tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84468465260283973772012-01-25T20:29:22.781-05:00We don't exactly have God. We just sit and try to stay awake.M.noreply@blogger.comBlogger1391100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-9306302097483201732012-01-25T20:29:00.000-05:002012-01-25T20:29:23.005-05:00

               Stormen sätter sin mun till huset och blåser för att få ton. Jag sover oroligt, vänder mig, läser blundande stormens text. Men barnets ögon är stora i mörkret och stormen den gnyr för barnet. Båda tycker om lampor som svänger. Båda är halvvägs mot språket. Stormen har barnsliga händer och vingar. Karavanen skenar mot Lappland. Och huset känner sin stjärnbild av spikar som håIler

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-86524714400375828882012-01-17T21:55:00.000-05:002012-01-17T21:55:23.130-05:00

"You told me victory is sweet, even deep in the cheap seats"

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-86782152735569136912012-01-17T21:47:00.000-05:002012-01-17T21:47:35.331-05:00

            So I’m still running from your lips as I was running from your hands. I’ve lost the poem about that night. I still got the May, the heat, and the concrete.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-45677350348431442122012-01-03T08:12:00.000-05:002012-01-03T08:12:11.252-05:00

"Don't care if I spend my dollar 'cause tonight I'm gonna be one happy soul."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-62175130134466663782012-01-03T08:03:00.000-05:002012-01-03T08:03:27.914-05:00

                       There was still plenty of food and fuel and so on for all the human beings on the planet, as numerous as they had become, but millions upon millions of them had begun to starve to death now. The healthiest of them could go without food for only about forty days, and then death would come.And this famine was as purely a product of oversize brains as Beethoven's Ninth

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-91075549147270003962011-12-19T20:31:00.000-05:002011-12-19T20:31:10.854-05:00

"Drink the truth, shed not one tear."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-40179265020733297052011-12-07T21:51:00.000-05:002011-12-07T21:51:01.485-05:00

             Somewhere west of me it is snowing. Finally winter, finally a blanket over all these discarded words that’ll turn up sickly brown half-rotten, dusted by exhaust fumes next March. That time I didn’t tell you to shut up while the grown-ups were talking. When I let your puerile hate scurry past me like a centipede. It is hiding under the refrigerator now, it will come out to hunt

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-73203582331249796562011-12-07T21:48:00.001-05:002011-12-07T21:49:25.660-05:00

"But my heart is returned to Sister Winter."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-54201579146068937872011-12-02T22:36:00.000-05:002011-12-02T22:36:06.277-05:00

             1 I am not queer. I’ve tried very hard not to seem interested in your pissing contests. Every day, I walk this street as though I were invisible, as though I hadn’t seen the sallow scars on your skin. I tell myself: Expect no forgiveness, no pity, as though I needed any, as though I was human. A strange copy, perhaps. 2 I am not queer. I’m a wreck, floating on fat, and pain, and

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-71445437933023937952011-11-30T22:39:00.000-05:002011-11-30T22:39:04.107-05:00

"I am scum. I am scum. I am scum. I am scum. I am scum. I am scum."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-28609614967496178682011-11-23T17:52:00.000-05:002011-11-23T17:52:42.073-05:00

          all my friends have such complete control over their lives. they can kill themselves any time they want to. right now laurie can jump out my open window or she can get up and go to the bathroom. erich can swallow cleanser. peter can hang himself. another can take her new gun and tilt it into her mouth's wet hollow. the many with their sharp things can just keep going. they could tear a

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-60507351494127609012011-11-08T21:03:00.001-05:002011-11-08T21:03:17.210-05:00

"These are troubled times and so..."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-58454448210290705922011-11-08T20:51:00.000-05:002011-11-08T20:51:44.847-05:00

                 It was like this: you were happy, then you were sad, then happy again, then not. It went on. You were innocent or you were guilty. Actions were taken, or not. At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. Mostly, it seems you were silent - what could you say? Now it is almost over. Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life. It does this not in

