Good Morning, Blog.
Going to the Armory Show today, that should be both expensive and fun. Here's a wonderful found poem from a Norwegian phrase book I found at the Reanimation Library. It's in Carroll Gardens, oddly enough, about a block from where I used to live, at the Proteus Gowanus gallery.
Here's my poem:
FOUND POEM
We have not much money.
Here are three stamps.
I have some money in my purse.
How many books have you there?
What has the boy in his pocket?
There is a light in the room.
Are the children at home?
The boys have no money.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
One Hundred and Fifty-First Entry
I've been staying up very late lately. Who knows why? This poem is part of my Fit to Print series. I bought a new totally manual typewriter, and it's inspiring me to write, mostly fiction, but this poem as well. Peace and hair-grease.
Here's my poem:
URGED AT NIGHT COUNCILS
No effort, and we wander.
Our first instinct is to bend like thin fronds
towards the computer, but I don't. Pennsylvania
clinched it. Let words slip down the grease-slick stairs
of our cities. The cloth has been lifted,
and the dust will land on our shelves
like a form of snow never recognized.
I could take the branch in my mouth,
chewing the bark until it and my teeth gave way.
Later the break in weather came, the redness
as multiple scarves were left, their tartans
fading in the halls of the community space.
No work for the week, the delegates eager
to leave to the hills, their altars
buried under their skin and suits.
The office itself takes on a haunted glow,
the manager predicts harmony among tribes,
but his seeing bones were raw, fresh
from the sockets, winter surprises like a sudden door.
My bones are in excellent condition; they glimmer
inside me and shine out upon reflection with the moon.
What is your building like, when you're not there
to turn the lights on? What is being worshiped
by the steel? I don't care too much about the answer,
it's the asking that indicates direction. Which is always up.
Here's my poem:
URGED AT NIGHT COUNCILS
No effort, and we wander.
Our first instinct is to bend like thin fronds
towards the computer, but I don't. Pennsylvania
clinched it. Let words slip down the grease-slick stairs
of our cities. The cloth has been lifted,
and the dust will land on our shelves
like a form of snow never recognized.
I could take the branch in my mouth,
chewing the bark until it and my teeth gave way.
Later the break in weather came, the redness
as multiple scarves were left, their tartans
fading in the halls of the community space.
No work for the week, the delegates eager
to leave to the hills, their altars
buried under their skin and suits.
The office itself takes on a haunted glow,
the manager predicts harmony among tribes,
but his seeing bones were raw, fresh
from the sockets, winter surprises like a sudden door.
My bones are in excellent condition; they glimmer
inside me and shine out upon reflection with the moon.
What is your building like, when you're not there
to turn the lights on? What is being worshiped
by the steel? I don't care too much about the answer,
it's the asking that indicates direction. Which is always up.
Monday, February 18, 2008
One Hundred and Fiftieth Entry
Wow! I reached a buck fifty! Congrats go out to myself.
Honestly, every poem is a little victory. I keep myself so busy. And aside from work, this is supposed to be what I work on the most, but I'm sure everyone reading this knows how it is.
I've started a new project, because it interests me and, for the time being, I need a project in order to keep myself motivated. It involves a book of new york times headlines that Gina gave me. I just love old timey reporting language. And presidents. One of them appears in my poem. I'm thinking of calling the project "Fit To Print." Is that too much?
Here's my poem:
AND THE TREATY IS NOW ENFORCED
Strike spreading across twelve and a half faces.
Bruising is the first sign of communication.
Wilson to summon me, anxious, sitting on staircase,
well-lit, my feet crunching through plaster on rugs.
Eggs. Eggs is what I keep thinking of, working
through white plaster -- my toes are wiggling
in my boots with much effort. Snug in a blanket
of my making. Still hoping for harmony.
Berger says he will run again. My phone shudders.
Soon he will call me back, crazy, near freezing
in the fog shoulders of a wooded area.
