Friday, June 17, 2005
On The Scent
I. Sounds Like Dinner
are amplifying those sections of carpet
in the sunlight. Or
a radio desultorily weaves
brown, tan and grey curls
of polyester...This loom unravels
on the last pages
of the down-turned novel.
A denouement of hunger
towards the kitchen. Your hand on the ice tray.
Your body against the light. A slip
over the story. Unfinished. Leaving
a bread-trail of pages.
II. Death Toll
The space before me was a road,
an overlay of lichen, a plateau where trees
were flattened to the height of a man. Behind,
a foolscap page with the signs
of a traceless murder: eraser-hairs, abrasive valleys
and rifts of pen depressions.
The telephone number was a key,
untouched by arithmetic. A convention of wanting
to speak. A blotter filled with marginalia:
curly-headed boys with tails and horns,
a Cheshire-Cat smile of missing teeth, an aerial
making ripples in the paper.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
What is a subway poem?
I sometimes write subway poems. This is one of them.
Would you like to know what a subway poem is? I assume the answer is 'Yes'. Well then, here is a subway poem.
A subway poem is a poem written in the subway during a single journey.
A subway poem has as many lines as your journey has stations, minus one.
The first line is composed in your head between the first two stations of your journey (counting the station of departure).
It is written down on paper when the train pulls into station two.
The second line is composed in your head between stations two and three of your journey.
It is written down on paper when the train pulls into station three. And so on.
You cannot write when the train is in motion.
You cannot compose when the train has stopped.
The last line is written on the platform of your last station.
If your journey requires several train changes, then your poem will have several verses or more.
If, unluckily, your train stops between stations, that's always a tough call when writing your subway poem.
after the French of Jacques Jouet
Friday, June 10, 2005
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Dieric BOUTS (1415 - 1475)
'How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its sun? Whither does it now move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards, sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as through infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has it not become colder? Does not night come on continually, darker and darker? Shall we not have to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not hear the noise of the grave-diggers who are burying God?'
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Alison in the Drawer
It speaks across the sage, a warm
braid that you let fly. The skylight
accepts the pair of us.
Just now, where a tight memory
drops and has you rake up the leaves,
is only one of three.
Let me frame you in that flaky light:
bronzed and distant like a whim
I've never recovered. Just unmade.
And that's my point about opulence:
tough like rock candy.
A facet that glides imperceptibly
between the equally dispersed
horizon and the day's
decreasing quota of work.