the anticipation of grave-digging

she sees a marathon
and thinks,
"what are all those people running from?"
and why in the middle of the night?
"he said we'd have the place to ourselves."
their shoes glow compressed on the pavement, over and over again.
"well, best to keep digging," i said.
the dirt came down like rain.
first it came up, off of her shovel, sailed through the air in a parabolic arch of earth and gravel,
and then it rained down onto the soft lawn of the surrounding graves.
her eyes reflected the moon above the low grey clouds.
"the moon is sad," she said.
the thumping feet of the marathoners slipped into perfect time alongside the pebbles she was throwing.
"it probably wants to explore, get off it's leash, hunt mice in old barns," i said.
"yeah, that sort of thing," she said.
two things happened. both were sounds.
an echo as the spade of her shovel found the coffin
and
a crunch that was something between the snapping of a tree limb and the destruction of concrete.
"that's it, you've found it," i said.
"but that's not important now," she said.
her eyes were over the edge of the hole, standing on her toes, i could not see her mouth, but it was open.
"look, they are being chased."
over my shoulder, the last runner gave a sigh, and laid down amongst the graves.
that crunching noise grew closer in the dark.

drum rain song

sound the drums
like they've never sounded before
because drums
move the blood
and cause tiny
mood-altering changes
in the brain.
so
sound the drums
with whatever sticks you've got
and when they yell at you to stop
pound pound pound
until you've changed
their minds.

Hello, new Wilco.

Wilco (the album) somehow found its way into my eardrums this evening, and I am happy to report that skies are beautiful with a chance for abundant cumulonimbus, making it even more beautiful.

I watched a captivating little movie, Wendy and Lucy, about a young woman and her dog. Hardly any dialogue, Michelle Williams being insanely charming/arming, and an amazingly realistic portrayal of a Walgreen's security guard, by Roger Dalton. Not exactly a tear-jerker, not exactly dramatic, but you just can't help but study the characters.

16 words (first thing in the morning)

allegory
mussel
pogonotrophy
palimpsest
bumbledom
Kinnikinnick
mussitation
dinosaur
dissolute
nabocklish
cartogotransferential
xyphoid
qualtagh
schrimshandrix
pshycopannychy
crystalliform

put them together and what do you get?

More important than my poetry:

There are some things that are easy for us to ignore, going about our busy lives. I came across this article because I was woken up early by construction noise in our apartment complex. 5:30 am is no where near the time that I normally wake up, and I was not a happy camper. I even called my landlord and left an angry message. Not a good way to start the week.

Things that were important to me this morning:

Noise. I hate noise, and I can't sleep if there is any noticeable activity within twenty feet of me.
Handing in a paper. Five pages that I won't even remember writing two weeks from now.
My Neil Young t-shirt. Vintage, from the 1983 Shocking Pinks tour. The new love of my life.
Work.
School. Am I really graduating? Gosh, I feel like I've earned it. But why is there a nerve-racking black void waiting to begin the first week of June?

Oh, and I am in the middle of working on a new play, which currently looks like the abandoned pet project of a mad electrician. Live-wire characters tangled with un-grounded plot strings, hanging out of the wall waiting to buzz the unsuspecting playwright who wanders too close. How do I deal with that?

And then, amidst all of my suffering, a news article catches my attention.
Eve Ensler: War on women in Congo

To be completely honest: if I hadn't seen Eve Ensler's name attached, I might not have opened the article at all. It was cnn.com, early in the morning, and I just wasn't in the mood to read about the injustices of femicide.
Note to myself: Fuck you. My own personal version of suffering is nothing at all. Whether I got enough sleep last night is not reason enough to turn a blind eye to all of the other suffering in the world. The grades I get in my final quarter of college are as important as a single letter in the combined works of every writer who ever lived.

Here is what is important: We are all connected through our suffering. And while we do what we can to alleviate our early-morning back aches and our vacation-laden sunburns, it is not until we look outside of ourselves that we can truly overcome.

So here is what today is: today is a chance to alleviate somebody else's suffering. Give something of yourself to somebody else- somebody you are not connected to, a complete stranger. Something that requires effort and sacrifice. Decide for yourself, but keep this in mind: the more you sacrifice to lift someone else's burden, the more you are doing to lessen suffering the world over.

