oh shoot

Join the blacklist.

i'm sad about my country

Dear little fucking mirage of a civilization
What is the fucking story with gun control
What the devil is y’all up to
Why does every deranged fuckup have a gun or a father who has one
What is with your children
Your airport security
Your screw-up police department
What is with those NRA dicks and their scum-money
I want to warn you
I’m visiting your fucked up chimera in two weeks
And I’m gonna buy a rifle down at Kmart
If there is still a Kmart
And blow a fucking hole in all of yas
If anything happens to my children

from the titular kingdom, part I

A is for Akond
B is for Blue
C is for Come in
D is for Dog

titularities

Got a submission ready this morning then suffered a last-minute crisis. I put it all in the envelope with the nagging feeling that one of the titles is wrong. Because I like the poem I told myself the title was secondary. But the more I thought about the title, the dumber it seemed. I was at least partly psyching myself out. But rather than suffer a two-day struggle session over it and sit on the sub, I’m leaving the poem out.

I knew I would get crazy when I started flipping through titles of poems looking for a jolt. (Now “jolt” is good, can I wriggle that in?). The search helped not at all, except in showing how may unremarkable titles are out there. Here's a chunk of what I turned up:

Acquisition * Race * Luck * A Man in Pearls * Consumed * The Overcoat * Desire * August Day * White Flannel Trousers * Sonnet * Obsession * The Deathmask of El Gaucho * Amputees * Glad All Over * Romancing the Bay Mare * Solitude * Voyage * Sandals * President of the Flat Earth Society Dies * Infinity

OK, which of those would you read first? Certainly those that are a little different are more enticing, but I’m sure most of us have resorted to generics once in a while. Of course, once you read the poem the title may be weirdly perfect. But I didn’t read these poems.

In other news, I got a rejection from Rosebud yesterday, one year and seven months after I submitted. Oh, with ink.

Been there, done that

Finished 30:30 at ITWS, & hope to get a poem or two out of it. The good thing is you get your arm twisted to write. So you can rant or just flex your sonic tenderloins. You can also be forced to write something you've been meaning to write. And no one says you suck.
On the downside, since part of the point is to buck everybody up, you're not allowed to discourage. So when someone says to me, "yer fabulous," it could just mean "Thanks for not making me read anything like what you wrote yesterday." And "Wow, I loved the end," could just mean "Sarah, I thank God this came to an end!"

30. Subway Station (Morning’s heft hangs lurid)
29. Stone (Red leaves smatter cobblestone)
28. Read my Lips (The crick in my neck comes from caring.)
27. For Crying Out Loud (oh the crumpled wing of it all)
26. Tinder Box (Burnt Sienna: the fence along my mother’s yard, spanning the lawn like a long silence)
25. Biergarten (My homesickness outlasts hades’ blazes)
24. Summer Staples (Back where I come from)
23. Wine Reviews (A round young wine that can’t concentrate)
22. Notice in the Window(Dear students)
21. The Deal (I’m taking back my scream.)

Coverlettering my Butt

When I send a cover letter with a submission, I keep to the point and avoid being funny, fawning, arrogant, etc. I don’t know who’s going to be on the other end. My cover letters run pretty much: 1) this is a submission; 2) my poems are X-Y-Z; 3) I’ve been published in A,B & C (sometimes I omit this); and 4) thanks for your time.

If the guidelines ask for something like a bio, I include that. If they accept simultaneous subs but want to know right off, I tell them.

That’s about it. I have, on occasion, mentioned something I enjoyed about the journal, whether a particular poem, or layout, or column or whatever. But I feel inhibited saying “I loved your last issue,” or “You’re one of my favorite publications.” Isn’t that brown-nosing? I mean, even if it is one of my sincere cross-my-heart-hope-to-die favorites?

So I was reading juked today for the first time after Arlene mentioned she’d have a poem there. The guidelines go:

“Warning: If it's obvious you're just mailing out something you wrote to every single publication without actually knowing who the hell you're writing to, i.e., you don't know what we put up, nor do you care, you simply want someone, anyone, to publish that precious story you wrote in a stroke of alcohol-induced genius about rotting zombies hijacking convertibles for joyrides, we'll know, we'll cackle gleefully and forward your e-mail address on to our resident juju doctor, who'll know best what to do with it. We will, and we love to cackle.”

I really liked juked. The latest poems there are by Lisa Zaran and Jack Conway, two poets I like. I certainly can imagine submitting, but I’m just curious if there are other poets out there who mention in cover letters why they’re submitting to a particular place, in general. Obviously at juked, you need to say something, um, about why you love them so much. smile.

