currently, i use my bed as my office — got my stuff spread out all over, Powerbook on the lapdesk, and pillows to prop me up.
and a large cat at my side providing heat and comfort.
and a Coke Zero providing caffeine.
and NPR providing news.
I know I said I was staying away for a bit, but had to chime in…there are moments in the chaos and stress that feel pretty good.
for a few days. nothing serious, just feel like i spend too much time refreshing the screen lately when i should be working/writing/doing something else.
hit me at the livejournal e-mail if ya need me.
chocolate, tylenol,
lithium, flatpicks,
water, chewing gum,
knives, rocks, wrappers,
bottles, glasses empty and full,
ointments, salves, lights, lamps,
blankbooks, dried out pens,
books, magazines, hangers,
t-shirts, CDs, socks, bags, hats,
shoes, messages, letters, bills,
batteries, dirt, rug, papers,
and what i really have to clean up
isn’t even on the list.
i want to afford an arsonist
and burn this ground
down to the rocks.
i will sweep up after, i promise.
i do not want it to feel
as though it never happened,
i just want to carry less of it with me
when i go.
Sounds like profiling to me.
I fault the administration for a whole host of things regarding due diligence, conflicts of interest, incredible ignorance of public opinion toward Arabs (which of course they helped create) and the whole notion that Shrub didn’t know about the deal till, say, ten minutes ago; but the reaction has been so fucking xenophobic that it’s downright laughable.
the next time
someone tells you
that writing a poem
about writing a poem
is a poor use of poetics,
tell them
that talking dirty
to a lover
is a waste of time
when the equipment
is so close at hand.
I am tired of the argument that poetry should be off-limits as a topic for poetry. My own view is that human endeavor, passion, love, sorrow, sweat, pain, and blood are all worthy of consideration, and I can’t think of anything that engages more of those things for me than the creation of poetry. Why should I not write about something that is the central organizing principle and driving force of my existence?
I think the source of much hatred of meta-poems is that most of them (like most other poems) suck, and because they are self-reflective, they amplify their own suckitude.
When I write a poem about poetry, about writing a poem, I try to expand the scope of what I write to include all sorts of thoughts about life, the universe, and yes, everything; poetry becomes a catalyst and a ground for larger thought. But it doesn’t mean I don’t mean what I say about poetry itself.
The writing of poetry, the reading of poetry, the performance of poetry are all religious rituals to me. I will write about my relationship with God as I see fit.
Try it sometime, o topic snobs: do a little self-reflection on why you do this. See if it inspires you to try and capture it in a poem.
If it doesn’t? I feel sorry for you. And yeah, I mean that.
javabill, thisrabbit, theryk, rainbows27, johnpowers, and I went to the calling hours for Lisa King tonight.
I’ll spare you a blow by blow; the family was grateful for the love Lisa inspired and seemed genuinely pleased that she and her work would live on.
But there were a couple of moments that bear mentioning…
— the photo of Lisa and final_girl, smiling in a bar in NYC. I called Ms. D to let her know she was there in spirit.
— and speaking of there in spirit: in one of Lisa’s personal albums that was out for visitors to see was a picture of…the infamous, legendary, 1997 NPS Naked Poets Pool Party.
So you were all there in spirit — yes, you, pinata; Wammo, Danny Solis, Lisa Martinovic, Jason Carney, and a whole host of naked, drunken people, all having a great time. The date was on the photo: August 8, 1997.
The minute her cousin heard us exclaiming over the photo, she came over — no one in the family had a clue as to what it was or where it had come from, and we stood there in the middle of the wake naming names and laughing.
Everyone was having such a great time in that photo.
I signed the guest book, not only with my name, but with a note from “all the poets who couldn’t be here.”
Afterwards, we went to dinner down the street at a really good Chinese place – lucky find. We raised a glass to Lisa and talked and told bad jokes and all that.
I’m glad I went.