This is my way of saying something very simple. It often seems like we have no control over the things that we read about in the news. How am I supposed to stop the things that Eve Ensler addresses in her article? And what about the millions of unwritten articles addressing the other massive sufferings going on in the world? It starts with the smallest bit of empathy. Buying lunch for the homeless person sleeping in the storefront window doesn't seem like it will change anything, but it will change everything. Suffering ends with compassion. On every level and at every moment.

And that is more important than any poetry every written.

thoughts on today, 5-14-2009

thoughts i had today (literally):

"did i pay my credit card bill?"
"what day is it?"
"what month is it?"
"do i know anyone who has a couch i can sleep on in LA in july?"
"why should i throw away my coffee cup? i'm going to be needing another one in an hour."
"how the fuck do you tie a clove-hitch? oh, that's it. wait, fuck, no it isn't."
"she is either with her boyfriend or her brother."
"ice-man is my favorite x-man."
"ice-man isn't really my favorite x-man. he was just the first one that popped into my head."
"beast is my favorite x-man."
"i wish they wouldn't have put so much salsa in my breakfast burrito."
"why would john prine write a first person narrative song about a young woman wanting to get out of montgomery? i don't know, but i like it."
___________________________________

a past that may (or may not) have happened:

she said, "i'm an athiest." which came as no surprise.
(she kept a little bottle of tequila in her trunk,
and i knew she loved me when she gave it to me
for safe-keeping)
i tasted it, of course, and it stung my lips like bees
and my throat was alive with taste buds
which licked and recoiled and buzzed
and then licked again.

it was danger
(but when i think about it now,
far less danger then i had ever imagined)
and i liked the taste of danger.
and tattoos.

i don't know what happened to
the empty bottle.
i could extend some sort of metaphor to you now
(like a handshake)
but i won't.

but i will say
that an empty tequila bottle is not
the most elegant
efficient
or sensible way
to start a relationship.

but what do i know about that?

________________________________

what does this mean?

gently glaciated.

she dropped the cubes into his cup
and they shook and melted (they were too close to the stack, the lead guitar came out like a gatling gun beam and the bass hit the table with a mallet)
"why is it up so loud?" she said

and later: "It feels like a snakebite on my eardrums," she said
and he kissed her shoulder, but stopped, and bit hard-
"fuck"
"i can't hear anything"
"fuck- you bit me"
"i know. it wasn't an accident."
"fuck"
"how did it feel?"
she stands him up, face to face (i can see all of this because it is my job to see all of it)
hands on his shoulders, then to his neck, then covers his ears

"do this" she says, and bends his head to the left, exposing his neck
he knows what is coming ("hold still" i whisper)
"hold still" she whispers
and then she moves like a shadow
and as she does
her teeth take action-
they grow pointed
longer
and hollow
he has enough time to say something
"don't stop"- he says.
"don't stop"
which makes no sense
because she isn't about to

and it might just be the moon
but he looks pale
and she looks silver
except for the red
running from her shoulder
and pouring from his neck
making a little lake of vampire
on the sidewalk.

the zyzzyva plan

This is a zyzzyva.



the plan:

write a poem a day
from those seven poems, choose one every wednesday
mail that poem to zyzzyva, every wednesday
that is fifty-two a year sent to the slush pile
surely, one of them will survive.

here we go.

thoughts on today, 5-04-2009

the topography of character:
leather
granite, fresh from the earth and unpolished
the texture of orange peels (or the sound they make when opened)
the lady cleaning my teeth said:
"your enamel has the texture of orange peels." and i could feel it when she ran the metal tools over them, all of the little bumps, fortifications against my weakness for sugar cookies.
the sky was stratified
the bone bark trees grew in a line
black earth like coffee grounds
covers of old books, with the fingerprints of our grandparents when they were our age
above our heads
straight up
you can go straight up without stopping
until you run into
something out in space
moon powder
(wouldn't it be nice to be moon powder)

(for a few minutes, i forget everything that i have learned- and it is in those minutes that i get most of my writing done.)

nostalgic corners
of the boxing ring
(up against the ropes
or under them)
you never know
whose gloves are plastered
(sometimes your own)
or when
in your opponents embrace
you find the unexpected
(kiss on the cheek)

(plastered gloves)