Message in a City in a Bottle

My little brother the budding political commentator

2008-10-20T14:14:00.001-07:00

Harry is 4. I tried to explain to him that in a couple weeks, we're going to have ourselves an election. He knows who the current president is and doesn't recognize John McCain. But when I showed him a picture of Barack Obama he said:

"Bobby doesn't like that guy."

Bobby being our dad, Robert.

Abraham Lincoln's Farewell Speech to Illinois, before becoming president and suspending their of Habeas Corpus

2008-10-10T07:47:00.001-07:00

Or, some of the best writing ever in the universe:

My friends, no one not in my situation can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when, or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of the Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail. Trusting in Him who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell.

A new approach

2008-10-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

I think the entire presidential campaign could take place in court. Have each side present, then gets cross-examined and whoever gets to be president, the other candidate goes to prison for libel and fraud. Then, if, after four years, the president is seen not to have done a good job, he (not "he or she" yet, for better or for worse--although at this rate, I'll be getting ambivalent about Michelle Obama's candidacy in 2024) goes to jail for fraud and libel.

Indira Ghandi Peace Prize

2008-09-22T21:07:00.000-07:00

Supposedly there is an Indira Ghandi Peace prize, which the current president of Iceland has won (he's coming to Columbia College, and I still occasionally read their publicity). Leaving aside the ruler of the most geologically- and genetically-nifty nation on the planet, I'd like to take a moment to ask a question the publicity surrounding his visit did not consider it in their purview ( and rightly so, perhaps) to ask: "Gee, guys. Why do you think Indira Ghandi would have a peace prize named after her?"

A little backstory: she was the daugher of Jawaharlar Nehru, the man who, along with Mohandas Ghandi (no blood relation to Indira) brought modern, democratic India into existence. She had a successful first term as Prime Minister in the late 60s (in which she was responsible for revolutionizing Indian agriculture) and, like you would, ran again twice more. Those two terms, and a third that came on the heels of some pretty exciting felony charges, showed more and more of her megalomaniacal side--development of the nuclear bomb (idiotically code-named "smiling Buddha"); boxing matches with the Muslim and Sikh separatist movements until, after ordering a raid-turned-massacre at the Golden Temple (THE Sikh holy place) she was killed by...get this: her two Sikh bodyguards.

Note to dictators everywhere: make sure the people you pay to stand behind you with sub-machine guns don't want to shoot you with them.

But the point is, none of this constitutes evidence that she should have a peace prize named after her. Maybe a prize should be given in her name at the Cornell School of Agriculture that takes the form of a parsnip with her face carved into it and 20 bullet holes and exit wounds on the sides, the placement of which are engineered so you can play it like a fife. Why not? I could use a laugh. But could we please save the peace prizes--both the naming and the bestowing--for people who make the world a safer place to live in other ways than leaving it? What's next? The Josef Stalin Leadership Award? (I'd give the old standby example, Yasser Arafat--but he already received a Nobel peace prize. He got it, of course, for curing cancer and for writing a well received series of articles, syndicated in the early 90s by NY Times, Atlantic, and other respected marketplaces of ideas, in which he warned us of the threat posed by the Jews. Did you know that before reading his articles, 8 out of 10 Americans didn't know Jews control the media? After he wrote them? 6 out of 10. Don't progress feel good?)

Variations on Marketing

2008-09-12T14:43:00.001-07:00

Now made with 100% all-natural, non-carcinogenic ingredients, guaranteed or your money back!

Cheese Whiz: "Now with up to 2.4% more cheese flavor in every third bite! (Void where prohibited.)"

Brussels Sprouts: "Now with 40% more edibility!"

Cigarettes: "Now with 30% more cost!"

Carrots: "Tired of eating the same old carrots? Well, try new carrots! Now with 100% more carrotiness in every carrot!'

Feel free to post your own.

Six Word Novel: part 2

2008-09-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

Question: Which is better--

the original: "For sale: babies' shoes, never worn."

or: "For sale: babies' shoes, worn once."

A Thought on Writing

2008-09-02T19:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not a self-centered asshole. I don't think any writer is. Many are assholes, I'm sure--or translate as such into human terms--but not self-centered. It's not a martyr complex; it's the plain truth: no one who was actually self-centered would treat himself the way a writer treats himself, alienating personal relationships and then dissecting them in print; abjuring sleep and calm: living on an edge, in constant danger of falling, for no better reason than to be able to see down, in addition to being able to see up and around.

