Monday, January 21, 2008
over cocoa
The if I go becomes when. Do you want to spend the last ten years differently. Do you want to live in nickel slots, corrugated housing, bad manners. Dust bunnies and fingernail moons the color of old grease. The happy face of the parabola, but you've got that upside down. Well. Shit. The words bedded by pins to black velvet. Everything about you a fashion accessory. The retaught way to walk. It was neither the temperature nor the season for a scarf, but you went there anyway. The stupid places I would never have dreamed of stopping. Idiotsville. Fucktown. The shitfaced sidewalk. You awaken from a dream into another dream. You rise from a dream of water into a dream of walking. Madly populated by willows. Unsympathetic tigers. Seconds to live, seconds to live.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
whiskeyface, I saw you in the face of three-fucked up kids, in a softer amulet, softer than the bones we were born with. they trailed out lying about things they liked in phrases learned on the voyage to the new world. where did they learn those words. who taught them to say “I love that boy” as if someone else felt that love, as if the way we try to walk was a distance in itself, four walls for every room calling out incantations unlit, a small bladder, and the door to the café letting in the coming cold. are you like them whiskyface, or is that the command you hear in some voices, a repeated sample, a regurgitation, a liquid sacrifice that helps us from the lunch table to the cement to the car to the chant that says this is monday, an extraordinary best seller which is always ending just to come around again gone.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
The 30-minute train and the 30-year blow
Crosswalk boots. The lost collar. Excuse me
may I. He sits and shortly thereafter it's his twin.
At some point in the steady fill
you reconsider your decision.
If you were a roof what color
would be your shingles.
The words fly up the mountain.
I love you like copper.
Like rungs nailed into telephone poles.
Equal divisions of light.
In the bird's flight
a heavy reliance on feathers.
You told me you didn't believe in the distance.
I countered with window bars,
the compost box,
an interpretive charley horse in the sheets.
Three blocks to the wind and everyone a brown garage.
The old woman moaning in pain:
The __________, she explained.
Light sockets and eyes.
The world a retarded symphony.
The largest conceivable saxophone and no chance of reeds.
But! Plenty of step ladders and hats.
If you are the car, I am the yellow medallion.
And exactly what good is the yellow medallion, you ask.
Exactly no good whatsoever, I reply.
may I. He sits and shortly thereafter it's his twin.
At some point in the steady fill
you reconsider your decision.
If you were a roof what color
would be your shingles.
The words fly up the mountain.
I love you like copper.
Like rungs nailed into telephone poles.
Equal divisions of light.
In the bird's flight
a heavy reliance on feathers.
You told me you didn't believe in the distance.
I countered with window bars,
the compost box,
an interpretive charley horse in the sheets.
Three blocks to the wind and everyone a brown garage.
The old woman moaning in pain:
The __________, she explained.
Light sockets and eyes.
The world a retarded symphony.
The largest conceivable saxophone and no chance of reeds.
But! Plenty of step ladders and hats.
If you are the car, I am the yellow medallion.
And exactly what good is the yellow medallion, you ask.
Exactly no good whatsoever, I reply.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Shyness is nice
Plastic gray shoes.
Cinder block smiles.
I never asked to be cognizant.
All this wanting flutters around like a moth.
All this sleeping keeps
making me awake.
I never asked
to be the woman in the hat,
the dog in the bag,
the mouse on the cat on the dog.
I never asked to have bones.
I asked for two tickets, Eddie Money style.
I asked for two tickets and a wonderful life, although not necessarily
in that order.
I asked for a slight cessation in stupidity,
a better blender, or lacking that, a
better blended drink.
A woman to love me forever. Snap!
I never asked for wings, although if
given the opportunity I
would like to revise my list and
ask for wings.
Yearn upwards, yearn down.
I never asked for a good haircut, nor the hair
in pair to inform it, bigger muscles, a more dashing
line to my spine.
But we may safely take that as a given.
Much like: human
avarice, artifact worship, and termites.
AKA the overwhelming desire
to gnaw.
Against rising water we built the ark.
Against obliteration we capsule-pack seeds.
I never asked for double-edged tape,
fingerprintless glasses, life
without smudge.
Why is the idea of an apocalypse not
completely distasteful to me?
In another life you
are the samurai, the
inventor of the light bulb, the best
stone-skipper to come out of Derry in the
last 50 years. In another life I am the
housewife, a hang glider, the undisputed master
of the abacus.
I never asked for what wasn't.
I never asked you
to masturbate away hope.
Cinder block smiles.
I never asked to be cognizant.
All this wanting flutters around like a moth.
All this sleeping keeps
making me awake.
I never asked
to be the woman in the hat,
the dog in the bag,
the mouse on the cat on the dog.
I never asked to have bones.
I asked for two tickets, Eddie Money style.
I asked for two tickets and a wonderful life, although not necessarily
in that order.
I asked for a slight cessation in stupidity,
a better blender, or lacking that, a
better blended drink.
A woman to love me forever. Snap!
