some of july

a couple of things:



one thing:

when you think continuously about a fearful possibility
you are only half-there in your car, your job, the tidbits
that usually make you happy. sorry i was distracted, you say
as if there were a small rock in your shoe, that's all.

but you know most of you is being pushed by a gale towards a cliff.
good thing you're only half-there too.


and when it's not continuous, when the feeling of being
a shadow on an old brick wall, trash in the mud of the alley
is brought into you by a few words or a person seen
from the corner of your eye, the switch is turned on,
the night now is bright, too bright, it's overwhelming.

so your fears make you a failure in your own half-opened eyes.
and your world -- all around you, in you -- consumes you,
the first time it happens we begin to figure how spineless
ennui is, yet how total its jellyfish devour. until we are frightened enough
by our own undramatics, our scene blocking -- the quiet frightened --
we'll never know how badly everything was botched.


the other thing:

when someone, like some guy i know,
has two strikes in the prison game,
and has been rumored to say
that if he knew he was going to be taken in
for being involved with guns
or fighting once more, he'd finish
the guy(s) off, whatthehell. the thing about rumors
is that sometimes they're not true,
but once in a while they understate
the possibilities. i imagine red splashes
and dismemberment, and try not to
tick the guy off. if you think about it,
he's the guy who's half-there,
always uncomfortable in his shoes
is what we think, but
what's really going on is a whole lot worse.


post-thing:

myself, i'd rather be a shadow than worry about
a rock in my shoe.


~


7 26 08











THE PROSE POEM




The prose poem is not my forte. Sometimes I believe the poem is not my forte. I read an old copy of Sentence while in my bathroom. I read it over and over and sometimes I'm almost late for work. Work is certainly not my forte. I don't think I understand the prose poem. Does writing one have to do with wild connections? Maybe it goes the other way: like an old radio show it speaks almost enough, and this creates the story for someone who reads it, who listens to it with his mind's ear. Some prose poems sit on the page easily, a few words. When they get up to greet us, they aren't that easy, after all. They bully us. Some tell a story, but we suspect they don't tell the whole story, and so we go back to them, over and over, as I do in my bathroom. Maybe this isn't a prose poem. Maybe it's a poem, and I've decided to trade the lines for a block, Tate the other way around. If he can call them poems, maybe I can get away with calling this a prose poem. But, as I've found, over and over through car wrecks, love and illumination, my last thin dime: getting away with it isn't my forte either.



~



7 13 08





A BAG OF FROZEN PEAS





I went to the store for, among other things, a bag of frozen peas, and the repetition. I admit I see things as objects, then eat them. Except for poems, they eat me, when they're too cute, like this right here.

At the store, the meat was bloodier than usual. I'm not sure if this is a good thing. A lady with a nametag watches me with concern. I see some of my poems in the bread department. A few have cents-off stickers. This is so cute, and so like retribution. And now I have my bag of peas, which I pay for, and some other things. It's icy outside on the walk and I slip and fall unceremoniously. The bag of peas goes sliding, but luckily the peas are safe, contained.


~


7 20 08

linkee things

I have a new page at Unlikely Stories:

http://www.unlikelystories.org/e0708.shtml

also, forgot to mention I had a new page at Slow Trains from the Spring:

http://www.slowtrains.com/vol7issue4/eivazvol7issue4.html

also, re Unlikely Stories, check out this "multimedia" work by Donna Kuhn,
I think it's the knees of bees, tasty like ice cream and exciting as fireworks with an old soul:

http://www.unlikelystories.org/kuhn0107.shtml




(I have been spotty about posting stuff here.
I received an e-mail a while back
from someone who wanted to buy my blog
for fifty bucks. Is this some new scam
or what is it? I wrote the fucker back
and told him to never write me again, but
i was probably just talking to
a machine.... )


and of course, right around indi pen dance day, this one:


Paris, Britney, Nicole & Lindsay Just Wanna Have Lesbian Fun





the page itself for the video has a buncha interesting comments on it. check out the guy's other vids also:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lio6imaRR68

some recent stuff

Western



where are the warriors? there are no warriors
although there are the reckless, and not in that
cartoon sort of way, even though the one
who might be called the warrior strikes clean
with nary a grapple, but strikes clean over and over
meaning the other is not at war, or perhaps is fighting
under duress, not being paid in any way, money
or otherwise.

