One Hundred and Forty Fifth Entry

I'm finding it harder to write poems these days, to be honest. I feel like I can't put two words together. I'm not lacking for inspiration, but somehow I'm lacking something. Oh well, no apologies. I'm working on a revision for a top secret project coming up soon. And also, I'll be reading somewhere in Manhattan in November so watch out for that. In the meantime, here's a kind of halloween-ish one.

Here's my poem:

CHANT

Whiskers drip, their shine stings off the sheen but no face of the beast - in the morning fall was littered all over the sidewalk, orange like nasty sunset, happy because the dying trees mean the walk becomes easier. A shadow inside of grey codes, snot-paint on blacktop, innards taken out instantly and spread like banquets for troubled homeless cats with blood-hair – I’m talking about a website killer who sneaks in through the night-glow – every dream with bare feet where I end up lashed to a tree. It’s time to shiver. Rat inside the meat, small eyes/gut instinct subdued by smothered air and wet darkness. There’s a placid place among trees, barricaded by damn cement, meaty hands neutered. Candelabra hangs twisted – now the red cloaks enter from stone passage – unbelievable, the weight of the gold blade on the neck. The sex of your blonde and white underwear murders sustains you. Necklace bone-shake while descending to antechamber, dim through the lightning. Dial tone empties into empty hall with wooden floors - steam mirror wiped clean. Fingers split as a reminder – bones brothing in the black burned cauldron.

One Hundred and Forty-Fourth Entry

No excuses for how long it takes, I'm back with a new poem. I am losing steam though. I'm finding it harder and harder to balance my work and social life and girlfriend (yep) with my writing, but I work in cycles and I know it'll all come back. Also, I've been living with a horrible roommate, and we're finally getting rid of her. So maybe I'll spend more time at home working on things.

p.s. Hi Steve Caratzas!

Here's my poem:

ALMOST VIRTUAL

Sometimes I actually disappear.
The gloves for heroes leave no prints or traces -
not to say I am a hero for standing still
and shivering until the form is blurred
and breaking open the combination lock.
I ask everyone if I can help them,
sometimes repeatedly, in my uniform
at the mall, "here are tears," they say,
and hand me many jars of glossy
liquid. I empty them in the fountain
and walk off with collected wishes -
being fictional is like wearing flannel,
the pattern becomes you, its heaviness
surrounds your words - second week
in the bubble palace and my reports
have all come in just under the wire.

The hero mask allows him or her
his or her privacy, the small spaces
in the apartment crevices - the sugar
dripping from the insect mouth -
in nature's mouth the filth is not filthy -
hideous is a burka used by patriots
in the real war - gentle noise brushing
your face in your sleep - my finger
when you don't know my finger.

No one gets to see me because I'm your tongue.
You wear me and I have nothing to wear.

One Hundred and Forty Third Entry

Sooooo tired. And I have to be up very very early tomorrow. But I wrote a new poem and wanted to share it with you.

Here's my poem:

ALMOST VIRTUAL

Sometimes I actually disappear -
it's late and I can walk on the tearful face of the dark god -
Brooklyn is a garbage-heap and it's all mine -
storefronts live by themselves with dull metal faces -
I wish in public, twittering like a nervous branch,
but my mouth controls my face - finds a way out -
there's no light behind the scrim -
I spit something into my eye -
my feet control the streetlights, unimportant hills
flatten, I disappear on the topic of photographs -
drawings stop looking like me -
items in my bed continue being there.

Someone is into combining anecdotes
and transmogrifying them into people -
they love each other. I'd be listening
for them curled in sleep but my breathing
holds me back - echoes in hollow halls -
I know how to obtain silence - puzzles fall into place
when played backwards on tape - there is no weather
in the reflection of cars, but swelter here,
I peel off everything I can.

One Hundred and Forty Second Entry

Sorry about the pause, busy social life plus a new semester at school plus not feeling incredibly inspired equals not a lot of writing.

Poems of mine have been accepted in a couple of places, not telling where yet until they come out.

Hope you're having a nice day.

