high ridiculousness

Verba

2011-11-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

my eyes hurt

driving or taking the train

the bus is going too

faster than light

a neutrino pierces

my right arm

out-stretched

ready to snap

the beat slows

strung-out

along the road the car

windows open

my eyes

hurt

De amissione amici

2011-10-20T09:13:00.000-07:00

On the Loss of a Friend

When I saw my Facebook friends had gone from 532 to 531, I immediately changed the song on my iPod to Pärt's Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten, shaved my beard, and left for the nearest tree I knew. But it was rush hour, and by the time I stepped off the train I was feeling upset.

Anas

2011-10-18T16:04:00.000-07:00

Suecia

2011-10-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of moving to Sweden.

Build a cabin and fish in the fjords.

Stark rocks and hundreds of words

for frozen precipitation--snow,

sleet, hail . . . it's hard.

Geothermal springs, volcanoes

and guys running around with drums

and funny-looking sweaters.

Does Sweden have fjords?

Or cabins?

Is everything I know about Sweden

from a Sigur Ros music video

and actually about Iceland?

Oportet esse caelum ut locus sit Bruno Walteri

2011-10-12T19:02:00.000-07:00

I like this.

Ars hodierna

2011-10-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

Today in a contemporary art gallery:

In Memoriam S. Negotiorum

2011-10-05T18:48:00.000-07:00

- Posted via iPad

Today there'll be a million poems written.
One more would not be too many.

Aqua

2011-09-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

De animula

2011-09-25T21:05:00.000-07:00

Warning: Implicit content. Click to proceed.

Theca

2011-09-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

THEWOR
LDISALW
AYSREA
DYTOE
ND . . .
- The black and white box on the fifth floor of the BYU Library a few weeks ago

I'm afraid it's already ended. You missed it while you were looking into some guy's box and reading his spaceless script.
Meanwhile, I was eating a Torpedo Waffle and listening to the latest three-year-old indie folk album to hit my iPod.
All that's left is for everything to be formalized--for the creator and his devil to electronically sign and initial on their corresponding lines of a contract written and produced by Steven Spielberg and not necessarily better than any of his other end-of-world productions.
I didn't know any of this either until an hour ago when Julian Assange hacked into the Devil's email and leaked the heck out of Hell, which is now a fairly nice place--three bedrooms, two and a half baths, in one of the nicer suburbs of Detroit and left vacant after the devil fled, fearing the wrath of Steven Spielberg.

Mille Viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam

2011-08-01T20:36:00.000-07:00

"All roads lead to Rome"
if true, means I'm screwed.
Not that I'd mind the sunshine,
or a gelato and perhaps
a quick tour of the Vatican,
but I gotta be in Jefferson by two.
Which, despite its temporality,
has existed long enough to develop
a bank with a decent enough exchange
on DeLorean dreams that I won't
have to keep reliving my future in my past.
And that has come to mean more to me
even than a good Zabaione. But I guess
if it's true, and I'm screwed, I might
as well stop by San Crispino.

Guttae

2011-07-28T22:12:00.000-07:00

It all ended July 15,

but I didn't know until tonight.

So I was held somewhat in suspense

during the rebroadcast. And while the kid

to my right dementor-slurped his happiness,

I reached out for specks of Voldemort,

and slipped a few in my pocket.

Sat somniculosa

2011-07-01T11:24:00.000-07:00

I left with three (cold) cokes.

Just tired enough to jump the gap

between televisions.

Coice mihi litteras

2011-06-30T00:10:00.000-07:00

Just shoot me a text, she said, in a text

that I didn't get until a day later

because I had lost my phone under the couch

while watching American Pickers,

which I guess according to a recent study
means I'm living life on the edge,

which is what I said when I shot her

a text this afternoon when I found

my phone under the couch

while watching American Pickers on the edge

of the couch, trying to eat the cole slaw

on the edge of the coffee table,

although I should have been someplace else,

on some other edge, shooting some other text

and possibly eating some other cole slaw.

Urbs arborum

2011-06-29T19:31:00.000-07:00

Utah's city of trees it said.

And there were trees:

In the cemetary a giant willow,

the road lined with cottonwoods

that transitioned to smaller aspens

mixed with the occaisonal pine,

then in my mother's yard

a newly planted weeping cherry.

I don't know the name of any tree.

But there were trees.

And the last was newly planted.

Avis magna et alba

2011-06-28T00:22:00.000-07:00

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

-Baudelaire

Vale

2011-06-27T21:08:00.001-07:00

You go west; I'll go east.

Eventually we'll we meet somewhere in asia,

or, since i'm a little slow, in eastern europe.

There we'll exchange angry birds high scores,

eat a giant bag of hi-chew,

and watch hgtv

till one (or both) leaves.

