my eyes hurt. my teeth are throbbing gently in the gums. i feel very heavy. and i'm starving. i can't talk to anyone--i don't deserve to talk to anyone.
you know what dylan thomas said. they used it in 4 weddings and a funeral. i don't feel like that. it's possible i just don't have the capacity. it's possible i'm doing it again--pushing myself, testing out how far i can go before i break. but i've never broken yet. which means i've never gone far enough.
stop all the clocks. i don't feel like that. i mean, i want to know. i want to break.
i broke once. on the street corner next to city hall. it was kind of like something out of lermontov. this is why a hero of our time is one of my favorite books, even though i will probably never read it again.
i broke a little in boswell's.
i broke in controlled swells in the bathroom at the california theatre. i guess that doesn't count.
i'm so sorry. i hope you know how sorry i am. i hope you know how extremely sorry i am.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
interests
1.
hell or high water
on the twelfth day o' december
i'm with you in rockland,
carl wethers and
lillian shapiro shapiro shapiro
and william h. macy
and that guy over there the one standing up
on a promontory strafed by the wine-dark surf.
it was screaming all day long
into the rain
there was no matter, clarice--
you already knew she was going to die.
(twelfth day o' december.)
shut up and take it like
it was meant to be taken.
stop whining like a little rat dog
with its little rat tail in a little pink purse and the tail thumps the sides.
(twelfth day o' december.)
glass eyes and a clockwork tail
that thumps on the floor.
(twelfth day o' december.)
thump thump.
thump thump.
2.
it likes to be stoic.
it makes itself a daisy chain out of fucking daisies
and little hopes and dreams and a dress with an apron.
and it's like ooh i'm so stoic check out my apron.
god damnit i want it to die
i want to hit it over the head with a frying pan
and make up for 24 years of lost time.
3.
GRAUGH AUGH MRAUGH AURRR CRAAH AURDGH MORGGRAH
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND MIKE McCLURE.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND SADIE HAWKINS.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND DAYS OF OUR LIVES
LUCY SNOWE
JIGOKU HEN
THE REAPERS WITH THEIR SILENT SWINGING
OUR HUNTING FATHERS
WIN A DATE WITH TAD HAMILTON
THE DAY THAT LADY DIED
SKETCHES OF SPAIN
WINTER WHEN NO FLOWER
MISHIMA'S ST. SEBASTIAN
RED SCHARLACH
AND THAT GUY IN SPIDER-MAN WHO WAS MADE OUT OF SAND WITH A FIST LIKE A BOMB.
YEAH, I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND, BOMB-FISTED SAND GUY.
4.
neophyte angels with tongue-twisting names
on the sun-cracked streets of laredo looking for a bit of play
space space
dendribium orchids
and dendrobiums and phylliums and ondridiums
concupiscent
on a scented pillow
like something out of anne rice.
fuckin' music, papiols, come.
play on, bitches. play on.
(twelfth day o' december.)
to have a billion-track mind.
jimmy cracked corn and
unleashed the dogs of war and
his eyes were green as leeks.
and yellow cowslip cheeks, lady,
i barely knew ye.
5.
she was so beautiful and so talented.
where the hell is that fucking music?
Monday, June 18, 2007
blah blah-ologist
it interests me nearly that van gogh could know the potato eaters for a masterpiece. (because everything i hear, see, read, taste, smell or touch--everything i experience, in fact, except for pain--gets processed through me at an alarming rate--i'm not bragging; it is alarming; i continuously have to go back for obscure pieces of my comprehensions that i didn't realize i'd absorbed in order to get to where i've got, consequentially my ratiocination is not so much full of holes as just soaked, you know? jumbled? doing something quickly doesn't entail doing it well. anyway, because of this, finding out about van gogh means something to me, and i recognize that it's something not necessarily intrinsic to van gogh. like janie with her meshes, i'm checking it out.)
i realize that a lot--most--of the things that are on this blog are crap. they aren't always unnecessary crap, i guess, but they lack dimension. i write them because i think someone would like to see them, or because they relieve a piece of consciousness that sits heavier than a denny's meal on my insides (i do like denny's; i just don't like how it makes me feel). poetry's hard because it's like singing: i have to superintend the feeling. the process is by no means obvious. and every once in a while i get it, but most of the time i fuck it up.
my point is thus: i'm no van gogh, but i know--i'm fairly sure--that the "dream leaven and dream" poems are, not good, but the best i've done thus far. it's quite possible they're not publishable. they don't make any sense; they're overly self-involved; the words in them are like stones in a field under the jackhammer (but, you know, less good than that would imply). hopefully they pass the point of comprehension without being incomprehendable. what they mean is a flavor, a texture, something past the point of "meaning," right? but they're furry, like a lollipop in a couch. they're improper. they're not good. they're too personal--they're like laura riding's in that sense.
i have no idea, in short, how to quantify the fact that i believe in them more than i do in other stuff i've done. even ed wood, even that "facets IV," which i like alot, is just goofing around. i believe in "facets V," but you can't have that without the first 4, and 1 and 2 are playthings, and 3 is overly, stuffily portentous.