Quit running. The city will continue to effect you.
Still, compromise spirit grows. The stairs are swept.
Ten hundred women and men in black sweatshirts
means we have beaten death and our parents.
We have won. We are all standing together for a while.
Was a missionary leader a hero for saying
what no one listened to? I wake up in my city
to missionaries burning. I wear a missionary shirt
the next day and walk all over town.
The letter came in the evening:
"You're supposed to care about this."
Honestly, every poem is a little victory. I keep myself so busy. And aside from work, this is supposed to be what I work on the most, but I'm sure everyone reading this knows how it is.
I've started a new project, because it interests me and, for the time being, I need a project in order to keep myself motivated. It involves a book of new york times headlines that Gina gave me. I just love old timey reporting language. And presidents. One of them appears in my poem. I'm thinking of calling the project "Fit To Print." Is that too much?
Here's my poem:
AND THE TREATY IS NOW ENFORCED
Strike spreading across twelve and a half faces.
Bruising is the first sign of communication.
Wilson to summon me, anxious, sitting on staircase,
well-lit, my feet crunching through plaster on rugs.
Eggs. Eggs is what I keep thinking of, working
through white plaster -- my toes are wiggling
in my boots with much effort. Snug in a blanket
of my making. Still hoping for harmony.
Berger says he will run again. My phone shudders.
Soon he will call me back, crazy, near freezing
in the fog shoulders of a wooded area.
Quit running. The city will continue to effect you.
Still, compromise spirit grows. The stairs are swept.
Ten hundred women and men in black sweatshirts
means we have beaten death and our parents.
We have won. We are all standing together for a while.
Was a missionary leader a hero for saying
what no one listened to? I wake up in my city
to missionaries burning. I wear a missionary shirt
the next day and walk all over town.
The letter came in the evening:
"You're supposed to care about this."
Monday, February 04, 2008
One Hundred and Fourty-Ninth Entry
Well, you remember how I thought the year was looking up for me? Well, that was for a particular reason. And I wasn't, like, 100% right about that reason. But I'm still right! This month and it's subsequent days have been great for me, full of fun and change and small successes, which add up, gentle reader.
Anywho, trying to finish the last edit of the book and get SERIOUS about new poems. Starting here!
Here's my poem:
GOODY GOODY
Plain colors hold weight like fat smart kids stay alone.
A happy survey-taker waltzing through the medium length lawn,
getting to your doorstep, my cold and fragile petunia, and asking
much of himself, patting the tan suitcase leather as he is allowed
inside, the day frothing into the window-shades and the iced tea
perspiring like a fat kid.
And when holding onto your fat kid while he waits for the bus,
the bus that will never support his frame, remember the bus is ending;
the bus that is yellow as your child’s heart, remember the bus is ending;
ending itself on constant comic cliffs in the anecdotes of others,
and ending in the way all events have already happened,
our certainty in the spots of rust mottling the thin metal,
too thin to save a life, to thin to make a fair comparison to your child,
our certainty which we hold in our heart like a disembodied hand
over our chest, a feminine hand full of love as pockets are occasionally
full. With different items. Which the survey-taker, glancing
at his own body, is now suddenly too hasty to talk about,
collecting his various garments and official items, rushing the door
as if you are rushing him, my friend, my dear exotic friend.
Who smells like perfume, because that’s what people do.
Our children walk along familiar paths,
home as if there were only one;
they are safe, and we worry for them.
As the sun turns to the other side of our planet
the news-anchors put bibs on over the suits and blouses
because they, like you, need water, and spiders
trickle these small bits of moisture, emptied inexplicably
from somewhere in their bodies, down the line of web
connecting one corner of your wooden garage interior
to the other.
Anywho, trying to finish the last edit of the book and get SERIOUS about new poems. Starting here!
Here's my poem:
GOODY GOODY
Plain colors hold weight like fat smart kids stay alone.