I never asked for wings, although if
given the opportunity I
would like to revise my list and
ask for wings.
Yearn upwards, yearn down.
I never asked for a good haircut, nor the hair
in pair to inform it, bigger muscles, a more dashing
line to my spine.
But we may safely take that as a given.
Much like: human
avarice, artifact worship, and termites.
AKA the overwhelming desire
to gnaw.
Against rising water we built the ark.
Against obliteration we capsule-pack seeds.
I never asked for double-edged tape,
fingerprintless glasses, life
without smudge.
Why is the idea of an apocalypse not
completely distasteful to me?
In another life you
are the samurai, the
inventor of the light bulb, the best
stone-skipper to come out of Derry in the
last 50 years. In another life I am the
housewife, a hang glider, the undisputed master
of the abacus.
I never asked for what wasn't.
I never asked you
to masturbate away hope.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Switzerland (Unmixed)
The door opens up
and in walks the
angel of death
looks just like a friend.
I took the pills
I took the pills
I took the pills
so why can't I sleep?
(Hope & Suicide, 2007)
and in walks the
angel of death
looks just like a friend.
I took the pills
I took the pills
I took the pills
so why can't I sleep?
(Hope & Suicide, 2007)
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
we wore band-aids on our nipples for the pheromone tour because you’ve got to give some to want some. we went down below sliding on the banisters of shown skin. we sang with the unwashed clothes of the pips formerly of “and the pips” fame. we rediscovered the short life, the long night, the hourly bells, the way old watches used to move the air in overhead vent shafts where mice knew of cities done, of the light that blocks out the light as she fixes her hair with one last look in the bathroom mirror, the way our genes make the overhead fan turn and noise the wires to spark and chew mouths full of large organs, of less words in the thread, unraveled.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Thanks, Allen
Body I lose faith in you still.
Body the crestfallen have come back to you. Unlikely prodigals in the shape of a shoe.
Body I lay with you and overhead the satellites are wistful.
Why is it no one steps forth and announces us free?
Body we've been together a long time, and although the relationship has been fruitful, perhaps we should consider parting ways.
Body we've had a good run but the door is open.
In the night we waited under pillows and even then there was fear. The fear was black. The night was black. Black, black, black.
Body why the attitude.
Once when I was five I held my hand to the sun and I swear I could hear you through my bones.
Body don't look now but I think I've had a vision.
Bodies everywhere and why do they do it.
A massacre of thumbscrews. Televised canings and precision holographic nightmares. Three old crones still singing around the fire.
Body no one's forgotten oblivion but it's just not polite to say.
Cheat codes unlock the magnificent weapons.
Body up up left right down.
Body we shall recalibrate the soulless and toast victory with green tea.
Fifty-two years and what have we gained.
Body I don't think of my father. But when I do I think he was a good man. This is the softness of later life.
In purple fur we took to the streets to lay the new empire. Aloft the purple flags.
Body I don't believe in Rome or in anything.
Body where will it end.
Body the crestfallen have come back to you. Unlikely prodigals in the shape of a shoe.
Body I lay with you and overhead the satellites are wistful.
Why is it no one steps forth and announces us free?
Body we've been together a long time, and although the relationship has been fruitful, perhaps we should consider parting ways.
Body we've had a good run but the door is open.
In the night we waited under pillows and even then there was fear. The fear was black. The night was black. Black, black, black.
Body why the attitude.
Once when I was five I held my hand to the sun and I swear I could hear you through my bones.
Body don't look now but I think I've had a vision.
Bodies everywhere and why do they do it.
A massacre of thumbscrews. Televised canings and precision holographic nightmares. Three old crones still singing around the fire.
Body no one's forgotten oblivion but it's just not polite to say.
Cheat codes unlock the magnificent weapons.
Body up up left right down.
Body we shall recalibrate the soulless and toast victory with green tea.
Fifty-two years and what have we gained.
Body I don't think of my father. But when I do I think he was a good man. This is the softness of later life.
In purple fur we took to the streets to lay the new empire. Aloft the purple flags.
Body I don't believe in Rome or in anything.
Body where will it end.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Sept.-Nov.07 Fiction/Non-Fiction Releases
September fiction
Denis Johnson's Tree of Smoke (FSG); Sebastian Faulks' novel Engleby (Doubleday); Zakes Mda's novel Cion (Picador Original); Jesse Ball's novel Samedi the Deafness (Vintage Original); and Library of America's Kerouac: Road Novels 1957-1960 and On the Road: The Original Scroll (Viking).
Percival Everett's novel The Water Cure (Graywolf); Valerie Martin's novel Trespass (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday); Brock Clarke's novel An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England (Algonquin Books); David Leavitt's novel The Indian Clerk (Bloomsbury); Xiaolu Guo's novel A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday); and Edmund White's novel Hotel de Dream (Ecco/HarperCollins).