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-65000819389357730532011-11-02T21:26:00.000-04:002011-11-02T21:26:02.555-04:00

"You are badly hurt. You're a silly goose."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-81060964768327899772011-11-02T21:15:00.001-04:002011-11-02T21:17:48.947-04:00

          The poem is not important. Its words don’t feed the spiteful; its rhyme will not console the one who has been paid to kill. Vengeance is no meter. Earthy pillows, the copper leaves, unmoved stones: the cities have kept them here for the amusement of no man or woman. The songs and stories are not wanting, they have changed. We chant to the rhythm of heels on asphalt, the sound of

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-19566603156005162422011-10-09T23:54:00.001-04:002011-10-09T23:54:20.115-04:00

"Take to the hills, run away. I'm going to get my perfect body back some day, if not by faith, then by the sword. I'm going to be restored."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-77754230760569113442011-10-09T23:45:00.000-04:002011-10-09T23:45:26.260-04:00

               What hope I have is not enough to keep me – on the train, from the first car I can clearly see the tracks I’ve left. The past unsettled, unfinished; this town’s faint oceanic smell, a seagull’s yelp transform into a distant lie. Time skips, happiness slips inside.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-76675913143767197432011-10-06T11:55:00.000-04:002011-10-06T11:55:45.785-04:00

             Det var en gång en chock som lämnade efter sig en lång, blek, skimrande kometsvans. Den hyser oss. Den gör TV—bilderna suddiga. Den avsätter sig som kalla droppar på luftledningarna. Man kan fortfarande hasa fram på skidor i vintersolen mellan dungar där fjolårslöven hänger kvar. De liknar blad rivna ur gamla telefonkataloger— abonnenternas namn uppslukade av kölden. Det är

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-27486149369791002552011-09-01T20:59:00.000-04:002011-09-01T20:59:36.324-04:00

"I'll be holding all the tickets and you'll be owning all the fines."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-83873843276454877612011-09-01T20:54:00.001-04:002011-09-01T20:55:45.887-04:00

             After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’ And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’? The Feet, mechanical, go round – A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-3965407522778115362011-08-30T11:38:00.000-04:002011-08-30T11:38:42.274-04:00

            The tree lay down on the garage roof and stretched, You have your heaven, it said, go to it.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-18596874276905153932011-08-16T22:33:00.000-04:002011-08-16T22:33:37.358-04:00

"Ain't much of a difference between a bridge and a wall. Without me right in the middle, babe, you would be nothing at all."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-51438343360210338602011-08-16T22:22:00.000-04:002011-08-16T22:22:46.773-04:00

               I am a sperm whale. I carry up to 2.5 tonnes of an oil-like balm in my huge, coffin-shaped head. I have a brain the size of a basketball, and on that basis alone am entitled to my opinions. I am a sperm whale. When I breathe in, the fluid in my head cools to a dense wax and I nosedive into the depths. My song, available on audiocassette and compact disc is a comfort to divorcees,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-39025650078493730122011-08-09T23:25:00.002-04:002011-08-09T23:25:35.482-04:00

"Goddamn, I miss that girl."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-88560499374591671652011-08-09T23:20:00.000-04:002011-08-09T23:20:20.490-04:00

             This was once a love poem, before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short, before it found itself sitting, perplexed and a little embarrassed, on the fender of a parked car, while many people passed by without turning their heads. It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement. It remembers choosing these shoes, this scarf or tie. Once, it drank beer for breakfast

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-47795433314574866702011-08-08T20:45:00.003-04:002011-08-08T20:45:18.375-04:00

Seriously, what is?

