If it's late in the day, it still counts a today's poem. Just because I'm not early to bed, early to rise, I don't want to hear any belly aching.
Here's my poem:
CHALK
Air whistling through skylight.
Today is nominal, restaurants remain
closed. I painted the sign to represent
the direction your car should go. My taxes
represent a year of holes filled with sand,
beaches dug up and replaced with cheaper
beaches. My house lives there on the coast,
not the one I own but the one that should
be mine. I read a book about someone doing well.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
One Hundredth Entry
WOW! I've written a hundred poems since I started this blog in (insert correct date here.) And not only that, I've written who knows how many very dreadful poems? I usually put up incomplete or imperfect first drafts, but some things are too bad to even be shown to people. Also, I got a fair distance into a novel which I have shelved for the time being. Okay, okay, only fifty pages. Still, I'm writing a lot, huh? I'm gonna celebrate by drinking. At Danielle Ilyana Ben-Veniste's birthday party. Anyway, it makes me feel like I'm starting out strong this month, and since I'm attempting to put most of what you'll be seeing this month into a manuscript, I'm glad to see the poems a'piling up.
Don't forget the DICK PIG REVIEW at Galapagos this Sunday.
And then I'll be reading at the 440 Gallery on the 15th.
Here's my poem:
PILLOW
It takes time for appliances to come on, first
you press the button and then they hum. While I'm
sleeping in the basement, why don't you let that record
play? I nuzzled with warm coils, reading my submarine
books, why can't I be the leader of a certain adventure?
I'm constantly deferring to things and to people.
This is my first day of school. Everybody's leaving
my records out in the sun, or dripping the remnants
of their meals onto my clothes while I'm outside,
arguing on the phone with one of my mothers.
Everybody's leaving. I was dressed to impress
but it didn't impress and I couldn't talk
to any of the party-goers. I opened myself
to you with a fork from the kitchen, we looked
and we looked but there was no sign of life
and the case was eventually left unsolved.
What a funny kid I turned out to know, the kind
who balls his fists at the chess table and smiles
at the bar fight. I'm the sheriff of this town now,
and I'll be with you in a minute.
Don't forget the DICK PIG REVIEW at Galapagos this Sunday.
And then I'll be reading at the 440 Gallery on the 15th.
Here's my poem:
PILLOW
It takes time for appliances to come on, first
you press the button and then they hum. While I'm
sleeping in the basement, why don't you let that record
play? I nuzzled with warm coils, reading my submarine
books, why can't I be the leader of a certain adventure?
I'm constantly deferring to things and to people.
This is my first day of school. Everybody's leaving
my records out in the sun, or dripping the remnants
of their meals onto my clothes while I'm outside,
arguing on the phone with one of my mothers.
Everybody's leaving. I was dressed to impress
but it didn't impress and I couldn't talk
to any of the party-goers. I opened myself
to you with a fork from the kitchen, we looked
and we looked but there was no sign of life
and the case was eventually left unsolved.
What a funny kid I turned out to know, the kind
who balls his fists at the chess table and smiles
at the bar fight. I'm the sheriff of this town now,
and I'll be with you in a minute.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Ninety-Ninth Entry
The excitement is high as I reach the one hundred poems mark, I'm sure.
Actually it took a hell of a lot longer than it should to get to one hundred poems. But what am I saying? I might die tonight! Boy would that look foolish.
I'm unhappy to tell you that today I had my first difficulties in completing my poem. Hopefully I'll shrug this off and keep up my pace. I think I will.
Preparing things for the mother of all poetry readings, AN EVENING WITH THE DICK PIG REVIEW. It is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.
Here's my poem:
UMBRELLA
Can't tell what animal is wearing human clothes.
Got your note. I'm going to sleep in the attic
which we constructed inside a box in the cellar.
The windows shimmer with weather,
and I cling to my little sweater.
I held the phone to my ear, anticipating the tone,
knowing the loneliness of the late-night operator.
I could see the single light on in her office,
the massive switchboard, muttering low with
clandestine behavior. I need you to sit
on the edge of the bed in your underwear
while I dial.
