Shaken and Stirred
bond, gwenda bond

saturday pleasures (and some poems)
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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.


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
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.


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

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