disposable poem: LJ phone home

Sister Wendy, the venerable bucktoothed nun who was PBS’ poster child for art appreciation a few years ago (this is totally affectionate, by the way — I enjoyed that series), used to speak of a concept she called “newspaper art” — work that was possibly good, even significantly meritorious, but because of its specific topical nature had no shelf life beyond the immediate moment. You know, like most slam poetry.

Didn’t mean she didn’t like it or think it was not worth doing; just that it was work of the moment and no more.

This is a newspaper poem — with the exception of the whole “possibly good” thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey,

are there any left-handed
dead people on my friends’ list?
I have a question about barley
only you can answer.

If anyone out there
knows of an equivalent
for honey in making
Javanese sauce, let me know.

Regrets? I’ve had a few.
Here are five of them, I tag
anyone regretful to tell me their own.
I’ll wait.

And does anybody know
the names and faces of all the guys
who were in the band The Crank Case Children?
I know I was one of them, but the rest…

O, you who are without names,
there are reasons I can’t sleep
and you know the reasons as well as I do.
Is this why you never respond?

Eh, pressing the flesh
is overrated anyway;
any one of you who might touch me
could be anyone else.

I made this entry public
so you can try to prove me wrong
in your comments. I’ll wait.
I’ll be waiting. I’ll be right here.