Monday, April 17, 2006

worth millions of monkeys at typwriters producing thousands of words

Saturday, April 15, 2006


B.B. King - If You Love Me

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

"Actually, I do have to wear this dress tonight, and it IS right."

The Police/ Sting - Roxanne

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Excerpt from Alan Ginsberg's "Footnote To Howl"

Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas! Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana hipsters peace & junk & drums! Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the mysterious rivers of tears under the streets! Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!


"Mathrimony" by Keith Allen Daniels

Calculating with exactitude
the definitive parameters
of his connubial existence,
the mathematical genius
considers for the nth time
the exquisite irony of marrying
a woman whose "math anxiety"
was nearly phobic in its intensity.

Perhaps her sexuality index, s,
appearing as it did
in the numerator of his equation
(where, raised to a very high power
indeed, it compensated
for various fault factors
in the denominator), had much
to do with it. But man
does not live on bed alone,
and the import of other variables,
equally complex, does not escape him.

He considers the possible solutions,
real and imaginary,
all neatly arrayed on the foolscap
of his cerebral cortex,
and realizes with dismay that,
despite their abiding love
for one another, he and his wife
had chosen asymptotic pathways
through life's topography:

always getting closer and closer,
the chasm between them
growing smaller and smaller forever,
they would never quite coincide.
He smiles, recognizing a good thing
when he sees it. Besides, not being
numbers, they could always
reach across the gap.


"The Law" by Eugene Gloria

When the civil guards approached me
and asked me for my papers,

I pictured the face of a sunny saint
being disemboweled on the rack.

Widows in perennial black, addicts of prayer,
find comfort here the way monks

in hair shirts must take to penance,
or me, addled in my blissed-out days

in San Francisco, tugging daily on a roach.
And that's how I must've been,

befogged in Ávila on a visit
that coincided with the papal tour.

A murder of crows, clerics, nuns in wimples,
tarring the field with their black habits.

St. Francis de Sales dispenses, "The measure
of love is to love without measure."

This republic of goodness
was once peopled with spies. Maybe

that's what got the saints in trouble,
their willingness to surrender

once found out. I know authority
when I see it make a U-turn to pull me over.

I also know that the Burgos Christ
in pageant-red skirt is tethered to a story,

its weals and welts, blue-black,
the wounds Nicodemus witnessed as he

lowered Jesus, alone in his discarded body.
The carving by Nicodemus

would one day float its way
first to a monastery, then to Burgos.

When the civil guards approached me
and asked me for my papers,

I felt for a string around my neck, my scapular
like a leaf pressed on the road of pistils and stamens.

That moment stood
for something I can no longer recall.

What with those men and their gift
of whiteness, their constant need of proof.

I must've smiled at them, clueless yet longing
to be profound.

Excerpt from "Elena Ceauçescu's Bed" by W.D. Snodgrass

There'll be just one bed, too soon, for us all.
What empire's hacked out by the meek, the kind?
The lioness kills; the lion feasts; the small
Bury their noses in what's left behind.


postsecret stockpile 4

To restate my rationale for doing this: These postcards disappear off of the PostSecret site after a week or so, to make room for the next week's batch of secrets. I think that the old secrets needn't die for the new, so I'm archiving them in fits and spits.