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Friday, July 11, 2003 yes... some questionable rain...
had us believing in all of the days of the week... not yesterday... then we had our picture taken... standing beside a turkish mirror... with shadows... tomorrow practices deception... but we cannot be fooled... our bikes have new tires... and then... next to the creek... there's a tree we're kind of partial to... an adverb
has arranged the mood... flooded the room with light... and excited conversation among guests who don't know anything but are trying to find out... talking about anything... the fabulous picture on the far wall... the carpet's sad fur... who meant what was really a joke... if i am
angry you don't know it... you don't know it if i am hurling boulders down a cliff toward the newcomers... you don't know how much i want them to go away... you miss it... you don't get it... because i'm not trying... i'm not even trying to say it... she said... singing Thursday, July 10, 2003 ...as a reader, though, I conclude that
the poem is formally incoherent. And I am doubly suspiucious
of incoherence as a principle of design. hand me the wrench... anonymous etched in the handle... like a figure engraved against a storm... luck... i will turn this bolt a few more inches to the right... tighter now because... wits having failed... brute force has a way... still... not smart enough... to play... with the older children even here... under nightclouds... among fireflies... but playing well enough... single... by those lights... agreements
and... blunt satisfaction... hands full of white flowers and small red words... these things... insurgent roundness for the day... a circle you had carved on the back of my hand... now my amulet against a fault... i hadn't expected such love this time
you will take me into some garden and bury my hands in soft dark soil... like a post... up to the elbows... call my name and slowly close your eyes to the sun... i will wait for your advice... turning yellow red... more blue... moment by moment Wednesday, July 09, 2003 that voice couldn't be mine...
so interesting... did you hear that we are coming to your town soon? i will bring my voice... now i want to go... read a pome by a pote... who knows... or thinks... that knowing is not always saying... in such an interesting voice... but singing... is... when someone
dies your hands disappear into your saying nothing that could
possibly help... so a line of sound is not helpful... and helping
patches not a thing... the matter pounds earth like the feet
of a large jumping man... the matter is a giant... when someone
dies... go go go to the night... like a sleep-walker looking
for money... more than a few coins... go to the night with your
wallet open o wishing
the soup can away has troubled us... spun our yellow gaze out from the making toward the seeing for... someone else... whose eyes have taken by storm... us... the last children... lost and safe in the marble halls and gardens of paint Tuesday, July 08, 2003 do not sleep on this side of the
wire... settled like an old shoe at the back of the closet... we expected you to rise flourescent... roses sparkling eyeballs... not pickled slumbrous... not vaguely dissatisfied... a genie... a sliver knowing what
details promote the steadiest surfaces we have come to take charge of the performance... trust us... we have years of experience... studied blank eyes... and voices like fresh cement... step aside... let our trained professionals pronounce your true sayings... calmly... artfully... sullenly nice to have
hidden my hands in the sky... up to the elbows... really... squinting like a frog i become a generous spectacle... tumbling wet... dodging bird strikes... smiling through it... something in hand redeems the day Monday, July 07, 2003 "It's not hard to think
of examples of writers who essentially use poetry to create a
fantasy image of themselves which they are trying to get the
reader to validate, even if this is done indirectly. I see this
across traditions and styles. Work of this kind is tiring to
read. You feel used. To what extent is poetry used as a place
where one is allowed to more safely harbor and nurture one's
neuroses?" a small favor... tell me you have seen me... once when i wasn't thrashing about... i was sitting still not reading or writing or even... but... looking at the far wall... enjoying the view... not thinking... but taking... the wall... in... i was lost for a second and happy... and you saw me there... just then flowers know
something worth showing... despite... broken bikes venal aldermen coughing internal disruption... blue thieves... yesterday's goliath... mercenary winter proposed what's been taken... return what's been taken for granted... restored to original wonder of tongue... an old telegram... not worth sending forward... botched color debating
everything... our national talk turns sharply... we had our rights... school kids out back still stutter... o the storm rolled through... now... flags everywhere... good advice like sunshine pricks the top of a bald head... in our marching... in our marching mood... old news... Sunday, July 06, 2003 the ecstatic will not arrive...
our aluminum clock shines... elegant ticking... cool as an idea about to come... the firedance... the redsong... belong elsewhere (elsewhere... you can't say somewhere else anymore too many clear thoughts become an obstacle... apply noise here...) the ecstatic flight surrounds our clarity... steps over it... or on it... you remember the night bugs and sweat... hoarse every morning... telling the day's thin tale knowing what
to call the plants along this path would invite more names to perform ruthlessly... cutting us into star-shapes with tongues to say yes... i see... give me some more information... knowing the right name... pleases... the wrong names confuse a group of boys and girls out by the path... they think we're buying something i had simmering
a rigid complication... understood as a book that reads itself then turns into a bird... whose obnoxious song blames me for not having understood... i didn't change my life fast enough... a sin culture... a world of blaming... moved into the light open spaces... where i became an adult for you Saturday, July 05, 2003 desperate heaves of youthful stuff...
the oceanic ruse... portrayed mirror-like upside down... tornadic formalities while nothing actually happens... aside from the crafting of a path... an unessential but helpful direction... what we will do from now on just because
i'm not talking about it... about it... the signals fall down... bloody red light... okay we have to sell something quickly before the holes appear... not talking about the falling... just hoping like a youngster for a useful vacation... patched or down in a mystery shelter... best wishes say something
marked for killing... o violence shouts a sailor under red skies... nobody answers... said something your sister approved... until the check bounced hardly higher than uncut grass... believe us when we tell you the strangest light comes from inside a hollow tooth a guessing
game... what did they mean it's nothing... not important enough you find too... it's the game... see... ya... take it easy... i pledge allegiance to the word that stumbles out... to the purloined page of light... sky sounds bent back black... dada fathers... were there mothers... stein... joy... ohara... ashbery... schuyler... koch... berryman... lowell... blindness... you meant... dylan... polish poets under bushels of field grass ginsberg... levine... kinnell... kunitz... rich... snyder... berry... too serious saints of carmel... what did you mean... while teresa laughed back to finish your phrase currently  |