Alter egos

Hi there. I’m the unsupervised suitcase at the airport.

Hello. I’m the fungal beard growing on your yoghurt.

Hi folks. My name is Marty
& I’m gonna be your waiter tonight.

PLR

The new Pebble Lake Review is online.

new joe

Dear boss!

Thanks for this machine with its twenty-seven buttons! Scarlet Johansson can keep her curvy figure – I adore this machine’s tall rectangularity. And the sound effect! Frruuurrrr, frrruuuurrrr! Dear boss! I know how you worry about money. In an office full of mechanical and technological apparatus, it is striking that the one thing on your desk is a calculator. So besides you, I would like to thank that calculator for being a friend to this machine. Can I say generous? Can I say munificent? Beneficent? Magnanimous? Can I say the Koran backwards? I wish!

It's a boy

Our new au pair, Maxim, arrived Friday from Russia. The kids are in heaven. We were always a little wary of having a young man, but after years of au-pair girls, I guess it’s time to admit that one moody female in the house is enough.

Let’s see… we’ve had Muriel from France, Sabine from Germany, Tatjana from Estonia, Xenia from Russia, Monica from Bulgaria, Darina from Russia and Maryna from the Ukraine. A couple of them were wonderful. But one was a drinker and heroin dabbler, one was a thief and another sat in the dark in the living room listening to Billie Holiday sing Gloomy Sunday and Strange Fruit.

Darina recommended Maxim. Since we liked her so much we figured he must be okay. We didn’t know then that he’s her boyfriend. But no matter -- the kids adore him. Miles keeps talking about his muscles and Luisa is batting her 10-year old eyelashes all around the house. On Sunday I came downstairs for breakfast with Miles to find Maxim’s shoes. Miles said, “Check out how big those are! Man, look at those shoes!” And he picks one of them up like a new baby. They’ve played hide and seek, they’ve play Monopoly, they’ve played Memory. Then Maxim fixed my bicycle and helped Carlo make dinner. Yup, it’s a real Wow World over at my house.

In poem news, the print journal River Oak Review accepted “Some Things I Didn’t Tell You about Tuesday.” I also got rejections from Frigg and Boxcar - I really like both of those so I plan to submit again. I’ve got such a bunch of poems in my file. I’m having a hard time coming up with appropriate places to submit them. Or I’m having trouble finding the time to come up with them, and go through with it.

Short Reprise for Mary Todd who Went Insane, but for Very Good Reasons

I talked all day long. It was quite exhausting. The mouth and lungs tire; the furrows in the brow tire; and also the mind gets tired of putting sentences together. And of acrobating between languages. I talked about the economy. I talked about how-to. I talked about writing news for what seemed like hours. I talked staff illnesses and vacations. I talked about getting around writing problems and dealing with editors. I talked tabloids and magazines. I arranged schedules and weekends with colleagues. I talked about who should do what. I talked to reporters, translators, editors, managers, the sandwich lady, the dog, the kids, the husband, and Maxim, our new au pair. I talked to Idun, Ulrike and the coordinator at Luisa’s music school. I gave directions to Wiessenauplatz. I wished three people a nice weekend and thanked the cashier. I talked to the barefoot girl who wanted to pet Stella. I said she could and that Stella liked girls, and also playing with other dogs and that she wanted to go home now to get her dinner, goodbye.

20 Down

Doing the poem-a-day forum at Inside the Writer's Studio. As of today, 20 done. But I can't find poem #5 so I may have counted wrong. Seems kind of impossible. Below is the rundown. Somehow horses keep showing up in my poems. Horses and I have very little to do with each other -they go about their business and I tend to mine- so I don't know where that's coming from. I do often think watching Stella run that she resembles a horse. But she resembles a seal even more. Oh it must be lovely to be a seal, as long as the people leave you to your business.