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-69389887133175583982011-08-08T20:36:00.001-04:002011-08-08T20:37:31.441-04:00

                 It may be, then, that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work and that when we no longer know which way to go we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings. [from Standing

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-62971927576358573502011-08-08T12:25:00.000-04:002011-08-08T12:25:31.843-04:00

            It seems to me that the most universal revolutionary wish now or ever is a wish for heaven, a wish by a human being to be honored by angels for something other than beauty or usefulness.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-40588357051142999732011-07-28T00:34:00.000-04:002011-07-28T00:34:20.312-04:00

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-7811990752568849582011-07-27T23:53:00.000-04:002011-07-27T23:53:47.578-04:00

               You will be walking some night in the comfortable dark of your yard and suddenly a great light will shine round about you, and behind you will be a wall you never saw before. It will be clear to you suddenly that you were about to escape, and that you are guilty: you misread the complex instructions, you are not a member, you lost your card or never had one. And you will know that

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-57518507732847482822011-07-24T22:37:00.000-04:002011-07-24T22:37:17.011-04:00

"So I hope this don't sound too ungrateful: History gave modern man a telephone to talk to strangers, machine guns, and a camera lens."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-49726102220357067152011-07-24T22:24:00.001-04:002011-07-24T22:28:15.238-04:00

            The rain forgets, the trees’ frenzied drone abates. Skies and sables drift into the fjord. Though we must remember that we are beasts who need not feed on carnage.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-75588015389330210042011-07-24T18:57:00.001-04:002011-07-24T19:02:42.944-04:00

            Each doctor performs the same dance, moves across my lungs and makes me hum the lyrics. Let me explain. The body heals itself, but lately it's grown bored. Even now, the throat can't be coaxed: each breath assumes a voice, every swallow a sentence to smoke. You see, the world expects a circus before a cure. [published in Diagram 8.6]

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-41846504667265091502011-07-15T23:35:00.000-04:002011-07-15T23:35:47.331-04:00

"We're the litter on the breeze, we're the lovers on the streets."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-70166601104088229982011-07-15T22:53:00.001-04:002011-07-15T22:53:57.875-04:00

           Please understand that I'm not simply accusing Society. ("J'accuse," I cry, pointing the finger of judgment at Society, and Society shrugs and continues with its poker game.) As much as I would like to believe otherwise, I must acknowledge that criticizing society does not set me apart from it. [...] It's not just some internalized yet somehow detached society that jeers at me when I

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-74406005876079648802011-07-09T00:19:00.002-04:002011-07-11T08:05:06.812-04:00

"Once an hour a day I get really sad, yeah, once an hour a day I get depressed, but when that hour's over I start to feel ok 'cause I'm reminded I'll rot away, rot away."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-10235249973451658082011-07-09T00:07:00.000-04:002011-07-09T00:07:01.152-04:00

                 The fog in my skull, a pallid sun over thin clouds. This word bouncing against my larynx. It tires me. I took my rage down to the Charles to drown it. The golden roof, the Stata, the Longfellow already sinking into grey dusk, grey sloshing under the jetty. Now holding on with just one thought – “You showed me what I could’ve been not what I can be.” Now gone. But my leg is

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-40502043569537710152011-06-30T12:57:00.001-04:002011-06-30T12:58:08.554-04:00

               The First Mobile, if one is sent, must be warned that unless he is very self-assured, or senile, his pride will suffer. A man wants his virility regarded, a woman wants her femininity appreciated, however indirect and subtle the indication of regard and appreciation. On Winter they will not exist. One is respected and judged only as a human being. It is an appaling experience.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-82505044442804200302011-06-18T19:49:00.000-04:002011-06-18T19:49:33.165-04:00

"We'd stumble onto something we would like and I'm afraid I lost the words tonight."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-58332801839072321042011-06-18T19:38:00.001-04:002011-06-18T19:40:19.510-04:00

                    Ich hänge als Schnee von den Zweigen in den Frühling des Tals, als kalte Quelle treibe ich im Wind, feucht fall ich in die Blüten als ein Tropfen, um den sie faulen wie um einen Sumpf. Ich bin das Immerzu-ans-Sterben-Denken. Ich fliege, denn ich kann nicht ruhig gehen, durch aller Himmel sichere Gebäude und stürze Pfeiler um und höhle Mauern. Ich warne, denn ich kann des

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-50662881613691118062011-06-05T18:54:00.000-04:002011-06-05T18:54:33.969-04:00