Booker Prize-winning author Graham Swift's novel Tomorrow (Knopf); Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (Riverhead); Irene Nemirovsky's posthumous novel Fire in the Blood (Knopf); Paul Theroux's collection of novellas, The Elephant Suite (Houghton Mifflin); and Jim Shepard's story collection Like You'd Understand, Anyway (Knopf).
Vincent Lam's novel Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures (Weinstein Books); Gina Nahai's novel Caspian Rain (MacAdam/Cage); Northern California writer Peg Kingman's first novel, Not Yet Drown'd (Norton); Ann Patchett's novel Run (Harper); and Bay Area author Gail Tsukiyama's novel The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (St. Martin's Press).
Berkeley resident and former U.S. poet laureate Robert Hass' Time and Materials: Poems 1997-2005 (Ecco/HarperCollins); Michael White's Civil War novel, Soul Catcher (Morrow); David Peace's crime novel Tokyo Year Zero (Knopf); Oakland writer Erika Mailman's first novel, The Witch's Trinity (Crown); Adrian Tomine's graphic novel, Shortcomings (Drawn & Quarterly); Michel Faber's story collection, Vanilla Bright Like Eminem (Harcourt); Davis artist Spring Warren's first novel, Turpentine (Black Cat/Grove); Berkeley writer Don Waters' story collection, Desert Gothic (University of Iowa Press), Robert Alter's translation of The Book of Psalms (Norton); and Garrison Keillor's first Lake Wobegon novel in six years, Pontoon (Viking).
September nonfiction
Robert Reich's Supercapitalism: The Transformation of Business, Democracy and Everyday Life (Knopf), Michael Hoffman edits The Voyage That Never Ends: Malcolm Lowry in His Own Words - Stories, Poems, Drafts, Letters (New York Review of Books); Francisco Goldman's The Art of Political Murder: Who Killed the Bishop? (Grove); Diane Ackerman's The Zookeeper's Wife: A War Story (Norton); and Gordon Johnson's Fast Cars and Frybread: Reports From the Rez (Heyday/Baytree).
John Berger's Hold Everything Dear: Dispatches of Survival and Resistance (Pantheon); Edie Kerouac-Parker's You'll Be Okay: My Life With Jack Kerouac, edited by Timothy Moran and Bill Morgan (City Lights); George Saunder's essay collection, The Braindead Megaphone (Riverhead); and John Leland's Why Kerouac Matters: The Lessons of "On the Road" (They're Not What You Think) (Viking).
Charlie Savage's Takeover: The Return of the Imperial Presidency and the Subversion of American Democracy (Little, Brown); Edwidge Danticat's memoir, Brother, I'm Dying (Knopf); David Halberstam's final book, The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War (Hyperion); and philosopher Charles Taylor's A Secular Age (Harvard University Press), winner of the 2007 Templeton Prize.
Naomi Klein's The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism (Metropolitan/Henry Holt); Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk's essay collection, Other Colors: Essays and a Story (Knopf); Janet Malcolm's book on Stein and Toklas, Two Lives: Gertrude and Alice (Yale University Press); James D. Watson's Avoid Boring People: Lessons From a Life in Science (Knopf); and Bliss Broyard's memoir, One Drop: A True Story of Family, Race and Secrets (Little, Brown).
John Bowe's Nobodies: Modern American Slave Labor and the Dark Side of the New Global Economy (Random House); James R. Gaines' For Liberty and Glory: Washington, Lafayette and Their Revolutions (Norton); and Sports Illustrated senior writer and Northern California resident Austin Murphy's ode to college football, Saturday Rules: A Season With Trojans and Domers (and Gators and Buckeyes and Wolverines) (Harper).
Charles van Onselen's The Fox and the Flies: The Secret Life of a Grotesque Master Criminal (Walker), whom van Onselen contends was Jack the Ripper; Charles Fleming and San Jose's Howard Dully's book on Dully's troubled life, My Lobotomy (Crown); Hanna Rosin's God's Harvard: A Christian College on a Mission to Save America (Harcourt); San Francisco's very own Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Poetry as Insurgent Art (New Directions); and former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan's The Age of Turbulence: Adventures in a New World (The Penguin Press).
October fiction
Wanda Colmeman's story collection, Jazz & Twelve O'Clock Tales (Black Sparrow Books/Godine); San Francisco writer Diane Vadino's first novel, Smart Girls Like Me (Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's); Bay Area author Alice Sebold's novel The Almost Moon (Little, Brown); and Millard Kaufman's first novel, Bowl of Cherries (McSweeney's).
Richard Russo's novel Bridge of Sighs (Knopf); Tom Perrotta's novel The Abstinence Teacher (St. Martin's); Philip Roth's final Zuckerman novel, Exit Ghost (Houghton Mifflin); Fadia Faqir's novel The Cry of the Dove (Black Cat/Grove); Michal Govrin's novel Snapshots (Riverhead); and Bay Area poet Adrienne Rich's Telephone Ringing in the Labyrinth: Poems: 2004-2006 (Norton).
