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    Thursday, March 31, 2005

    Life & Death-In Remembrance...

    Robert Creeley once said: "Williams puts it best in Paterson: "Because it's there to be written...." If one only wrote "good" poems, what a dreary world it would be. "Writing writing" is the point. It's a process, like they say, not a production line. "


    Now I recognize
    it was always me
    like a camera
    set to expose

    itself to a picture
    or a pipe
    through which the water
    might run

    or a chicken
    dead for dinner
    or a plan
    inside the head

    of a dead man.
    Nothing so wrong
    when one considered
    how it all began.

    It was Zukofsky's
    "Born very young into a world
    already very old..."
    The century was well along

    when I came in
    and now that it's ending,
    I realize it won't
    be long.

    But couldn't it all have been
    a little nicer,
    as my mother'd say. Did it
    have to kill everything in sight,

    did right always have to be so wrong?
    I know this body is impatient.
    I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind.
    Yet I loved, I love.

    I want no sentimentality.
    I want no more than home

    Monday, March 28, 2005


    I've stumbled across or rather am getting sucked in to the world of graphic novels. I have to say I'm not putting up much resistance. I'm enjoying it. Especially this collection of shorts by a bunch of new artists that primarily met over the internet. It's called Flight and Volume 1 is amazing, Volume 2 is coming next month. Go and buy it. Now. Right now.

    I'm by no means a comic book expert but I like this. I like graphic novels that are more story and less standard comic book graphics. I like pretty graphics Catia Chien style. Yup, pretty pretty.

    Friday, March 25, 2005

    Swimming round as the rain comes down

    This is the Astrid that was featured in a much earlier post. I'm attempting to figure out what to do with these particular characters and if it's worth pursuing. This Astrid is much different from the earlier Astrid...

    The Wall has Fallen

    There is a huge wall and Astrid is inside the house in the bathroom. The house is next to the wall. She is getting ready to leave, in a mask. As soon as she walks outside the wall is being destroyed.

    Put the tint on, cover it well
    exposed will never work
    [Cover it up well]
    High cheekbones and a rosy glow
    [Masked aversions]

    her mask
    The wall has fallen,
    the wall has fallen

    Quick sew the patches back—
    my jaw has come unlocked.
    A painted on face
    [a presentation of self]
    is all that’s left; a colorist sees shade/depth
    block me in primary.

    her mask
    Hands and limbs are under bricks
    the wrecking ball is tight and strong
    the impact exact—
    a self is here, and then here, and over here
    [none a full composition]

    Go, fetch the limbs
    pile them up nice
    go for the gore, scrimp on the shoes and tattered cloth
    [quantity of whole] anew

    her mask
    the jigsaw puzzle has come unlocked, unhinged
    is severed—build anew
    start again. [Throw me out]
    refuse the scavenging


    Permanently tinted
    a stain on my iris eye
    this world seen through
    a wooden fisheye lens

    Thursday, March 24, 2005

    Pretty hands do pretty things when pretty times arise

    Just this week-

    I drew a black and blue mustache on a piece of paper I was editing for work, it’s quite realistic.

    Colin Meloy sounds just like Dave Foley when he speaks, this would then follow, that Dave Foley sounds just like Colin Meloy if he were to sing. Yup.

    Watching the rain from the Hyatt was one of the highlights. Sometimes it’s just nice to sit and reflect and remember where you’ve been living for over a year.

    The robot ate me is my new obsession. You go find out why.

    Proteas are my favorite flower because they last forever in their dried out form. I have a dried out protea hanging from a nail in my kitchen.

    Rain makes my head cloudy and now with the appearance of the sun, I just feel confused.

    Bimbo’s has great atmosphere but a cramped stage.

    I like bands with compelling, well written lyrics. Ex-MFA students should start more bands.

    AND the recounting of a birthday-not mine in poetic form

    And I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll…
    -an epic recounting of 3-22-05

    walk to the train - sit down thigh brushing thigh - you cheeky little devil - white envelopes handed over - an excited walk up and out of a subway - a breakthrough in the clouds, temporary relief - white shelled everything - a handful of music - your new clear roped bag

    a drowned out sidewalk - horizontal rain drops - treaded on cuffs - a sit down at the Hyatt watch it come down - sugar rimmed glasses, sticky stems - embarcadero centric

    Union Square a sea of grey concrete - a walk to wood paneled walls, orange muslim curtains - black rimmed glasses, slight frame—will you do us a dance? - kombu noodle, black bean mole tart - pinot blanc—half full - a gluck walks in, a quick tap on glass - cocooned in the corner, invisible

    stabby, stabby - chocolate cake, hard shelled edges - a yellow duck on blue waves - a floating about - white flashes and crotch shots - shot glasses of cranberry - graphic novels in stacks and stacks