Genius

2011-06-20T13:33:00.001-07:00

Il est l'affection et le présent, puisqu'il a fait la maison ouverte à l'hiver écumeux et à la rumeur de l'été, - lui qui a purifié les boissons et les aliments - lui qui est le charme des lieux fuyants et le délice surhumain des stations. Il est l'affection et l'avenir, la force et l'amour que nous, debout dans les rages et les ennuis, nous voyons passer dans le ciel de tempête et les drapeaux d'extase.
Il est l'amour, mesure parfaite et réinventée, raison merveilleuse et imprévue, et l'éternité : machine aimée des qualités fatales. Nous avons tous eu l'épouvante de sa concession et de la nôtre : ô jouissance de notre santé, élan de nos facultés, affection égoïste et passion pour lui, lui qui nous aime pour sa vie infinie...
Et nous nous le rappelons, et il voyage... Et si l'Adoration s'en va, sonne, sa promesse sonne : "Arrière ces superstitions, ces anciens corps, ces ménages et ces âges. C'est cette époque-ci qui a sombré !"
Il ne s'en ira pas, il ne redescendra pas d'un ciel, il n'accomplira pas la rédemption des colères de femmes et des gaîtés des hommes et de tout ce péché : car c'est fait, lui étant, et étant aimé.
O ses souffles, ses têtes, ses courses ; la terrible célérité de la perfection des formes et de l'action.
O fécondité de l'esprit et immensité de l'univers.
Son corps ! Le dégagement rêvé, le brisement de la grâce croisée de violence nouvelle !
Sa vue, sa vue ! tous les agenouillages anciens et les peines relevés à sa suite.
Son jour ! l'abolition de toutes souffrances sonores et mouvantes dans la musique plus intense.
Son pas ! les migrations plus énormes que les anciennes invasions.
O lui et nous ! l'orgueil plus bienveillant que les charités perdues.
O monde ! et le chant clair des malheurs nouveaux !
Il nous a connus tous et nous a tous aimés. Sachons, cette nuit d'hiver, de cap en cap, du pôle tumultueux au château, de la foule à la plage, de regards en regards, forces et sentiments las, le héler et le voir, et le renvoyer, et sous les marées et au haut des déserts de neige, suivre ses vues, ses souffles, son corps, son jour.

-Rimbaud

Dies Patris

2011-06-19T23:08:00.000-07:00

Every Father's Day we go fishing,
which means I walk around the lake
a few times and, if I'm feeling bold,
take a step or two into the water.
(I'm never feeling bold.)
Meanwhile, my father's ghost
is in waist-deep
tying on the perfect fly
to catch the biggest ghost-fish
in the whole blasted lake.

Causae

2011-06-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

Un coup de ton doigt sur le tambour décharge tous les sons et commence la nouvelle harmonie.
Un pas de toi, c'est la levée des nouveaux hommes et leur en-marche.
Ta tête se détourne : le nouvel amour !
Ta tête se retourne, - le nouvel amour !
"Change nos lots, crible les fléaux, à commencer par le temps" te chantent ces enfants. "Elève n'importe où la subtance de nos fortunes et de nos voeux" on t'en prie.
Arrivée de toujours, qui t'en iras partout.

-Rimbaud

Dies Floris

2011-06-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

P. Ovidi Metamorphosen, liber tertius

2011-06-03T21:05:00.001-07:00

   Non illum Cereris, non illum cura quietis
abstrahere inde potest, sed opaca fusus in herba
spectat inexpleto mendacem lumine formam
perque oculos perit ipse suos; paulumque levatus               440
ad circumstantes tendens sua bracchia silvas
'ecquis, io silvae, crudelius' inquit 'amavit?
scitis enim et multis latebra opportuna fuistis.
ecquem, cum vestrae tot agantur saecula vitae,
qui sic tabuerit, longo meministis in aevo?               445
et placet et video; sed quod videoque placetque,
non tamen invenio'++tantus tenet error amantem++
'quoque magis doleam, nec nos mare separat ingens
nec via nec montes nec clausis moenia portis;
exigua prohibemur aqua! cupit ipse teneri:               450
nam quotiens liquidis porreximus oscula lymphis,
hic totiens ad me resupino nititur ore.
posse putes tangi: minimum est, quod amantibus obstat.
quisquis es, huc exi! quid me, puer unice, fallis
quove petitus abis? certe nec forma nec aetas               455
est mea, quam fugias, et amarunt me quoque nymphae!
spem mihi nescio quam vultu promittis amico,
cumque ego porrexi tibi bracchia, porrigis ultro,
cum risi, adrides; lacrimas quoque saepe notavi
me lacrimante tuas; nutu quoque signa remittis               460
et, quantum motu formosi suspicor oris,
verba refers aures non pervenientia nostras!
iste ego sum: sensi, nec me mea fallit imago;
uror amore mei: flammas moveoque feroque.
quid faciam? roger anne rogem? quid deinde rogabo?               465
quod cupio mecum est: inopem me copia fecit.
o utinam a nostro secedere corpore possem!
votum in amante novum, vellem, quod amamus, abesset.
iamque dolor vires adimit, nec tempora vitae
longa meae superant, primoque exstinguor in aevo.               470
nec mihi mors gravis est posituro morte dolores,
hic, qui diligitur, vellem diuturnior esset;
nunc duo concordes anima moriemur in una.'

Dona ab te data

2011-05-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

You've given me many gifts:

a few weeks of happiness,

perspective, hope,

the key to the perfect avocado sandwich.

But this last gift--it is too much:

Immortality.

A million years not worth living.

And that's just before breakfast

that's not worth eating.

Then in the bright morning a million more

I spend, by Eos abandoned

in a room with nothing but my endless babble.

And after lunch and a Coke
not worth drinking,
I beg for the same as Tithonus,

but I lose patience

waiting for the bullet

which takes a million years

to leave the barrel.

