Thursday, April 20, 2006

Seething in the primordial

Well, I finished something, not so much in the "oh look, I never have to work on that again" sort of way, but in the, "I'm too tired to work on this anymore," sort of experience. All I can do now is sit back, make a few phone calls late at night, and hope that in the end there is some sort of parade. Oh I love a parade.

So being done, I get to do my favorite thing in the whole wide world. Take a day off before starting something else. So that was today. I took a shower, and then tried to brush my teeth. Unfortunately, I was still pretty tired and my toothpaste tube quite strongly resembles my shaving lotion tube. Mango-vanilla shaving lotion just does not leave your mouth feeling all that fresh. So Wednesday, for all its humpy promises, would prove askew.

I did make one insight which i am pleased with however, regarding an earlier post which I cannot remember the name of. Anyway, I rant a bit against the New Yorker for publishing a good too many poets of reknown, and I want to amend that, because it seems harsh, but I still think its fair(fair as a criticism, unfair that they do so). The problem is one of appreciation. We've a bit too much of it. I know Frank O'Hara is a great poet. Anyone who knows anything about poetry knows Frank O'hara is a great poet. What I don't know, is who the next cornerstone of the next peotic school is going to be (actually I sort of do, its Jonathan Skinner with his Ecopoetics).

What The New Yorker's brutal insistence on not publishing more new poetry and less old poetry is they are not really interested in poetry. They don't have that feel for finding what is new, and more importantly, having the stones to say what is good and what is not. There are not many people today who are willing to say anything is either too good or too bad. When the New Yorker chooses to offer Elizabeth Bishop as a selection, it isn't because they are making this revolutionary case that her work should be read, the vast number of books of and about her work does that, it is because they don't know what's good today, and are unwilling to hang their hat on judgement of new work. They're just going to wait 30 years for todays classics to be regarded as classics.

Friday, April 14, 2006

I have nothing important to say right now.

I guess this is going to be more of a live journal style post than I am hoping the blog will actually be. I just haven't had a chance to get to any readings or even had time to sit down with some of the new stuff I picked up a couple weeks back, Povel and the latest issue of NOON. Looking forward to those, especially Povel. The idea of the text just sounds fantastic, a poetry/novel, and it won FenceBook's Modern Poet Series award 2005.

There is the sound of an ice cream truck outside. Inside I have Radiohead, Band of Horses, and The Magnetic Fields. There was jazz earlier coming through the ceiling, which I always really appreciate. It's been quite an experience living above a jazz saxophone player and beneath a jazz bassist. Good for the writing, which I've been doing so so much of it feels like I have coming out of my pours.

The ice cream truck is actually rather creepy when I think about. It's too close to being one of things you'd hear late at night in an alley when you're lost and it ends of being some sort of insame clown It sort of thing. Evil clowns, such a dicotomy. I have no idea how to spell that, and I am on a big anti-spell check kick.

More button pushing I guess.

This was really a terrible post.

I am ashamed of it.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

The The or A Small Proclivity Toward Hope and Reclamation

Alright, its getting to be that time. Seems like its earlier and earlier every single time. I remember the days when you actually had to wait for the actual year to roll around. Okay, not really. It hasn't been like that for a while. Since before I was a small blastocyte in my mom's belly.

Anyway, here's the dream: Gore/Obama 2008.

I can see that losing, mind you, but only if they screw the pooch while tripping over their own feet in front of transvestite prostitute.

Since the people of this country
SEEM to have finally realized what a lackluster leader they have in Bushisimo, and they are finally disapproving of the Wars, the lack of Osama capturing, and the obstinant refusal to address the serious issues of human ecological impact, alongside the rampant, corrupt abuses of power, weeeeeeell maybe there is a platform the dems could put together (its not like the GOP is handing them the ticket or anything, oh wait).

So thats the dream, and here's the threat: If anyone other than McCain beats the Dems, I quit. I'm selling my shit and moving to france to work on a Vineyard. I've said all of this before, but this time I mean it. Not that I think anyone could be as awful, evil, downright bad as these assholes running the show right now, but if you can't win coming off the most categorically detrimental administration in the history of this country, then you have no business in politics. Hell, I could win this campaign with a one-eyed mule and a bucket of manure.

Al, Barack, get to work!

Sunday, April 02, 2006

The Mirror, the Rabbit, and the whole shebang

Today a woman told me that the when my time comes the pearly gates are standing open for me.

This was most certainly appreciated on my part considering how the previous two days had gone. Those days weren't all bad, had some awesome people to hang with after the f*cked up sh!te, but everything looked gray as grey even though it was definately black and white, but thats what waking up is all about, in the night, when you have wait while the eyes peel apart the velvety shadows and show all those intricately woven gradiations of scale.

I'm hoping to keep this ambiguous, so excuse the language of we(s) and they(s) and the tone. Stepping through the mirror is one thing, jumping down the rabbit hole is another.

But which is the more frightening of the two? The hole looks deep, but the colors are brighter at the bottom. The mirror though, well it all looks the same, but the colors are just a tad off. They're slanted, askew if you will, and
it's in the colors, that barrier keeping you from stepping through, not because you can't, but because you won't let yourself; because you are afraid.

It isn't the colors you are afraid of. The colors are just a tad off, and there is no real harm in that, other than not being able to get the walls right under the brush. What scares you is that if those colors are just a tad off, doesn't that mean you are just a tad off? And since deep down we know how precariously we are each poised, being a tad off is too much a chance of falling. So we (all) get scared, but
they step back, and we're still staring over it. We step through, we jump, because we know falling is the first step in flying.