there is no lint either, nothing small
like that, only mud and snakebite and the blood of others
splattered across the plains. then there's that guy in the saloon
who elbows his buddy, or a stranger, or a mad whore
when he tells how he gunned down that indian warrior,
then picks a cloud of lint from that elbow, the one
he jabbed the drunk with.

damn what a world, no cobalt, no lilac,
only pissing in the streets, drunkfucking and murder.
everything has a little sand in it, scrubby brush - nothing synthetic
and the calico came later, when the dust settled with whomever was left
and the smoke cleared away these memories of warriors.

then suddenly (as these things go) Norman Rockwell, and trollies and boom!
split-levels, Hollywood and the dry martini, finally a place to be properly carnal,
to bait-and-switch, supersize and layaway,
a place where the coup wasn't even recognized
by the warrior or the one warriored upon.




~


7 4 ~ 7 5 06







The Fade



Every color is gathered and then flown ...
~~Lyn Hejinian


pockmark closeup crevice delightful in a fancied splendor
of bounce short dress where the sun is seen between her legs
no desire for night yet this lasts only seconds and the red glare

ruptures the faberge spoils the mark we make upon
a bed i do me over and over as i slip from room to room
fresh lipstick wild fragrance damp panties

torn stockings tawdry words tight clothes
there is sunrise unseen sunset revealed
since decades mean nothing tiny night is null

day is full of color crash a bleed of yellow into green
is for you different from me i am so much less
Dove, blackhole reversed, adamant she never lose flight

a purple waver under lost sheets scented us
my brown shoes split, more holes now in my socks
than those wings that stab the sky

insistance is a harm yet it isn't like memory at all
not pliable, no remainder - that is part of its nature:
the on-and-on of it, unlike milkgloss of pearl

turned and gone, not the pink inside, hidden in time
from time, the blue bed of heart, all waves of heat
in summer, or pockmarked winter sky

swirled till all is white, then dark once more


~


6 29 08







Travel Journal


I had been walking for hours and hadn't gotten there yet. Eugene
was worried that the growls and blips and rumbles around us
would preoccupy us so far into the night we would never get there,
instead we would simply keep on walking. If only we were hungry
it would simplify all of it and there'd be no chance of missing our appointment
in the town square, witnesses we would be to the hanging,
lest we lose our moral code. Speaking of codes as night slammed down
it wrapped us in warbling shivers and not the moral ones,
the ones of alone, of dark, of the walking we now were unaware of.
Well, what of it? Most go through their codes tightly wrapped
and never work up the gumption to even hear those blips. And what
of Tess, that sylvan vision waiting, barely moving, stomach silent?
What of the past most taken, central heat and air, La-Z-Boys
and the princess, ovens not only hot, but full to bursting,
smoke detectors detecting, mittens, slippers, I give you my all
in the neon and the appointments, the wandering executions,
Tess and Eugene with their dark wavy hair over there
watching, slowboating emotions so vibrant and a ho and a hum
and a fee fie foe fum bull when the neck snaps in the code
code night, some former one shits his pants and we kiss
as the smoke wisps away. Dinnertime, been walking, almost jogging
for what seems like years. Feed Eugene first, then Tess,
then let me slip the spoon in your mouth, and let's leave
the oven on. Could it be the moral code we feel, the wind
from the racing obscurity that began as a walk towards death,
names of bodies we know not, night knows no light. When he was a boy
my father watched them hang a thief, or a criminal of some sort,
the former body now in the town square. Even though he forgot names
he would have fed Tess first, then Eugene, or Eugene then Tess.
The snap now silent, cold code blips into the night of full-bellied wandering,
least-resistant, road-forked, dear we're alone now, I can't stand
that I want to love everyone everywhere and can't because
this town of intentions wanders so, and is so square.


~


6 7 08





Taking A Stand Against The Past


When did I learn the new language?
The less I say, the more I mean, only
at times I can't help railing against myself
over there, loving, right, near-perfect.

So I take it out like trash,
take it out on you, on
myself, on the tears
only gibberish,
the wail of the moon.


~


6 28 08