I tripped in the park, a deep puddle,
suddenly I was drowning, my bubble mouth
emptied, there was a green light underneath
the rocks, but I decided to swim to the bottom
and hold my breath.
My parents finally gave me what I wanted.
Now it is morning, and rain snuck in
through the window, blessing all the sheets
with cold, it didn't leave my body the way
the arrow did, and I stayed prone as an animal
until someone cleaned me off.
Actually it took a hell of a lot longer than it should to get to one hundred poems. But what am I saying? I might die tonight! Boy would that look foolish.
I'm unhappy to tell you that today I had my first difficulties in completing my poem. Hopefully I'll shrug this off and keep up my pace. I think I will.
Preparing things for the mother of all poetry readings, AN EVENING WITH THE DICK PIG REVIEW. It is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.
Here's my poem:
UMBRELLA
Can't tell what animal is wearing human clothes.
Got your note. I'm going to sleep in the attic
which we constructed inside a box in the cellar.
The windows shimmer with weather,
and I cling to my little sweater.
I held the phone to my ear, anticipating the tone,
knowing the loneliness of the late-night operator.
I could see the single light on in her office,
the massive switchboard, muttering low with
clandestine behavior. I need you to sit
on the edge of the bed in your underwear
while I dial.
I tripped in the park, a deep puddle,
suddenly I was drowning, my bubble mouth
emptied, there was a green light underneath
the rocks, but I decided to swim to the bottom
and hold my breath.
My parents finally gave me what I wanted.
Now it is morning, and rain snuck in
through the window, blessing all the sheets
with cold, it didn't leave my body the way
the arrow did, and I stayed prone as an animal
until someone cleaned me off.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Ninety-Eighth Entry
I can't believe I overslept and was late starting this year's NaPoWriMo!!!!???!!!!
No use crying over it, I'll just be adding a day onto the end.
My friend, co-worker, and poet extraordinaire Nathan Austin, and his co-conspirator, the lovely and talented and funny Gabriella Horn are both writing for this month too. And of course Maureen, Shanna, and a murder of other more popular bloggers than I (not that I mind, mind you, it's the work that matters, damnit) will also be participating in this grand poetic feat of arms. Golly!
Here's my poem:
SUITCASE
Textbook re-written through bull-dozer
song stuck in head, five hours in bus,
here's where I am in the universe: the middle.
Thrown pail of paint on red wall does no harm.
Always spreading the waves of the questions
throughout garden parties enlivened with writhing queens.
I've left harbor by now, tear-wet letters addressed
to every lover, now asleep on the pale spanish lilt
of wooden guitar. Asleep at security post,
enjoy striped tie. Triangle at noon, square at noon,
circle at noon. People buried all over the place,
somebody ought to gather that stuff together.
No use crying over it, I'll just be adding a day onto the end.
My friend, co-worker, and poet extraordinaire Nathan Austin, and his co-conspirator, the lovely and talented and funny Gabriella Horn are both writing for this month too. And of course Maureen, Shanna, and a murder of other more popular bloggers than I (not that I mind, mind you, it's the work that matters, damnit) will also be participating in this grand poetic feat of arms. Golly!
Here's my poem:
SUITCASE
Textbook re-written through bull-dozer
song stuck in head, five hours in bus,
here's where I am in the universe: the middle.
Thrown pail of paint on red wall does no harm.
Always spreading the waves of the questions
throughout garden parties enlivened with writhing queens.
I've left harbor by now, tear-wet letters addressed
to every lover, now asleep on the pale spanish lilt
of wooden guitar. Asleep at security post,
enjoy striped tie. Triangle at noon, square at noon,
circle at noon. People buried all over the place,
somebody ought to gather that stuff together.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Ninety-Seventh Entry
Friday is a busy day for me, but here goes nothing:
Saw quite a few poets the other night at Cafe Loup, some I see a lot, some I hardly ever see. It was nice to see all of them. Now that I'm writing more frequently I feel like I fit in there more.