Why do we do it? Why do we hurt ourselves? It's because we are locked boxes with precious things inside of us that can only be accessed by tearing through the shell. But it's something that we're not alone in doing--authors. Everyone cracks the shell to get at the seed, and the seed, of course, is time--the sheer beautiful paradox that we don't have too much time alive and don't know where we go after that. The signature difference between an artist, a laborer, and an entrepreneur is that, whereas a laborer uses his time for work directly, an artist divides his time between introspection, that is, plumbing the nature of his own time on Earth, and the creation of art--which is little more than a by-product of that introspection. An entrepreneur uses his time directing the use of others' time, including that of artists.

That doesn't account for the people artists hurt in their pursuit of self-immolation. Very little accounts for, or explains, or justifies, the hurt endured by the people with whom an artist associates. The only way I've ever seen it explained is in terms of present and future--the way people account for someone like Winston Churchill saving England and the free world, but doing a shit job of raising his children. The former was very noble and wonderful, but there's no denying that children would prefer, in the final analysis, to be raised by competent parents.

Of course, this will all seem hilariously ironic in a few dozen years if I don't make it as an author.

Rebel Yell Bourbon

2008-08-26T08:35:00.001-07:00

There's a company in Louisville Kentucky (the last state in the Union to have slaves legally) called the Rebel Yell Distillery that claims to have been making their eponymous bourbon since 1849. It's very good Bourbon. Of COURSE it's good bourbon--there was no such thing as a "rebel yell" until the 1860s. So the company was literally ahead of its time. Woo! Prophetic whiskey!

See Below

2008-08-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

See below

Six-Word Novels

2008-08-13T17:56:00.001-07:00

A person just died somewhere. Another.

Government investigates government corruption. Reveals: corruption.

.

Things that Frustrate Me: Part 1

2008-07-30T00:10:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered the hard way that the short stories in a New Yorker Debut Fiction Special Magazine I have (all caps because it's a capital way to spend like 8 bucks--if none of your friends or relatives subscribe) are all JUST a little bit too long to read on the john.

To clarify: not only are they too long for a trip of normal length--they're even too long for that trip you prolong because you like what you're reading, so that when you get up, you have to slap the feeling back into your thighs. I try not to have too many of those.

You know what makes great crapper reading? Franz Kafka. Try it.

Chorus from a song I'm writing

2008-07-26T20:03:00.001-07:00

In a little while
I'm gonna go away
Cuz I didn't come
Round here to stay

And when I get back
From where I've gone
I speck to find
That you've moved on

And this, too, shall pass
And that, too, shall pass
And so it goes around and round
And so it goes around.

Last Names

2008-07-15T16:29:00.001-07:00

There's been some talk of late concerning the potential for empowerment in "keeping one's own name" after marriage or hyphenating or whatever. All of this sounds suspicious for the usual reasons which I won't bother too much about--the fact that the name a woman would "keep" was her father's name, which her mother took; the fact that being "empowered" in name is not necessarily the same as being empowered in reality, etc--but there are a few new ones I'd like to discuss.

The first one relates to the use of last names as first names--Walker, Hunter, Harper, Braden, Bradley, Apple, etc. While not a part of modern feminist chic, per sé, it seems useful to lump them together under the common heading of "name fads," the better to connect them to a third practice: the Spanish last-name-bonanza.

While studying literature over the summer, I was introduced to a writer named "Perez Galdós." Now, I wasn't paying very close attention that day, so I came away thinking what a stupid name "Perez Galdós" is. Wrong. The full name is "Benito Perez Galdos"--matronymic and patronymic. Of course, the "matronymic" comes from the father of the mother, but that doesn't stop most people nowadays, and it certainly didn't stop people back then. Furthermore, inherent in the name is a further tribute to the father: "Perez" basically means "Son of Pedro" the way "Benitez" means "Son of Benito" and "Mikhalovna" means "daughter of Michael" and so on.

I admit that, to a large extent we have lost the fight regarding the last-name-as-first-name. Hunter S. Thompson is here to stay. But I do believe there is some grit left in us to resist the substitution of a name that comes from one's father with a name that comes from one's grandfather.