20. What I Read in the Paper (Everything about sand storms…)
19. To Long Division (I always knew you’d come back…)
18. Boredom (Cramps)
17. Unwilling to Wake (miniature hour…)
16. Neigh (The toothbrush lodges a horse…)
15. House Tour (Basement….)
14. At Thatcher’s House (This morning I remembered the trip…)
13. You are What You Think You Are (I think I’m the crook of an eyebrow…)
12. The Old Me (I wore fangs and drove a semi.)
11. Mood Libido (love me with your teeth)
10. Among my Failures (If I could have roused the horses…)
9. Some ofs from cummings (posted below)
8. Europa (Johannes, your green apples make me bitter.)
7. Charity (A half hour’s worth of dust…)
6. Evening with Labrador (I walk with browndog, anchored to her hipsway.)
5. ? I think I must have counted wrong.
4. Gallop (Every night the horse…)
3. Do Tell (Last night my thoughts puckered like peas…)
2. From Train 21 (mind the gap mind the rush)
1. Love Song to Tram #16 (Little tram, swinging out…)

"Before I compose a piece, I walk around it several times, accompanied by myself." Satie

Do you remember his laugh?

Indeed I do. And I can see him as clearly as if he was standing before us. He had stepped straight out of a Toulouse-Lautrec picture – as though alighting from a train. He cam from Arcueil, which he’d turned into a little town with only one inhabitant – himself. I can remember, too, the time when he staggered a meeting, chiefly of painters, by announcing that he had discovered twenty-seven entirely new colors. The audience was perplexed, and for a long time he kept them guessing, till finally someone asked him point-blank how he’d done such an extraordinary thing – for, after all, to discover twenty-seven new colors that had no relation to the old ones was nothing less than earth-shaking.
“Like this . . . ,” he (Satie) explained to the old bearded painter. “By suddenly and remorselessly obliterating the colors of the spectrum with an india-rubber.”

Beucler, Ravel and Fargue remembering Satie, from Satie Remembered by Robert Ortledge. photo from satie homepage.

of equal worth/lessness, or something about these places makes me wanna roll over & die

1€ store

plastic soapdish
roll of wrapping paper
magic markers
socks
round glass ashtray
gloves
mini-stapler with staples
hairbrush
Baruda suntan lotion
star-shaped nightlight
lipgloss
pack of 6 disposable razors
pack of 3 pastel-tone post-it notes
scrub brush
loofah mitten
toothbrush with mini-toothpaste
lighter
ramen noodles
kids’ stockings
pack of 6 scented candles
matchbox car
100(?) paper clips
decorative ceramic ladybug
plastic clothespins

something is really gyrating on my nerves

sometimes I think I’m lucky to have an Italian husband. I can overlook all his English errors, considering it’s his third language. German is second, and he speaks a pretty mean French, too. I must brag.

anyway, I’ve been out of America so long I’m sure I’m making gaffes left and right. But you should check out the bloopers at the site for “egg corns”, mistaken reinventions of known words and expressions.

6 Things You Didn't Know About Me

ok, michi! you asked for it.
smile

1. I love the smell of gasoline.
2. My mother is the heroine of all my imaginary movies.
3. I once starred in a Chinese TV commercial.
4. When I was in grad school, my house burned down. And I was glad. But I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
5. That was me who drove Susan Ryan's mother's car over the lawn and totaled it against the tree in 10th grade, not Susan.
6. In the 3rd grade, a bird shit on my head, & I've never forgiven that goddamned bird.

to everything, churn

In poem news, Kaleidowhirl has accepted “In the Voice of a Minor Saint” for its October issue. And Wicked Alice took “The Annotated Alice” for its upcoming anniversary issue of Alice in Wonderland related poems. I’ll be in good company since I see Michi and Arlene are in, too.

Elsewhere, I got a very, um, straightforward rejection from Megaera:
“We are not using your poetry for this issue of Megaera. Also I wanted to inform you the September Issue of Megaera will be the last one. Megaera will no longer accept submissions. It will remain online and the print version including back issues are available at www.lulu.com/megaera.”

Questions about the Shirt

Do I look nice in this shirt?
How much will it cost me?
Does it have to be dry cleaned?
Was this shirt made in Cambodia?
Does this shirt come with crutches?
Will it demand too much of me?
Does this shirt enjoy opera?
How about “Der Rosenkavalier?”
What is this shirt’s political history?
Is it a friend of all fishes?
Can this shirt see danger coming?
Is it familiar with Franz Wright’s poetry?
Which pants do I have that go with this shirt?
Do I get that free extra button?

Happy Birthday Stella

This girl turns 1 today.

unknown to exaggerate

dear charles simic,

i love you. i love your name.
i love your hair. i love your trousers.
do you even have hair?
and do you have a glottal stop?
i'll love that, too.

tagged

Sara Kearns tagged me into this book blog. I think just about everybody has given it a go... and it's a nice reminiscence...

