10.12.2010
10.07.2010
Reduced
I'll keep the yearly histrionics down to simply this: though I'm not entirely thrilled about the passing of another year - I am thrilled about where I've ended up. My thanks to everyone who has had a part in that.
More Elision:
I'm hoping to give the reading at Midtown Cinema a try tonight. It starts at 7:00 and you should definitely stop by. After that it's on to Midtown Tavern where there just might be a Colin Cameron sighting - this is big news people. Get ready.
Enough.
More Elision:
I'm hoping to give the reading at Midtown Cinema a try tonight. It starts at 7:00 and you should definitely stop by. After that it's on to Midtown Tavern where there just might be a Colin Cameron sighting - this is big news people. Get ready.
Enough.
10.06.2010
Tithes
In order to occupy my immense bloc of free time I have been playing with elision and found poetry. These poems are as much puzzles as expression. Reading through and finding the unintended phrasings is a little like living inside the codebreaker scenes from A Beautiful Mind. And that is just a whole lot of fun.
Much to the chagrin of every person I know who is named Kenny Johns I have decided to post some of the more successful results.
Enough.
Much to the chagrin of every person I know who is named Kenny Johns I have decided to post some of the more successful results.
Enough.
10.28.2009
Tired Eyes, Tired Heart
She just wants something
she can feel; a cigarette
and a steering wheel.
------------------------------------------------------
Country Fair and Errata
He toyed with the scrap of paper
in his pocket. She would be back for her books.
Certain of its future he sat down heavily.
He would fold it and place it
in the pages between her third
and fourth favorite Simic poems.
Months later, when she found it,
enough time would have passed
that she would be unsure as she unfolded it.
Enough time would have passed
that she would smile as she read it,
refolded it and dogeared the page.
Enough.
she can feel; a cigarette
and a steering wheel.
------------------------------------------------------
Country Fair and Errata
He toyed with the scrap of paper
in his pocket. She would be back for her books.
Certain of its future he sat down heavily.
He would fold it and place it
in the pages between her third
and fourth favorite Simic poems.
Months later, when she found it,
enough time would have passed
that she would be unsure as she unfolded it.
Enough time would have passed
that she would smile as she read it,
refolded it and dogeared the page.
Enough.
9.02.2009
Leveling
A hard right turn to
right the ship; we spent a long
moment nearly lost.
-----------------------------------------------------
With my immersion in DC I've been fortunate enough to have been shown some of the cities' sights and, more importantly, sounds by a select few somebodies who sincerely love language. In these endeavors I've been exposed to the world of spoken word and slam style poetry performance and have fallen pretty hard for the potential that can be found in the rhythms the life the joy the love and the hate embedded in each sing-song, sling-slung stone-smooth syllable. Since then I've made a number of attempts to write something in a similar vein. Many of these have been abortive at best, but, after finally giving in to the idea of relying upon alliteration as my driving force I ended up with this (and yes, that IS a blatantly lifted and transmogrified C.Finn line as my title. And first line. We all need prompts occasionally, alright?):
The Streets Gained what the Binge Washed Away
Lately I feel as if I’m walking with wide open wounds
with scars on my shoes,
a pain in my side and an internal heat
so intense that it burns through my heart.
Chars it completely,
cremates it quietly
and leaves me cold.
Selfless, cold and composed
of counterproductive accounts
of my life and no clear
account of the strife
and conflict I cause through remote,
uncalculated actions and crimes
of passion and lust and untrustworthiness
while moving freely - without feeling -
unfettered by consideration or concern for consequence.
Lately it feels as if I am removed from myself.
My consciousness surgically culled and carelessly
kept near the withered remains of my once robust conscience.
I am afflicted with that endemic,
twenty-something-specific epidemic
of callous hedonism.
Blinded by that gin and tonic fueled fire that divides,
through equal parts Illusion and Self-Delusion,
each night from the next.
Living now,
right now,
under the pretext
that what happens this evening
stays with this evening
and never reaches past the partition of 2 AM leaving
only the morning’s headache as a monument
to the potentially monumental mistakes
of the prior evenings’ practices.
We are our own cycles.
The circles we run in, while
providing contributing cause,
are never strong enough to excuse
the burden of our missteps.
And the pratfalls that showed themselves funny through dusk
reveal themselves foolish come dawn.
Lately it’s only on days like this one -
heavy with humid air and sticky with the sadness
of things sought after but not attained –
that I can ever set before my mind
each of the issues at hand.
Yet the plague that hangs
over my eyes is never a dark one.
More often it’s a blinding mix,
a spinning, sliding, streaming view
of rum and coke soaked scarves,
gin and tonic tarnished t-shirts
and all these ginger-whiskey washed,
wash and wear warriors who wear me out.
I’m wrung out,
wishing like hell I was strung out
so that at least then
I would have an excuse for all of this.
In this world, wet
with the slick of dance floor sweat
there are no mistakes, there are no accidents.
The dark and the drinks may lend license
but the daylight demands recompense.
Payment in full,
plus interest,
comes due on our uninterested
and casual affairs.
Enough.
right the ship; we spent a long
moment nearly lost.