i did some poems before i came on here, after i'd...gotten mused, i guess (did you know that v has a wonderful plan for your life?), and some of those were good. but i abandoned them because i thought that they were too traditional. can you stand it? of course nothing exists in a vacuum. millions of people more talented than i have things to say. if i can't run with the curve, i'd probably best get out the kitchen (way to mix a metaphor).
i don't know. i just don't know. (i'll have to take it up with my sales manager). h.d. meant every word of "helen of egypt." but niedecker might not have meant every word of her thomas jefferson poems, and those are just as beautiful.
the point is, it's okay if my poems are unacceptable. i'm not saying that's what makes them great, but i'm taking leave to believe in them--only a select few, however--despite probably-deserved rejection. does that make any sense? maybe i only believe in the state of mind i was in while writing them? self-doubt, with bells on, ladies and gentlemen.
i realize that a lot--most--of the things that are on this blog are crap. they aren't always unnecessary crap, i guess, but they lack dimension. i write them because i think someone would like to see them, or because they relieve a piece of consciousness that sits heavier than a denny's meal on my insides (i do like denny's; i just don't like how it makes me feel). poetry's hard because it's like singing: i have to superintend the feeling. the process is by no means obvious. and every once in a while i get it, but most of the time i fuck it up.
my point is thus: i'm no van gogh, but i know--i'm fairly sure--that the "dream leaven and dream" poems are, not good, but the best i've done thus far. it's quite possible they're not publishable. they don't make any sense; they're overly self-involved; the words in them are like stones in a field under the jackhammer (but, you know, less good than that would imply). hopefully they pass the point of comprehension without being incomprehendable. what they mean is a flavor, a texture, something past the point of "meaning," right? but they're furry, like a lollipop in a couch. they're improper. they're not good. they're too personal--they're like laura riding's in that sense.
i have no idea, in short, how to quantify the fact that i believe in them more than i do in other stuff i've done. even ed wood, even that "facets IV," which i like alot, is just goofing around. i believe in "facets V," but you can't have that without the first 4, and 1 and 2 are playthings, and 3 is overly, stuffily portentous.
i did some poems before i came on here, after i'd...gotten mused, i guess (did you know that v has a wonderful plan for your life?), and some of those were good. but i abandoned them because i thought that they were too traditional. can you stand it? of course nothing exists in a vacuum. millions of people more talented than i have things to say. if i can't run with the curve, i'd probably best get out the kitchen (way to mix a metaphor).
i don't know. i just don't know. (i'll have to take it up with my sales manager). h.d. meant every word of "helen of egypt." but niedecker might not have meant every word of her thomas jefferson poems, and those are just as beautiful.
the point is, it's okay if my poems are unacceptable. i'm not saying that's what makes them great, but i'm taking leave to believe in them--only a select few, however--despite probably-deserved rejection. does that make any sense? maybe i only believe in the state of mind i was in while writing them? self-doubt, with bells on, ladies and gentlemen.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
heimat
persephone redux
1. english breakfast
i said i hate to beat a dead horse but i'm freaking lying. i love it. i can't get enough. i see a dead horse and i just go to town.
2. whiplash
i like ice cream but it's more a second date sort of dessert. first date dessert is like pussy. no, it's like vodka. yeah. it's the drink you have after you get home from the date and go oh my fucking god what did i just do?--that's the true first date dessert. you savor that drink. pussy's, like, a third date dessert.
3. i love you, vicky/vicky, i you love/you love vicky, i
when picknicking in the park an effluvia, an excess of fizzy drinks is necessary at the outset. to defray the expense i reccomend a pencil sharpener, a wallet, a lava cake, some dark receptacle. a train tunnel, maybe. sometimes i'm at work snapping on my latex gloves and all i really want to be is one of the tongue depressors in the jar on the counter, all wooden and ready for tonguing.
4. player
hold me down.
5. in the sky with diamonds
lately i'm not half the man i used to be. fortunately this isn't a problem because people want me to be this other guy, this new man, who's, like, basically equivalent to approximately one half of the former me, so it all works out. i think. i'm not great at math.
1. english breakfast
i said i hate to beat a dead horse but i'm freaking lying. i love it. i can't get enough. i see a dead horse and i just go to town.
2. whiplash
i like ice cream but it's more a second date sort of dessert. first date dessert is like pussy. no, it's like vodka. yeah. it's the drink you have after you get home from the date and go oh my fucking god what did i just do?--that's the true first date dessert. you savor that drink. pussy's, like, a third date dessert.
3. i love you, vicky/vicky, i you love/you love vicky, i
when picknicking in the park an effluvia, an excess of fizzy drinks is necessary at the outset. to defray the expense i reccomend a pencil sharpener, a wallet, a lava cake, some dark receptacle. a train tunnel, maybe. sometimes i'm at work snapping on my latex gloves and all i really want to be is one of the tongue depressors in the jar on the counter, all wooden and ready for tonguing.
4. player
hold me down.
5. in the sky with diamonds
lately i'm not half the man i used to be. fortunately this isn't a problem because people want me to be this other guy, this new man, who's, like, basically equivalent to approximately one half of the former me, so it all works out. i think. i'm not great at math.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)