This stems from a misreading of a label in a car window, advertising “Superflo” gasoline.
SUPERHO
About the name: she came up with it
in an off moment. Not that she liked the label,
or thought it applied to her or anyone else, really;
but after years of being ogled by teenagers
who caught her in midflight all spangled and
skin-tight, after selling her image
to the pinball and video game merchants,
after trying to make a living fighting crime
and only getting noticed for tits and ass,
it only took a last-straw leer and a bad joke
to make it stick in her head for good.
She thought about changing the costume to Juicy Couture,
changing the persona to soccer mom from another planet, modern woman
bitten by a radioactive feminist spider — eh. Stick with
the tried and true, she decided, and let the bastards
think what they want. I’ll keep at it my way,
maybe kick more balls than ass for awhile
just to make them a little more wary of what they think.
Soon enough, she started skipping the superhero meetings. She cropped her hair
and stopped talking to Ironman, that condescending prick.
She never went by the bar anymore, missing out on
the locker-room jokes and tips for dealing with
parallel universes — hell, she thought, I’m in a parallel universe
every time I step into a room with these jokers.
On a cold day on October she hung up the leotard for the last time.
These days she sits around a lot. She uses her powers sparingly —
turning back time, for example, to get to the video store before it closes.
She watches a lot of movies and wishes she was Katherine Hepburn, sometimes,
but mostly she’s happy — takes lovers when she chooses
but more often sleeps alone and loves it, lets the catalogs pile up untouched,
and never, ever, thinks of her name.
The row over the company from the UAE buying the company that runs operations in some US ports strikes me as a particularly obvious example of people missing the fact that when it all comes down to brass tacks, nationalism will always play second fiddle to corporate interests.
I don’t think it makes an ounce of difference whether or not the company is based here or on the moon, frankly.
That people are shocked that such a thing could happen is a sign of naivete. That others are surprised that there’s an outcry is disengenuous.
Nationalism is a shallow trick played to disguise big capitalism at work. If you play the trick well enough, you shouldn’t be surprised when people believe that you meant it, and expect you to act as if you believed it.
Nantucket reading rocked. The great hall of the Nantucket Atheneum / Library hosted one of Frederick Douglass’ first public speeches. Quite an honor to read there.
The passage out and back…rocky. Big swells, bouncy ride, many kids.
I am finally memorizing more poems, new poems. It feels good. I’m reading as well as I have in years.
I feel good. Cool.
I’ll be asleep again soon. I love sleep apnea — even when i’m hooked up to the Machine, I never sleep a full night through.
A quick surf revealed this:
http://www.cnn.com/2006/WORLD/europe/02/17/italy.abuse.reut/index.html
Ah…misogyny…the international language of bullshit.
and now I get to go to sleep early in order to drive down and make my 9:15 AM ferry to Nantucket in the AM.
It shall be cold and choppy. I look forward to both that and the return trip that evening.
Anyone going to be on Nantucket tomorrow? (ha ha) Come see me at the Atheneum at 2:00.
Night!
i swore i wouldn’t do this, but i’m getting a little scared, y’know…this is the longest I’ve been out of work in 20 years.
i went to a job interview yesterday.
a full-time job. a job doing pretty much what i’ve been doing for the last 15 years, just for a different humongous company.
good job. great money. large amount of travel to a wide variety of places.
impressed the interviewers. second round of interviews week after next.
got in the car. was almost home when the phone rang. i was in traffic, so I let it ring.
got home, picked up.
the contract trainers i’ve been trying to work for — the ones who pay well and let me set my own schedule and whose original discussions got me to consider quitting the job in the first place — want me to work for them. a spot finally opened up.
if this works out, i’ll make roughly 500-1000 dollars a day on my own schedule working for a company I like and know well, thus allowing me to also develop a consulting practice and — of course — pursue poetry more thoroughly.
leap, and the net will appear.
ETA, 2:43 PM: It’s a go. I just got off the phone with the director. I’m in.
