Monday, September 23, 2002
What can I say about this girl?
Her hair is brittle and litters the ground;
her eyes turn green to hazel to brown.
I leave my window open just a little and she climbs in
with her chilly skin, though I hide under deepening covers.
I pretend to sleep but she begins.
“Remember when we hiked the length of the river, new boots
and chapstick against windburn and you were so young
and we were in love?”
“I’m tired,” I tell her,
“and I know you’re going to die.”
She’s been at a bonfire roasting everything she can get her hands on.
“Bacchus doesn’t care for vegetarians,” she says.
I ask, “Could you *not* tear me apart this year? Maybe
I don’t want to rise again in spring.”
She laughs with missing teeth, spits pumpkin seeds.
“Got you your special light bulbs.” “Don’t tease.
I’m gonna miss you, even while you’re here.”
She was shy until September, then came on strong.
Evenings I met her with holes in my sweaters
and short hair though she preferred it long. Hers is enough
for the wind, and I take hours in the shower as it is.
She had everybody crying by act two, all wanting her to stay,
indefinitely extend the run of her passion play about the fall of woman,
about barbequed ribs and baked apples,
hard cider and clean-burning hay.
“Aren’t allergies romantic?” she asks, irony absent. “It’s the body’s
pure response to seasons, it’s weeping for no reason, and snot is just another lubricant.”
I hide my red eyes. I’ve faked sneezes.
Aah—ahh—AAHH…choo?
It’s no use lying to a witch, they see right through attempts to please them.
“Come with me this time,” eyes gray, skin beginning to flake away.
“We’ll move south along the Mississippi, chase migrating birds and plants averse to freezing.
What’s so great about this town you gotta be buried with it?”
They say the gun in act one must go off in late December.
“Who will make sure it’s still here under the drifts when they come?
Who’ll be left here to remember you?” So she packs her half of the CD’s,
mostly chamber rock, Godspeed You Black Emperor! and some Album Leaf.
What can I say about this girl?
Everybody takes their Prozac and prays,
but she’ll never make it if she stays. And I’ve got to turn to dust some day.
In a January snowstorm I’ll throw the window wide and leap out.
All i know is, if I have to date that old man in her absence
he’d better bring me diamonds.
Her hair is brittle and litters the ground;
her eyes turn green to hazel to brown.
I leave my window open just a little and she climbs in
with her chilly skin, though I hide under deepening covers.
I pretend to sleep but she begins.
“Remember when we hiked the length of the river, new boots
and chapstick against windburn and you were so young
and we were in love?”
“I’m tired,” I tell her,
“and I know you’re going to die.”
She’s been at a bonfire roasting everything she can get her hands on.
“Bacchus doesn’t care for vegetarians,” she says.
I ask, “Could you *not* tear me apart this year? Maybe
I don’t want to rise again in spring.”
She laughs with missing teeth, spits pumpkin seeds.
“Got you your special light bulbs.” “Don’t tease.
I’m gonna miss you, even while you’re here.”
She was shy until September, then came on strong.
Evenings I met her with holes in my sweaters
and short hair though she preferred it long. Hers is enough
for the wind, and I take hours in the shower as it is.
She had everybody crying by act two, all wanting her to stay,
indefinitely extend the run of her passion play about the fall of woman,
about barbequed ribs and baked apples,
hard cider and clean-burning hay.
“Aren’t allergies romantic?” she asks, irony absent. “It’s the body’s
pure response to seasons, it’s weeping for no reason, and snot is just another lubricant.”
I hide my red eyes. I’ve faked sneezes.
Aah—ahh—AAHH…choo?
It’s no use lying to a witch, they see right through attempts to please them.
“Come with me this time,” eyes gray, skin beginning to flake away.
“We’ll move south along the Mississippi, chase migrating birds and plants averse to freezing.
What’s so great about this town you gotta be buried with it?”
They say the gun in act one must go off in late December.
“Who will make sure it’s still here under the drifts when they come?
Who’ll be left here to remember you?” So she packs her half of the CD’s,
mostly chamber rock, Godspeed You Black Emperor! and some Album Leaf.
What can I say about this girl?
Everybody takes their Prozac and prays,
but she’ll never make it if she stays. And I’ve got to turn to dust some day.
In a January snowstorm I’ll throw the window wide and leap out.
All i know is, if I have to date that old man in her absence
he’d better bring me diamonds.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
real bois: stromboli's island of donkeys and dolls
if you live somewhere in their path, which includes a performance tonight in champagne, il., RUN DON'T FUCKING WALK YOU BASTARD. this is a tour you will tell your grandchildren about when they are old enough to understand silicone, porn, whiskey, and what's so great about tits.
i feel sorry for all y'all suckers that were not at the hot house last night. i am way too out of it and sleepy to give a full review, but highlights included
- nomy lamm on accordian with a gorgeous, haunting song about the sex industry--she is moving to chicago! eat your heart out, rest of the universe!