"Den ganzen Unsinn werd ich nie verstehn da hilft nur einatmen und weitergehn"

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-29459422077870849892011-06-05T18:46:00.001-04:002011-06-05T18:47:05.479-04:00

          Yom HaZikaron. Add now the grief of all your losses to their grief, even of a woman that has left you. Mix sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history, which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning on one day for easy, convenient memory. Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God. "Behind all this some great happiness is hiding." No use to

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-68602066395289566232011-06-05T18:13:00.001-04:002011-06-05T18:14:37.791-04:00

         Almost all the governments, which exist at present, or of which there remains any record in story, have been founded originally, either on usurpation or conquest, or both, without any pretence of a fair consent, or voluntary subjection of the people. When an artful and bold man is placed at the head of an army or faction, it is often easy for him, by employing, sometimes violence,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-49611270539264647452011-06-05T17:47:00.000-04:002011-06-05T17:47:35.895-04:00

          Memorial Day will be celebrated as usual, by high-speed collisions of automobiles and bodies strewn on highways and the sound of ambulance sirens throughout the land. It will also be celebrated by the display of flags, the sound of bugles and drums, by parades and speeches and unthinking applause. It will be celebrated by giant corporations, which make guns, bombs, fighter planes,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-41821124102416668782011-05-24T07:51:00.001-04:002011-05-24T07:52:29.194-04:00

"I drew a line in the dirt and dared her to step right across it and she did."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-32221457689204858962011-05-23T23:20:00.003-04:002011-05-23T23:20:36.030-04:00

                  You were right: I can carry these affairs. I’ll walk off the memory and keep the pain in my knees. That scar’s a badge. I was never sentenced. I was never released. You said: The conspirators haven’t won. Neither have I.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-47996794821998608582011-05-16T11:05:00.001-04:002011-05-16T11:05:22.199-04:00

"I believe in the radical possibilities of pleasure, babe."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-28780174583343513652011-05-13T23:28:00.000-04:002011-05-13T23:28:00.263-04:00

          As the rebels marched into other bedrooms the timid freaks, the ugly, and the faithful waited their turn. We were well-trained in parlor patience and the endurance of civilized life. When the revolutions had passed us we imagined the glory of their sheets so artfully soiled with the excrements of pleasure. Our sheets were embarrassingly clean. We worried that the ordinary smell of

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-19199348453896144102011-04-30T17:26:00.000-04:002011-04-30T17:26:26.656-04:00

"Well, I just saw the sunrise over the hill never used to give me much of a thrill but hey man! Now you're really living."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-78261140632869576572011-04-30T17:15:00.000-04:002011-04-30T17:15:57.659-04:00

               Humanity i love you because you would rather black the boots of success than enquire whose soul dangles from his watch-chain which would be embarassing for both parties and because you unflinchingly applaud all songs containing the words country home and mother when sung at the old howard Humanity i love you because when you're hard up you pawn your intelligence to buy a drink

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-49023593479005429842011-04-29T14:20:00.002-04:002011-04-29T14:20:59.825-04:00

"There's a world outside and I know, 'cause I've heard talk."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-65969511382305314252011-04-29T14:08:00.001-04:002011-04-29T14:09:43.112-04:00

          "Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you" - critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry "the death of art" I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family. Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life. I am not a poet. Georgia O' Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-83326853163135911982011-04-23T23:58:00.000-04:002011-04-23T23:58:42.850-04:00

"...the world just screams and falls apart."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-38433101216829357222011-04-23T20:06:00.000-04:002011-04-23T20:06:24.511-04:00

          It was the year the rain came early, the town’s last train arriving to clouds sunk like anchors, wind gripping the neighborhood as the trees began to fall. Our bodies were changing and the roads remained blocked, the police circling the streets faster than we could count days after the boy at school rode off on a bicycle and was never found. For weeks we sat in class with our heads

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-1954919427775261392011-04-19T18:44:00.002-04:002011-04-19T18:44:36.344-04:00

