Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
It is more difficult to fix on the map the routes of the swallows, who cut the air over the roofs, dropping long invisible parabolas with their still wings, darting to gulp a mosquito, spiraling upward, grazing a pinnacle, dominating from every point of their airy paths all the points of the city.Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
In the sentence "She's no longer suffering,"to what, to whom does "she" refer?What does that present tense mean?~~Sometimes, very briefly, a blankmoment--a kind of numbness--whichis not a moment of forgetfulness.This terrifies me.~~The desires I had before her death(while she was sick) can no longerbe fulfilled, for that would mean it is herdeath that allows me to fulfill them--herdeath might be a liberation in some sensewith regard to my desires. But her deathhas changed me, I no longer desire whatI used to desire. I must wait--supposingthat such a thing could happen--for a newdesire to form, a desire following her death.~~A strange new acuity, seeing (in the street)people's ugliness or their beauty.~~I don't want to talk about it, for fearof making literature out of it--orwithout being sure of not doing so--although as a matter of factliterature originates within these truths.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
What does it matter if there are poets or poems?
In poetry, as elsewhere, nature isn't what it used to be.
The poem resists. It resists coming into being. It resists eloquence.
It resists transmitting unpleasant or embarrassing knowledge.
It resists grammatical constraints. It resists moving away from simple utterance.
It resists revision. It resists completion. It resists success. Hopefully, the poet resists as well.
After a point, even the poem can grow bored with its own devices.
It seems as if the able use of metaphor has precipitously fallen off since doubt was cast upon language's ability to represent the real, and yet simile, a far less interesting trope, somehow continues to thrive.
The idea of audience is a nuisance born of the need for spectacle. Poems haunting the precarious dialectic between existence and extinction do not need it. Their magic is dependent on the private experience of separate individuals.
The poet must understand seduction, because even capricious human attention is susceptible to courtship.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
It's hot here-a heat weave,
Thursday, June 24, 2010
It will take a good fight to bring her back
and the chief there orders his men to call
her in with conch shells, even if it means love
or staying on the beach when the sand hardens.
There’s the chance she’ll float like Olofat
who spat blood and broke himself
into an archipelago. There’s the chance
she drank the sweet water in Tol
and poured her body out as a spring.
There’s the half-caste joke about the men
who left the lighthouse years ago.
No one can discuss sunsets or the fiberglass
of the boat or the story about her breasts
bloating later in the shape of an island,
into real rock. A bulletin goes out
and the boys climb trees for signals.
It could be days she stays huddled there,
and the oddsmakers on Saipan
place their faith in the fish she might spear.
Big deal some say, remember when the cliff
had imprints of hands, and the sliding streaks
of Sudal. There’s the chance she’s stuck
in a tunnel of coral or torn to tufts
and in that case the son could start killing
the pigs. She left the Mortlocks at night
and now the women cover the fences
with fronds and start with the baskets.
There’s the hope she’ll drift again as scraps
of land, as the upper half of a woman’s body,
the curve of sand in her neck.
Thanks to Matt Nienow for finding this poem.
I was at the beach today. I'm still here I think. Or there.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Is it possible that spring could be
once more approaching? We forget each time
what a mindless business it is, porous like sleep,
adrift on the horizon, refusing to take sides, "mugwump
of the final hour," lest an agenda—horrors!—be imputed to it,
and the whole point of its being spring collapse
like a hole dug in sand. It's breathy, though,
you have to say that for it.
And should further seasons coagulate
into years, like spilled, dried paint, why,
who's to say we weren't provident? We indeed
looked out for others as though they mattered, and they,
catching the spirit, came home with us, spent the night
in an alcove from which their breathing could be heard clearly.
But it's not over yet. Terrible incidents happen
daily. That's how we get around obstacles.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
I thought a lot about vanishing anyway.My profession is about having an effecton people by making sentences.A real moment of exhilaration camewhen I discovered staples.Overtakelessness.I wanted to fill my elegy with lightof all kinds. But death makes us stingy.Helplessness built a wall in her.Prowling the meanings of a word,prowling the history of a person,no use expecting a flood of light.But all those little kidnaps in the dark.
Many the peoples many the oceans I crossed--I arrive at these poor, brother, burialsso I could give you the last gift owed to deathand talk (why?) with mute ash.Now that Fortune tore you from me, youoh poor (wrongly) brother (wrongly) taken from me,now still anyway this -- what a distant mood of parentshanded down as the sad gift for burials -accept! soaked with tears of a brotherand into forever, brother, farewell and farewell
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
This image haunts me. From a book out this month by Siglio Press, The Torture of Women,
a series of paintings made by Nancy Spero in the 1970s. I bet the book is expensive.
I need to learn more about this artist. (I like that the word haunt is etymologically
related to home.)