Here's my poem:
SLEEVELESS TEE

Plans to destroy the south.
Every newborn is pressed against tree
and reminded of history of lynching,
left to their own devices.
Many survive, new human territory
combined with bees, new hives,
skin formed from blood and detritus,
another Cormac Mccarthy novel.
Books on my shelf also include
particles of dust and the aroma
of indifference. Tried to get into apocalypse,
sweat-damp summer sheets,
me looking off in a direction.
Dirty floors and empty objects,
the wall doesn’t change for hours,
and the changes are minuscule.
Some sort of secret volcanic transition
beneath the surface. Eyes act funny,
eyes don’t record, and they don’t “see,”
only reflect images.

The person I sort of knew died.
Clothes get folded and then stretched
over the body, crumpled-abandoned,
pushing chair back from desk
on its little wheels. Hell is the apathy
of loneliness, objects being piled
as they fall forming unwanted architecture.
The weather often inspires in me a parallel reaction

I cover my summer body with blankets.

What are those dust particles floating towards.

I miss you

I love poetry.

One Hundred and Forty-First Entry

Nothing to update you about, but here's a new spreadsheet poem that I like.

Here's my poem:

fractured charm	girly	everyone attended	you better be sad
my first defense		you are inconsolate	prisoner's dilemma
somewhat irregular	hour	game theory	goodbye to the ending
	wristwatch	false alarm	offset the threshhold	too early
your expression		the body is hollow	please leave
no courage	empty crater	take care of yourself	warm to the touch
destruction is easy		notified by intercom	sweat hiding in clothes
	conversations	I want to make it alone
it even makes a hollow sound		theater lights come on	it has to be empty
but well kept		how content am I	dry as a bone

One Hundred and Fourtieth Entry

Ingmar Bergman died. That's a bummer. Things are going normally for me, although I'd like to be sending out and doing readings more. I'd just like to be writing more. Here's an idea I tried out using some original lines, some found lines, and Microsoft Excel.

Here's my poem:

Grammar	willing		whatever the falling object hits
notified by the members		lean the drain
golden heart in harmony		hand emptied of flying object	speedway
terrible		personal defense and "competition"
		cruel breath rejected from body	fried terribly on the open ground
celebrity by statement	category
fictional superhero		abstract psychology		fighting nobly
dipped in fruit frenzy			goofy friend
		now	business and manufacturing
hierarchical database	introduced		should it be required
		intercourse with an orderly	white women celebrities
national airline		conditions of animal
	number	failed to take a seat	press harder
prime money market		attach faces to diseases

One Hundred and Thirty-Ninth Entry

I've always loved the Kenneth Koch poem "To You," which Robert Pinsky talks about on Poet's Choice. Although he says very little, Pinsky's characterization of wanting to give his "You" something more significant than metaphors to sunshine and flowers, and by using quirky yet touching comparisons like "laid a red roof in her heart" he makes this poem particular to one person. Too many poems, not only of the love variety but of every kind, settle with something acceptable as metaphor, some comparison the poet knows his audience is quick to understand. Koch's poems were risky because of his allowance of cheekiness, humor, and ribald sexuality (not that he raised any eyebrows, but it's still hard to get taken seriously with overt sexuality in poetry. Unless you're Jorie Graham.) This poem inspired me to write not about what I thought I "should be" writing about (dead trees, thunderstorms, the human condition) but about reality, which is full of odd and funny moments even on your worst days. Michael Shurtleff wrote in Audition that he hated to see actors play super-serious in dramas. If you're at a funeral the last thing you want to do is be sad; you try everything in your power to avoid those dreary emotions, which makes you crack jokes and hit on women at a wake. Anyway, "To You" is one of my favorite Koch poems, and a great love poem, and I'm glad I read Silliman's blog today to find that up there.

Here's my poem:

EVERY DAY AGAIN

Dried cat parts, heavy on solid hot pavement equals summer.
In the apartment, something comes from the refrigerator, an odor, a presence.
Cat combines with cigarette butts and dirt from shoe scuffs.
The way standing in front of the refrigerator means you’re alone.
Combines drift from their cornfields to attack the city.
Way in the distance past cop cars and firecrackers.
Drift into the bedroom, heat rising from the tenants below.
In the refrigerator, plants and animals harden their hearts.

Almost feeling a kinship with the cat, connection of mammals.
For example, knowing how the fish feels while being gutted.
Combines almost near the point of contact.
Reaching for the light switch and finding the door.
See outside how the inside looks, how a stranger sees your house.
Instant weather punctuates the personal anti-climax.
You see your coat as blue, darker where wet, hanging lifelessly.
One instant is commentary on the last, meat still runs as animal.