Saturday, December 13, 2003

I Love You and I’m In Love With You

Ivy that relies on the consideration
         of smoke and transit, and then the
                  mute passage of children in a wagon

Wherever the pigeons land we’ll walk
streets clear of caseloads and handgrips
hours all but finished of light

elevated by the loss of weight and day

This appendectomy of the
         playground, cold steel and
                  hardened plastics, constant

motion of limbs, muscles and tendencies
not yet brokered into dull habit

Something of hand in all this
                  something of a hand forgot
                            to pay rent, so the lights

are dimming on the causeway

Friday, December 12, 2003

James, I'm sure there are "lifestyles" poems, unfortunately, but I hope I haven't/will never read them.

James is alluding to a conversation he, Amanda, Zac and I had where I wanted to have a regular series of forums where people would present poems, papers, etc., on a particular topic. I had been thinking of that dreadful word, lifestyle, and how we each might imagine and respond to it. Then James informed me of how negative a night that might become, what with so few people actually coming in defense of such a term.

The best laid plans of Mikes...

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

I would normally never write about anything non-poetry related on this blog, but:

Just A Fact, Not A Poem

I've read of three bloggers this
week alone who are
growing beards. I am now
one of them.
The surpise appearance of
gold and burgundy has
offset the trauma of
white and gray. But
I hate the way it feels, as if
one of those scrub brushes Nana
used to so harshly clean my
nails with has
taken control of my
face and neck.

Off she goes by the weekend.

The dullest are given the responsibility
Of taking care of the dimmest

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Laurable tells us that yesterday was the birthday of Horace. Something from The Way We Are, David Ferry translation:

Let us take all our jewels
   And all our useless gold
And all such precious things
   Up to the Capitoline

And throw them all away
   While the cheering crowd applauds

The money grows and grows
   But something's always lacking.

You're not going to send me
to Texas

I promise, you're not gonna
send me to Texas.

Sunday, December 07, 2003

Told to a Rose Under Snow

I’m trying to angle through this mess, be a
Good soldier and curb my enthusiasm for you.
But speech is regicide tonight, a wreck off the harbor, so
To speak, where good intent lies next to the
Last of our breaths together. Now is not the answer
To the question of when, but neither will the next now
Bring us closer to the harsh words we were meant
To share. Give me a call. We’ll hash and tangle our way
To a new speck of established prose. Sing this to
A rose.

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