are poor predictors.
All of them.
It's brightening theses.
Also.
Like attending a good barbecue.
Where real things happen.
With you.
I guess the articulation is already.
Kind of happening.
Too.
4.
or
thank you for breaking
the lines
where you have
for remaking
wilderness
only
kinder
and with more
eyes
5.
he heads toward the George Washington Bridge
with not only
knowledge of new caves
(dug inward)
but
lights for spelunking
6.
because the poet
is free
all the dancers
are free
7.
light-shifting
is
upon us
and all the heavy lifting
exposed
as heaven
lifting
New Manuscript
title: "Women From Men & Women"
written: Jan - Feb 2009
assessment: flashes of clarity, some leaps, some stretches of rough uncharismatic stuff
all in all: getting better
written: Jan - Feb 2009
assessment: flashes of clarity, some leaps, some stretches of rough uncharismatic stuff
all in all: getting better
TOC
1/
Proof of Less / 2
Women and Men and Women / 3
Changed By The Eyes That Mix Him / 7
Exempt Are The Truly Careful / 8
By The Red Mile / 10
A Beautiful History / 13
Encounter With A Woman Not Alice / 14
Girl Stories / 15
Innocent of Lawyer / 18
Man on the Quick / 20
Villainesque / 21
Possession / 22
Ten Thousandth Eclogue on the East / 24
The Enthusiast / 25
Terminals / 27
Four Generations and Ten People and Two Floors, One / 32
Working Bathroom
2/
These Kinds / 36
Regardless of Rank Age or Sex, Pope Innocent the Third / 39
A Mythologically Fit Economic Thunder / 41
The Man From Pessimonia / 42
These Lacustrine Feelings / 44
Portrait That Bears No Modesty to Semblance / 46
Italian Comedy / 49
Of A Moral / 51
The Boring Rose / 53
Golden Living / 55
What the Parse-Master Admires Most In Himself Is the Mirror / 57
Like Dostoyevskian Lemmings / 59
The Enlightenment / 60
The Prophet / 63
In Helsinki, The Novelist / 66
Proof of Less / 2
Women and Men and Women / 3
Changed By The Eyes That Mix Him / 7
Exempt Are The Truly Careful / 8
By The Red Mile / 10
A Beautiful History / 13
Encounter With A Woman Not Alice / 14
Girl Stories / 15
Innocent of Lawyer / 18
Man on the Quick / 20
Villainesque / 21
Possession / 22
Ten Thousandth Eclogue on the East / 24
The Enthusiast / 25
Terminals / 27
Four Generations and Ten People and Two Floors, One / 32
Working Bathroom
2/
These Kinds / 36
Regardless of Rank Age or Sex, Pope Innocent the Third / 39
A Mythologically Fit Economic Thunder / 41
The Man From Pessimonia / 42
These Lacustrine Feelings / 44
Portrait That Bears No Modesty to Semblance / 46
Italian Comedy / 49
Of A Moral / 51
The Boring Rose / 53
Golden Living / 55
What the Parse-Master Admires Most In Himself Is the Mirror / 57
Like Dostoyevskian Lemmings / 59
The Enlightenment / 60
The Prophet / 63
In Helsinki, The Novelist / 66
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Art of the Snowday
It wasn’t hard to master.
Before children it was one way.
So many things seemed filled
and content. The hum
of so many: i.e.,
the refrigerator,
how it opened
and closed, startling the air, the washing machine,
all its hands
through clothes; a good blanket
extending bedhead permission —
and the cigarette
silk of the talk radio voices.
This is Craig
Shankman. This is Radio Lab. This
is what happened
to the Knicks. This is
what happens
to mole rats when they forget their young.
Since then in gaining
I have lost something everyday.
Not door keys or a mother’s watch.
I lost all of the Pittsburgh
I once owned
and a song
that belonged to everyone. I had
the last copy and sometimes
when you kind of glare at me
for no reason
I know a reason.
Before the job
got serious, and the marriage . . .
but wait—
I once used a snowday
to write this line: Buried world,
pray for me . . . that I never leave my life
in a place where I can’t find it.
Okay. I admit. And there’s no easy way
to say this:
I did leave it somewhere. My life.
I can’t find it.
I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a snowday,
not a poorly written
SAT prompt
crying out from the wilderness
like the abominable snowman:
What on earth are we for?
it asks, impolitely,
answer this question
on the lines provided. You have
twenty minutes:
We are here for Time, its flights and fancies. As its sketchpad and scuttlebutt. Its placeholder. We are not here to ask questions. Bookends and ashtrays. Its unwashed grapes. And since, dear reader, you have to read this and calibrate the score with someone else, I’ll ask: Time, why must you drink so much cheap whiskey? We were your children. You passed out and forgot us into adulthood. Stop shaking me like some Polaroid you snapped so you wouldn’t forget me. Time, you harlot, you slept with all my friends and not me. Why?
Before children it was one way.
So many things seemed filled
and content. The hum
of so many: i.e.,
the refrigerator,
how it opened
and closed, startling the air, the washing machine,
all its hands
through clothes; a good blanket
extending bedhead permission —
and the cigarette
silk of the talk radio voices.
This is Craig
Shankman. This is Radio Lab. This
is what happened
to the Knicks. This is
what happens
to mole rats when they forget their young.
Since then in gaining
I have lost something everyday.
Not door keys or a mother’s watch.
I lost all of the Pittsburgh
I once owned
and a song
that belonged to everyone. I had
the last copy and sometimes
when you kind of glare at me
for no reason
I know a reason.
Before the job
got serious, and the marriage . . .
but wait—
I once used a snowday
to write this line: Buried world,
pray for me . . . that I never leave my life
in a place where I can’t find it.
Okay. I admit. And there’s no easy way
to say this:
I did leave it somewhere. My life.
I can’t find it.
I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a snowday,
not a poorly written
SAT prompt
crying out from the wilderness
like the abominable snowman:
What on earth are we for?
it asks, impolitely,
answer this question
on the lines provided. You have
twenty minutes:
We are here for Time, its flights and fancies. As its sketchpad and scuttlebutt. Its placeholder. We are not here to ask questions. Bookends and ashtrays. Its unwashed grapes. And since, dear reader, you have to read this and calibrate the score with someone else, I’ll ask: Time, why must you drink so much cheap whiskey? We were your children. You passed out and forgot us into adulthood. Stop shaking me like some Polaroid you snapped so you wouldn’t forget me. Time, you harlot, you slept with all my friends and not me. Why?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)