After all, last names are fairly new things. In a small village it was enough to say "Andrew, son of Edmund, Cooper" or something similar. And everyone would know who you were because there weren't many coopers in town. Well, now we live in large villages and the burden of proof is on you to make yourself identifiable. So take a Jameson if your father's name is James. Take an Ericasdaughter if your mother's name is Erica. And keep your father's last name and come up with a new one. Mine would be Adam Stephen Robertson Katz (Katz, a Hebrew word, is, for reasons I don't wanna go into now, close enough to my current occupation I don't feel I need a new one).

The problem with "keeping your own name" is that it doesn't involve change or reassessment. It doesn't come from a new conception of yourself. If you want to be modern and do something modern with your name, ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING WITH YOURSELF, AND TAKE A NAME TO REFLECT THAT.

A Thought

2008-07-15T16:26:00.000-07:00

The following appeared on a neighboring blog in my name, but I decided to reappropriate it to keep up the volume of stuff without having to actually write so much.

I would like to take this opportunity to point out the justice of Catholics identifying the origin of their church with the line: "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock (petrvs) I build my church," especially considering how overly concerned Catholics seem to be (especially of LATE! My GOODNESS!) With the peters of their officials.

Thank you and enjoy each your week.

How to Carve a Turkey

2008-07-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

1. Cut open the thigh and make sure the juice runs clear. If not, continue baking or roasting until juice will run clear in the other leg. If you run out of legs to test, you do not necessarily need a new turkey.

2.Cut off the wings and drumsticks to prevent escape. Take out the gizzards, too, for much the same reason--the idea is to take away the turkey's options, I guess.

3. Enter the knife into the turkey near the spine and cut a slice downwards until the blade is between the leg and wing. Do this until all meat is gone, except what you want to pick at later. This will come to be called the "breast meat," even though turkeys don't have breasts, and, if they did, probably wouldn't have them on their backs.

4. Ponder whether drum-sticks were designed to look like--or, indeed, were made out of--birds' legs; or if the similarity was noted later.

5. Try futilely to cut thigh meat away in a coherent fashion (put most of the little pieces in your mouth, even though it's all little pieces). Give up. Vow to return for a second attempt when Aunt Edna finishes her fascinating story about the pubic cysts she just had removed.

6. Remove neck and put into fridge for later making into soup. Vow to do same to Aunt Edna if she doesn't shut up about the fucking cysts.

7. Put all slices on a plate in coherent fashion. Place pan-drippings in a small, porcelain toureen.

8. In light of Aunt Edna's refusal to take any hint at all, contemplate the oneness of all things: here you are carving a turkey--and yet, as you grit your teeth ever more tightly, you realize you and the turkey are both "on knife's edge." Allow a tear to roll down your cheek; vow to be more compassionate.

9. Stab Aunt Edna.

MARTIN GUERRE

2007-08-13T06:54:00.004-07:00

The eight sections that follow represent the full text of a dramatic poem I have written on the subject of Martin Guerre, a 16th century Provencal farmer who, cursed by impotence, spent some unhappy years with his wife, finally managed to father a child by her, then left before the child was even born.

Years later he came back, but, although he knew every detail of his former life, he was taller, his feet were smaller, and, inexplicably, he began to play the devoted husband, father, and farmer. However, he also demanded of his father-in-law back-money from the harvests reaped in his stead. This "affront," combined with some other inconsistencies led him to charge "Martin" with fraud.

The trial dragged on and the judges were on the very brink of allowing "Martin" to keep his family (French civil law was based on Roman civil law, in which it was preached that whatever "Justice" there may be, it must preserve the family in question as much as possible) when Martin Guerre, or so he claimed to be, hobbled into the court room. He had lost one leg in combat, but the remaining one was enough to resolve the inconsistency of the cobbler. But: he did not know as much about "himself" as the other Martin. Still, it was the "other" Martin who proved the impostor when Bertrande finally testified against him.

Remember, this is a draft being published in blog-form, yes, for the general delectation, but also to invite criticism.

It should go without saying but will not that the parts of the poem that do not deal directly with the story brought out a relevent aspect of human nature I felt needed emphasizing. There is no rhyme or reason to their selection otherwise.

A word about footnotes that appear in THE ARGUMENT, ALMA MAHLER REVISED BY ARCHY, and ARTE POETICA BY VICENTE HUIDOBRO: each of these contains a line or more for which I cannot accept credit. The first line of the poem comes from an email I received in the course of a long-distance conversation with my high school chorus and music theory teacher; the passages quoted by archy come from a book of lieder by Alma Mahler I found in the music library of Columbia University (the precise details escape me) and the poem by Vicente Huidobro comes from an anthology of his poems I found in Butler library, quite by accident.

