Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Fortieth Entry

Good Lordy I'm forty!

I just got really bored while working on my finals (yes, people, I actually work on them) so I decided to take my friend A. Grayson (whose work you can find in my links) up on his long overdue offer to swap poetry styles. I have a hard time rhyming, so writing one of his 'veintets' was tough, especially since he's so good at them. I just decided to write the goofiest fucking thing I could think of. Also, I wanted to write a poem about what happened to my friend a couple of years ago, when he looked out his window to find an elephant in his apartment complexes' parking lot. It was hanging out there while they set up a Mexican circus across the street. Anyway, I never got around to mentioning the elephant. Not a lot rhymes with elephant. Please feel free to comment and tell me what word YOU would have rhymed with elephant. Back to 'working' on my finals.

p.s. check out this: http://www.dickpigreview.com/
Here's my poem:


Plucky young adventurers sneak into my lair
I keep my TV on when I leave
They find my keychain which boldly says STEVE
They snoop on the floor and find most of my hair
When I get back they’re stoned
On my couch and the red-headed girl says hello
Out the window I hear a strange animal bellow
The gladitorial combat I sense they have honed
For several years is as useless as their dropped swords
I slip under my sheets
Folding the blanket carefully so my feets
don’t touch and I question the vandal hordes
and how they had traveled here and where
were they from and how today on the eve
of my birthday they cleave
each other apart and the survivor just stares
at me and hands me the blade like I loaned
it to him and I can’t take it because I’m yellow
and the blood has given me the frights of hell O
how I feel like a bird that’s been boned!

Monday, December 12, 2005

Thirty-Ninth Entry

well, I'm 26 now. I had a nice little dinner and a nice little party. I got some nice little presents too. I'm pleased. I'm also resolved. I need to leave this town.

Here's my poem:


On the roof
the amplifier comes unplugged
and falls over the side
the way we used to do

stealing your bed-ridden
aunt’s smelly brown couch
about four hundred years old
and falling on it

you used to do flips
I always knew you’d be a stuntman
I was “working” on my album
when you called

and said that you’d flown
off a trick panel in the ground
as the timed explosion went off
in the war movie

but my hearing’s not so good
anymore and I thought you said
your aunt had died and I said
‘you already told me’

Friday, December 09, 2005

Thirty-Eighth Entry


here's my poem:


Here is what I’m going to do.
I will pluck the green leaves from
the yard and place them randomly
in the grass. I will force
everyone to believe it’s autumn.
I will correct them and say
that it’s indian summer, and
I’ll think of distant braves
retreating into the woods
to melt into mulch, I guess,
or sleep in some cave where radios
will never find them, and I’ve bought
two ladders and a pair of gloves
and the neighbor’s boy said he would help.

My shirt is tucked into my shorts.
I mow the lawn. Slick and shiny
cadillacs buzz through like muted beasts.
The distant dog barks sound trapped,
like Laika wrapped in foil on re-entry
I imagine. Even my father called
to tell me he suspects I am a Communist
but really I’m actually quiet.
My lawn chair beams like a brand new smile.
Often I think about sitting in it
and sipping the kid’s juice, dozing
like a warm piece of meat, hearing
Lorraine call me inside for watermelon,
but my providence prevents me from
such idle joys, and summer keeps
so morbid and so long.

If I shouted in the den would it
be heard even in the empty bedroom?
If I threw the dinette set to the floor
where would I go? My daughters
and their husbands bought me a color
TV. They’ve told me to watch the screen
and drink a beer, which I’ve tried
to construct in my mind as a normal
and harmless thing to do, and
it’s flatly unconscionable.