And leaping off a cliff:

a million years spent falling

slowly, softly, terribly to the ground.

And then the night--

how the time passes slowly:

a million dreams (without you)

not worth dreaming.

My life gone,

as a ghost I live forever.

Umbra potestne mori?

2011-05-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

Up, or I guess down, to this point

you could say I had been coasting,

thinking that although I don't see as many colors

I will enjoy each a little longer

and that they are everywhere equally bright.

Or changing metaphors--to sailing I think--

I had, as they say, gone wherever the wind took me,

only taking care not to get out too far.

This has changed.

And now, stranded,

with my atrophied will

still trying to figure out the rudder,

I admire the immense dark waves.

Or, switching back, climbing a steep slope

in a car powered by strength of will,

with my fuel gone and the brakes out,

I marvel at life's brevity.

Olim-domu

2011-05-14T19:36:00.001-07:00

Two as-if-brothers after hours knees-to-dash-crammed down-throw themselves and sing-loud now in the blue-hot-yellow-white sun-sky-cloud and turn to return to the was-home ere the flash-light-dark-and-loud clouds come.

There now the men-boys cough-scoff and themselves-laughing drink-eat. Then, bed-thrown they moon-dream of horse-bear-coyote-riding and other thought-coulds and, between them, one should-did.

Now, late-morning-waking, they spoon-eat puffed-corn-and-I’m-sorry-there’s-no-milk bowls. And after child-playing, trying-hard-not-to-try-too-hard and rhubarb-cutting-biting-spitting-and-making-into-pie they return to travel knees-again-to-dash-crammed to here-now, him-and-him largely unchanged, but them, well this will be the last sentence that I ever hyphenated-verb-end.

Ad Schuyler

2011-05-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

Dang it you New York School poets

have already written the best lines.

But let's be honest Mr. Schuyler,

the only thing that could possibly

be better than beer and skittles

is a few lines of your poetry

or of your coke. By the way

I'm sorry I never got around

to finishing your Hymn to Life.

I'm sure the ending was amazing;

I just didnt have the patience.

Perhaps some day I'll finish

it and say--to myself or some friend--

"That ending was amazing."

Serpenti clauditur paradisus.

2011-05-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

The serpent is shut out from paradise. But allowed almost daily to slither up its walls and stick his forked tongue into the pristine air while Eve innocently tastes all the other fruits of the garden. He then falls back down into the world to rue the rest of the day.

Ventimolinae

2011-05-07T16:22:00.000-07:00

And I said windmills.

The wind is bound to the earth by gravity and is driven by the convection forces of the sun.

Its kinetic energy is converted by windmills into mechanical energy which turns a shaft connected to a generator which produces electrical energy.

But really windmills were the last thing on my mind, only the first to come into my view as I turned to face you.

Instead, I was thinking about something unbound, and driven only by her own will, a source not of energy to be converted and eventually consumed but of vitality untranslatable.
And I said windmills. Windmills!

Cocam tecum bibere

2011-05-05T00:05:00.000-07:00

Having A Coke With You

is something I never got the chance to do.

We’ve had: some type of pomegranate lemonade, aranciata, Russian and South African tea, white-grape peach juice drunk straight out of a gallon bottle, and Diet A&W but never Coke, despite both our passion for it.

And I admit I’m a little jealous that O’Hara got the chance and not me. But at least the bugger got the feeling right (and describes it better than this):

When you were at the dentist and I snuck out and stumbled into an artist’s studio, I almost laughed out loud when I saw that he had wasted his talents painting someone who obviously wasn’t you. I had to excuse myself when he explained about his extensive studies; one glance at the x-ray of your cavity-ridden teeth would be more profitable to his art. I would’ve taken him to meet you, but you know how jealous I get.

And as for travelling, once you asked me where I most wanted to go. I lied and said Turkey or India or some other hot, dreadful place with all types of refreshing drinks, not wanting to admit that I wanted to sit there in suburban Utah, even if we were only drinking water, as long as possible because, though Istanbul at three in the morning would be exciting, Utah at four in the afternoon with you and a glass of water is enlightening, transcendent and a million other adjectives more important than exciting.

So anyway if you change your mind about travelling, as I’ve already changed mine, I’ll come to where you are, take you as far as I can before I run out of money, which will probably be before I get to where you are, order a bottle of whatever they’ve got, forget all the nonsense I’ve learned about art or literature, and try to hide my jealousy when you talk to the server.

Infirmitates

2011-05-04T01:09:00.000-07:00

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness.
Words of the Lord, as you know.
Arrogance, idiocy, and others were shown unto me--
You would call me irreverent, and probably cheesey,
If I said not by the Lord but by you.
So, to avoid irreverence, if not cheese, I say:
I come unto the Lord through you.

Fatuitas tibi

2011-04-17T14:41:00.000-07:00

I feel incredibly inept.

Primarily because I am.

But also because, as you

talk about things I understand

I should understand, I'm thinking

of--of all things--my own fatuity,

which I consider as, if not a gift,

a companion who, when things become

intolerably serious,

like a little while ago,

when I drove around for half an hour looking

for Alberto's Mexican Cafe,

makes me laugh. You,

on the other hand, drove

straight here and spent

20 of the most boring minutes

of your life waiting for me.