Name a book(s) that changed your life.
Lao Tzu “Tao te Ching”
Chuang Tzu “Basic Writings”
Freud’s “The Future of an Illusion”
Freud’s “Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality”
Freud’s “Totem and Taboo”

“We may be inclined to suppose that savage and half-savage races are guilty of uninhibited and ruthless cruelty toward their enemies. We shall be greatly interested to learn, then, that even in their case the killing of a man is governed by a number of observances which are included among the usages of taboo. These observance fall easily into four groups. They demand (1) the appeasement of the slain enemy, (2) restrictions upon the slayer, (3) acts of expiation and purifcation by him and (4) certain ceremonial observances.”

Of course there are more.

What books have you read more than once?

Aside from poetry books, which are meant to be read over and over, I’ve read at least twice JD Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye,” Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables,” Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice,” W.Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage” and Aldous Huxley’s “The Doors of Perception.”


“I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those leather couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of schools were home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitting and standing around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their legs not crossed, girls with terrific legs, girls with lousy legs, girls that looked like swell girls, girls that looked like they’d be bitches if you knew them. It was real nice sightseeing, if you know what I mean. In a way, it was sort of depressing, too, because you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game like ping-pong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring – But I have to be careful about that. I mean about calling certain guys bores. I don’t understand boring guys. I really don’t.”

Which book would you want on a desert island?

If I have to choose one, an unabridged English dictionary.

sus'lik n. (Russ.)--1. a small gopher or ground squirrel, Spermothilis citilis, of north-central Eurasia; a spermopile. 2. its mottled, grayish-brown fur.

Name a book that made you laugh.

“A Confederacy of Dunces.”

“Who took you off the streets and gave you a job when the cops was about to lock you up for vagrancy? You might think about that sometime when you’re goofing off behind them goddam glasses.”
“Goofin off? Shit. Goofin off ain cleanin up this mother-fucking cathouse. They somebody in her sweepin and moppin up all the shit you po, stupor customer drippin on the flo. I feel sorry for them po peoples comin in here thinkin they gonn have theirself some fun.”

Name a book that made you cry.

“Mr Ives Christmas,” by Oscar Hijuelos. It wasn’t a great book, but it was tender.

“With eyes that invited pity and a sad smile, Ives was a fine example of “a poor poor thing.” On one of those visitors’ days, around Christmas, he found himself standing before a well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman, whose own eyes were sad –the older Mr. Ives- who placed his warm hand on the boy’s face and kneeling before the lad, took a long, long look, making his decision.”

I wish I had written?

“Pilgrim at Tinker Creek” by Annie Dillard.
or “The Da Vin$i Code.”

“I want out of this still air. What street-corner vendor wound the key on the backs of tin soldiers and abandoned them to the sidewalk, and crashings over the curb? Elijah mocked the prophets of Baal, who laid a bullock on a woodpile and egged Baal to consume it: “Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talkig, or he is pursuing , or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked.” Cry aloud. It is the fixed that horrifies us.”

I wish had been written?
The one about how Israel came to live with the Arab world in relative peace, how global warming was halted, how all people decided nuclear weapons were insane, how a down-and-out doctor found a cure for cancer, you know, that kind of fantasy book.

I wish had never been written?
There’s a lot of inconsequential bullshit out there clogging the population’s brains. Many many “self-help” books, the fucking chicken soup series, the 5 guys you meet in Heaven, Tuesdays with Moron, all that stuff.

I'm currently reading?
The dictionary. The last “reading book” I read was John Banville’s “Athena,” which was excellent.

I've been meaning to read?
“John Henry Days” by Colson Whitehead, which my stepbrother gave me a couple years ago at least.

Oh, and my father’s last book.

Goodnight Mood

In the great green room

There was a cigarette

And a vinyl stool

And the body of –

A mother getting over a mood

Ts

There are some great t-shirts and such at Reckon's shop over at Etsy. Besides cummings he's also got - anne sexton, robert creely, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, wm. blake, dylan, leonard cohen, pablo neruda, gertrude stein, and a lot of other art, music and literature figures. i've spent hundreds of my imaginery money at etsy.

