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2004-03-20 2:05 PM saturday pleasures (and some poems) Read/Post Comments (4) |
Dark chocolate caramels (pronounced carmel here, most of the time) brought by post, along with books and a lovely CD. The first day of spring brings with it bursts of sunlight, followed by bursts of little thunderstorms, and a hint of mugginess. George the Dog and I have already been for a walk this morning and I've hefted dumbbells at the gym. Groceries have been bought, my office is clean, my work laid out before me. What more can a girl ask for?
Later we will go see ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND, and while I'm looking forward to it, I'll be secretly wishing it was VAN HELSING. I had things to say about things I've been thinking about, about some things I've seen around places on the net lately that bother me, but who cares? It would really just be procrastination, and convince nobody of nothing (sic). (Also, cranberry/blueberry juice splashed in lime sparkling water.) Two poems instead, far more eloquent. It's time to repost my favorite Gloria Frym poem. (If anyone ever sees a collection by Frym, please buy it for me and I'll reimburse.) Training for the Apocalypse for J Consider the will to love as the decision to survive. That's how the agents of Eros operate. They sneak into your dreams just before the world ends. And this one by the marvelous and wondrous Alan DeNiro from his "atari ecologues" series. j Reset. I won't expect endings to end-- as long as the power's on, I'll chew pixie sticks and cellar bubbles, think that perhaps Lawrence Welk is the eater of worlds. In the restaurant, a woman from the other windowside mouths, Loser, to me. Gives me an L- sign with her game-over hands. Not at 13, I'm 27. The now, the current place bookmarked. I heartily agree, we're all losers, goners, husks waiting for money to come back, to hear the words you were not cheated by someone in authority, even though we know we won't. Death smells like shoe polish, never one's favorite star. ---- All right, maybe just one more from Alan. s If you want to write you must be the billygoat and the bear, the asterisk and the ampersand. Language is its own astigmatism, a semi- precious tangle of common bird feathers in the middle of the scrub. Not in a collector's trunk, beneath the stuffed elk. In between pauses of breath-- slid slid slid away god i'm a fuckup --& other mouthed incantatories, paper cranes & airplanes fold themselves back into smooth reams of paper. The body is clumsy, analog. What kills you makes you stronger, or at least verbose. As you stare at the blankety-blank paper, a quagmire of branches rasps at the window with your sentence. (I hope you don't mind me posting these here, Ptarmigan -- anyone who does not own this fine chapbook should high thee to here and order one.) worm: "Oh What a World," Rufus Wainwright today's fave post: Michaelangelo rants on Nirvana and Prince and other stuff namecheck: Barth "Wordblog" Anderson Read/Post Comments (4) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top |
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