A happy survey-taker waltzing through the medium length lawn,
getting to your doorstep, my cold and fragile petunia, and asking
much of himself, patting the tan suitcase leather as he is allowed
inside, the day frothing into the window-shades and the iced tea
perspiring like a fat kid.
And when holding onto your fat kid while he waits for the bus,
the bus that will never support his frame, remember the bus is ending;
the bus that is yellow as your child’s heart, remember the bus is ending;
ending itself on constant comic cliffs in the anecdotes of others,
and ending in the way all events have already happened,
our certainty in the spots of rust mottling the thin metal,
too thin to save a life, to thin to make a fair comparison to your child,
our certainty which we hold in our heart like a disembodied hand
over our chest, a feminine hand full of love as pockets are occasionally
full. With different items. Which the survey-taker, glancing
at his own body, is now suddenly too hasty to talk about,
collecting his various garments and official items, rushing the door
as if you are rushing him, my friend, my dear exotic friend.
Who smells like perfume, because that’s what people do.
Our children walk along familiar paths,
home as if there were only one;
they are safe, and we worry for them.
As the sun turns to the other side of our planet
the news-anchors put bibs on over the suits and blouses
because they, like you, need water, and spiders
trickle these small bits of moisture, emptied inexplicably
from somewhere in their bodies, down the line of web
connecting one corner of your wooden garage interior
to the other.
Monday, December 31, 2007
One Hundred and Forty Eighth Entry
Happy Brew Years everybody!!!!
Lot of colossal changes here in the Roberts camp, but at least I'm writing new poems, and this year is actually looking up for me which is odd, I know. Here's a happy dappy scrappy little bit of new writing.
Here's my poem:
NEW YEARS
Keep continuing, hoping that some powerful essence will escape me.
The next day will feel so great, a breeze at my back and my empty body lighter
than before. Continuing on towards the bank with small pieces of paper to be exchanged.
Next, my friend, I dawdle by your grave, happily pressing my face area
against the rain-wet stone. On the wheelchair is printed a special sticker. My face
is later pressed against the rough wood of my hand-carved living room furniture.
You are no longer my robot plaything, no longer my man-servant.
Now each can of dried goods in the cupboard will hold a special glow for you.
Are all my nervous fantasies off the mark? Each time I close my eyes and tense,
you appear, as if to do or say something. All fingers wiggle inside my glove,
the maps start losing their cities. Time stands frail, a feeble old man doomed
to watch the teenagers of fate destroy his lawn. Fingers fall off the hands for want of a face.
Lot of colossal changes here in the Roberts camp, but at least I'm writing new poems, and this year is actually looking up for me which is odd, I know. Here's a happy dappy scrappy little bit of new writing.
Here's my poem:
NEW YEARS
Keep continuing, hoping that some powerful essence will escape me.
The next day will feel so great, a breeze at my back and my empty body lighter
than before. Continuing on towards the bank with small pieces of paper to be exchanged.
Next, my friend, I dawdle by your grave, happily pressing my face area
against the rain-wet stone. On the wheelchair is printed a special sticker. My face
is later pressed against the rough wood of my hand-carved living room furniture.
You are no longer my robot plaything, no longer my man-servant.
Now each can of dried goods in the cupboard will hold a special glow for you.
Are all my nervous fantasies off the mark? Each time I close my eyes and tense,
you appear, as if to do or say something. All fingers wiggle inside my glove,
the maps start losing their cities. Time stands frail, a feeble old man doomed
to watch the teenagers of fate destroy his lawn. Fingers fall off the hands for want of a face.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
One Hundred and Forty Seventh Entry
It's getting too long in between entries. I've been working, and I've been re-writing a lot of stuff for a special project. I wonder now if this special project is going to happen. But anywho, I aged an extra year. I got through another semester. I just watched a movie. I hate how this blog cuts off my poems no matter how small I make them. I'm going to move to a new address soon. Watch out for it, single reader!
Here's my poem:
METALS
I'm elderly here.