"I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch. You better think about it, baby."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-67250097053423679222011-04-19T18:40:00.000-04:002011-04-19T18:40:57.372-04:00

         So if passing is effortless, why the need to fix? Doctors truly believe that they act in the best interest of the child and hir parents when they fix. That makes sense. But what they don’t seem to consider is that they’re also acting to reinforce gender-specific norms—norms that specify how a person’s supposed to look, how s/he’s supposed to dress, from which catalogue s/he’s supposed to

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-73631435251634035572011-04-15T20:07:00.002-04:002011-04-15T20:07:52.410-04:00

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-24254348469232539682011-04-15T20:03:00.002-04:002011-04-15T20:10:13.760-04:00

          I move toward you as if I know how to carry this thing in my heart, as if my body can bear desire and trust, want and faith. Some days I stagger like a raw recruit, sweating under an awkward pack; some days I blush with shame like the longshoreman who can't hoist one more pound. But I'll learn this honest walk - how to sway, wait, balance. The secret lies in letting what has the

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-26133668704014389342011-04-11T19:35:00.000-04:002011-04-11T19:35:33.870-04:00

"All secrets sleep in winter clothes with one you loved so long ago."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-51593724902401285642011-04-11T19:26:00.002-04:002011-04-11T19:30:01.493-04:00

            Passing is effortless. When you see me on the street, in the bar, on the bus, you’ll assign a sex to me. Most likely, you’ll think of me as a lesbian woman. (Note how “lesbian woman” sounds like a pleonasm. Try to think of ways in which it might not be.) You’ll label me even if — or perhaps: precisely because — you’re confused by my appearance. It irks you when you can’t figure out

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-55320021432646942432011-04-10T11:59:00.002-04:002011-04-10T11:59:44.915-04:00

"Rejoice! You'll never make it out alive."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-19393915484013213232011-04-10T11:56:00.003-04:002011-04-10T11:57:15.192-04:00

               I dreamt an accident on the Green Line, my body carefully triturated by wheel and rail. I considered bleach and carbon monoxide. I gently rolled the pills between my fingers. I dreamt of cancer eating my lungs, of aneurysms, a failing heart. I woke and I reminded myself that there is work to be done.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-44745762043241635302011-04-08T18:30:00.003-04:002011-04-10T11:58:19.235-04:00

          It is quite a spectacle, really, once one sees it, these humans so devoted to dressing up and acting up and "fixing" one another so everyone lives up and lives out the theory that there are two sharply distinct sexes and never the twain shall overlap or be confused or conflated; these hominids constantly and with remarkable lack of embarrassment marking a distinction between two sexes

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-22874835324442315242011-04-06T19:43:00.004-04:002011-04-06T20:04:43.101-04:00

"We can't take too much liberty until the time has set you free."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-27247439111412968802011-04-03T19:01:00.000-04:002011-04-03T19:01:09.459-04:00

          And why has modern love developed in such a way as to maximize submission and minimize freedom, with so little argument about it? No doubt a citizenry schooled in renouncing desires - and whatever quantities of imagination and independence they come partnered with - would be, in many respects, advantageous: note that the conditions of lovability are remarkably convergent with those of

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-38547639442733439592011-03-24T19:43:00.002-04:002011-03-24T19:43:17.917-04:00

"I subsist on a steady diet of shame."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-31704495387772985492011-03-24T19:26:00.001-04:002011-03-24T19:27:03.461-04:00

       Cats walk on little cat feet, and fogs walk on little fog feet, Carl.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-88416263662232752812011-03-24T19:12:00.001-04:002011-03-24T19:12:53.659-04:00

      The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-25375581130384312012011-03-23T22:46:00.000-04:002011-03-23T22:46:24.938-04:00

          We stopped at perfect days and got out of the car. The wind glanced at her hair. It was as simple as that. I turned to say something -

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-81422589238379220702011-03-22T00:36:00.001-04:002011-03-22T00:38:42.385-04:00

"And my mind is proud but it aches with rage."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-31597870032110858162011-03-22T00:30:00.000-04:002011-03-22T00:30:42.568-04:00