So, as a gift to you, I wrote

this, a tangible piece

of my fatuity, to make you laugh

next time you're waiting.

Dicitur

2011-04-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

People say the early bird gets the worm

assuming there is a worm and that it must be eaten.

People say whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger,

meaning you've got to be at least half-dead to be living.

People say pretty much whatever they want.

Which is why I'm saying I'm strong enough

to know that strength isn't the most important of what's at stake

and this might just kill me.

Pluvia

2011-04-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

Looks like rain the last four days.

And I logically assume that God,

or at least his assistant in charge

of the hydrologic cycle has something

against me. Or perhaps it's just some intern,

still unsettled after his abrupt transfer

from time into eternity, sending the wrong

cloud-memos. Either way, I'm the only doofus
wearing rain boots. You'd think the meteorologist

could have predicted, either by some

high-pressure system over the Atlantic

or by the usual "unusual" pattern of scattered

lima beans on his office floor, at least

that the weather would be unpredictable.

Even if I wasn't listening, someone might

have warned me to stuff some sneakers

into my backpack just in case. But, as it is,
I'm skipping class out of embarrassment

and to email God about replacing that intern.

Quid agis?

2011-03-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, in the cereal aisle

I pondered the possibility

of mini-wheats frosted

on both sides. Then, somewhat

distraught for having to settle

for single-side-frosted wheats,

I bumped into a friend who,

reaching for his own mini-spooners,

asked "are you ok?" meaning,

almost exactly, "I have no idea

what to say, but you look like hell."

Non est hominibus

2011-03-10T16:39:00.001-08:00

No country for old men.

Universitas

2011-03-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

While watching youtube videos I decide to write a paragraph modeled after the theory of the universe in which there is a sudden imbalance (of something I'm sure) from which springs the entire universe which lasts only briefly before collapsing back into the nothing. I do this not because I have to, or even because I want to, but because I can do nothing else: I cannot comprehend this theory of the universe nor even believe it is accurate, nor stop thinking about it, nor remember where I heard this from or if it is still relevant in the scientific community, nor ask God what I should do in case this collapse should occur in my lifetime. But I can write something like a paragraph that borrows energy from apparent nothingness and expands into something almost comprehensible that formulates hypotheses about its own origins before predictably collapsing into the nothing (me) from which it was born.

Io, forti victa puella viro est

2011-03-03T10:11:00.001-08:00

Ego

2011-02-18T14:04:00.001-08:00

And it feels like

some old alternative rock

song has crept its way up

from the Tartarus of my subconscious

where I sent it, traveling by night

through mysterious wooded

areas, hiding out during the day

at the creepy rest areas of my soul,

back to the forefront of my consciousness.

Though I don't exactly receive warmly

this traveler, I lay out the air mattress

in the spare room, recognizing

not only the length of his journey

but also the relatively harmless nature

of this particular outcast, who's after all

no fire-bearing Prometheus. And as I watch

him leave with whatever nomad song

fragments carry on their back, I think

of the Iceberg Principle, glad 90 percent

of me remains underwater.

Vobis gratias ago

2011-02-17T11:06:00.001-08:00

When it's cold, my nose

runs. Sometimes, like now,

a whole lot. My friend Blake

says its because the cilia

in my trachea freeze. I had no idea

what that meant until I looked

on Wikipedia and was disappointed

to learn that cilia are little hairs

that clean impurities from my windpipe

which apparantly everyone but me already knew

was called the trachea. Thanks Wikipedia

and Blake, but I would gladly trade

this new knowledge for a kleenex.

Mane

2011-02-02T22:38:00.000-08:00

After a steamy shower I'm feeling invigorated. I brush my hair and arrange meticulously each strand, Justin Bieber as my guide. Setting down the brush, I pick up the scalpel and make a neat incision just above my right eye and start working with the chisel. I don't go too deep, but enough to get at the frontal lobe with the forceps. I excise a few nasty little neurons and quickly stitch everything up. I brush my teeth (I just bought a new Colgate 360) and make a final adjustment to my hair.

Bush Principe

2011-01-19T19:23:00.001-08:00

Bush Principe fuit clades omnibus quae annis recentibus acciderant gravior. Mane scelerati quattuor aeroplana ad Californiam cultellis prenderunt. Dicunt se etiam bombas habere sed posterius repertum est contrafactas fuisse. Duo aeroplana New York gubernata geminis turribus inpellenda. Duo Washington alter Pentagono alter Albae Domui an Capitolinio incertum.

Primum aeroplanum turrem ferit et paucis post minutis secundum. Incendia orta quibus multi homines qui torres evacuarent missi. Complures turribus extraherunt sed magno numero cunctos non queunt et multi contantes alios conservare periverunt. Nonnulli malentes cadere quam uri ex turribus salierunt. Turribus hac possibilitate non habita aedificatis una hora conruerunt. Casu turrium nova incendia nata sunt quae aedificium contiguum populata. Postmodum locum quo turres fuerant et qoud iam terra zerotica dicitur purgare inceperunt et multos dies vivos defunctosque fragminibus extricabant.

Tertium aeroplanum Pentagonum ferit. Hic exitium non fuit tantum. Cum in turribus paene tria milia hominum exivissent, in Pentagono ducenti. Incendiis ortis portio pentagoni conruit. Populus incensum militaris viris sumbolum videns temere coepit.