-----------------------------------------------------
With my immersion in DC I've been fortunate enough to have been shown some of the cities' sights and, more importantly, sounds by a select few somebodies who sincerely love language. In these endeavors I've been exposed to the world of spoken word and slam style poetry performance and have fallen pretty hard for the potential that can be found in the rhythms the life the joy the love and the hate embedded in each sing-song, sling-slung stone-smooth syllable. Since then I've made a number of attempts to write something in a similar vein. Many of these have been abortive at best, but, after finally giving in to the idea of relying upon alliteration as my driving force I ended up with this (and yes, that IS a blatantly lifted and transmogrified C.Finn line as my title. And first line. We all need prompts occasionally, alright?):
The Streets Gained what the Binge Washed Away
Lately I feel as if I’m walking with wide open wounds
with scars on my shoes,
a pain in my side and an internal heat
so intense that it burns through my heart.
Chars it completely,
cremates it quietly
and leaves me cold.
Selfless, cold and composed
of counterproductive accounts
of my life and no clear
account of the strife
and conflict I cause through remote,
uncalculated actions and crimes
of passion and lust and untrustworthiness
while moving freely - without feeling -
unfettered by consideration or concern for consequence.
Lately it feels as if I am removed from myself.
My consciousness surgically culled and carelessly
kept near the withered remains of my once robust conscience.
I am afflicted with that endemic,
twenty-something-specific epidemic
of callous hedonism.
Blinded by that gin and tonic fueled fire that divides,
through equal parts Illusion and Self-Delusion,
each night from the next.
Living now,
right now,
under the pretext
that what happens this evening
stays with this evening
and never reaches past the partition of 2 AM leaving
only the morning’s headache as a monument
to the potentially monumental mistakes
of the prior evenings’ practices.
We are our own cycles.
The circles we run in, while
providing contributing cause,
are never strong enough to excuse
the burden of our missteps.
And the pratfalls that showed themselves funny through dusk
reveal themselves foolish come dawn.
Lately it’s only on days like this one -
heavy with humid air and sticky with the sadness
of things sought after but not attained –
that I can ever set before my mind
each of the issues at hand.
Yet the plague that hangs
over my eyes is never a dark one.
More often it’s a blinding mix,
a spinning, sliding, streaming view
of rum and coke soaked scarves,
gin and tonic tarnished t-shirts
and all these ginger-whiskey washed,
wash and wear warriors who wear me out.
I’m wrung out,
wishing like hell I was strung out
so that at least then
I would have an excuse for all of this.
In this world, wet
with the slick of dance floor sweat
there are no mistakes, there are no accidents.
The dark and the drinks may lend license
but the daylight demands recompense.
Payment in full,
plus interest,
comes due on our uninterested
and casual affairs.
Enough.
7.28.2009
Sylvia
I always think of
how she sealed the doors before
turning on the stove.
--------------------------------------------------
Alright. So to celebrate my triumphant return to Gchat after a dreary two week absence and as a way of introducing Andy to Grooveshark.com we engaged in our favorite roadtrip game via the interwebs. It's a fun little exercise that can be as easy or hard as you choose to make it. We tend to shoot for middle of the road.
Anyway, the basic idea is that you are given a song that you have to start from, for the sake of an example lets say... Beat It by Michael Jackson, then you are given a song that you have to finish on, let's say Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da by the Beatles and a set number of "moves" to get there. In this case, to keep it simple, we'll limit it to one.
So: Beat It ---> as yet undiscovered song ---> Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
Now we just have to find a link. That link can range from something as simple as a similar guitar tone or tempo to a similarity or overlapping in album or song titles or lyrics, to shared personnel (people who worked or played with both people) or personal life (dated the same person, etc) and anything in between.
In the case of our example the obvious choice to me would be a Wings song like "Jet" with Paul McCartney as the link having recorded with both Jackson and The Beatles.
So:
1) Beat It - Michael Jackson who recorded The Girl is Mine with Paul McCartney which takes us to -
2) Jet - Wings - McCartney's post-Beatle's band, taking us to -
3) Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da - The Beatles.
See? That easy.
Here's the one Andy gave me yesterday:
- Get from Wicked Messenger by the Faces (covering Bob Dylan) to Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window by Bob Dylan in five moves with the middle one by a female artist over the age of 39 (apparently his reasoning for this was to disallow both Neko Case and Zooey Deschanel. The Jerk).
Immediately I considered using only artists that have covered Dylan. Which narrowed the field of artists to choose from by a whole... 2%. So then I had to go ahead and try and come up with some more concrete connections. Some of them (like the incestuous mess that is the first three songs) are very concrete. Others, like the last jump, feel a little less substantial. Anyway, here goes:
1) Wicked Messenger - Faces (covering Dylan) takes us to -
2) You Shook Me - Jeff Beck Group - As you know at one point or another both Rod Stewart (Best. Voice. In. Rock.) and Ron Wood played with Jeff Beck and were, of course, also the revitalizing force between the switch from The Small Faces to the Faces and Ron Wood carries us through to -
3) Shine a Light - The Rolling Stones. Despite his questionable personal life decisions Mr. Wood (though not on this track) is a fine guitarist but it's Mick Jagger that takes us to -
4) Because The Night - by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen - John Agnello produced both Patti Smith (who was married to the lead guitarist from MC5(!)) and Mick Jagger at one point or another -
5) Hot Soft Light - The Hold Steady - As if the Springsteen to THS thing wasn't enough, this album is also produced by John Agnello (as was Patty Smythe (former lead for Scandal), who is often confused for Patti Smith and is featured in the lyrics of The Swish from THS' first album ("she looked shaky, but nice")) but it's The Hold Steady's second album (Separation Sunday) that takes us to-
6)The Chain - Fleetwood mac - This connection is fairly straight forward. The song Stevie Nix by THS off of Separation Sunday ("She got scared when it got druggy. The way the whispers bit like fangs in the last hour of the parties.") brought me to Stevie Nicks who has a writing credit on this riff-riding, totally driving-with-the windows-down-worthy song
7) Can You Please Crawl out your window - Bob Dylan - so, this one is a little bit more of a stretch... but she has toured with Dylan. *long, exhausted exhale*
And the one that I gave Andy to work on today is:
- Get from "Too Much Monkey Business" by Chuck Berry to "Thriller" by Michael Jackson in five (5) moves. With the Berry song coming out in 1956 and Thriller in 1982 I'm going to (approximately) split the difference and the middle song will have to be off of Motown Records (1965-1975). Of course the other four songs can be from anyone and any time. I wouldn't be surprised if your first pick after the Berry song was suggested by the opening guitar sound.
