Category: Entertainment
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Giving Up Reading News — from 58 poems written at 29
…is harder than hearing. How you shatter Bones as a boy before the season Ends and you ache to even the score And return to the team, or take a sick Gardener’s groaning for the great outdoors Or a landlocked lady of the water Or a shut-in sailor. Soon you will find the lane to…
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Vanilla — from 58 poems written at 29
Vanilla bean never annunciates tastes So great as when the grave gravity of beer Powers it in its wake like a primed river Boat or a barge or beluga whales Who wave at the sea and wake the deep In the slash of that split spade of leather And blubber and blowholes. It breaks the…
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Baltimore Buildings
…are a weird weave. Windows, for instance, Speak of the seasons of certain men In America and their Maids — of the Michigan sticky And Virginia giant juniper leaves And the Boston bricks baking and the drenched Patoka tempest that tidally rises The rivers nine. Read of the south’s And the northern nuance’s names and acts…
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Megabus Moon Roof — from 58 poems written at 29
The overpass eats, opens like The Dark To swallow the shuffle. See how the glass Of our double decker darkens and the ear Is silence-shuttered? Space comes to mind Millennium Falcon’s maiden plunge In the belly of the beast. Back when Han Was still scared of sharper teeth And the bowels of bore worms the…
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Daylight and the Stand — from 58 poems written at 29
…anyways authors arm their minds With the rinds of ruined rights and their power To bind black burdens of fears That find them flailing in the ferret holes Of vain environs developers dug Out of stone or stock, steel or river Like holes in holy hearths or the essence of elements like earth. Earning your…
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McCluhan and the Message of Mediums
When I was ten, they took me to my first art museum. By “they” I don’t mean the inevitable ethereal “they” like “they say cell phones cause cancer now.” I mean my teachers spent one of the many field trips sprinkled throughout my elementary school career driving us all to an art museum thirty minutes…
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WordPress Subscribers: Some Days the Internet Gets Mad at Me
Newton’s Third Law of Blogging: If you spend a good chunk of your life barking at the internet by calling it a distraction and a destabilizer and disintegrator of relationships, eventually the internet will bite back. Yesterday, those of you old guard still subscribed to this site’s old Wordpress email following received 92 emails from the WordPress server for…
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My Idea is not My Identity. And You are Not Your Ideas.
I see this “my idea” problem all the time with creatives, artists, makers, and muse-oriented folk. Artist gets an idea. Artist smeagols idea. Artist hoards idea and pampers idea until idea multiplies like black mold. Artist scares off — or kills off — anyone who comes anywhere near idea. Artist finally releases idea. Idea flops because…
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CSA Potluck — from 58 poems written at 29
Ciders spiked and the simmering wild rice that she rendered in a root soup for the CSA staff and Martín as we planned produce. Patience is a talked dialog dance. We drive one another nutso with no thought To listen along out of love for the mind Of fellow men: we fight for time to…
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Evil is My Disease — from 58 poems written at 29
Boethius claimed badness or the wicked Or evil is a disease, even as weakness Wanes the body. Well, then, I Am so sick, my friend. See my shakes? See my quaking? Soothing balms Of wiser words evade my mind And its dreaming machine. A dry and an arid Landscape was seeded along the trenches Of…
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Yoke of the Mother — from 58 poems written at 29
A Queen is a King who carries the weight Of the world within her. Enwombing the younglings And entombing their titles, taking their passings On a pilgrimage or a parade. Powder she spreads — The ashes of embers that echo the flames Of memories marking men and their gains And lovings or leavings. The leftovers…
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A Drizzle in Brooklyn — from 58 poems written at 29
A drizzle in downtown Duenweg is something Like my wife waking and the water of her shower Misting me while I make my chin Clean with the cutting. The crisp mist Is a walk by a wayward water fountain Or a splash pad. Spread the mist Over the evening and aim it at me And…