Cell Phone Etiquette 101

I’m at the Acme.
I’m on the train.
I’m at Stonehenge.
I’m stuck in February.
I’m at the bottom of the ocean.
I’m under the thumb of a bluebird.
I’m halfway through Proust.
I’m in my pajamas.
I’m in the middle of my animal sacrifice,
call later.

thanks to s.ward for the photo

I can't stop washing my hair

The suspect in the child murder case, K., slept exactly 7 hours and 14 minutes Sunday night in an LA jail, where the low overnight was 63 degrees. Northwest winds were calm. K.’s cell is 6 x 9 feet, with a standard metal bed and a porcelain toilet flushable from inside the cell. Further investigation is needed to ascertain the presence of a sink. For this reason we do not know if K. brushed his teeth in his cell or what brand of toothpaste he chooses. K. appeared rested upon waking. The quality of his sleep was judged “adequate” by guards who wished to remain anonymous. Psychologists report that K. sleeps in fetal position, which they consider intriguing but not incriminating. Sitting on the edge of his 5.5-inch-thick mattress, K. was observed to yawn twice in English. Going to the lidless toilet, he commenced to take a shit expected to last for months. His breakfast arrived in the meantime, consisting of blah blah fat blah crap blah spam blah mash and blah. More later.

To the lady in the jean jacket who smiled at me in the subway

you are a nice person.
thank you.

John Banville's "Athena"

The narrator was not sympathetic, and he was presumptuous. He begins by bemoaning his loss and I'm supposed to care already? I couldn't figure out the plot. I had to go back and re-read passages to check I hadn’t missed something. I hadn’t. Still, the language was gorgeous, such sentences! And there were funny moments, and 2 or 3 characters I enjoyed hearing about. But the sadness was not sad. Mostly the sadness was maudlin and posed. The joy could hardly be called that. It was trying too hard. Soon I was thinking about that documentary on koala bears we saw recently… how cute they were… or the laundry… global warming. I began to skip whole paragraphs, just scanning for key words. I found out the book is part of a trilogy or something and I was supposed to read another first – yeah, good luck. I was only plugging away because of the prose, which was sublime. Not plugging away without complaint, of course. But things eventually picked up, if not in an entirely healthy way. The puzzle is solved at the end. And it all turns out to be fascinating. And the sadness is not sadness and the joy is not joy because overall the book is preoccupied with authenticity. It was marvelous!

But read the other book(s) first.

What is the world coming to

Dear Editors,

I’m writing to express my concern about your rejection of my poem “This Leaf Breeds Safekeeping.” I think you are making a big mistake.

It occurs to me that you have missed the premise of my poem completely. Morgan, the speaker, is not a florist – she just dreams she is. In fact she is an avocado pit propped up to grow in a glass of water. That should help explain the “toothpick bit” you refer to. I thought it was obvious!

Further, the segment in the past tense is a Flashback. That’s why it’s in the past tense! The rest of the poem is in the present tense.

You will be glad to know my poem is still available. I have changed the title to “Tooth for a Tooth,” so you may want to reconsider your tart rejection.

Thank you for your time. I hope this helps.

Traveling with my Mother in France

German words my mother knows: Müsli, danke, Gesundheit, Wein, weiss, Weisswein, Brot

French words my mother knows: ballet

Some Similes

Have I mentioned that I love Norman Dubie? A year ago I’d never heard of him. Now, for months, the crowd inside me has been going mad. Among his strengths is his similes. I know a lot of critics don’t like similes. It’s cooler to be into metaphors, more sophisticated, etc. But I might love similes more. I even love a bunch of them thrown unrelated into one poem together á la Anne Sexton. Norman Dubie doesn’t do it that way though. Here are some of his, line breaks ignored:

“He approaches them like a man falling through crust in a snow field.” (Elegies For the Ocher Deer)

“It falls stiff like a drunk, like a drunk falling onto a whore.” (After Three Photographs of Brassai - describing a pencil)

“The first Wednesday after the peace with Germany was like a new brook under the rain, which only rain could make.” (Anima Poeta)

“Milk coming like white hairpins from her breast.” (Pastoral)

“Her breasts filled the window like a mouth.” (The Obscure)

“They are all wired out like flowers.” (Trees of Madame Blavatsky)

“The geese broke from the shadows like handkerchiefs out of the sleeves of black dresses at a burial.” (Monologue of Two Moons, Nudes with Crests)

“The gas jets are on: they are like fountains of the best water.” (Monologue of Two Moons)

“Black water ran off her dress like a lowered hem.” (The Dun Cow and the Hag)

“A trickle of blood at the knuckle of the thumb like the single red thread through the lace hood and jesses of the Medici falcons.” (Groom Falconer)

“The earth like a crust of bread absorbed them.” (The Saints of Negativity)

Got any good similes? I’d love to hear them.