Cives magna fortitudine in quateno aeroplano cum sceleratis certaverunt ut Washington non pervenerit et in agrum ceciderit Alba Domo et Capitolinio intactis.

Interea princeps cum pueris in schola loquebatur et factus certior supra aditus non ante Washington regressus est quam volaverat ad multas urbes. Iam nocte “Hodie,” inquit “cives, noster modus vivendi, nostra libertas serie deliberatorum et terroristicorum actorum adita est. Terroristici aditus fundamentum maximorum aedificiorum ciere possunt sed fundamentum Americae tangere non possunt.” Psalmam lexit et iacuit.

Repertum est qui fuerint scelerati. Erant XIX et vir nomine Mohamed Atta dux eorum. Osama qui clamaverat se bellum sanctum cum America gerere suspectatus primum negavit dicens “affirmo me hoc actum non gessisse quae ab individualibus causa propia gestum videatur,” deinde laudans omnem aditus contra Americam cuncta fassus est.

Die tertio princeps edixit bellum contra terrorem ob hoc scelus gerenda et se Osamam adprensurum fore. Et in terra zerotica locutus “Volo ut sciatis Americam hodie voto ob eos quorum vita hic perdita sint ob eos qui hic laborent ob eos qui lugeant genua flecti.” Quibus verbis gratia eius apud populum quos inter metus erat gliscit. Metus etiam gliscit. Via Muris concidit. Plures patres aut fratres aut amicos lugent. Plures longum tempus volare tement. Bellis tamen gestis et multis mortuis et Osama vivo gratia principis cecidit et nonnulli suspecti sunt eum cum sceleratis conspiratum fuisse ut potens augeretur.

Carmen

2011-01-02T00:06:00.001-08:00

It works out to 1 in 20 whatever's after a trillion.

I could look it up, but I'm already feeling reassured,

all those zeros. "There's a Coke Zero in the fridge,"

says the man improbably listening to Faure's requiem,

"with your name on it." It's not that cold but tastes

like the Utah sky, which I'm now standing beneath.

There's not much to say about the Utah sky. It's dark

as Coke and currently colder than the one I'm holding

and I admit doesn't taste a thing like it. It's snowing.

I have a coat. I'm still a little cold, especially

my hands. I kind of like it. The Coke man is now

impossibly balancing his drink on the railing. Then

of course, Fred Astaire comes dancing in out of

nowhere. I think: I know nothing. Perhaps it's enough.

Litterae ad virum ab viro qui Edward ludet lusum

2011-01-01T12:44:00.000-08:00

To the Guy Played By the Guy Who Plays Edward

The last thing I need to remember is

someone telling me how I've screwed up--

how **** days ago I blew my chance

with M*****. Or how **************

*************. And the saddest part

is that I'll actually remember you,

even after I've forgotten how cool

M*****'s hair looked as she *******

******************************

and how sad *****************

************************. Dang

it, I'll remember your pretty face

and your voice telling me what

I should have done but not what

I should have done. Don't worry,

I'll remember you, you fictional *******.

Audivi, omnes audiverunt

2010-12-14T06:06:00.000-08:00

I've heard--everyone's heard--
how ancient Egyptians pulled dead brains
out through nostrils. And now
I'm thinking about the smell. Pungent
is a word I've heard but can't quite
define. "The ikan pari was a little too pungent"
is how you described dinner with Frank.
"Dang it dang it dang it" is how I feel
about the same dinner with Frank,
or perhaps "brain pulled out through nostrils"
aptly describes it. But really, I'm quite calm
as I sit here watching a June Bug
climb all over my tomato and basil sandwich.
Outside something happens, perhaps a bird
or a sudden change in the weather, though I
doubt it. I reach for my phone. It's still there. Lately
I've been dreaming of Lord Voldemort again.
Our long relationship of seven years drug out
over ten and ending dramatically on July 23, 2007,
26 hours after Deathly Hallows' midnight release,
has been recently rekindled. I never did buy
that epilogue. A few minutes pass and I think:
I shouldn't be thinking this and definitely
shouldn't write it. I won't.

Incendium

2010-12-13T13:35:00.001-08:00

“It was just so cold” Judy told the police after her arrest.

The police agreed but were just doing their jobs.
The kids, though they felt some guilt, were glad to let the woman take the fall.
The DA, glad to please a potential campaign donor, pushed for the full penalty.
The judge, not wanting to offend a potential senator, quickly agreed.

Judy’s daughter was out of town.

Her brother was too busy to care.

Her son too drunk.

Her husband dead.

No one had the 10,000 for bail.

The owner buys a new home with insurance money. The DA gets elected. The kids go to college. Judy’s daughter is still out of town. Her brother still busy. Her son still drunk. Her husband still dead. Judy remains in a cold prison, without matches or gasoline.

Musica

2010-12-12T17:51:00.000-08:00

Sweet music. Sweet sweet music:

oscillations of pressure

chosen essentially at random

by culture and some madman.

The quickening of a wave

from 440 hz to approximately

523.251 is nothing to me

or anyone. And apparent psychophysical

properties of these oscillations,

when the vibrations

of certain mucous membranes

die, also fade leaving one

again forlorn; the aural illusion

cheats not so well as it is famed

to do. This is what he offers you?