I: The Argument

2007-08-13T06:54:00.003-07:00

"It's one of the great stories, and yet – true... how is that possible?"i

II: ARNAUD DU TILH

2007-08-13T06:54:00.001-07:00

You didn't know, Dog-God, Feaster on Hearts
That when she took you in and fed you
Secrets, details of a marriage replaced
That he would come—whose name you wore, assured,
But ultimately like a ticket, a
Marked wrist—that he would come back, not for you,
Not for her either, but for himself: shame.
(Her hair unbound for you, white shoulders—yours)
Would you still have borrowed those years, knowing
Dimly always you would repay them
and more: collar - woollen - in summer - turned
To hemp? Your too-small feet, once firm, would dance
On air? Your wife—his wife—whom you loved or
Said you loved would, like a doe before a
truck, look just below his eyes, tears too late?
(Her hair unbound for you, white shoulders—yours)
Could you have breathed the same sigh back in?
No—you returned, palindrome that you are,
To the soft pallette of her memory
To achieve at last your pretense, your ruse
The one that would have worked, but he came back—
At the trial, no less—his suit almost yours
Like a doe staring down a truck, tears too late
(Her hair unbound for you, white shoulders—yours)
You didn't know, dog-god, feaster on hearts?
Who were you the last moment? Lover? Knave?
Were your thoughts on the money—back harvests
Tilled by an uncle in his nephew's stead—
The quest for which aroused his suspicion?
Or the way, feathery, her glance dropped with
Her loosed hair as you blew out the candle?

When he marched, hobble-hopped into the courthouse
Did you cry: "O all has come undone now!"
Or did you shrug and say "It was nice
“While it lasted" or did you say: "I know
“Those years should never have been mine to
“Remember
“But

“Her hair unbound” for you, white shoulders—yours
You didn't know, dog-god, feaster on hearts.

III: SER CEPERELLO

2007-08-13T06:53:00.003-07:00

The ever patient - Doctor - Bocaccio's
First head-case, the first modern Catch-22
Performed the miracle of sainting a poor
Old sinner, long – far - away from the Lord's Path
And so was beatified, beautified.
Himself the rogue! A self-hymn he sang – him:
Eternal ember lit from one grown dim!
White collar crime of another bent
O Dog-god, feaster on hearts: content?

IV: BERTRANDE DE ROLS

2007-08-13T06:53:00.001-07:00

When you married me: slight rejoicing I
When you tried me in vain: slight despairing I
When you were quit of me: slight rejoicing I
When your child was born to me: I rejoiced.
.
When you were then replaced, I rejoiced the slight
When his child was born to me I rejoiced.
When he was hanged I slight grieved. Much more - than expected.
You returned, I felt, incomplete – unchanged,
Otherwise.
Your ballad without a hero
A matrimony, less its groom
Nor did I play my part with such honor
This farmer's daughter's dower - was some lots
But her lot was not to best its lure.
O,
I am the wind that blows nor fare nor fowl
The river cannot choose which boat to bear
I have perfumed my bed with myrrh and aloe:
My hair unbound for you. Either—of you.
White shoulders - now squared - now bent: ours.