Alan Lightman's novel, Ghost (Pantheon); Cees Nooteboom's novel Lost Paradise (Grove); Ursula Hegi's novel The Worst Thing I've Done (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster); Mario Vargas Llosa's novel The Bad Girl (FSG); Joshua Henkin's novel Matrimony (Pantheon); Caryl Phillips' novel Foreigners (Knopf); and Iain Banks' novel The Steep Approach to Garbdale (MacAdam/Cage).
Michael Chabon's Gentlemen of the Road (Del Rey), first serialized in the New York Times Magazine; William Trevor's story collection, Cheating at Canasta (Viking); W.G. Sebald's poems, accompanied by lithographs by Jan Peter Tripp, making up Unrecounted (New Directions); Law Lit: From Atticus Finch to the Practice - a Collection of Great Writing About the Law (The New Press), edited by Thane Rosenbaum; and Walter Mosley's new Easy Rawlins novel, Blonde Faith (Little, Brown).
October nonfiction
San Francisco author Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream: Fear and Fantasy in Post-9/11 America (Metropolitan/Henry Holt); Jonathan Miles' The Wreck of the Medusa: The Most Famous Sea Disaster of the Nineteenth Century (Atlantic); Judith Jones' memoir, The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food (Knopf); and University of Chicago Professor Cass Sunstein's revisiting of where the Internet has taken us thus far in Republic.com 2.0 (Princeton University Press).
Rick Atkinson's The Day of Battle: The War in Sicily and Italy, 1943-1944 (Henry Holt); Edmund Wilson's Literary Essays and Reviews of the 1920s and 1930s (Library of America) and his Literary Essays and Reviews of the 1930s and 1940s (Library of America); and Oakland's Ted Nordhaus and Michael Shellenberger's Break Through: From the Death of Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility (Houghton Mifflin).
Karen E. Bender and Nina de Gramont edit Choice: True Stories of Birth, Contraception, Infertility, Adoption, Single Parenthood, and Abortion (MacAdam/Cage); David Michaelis' Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography (Harper); Shalom Auslander's memoir, Foreskin's Lament (Riverhead); and The Journal of Joyce Carol Oates: 1973-1982 (Ecco/HarperCollins).
Half Moon Bay author Richard Rhodes' Arsenals of Folly: The Making of the Nuclear Arms Race (Knopf); Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain (Knopf); Marc Norman's What Happens Next: A History of American Screenwriting (Harmony); former Chronicle religion reporter Don Lattin's Jesus Freaks: A True Story of Murder and Madness on the Evangelical Edge (HarperOne); and Julie Kavanagh's Nureyev: The Life (Pantheon).
Award-winning Russian historian Simon Sebag Montefiore's Young Stalin (Knopf); John Updike's Due Consideration: Essays and Criticism (Knopf); Joseph J. Ellis' American Creation: Triumphs and Tragedies in the Founding of the Republic (Knopf); and Adrian Levy and Catherine Scott-Clark's Deception: Pakistan, the United States and the Secret Trade in Nuclear Weapons (Walker).
Orland Figes' The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin's Russia (Metropolitan/Henry Holt); Bob Drogin's Curveball: Spies, Lies and the Man Behind Them: The Intelligence Nightmare That Led to America's War in Iraq (Random House); Imam Sayid Hassan Al-Qazwini's American Crescent: A Muslim Cleric's Struggle for Islam in America (Random House); and Berkeley author Fritjof Capra's The Science of Leonardo: Inside the Mind of the Great Genius of the Renaissance (Doubleday).
Amy Silverstein's medical memoir, Sick Girl (Grove Press); Paul Krugman's The Conscience of a Liberal (Norton); Gary Wills' Head and Heart: American Christianities (The Penguin Press); UC Davis history Professor Andres Resendez's A Land So Strange: The Epic Journey of Cabeza de Vaca (Basic Books); John Lukacs' Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat: Winston Churchill and the Speech That Saved Civilization (Basic Books); and Dana Frank's Local Girl Makes History: Exploring Northern California's Kitsch Monuments (City Lights).
Venture capitalist and Hewlett-Packard board of director member Tom Perkins' memoir, Valley Boy: The Education of Tom Perkins (Gotham Books); The Emergence of Memory: Conversations With W.G . Sebald (Seven Stories Press), edited by Lynne Sharon Schwartz; Craig Unger's The Fall of the House of Bush: How a Group of True Believers Put America on the Road to Armageddon (Scribner); David Mas Masumoto's Heirlooms: Letters From a Peach Farmer (Heyday Books); and KQED "Forum" host and San Francisco State Professor Michael Krasny's Off Mike: A Memoir of Talk Radio and Literary Life (Stanford University Press).
November fiction
Michael Rothenberg edits The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen (Wesleyan University Press); John Ashbery's Notes From the Air: Selected Later Poems (Ecco/HarperCollins); and Ha Jin's novel A Free Life (Pantheon).
