Thursday, June 19, 2003


This mirror of felt
Black and white colorless

Scope of a year in a fortnight
A sixteen spice dish in a green bowl

Custom cut suit that fit until we gained weight
An ugly man with an uglier man in an ugly

Part of town. I called when you weren’t home. I
Knew you were not home but I

Called anyway. A summer night spent in bed
Luckless but good conversation

A cat perches in a trendy spot, forced to consider
The depths to which it will plummet.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Somehow I sent Kasey a reading copy of Copper, of which he made some very generous comments. My thanks to him for such a careful look. The poem for Gerrit, Wish, was revised and added to for a reading I did, but also for Gerrit's birthday event, where a number of poets and artists contributed a piece each to a box that was presented to him at the Corbett's. The present in its entirety is a wonder, but I'm not certain if it was ever considered for publication by Pressed Wafer.

It makes me a bit uncomfortable to publish poems here that I've just written. I'm not as spontaneous as I'd like to believe. I generally write a poem, let it sit for a long time (days, weeks, months), then tear it apart upon revision. But in the spirit of the blog I've placed quite a few pieces here that are, frankly, raw. It will still be enjoyable to return to them later and revise. I know lots of poets don't enjoy revision, but I really find destruction to be as satisfying as creation. Rather, I see it as part of the creative process.

Any comments or experiences? Stop me when I become too pretentious to handle. Unless that's already happened. Then you should humor me.

This is what happens when the Fabulous Lucy abandons me for sleep.


Too straight in here, too lined with
wines and assorted beliefs
the life of a hooker
hooked here and there
tracked by father barely
hidden from mist and smoke

I am here, Joseph, liberated but
tied in two
cases of blue and green expiration in storage
angry at the phone’s ring, taut
at moments of unkindness (my own
belligerent these days to a fault

Who decides elevation? tone? tenor
from bass?

Though I can live with never being included on the Jism list of poetic crushes (though I was once in the 'Top ten poets I'd like to see naked'), I take the ironstone whirlygig list with a surprising seriousness. I did my share of work to get back on and it feels worth it.

This is too fucking funny: GOP Reports Record Second-Quarter Profits. What would we do without The Onion?

Hope to post some new poems Thursday. Some of what I have been posting the last few days is a result of a new program, devised by friend and counselor xtina, requiring me to post whether I feel like it or not, no matter how busy, inspired or uninspired, each and every day (or within reason). Like the Donne poems, it seems to actually work.

Thoughts on Iran:

The President is talking to us
through a microphone
like he's trying to pack his mother off
to an old people's home


When I hear the word 'Democracy'
I reach for my headphones

Robyn Hitchcock

Tuesday, June 17, 2003

Happy Birthday to Noah. It doesn't get you much from Yoo Doo Right, except an addition to the links column. That and $5.50 will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks....

Monday, June 16, 2003

Just returned from a reading at Wordsworth in Cambridge featuring Wystan Curnow and our own Jim Behrle. Jim was Jim, intelligent poetry which he tries to deflate with his self-effacing personality. He can't, however, hide the fact that his poetry is just damn fine.

Wystan, a New Zealander, read some interesting work. At times he veered into almost a L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E mode (whatever that means these days?), but he also read work that spoke directly to his heritage. I've heard it only once, read it never, but my interest is piqued.

Best part of the evening for me was finally hanging out for a few pints and some conversation after the reading. It's been too long.

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