Friday, June 25, 2010


"Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be

A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace..."

From "Paradoxes and Oxymorons" by John Ashbery


Too tired to post.
Completely covered in cat fur.
Ready to head to bed -- must get some rest before BBQ for breakfast at Snow's!

Have a good week, everyone.
Here's hoping I find some nice rusty things for pix.

Friday, June 18, 2010


"In the future, I imitate an imagined trumpet sound
Or the brilliant purple words of a man or woman I haven’t met yet..."

From "Very Strong February" by Bernadette Mayer


One big fat dream last night, of myself and a friend bobbing in the middle of the Pacific ocean, nothing to see except water and incredibly tall waves that never crested. We rode the waves up, then down into the troughs, and finally saw a tiny island, an atoll really, far off.

The waves pushed us there, and the island was not much bigger than a small room.
But the very few people on it were friendly.

I hope your week was a good one; I hope this week brings you lots of brilliant purple words and large, benign waves.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Behind Ginny's Little Longhorn

"Wires and pipes, snapped off at the roots, quiver.

Well, that is what life does. I stare
A moment longer..."

From "An Urban Convalescence" by James Merrill


I feel a little like this truck. Or is it that I feel more like those clouds? Difficult to say, but I will say this about James Merrill.

A number of years ago, when I lived in New York City, I heard that James Merrill was going to read some of his poems someplace downtown, I can't recall where. Of course I was going -- there was no way I was NOT going.

I was waiting for the bus that would take me downtown when two young men came near. One of them began talking to me and handed me an invitation to a church. He urged me to go to their service that night. I told him I couldn't -- I needed to see and hear a poet read some poems, thank you very much. Besides, wasn't art a form of church?

He got a little huffy, and waved towards the crowd of rush-hour working folks crossing the street, an inimitably world-weary hustle and flow:
"Do those people look happy? They need God to be happy, not art!"

"Ah," I said, "their problem is that they have too little art -- if they only read more poetry and looked at more paintings, they'd all be much happier!"

My unnamed accoster snorted in scorn while his partner-in-proselytization could barely stifle his giggles. The bus pulled up, and I said, "Last chance -- I'll go to your church with you both tonight, but you have to go to the poetry reading with me now!"

I got on the bus; they stayed on the pavement.

Merrill was splendid, magical -- he arrived swathed in an elegant red-lined cape and read his beautiful, ormolu verse in a voice that made them seem the most natural things in the world to say.

And when I left...I was happy.

I hope you're happy. And if not, let's meet here and look for more art.

Friday, June 04, 2010

Low heaven

ailanthus, the courtyard’s poverty tree is spike
and wing, slate-blue..."

From "Ornithology" by Lynda Hull


Reading for work, then reading for class...from the changing interface of sales and marketing to the Prague Spring to thinking about Spero's helicopters.

Thank goodness there's a cat asleep next to me.

Have a good week, all y'all.