    Wednesday, March 16, 2005

    drone on seersucker eyes

    Nature Tromp

    i. Hive

    pistil of the flower—squat and soft
    stretching backwards, down into the stem
    petal into a blossom
    little bee, steal nectar
    pollen-extracted on tiny hairs
    demand to be fed.
    flutter off-off
    in your asymmetrical way
    fertile Queen, swollen and ready

    drone on with
    way worthy wind

    a quick blow up a skirt
    pleated mid-thigh through hem
    tickle a touch, swirl fast
    then out—warm and breezy

    seersucker eyes steady
    hone in on your death mate

    the “dancing” to
    signal a new—
    tail wiggle shake
    yellow pollen spores stuck
    deep in an ear canal
    can you hear the buzz?
    a throat tickle, post nasal drip
    cough cough

    green stemmed sepal robbed—broken
    down—wither away
    a petal drops off. Dried scent, scattered ovules
    stained fingertips

    sterile worker work on
    climb into your
    honey comb home
    texturized sweet and sleep

    Wednesday, March 09, 2005

    Collaboration Nation

    I've been thinking a lot about the advantages and disadvantages to collaboration. I've been feeling like I want to do more than just create poetry, revise, send it out to journals. I've always wanted to start my own non profit whether it be a literary journal, a chapbook press, or whatnot, but it all boils down to time and what's more important ulitmately- the time for creation or the time spent creating the end result, the thing that people see.

    A bunch of possibilities on how to expand this has come to mind:
    1. I have lots of artist friends, a collaboration of art and words in which both images appear on postcards has come to mind.

    2. beginning a chapbook press simply at first, with hand bound books and an additional artist component for the cover.

    3. participating in some public art forum that really speaks to people and makes a difference.

    4. begining a small, as in size, poem distribution, kind of like a zine would function, but more professionally. Where you would print one poem by a writer in a small 3x3 booklet and print them in quantities of 100 and sell them for a $1 or $2.

    Lately, it feels like I've been seeing the same poets over and over again in journals and I'd like to open things up in a different vein. Get more work out there in interesting collaborative forums. I'm not sure why i'm feeling so restless about this in general, but I'm feeling like a fusion of something besides just words is in order.

    A professor of mine is participating in this exhibit called shopdropping. Maybe I should be more proactive in seeking out organizations such as this...

    Tuesday, March 08, 2005

    14 Hills Reading

    14 Hills Reading for Volume 11 Issue 1

    City Lights Books
    261 Columbus Ave. at Broadway in North Beach
    Tuesday, March 15 @ 7:00pm

    Featuring poetry and fiction by:

    Maxine Chernoff
    Natasha Moni
    David Beavers
    Paul Barrows
    Mike Sikkema
    Pony Smith

    The reading is free and open to the public. Come and support local SF writers.

    Wednesday, March 02, 2005


    Water Works

    turn the flat metal handle, push. swing upward with the glass panel. wish that your finger could skim the bay. seals are belly flipped at your disposal. waiting to feel that ripple-that balance that water can carry from a touch. throw them a cracker taken from the box on the desk. watch the ripples take it under. dip and dive under the blue of it all.

    barefoot-narrow wood paneled deck. sea salted spray. a world of dips, appearing in waves. 4X6 feet is compact yet kaleidoscope fractured. dependent on direction-north facing brings—the blue jelly fish indigo in their bellies. the sand dusting their rubbery insides like powdered donuts. earlier I said, “don’t poke, walk ‘round.”

    cold metal benches, painted white flaking a previous blue. the ferry is swaying up, then down, then up. balancing a plastic cup on my thigh, ankles crossed. birds dip into the swell of the boat, wings splayed back, never beat, looking to reach a bony foot onto a bar. gripping tightly it waits. head cocked to not one side or the other. skittles flying by.

    Home Front

    hearst castle white gleam. rain rain rain. rain whipping. rain turning. rain under the umbrella. quick snap, camera flash yellow, around a cheating covered finger. tsk tsk tsk or even a big woah, head shaking. “wait now, no more of that.” zebra striped behinds from beneath a frothy window ledge, look just there under the cherry blossom pink. just there, just look.

    gluck gluck gluck. a rising up and then down and then rest. again. the sand is splayed out in a white sand just stormed sort of way. pockets of elephant seals here and there. then driftwood here and there. fenced separations. the sound travels to the 1 and when we leave our car wheels ride on. galuck, galuck, galuck.

    opossum is tree sitting, skinny little fingers reach reach reaching. hooks on bird box and tips. tree branch tips, ‘possum tips, dog barks and sits. sits and waits, then sits and runs, sits and stares. play dead little one, play dead. later we’ll knock you out cold with a broom bottom. relinquish that grip on death and run—tipsy short legs—run.
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