Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I tired taking a nap in the grass today, but it my eyes weren't black enough. It was also very hot, very nice hot, but hot on my jeans which are the wrong pants to wear while basking in the sun. I tried to sleep with my arm over my eyes but I was so afraid that I would fall asleep and have a strange arm-over-face tan that it didn't work. When I rolled onto my stomach I was much more comfortable. My eyes weren't red, and it was cool on my tummy. With my face that close to the grass I could hear the all the snaps and shearing from the bugs crawling around. I didn't move although I felt them crawling over my arms. I was close to the grass. The grass smelled like wheat grass and I remembered the small plastic cups that Jamba Juice serve wheat grass shots in. I didn't fall asleep.
- For the past three days Yahoo has had diet tips on the front page.
- The guy sitting next to me is looking at pictures of food. He's looking at really well made pictures of food, and looks at them for a long time. And he coughs a lot. It's too hard to concentrate.
- I had a chocolate croissant for breakfast.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
1968 Spiegel Catalogue
it’s bare-armed to keep you cool
all summer long
bow and streamers in back
The mom looks at the daughter looks
at the sister whose skirt comes just above the knees.
The mother looks at the daughter looks
at the dress and sees the flat curve where
breasts should be, at the flounce at the hip
where hips should be. Later that evening,
after the roast and the potatoes are scraped into the
trash, she will unpin her hair.
She will sit on their bed and kick off her white heels.
Hair unpinned she removes her dress, showered
with stay-in pleats, and picks up from the floor
her daughter’s dress, garden-full of flowers on a float
and slips it over her head. Shivers before the mirror
bare-armed, hand washable, her breasts push outward
her hips almost visible against the celanese,
fortel, polyester and avril rayon blend.
She swatches her bare thighs back
and forth, and closes her eyes a little.
It’s just a dance in this moment, it’s just a foil for the roast
and potatoes, it’s just a jackknife hammered into her heart.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Cloud to surface charges move downward in (approx.)
Thunder is a result of lightning.
The air around the lightning bolt is heated to extremely high temperatures
Approximate speed of sound: 761 mph (at sea level).
Thursday, April 3, 2008
It's twelve o'clock. And by 1:00 pm I need to have painted an exquisite array of hands. If we're talking in terms of realisitcally I don't think that's going to happen. Probably because I've decided to do this instead. So.
Let's talk about poetry, as it is the "Hallmark of Poetry Month." And let's talk about crap poetry, as it's easier than talking about good poetry.
Has anyone ever read a good sestina? I'm genuinely curious as I find it the most repugnant form for a poem. Worse than knowing your towel is moldy and taking a big streamlined whiffle full anyway. (You need to know good ol' southern-humid-towel-mold to fully appreciate the awfulness of the sestina). I have a feeling it's the general idea of it that makes them so bad, but perhaps it's just that every example of a sestina has just sounded like the writer is desperately trying to kill themselves via making the worst poem possible full of the stupidest ideas that (due to the form contraints) end up being repeated on and on for 39 lines. (Thus killing themselves through a cycle of deep depression, insecurites, reduced libido, headaches, nausea, blindess etc.)
I do like a good pantoum, however. There's this one: it's really good. I can't find it. I've spent a lot of time looking through poetrymagazine.org, and it's not happening for me. It's in a book at home, and I'll find it, and fix this now dead post. I am committing the same suicide as the dillusional sestina writer...
Perhaps now I'll paint.