i have read so much bad poetry lately i’m thinking of becoming a butcher.

not so much here, but elsewhere…

http://www.cnn.com/2006/SHOWBIZ/TV/02/27/obit.weaver.ap/index.html

Boy, a rough couple of days for old TV stars.

A recent poll revealed the strangest street names in the country.

Read the whole story here: http://www.boston.com/news/odd/articles/2006/02/24/psycho_path_voted_wackiest_street_name/

But for the impatient among you:

10. Tater Peeler Road in Lebanon, Texas
9. The intersection of Count and Basie in Richmond, Va.
8. Shades of Death Road in Warren County, N.J.
7. Unexpected Road in Buena, N.J.
6. Bucket of Blood Street in Holbrook, Ariz.
5. The intersection of Clinton and Fidelity in Houston
4. The intersection of Lonesome and Hardup in Albany, Ga.
3. Farfrompoopen Road in Tennessee (the only road up to Constipation Ridge)
2. Divorce Court in Heather Highlands, Pa.
1. Psycho Path in Traverse City, Mich.

In the interest of inclusion, my own town has “My Way.” One of the streets off of that is “No Way.” It’s nowhere near the highway.

In the midst of the mourning for Don Knotts comes the news of the death of Darren McGavin, aka Kolchak, the Night Stalker.

I didn’t watch huge amounts of TV as a kid. Never watched the Brady Bunch (everything I know about the Bradys comes from people making fun of the Bradys in the years since), for instance, and I don’t have fond memories of a lot of anything else on TV. (Well, OK, Bruins hockey. But I mean, c’mon — Orr, Esposito, Sanderson, Cashman, Westfall, Johnston, Cheevers…)

But I LOVED me some Night Stalker. I religiously watched the travails of the rumpled, porkpie-hat wearing reporter as he battled various beasties from the Dark Side of the human subconscious (my all time favorite was the Pas-Mal Fait (sp?), the swamp critter from the Lousiana bayous that somehow made it to Los Angeles). The show had a dank, seedy feel to it, and a lot of that came from McGavin’s portrayal of the battered truth seeker dealing with the disbelief of the folks who lived solely in the world of Light.

Years later, of course, the same territory was mined more deeply and intricately in the X-Files (or so I hear, as I’ve seen maybe 5 episodes in my life), but Mulder owes a direct debt to Kolchak, who was there before him.

m is for mescaline,
is for peace
of mind. o is for opiates on my
hip, just for kicks. d is for drink, drink
all over my lap and belly. s is for smoke,
the color of my own love’s eyes.

l is for my life’s
that’s wrecked. got no job, no true home,
family a cipher, love’s
a young illusion i’m holding close
as a meridian, waiting for it to help me
track home eventually. g is for the gold rush,
the hope of easy street, the fine wares
of gangster and greedyguts. g is for
groaning under the weight of pretending
that i expect something to go well.

in the morning
i’ll wake up
and slip off the hangover long enough
to dump the trash and pretend
there’s nothing left behind, nothing fell out
to stain the floor. c is for cleaning up
the stains that are always on the floor
no matter how c for careful i am.

a is for absolution, absinthe,
amazing the way i can be when left
to my own devices.

and z?

z is the place i end up
when i lose the thread. the last place
i remember to look. the place
as distant from a beginning as i can find.

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.

I fucking hate snobbery.

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.