I flex, my coils stretching in pantomime of a creative film --
Man in tandem with dog -- protected with plastic bag glove --
we codgers celebrate our youths as The Only Youth --
intelligence in animals mistranslated = violence becomes mating ,
philosophy becomes violence. Three cheers for Young Monster Party,
men battering their nipples in mid-holler, the future is being emailed to them --
the apes let their earphones shudder -- tattooed remains muttering nationality = stupidity,
the doom economics as effortless smoke folds forward, earphones in place --
overall the chatter of insect wings. This means my skull must be built of tougher stuff --
my metal cockroach -colored, no one's skull retracts like mine --
long shot of body self-propelled through window -- now the host asks me a question,
and I rehearse my response before I answer.
Here's my poem:
METALS
I'm elderly here.
I flex, my coils stretching in pantomime of a creative film --
Man in tandem with dog -- protected with plastic bag glove --
we codgers celebrate our youths as The Only Youth --
intelligence in animals mistranslated = violence becomes mating ,
philosophy becomes violence. Three cheers for Young Monster Party,
men battering their nipples in mid-holler, the future is being emailed to them --
the apes let their earphones shudder -- tattooed remains muttering nationality = stupidity,
the doom economics as effortless smoke folds forward, earphones in place --
overall the chatter of insect wings. This means my skull must be built of tougher stuff --
my metal cockroach -colored, no one's skull retracts like mine --
long shot of body self-propelled through window -- now the host asks me a question,
and I rehearse my response before I answer.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
One Hundred and Forty-Sixth Entry
Why hello there. I've been neglecting you, little blog. I've had work and play and mid-terms and blogging and movies and smooches and arguments and, most of all, a top secret project. But I'm back, and hopefully we'll continue to see a lot of each other.
Those of you who might be interested in seeing this guy read, come on down to the Four-Faced Liar on this Saturday at 2:30. I'll be reading with Dan Magers, Alex Smith and Nathan Austin. It's going to be a lot of fun.
Here's my poem:
CHANT II
Screeing of born universe, belt-chrome signifying “what a waste” – sprouting limbs, twenty Athenas of television color test bars, yes, old addresses replete with shadow-pasts, ghosts liberaling around peeking in closets made for limbless shut-ins from the third world – beginning of life on Discovery Channel – “fuck protesters” is built into the façade on Brooklyn wall viewable by train, glass fogs in reaction to moist sponge bodies – game developed, incorrect gravity, character falls in hole of the program – epileptic shutter-speed in unlit haunted house room, sweat in plastic visibility greatly decreased – limbless protesters ask passerby to kick and spit on them, placards gently hung about necks – suction reforms face, rich blood taste from injury in mouth – cold while grass sticks to shuddering mass, eyes cataracted into pointlessness, sound from mouth open to re-adaptation, directors sniveling behind chairs and cameras.
Those of you who might be interested in seeing this guy read, come on down to the Four-Faced Liar on this Saturday at 2:30. I'll be reading with Dan Magers, Alex Smith and Nathan Austin. It's going to be a lot of fun.
Here's my poem:
CHANT II
Screeing of born universe, belt-chrome signifying “what a waste” – sprouting limbs, twenty Athenas of television color test bars, yes, old addresses replete with shadow-pasts, ghosts liberaling around peeking in closets made for limbless shut-ins from the third world – beginning of life on Discovery Channel – “fuck protesters” is built into the façade on Brooklyn wall viewable by train, glass fogs in reaction to moist sponge bodies – game developed, incorrect gravity, character falls in hole of the program – epileptic shutter-speed in unlit haunted house room, sweat in plastic visibility greatly decreased – limbless protesters ask passerby to kick and spit on them, placards gently hung about necks – suction reforms face, rich blood taste from injury in mouth – cold while grass sticks to shuddering mass, eyes cataracted into pointlessness, sound from mouth open to re-adaptation, directors sniveling behind chairs and cameras.
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