been searching a to c

What I Sought

affected speech - airport detector wand - anais nin -
arena - ashberry dong with the luminous nose -
athena goddess of - average euro dollar rate 2005

barrow street - basf - beth ann fennelly -
biblical animals - bette davis - bmi rechner -
bonnie and clyde - books about joseph cornell

california barrio - california stereotypes -
candy dots - candy names - carolyn creedon -
cherries nutritional value - crozon, france

Commute music

Shine a Light – Rolling Stones
Eisler on the Go – Billy Bragg & Wilco
Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinios – Sufjan Stevens
Couldn’t Cause me Harm – Beth Orton

Black&White World – Elvis Costello
Travellin’ on for Jesus – Kate & Anna McGarrible
A Short Reprise for Mary Todd, Who Went Insane but for Very Good Reasons – Sufjan Stevens
Erie Canal – Bruce Springsteen version
Birds & Ships – Billy Bragg & Wilco (& Natalie Merchant)
Sweet Jane - Velvet Underground
Misstra Know It All – Stevie Wonder
If I was Your Girlfriend - Prince
The Boat Family – The Roches

A colleague at my office thought I would like his Sufjan Stevens Album “Illinoise,” and he was right. It’s mostly wonderful. Boyish voice kind of like Jeff Tweedy or Art Garfunkel but more straight-forward. Good music, good lyrics. Dreamy in places. Particular.

At the same time he lent me the eponymous CD "Sophie Auster", daugher of Paul, singing French surrealist poems. Now, I love French surrealist poetry, and I like Paul Auster’s fiction and the life-justifying job he did putting together the Random House Anthology of 20th Century French Poetry, but his daughter is not a good singer, either in tone or in timing. I was sorry not to like her, but so it is.

report

Time to report that my hair has reached that stage. You know, it has gone to certain lengths. Already a month ago it was screaming “Cut me! Insert scissors!” Now it just says Sad. It just says Slump, and No goddamned way! It has birthed a new beast: the leonine mouse. I’m not sure yet if that’s its name... maybe mousoline lion?

The truth is I don’t believe in the good haircut. The truth is I didn’t have the money before vacation to go through with it. When I went to cheapo, a sign said “closed for renovation” with the dubious caveat of “for YOU, valued customer.” How can it be closed for ME when I am standing at the door? Before I began looking like a reject weeping at the window of a darkened shop, I scurried off. This, I suspect, is when the mouse quality took root.

My hair also says Defeat. It says Bring the fingers. Mostly it speaks an unknown language.

My hair is not long it is not short. My hair is not brown it is not blonde. My bangs hang as notbangs. My hair wants to ponytail but won’t. Neither will it do pigtails, usually reserved for moments of hilarity. When I attempt the ponytail, two wispy quotation marks enclose the nape of my neck. As if to say Kick me.

waving the hankie

well, it’s breaking my heart but i have to leave the blog for a couple weeks. yep, summer vacation cometh. the long hot drive, the expensive accomodations, the fun the fun the tolls and pit stops. did I mention the fun? well, i hope it will be fun. & i understand brittany is not too hot. at least not where the french are dying of heat at the moment. that’s bordeaux. brittany is supposed to be gorgeous. well they’ll just have to prove it to me. I mean, i’m from New Jersey for chrissakes.

Actually i’m more mountains than ocean but everyone needs variety.

I’m taking Norman Dubie’s “The Mercy Seat,” Martin Amis’ “London Fields,” Pier Giorgio di Cicco’s “Living in Paradise,” John Banville’s “Athena,” “The Best American Short Stories of 2005,” Elaine Equi’s “The Cloud of Knowable Things,” a copy of Barrow Street and the new copy of 32 Poems. I hope this will do me for two weeks. My mother, who is joining us, is brining me Kenneth Koch’s “New Addresses.” That's about as excited as i get.

I do hope not to be ripped to shreds by wolverines. Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Back in early August.

Ruth KitKat

Ok, this is a really funny bit of navel gazing. I got this from Julie Carter’s blog. Let me know if you execute because I'll want to see it.

1) Your Rock Star name: Toto Kurzröder

(the name of first pet with your current street name)

Of course we all know there was a band named Toto, and it sucked. Throwing in the German street makes matters all the worse.

2) Your Movie Star name: Ruth KitKat

(first name of your paternal grandfather/grandmother & your favorite candy)

This one was tough. My favorite candy is probably Goldberg’s Peanut Chews, but I don’t think they make them anymore. So I just used the candy bar I eat 3 or 4 times a week.