[more than] Enough.
how she sealed the doors before
turning on the stove.
--------------------------------------------------
Alright. So to celebrate my triumphant return to Gchat after a dreary two week absence and as a way of introducing Andy to Grooveshark.com we engaged in our favorite roadtrip game via the interwebs. It's a fun little exercise that can be as easy or hard as you choose to make it. We tend to shoot for middle of the road.
Anyway, the basic idea is that you are given a song that you have to start from, for the sake of an example lets say... Beat It by Michael Jackson, then you are given a song that you have to finish on, let's say Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da by the Beatles and a set number of "moves" to get there. In this case, to keep it simple, we'll limit it to one.
So: Beat It ---> as yet undiscovered song ---> Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.
Now we just have to find a link. That link can range from something as simple as a similar guitar tone or tempo to a similarity or overlapping in album or song titles or lyrics, to shared personnel (people who worked or played with both people) or personal life (dated the same person, etc) and anything in between.
In the case of our example the obvious choice to me would be a Wings song like "Jet" with Paul McCartney as the link having recorded with both Jackson and The Beatles.
So:
1) Beat It - Michael Jackson who recorded The Girl is Mine with Paul McCartney which takes us to -
2) Jet - Wings - McCartney's post-Beatle's band, taking us to -
3) Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da - The Beatles.
See? That easy.
Here's the one Andy gave me yesterday:
- Get from Wicked Messenger by the Faces (covering Bob Dylan) to Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window by Bob Dylan in five moves with the middle one by a female artist over the age of 39 (apparently his reasoning for this was to disallow both Neko Case and Zooey Deschanel. The Jerk).
Immediately I considered using only artists that have covered Dylan. Which narrowed the field of artists to choose from by a whole... 2%. So then I had to go ahead and try and come up with some more concrete connections. Some of them (like the incestuous mess that is the first three songs) are very concrete. Others, like the last jump, feel a little less substantial. Anyway, here goes:
1) Wicked Messenger - Faces (covering Dylan) takes us to -
2) You Shook Me - Jeff Beck Group - As you know at one point or another both Rod Stewart (Best. Voice. In. Rock.) and Ron Wood played with Jeff Beck and were, of course, also the revitalizing force between the switch from The Small Faces to the Faces and Ron Wood carries us through to -
3) Shine a Light - The Rolling Stones. Despite his questionable personal life decisions Mr. Wood (though not on this track) is a fine guitarist but it's Mick Jagger that takes us to -
4) Because The Night - by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen - John Agnello produced both Patti Smith (who was married to the lead guitarist from MC5(!)) and Mick Jagger at one point or another -
5) Hot Soft Light - The Hold Steady - As if the Springsteen to THS thing wasn't enough, this album is also produced by John Agnello (as was Patty Smythe (former lead for Scandal), who is often confused for Patti Smith and is featured in the lyrics of The Swish from THS' first album ("she looked shaky, but nice")) but it's The Hold Steady's second album (Separation Sunday) that takes us to-
6)The Chain - Fleetwood mac - This connection is fairly straight forward. The song Stevie Nix by THS off of Separation Sunday ("She got scared when it got druggy. The way the whispers bit like fangs in the last hour of the parties.") brought me to Stevie Nicks who has a writing credit on this riff-riding, totally driving-with-the windows-down-worthy song
7) Can You Please Crawl out your window - Bob Dylan - so, this one is a little bit more of a stretch... but she has toured with Dylan. *long, exhausted exhale*
And the one that I gave Andy to work on today is:
- Get from "Too Much Monkey Business" by Chuck Berry to "Thriller" by Michael Jackson in five (5) moves. With the Berry song coming out in 1956 and Thriller in 1982 I'm going to (approximately) split the difference and the middle song will have to be off of Motown Records (1965-1975). Of course the other four songs can be from anyone and any time. I wouldn't be surprised if your first pick after the Berry song was suggested by the opening guitar sound.
[more than] Enough.
7.27.2009
Cartlidge & Brown
Two glasses stained Red;
Last night we listened slow
and sighed as dawn slipped.
-------------------------------------------------------
The View From Victoria Place
Toes touch down to tile,
steel tipped and rubber soled:
minuscule mop-topped creatures
crushed as commuters commingle. Group
patterns present themselves:
twos threes and fours
weaving around between and through
the confused, circling orbits of street map stares.
There is no balletic beauty here -
trips stumbles and footing blunders bound each grace,
hawkers hover wouldyouliketotry-ing their wares to every
fourth passerby. Emboldened by downcast eyes
they forge on hammering out cries
to heat the air.