Ronan Bennett's literary thriller Zugzwang (Bloomsbury); Peter Ackroyd's novel The Fall of Troy (Nan A. Talese/Doubleday); Peter Hoeg's first novel in more than 10 years, The Quiet Girl (FSG); and Chris Ware's ACME Novelty Datebook: Vol. 2 1995-1999 and ACME Novelty Library No. 18 (Drawn & Quarterly).
The New Granta Book of the American Short Story (Granta), edited by Richard Ford; The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps: The Best Stories From the Pulps During Their Golden Age - the '20s, the '30s and the '40s (Vintage Original), edited by Otto Penzler; Andrea Barrett's novel, The Air We Breathe (Norton); and Steve Erickson's novel about Hollywood, Zeroville (Europa Editions).
Stewart O'Nan's novel, Last Night at the Lobster (Viking); the anthology The Book of Other People (Penguin Original), edited by Zadie Smith; and Yannick Murphy's novel Signed, Mata Hari (Little, Brown).
November nonfiction
Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food: The Myth of Nutrition and the Pleasures of Eating (The Penguin Press); Silvana Paternostro's My Colombian War: A Journey Through a Country I Left Behind (Henry Holt); Peter Gay's Modernism: The Lure of Heresy - From Baudelaire to Beckett and Beyond (Norton); Lachlan Whelan's Contemporary Irish Prison Writing: Writing and Resistance (Palgrave Macmillan); John Richardson's third volume of his Picasso biography, The Triumphant Years, 1917-1932 (Knopf); and novelist and story writer William Boyd's Bamboo: Essays and Criticism (Bloomsbury).
Ed Sikov's Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis (Henry Holt); San Francisco writer Alex Frankel's Punching In: My Unauthorized Adventure as a Front Line Employee (Collins); Thomas Hines' The Great Funk: Falling Apart and Coming Together (on a Shag Rug) in the Seventies (Sarah Crichton Books/FSG); Umberto Eco's essay collection, Turning Back the Clock: Hot Wars and Media Populism (Harcourt); Philip Gourevitch and Errol Morris' The Ballad of Abu Ghraib (The Penguin Press); and Judith Freeman's The Long Embrace: Raymond Chandler and the Woman He Loved (Pantheon).
Alicia Castro and Ingrid Kummels' Queens of Havana: The Amazing Adventures of the Legendary Anacaona, Cuba's First All-Girl Dance Band (Grove Press); The Paris Review Interviews, II (Picador Original), edited by Philip Gourevitch; The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters (Harper), edited by Charlotte Mosley; Ronald Brownstein's The Second Civil War: How Extreme Partisanship Has Paralyzed Washington and Polarized America (The Penguin Press); and Conrad Black's (yes, that Conrad Black) Richard M. Nixon: A Life in Full (PublicAffairs).
The Black Panther Intercommunal News Service 1967-1980 (Atria), selected and edited by David Hilliard; Bill Boyarsky's Big Daddy: Jesse Unruh and the Art of Power Politics (University of California Press); Steve Martin's memoir, Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life (Scribner); Adam David Miller's memoir of growing up in the Jim Crow South, Ticket to Exile (Heyday Books); and a book not likely to be sold next to where you pick up your Frappuccino, Taylor Clark's Starbucked: A Double Tall Tale of Caffeine, Commerce and Culture (Little, Brown) .
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Louie's
To delineate
To encircle
To congratulate and
to weep.
Whenever anyone adverbalizes
uncontrollably
it always to my mind
brings the bowels,
the exploding wanton
love
of the bowels, of all the parts of you,
nether
or otherwise
even those alien and
antithetical, the hummingbird
or clockspring
that took you last Tuesday
to Louie's,
the bar I never
go to, on
the street I care always
not to see.
Louie's, where
you stood
two drinks too long, through
two too many
glasses
of wine.
I don't want you
to tell me
his name,
or at what drink it was
he paid
instead
of you,
or how
beyond
the basic
physiological
structure
his cock
worked differently
from mine.
I spend entire
evenings
considering
those differences.
Considering
a yellow
car ride,
a purple
stairwell,
bedspreads,
Tuesdays,
Louie's,
the end.
To encircle
To congratulate and
to weep.
Whenever anyone adverbalizes
uncontrollably
it always to my mind
brings the bowels,
the exploding wanton
love
of the bowels, of all the parts of you,
nether
or otherwise
even those alien and
antithetical, the hummingbird
or clockspring
that took you last Tuesday
to Louie's,
the bar I never
go to, on
the street I care always
not to see.
Louie's, where
you stood
two drinks too long, through
two too many
glasses
of wine.
I don't want you
to tell me
his name,
or at what drink it was
he paid
instead
of you,
or how
beyond
the basic
physiological
structure
his cock
worked differently
from mine.
I spend entire
evenings
considering
those differences.
Considering
a yellow
car ride,
a purple
stairwell,
bedspreads,
Tuesdays,
Louie's,
the end.
ordinarily
Ordinarily
the empty.
Ordinarily
the blank.
