Saturday, November 22, 2003

I'd like to officially thank the "Greatest Generation" for all their hard work. Now would you please retire?

Can Rod Stewart's Tu Fu Be Far Behind?

Still cruel and still endowed with power to be so,
Gifted as you are with the gifts of Venus,
That moment is coming, when, suddenly, in the glass,
You see beginning the little signs of change,
Downy foreshadowing of the beard to come,
The locks that curl and wanton to the shoulders,
All of a sudden looking a little different,
The cream-and-rose complexion beyond the beauty
Of freshest roses now not quite exactly
The way it had been just yesterday morning.
Then you will say, Alas for what I was
When I was younger than I am, Alas
That then I did not know what I know now;
Alas, that now I know what I did not know.

Horace, To Ligurinus (Ferry trans.)

Poor young grandson, there's nothing I can say
You'll have to learn, just like me
And that's the hardest way
Ooh la la
I wish that I knew what I know now
When I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
When I was stronger.

Faces, Ooh La La

Friday, November 21, 2003


Wednesday, November 19, 2003

Boston-area poets begin to orgamasize. Politically that is. Long time coming, feeling optimistic.

Episode #7

In time a messenger on
bike delivers the
news you wanted:

The sun is moving from the green
off the interstate
where a girl in a tan jumpsuit

rides in the back seat
cold to her father and mother,
glimpses your house as she


Epsiode #8 (title scene)

Wanted to be alone that night, not in an exhaustion
but in sleep, carbine sleep, where folks come and kiss you
like repeat offenders. It’s this kiss, unforgettable,

the kind of kiss (this one particular kiss) in a dream where
you are in fear of being swallowed, a happy fear you can’t let
go, apple-soda taste your noses touch the others' cheek and

happy to wake but as time passes the desire to sleep on,
alone in a room off the interstate where
wheels leave brake dust and a tow truck arrives

to reclaim tin.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

I am the gashly crumb tinies.

Kasey's blog o' the week honors go to Gloucester's own James Cook. James is one of my favorite thinkers, a very passionate and intelligent guy. And a soccer coach. Wow!

There is not the slightest invisible

Sunday, November 16, 2003

I've just received a beautiful broadside of my poem Car Language from Chris Rizzo. I have a few copies to spare and would love to show you the wonderful work Chris is up to. Send me an email if you'd like one.

From Same Day, Later in the Maximus Poems:

Contemplating my Neolithic
neighbors, Mother and Son, while Son mows
noisily, with power mower the grass and Ma
hangs over the fence simply

And I'm thinking how my landlord is named Frontiero, a common name around these parts, and how Olson mentions a Mrs. Frontiero a couple of times in his poetry. I want to ask my landlord if he ever knew Gloucester's great artist, but I'm afraid he'll just give me a blank stare.

Nice enough guy, though.

PS: Both Gerrit and James have both mentioned that Olson was such an enormous man physically that most citizens would remember him walking the streets of Gloucester.

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