Swatting through this sonic haze one sees, centrally,
a red-faced and bellowing man
large in his impatience: shifting his considerable weight
and shuffling his feet while waiting
for a young girl who, with lips pursed
in the very best mix of unpracticed concentration
and burgeoning frustration
knots the polka-dotted shoelaces on her nearly too small shoes.
Enough.
Last night we listened slow
and sighed as dawn slipped.
-------------------------------------------------------
The View From Victoria Place
Toes touch down to tile,
steel tipped and rubber soled:
minuscule mop-topped creatures
crushed as commuters commingle. Group
patterns present themselves:
twos threes and fours
weaving around between and through
the confused, circling orbits of street map stares.
There is no balletic beauty here -
trips stumbles and footing blunders bound each grace,
hawkers hover wouldyouliketotry-ing their wares to every
fourth passerby. Emboldened by downcast eyes
they forge on hammering out cries
to heat the air.
Swatting through this sonic haze one sees, centrally,
a red-faced and bellowing man
large in his impatience: shifting his considerable weight
and shuffling his feet while waiting
for a young girl who, with lips pursed
in the very best mix of unpracticed concentration
and burgeoning frustration
knots the polka-dotted shoelaces on her nearly too small shoes.
Enough.
7.25.2009
Not Those Kind of Needles
I rock stitches the
way that Diddy drops bitches
because real men knit.
------------------------------------------------------------------
A few of the haiku mentioned in the previous post, a number of them are still missing titles:
Porch Nights
She peeled her mango
without concern for the juice;
her hands stuck to mine.
-----
I saw a future
devoid of art and culture;
muzak filled the air.
-----
Championship Vinyl
She asked if we had
soul. I said, well that really
all depends, you know?
-----
Is the likelihood
of loss what makes new love so
intoxicating?
-----
I just spent an hour
trying to write haiku in
Spanish - Language Fail.
-----
Lately I'm concerned
that i think exclusively
in status updates.
-----
If Only to Cover the Silence
There are times when I
wish we had a sitcom. You,
me and a laugh track.
------
Chrissy Hynde has the
voice of a double-scotch soaked,
chain smoking angel.
-----
The capitol lights
outshone your eyes, but your breasts
bested the rotunda.
-----
Enough.
way that Diddy drops bitches
because real men knit.
------------------------------------------------------------------
A few of the haiku mentioned in the previous post, a number of them are still missing titles:
Porch Nights
She peeled her mango
without concern for the juice;
her hands stuck to mine.
-----
I saw a future
devoid of art and culture;
muzak filled the air.
-----
Championship Vinyl
She asked if we had
soul. I said, well that really
all depends, you know?
-----
Is the likelihood
of loss what makes new love so
intoxicating?
-----
I just spent an hour
trying to write haiku in
Spanish - Language Fail.
-----
Lately I'm concerned
that i think exclusively
in status updates.
-----
If Only to Cover the Silence
There are times when I
wish we had a sitcom. You,
me and a laugh track.
------
Chrissy Hynde has the
voice of a double-scotch soaked,
chain smoking angel.
-----
The capitol lights
outshone your eyes, but your breasts
bested the rotunda.
-----
Enough.
7.22.2009
An Excuse of Sorts
I know you hate that
I'm always late - three words of
defense: the red line.
----------------------------------------------------
I was hit by a flurry of haiku last night, I'm hoping it serves as a happy portent. They'll be shared in due time.
If you're anywhere near DC tonight there are two poetry events that you should Definitely attend.
First is "the lowercase" put on by the Capitol Letters Writing Center featuring my dear friend and quality word-wrangler Julia S. At the Big Bear Cafe at 1st and R NW.
Second is Sparkle at Busboys and Poets on 5th and K where the talented Gowri K and Sarah L will be featured.
Both of these events are open mics, so feel free to bring something to share.
Enough.
I'm always late - three words of
defense: the red line.
----------------------------------------------------
I was hit by a flurry of haiku last night, I'm hoping it serves as a happy portent. They'll be shared in due time.
If you're anywhere near DC tonight there are two poetry events that you should Definitely attend.
First is "the lowercase" put on by the Capitol Letters Writing Center featuring my dear friend and quality word-wrangler Julia S. At the Big Bear Cafe at 1st and R NW.
Second is Sparkle at Busboys and Poets on 5th and K where the talented Gowri K and Sarah L will be featured.
Both of these events are open mics, so feel free to bring something to share.
Enough.
7.16.2009
Breathless
Arms and hearts and beats
and bars and cabs and tabs and -
everything just spins.
------------------------------------------------
So. I've been in a training course all week and with a little extra time on my hands I've been making some elision poems. They're the perfect way to not exactly look like you aren't working or paying attention. These poems are the literary equivalent of sewing earbuds into the lining of your hoodie. They'll never know you're multitasking. And, they're a lot of fun and look pretty awesome. Lacking a scanner I've had to pull the article I used from website of the Washington Post Magazine (I used their Summer Reading installment, which worked beautifully), paste the correct column into word and go through double strikethroughing and red-bolding. Over all these poems tend to look better when they're nothing but typeface and a sharpie, but you should get the idea at least. This is kind of like chipping away the excess marble to reveal the masterpeice underneath - elide, delete, cross out, blacken, etc any and all words that you don't want to have looking back at you, attempt to form a new, original and unrelated thought out of the raw material given and you have a poem that, Athena-like, springs fully formed from the mind of another. An author who is now entirely unaware that you've defiled her work. yikes. Any red punctuation has been added to try and guide the thoughts through the page.
friends since high school, and although I hadn't known her mother, and the majority of the time we'd spent together was in groups -- at theater events or diorama parties -- I felt the heaviness of the event like a stone in my stomach. When it was my turn in line, we hugged. I said the usual things, and the next person was ready to step in, but I held onto Lori's hands. for a second longer
and bars and cabs and tabs and -
everything just spins.