The finger-smudged
convex, the perfect
eyebrow, and tell me
what is
older: the shotgun
or the mouth? the heart
seen only
as a bird's nest
of ink. the realization
of one forty three,
of thirty five zygote
and egg.
the empty.
Ordinarily
the blank.
The finger-smudged
convex, the perfect
eyebrow, and tell me
what is
older: the shotgun
or the mouth? the heart
seen only
as a bird's nest
of ink. the realization
of one forty three,
of thirty five zygote
and egg.
"for miles the city"
for miles the city
for inches the night
for centuries the ice
for five years the fingernails,
your face
for miles the night
for miles the knife
for miles the trees
for miles your belt
for miles the question
for miles an answer,
the right
for centuries the ice, the highball, the glass
for miles the wind
for miles the thinking
for miles the sent
for miles the insinuation
for miles the grief
for miles your fingers
for miles the ringing
of the telephone
for miles the photograph
for miles the gray
for miles the ending
for miles the end
for miles the ringtone
for miles the bend
for inches the night
for centuries the ice
for five years the fingernails,
your face
for miles the night
for miles the knife
for miles the trees
for miles your belt
for miles the question
for miles an answer,
the right
for centuries the ice, the highball, the glass
for miles the wind
for miles the thinking
for miles the sent
for miles the insinuation
for miles the grief
for miles your fingers
for miles the ringing
of the telephone
for miles the photograph
for miles the gray
for miles the ending
for miles the end
for miles the ringtone
for miles the bend
featherbound
Featherbound
Oraga
Gypsum and moss
Clevinger post
Why did I
walk away from you
I wasn't happy then
and I'm not happy now
The daylight cuts into the water
The ocean swallows the sunset
The minnow swallows the whale
Why did I
walk away from you
In a thousand blank rooms
and your breasts I can barely
remember
Transfer slips
Drink rings
Fingerprints
There used to be breathing
in the blackness
The morning
you dropped your scooter
There will be
no more omelets
There will be no more
tea
All the people here wouldn't
fill a glass of you
If I could
be anyone I'd be
the man who told you different
Why did I
walk away from you
Oraga
Gypsum and moss
Clevinger post
Why did I
walk away from you
I wasn't happy then
and I'm not happy now
The daylight cuts into the water
The ocean swallows the sunset
The minnow swallows the whale
Why did I
walk away from you
In a thousand blank rooms
and your breasts I can barely
remember
Transfer slips
Drink rings
Fingerprints
There used to be breathing
in the blackness
The morning
you dropped your scooter
There will be
no more omelets
There will be no more
tea
All the people here wouldn't
fill a glass of you
If I could
be anyone I'd be
the man who told you different
Why did I
walk away from you
Thursday, August 23, 2007
1. A condition of twittering or tremulous excitement (from eager desire, fear, etc.); a state of agitation; a flutter, a tremble. Now chiefly dial.
1678 BUTLER Hud. III. I. 83 The ancient errant knights Won all their ladies' hearts in fights, And cut whole giants into fritters, To put them into amorous twitters. a1734 NORTH Exam. I. iii. §31 (1740) 141 The Attorney-General..was in a Twitter; for some of his Friends told him he would certainly be questioned for it in Parliament. 1802 G. COLMAN Poor Gentleman I. i, If I ben't all of a twitter to see my old John Harrowby again! 1825 J. NEAL Bro. Jonathan II. 151 A leap of the heart..and a sort of tingling twitter through all his blood. 1861 THACKERAY Four Georges iv. (1862) 198 In a twitter of indignation. 1869 TROLLOPE He knew, etc. xxxi, [She] was in a twitter, partly of expectation, and partly..of fear. 1869 L. M. ALCOTT Little Women vi, Beth hurried on in a twitter of suspense.
b. A suppressed laugh, a titter; a fit of laughter. dial.
1736 LEWIS Isle of Tenet Gloss. s.v. (E.D.S.), He is in a mighty twitter. 1847-78 HALLIWELL, Twitter,..(2) A fit of laughter. Kent.
2. An act or the action of twittering, as a bird; light tremulous chirping. Also transf. a sound resembling this.
1842 BROWNING Waring I. vi. 35 As pours some pigeon..her melodious cry Amid their [swallows'] barbarous twitter! 1849 W. S. MAYO Kaloolah v. (1850) 40 The hesitating twitter of the sleepy birds. 1871 BLACKIE Four Phases i. 43 A mere swallow-twitter of inarticulate jargon. 1902 J. C. SNAITH Wayfarers xvi, The ceaseless twitter of the rain on the road
1678 BUTLER Hud. III. I. 83 The ancient errant knights Won all their ladies' hearts in fights, And cut whole giants into fritters, To put them into amorous twitters. a1734 NORTH Exam. I. iii. §31 (1740) 141 The Attorney-General..was in a Twitter; for some of his Friends told him he would certainly be questioned for it in Parliament. 1802 G. COLMAN Poor Gentleman I. i, If I ben't all of a twitter to see my old John Harrowby again! 1825 J. NEAL Bro. Jonathan II. 151 A leap of the heart..and a sort of tingling twitter through all his blood. 1861 THACKERAY Four Georges iv. (1862) 198 In a twitter of indignation. 1869 TROLLOPE He knew, etc. xxxi, [She] was in a twitter, partly of expectation, and partly..of fear. 1869 L. M. ALCOTT Little Women vi, Beth hurried on in a twitter of suspense.
b. A suppressed laugh, a titter; a fit of laughter. dial.
