Brenda Dear Gonglya'. Project for a Fainting Oh, yes, the rain is sorry. Unfemale, of course, the rain is with her painted face still plain and with such pixel you’d never see it in the pure freckling, the lacquer of her. The world is lighter with her recklessness, a handkerchief so wet it is ...
An old man is smelting the icon of exalted freedom.
I watch him. He is well-natured, a force old enough
to command. He swaddles the icon in a soft cloth
and lines it up with the others.
The light falls down from heavy window sills,
I again write poems that die in mirrors or teacups.
I speed read a book on anarchism A typographical error by one anarchist is quoted by another. Sic! My coffee is hot I think of anarchy in Guatemala. Are they still selling their coffee to a god who comes in a steel vessel? A god who brings them smartphones? I think about Seattle and Kropotkin, ...
I can take some green paper out of my pocket and make them kill a fish for me or drive me to the end of the light I could buy a woman for the night, or a rose, a rose for a woman for a night I could make you say things like thank you ...
You've got your life instagrammed. You stream a persona that never repeats. You snap up who you are in a dozen photos a day. You scroll through the deadened sea, of the others, and heart who you think they are. Your imagination is infused with the smell of Madagascar vanilla. You know your world. You ...
We climbed the same mountain today A few white hairs we blew in the wind We surrendered to what never attacked us We entrusted our future to a rock I roll small pebbles down a precipice to test the symbolic capacity of this mountain. You smile and I talk the next two mountains in you ...
Lured by a row of pastel macarons
I enter the store like a stray verse,
looking for comfort in its soothing hues
The soft face behind the counter smiles
when I smile, before I order a coffee to go
with my pink and orange macarons
A downtown apartment with security and a water cooler.
The furniture landscape emerging from a Persian rug.
Slow drip coffee. Long bookshelves with "art".
A low noise dehumidifier.
A mahogany banister.
I have been fascinated with anthropologist David Graeber's concept of bullshit jobs for a while. I have written a bullshit job poem and a bullshit job rap. In this video, Graeber mentions an informal poll he conducted on Twitter to classify bullshit jobs. He arrives at five categories:
After twenty years I found my violin teacher
on Facebook. She remembered me, that was one of the joys of teaching, she wrote.
In the mean time, entire lives have started:
our children born, nine eleven, financial crisis. History has happened.
I want to ask her about my vibrato.
János Pilinszky (1921-1981) was an Hungarian poet who served in the Hungarian army in the Second World War. His work has been translated by Ted Hughes and János Csokits. Warning: I read a very dark and graphic poem:
Oh great people, great healthy people with bosoms abulge and necks like reeds I want to like the fire of empathy that burns on your cheeks I want to write in the wake of your perfect gait I want to abide your teeth, carnivorous and straight I want to bury my envy at your feet, ...
I want to protect the rain forest. I want the rain forest to exist, so I can protect it. The good and the bad face us in cinematographic reality. I still want to protect the rain forest for love of the unknown. For birds I will never see. For their emerald eggs. For all I ...
A belief is all we have
to hold on to, some warmth
weaning us for darker times
when we thicket each other's softest spots,
make our fingers lost and blow
weightless snow in each other's faces
when we make chocolate gestures,
blanket soft talk in some rearrangement
of tired starlight
I have the best morning routine. It's an exceptional morning routine. It's quick and new and 'smart'. You do this morning routine, it will blow people out of the water. They'll never see it coming! It's the number one routine. The absolute best. There is a healthy brain guru named Jim Kwik who is peddling ...
The chubby boy points his toy gun at another boy His great grandfather fought in the war. This is not a guess. I am sure. His great grandmother was maybe a comfort lady to the invaders. But his gun is only made of plastic. He will be forgotten. I look at the boys. I see ...
You too will get the e-mail from the hospital
You don't know when, or which hospital, or
if the doctor has been born yet, but
it will come.
The good news is that you can already respond
to that e-mail, by giving birth
to some humor.
coffee beans and machine guns change we can believe in. blackness is an ideal churches full of popcorn mumbling generals in tank tops nightliners piercing darkness a dead dog's candy eye, the tightrope of history cigarette butts drowned in cold coffee orphans and Eurydice in ironed T-shirts earthworms tunneling underfoot abandoned swimming pools, and an ...