waste the cultural capital on habits of the body

softly

blindfolded with nylon plastic fabric
so that every time you move
it would pinch

and make you stop
waste much slower than before

Cookie just wanted you to sit and spoil
wait for the day to puncture through until
you were more tangled than net

but she had no idea

when she left
you would follow

circumstances of a boring rebirth
in that, you lost your ability
to learn. A published perception.

how’s that disfigured mouth you leap from
the click-click of the jaw
vanished onto the concrete block
with houses that wear new denim
with an atlas cemented inside a closet
if you tried a little smarter to make the day fresh
I’m sure she’d notice when you breathe out
you howl louder than a covetous coyote
and she might cast her vision like fishing line-

My mother’s orchids are dead

She stopped watching the weather
to sit on her green fiberglass covered patio.

She misses them, this I know, but not today

The greyest cloud could pour
schools of fishy yellow packets
with kissing petals and lippy pistils,
and purple pointy stamen
potted, perky to pollinate
her orchid kingdom
and thrive once more,

But she will not budge.

The roots are still moist
the soil too, there would be lots
of saving,

but their leaves, necrotic brown,
charred by the sky
will just have to do-

Instead of lucidity, I want sleep.
Impulse with precision, flying is always the option
filling you with starch and water so that you jiggle
instead of cry-

those girls in your humid less valley?

Crisp Clear Curt

I’m curt, short too and livid
like mad mami, over the man
and carrots and wallpaper
and the spill from my room,
clutters the hallways
onto your barren gallery of glass
and onto those guys who whistle

like a choo-choo

their winks are blinding
I don’t want to sway any more

Its been swampy here, toxic with summer
beating with warm brown skin, that might cool
once I learn to prune in water

mostly I’d like to press my lips to your forearm
before we lock elbows outside the planet,
so that I know your stench is as lost as mine-

Several years ago, Damien Pratt gave me birthday presents that were basically life changers. First off, there was Pat Benatar’s Best Shots, her Greatest Hits album. Really…it made me realize the magnificence of Pat Benatar, and that’s important.

Second, was In Color by Cheap Trick. This album contains one of my favorite songs, Southern Girls. I just feel you should give it a listen. That’s all i’m saying.

Oh and here are some links that might tickle your fancy(?):

1. Some of the Better Photographs In the World

2. A Great Poem, “Scheherazade”

3. Zadie Smith speaking about what makes EM Forster worthwhile and awe inspiring

4. The Senator who put a secret hold on an Open Government Bill (say what?!?!?) has been exposed. However, I find if a little worrisome that the New York Times does not carry the story. All they have regarding Senator Kyl and secrecy is this cute article about “Senator’s Secret Offices”.

For a variety of reasons, I’ve been reading out loud a lot recently. Specifically I’ve been reading poetry out loud, in some part because of the brevity of the medium.

In the midst of this reading…out loud, I found this publication. It’s fantastic.

Also, for a couple of months now, I’ve been trying to find the poem that this excerpt is from:

“that each of us lives in other’s minds, as they live in ours
sometimes flaring in images, sometimes feeling each other’s flesh. Each night
before I got o bed I pass myself on the stairs.”

It’s attributed to S. Berg, but I can’t figure out who that is, or what poem it is. Do you know?

I’ve been obsessively listening to this recording of William Carlos Williams’ poem ‘This is Just to Say’. It’s so simply beautiful, and honestly, i’ve probably listened to it 27 times today.