"'Please, I've done everything I was supposed to do. Can I go home now?'
That's what I feel right now. I've written books. Lots of them. Please,
I've done everything I'm supposed to do. Can I go home now?" -Kurt Vonnegut
Maybe life is unfortunate, friends
but perhaps we must not say so, hm?
instead only,
so it goes. because going is a certain thing
and Empathy is unwieldy, a flickering light
but if you just must
wail and cry, making with the Boo Hoos
do so only with some honesty:
for one's own little sad self.
in sincerity,
do not let the breaking of a toy
bring out the child's tired lie
"Oh, I am sad with pity for the thing."
it is not so,
the self-loving-self can only remember
just how gone the thing is,
and can see only the glaring, absent possession
who could ever cry over a schoolmate's
milk-soaked puzzle
or road-killed action figure in the driveway?
it is a good idea:
at a funeral
respectfully, to bust out the tape measure
and eyeball the distance
between you and another's fresh grave
nod to the casket,
and then go.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
What good is an attention span these days, anyways?
What good is an attention span these days, anyways? Tapas are very popular, you see. It is nice to get only a taste, and
then move on. It requires as much or as little investment in the outcome as you care to give.
A poem can be built to deliver as much information as a scratch and sniff sticker. A few short lines erected quietly in the middle of the night, modestly contracted, clean shaven before the sun rises. Why not try to dwell in that fleeting twilight of a moment when flavors first hit taste buds, and then go no further?
A writer can be a waiter, one that drops the food and walks away without a wink, while the table watches, confused with resentment. Bring out just a tiny wooden paddle that carries a sloppy collage of images, textures, tastes, half-dreams and assertions, none of them rightly true and none of them rightly wrong. Don't waste time with questions about the chef's time working in Paris, or their home life, or what sort of painters they like to consort with: take a bite, and spit it out if you like. Tipping is optional.
A poem can be built to deliver as much information as a scratch and sniff sticker. A few short lines erected quietly in the middle of the night, modestly contracted, clean shaven before the sun rises. Why not try to dwell in that fleeting twilight of a moment when flavors first hit taste buds, and then go no further?
A writer can be a waiter, one that drops the food and walks away without a wink, while the table watches, confused with resentment. Bring out just a tiny wooden paddle that carries a sloppy collage of images, textures, tastes, half-dreams and assertions, none of them rightly true and none of them rightly wrong. Don't waste time with questions about the chef's time working in Paris, or their home life, or what sort of painters they like to consort with: take a bite, and spit it out if you like. Tipping is optional.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Inept Adept
Rain in
A dirty mug,
Slipping down a small hill
On the surface it smells quite like
the dogs
Monday, September 17, 2012
Read the novel of my entire life, then tell me that you "like the title"
It is something like magic to come home and find the mailbox full. Trash is always more valuable if it has been postmarked, and I will absolutely find a chance to enjoy 5 cents off every time I buy the Sunshine Brand generic laundry detergent, thank you. It comes in a pasty white box lined with pale pink edges. The logo shows a small wooden cottage in the middle of green pastures. A dog plays off in the background, and a beautiful blonde woman is standing next to the clothesline. The sun is setting slowly in the sky, and I have no reason to doubt that this same woman has just finished using Sunshine Brand generic laundry detergent, and I also do not doubt that she is thoroughly satisfied by her laundry experience and her husband. My life has noticeably improved since this purchase.
It is something less than magic to come home and find your roommate hunched over an entire roasted chicken. Fork in hand, the dog begging desperately on the kitchen floor, he looks at me with his jaw still munching slowly. "Mail?"
It is something less than magic to come home and find your roommate hunched over an entire roasted chicken. Fork in hand, the dog begging desperately on the kitchen floor, he looks at me with his jaw still munching slowly. "Mail?"
Sunday, September 16, 2012
"Facing It" Critique
The only colors that appear in the poem are red white and black, which could be taken as a somewhat morosely tongue in cheek reference to the colors of the American flag. Not to say that that sort of language is anti-American, or that the poem itself has this intent---but it hints at an element, a shade of the issue if you will, that is not captured except in the minds of veterans and survivors.
In "Facing It" the speaker is so wholly absorbed by the memorial, they describe the entire experience as though they were the stone itself. Taking the language as purely figurative, the last few lines become all the more powerful. The speaker displays such an intensity and impassioned focus, that when he notices the woman, he sees her hand moving and decides she must be fruitlessly scratching at a name on the wall. The speaker at first glance, is given to assume that other onlookers at the memorial are as totally captivated. Instead, the speakers decides that no, it was a far more innocent gesture between a mother and son.
In "Facing It" the speaker is so wholly absorbed by the memorial, they describe the entire experience as though they were the stone itself. Taking the language as purely figurative, the last few lines become all the more powerful. The speaker displays such an intensity and impassioned focus, that when he notices the woman, he sees her hand moving and decides she must be fruitlessly scratching at a name on the wall. The speaker at first glance, is given to assume that other onlookers at the memorial are as totally captivated. Instead, the speakers decides that no, it was a far more innocent gesture between a mother and son.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Street cat
On Automobiles
I have never hit an animal with my car, but that does not mean that we are all on good terms. I have been greeted like a dog by a cat. If I could expose all her infidelities, my cat would leave and never come back. There was a dead one walking across Broadway this morning. A police siren stormed through the air, and a cop drove by, asleep at the wheel. All experienced motorists know to park on the median when the chatterbox yells "Rain!"
On Music
There is something haunting saxophones. The notes fling themselves through the air as very far as they can, looking for some ears to funnel and tumble into. Air trembles ghostly in their path, and we all fall victim to unexpected shivers now and again. I guess that makes music public property in its own way then. Someone should tell that saxophonist just how cliche it is to play like that in New Orleans while the sun is going down, and that I love it.
On Small Island Living
Be the boss of self fulfillment. It is important to be reliably unconcerned with status, but for all practicalities to be consumed with it. Horsemanship and cartography. Demonstration is a guarantee of failure, but ignorance can credit the disillusioned. To put an end to speculation: the dry intellect should occasionally be watered with the juices of superstition. Daisies know a little but we know a little less.
I have never hit an animal with my car, but that does not mean that we are all on good terms. I have been greeted like a dog by a cat. If I could expose all her infidelities, my cat would leave and never come back. There was a dead one walking across Broadway this morning. A police siren stormed through the air, and a cop drove by, asleep at the wheel. All experienced motorists know to park on the median when the chatterbox yells "Rain!"
On Music
There is something haunting saxophones. The notes fling themselves through the air as very far as they can, looking for some ears to funnel and tumble into. Air trembles ghostly in their path, and we all fall victim to unexpected shivers now and again. I guess that makes music public property in its own way then. Someone should tell that saxophonist just how cliche it is to play like that in New Orleans while the sun is going down, and that I love it.
On Small Island Living
Be the boss of self fulfillment. It is important to be reliably unconcerned with status, but for all practicalities to be consumed with it. Horsemanship and cartography. Demonstration is a guarantee of failure, but ignorance can credit the disillusioned. To put an end to speculation: the dry intellect should occasionally be watered with the juices of superstition. Daisies know a little but we know a little less.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Concessions
"The poem is a small or large machine made out of words."
-WCW
A poem is a large words machine
or, is a poem
made small
out of words
Concessions
a small or a large poem
is made out of a machine
or is is is is is of
out of words
-WCW
A poem is a large words machine
or, is a poem
made small
out of words
Concessions
a small or a large poem
is made out of a machine
or is is is is is of
out of words
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
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