- the wittiest of banter between leopard-print-frocked michelle tea and flipp-flopped tara jepsen
- sexy, deadpan ricky lee, in sorority t-shirt with sleeves ripped off, reading r-rated, beer-fueled poetry hunched over in a chair on stage
- ricky lee transformed into bling-bling-and-sweatpants rapper, then fake-blood-drooling death metal queen, then strung-out-on-pixie-sticks rock-candy porn star (can you tell by the hyphens that i am in love??) as part of hip-hop supergroup end of the world along with ramonesesque mc std and spunky trannyboy mc catastrophy
- bucky sinister crushing long-term relationships underfoot as itsnotyouitsmegalon, finally brought to his knees by the codependacons
- greg gillam's selection from new work in progress 'i married uptown early' featuring the guy who shares a studio with trees from which he makes all the books in the world--so don't read so fast!
if you live somewhere in their path, which includes a performance tonight in champagne, il., RUN DON'T FUCKING WALK YOU BASTARD. this is a tour you will tell your grandchildren about when they are old enough to understand silicone, porn, whiskey, and what's so great about tits.
poems for my new book entitled [sick]
short and sweat
libros frios
flee market
crucifiction
indentified
communition
the day of light
a peak into
by enlarge
20/20 hide insight
plutonic friendship
drum core
coffeine
mantain your composer
short and sweat
libros frios
flee market
crucifiction
indentified
communition
the day of light
a peak into
by enlarge
20/20 hide insight
plutonic friendship
drum core
coffeine
mantain your composer
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
new newspoetry poem
i don't like it very much yet but it will take some work
Security Blankets World on Sept. 11 Anniversary
or
ironic pun in news headline vaguely stirs numbed reader
now there's a headline to inspire laughter
but i'm too stuffed with formulaic eyewitness sound bites
and "where were you?"
and since irony died the day america changed
i'm not sure how to react to:
mcdonald's restaurants in thailand are under heavy guard today.
this morning's commemoration passed without incident.
big sigh of relief; return to your regularly scheduled naps.
gather your quilts, your comfortors.
armed guards and major networks have it covered.
let us worry; you'll be safe on your sofa.
feel free to fly, we're bullying the skies
a big show to terrify the terrorists
and pacify the patriotic, ample excuse
to continue a war a generation in the waging.
i feel some phantom twitch behind my lips
but can't get my tongue anywhere near my cheek
with this big pacifier in my mouth.
i don't like it very much yet but it will take some work
Security Blankets World on Sept. 11 Anniversary
or
ironic pun in news headline vaguely stirs numbed reader
now there's a headline to inspire laughter
but i'm too stuffed with formulaic eyewitness sound bites
and "where were you?"
and since irony died the day america changed
i'm not sure how to react to:
mcdonald's restaurants in thailand are under heavy guard today.
this morning's commemoration passed without incident.
big sigh of relief; return to your regularly scheduled naps.
gather your quilts, your comfortors.
armed guards and major networks have it covered.
let us worry; you'll be safe on your sofa.
feel free to fly, we're bullying the skies
a big show to terrify the terrorists
and pacify the patriotic, ample excuse
to continue a war a generation in the waging.
i feel some phantom twitch behind my lips
but can't get my tongue anywhere near my cheek
with this big pacifier in my mouth.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Texas Art Thieves Steal Kahlo, Picasso Paintings
when frida leaves
who can find her?
whether floating over pain's threshold
or sitting up for sudden goodbyes
with minerva's head of sun-fire
where frida goes
who can follow?
neither detective-toting hound dogs
nor rich doctors steeped in picasso and matisse
when she's gone
he who thought to own her
only shrugs, goes on with life
turns to his wife hoping not to be hit again
maybe a skeleton--paper and wire
strapped with dynamite and grinning--
and a black-clad texan thief in mask
were meant to be her only friends
published at newspoetry
when frida leaves
who can find her?
whether floating over pain's threshold
or sitting up for sudden goodbyes
with minerva's head of sun-fire
where frida goes
who can follow?
neither detective-toting hound dogs
nor rich doctors steeped in picasso and matisse
when she's gone
he who thought to own her
only shrugs, goes on with life
turns to his wife hoping not to be hit again
maybe a skeleton--paper and wire
strapped with dynamite and grinning--
and a black-clad texan thief in mask
were meant to be her only friends
published at newspoetry