------------------------------------------------
So. I've been in a training course all week and with a little extra time on my hands I've been making some elision poems. They're the perfect way to not exactly look like you aren't working or paying attention. These poems are the literary equivalent of sewing earbuds into the lining of your hoodie. They'll never know you're multitasking. And, they're a lot of fun and look pretty awesome. Lacking a scanner I've had to pull the article I used from website of the Washington Post Magazine (I used their Summer Reading installment, which worked beautifully), paste the correct column into word and go through double strikethroughing and red-bolding. Over all these poems tend to look better when they're nothing but typeface and a sharpie, but you should get the idea at least. This is kind of like chipping away the excess marble to reveal the masterpeice underneath - elide, delete, cross out, blacken, etc any and all words that you don't want to have looking back at you, attempt to form a new, original and unrelated thought out of the raw material given and you have a poem that, Athena-like, springs fully formed from the mind of another. An author who is now entirely unaware that you've defiled her work. yikes. Any red punctuation has been added to try and guide the thoughts through the page.
friends since high school, and although I had
"I'm available," I told her. I tried to weight my words "Call me if you want company. I'm just more available than usual, and I'm in an especially good place to sit. with pain."
She called the next day. In a wavery, post-funeral voice, she laughed a little and asked if I was okay. I asked her the same thing. We both said no. She knew the broad strokes about what had been going on with me, and later she said she'd been concerned when we talked at the funeral, and it had been a relief for a second to step out of her own life and think about someone else's. Likewise. We made a plan to meet at her apartment that Thursday, and for the next year and more, we met once. a week, every week, while she coped with that major grief and I dealt with a different kind.
Then, it was not symbolic. It was just two people who found they could be helpful to each other due to mutual care and unusual timing. There were no ritual involved. If anyone had offered to do some kind of quick healing "closure" ceremony with me, I would have thrown a fit. Because a symbol is supposed to be a shortcut, a way of valuing and noting in brief what is happening anyway, in depth. But with that marriage, it seemed that the symbols had taken the place of the depth. The kite, the drainpipe, the moths, the flies. Signs taking the place of living.
With Lori, we just sat together on the floor in her apartment in Silver Lake, eating take-out Indian food with glasses of wine, sitting with each other, talking or quiet, watching bad TV or not, with some crying, some laughing, some outrage, some shame, disbelief, pain, depression, realization, the forging of new closeness in the wake of two kinds of losses. The long route.
***
Aimee Bender is the author of "The Girl in the Flammable Skirt," "An Invisible Sign of My Own" and "Willful Creatures." She lives in
^ just in case you want to read the original, which is quite good^
Enough.
7.15.2009
Sunday Morning Everywhere
Silent, cheered, we walked
through traffics' heady mix of
sound of smell of life.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The unthinkable, friends, has occurred.
I woke up one morning early this month and realized that I was somewhat, slightly, just really only ever so much in love with DC.
It might just be the mild July that has breezed through but this place doesn't seem to grate me the way it once did. It doesn't set my teeth on edge each time I take to it's streets. I'm actually enjoying myself a great deal.
In other exciting news I am hopefully dining with a fine friend and fellow poet Sarah (you might care to check out her recent post, it has an Exquisite Corpse we went through together) this weekend at the Good Stuff Eatery on Capitol Hill - assuming we can get a table. This establishment is notable as it was set up by Spike from Top Chef Season 4. Check out their menu, then come down here and eat some food.
Enough.
through traffics' heady mix of
sound of smell of life.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The unthinkable, friends, has occurred.
I woke up one morning early this month and realized that I was somewhat, slightly, just really only ever so much in love with DC.
It might just be the mild July that has breezed through but this place doesn't seem to grate me the way it once did. It doesn't set my teeth on edge each time I take to it's streets. I'm actually enjoying myself a great deal.
In other exciting news I am hopefully dining with a fine friend and fellow poet Sarah (you might care to check out her recent post, it has an Exquisite Corpse we went through together) this weekend at the Good Stuff Eatery on Capitol Hill - assuming we can get a table. This establishment is notable as it was set up by Spike from Top Chef Season 4. Check out their menu, then come down here and eat some food.
Enough.
4.20.2009
Wisdom
A quick flash of light
From Pallas helm soon swallowed
in cobwebbed street lamps.
I've been looking for a new metric although an old one would do as well. Anything to explain how the decisions I've made to arrive here can be married to those I need to make to move forward (or, more literally, East). This new measuring tool will need to twist, bend and pull me through the next few weeks; wringing sweat, bringing tears.
The Pacific Northwest is where I belong. I know that, I can feel that strongly - but I'm wondering if I came back too soon. I can only hope that I haven't ruined my chance at staying here someday.
The past two years have been a monument to exploration and failure. Perhaps it's time to indulge in something a little less experimental and a little more likely to succeed.
~~~~~~
"I've been one poor correspondent and I've been too too hard to find. But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind."