3 Your Fly Girl/Guy name: S-Slo

(first initial of your first name with the first 2 or 3e letters of your last name)

Hmmmm, good name for a perfume or a brand of jeans. Or has that been done?

4) Your Detective name: Panda Blue

(favourite animal and favourite colour)

I am sure to get a lot of business with this one.

5) Your Soap Opera name: Jane Plainfield

(middle name and the city where you were born)

6) Your Star Wars name: Slo Ker Ste

(first 3 letters of your last name, last 3 letters of your mom's maiden name, & first 3 letters of your pet's name)

Isn’t there a female band named this? Or am I thinking of Sloan Kettering hospital?

8) Your Porn Star name: Jane A. Marlborough

(middle name, father's middle initial, and the street you grew up on)

This sounds inauspiciously wholesome.

9) Your Superhero name: The Blue Ubahn

('The', your favourite colour, and the automobile you drive)

Hell, look out! I don't have a license.

10) Your Ghetto name: SaNiqua X

(first 2 or 3 letters of your first name, -Shawn/Quan/Quita/Niqua, last name of whatever President or Prime Minister is on the currency you have in your pocket)

There is not prime minister or president on the "euro." It has no personality at all. It has been dumbed down in the name of compromise to become the most boring milquetoasty currency the world knows. I'd rather pay in buttons.

packing

Friday we leave for vacation. I hope it’s fabulous, since it ended up costing way more than we expected. My mother is going to join us, coincidentally flying out the day before my ex-stepfather has cancer surgery. She still loves him. He’s a bit screwed up and now he’s gotten so old but he’s a sad and sweet guy. I am hoping he lasts a while longer.

We’re going to Brittany. I’ve never been there. Damned long drive. 50 euros in tolls each way, plus an overnight "somewhere." Spent the day packing since I have to work all week. Kids are out of school. I’m making them keep journals all summer. FORCE, DICTATION, whatever.

It’s too sunny here but not temperaturely unbearable. Got an email from an acquaintance in Lebanon that’s three-fifths coherent. Lord, I hope that shit will end.

dear Shareholders!

Our strategy is pure genius
Our strategy is #243-59-8
It is a ransom of wool for next to nothing
Our strategy is a white wolf in a loose clothing
It drools like the dickens
Our strategy is the magnetic north
Our strategy is the musk funk in bear rugs
It is a woman with one blue eye, one hazel
Our strategy says “Shampoo, rinse, repeat”
Our strategy leans back like a man with his legs open
It rivals the invention of canisters
It is that bitch you met at Christmas
Our strategy insinuates flesh you can’t stay away from
Our strategy reaches an impossible velocity
And speeds upwards

Little Boxes

Last week I won a $20 Amazon gift certificate in a cento contest at Inside the Writer's Studio. It was so interesting to write a cento. It's like a collage, or scavenger hunt, or a roll of the dice. In some ways at the beginning the poem assembles itself. Then there's the luck of finding the right line, or there's the idea and going in search of a way to cement it.

Anyway I went combing through my wish list thinking I could get a couple poetry books. I did a little mix-n-match of titles and kept thinking there had to be something else out there to occupy me. Finally, after running into three or four separate references to the collage artist Joseph Cornell in the last month, I decided to get a book about him and his work. I love what I've seen of his, though I never have seen anything besides in pictures. Maybe next time I'm in New York.

The book I ordered is Joseph Cornell: Master of Dreams. There's an interesting article from the New Yorker about him here. The box above is "Medici Princess," one of his most well known "boxes." I took it from a site called Artchive. Click on it to see an enlarged image. I recommend doing so...

Neruda

Wouldn't it be great if poems fetched million-dollar movie deals? Then poets wouldn't resort to writing novels. (Come on, you know you've thought about it.)
Well it could happen with a big enough budget: "The Saddest Lines".

Get a look at the male lead. Looks just like Mel Brooks, no?

all dogs all the time

As any dog owner can tell you, once you get a dog you quickly get to know all the other neighborhood dogs and face the daily, pretty much mandatory task of chatting with their owners. You will likely never learn the owners’ names, but you will know the dogs’ names, how old they are, spayed or not spayed, if they’ve just taken a shit or not. As with children, owners downplay the negatives, but you will find out a lot about the dogs’ bad habits: who chews shoes, who begs for food, who steals food, who doesn’t obey, who digs holes in the yard and who eats other dogs’ shit. It always seems to come back to the same thing.