Whereas I provide melodies, sweeter

by far, though unheard by the sensual

ear: Money and a lakeside view.

But if it's music you want, I'll get you a Zune.

Cur

2010-12-11T09:38:00.000-08:00

why

perhaps

but when

still

Mane Vesperi

2010-12-09T17:44:00.001-08:00

The water was warm. Every few minutes He turned the right knob. At the end, the water was boiling. He dressed, searched for his socks, put them on, shoes. He went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. A few minutes later, he brushed his teeth. He poured some oats into a bowl. He added too much water, put them in the microwave for a minute. He watched the microwave. 59 seconds later he opened it. He ate the oats then stared at the bowl. He scraped a few more oats off the bottom, ate them then rinsed the bowl. He sat a while then left.

He came back. He sat awhile. He wanted to read a book; he needed to go to the store; he watched TV. He thought about making dinner, continued watching TV. He got up, grabbed a box of rice-a-roni. He read the instructions carefully; he didn't follow them. The rice was disgusting. He ate it all. He was full. He made another box. He would wash the bowl later. He watched TV, fell asleep. He woke up, brushed his teeth, changed, went to bed, couldn't sleep. He got up, drank water, watched TV till morning.

---

He sat in front of the window. Every few minutes he stretched his toes. Sometimes they popped. He smoked a cigarette. Stretched his toes. Smoked another. It looked like it might rain. It had rained the day before. He smoked a cigarette. He got up, stepped towards the window then left.

He came back. Stared awhile. It had rained. He smoked a cigarette.

---

He drank his coffee. It was strong. He left.

He came back. Drank his coffee. It was strong.

---

He left.

He came back.

---

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.

Cereal?”

“Yeah.

Bye”

“Bye”

“Hey”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Dope?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw Bruce today.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s married”

“Yeah.”

---

“Que horas son?”

“Siete y media.”

“Bueno.”

“Unos taquitos?”

“Bueno.”

“Vamos.”

“Que horas son?”

“Siete y media.”

“Bueno.”

“Unos taquitos?”

“Bueno.”

“Vamos.”

---

“Bye.”

…

---

Loud. Should change. Longer? No; work at eight. What do I have? Wait till after. Where was that? Needs washed. Little warmer. There. Hate that. Always happens too. Shampoo? Yesterday. What was that?

Jane

came

with a lock of your hair.

She said that

you gave it

to her.

That night

that you planned to . . .

Something like “come clean” then “did you ever something.” Longer? No; work at eight. Do I still have? Saints. And Eastwood. Feels cool. What about? No, I wouldn’t. What was I thinking? Would never work. Too much.

The last time

I saw you

you looked so much older.

Your famous

blue raincoat

was torn to shreds.

Amphibrachs. What about? No time. Time. Banana. And Lunch? Time. Stop. What about. No. Stop.

I see

you

there

with a rose in you teeth.

One more thin Gypsy thief.

Shoot. Late. Jacket.

No manches; un buen de hambre. About an hour. What about. Still time. Not too hard. Plenty of time. Still stuck.

Sincerley, L. Cohen.

---

…

---

Ecce nos

2010-12-03T12:36:00.000-08:00

Here we are between this earth and some

sky, between birth and death,

much like this grayish substance

half-eaten-sandwiched between

peanut butter and jelly at which
I would love to continue staring
but I must take a shower.

Dies

2010-11-27T01:02:00.001-08:00

Once I woke up early only to do nothing all day.

I don't remember what happened the day before or after.

It seems some days are not meant to be remembered

or even really forgotten but to be mingled with those around it

forming one conglomeration of day. There are few days

I really remember and no other comes to my mind

at the moment. Despite this, it seems half of my day

is consumed by remembering other days, a fourth

by forgetting, and fractioning out the rest is a little

too depressing. The only lasting mark of some days

is the blue-slurpee or mango Hi-chew whose molecules are perhaps

still somewhere inside my body, probably in my cheeks,

which my friend says are beginning to fill in a little.

Hi-chew have become a symbol of lack in my life

like of how I've never seen a lotus flower in bloom

or how I don't understand why all the hype around certain types of flowers.

One day, I didn't know if my heart was pounding out of fear

or from a lingering cold, but I like to say it was from fear.

Out of embarrasment I prefer not to say what exactly

was causing this fear, but it was realized and I am still dealing with

but mostly suffering from its effects.

Once, whether the same day or another I can't say,

I watched the entirety of Titanic with a friend

who would later ignore the advice I gave him about moving

to New England which turned out to be a good idea.

I didn't know this then but 1500 people

died as the ship sank. Since then, though most of the 1500

died of hyperthermia after about 10 minutes,

I can't think of water without also thinking about drowning.

Usually it is some calm drifting away feeling

but sometimes it's full of rage and panic, which I've heard

uses up more oxygen and actually quickens death. But rarely

do I let my mind wander past the point of asphyxiation

to deal with death itself or with how the bodies float

for awhile then eventually sink to the bottom

or wash up on the shore several days later

nearly unrecognizable. As I read a poem by Schuyler

my eyes casually wander to view my own legs

grown skinny with disuse and tired with use.

Though there is something in me "untranslatable" as Whitman said,

looking at my skinny legs I seem entirely translatable:

twenty-three-year-old weakling masquerading as a man.