V COLON ALMA MAHLER REVISITED BY ARCHY

2007-08-13T06:52:00.002-07:00

BOSS I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH THESE COMPUTERS THE CAPS
LOCK IS DOWN AND I CAN'T SEE WHERE IT IS BECAUSE THE KEYBOARD IS
NOT ON A SLANT BUT I DISCOVERED THIS ARTICLE I THINK YOU MIGHT
FIND INTERESTING COLON
'…SHORTLY AFTER THEIR ENGAGEMENT MAHLER EMBARKED ON A
CONCERT TOUR DURING WHICH HE WROTE A SUCCESSION OF
GRANDILOQUENTLY TENDER LETTERS. ALMA MAHLER PUBLISHED ALL
OF THEM--WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE FATEFUL LETTER WRITTEN ON
DECEMBER 20TH 1902 IN DRESDEN. IN THIS LENGTHY AND EXTREMELY
EARNEST MISSIVE MAHLER EXPLAINED TO ALMA THAT, IF SHE WISHED
TO BE HIS COMPANION, SHE WOULD HAVE TO FORGO HER CREATIVE
AMBITIONS…ALMA GAVE WAY AND MADE THE PLEDGE WHICH MAHLER
WAS ASKING OF HER…FOR EIGHT-AND-A-HALF YEARS MAHLER'S WIFE
REGARDED HIS MUSIC AS HER OWN, SHARED HIS SUCCESSES AND
FAILURES, EVEN ON OCCASIONS COPIED HIS MUSIC FOR HIM. IN THE
SUMMER OF 1910 THE SMOULDERING MARITAL CRISIS BROKE OUT INTO
THE OPEN AND MAHLER WAS CONFRONTED WITH THE POSSIBILITY THAT
HE COULD LOSE THE WOMAN HE LOVED. ONE DAY IN TOBLACH ALMA
RETURNED HOME FROM A WALK TO HEAR HER HUSBAND PLAYING AND
SINGING HER LIEDER. YEARS LATER SHE WAS TO WRITE 'THE COFFIN
CONTAINING THESE CREATURES WAS A FOLDER WHICH I TOOK WITH ME
TO OUR SUMMER RESORT EVERY SPRING AND BROUGHT BACK TO
VIENNA EVERY AUTUMN. I HAD NEVER REALLY COME TO TERMS WITH
THE SITUATION…' ENDNOTE

there it is
the caps lock
i mean
i don't know what
to make of
this boss
i don't think i deserve
credit
for what they
wrote

VI: VINCENTE HUIDOBRO ARTE POETICA

2007-08-13T06:52:00.001-07:00

A new translationiii

Que el verso sea como una llave
Que abra mil puertas
Una oja cae; algo pasa volando;
Cuanto miren los ojos creado sea,
Y el alma del oyente quede temblando.
Inventa mundos nuevos y cuida tu palabra
El adjetivo cuando no da vida, mata.
Estamos en el ciclo de los nervios.
El músculo cuelga,
Como recuerdo, en los museos;
Mas no por eso tenemos menos fuerza:
El vigor verdadero
Reside en la cabeza.
Por qué cantáis la rosa, ¡oh Poetas!
Hacedla florecer en el poema;
Sólo para nosotros
Viven todas las cosas baja el Sol
El poeta es un pequeño Dios.

Let verse be like a key
Let it open many doors
A page falls; something flies past;
What the eyes shall see shall be created,
And the soul of the listener waits trembling.
Invent new worlds and guard your word;
The adjective, when it gives no life, kills.
We are in the cycle of nerves.
The muscle hangs,
Like a memory, in the museums;
But not for this have we less strength:
True vigor
Resides in the head.
Why do you sing the rose, ¡oh Poetas!
Make it flower in the poem
Only for us
Live all things under the sun
The poet is a little god.

VII: AGRICULTURE

2007-08-13T06:51:00.001-07:00

The water rushes down the river and floods the fields, then sinks into the ground.
It comes down from the sky and then sinks into the ground.
It comes up in buckets and in the pulp of fruit and is consumed; it comes down in sweat, tears, shit, and all the rest. It is impossible to understand, but impossible not to try to understand.
Water is not itself a symbol, but can admit symbols in colloidal suspension. As in all things, the majesty of heaven manifests itself in the smallest of details—as well as the largest. It is seductively epicurean—and foolish—to worship the details.

VIII: MARTIN

2007-08-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

Heard from far, and returned – in part –
One's reasons one's own.
One - remaining - foot (the peg a keepsake)
Just enough to claim the birthright—said
The man who made that boot so long ago.
It was he felt the lack—not Bertrande
Not her children, raised by another sneak;
The shoe fit, and yet—the pants had to be
Shortened in one leg.
It's a bit ridiculous when you think about it. Best not to

When one is gone long,
The people one returns to – grow - away.
They were married to an improved notion of you
You didn't know, dog-god, feaster on hearts?
The flavor doesn't tarry in the veins.
One must be quick, and eat the heart while yet
The humor - is in it;
Nor that nature abhors the vacuum.
Don't worry child.
Don't worry, little god, waster of hearts.
You couldn't have known:
it is exactly
(as we with hindsight start to comprehend)
Like the relativity of time
One experiences looking at stars.

Prospectus 1

2007-08-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

Q: Would you give up your poetry, your free expression to live in a society in which everyone had enough to eat?

A: Of course. Without a second though. But generally speaking, a society will require that one give up one's poetry and wait and see if the society is as perfect if it advertises. "Can I have my poetry back," the artist politely asks when it becomes clear that the society has fallen short. "no," the society will reply, somewhat less politely.