Nanuck (English setter) – good boy! hippie couple masters
Bruno I (American bull dog) – bad boy! harried master
Bruno II (black lab) – good boy! italo bling master
Checkie (shepherd) – good girl! nice master
Billy (spaniel) – dull boy, self-satisfied master
Idafix (terrier) – naughty boy! same master as Billy
Cheyenne (golden retriever) – hyperactive (good) girl! neurotic master
Teddie (huskie) – sweet boy! elderly master
Lucky (black lab) – good boy! mellow master
Bambi (?) – The children operating this dog think it is a girl. They are wrong.
Gina (yorkie) – nondescript girl, indifferent master
Max (yellow lab) – good boy! pleasant master
Pauline (sheepdog) – good girl! nice master

this is just to say

Thought I'd mention that Sara Kearns' new ezine, Siren, is out,
or up (?), or has been published,
or will materialize on your monitor
if you click the link.

Congratulations, Sara. I am really impressed! Good stuff, and a very nice look.

& the living is easy

Tomato

The tomato was hurled to earth
by the planet that concocted vaudeville.
Globular orb, buxom and dimpled
as a toothsome thigh. O musk bundle,
musk bundle, sanguine on the vine!
Tonight you’ll be paired with sweet basil,
prince of summer. Gingerly, I will pluck you
and not further disturb the crimson galaxy.

monday

Waking was not easy.
Care of teeth and face.
Then dog walking, and drat the ironing.
There were supplies to ready, no writing time, no reading.
The tram was mercifully empty.
I remembered a bill I had to pay.
It turned 8.30, then 10.30.
There was the new employee from Norway.
There was lunch and Gerald Stern to read (both blessings).
The 3 o’clock of the soul, according to Sartre, then the tram to the city.
A handicapped girl on the tram with braids and a beautiful face.
There was the food shop in the department store basement.
There was the exit past the fine fragrance department.
The sun was strong.
I paid the bill.
Came home to an overjoyed dog. Her long walk.
Stilton and crackers. Dinner.
A few choice words to think over.
My kids falling asleep in my bed.

the straight dope

I asked jon pack about Birkenstocks, the Airbus A380, unmown lawns, peanut butter spead on chocolate and ear candles. Find out what he thought.

tip of the hat to Lauren!

just get me the goddamned suitcase

July comes with its beastly heat. And did you know it’s National Baked Beans Month, National Ice Cream Month, Read An Almanac Month, National Foreign Language Month, Hitchhiking Month, Cell Phone Courtesy Month, Hemochromatosis Screening Awareness Month, National Purposeful Parenting Month, Roots & Branches Month, Women’s Motorcycle Month?

Cell Phone Courtesy Month has all my support. How come some people talk even louder than normal when they’re having a private conversation (in public)? Unfortunately, I guess a lot of people can’t be expected to be courteous with their cell phones because they don’t know what courtesy is to begin with. Making you wait while they take a call for 5 minutes. Or you're buying something from THEM and they're on the phone through the whole transaction.

Here’s one I heard recently involving a petite bleached blonde of around 40: Hey Benny … yeah I’m on the subway … going by Glauburgstrasse … you coming over later? … what do you mean why … I need the suitcase … Benny you were gonna bring me the suitcase … yeah I’m leaving tomorrow, I need the suitcase … Benny you better bring it … I can’t believe this … That was the deal ... Just bring it … you bringing it? … Benny don’t screw with me … Just get me the goddamned suitcase or you’ll be sorry.

Remember phonebooths? They weren’t only for the caller’s privacy, but for the sanity of the caller’s fellow man.












thx to Outta Context for the photo.

All out of my Hands

I was really crazy tired of that template. Now it's just "blue." I do hope to do something fancier but it'll be a while. I may have to return to college first.

So, Germany won against Argentina. Hard to believe, but in the end I was rooting for Germany. Carlo was a bit pissed because it means Italy has to play Germany (in Germany, where we live). And because he thinks Argentina was the best team in the mix. I personally haven't got the faintest. I'm just sweet on the German goalie.

Italy is playing Ukraine now.
It's all out of my hands, folks.
Even if I go in the bathroom and pray, it won't help.
Even if I avoid the cracks, it won't help.
Even if I sit just so, with my back straight, it means nothing.
Even if I get through the light before it's red, it'll do nothing.
Even if I leave the room and fix snacks, my absence é niente.
I don't even like sports.
I can hope all I want.
I can holler like a man.
I can just calm down.