- Pjoepf of Vriecyh
- I'm a looter not a colluder hot hot hot
- in Trump omfging warrooms
- and true, Trump's best defense: I'm
- here to steal the copper pipes
- Everyone's fence
- provenance fuck
- be vig,
- downtown Carney, fuck is the problem
- Poem above started after hearing Dershowitz sound bite on top of the hour news on the radio past Sunday in the car driving home from hike with Earthgirl
- (all I got to do, hike w Earthgirl),
- Dershowitz trial-ballooning the Sure He's a Shit But Being a Shit Ain't Criminal Yet defense.
- The Insect Apocalypse Is Here.
- Life in the It's Too Late, Fuck It, Let's Rocketsled to Suicide Ocene
- whether you want it or not, the Gerbal Masters have decried it so
- Anarchy, security, hierarchy.
- Left Problems, nationalism, crisis.
- Is literary glory worth chasing?
- Enard interview.
- As the dead prey upon us.
- Hey, Earthgirl and I will be in Manhattan this coming Friday through midday Monday staying East Midtown, 1st and 49th.
- Saturday and Sunday during day Earthgirl in a workshop with Wendy Artin, so I'm walking.
- Suggestions where to walk for walk's sake and what to walk to for what's sake solicited, I'm good for fifteen miles a day, I'll have nine hours Saturday and nine hours Sunday.
- First song in my head when I wrote first draft poem above, second below.
THE POET CONTEMPLATES THE NATURE OF REALITY
On the side of the road a deer, frozen, frigid.
Go back to your life, the voice said.
What is my life? she wondered. For months she lost
herself in work—Freud said work is as important
as love to the soul—and at night she sat with a boy,
forcing him to practice his violin, helping him recite his notes.
Then the ice thawed and the deer came to life.
She saw her jump over the fence, she saw her in the twilight,
how free she looked. She saw her eyes shiny as marbles,
as much a part of this world as the fence a worker
pounds into the earth. At night she still sat with the boy.
He’s learning “Au Claire de la Lune.”
Do you know it? He has established a relationship
with his violin. He knows that it takes practice to master it:
the accuracy of each note, to wrestle his feelings to the listener.
But he’s impatient. Sometimes what he hears and feels
are not always the same. Again, the poet says.
She knows if he tries to silence his fervor, he might not ever know
who he is. The poet contemplates whether a deer can dream.
Rich blood-red berries on a branch, pachysandra in the garden.
A soft warm bed in the leaves.
1)"all i got to do" - i enjoyed the george harrison song, but i thought it would be a beatles song - here is the one i thought of performed by 'saltwater roses'ReplyDelete
the band here is old guys - not remarkable - but of the three guitarists/bassists, two are play left-handed instruments - that caught my eye
2)today's poem by jill bialosky is comprehensible - i like that
2a)speaking of the more evocative than communicative poem type, recently someone sent me this, which is constructed of palindromes, although fiddled with a bit by the use capitalization and punctuation
"Dammit I'm Mad"
Dammit I'm mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I'm in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog".
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I'm a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I'm it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
"Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog"
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I'm mad.
My old place at 57th & 2nd! Met Museum, Modern, Guggenheim, Central Park (all over) my old running ground. If you get a chance and can still get a ticket, take EG to Irish Historical Society's immersive presentation of J. Joyce's "The Dead" replete with meal, wine, Guiness, mingle with actors (in character). Across the street from Met Museum. Best thing I did when I was there last December.ReplyDelete
recent appearance on colbert tv show by demetri martin doing standup comedyReplyDelete