Ninety Third Entry

I'm not a "lifestyle blogger," but I'm currently writing weekly music and architecture reviews for LVHRD.org, under a clever pseudonym. I'm not gonna come right out and tell you who, but it'll be pretty obvious.

Also, I'm not a lifestyle blogger, but I've been reading a lot of lifestyle blogs, and I've decided I love Zarf. Wow, it feels good to let it out.

This is a poem I wrote after seeing Gina at the Poetry Project. It's sort of dedicated to Gina, and it sort of has her name in it a couple of times.

Here's my poem:

STEVE AND GINA ARE DYING

Distressed to say the least. Folkloric design mit colors media pressed conference against white of hospital wall, the doctors keep their lunch-pails in the room off the hall. At lunch we transgress our mortal states, video-camera mit kit undetectable extensions. I’m new at this. This is my first film.

The models in government magazines dressed black, time she shakes her long-haired head. A porch, bottles of beer, nice of them to accommodate by skipping the cover charge. Pre-3 o’clock New Mexico prairie, chilled like a champagne glass, all yellow and clean. We, or at least you, are obsessed with the japanese. One mound clean, seems like popcorn went a little bad, must have left it out. Cut to slutty night, falling flat as if from the bed. Now a balloon manufacturer’s no-good son, tomorrow a pencil sharpener.

Let’s focus on the thing’s insides. Out bright window-shades, Marcel my ghost follow bright and placid. Not like a shadow and not like a skeleton. Forced, as you might say, to parade in the traditional manner but for all unexpected reasons. Flat like the flag they let touch the ground. That flag gets burned, Gina. An apology for the smell. I took all my tear-streaked bodices upstairs, combined them with a cuisinart and some rusty watch-springs, and made a stomach pump. Up goes the feather and down comes the brick.