1736 LEWIS Isle of Tenet Gloss. s.v. (E.D.S.), He is in a mighty twitter. 1847-78 HALLIWELL, Twitter,..(2) A fit of laughter. Kent.
2. An act or the action of twittering, as a bird; light tremulous chirping. Also transf. a sound resembling this.
1842 BROWNING Waring I. vi. 35 As pours some pigeon..her melodious cry Amid their [swallows'] barbarous twitter! 1849 W. S. MAYO Kaloolah v. (1850) 40 The hesitating twitter of the sleepy birds. 1871 BLACKIE Four Phases i. 43 A mere swallow-twitter of inarticulate jargon. 1902 J. C. SNAITH Wayfarers xvi, The ceaseless twitter of the rain on the road
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
march of the stanzas
It was exactly everything:
two brown arms and
the southward-pointing wheel.
The blackbird didn't
have time for your theories
and no one lived
in the concrete
but us.
Remarkably beautiful us!
And about now is the
time for a question.
Or is it?
You asked the blackbird
exactly why we bother
and the blackbird answered,
wings.
OK, for the part
about productivity,
I lied a bit. When
building the tower one
should usually strike
for up. And away! The joyous
lark and
hangover. Don't ask me
to stretch it in all directions,
to translate from the Russian
to your fears. My brain
is a puddle
of infinite depth.
I am a kitten eating cracker jacks.
a shoelace in the trees
a ruby-throated billboard
and a bite off Chekhov's inseam.
How many forevers
will I be able to see
the tree held in sunset light,
leaves bright and brushed
by the wind.
Already
it is gone.
We are out of the night.
We are arrived.
We're in
the dark days,
or so the advertisements
tell us.
Hopped up on facecream
is not the worst
way to die.
Screaming bombs! Screaming
babies!
Why can't we all scream
quietly!
Sometimes
the exclamation mark
is a wondrous
invention. I remember now
I had pledged to scream
Eureka! at least
once last night and at that
I have failed.
Last night I smashed
my lamp against the wall.
Time for a new lamp!
Time for therapy!
You pay for the privilege.
For the white flat front
of the bus.
And then into the folds of your apron
you tucked the knife.
two brown arms and
the southward-pointing wheel.
The blackbird didn't
have time for your theories
and no one lived
in the concrete
but us.
Remarkably beautiful us!
And about now is the
time for a question.
Or is it?
You asked the blackbird
exactly why we bother
and the blackbird answered,
wings.
OK, for the part
about productivity,
I lied a bit. When
building the tower one
should usually strike
for up. And away! The joyous
lark and
hangover. Don't ask me
to stretch it in all directions,
to translate from the Russian
to your fears. My brain
is a puddle
of infinite depth.
I am a kitten eating cracker jacks.
a shoelace in the trees
a ruby-throated billboard
and a bite off Chekhov's inseam.
How many forevers
will I be able to see
the tree held in sunset light,
leaves bright and brushed
by the wind.
Already
it is gone.
We are out of the night.
We are arrived.
We're in
the dark days,
or so the advertisements
tell us.
Hopped up on facecream
is not the worst
way to die.
Screaming bombs! Screaming
babies!
Why can't we all scream
quietly!
Sometimes
the exclamation mark
is a wondrous
invention. I remember now
I had pledged to scream
Eureka! at least
once last night and at that
I have failed.
Last night I smashed
my lamp against the wall.
Time for a new lamp!
Time for therapy!
You pay for the privilege.
For the white flat front
of the bus.
And then into the folds of your apron
you tucked the knife.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
In the yellow-cake colored paperback in the basement
was the story of the woman double-dipped in gold paint
who died when men covered up the small of her back,
the last breathing spot.
In the thick encyclopedias layering the shelves
was the story of the Temple of Kyoto, where elves
(well, monks) painted urushiol lacquer over all gold leaf
to preserve it from thieves.
But in a lost tale a daughter in the back seat
of a van with dozens of glittering, under a blanket,
bottles, lacquered, and boxes like jacquard, of liquor--
gifts for customers,
or a heist? -- is a mess of poison ivy under the blanket
with the spirits gilded and boxes elongate;
untouchable, though not dying. Spirited
away like a scratching anti-Juliet
-- Urushiol by Ange Mlinko
was the story of the woman double-dipped in gold paint
who died when men covered up the small of her back,
the last breathing spot.
