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Saturday, August 21, 2004

 

Book cover time! I've been having fun with photoshop. First, the cover for an upcoming chap, "Vocative."




Next, a possible cover for the Bowlmor Writemor chap . . .


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Friday, August 20, 2004

 

How soulful is thine monkey?

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America! Your new poet laureate is Ted Kooser, every neo-formalist's favorite underdog. He works for an insurance company, prompting mordant wit (I wish) Billy Collins to say, I won't be the first or the last to compare him to Wallace Stevens." Yes, but when the comparison begins and ends with "they both worked for insurance companies," that's not really saying much.

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That poem with the word "jewel" in it . . .

Rumor Has It Her Bedroom Window Is Locked From The Outside

Michelle the Good Girl
Is four feet tall with long
Hair and small shorts and
Never gets to come out
Her sister ran away got
Pregnant on drugs got
Disowned not Michelle
Oh no sir not this girl
All alone at her window
She's the jewel of her house.

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Thursday, August 19, 2004

 

Dan Nester's kooky Queen monkey will rock you. And make you laugh.

Plus, I don't know what this whole Barack Obama and scones thing is, but it's hi-larious. Via Equanimity.

Went to see Jen Knox read at KGB last night. Hooray for meat! And thoughts thereof. Afterward, we went across the street to East Fourth Street bar, markeled at the Big Buck Hunter II video game, and thought about systems of vampire repellance, stabbing as a hobby, and the undeniable fact that "if you shoot the whore, you get your money back."

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Wednesday, August 18, 2004

 

I'm jumping on the collage-of-remembered-lines bandwagon. Here's my entry:

Virginal shy lights. The army of unalterable law. Someone's always throwing bricks. Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? When all the temple is prepared within. Dearth of woman's tears. He lingers and gazes till full on his sight. To airy thinness beat. To one thing constant never. Your eyes have their silence. How slowly dark comes down on what we do. It's no go, my honey-love. And I remembered the cry of the peacocks. Dove-twirl in the tall grass. This darksome burn, horseback brown. Alive to the lilac, dead to the blue. Ivory, apes, and peacocks. The poem is you. Like a wolf on the fold. It gives a lovely light. Aunque sepa los caminos. The golf links lie so near the mill. The cowed, compliant fish. I stand up through your destruction. So dauntless in war. Upon my belly sat the sow of fear. If you have any strength in your thumb. And full of high fettle, we started to sing.

I'm very nineteenth century. Very schoolbook.

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God Save My Blog!

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Writing pirate poems. Got some good stuff floating around, and weirdly, the point of inspiration appears to be the new Modest Mouse album.

Also, realized the other day that I had broken one of my early poetry "rules": to wit, "never use the word 'jewel' in a poem." But I think it works in that. I would post it, except that . . . the file appears to have been corrupted. Argh. Thank god I printed it out last week; but the printout is at home. In the meantime, here's a very weird thing I dug out of some uncorrupted files. It's more like bits of good lines than a poem.

Written

These letters don't lie: an arrow
Traveling through paper, through roses, through windows
To hit in the sun, in the cleft of the garden.

A chase scene: the disassociation of creation,
Passing over the patio, by the palms, between
The branches in twilight and my vermilion fingers.

A cicada expands like two arcs over a wave
And finds there snowy and aerial constructions.
My road triangulates with those of the sleeping.

The earth remembers: murmuring
Uprooted, the electric armoire
Whose frog-filled depths gleam with breast meat

and brilliantine. We'll never be as sendantary
as our compatriots. Because of this, we will be painted,
delirious, desired as the only thin ones left. Songs

In Arabic, in Pashto, will be composed. Letters like knots,
Like rivers of napalm, like a forest under construction, will
Multiply for us: their lucid cheeks, their lustrous petals!

There are some ships that sail under the heavy branches,
that creak and wither like a mountain ridden
With monsters. Not ours. But their broken flower offerings

Are the crossroads and spirals of our hope.

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Tuesday, August 17, 2004

 

In addition to getting sick, this weekend I purchased many books. I shall list them later. Mark also helped me with the arrangement of my navy base poems. I've been trying to write an abecedarian poem, but I can't make them end. They tangle meaninglessly on into further abecedarian stanzas like so . . .

Although, by counting
down eventually,
freeing golden
hijinks, is justice
killed, lately
maybe not. Over
purplish, quondam
radio stations, trembling
under vestments, we
xerox your
zarzuela,

argue beautifully,
curdling dander,
ermine, furs, god
holy iggloos, Jersey
KrispyKreme's languor,
maniacally new,
opening perfect
quills, red-
striped under varicose
waves: x-rayed,
youthful, zaftig . . .

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Monday, August 16, 2004

 

Home sick today. Don't eat at any restaurant within three blocks of Union Square. It's a bad, bad idea. The place is like, e. coli heaven or something. Been in bed so far; just about to attempt to stand and go to the Food City for some chicken broth. Wish me luck.

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