At the end of November it doesn't matter whether its day or night

it's always cold and someone's always remembering

what it's like to be freezing and someone else

is listening to some of Pӓrt's choral music

which sounds an awful lot like drowning.

Somnus

2010-11-25T13:18:00.000-08:00

I never sleep lying perfectly flat,

but usually partly on my side

with my face against the pillow.

It's impossible to sleep

knowing there are almost-infinite

air molecules colliding with my face.

I recognize that there are things

called neutrinos produced by the sun

that go right through the earth,

and, even when I'm in this position,

continue on through my face,

but, gosh darn it, let me sleep.

Iocur

2010-11-24T00:09:00.000-08:00

After what I'll call work

I walk--it seems I'm always walking--home

to be what I'll call alone.

I am never alone. Ghosts

and, more hauntingly, memories

await me. They are as much a part of me

as what I'll call my liver.

Sensi

2010-11-23T00:05:00.001-08:00

While crossing Freedom Blvd. I realized

that if I walked at a constant rate of 2.4mph

I could make it to Denver by next Thursday.

For me, now, Denver is closest to the East. For you,

I have no idea. It was a night of inspiration,

for, a mile later (25 minutes), it struck me

that it was just cold enough that if I fell into the river

I could blame it on the ice.

Or on doing what I had to do.

Paulo reptantius optato

2010-11-22T22:19:00.000-08:00

Delightfully Cheesey, Not-As-Humorous-As-Intended-But-Makes-Up-For-It-With-Its-Excessive-Creepiness Love Poem To No One In Particular, Unless of Course You're Flattered and Good Looking, In Which Case Feel Free To Adjust the Details As Much As You Like So It Seems I'm Talking To You, Written Literally Off the Top of My Head Immediately After Reading a Portion of Whitman's Song of Myself Without Any Revision At All and This Super Long Title Added About Three Hours Later After Watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows Part One, a Movie I Recommend Only To Those Who Enjoy Movies, and Which (Meaning the Poem, Not the Movie) Is Not To Be Taken Seriously At All

I look at your curly blond hair and I love it.

I look at you and at me and love us both (you no more than me).

The fragrance of your breath shames the silliness from me. (straight from Whitman)

Your not-perfectly-straight teeth shame the silliness from me.

Your beauty and your grace--should I be ashamed to say it?--shame the silliness from me.

I will not be ashamed to say I love you.

I love your perfection as I love your imperfection.

What imperfection? Everything is as it should be.

I could die and return to the grass upon which you stand.

If you should look for me, look beneath your boot.

I love how you rejected me so profoundly,

Nonchalantly returning me to the earth whence I came.

Again I look at your curly blond hair and still I love it.

I regret only that it never mingled with my own not-nearly-so-blond and barely curly hair.

I do not regret. I do not regret having regrets.

Your brightly colored flesh once so near my own now for me lives in imagination only,

Your blood-warm, never-to-be-touched-by-me skin Edwardianly shining,

Your voice barely heard forever singing upon the hills

(What hills? We're not in Kentucky),

Your oft-mentioned hair cheerfully curling.

No show of propriety can cease my longing.

No end of longing can cease my feeling.

Are the senses of my sentences failing?

Let them fail, let them fail. I can feel them failing. They've never failed so nobly.

Fail, fail, I said let them fail. Fail. They'll never fail so nobly.

Oh I have failed and love that I have failed.

No sense of propriety can cease my longing.

No show of longing can cease my feeling.

No feeling will ever cease my failing.

Alone in this house built by hands of men unknown to me,

This house which for a few hours at least was your place of loafing.

Come loaf with me and regret not your loafing.

I'll never forget this house filled with your loafing,

These curtains these cushions these chairs filled with your loafing.

Is this just a little creepy? Let it creep. I love its creeping.
I look at your curly blond hair and love your curly blond hair.

I look at you and I look at me and love your curly blond hair.

What else is there to do but love your curly blond hair?

Is this trite? Call it trite then. I love that it's trite.

I love the triteness of my loving.

Oh I have failed and love my own failing.

Should I stop? Why stop? I'll strip down to my innermost failing.

Stop? Stop? I'll never even stop repeating stop.

Have I gone too far? Please say, "You've gone too far."
Otherwise I'll continue going too far.

Stultus nugas legens

2010-11-21T00:10:00.000-08:00

Plus de gradiendo ex balneo

2010-11-20T10:20:00.000-08:00

On Stepping Out of the Shower ~~and Into a~~

~~Giant Florence Flask of Quotidian Hydrochloric Acid~~

This morning, on stepping out of the shower, I of course put some clothes on. But then, as I had just read an essay on how the best essays are always about the most ordinary everyday experiences, and, as I had been assigned to write an essay, I thought that I could turn this most routine experience of stepping out of the shower into an essay—a form which I find to be especially pretentious and in which the author always seems to be asserting that her own views are superior to all others and assuming that others will find her own banal experiences, such as stepping out of the shower, to be interesting.