In the thick encyclopedias layering the shelves
was the story of the Temple of Kyoto, where elves
(well, monks) painted urushiol lacquer over all gold leaf
to preserve it from thieves.
But in a lost tale a daughter in the back seat
of a van with dozens of glittering, under a blanket,
bottles, lacquered, and boxes like jacquard, of liquor--
gifts for customers,
or a heist? -- is a mess of poison ivy under the blanket
with the spirits gilded and boxes elongate;
untouchable, though not dying. Spirited
away like a scratching anti-Juliet
-- Urushiol by Ange Mlinko
many times
many times in darkness
have i listened
to the last guitar chord
bequeath itself
to the still.
many times hand on
myself have i thought
this is it, the end, no more
root beer. many
times have i ground
the ax, many times
have i wished to be
more a man.
but what else is there?
many times in the darkness
have i wished
for more darkness,
the utter kind, the
soul-sealing
box, but
that's not the kind
they make. apparently.
many times
many times
many times.
have i listened
to the last guitar chord
bequeath itself
to the still.
many times hand on
myself have i thought
this is it, the end, no more
root beer. many
times have i ground
the ax, many times
have i wished to be
more a man.
but what else is there?
many times in the darkness
have i wished
for more darkness,
the utter kind, the
soul-sealing
box, but
that's not the kind
they make. apparently.
many times
many times
many times.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
or those that end, and he was as silent as a carp,
or those with middles which, if you think
or the right side as a sketch, look like a paunch
or beer and worry, but secretly, with flashlights
in the woods, they've read every word and noticed
that our nine happy poems have balloons and sex
and giraffes inside, but not one dad waving hello
from the top of a hill at dusk. Theirs
is the revenge school of poety, with title like
"My Yellow Sheet Lad" and "Given Your Mother's Taste
for Vodka, I'm Pretty Sure You're Not Mine."
They're not trying to make the poems better
so much as sharper or louder, more like a fishhook
or electrocution, as a group
they overcome their individual senilities,
their complete distaste for language, how cloying
it is, how like tears it can be, and remember
every mention of their long hours at the office
or how tired they were when they came home,
when they were dragged through the door
by their shadows. I don't know why it's so hard
to write a simple and kind poem to my father, who worked,
not like a dog, dogs sleep most of the day in a ball
of wanting to chase something, but like a man, a man
with seven kids and a house to feed, whose absence
was his presence, his present, the Cheerios,
the PF Flyers, who taught me about trees,
that they're the most intricate version of standing up,
who built a grandfather clock with me so I would know
that time is a constructed thing, a passing, ticking fancy.
A bomb. A bomb that'll go off soon for him, for me,
and I notice in our fathers' poems a reciprocal dwelling
on absence, that they wonder why we disappeared
as soon as we got our licenses, why we wanted
the rocket cars, as if running away from them
to kiss girls who looked like mirrors of our mothers
wasn't fast enough, and it turns out they did
start to say something, to form the words hey
or stay, but we'd turned into a door full of sun,
into the burning leave, and were gone
before it came to them that it was all right
to shout, that they should have knocked us down
with a hand on our shoulders, they they too are mystified
by the distance men need in their love.
O my pa-pa by Bob Hicok
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
or those that end, and he was as silent as a carp,
or those with middles which, if you think
or the right side as a sketch, look like a paunch
or beer and worry, but secretly, with flashlights
in the woods, they've read every word and noticed
that our nine happy poems have balloons and sex
and giraffes inside, but not one dad waving hello
from the top of a hill at dusk. Theirs
is the revenge school of poety, with title like
"My Yellow Sheet Lad" and "Given Your Mother's Taste
for Vodka, I'm Pretty Sure You're Not Mine."
They're not trying to make the poems better
so much as sharper or louder, more like a fishhook
or electrocution, as a group
they overcome their individual senilities,
their complete distaste for language, how cloying
it is, how like tears it can be, and remember
every mention of their long hours at the office
or how tired they were when they came home,
when they were dragged through the door
by their shadows. I don't know why it's so hard
to write a simple and kind poem to my father, who worked,
not like a dog, dogs sleep most of the day in a ball
of wanting to chase something, but like a man, a man
with seven kids and a house to feed, whose absence
was his presence, his present, the Cheerios,
the PF Flyers, who taught me about trees,
that they're the most intricate version of standing up,
who built a grandfather clock with me so I would know
that time is a constructed thing, a passing, ticking fancy.
A bomb. A bomb that'll go off soon for him, for me,
and I notice in our fathers' poems a reciprocal dwelling
on absence, that they wonder why we disappeared
as soon as we got our licenses, why we wanted
the rocket cars, as if running away from them
to kiss girls who looked like mirrors of our mothers
wasn't fast enough, and it turns out they did
start to say something, to form the words hey
or stay, but we'd turned into a door full of sun,
into the burning leave, and were gone
before it came to them that it was all right
to shout, that they should have knocked us down
with a hand on our shoulders, they they too are mystified
by the distance men need in their love.
O my pa-pa by Bob Hicok
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