Thursday, May 20, 2010

When I was a teenager, I knew a thing or two. I stayed in my room being skinny and having bangs, listening to Bauhaus and lifting 3 lb. weights. I drew pretty good portraits of my own face. I learned to drive stick, and I would drive farther out into the suburbs to go to the mall and walk around drinking Dr. Pepper and chewing candy and being mildly disgusted with the all the . . . people, who seemed to be sinking of their own accord. All the way there, I’d look for the Eagles on the radio, in order to demonstrate that the Eagles are always on the radio and to further demonstrate that—for good or bad—my vocal range exactly matched that of one Don Henley. On the way back, I would listen to Heart or Fleetwood Mac, which reminded me of my childhood in the ‘70s, a time of honest belting and bad vibes. Boys at school would talk to me in class, and I guess I would just look at them or say something weird about The Sorrows of Young Werther or something, because after a while they’d get nervous and blurt out, “I guess that’s how people dress in Europe.” Then we’d both turn around, and class would start.

Shoe Portrait

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

May poem

Monday, May 10, 2010

[poem was here]


Saturday, May 08, 2010

Go For It Program: Morning Advice for the Non-Morning Person

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

1. What are those people saying? I mean, birds.

2. Do not think about what constitutes a "pleasant environment" in the morning. Look at the light. It's probably pleasant.

3. Where does the sunlight fall on your bookshelf? It might be: Howards End, Gilead, The Morgesons, The Brothers Karamazov. I really might organize all this differently.

4. Cheech and Chong voice in my head goes, "Organize your miiiind, man." OK.

5. If you stop paying attention to good or bad things, they stop happening. Or start happening. I read that in a book.

6. Now there's light on Paradise Lost and Celestial Navigation by Anne Tyler.

7. You should try it.

April 30th poem

Saturday, May 01, 2010

Last poem of the April draft-a-day challenge! "It's been real," as my mother used to (embarrassingly) say to store clerks.


While Reluctant to Use the Word Sing, I Am Content to Say Hum

Do starlings argue about whether to put a change
jar in the bedroom? Would a starling sit on the couch
wanting to make poems of birds and light? I can hear
the city grinding itself into the earth, making something
living of itself and airplanes dropping soot from blue
blue sky. Everything is shining and in pain.
(The little girl yesterday at the restaurant looked
at me, then asked her parents, Are the grownups
going to die? Her father-- Don't worry about it.)
It's hard to be loving all the time. Let's try.
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