Enough.
From Pallas helm soon swallowed
in cobwebbed street lamps.
I've been looking for a new metric although an old one would do as well. Anything to explain how the decisions I've made to arrive here can be married to those I need to make to move forward (or, more literally, East). This new measuring tool will need to twist, bend and pull me through the next few weeks; wringing sweat, bringing tears.
The Pacific Northwest is where I belong. I know that, I can feel that strongly - but I'm wondering if I came back too soon. I can only hope that I haven't ruined my chance at staying here someday.
The past two years have been a monument to exploration and failure. Perhaps it's time to indulge in something a little less experimental and a little more likely to succeed.
~~~~~~
"I've been one poor correspondent and I've been too too hard to find. But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind."
Enough.
12.03.2008
Crisp, sad
with a small step out
she realised that the cold
would always be there.
There are a few things to share today.
One is this fantastic interview with Billy Collins. This interview manages to cover most of the things you would ever want to ask a former poet laureate.
It also gives us this qoute:
"The reason I said that poets don't need to develop is tied up with the idea of the persona. While I don't much like the expression "finding your voice, " my sense is that the important breakthrough moment for a poet is when he or she has developed a kind of character through which he or she can speak with ease. This character -- or persona -- resembles the poet in many ways but is clearly a refinement of the actual person. Your persona is your better. And what marks that discovery of a character is the conviction on the poet's part -- and subsequently, we would hope, on readers' parts -- that this character is different from all other poetic characters, at least in some small way."
This is, without question, why I love Craig Finn and why The Hold Steady has managed to ruin Music for me. Other genres, past works, are still open for discussion and widely appreciated and beloved. But new Rock and Roll - new gritty, bar band, booze fueled, aggression laden intelligent rock... this seems to be it. What else is there? Show it to me and I promise to believe, whole heartedly in the revolution. Until then, I worship at the altar of Craig Finn,
and I will forever
Stay Positive.
she realised that the cold
would always be there.
There are a few things to share today.
One is this fantastic interview with Billy Collins. This interview manages to cover most of the things you would ever want to ask a former poet laureate.
It also gives us this qoute:
"The reason I said that poets don't need to develop is tied up with the idea of the persona. While I don't much like the expression "finding your voice, " my sense is that the important breakthrough moment for a poet is when he or she has developed a kind of character through which he or she can speak with ease. This character -- or persona -- resembles the poet in many ways but is clearly a refinement of the actual person. Your persona is your better. And what marks that discovery of a character is the conviction on the poet's part -- and subsequently, we would hope, on readers' parts -- that this character is different from all other poetic characters, at least in some small way."
This is, without question, why I love Craig Finn and why The Hold Steady has managed to ruin Music for me. Other genres, past works, are still open for discussion and widely appreciated and beloved. But new Rock and Roll - new gritty, bar band, booze fueled, aggression laden intelligent rock... this seems to be it. What else is there? Show it to me and I promise to believe, whole heartedly in the revolution. Until then, I worship at the altar of Craig Finn,
and I will forever
Stay Positive.
11.20.2008
In Italy we have a saying...
It doesn't matter
how many dragons you slay,
who gets the princess?
(Directly inspired by this weeks Top Chef)
--------------------------------------
So, Michael Chrichton died. Which is really quite sad as he has added an enormous amount to our cultural landscape (Andromeda Strain, Jurassic Park, Congo, Sphere, ER, etc). In honor of him I've spent the last week going through some of his stuff. Re-reading Prey, watching The Great Train Robbery, I even watched an episode or two from the first season of ER.
Some responses:
ER is not, and never will be, one of my favorite shows. Congrats on getting George Clooney in the mix but your main contender, your forever peer, Law & Order is forever superior. In all of it's incarnations.
Prey is a magnificently paced book. I finished it in three sittings and kind of wanted another three sittings worth. Crichton has always been a voice of reason in the face of unchecked expansion of technology. From the very start of his career, he's been concerned with our technology interrupting the natural course of things. Basically, he didn't want us to screw it up. Admirable.
The Great Train Robbery was one of my favorite books when I was younger and is a pretty fantastic movie. Donald Sutherland and Sean Connery reveling in a caper filled film? Perfect.
So there, a fifteen second retrospective of how Mr. Crichton has wormed his way into my life, all for the better.
Enough.
It doesn't matter
how many dragons you slay,
who gets the princess?
(Directly inspired by this weeks Top Chef)
--------------------------------------
So, Michael Chrichton died. Which is really quite sad as he has added an enormous amount to our cultural landscape (Andromeda Strain, Jurassic Park, Congo, Sphere, ER, etc). In honor of him I've spent the last week going through some of his stuff. Re-reading Prey, watching The Great Train Robbery, I even watched an episode or two from the first season of ER.
Some responses:
ER is not, and never will be, one of my favorite shows. Congrats on getting George Clooney in the mix but your main contender, your forever peer, Law & Order is forever superior. In all of it's incarnations.
Prey is a magnificently paced book. I finished it in three sittings and kind of wanted another three sittings worth. Crichton has always been a voice of reason in the face of unchecked expansion of technology. From the very start of his career, he's been concerned with our technology interrupting the natural course of things. Basically, he didn't want us to screw it up. Admirable.
The Great Train Robbery was one of my favorite books when I was younger and is a pretty fantastic movie. Donald Sutherland and Sean Connery reveling in a caper filled film? Perfect.