I'm currently working on a manuscript (these new poems you're seeing will be in it) and I'm researching book prizes, etc. So if you know of any good ones, give me a holler.
The Dick Pig Review will be having our event at Galapagos Art Space on Sunday, April 8th at 8:00. Should be a lot of fun.
Also, I have two poems up in the beautiful Sink Review. Here's my poem:
FORT
Humorous childhood analogy. I’ve been there.
My body was small. Now I dominate hallways,
grasping at fluorescents like a monkey at vines.
The demure orange of horizon’s line is nothing,
a function we devised, like TVs in movies,
always with the plot-specific information,
never with tasty static. My organization
is prepared to sell you a tee-pee. Resisting
the choice of raincoats and dwelling outside,
rose-colored berries, the hue of a choir-boy’s
cheek. The empty pail of my bank book. Long
gone are the banquet days, the seemingly forthright
simplicity of the coin being flipped, then resting
on the top of the hand, then revealed.
Saw quite a few poets the other night at Cafe Loup, some I see a lot, some I hardly ever see. It was nice to see all of them. Now that I'm writing more frequently I feel like I fit in there more.
I'm currently working on a manuscript (these new poems you're seeing will be in it) and I'm researching book prizes, etc. So if you know of any good ones, give me a holler.
The Dick Pig Review will be having our event at Galapagos Art Space on Sunday, April 8th at 8:00. Should be a lot of fun.
Also, I have two poems up in the beautiful Sink Review. Here's my poem:
FORT
Humorous childhood analogy. I’ve been there.
My body was small. Now I dominate hallways,
grasping at fluorescents like a monkey at vines.
The demure orange of horizon’s line is nothing,
a function we devised, like TVs in movies,
always with the plot-specific information,
never with tasty static. My organization
is prepared to sell you a tee-pee. Resisting
the choice of raincoats and dwelling outside,
rose-colored berries, the hue of a choir-boy’s
cheek. The empty pail of my bank book. Long
gone are the banquet days, the seemingly forthright
simplicity of the coin being flipped, then resting
on the top of the hand, then revealed.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Ninety-Sixth Entry
Kseniya and I are going to the Boston Zine Fest or Zine Fair or some such. I've produced a whopping three zines for publication, which I hope to turn into one decent new chapbook which I will sell at my readings and on this site for a less-than-princely sum. Kseniya's desire to make me a self-started is beginning to pay off.
Here's my poem:
PENCIL
Resentment of sweatshirt
for wearer of sweatshirt: A symposium discussing
a circle drawn in this dirt. My horse gave up the chase,
the fox has learned to live outside my sight. I promise
your finery will guard the vanity mirror, actual pearls
on a pink night of stormy wrong-headedness. Weakly
I shake my face in the truck-stop pisser. Here goes
nothing. The racetrack emptied of cars is a Stonehenge
lined with beer cans, the purpose equally vague.
The delights surround me like dolls in my sleep,
blue cheeks from a strong gale in the alcove
in front of my door, where I usually keep the light on.
It is my policy to smell your feet after the day
you walk towards the pencil sharpener, alone
in the parochial school, in the hallway sweating
with its smallness. I put my uniform in the mailbox
and it came back the next day. I save mpegs
of myself seemingly working hard and leave them
open on other’s computers. Clarity,
while once the terrain of medicine men,
has recently opened up shop on cable access.
My cucumber-colored sweater is all that’s left
of my happy times. Your skin has withered,
blown away by the vacuum. I seem rutted
in a lottery run by the local police. This promontory
seems easy to jump from, skidding through the brambles
like a turbulent plane. The difference is the calm
when your body is picked up by yourself
and walked back towards your car.
Here's my poem:
PENCIL
Resentment of sweatshirt
for wearer of sweatshirt: A symposium discussing
a circle drawn in this dirt. My horse gave up the chase,
the fox has learned to live outside my sight. I promise
your finery will guard the vanity mirror, actual pearls
on a pink night of stormy wrong-headedness. Weakly
I shake my face in the truck-stop pisser. Here goes
nothing. The racetrack emptied of cars is a Stonehenge
lined with beer cans, the purpose equally vague.
