Monday, April 17, 2006
worth millions of monkeys at typwriters producing thousands of words
Saturday, April 15, 2006
WHY I SING THE BLUES
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
"Actually, I do have to wear this dress tonight, and it IS right."
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Excerpt from Alan Ginsberg's "Footnote To Howl"
Labels: poesies
"Mathrimony" by Keith Allen Daniels
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.
Labels: poesies
"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.
Labels: poesies
postsecret stockpile 4
Enjoy.