       Neither my parents nor the doctors know what I am. Or perhaps my parents know — judging from these doctor’s notes my dad at least wants to pretend he knows — and perhaps the doctors persuade them otherwise: The existence of this child cannot be announced to the authorities. Not until they’ve figured out what this child is.So they do a battery of tests. They size up my infant body while

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-3544847658016117532011-03-18T21:36:00.002-04:002011-03-18T21:36:30.899-04:00

"He kinda shoulda sorta woulda loved her if he could've."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-33213762441669894752011-03-18T21:32:00.000-04:002011-03-18T21:32:38.934-04:00

        This now, today, this is the spring of being brave and comely, running through streets as if to late for something, trying to be friends trying to make it easier trying. This is the spring when poems fall from me like late-frosted buds, rent garments of a mourner who does her best to laugh, the spring when you cry suddenly as if for no good reason, while doing your best to smile, the

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-44473819460871161582011-03-14T13:10:00.002-04:002011-03-14T13:10:14.587-04:00

"I can please concrete by walking."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-7232659792526493582011-03-14T12:24:00.003-04:002011-03-14T12:24:42.244-04:00

          Waiting for the song to pick us up again, a chorus to keep us company on our ways across the waters. Here we stand at the bus stop, in the airport, on the platform, the frigid beach of Hull. Here we let go of the language on our fingertips. As we’re driving on Route 228, my skin cracks in unexpected places. “Would you turn down the heat?” The ocean’s roar a variation on silence, the

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-71826856609847467792011-03-12T20:09:00.000-05:002011-03-12T20:09:02.432-05:00

      I saw a blue hermaphrodite centaur in a chain-mail hauberk and no pants in the shopping mall the other day, and guess what? Nobody raised an eyebrow.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-44479848722113337142011-03-10T18:01:00.000-05:002011-03-10T18:01:16.386-05:00

"Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!"

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-36094685344232224002011-03-10T17:23:00.002-05:002011-03-10T18:20:38.198-05:00

        If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in this world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star. For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-64821905156821664302011-03-08T18:47:00.000-05:002011-03-08T18:47:21.546-05:00

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-10505914233173686882011-03-08T18:42:00.000-05:002011-03-08T18:42:22.298-05:00

       In this room with you, me, and a couple of strangers love is the monster. At her bidding we draw the blinds and wet the bed. In her name I mark your skin and I eat you alive. For her sake you swallow up my words and spit them out with bile. In this room chock-full of love, we are the monsters.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-80868445419323569632011-03-03T18:35:00.000-05:002011-03-03T18:35:20.922-05:00

"It's wrong to wish on space hardware."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-54989172688076082542011-03-01T21:21:00.001-05:002011-03-01T21:24:52.695-05:00

         All misery arises out of ourselves. It is a most gross mistake, and men are of dull and stupid spirits who think that the state which we call Hell is an incommodious place only; and that God by His sovereignty throws men therein. Hell ariseth out of a man's self. And Hell's fewel is the guilt of a man's conscience. It is impossible that any should be so miserable as Hell makes a man and

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-11989554185970677722011-02-24T15:40:00.000-05:002011-02-24T15:40:09.067-05:00

"You are coming down with me hand in unlovable hand."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-77259451052501298992011-02-24T11:02:00.004-05:002011-02-24T15:33:01.444-05:00

       They would come at me, those girls who were not really girls anymore. Grown up, wounded, hurt and terrible. Pained and desperate. Mean and angry. Hungry and unable to say just what they needed. Scared, aching, they came into my bed like I could fix it. And every time I would try. I would do anything a woman wanted as long as she didn't want too much of me. As long as I could hide behind

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-53881914114186872302011-02-22T23:51:00.003-05:002011-02-24T15:31:08.200-05:00

"Squint your eyes and hope real hard. Maybe sprout wings."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-17430913957559923092011-02-22T23:24:00.002-05:002011-02-22T23:27:43.910-05:00