For Jack Benny’s face should never
be that peach, and Lucy and Desi’s
house makes my straining, horrified
eyes twitch with its manic color scheme.
I want the trees to go ahead and give
up, I want the trunks to stoop
like old men’s spines, I want the static
on the screen to have no sound,
the hissing is disturbing my sleep
but I’m too tired to stand up
and turn the dial.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Thirty-Seventh Entry

Found this in an article about Alan Greenspan and thought it was worth repeating:

"Before the G-7 discussions started, Greenspan was awarded the Freedom of the City of London by Britain's Treasury chief, Gordon Brown. The award is a symbolic honor dating to medieval times and bestows the rights to drive sheep across London Bridge and to be hanged with a silken cord if sentenced to death."-Martin Crutsinger, Associated Press

Also, I thought the man's name was Golden Brown at first, which I was sad to see I was wrong about.

My classes at the New School are ending, and I feel awkward about it. This is all the education I ever planned to have (not that there was a plan...) and now of course I have to start doing something. There are tons of things I would like to do but I'm not sure which to do and which to give up as silly dreams. And how to go about it? I hate my job by the way, I am already looking around for a new one. DON'T WORRY, I'm not going to quit or anything, I just don't want to be asked to come in at 6:30 AM again for any reason but esepcially on short notice.

Here's my poem:


They dismount their horsies.
The thrill of the cold strikes the sparkle of the snow on her white-cloth poncho.
When the sun peaks out, the officers snap in unison, without looking at each other.

The gentleman doffs his top hat.
He spins and ruffles his tails, and rabbits pour out of the hat, too many for the eye to grasp.
The officers look at one another as if they don’t know what to say, and what they say makes her nervously grin.

The pink sky washes off the remaining stars.
Her breath is muffled and quick in the sea of white fur and frightened pink eyes, ready to burst.
When they do burst, the officers will ride down the gelatinous waterfall with both sets of arms raised.

You can feel their ruffly uniforms stir.
You can smell the dried blood from the slaughter and you can find the valley with the endless rabbits on spits.
You can find her there, rustling her long dark hair until the snows shake off before she bites the meat from the bone.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Thirty-Sixth Post

Wow, what a beatdown it is to live in new york and have a fulltime job! I have to get the fuck out of here!

At least I think I do. But I'm not entirely sure where I wouldst be going and whatdst I wouldst be doing. Suggestions? Donations?

Anyway, at least I've started to enjoy the job a little. I refer to the rounds I do (picking up doggies in midtown manhattan) as if I was a bomber pilot. Easy runs are "milk runs" and harder runs are Bremen.

My birthday is a week from Sunday! What'd you buy me!?

Here's my poem:


CRAIG: My poem is entitled “You Versus Me.”
I mention the time of day, I mention
the sun shining on the horse’s skin, the meadow,
I mention my political leanings, you and I
drinking coffee, and how the coffee isn’t enough
and even if it was, there is no “you”, and I
assert in my poem that the pronoun leaves
the arena before the fight is over-
ALEC: My poem is titled “Eight Ways
of Looking at a Blackbird”: I could only
think of eight, none of them are in
the poem, though I do mention baby
mockingbirds on my windowsill, which
is real, that really happened-
CLARA: My poem is finished and I want you
to read it, it’s a rock song, it’s called
“Exhibits Abandoned in the Museum
of Underwater Sunshine Overnight” and I play it
on the vibraphone and I sing it in
a shaky baritone and I project my voice
like ventriloquists do, the lyrics
are about an old boyfriend,
his harmonica, the American flag
and hay.
CRAIG: I read your poem and put on my coat
and went outside. My book is called
“Put on Your Coat and Go Outside.” I
wanted to change it before it went to print.
ALEC: My book is a book called “Forests of Envy,”
it’s too experimental, I like to contradict
notions of what poetry is about, chiefly
the assumption that it must be bad or good-
JUNE: My book is titled “Thermos Poems.”
Every piece was originally put
in a full thermos of tomato soup (hence
the red cover), shaken around and taken out,
damp, unreadable, and then typeset by my sister
a non-poet, with sometimes surprising results.
My favorite poem goes:

“the hate

once towards entropy


swa sweater gone all unravled
b caught me the ack ack

into the module of the pod

can’t change the
we will never know.”