So there, a fifteen second retrospective of how Mr. Crichton has wormed his way into my life, all for the better.
Enough.
11.18.2008
Most People Are Djs
hold steady ybor city. you're
it's going down
i was a teenage ice machine.
working backwards from
up to your neck in sweat and
wet confetti. if
you want to get a little bit heady.
it's gonna have
to get a little bit heavy.
we're jamming jetskis into the jetty now.
with some guy who looks like rocco sefredi.
andi've heard he's been dead once already.
it's going down
right now
in lowertown.
they're skipping off the good ship u s s s
sexuality.
searching for the merchant with
the five minute delivery.
they're slipping soft rock into
the setlist now. they got some new guy
that looks just like phil lynott.
we're stumbling
but i think we're still in it.
it's a big world girl and
i can't understand it. we're
tiny white specks on a bright blue planet.
i was a teenage ice machine.
i kept it cool in coolers. i drank until i dreamed.
when i dreamed i always dreamed about the scene.
all these kids look like little lambs
looking up at me.
i was a twin cities trash bin.
i did everything they'd give me. i'd
jam it in my system. she
had me cornered in the kitchen. i
said i'll do anything but listen
to some weird talking chick who
just can't understand
that we're hot soft spots
on a hard rock planet.
baby take off your beret.
everyone's a critic and most people are djs.
working backwards from
the doctor to the drugs. from
the packie to the taxi to the cabbie
to the club.
a thousand kids
will fall in love in
all the clubs
tonight. a thousand other kids
will end up gushing blood
tonight. two thousand kids
wont get too much sleep
tonight. two thousand kids
they still feel pretty sweet
tonight.
i still feel pretty sweet.
10.21.2008
Head Down Through a Busy Playground
whatever else she
Yes, KAY Ryan. Not Jeri Ryan. I know, I was surprised too.
did, what other joys she felt,
the seeing brought pain.
So, not exactly breaking news but we have a new Poet Laureate: Kay Ryan.
Yes, KAY Ryan. Not Jeri Ryan. I know, I was surprised too.
Not disappointed though. Reading through some interviews and some of her essays (and, of course, poems) she is a minimalist and a bit of a pragmatist who is often compared to both Frost and Dickinson. She claims she is in the business of rehabilitating cliches and old themes imbuing many of her poems with that moment in which the reader recognizes the familiar presented in a surprising way. A nearly extreme individualist, Ryan believes that we come to know life in a negative sense, learning by consistently being wrong.
Carrying a Ladder
by Kay Ryan
We are always
really carrying
a ladder, but its'
invisible. We
only know
something's
the matter:
something precious
crashes, easy doors
prove impassable .
Or, in the body,
there's too much
swing or off-
center gravity.
And, in the mind,
a drunken capacity
access to out-of-range
apples. As though
one had a way to climb
out of the damage
and apology.
Check out her collection Niagra Rivers.
Enough.
10.16.2008
When You Can't Reach Your Zipper
My fingers will grow
More nimble with each inch that
She adds to your waist.
Well, again, things have changed. Again.
I was fortunate enough to spend a week or so on the east coast at the beginning of this month. Aside from having to cough up heartbreaking goodbyes nearlyeveryday, it was fabulous. Fantastic. Wondrous.
Every hour or so I very nearly wished that I lived there still, or again. Predictably, this came in short spurts - most often when alongside a dear, dear friend. Then I realized that I can't stand the humidity. Can't stand it. Haaaaaaate it. Hate it.
But I'm back in the northwest. Surrounded by occasional drizzle, everlasting green and of course the love of a small, fat cupcake/pug hybrid and a slightly distracted, inconquerably generous woman who is pretty much the first thirty seconds of an antacid tablet sinking into water encapsulated in human form. She also just passed her French Praxis. Yay!
Each morning finds me at the Portland Metro headquarters of Waste Management. I'm slowly accepting this. I spend nine to twelve hours a day saying things that 75% of the American public a) only say in ridiculing jest on church bus trips or b) assume can't be said in any seriousness whatsoever unless on the set of a feature film or sketch comedy show. Things like "10-4" and "Copy" and "Over." These are my days. During lunch I sneak an hour or so of culture. I'm soothed by the dulcet tones of the Writer's Almanac, intrigued by a diverting article in whichever reasonably respected magazine I have with me before I dutifully, gratefully, fall into the welcoming embrace of an established work. Currently, Passing Through by Stanley Kunitz (who I referenced in my last "update," odd) which is magnificent and deeply recommended.
My phone has been missing for 5 days now. Funny that, "missing." It describes the physical reality well enough, but is absolutely antithetical to my actual emotional response. Hmm.
Enough.
More nimble with each inch that
She adds to your waist.
Well, again, things have changed. Again.
I was fortunate enough to spend a week or so on the east coast at the beginning of this month. Aside from having to cough up heartbreaking goodbyes nearlyeveryday, it was fabulous. Fantastic. Wondrous.
Every hour or so I very nearly wished that I lived there still, or again. Predictably, this came in short spurts - most often when alongside a dear, dear friend. Then I realized that I can't stand the humidity. Can't stand it. Haaaaaaate it. Hate it.
But I'm back in the northwest. Surrounded by occasional drizzle, everlasting green and of course the love of a small, fat cupcake/pug hybrid and a slightly distracted, inconquerably generous woman who is pretty much the first thirty seconds of an antacid tablet sinking into water encapsulated in human form. She also just passed her French Praxis. Yay!