          Look up at the escarpment, I built a home for my anger. Not many people at that altitude. Listen, I can go for weeks without talking there. My anger keeps the days still and the nights black. No, the stars don’t bother me. Sometimes a cloud trespasses on my property. But each morning I breathe the crisp air of righteousness and I hang my grievances out to dry: The men who named me,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-79504993145024475402011-02-17T19:26:00.002-05:002011-02-24T15:34:35.369-05:00

"Well, a person can work up a mean mean thirst after a hard day of nothin' much at all."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-60603924493644740842011-02-17T19:22:00.000-05:002011-02-17T19:22:47.237-05:00

         I long to write in the language of monsters. Few words, but each one enough To mend or break the world.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-58449114017295573062011-02-14T18:41:00.002-05:002011-02-14T18:42:58.846-05:00

"And when victory comes at too heavy a cost, well, there's honour in choosing defeat."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-43341985034633323732011-02-14T13:12:00.000-05:002011-02-14T13:12:41.284-05:00

     Survival is the final offer that arrives at the eleventh hour just when pain to the tenth power would kill you with another ninth degree. By then, relief strikes you as an eighth note; you wear doom proudly; it's your seventh seal. But life whispers through your sixth sense of what might await you in some fifth dimension where miracle is saved for the fourth quarter. Tricked, you sigh and

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-50590030715667112132011-02-11T18:02:00.002-05:002011-02-11T18:02:42.166-05:00

"And I will always be nicer to the cat than I am to you you you you."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-91868691490629477652011-02-11T17:56:00.000-05:002011-02-11T17:56:32.298-05:00

      One grand boulevard with trees with one grand cafe in sun with strong black coffee in very small cups. One not necessarily very beautiful man or woman who loves you. One fine day.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-56320483727574430922011-02-03T11:30:00.002-05:002011-02-03T11:30:39.045-05:00

"I could be another fool or an exception to the rule You tell me the morning after."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-85198686820264031692011-02-01T19:06:00.001-05:002011-02-01T19:06:53.958-05:00

        And my biography? What about my pornographic life? From whose perspective would it be seen? Would I be a case study, light humor, or another case of pseudoporn? The ferns had all died back in my apartment. I went through my underwear drawer and pulled out the paperbacks, sorted through the small pile buried under the comforter in the corner of the storage closet, and ferreted out the

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-41941618814595914702011-01-31T19:56:00.000-05:002011-01-31T19:56:55.480-05:00

"The storm has broken, heaven's open."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-9122420022482982372011-01-10T06:01:00.001-05:002011-02-01T18:56:47.017-05:00

      When I was a six- or seven- or ten-year-old girl, bulging out of my clothes, if you had stopped and said, "Let's talk," and if you had asked the right questions, you might have learned that, like many fat people, I was a person who had been starved. In my case, you might have learned that I was someone whose mother, for her own reasons, could not love me, and whose father, for his reasons,

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-7110112983008741672010-12-31T12:56:00.002-05:002011-01-01T08:55:51.219-05:00

"I don't give a damn what the doctors say I ain't gonna spend another lonesome day."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-55546620368028943202010-12-31T12:27:00.000-05:002010-12-31T12:27:21.294-05:00

      When asked how he could maintain his good cheer and optimism through these awful times, Howard [Zinn] would point out some things that the media obscures. People in many places around the United States are always working on a relatively small scale for progressive change. We cannot predict when those efforts will develop into movements that will effect significant change on a large scale.

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-85359239477371701352010-12-27T11:56:00.000-05:002010-12-27T11:56:09.341-05:00

"I get my whiskey from a well Except on holidays, then it's the top shelf."

M.noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8446846526028397377.post-31172519119978824792010-12-27T11:49:00.000-05:002010-12-27T11:49:18.850-05:00

    Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down - the blizzard drifts its weight deeper and deeper for three days or sixty years, eh? Then the sun! A clutter of yellow and blue flakes - Hairy looking trees stand out in long alleys over a wild solitude. The man turns and there - his solitary track stretched out upon the world.

M.noreply@blogger.com0