Q: So "No" would be your answer?

A: I wish the answer were "yes" in a way I don't wish I were tantalized by the frequent emails offering millions in Nigerian booty.

How a Humble Shop Actually Sold Humility--For a Price

2007-08-12T07:08:00.000-07:00

When my friend suggested to me that we go to a thrift shop on 79th st. to buy a birthday present for his girlfriend, my first thought was: "wouldn't she want something new?" Having the though embarassed me many times over. I myself, 6 months previous, at a flea-market, had bought 2 sweaters and a tee-shirt--the kind with buttons and a collar--each for two dollars and fifty cents. I wore them each at least once a week, and neither sweater had seen a washing-machine in that time.
So we went downtown by subway, got there, went in, walked past the tacky little candlestick-holders and the CDs and the cash-register and the coats that looked like they'd been donated by call-girls; he started paging through the skirts and I through the phonograph records. I've always loved things other people have no use for any longer. So I picked out six records and three of them had bad defects. He found me a movie we'd like and a copy of a book he'd read.
I wondered how I'd react to a present bought second hand. I decided I'd love it, which made me feel even cheaper for having misgivings still.

It took me a while to coax him towards the cash register. He had wanted a short outing, and I was trying to hold im to it, for the reasons he gave and also so as not any longer to have these nagging little paradoxes growing in the part of the stomach that for some reason registers such feelings. I wondered why the stomach is the organ of misgiving.

I had accrued three perfect dusty records, a book, a movie, and a shirt no self-respecting mammal would wear.
On the way to the register I passed a guy standing by the skirt section, asking the clerk: "can you tell me where the skirt section is? I wanna buy a skirt for my girlfriend." He was standing by the skirt section. He looked like a white-stubbled yellow raisin, and had food or--something--clotted thick in the corners of his mouth. He was standing by the skirt section. I hastened to the cash register.

We stood ready to pay, and my friend's tab was ten dollars more than he had expected. "I don't have enough money for this. I thought it was ten dollars."
"Twenty," Said the cashier. "It's leather, see?"
"I thought it was ten. I can't buy this. I don't think she'd like it anyway. No I don't wanna be a bad boyfriend. But I think she wouldn't like this. What do you think?"
He indicated me; I said: "I think she'd like it." I know. Stupid.
"But I think she'd like this one more, and I can't buy both."
"Ok. Put one back."
"But then I'll find her something else." Then, to the cashier: "Do you think I'm a bad person? Seriously."
We moved away from the cash-register, he, holding his bag of purchases, I, mine, my coat, my knapsack, jealously concealing a laptop and 2 newspapers--one Times, one Onion.
As we passed, a woman asked for the price of one of the call-girl coats. Two-hundred dollars. Two-hundred dollars! I walked faster to nowhere: antsy and soon to be bored or frustrated.

I crossed the floor to him. He was looking at sweaters, asking and answering the same question: "Would she like this? Would she like this? Would she like this?"
"Yes," I answered each time.
"How do you please the girl who's pleased by everything?"
"I dunno."
"I think she'd like this...no she likes muted colors."
A sweater brighter than any other in the store was already sitting on his bag.
"Just get that." I gestured at a skirt.
"I want her to like it."
"She will. She likes everything."
"No I mean I want her to really like it."
It clearly frustrated him that love and an unparalleled good nature mad her standards so apparently low. For anything bought with love, she would have no other standard. So we bought a sweater and a skirt (after a detour to the scarf "section"--there was one scarf) and left.

two heads of a three-headed dog

2007-08-12T07:05:00.000-07:00

i
cannot
tell the difference between
eschatology and escapology
except
the wrong one contains
apology

i...i--
feel it burn
the thing i don't..?won't..? can't...?
bring myself to tell her though
the
heavens move and the
earth
and she or i will
judge me

by fire

See for Yourself

2007-08-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

A didactical poet
Never makes himself
Half so clear as
An auto-didact
Who
Like Frankenstein
Or Moses

Struggles
With
You

To comprehend
"his"
"gift"

Depression: An Odor

2007-08-12T07:03:00.000-07:00

it is her igneous smile that
ash tears
and fallenberry redness
cut to cusps
as she with cupped hands
stands not
to greet them,

strands of her falling everywhair.

inaugural test-post

2007-08-12T07:01:00.000-07:00

I don't hate white people, but sometimes I wish I did.