Each morning finds me at the Portland Metro headquarters of Waste Management. I'm slowly accepting this. I spend nine to twelve hours a day saying things that 75% of the American public a) only say in ridiculing jest on church bus trips or b) assume can't be said in any seriousness whatsoever unless on the set of a feature film or sketch comedy show. Things like "10-4" and "Copy" and "Over." These are my days. During lunch I sneak an hour or so of culture. I'm soothed by the dulcet tones of the Writer's Almanac, intrigued by a diverting article in whichever reasonably respected magazine I have with me before I dutifully, gratefully, fall into the welcoming embrace of an established work. Currently, Passing Through by Stanley Kunitz (who I referenced in my last "update," odd) which is magnificent and deeply recommended.
My phone has been missing for 5 days now. Funny that, "missing." It describes the physical reality well enough, but is absolutely antithetical to my actual emotional response. Hmm.
Enough.
5.01.2008
I spent the better portion of yesterday entering numbers into an outdated DOS-based database system while listening to NPR. It was depressingly similar to the day before.
Of course this was not all that I did at work today. I also spent a good portion of time drafting an imaginary letter to Niglel McGloughlin, my Poetry professor at the University of Gloucestershire, in which I not only reminded him why I was his most favorite American student ever (this is, beyond any hope of convincing, false) and should therefore write my a soaring and undeniably persuasive recommendation for Grad School. A note of warning to Pete Powers and Matt Roth (should they tumble through some Alice hole in the floor of the Blogosphere's upper levels and end up here) - you're on deck.
Of course this was not all that I did at work today. I also spent a good portion of time drafting an imaginary letter to Niglel McGloughlin, my Poetry professor at the University of Gloucestershire, in which I not only reminded him why I was his most favorite American student ever (this is, beyond any hope of convincing, false) and should therefore write my a soaring and undeniably persuasive recommendation for Grad School. A note of warning to Pete Powers and Matt Roth (should they tumble through some Alice hole in the floor of the Blogosphere's upper levels and end up here) - you're on deck.
4.26.2008
4.23.2008
Powell's Poetry Problems
"Okay, I guess I'll pick it up right after the breakdown..."
- "To Live and Die in LBI," Lifter Puller
Life has changed. Stanley Kunitz famously said (at the age of 4,678 years old) that he was "not done with his changes." I suppose that's some what comforting after the nearly year long [rick]rollercoaster I've recently hopped off.
I have, through little fault of my own, ended up in a magnificent apartment in the Pearl District of Portland, OR. So I've gone from 8 puppies a day, to a short period of no puppies to just one beautiful (Have you ever Seeeeeeen such a face?) little pug named Winston Churchill (and our super favorite companion, Margaret).
My job is... well, most importantly, it exists - there was a strange fascination in holding that first check with the knowledge that more would come, steady income is kick-ass - but beyond that the whole thing crashes crazily down. If there's a bright literary spot in the universe I work at the place it's farthest from - Data Entry at,
noreallynotevenlyingthisabsolutelythegoshdarnkickyouinthecrotchtruth:
Waste Management.
What's more I have definitively proven that my job DOES NOT MATTER. I have run a series quadruple-reverse-blind-placebo tests and there remains little doubt in my mind that my bosses could not prove the difference between a fastidious day and one in which I do little more than gripe about David Dye and Bob Boilen (Maaaaan I hate those guys...).
So that's exciting. It's such a nice feeling, contributing so little to society. But... they pay me, and in the mean time I'm hitting Craig's List hard in hopes that someone out there is looking to employ a none too prolific would-be poet. Speaking of which, Powell's is currently hosting a Portland Poetry contest and I am currently failing at writing such a poem - any thoughts? Or, just draft your own and send it in. I think you get somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 free books? Pretty sweet.
- "To Live and Die in LBI," Lifter Puller
Life has changed. Stanley Kunitz famously said (at the age of 4,678 years old) that he was "not done with his changes." I suppose that's some what comforting after the nearly year long [rick]rollercoaster I've recently hopped off.
I have, through little fault of my own, ended up in a magnificent apartment in the Pearl District of Portland, OR. So I've gone from 8 puppies a day, to a short period of no puppies to just one beautiful (Have you ever Seeeeeeen such a face?) little pug named Winston Churchill (and our super favorite companion, Margaret).
My job is... well, most importantly, it exists - there was a strange fascination in holding that first check with the knowledge that more would come, steady income is kick-ass - but beyond that the whole thing crashes crazily down. If there's a bright literary spot in the universe I work at the place it's farthest from - Data Entry at,
noreallynotevenlyingthisabsolutelythegoshdarnkickyouinthecrotchtruth:
Waste Management.
What's more I have definitively proven that my job DOES NOT MATTER. I have run a series quadruple-reverse-blind-placebo tests and there remains little doubt in my mind that my bosses could not prove the difference between a fastidious day and one in which I do little more than gripe about David Dye and Bob Boilen (Maaaaan I hate those guys...).
So that's exciting. It's such a nice feeling, contributing so little to society. But... they pay me, and in the mean time I'm hitting Craig's List hard in hopes that someone out there is looking to employ a none too prolific would-be poet. Speaking of which, Powell's is currently hosting a Portland Poetry contest and I am currently failing at writing such a poem - any thoughts? Or, just draft your own and send it in. I think you get somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 free books? Pretty sweet.
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