The delights surround me like dolls in my sleep,
blue cheeks from a strong gale in the alcove
in front of my door, where I usually keep the light on.
It is my policy to smell your feet after the day
you walk towards the pencil sharpener, alone
in the parochial school, in the hallway sweating
with its smallness. I put my uniform in the mailbox
and it came back the next day. I save mpegs
of myself seemingly working hard and leave them
open on other’s computers. Clarity,
while once the terrain of medicine men,
has recently opened up shop on cable access.
My cucumber-colored sweater is all that’s left
of my happy times. Your skin has withered,
blown away by the vacuum. I seem rutted
in a lottery run by the local police. This promontory
seems easy to jump from, skidding through the brambles
like a turbulent plane. The difference is the calm
when your body is picked up by yourself
and walked back towards your car.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Ninety-Fifth Entry
Approaching the hundred poem mark, and this blog is circling the drain. You know what's gonna fix it? NAPOWRIMO! National Poetry Writing Month is very near at hand, and I for one and taking it as a clarion call to get some new work done. And I've already made some major progress, having finally started a manuscript project in earnest. Also, two readings are coming up. One is the Dick Pig Review reading on April 8th at Galapagos Art Space, with the estimable David Lehman, some Dick Pig regulars, and the cabaret magnificence of none other than Miss Harvest Moon. The second is a reading at the 440 Gallery in Park Slope. I'm forgetting the date, and the last time I went to a readinf there, I looked for the place for an hour and couldn't find it. Hopefully I will find it the night of the reading.
Here's my poem:
SKELETON
Worried about New Wave?
I can remember so many chilled white mornings,
the warm red of my sweatpants, the shine of green
glinting off of the wrapping paper. That convenience,
like that convenience store, disappeared and was replaced.
I go by the hair salon everyday and wail on the rubbery
glass and then run away. The hot air mixing
the tobacco cuts through the lung. Tiger
in display case, passive lips, a night
at the county jail, immobile like a fossil
with a grin on its face.
This imagination is more pleasing than flannel sheets,
in which I tangle. I’m not uncomfortable while sleeping.
I have a crush on the girl who hands out tickets
at the outdoor theater. The night is always brown
with geraniums bouncing out of the creek while she sheds her skin,
like peeling a chicken, slow and noisy, and sliding in.
I like when she glows in the water, like I imagine a radio wave.
Unhealthy. Something alien about seeing her bones in motion.
Once a fish has curled in her swimming ribs,
They shrink it into a crumble of scales. I’ve been trying
to talk to my mom, sagging and growing more pink and skinny.
I’m great at sulking. I break every matchstick
and put it back in the box. Someday
I’ll tell her when I hand in my money for the ticket.
You see, everybody I know is a widow.
Even my best friend smiles with a skinny widow’s grin.
Here's my poem:
SKELETON
Worried about New Wave?
I can remember so many chilled white mornings,
the warm red of my sweatpants, the shine of green
glinting off of the wrapping paper. That convenience,
like that convenience store, disappeared and was replaced.
I go by the hair salon everyday and wail on the rubbery
glass and then run away. The hot air mixing
the tobacco cuts through the lung. Tiger
in display case, passive lips, a night
at the county jail, immobile like a fossil
with a grin on its face.
This imagination is more pleasing than flannel sheets,
in which I tangle. I’m not uncomfortable while sleeping.
I have a crush on the girl who hands out tickets
at the outdoor theater. The night is always brown
with geraniums bouncing out of the creek while she sheds her skin,
like peeling a chicken, slow and noisy, and sliding in.
I like when she glows in the water, like I imagine a radio wave.
Unhealthy. Something alien about seeing her bones in motion.
Once a fish has curled in her swimming ribs,
They shrink it into a crumble of scales. I’ve been trying
to talk to my mom, sagging and growing more pink and skinny.
I’m great at sulking. I break every matchstick
and put it back in the box. Someday
I’ll tell her when I hand in my money for the ticket.
You see, everybody I know is a widow.
Even my best friend smiles with a skinny widow’s grin.
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