But returning to my subject, stepping out of the shower is like stepping through a threshold that separates the warmth, security and pleasure of the shower from the vulnerability, coldness and pain of the world. And once I step through that threshold, I know that I must face 24 hours of banalities before I can return to the shower. The first contact between my big toe and the cold tile throws me into the mundane world. And, as I stare at my distorted reflection in the foggy mirror, I think of my commute, my job, my bland breakfast and lunch and dinner, my strained relations with my family, the unpleasant minty-sparkle flavor of Colgate, the unpaid gas bill.

-----

I often wonder if others’ experience of stepping out of the shower is similar to mine. For instance, what does Obama think as he steps out of the shower? Are his thoughts on the negotiations between Israel and Palestine? Or on how he can keep nuclear weapons from falling into the hands of terrorists? Or is he, like me, focused on more immediate things: the cold tile, his distorted reflection? And as he stares at that reflection, what is concealed behind those condensated water particles that were once a source of pleasure? A smile of joy? A smirk of laughter? A grimace of despair?

But I didn’t intend for this to get so overly sentimental, so—step comes from the Old English stepe and is related to Dutch steppen and German stapfen. Shower also has Germanic roots; it comes from the Old English scur, which means “a light fall of rain” and is related to Dutch schoer and German Schauer. Likely this means nothing, but since this is an essay: it means that English speakers have a lot in common with Dutch and German speakers when it comes to stepping out of the shower. Or perhaps the fact that the two words remain unaffected by the Norman invasion shows the importance that the activity has in the human mind.

-----

“Stepping out” is often used as a declaration of freedom, as in the song by the California-based punk band, Rancid; fortunately, I don’t remember the name of the song. And in truth, sometimes stepping out of the shower does yield something of a liberating sensation, but it is not of this that I want to write; nor do I think it would be an appropriate subject for anyone to write about.

What the hell: After being in an enclosed space for a while, I inevitably feel liberated upon leaving it, but this feeling is intensified because I can now go into public without offending anyone with my putrid stench and greasy hair. But this feeling of liberation is counteracted because soon I am tethered by the obligations of the day.

Also I’m told (by my dictionary) that “step out” can also mean “go out and have a good time.” What could be more misleading than this idea? I wonder how many innocent souls, led astray by this unprincipled dictionary, have stepped out of a shower looking for a good time only to realize—alas, too late—that outside that realm of steamy warmth is nothing but a cold, and not the least bit steamy, world.

Shower like step out is also used in a few idioms. For example “to send someone to the showers” means “to cause someone to fail early on in a game or contest.” Usually this is taken negatively, but I would be grateful to anyone who took me out of any game early and sent me into a warm shower. I only wish that I could just get fired from work and return home to the comforts of my shower. But then, there’s that gas bill.

Another shower idiom is “to return to the shower,” which means “to die and go to heaven.” Obviously, I just made that one up, but I think that a shower is a good approximation of what heaven could be; it’s at least as legitimate an idea of heaven as anything else we have.

-----

Despite its feeling of semi-liberation, stepping out of the shower is for me the most depressing moment of the day. I’m sure many would claim that hearing the alarm clock is more depressing, but at least then there is the possibility of hitting snooze and the promise of a warm shower before the day begins. Many people often ask the question, “what gets you out of bed in the morning?” For me, the answer is a warm shower and lower-back pain. There used to be the additional motivation of eating for breakfast a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, but now there is only the monotonous ingesting of a bowl of shredded wheat. On stepping out of the shower, however, there is nothing to look forward to before putting on my terribly unstylish shoes and scraping my face with a quadri-bladed razor. Also, the misery of this moment is intensified because I’ve had those additional 5,10, or 35 minutes in the shower to think about the long drive to work, the many monotonous hours at work, and the long drive home.

-----

I must admit that stepping out of the shower is not always so miserable an experience; it can sometimes be delightful. Such is the case when showering in a cheap hotel or when showering, in the absence of a normal shower, by means of bucketfuls of tepid water heated with an iron, in the dark because I blew a fuse when I shocked myself trying to pull the iron out of the bucket. In these instances, escaping from the freezing cold water, slippery surfaces, risks of electric shock, and other dangers compensates for the fact that I must face many more banal experiences before the day is done.

In addition to those days when stepping out is a relief from the disaster of the shower itself, there are the occasions when I enjoy stepping out of the shower because I look forward to the events of the day. These are rare.

-----

Ingredients of my ALLOY^Ò body wash:

Aqua, Sodium Coco-Sulfate, Cocamidopropyl Betaine, Sodium C14-16 Olefin Sulfonate, (If you haven’t already done so, I recommend skipping this section) PEG-7 Glyceryl Cocoate, Parfum, Phenoxyethanal, Potassium Sorbate, Trisodium Ethylenediamine Disuccinate, Copper Gluconate, Citric Acid, Niacinamide, Amylodexrin, Calcium Pantothenate, Maltodextrin, Sodium Ascorbyl Phosphate, Tocopheryl Acetate, Pyridoxine HCl, Silica, Cudrania Tricuspidata Bark Extract, Glycyrrhiza Glabra Root Extract, Rubus Coreanus Fruit Extract, Lycium Chinensis Fruit Extract, Prunus Mume Fruit Extract, Camellia Sinensis Leaf Extract, Uuron-Cha Ekisu, Oryza Sativa Bran, Cucumis Sativus Fruit Extract, Pyrus Communis Fruit Extract, Sodium Chloride, Coumarin, Limonene, Linalool.

-----

Occasionally, after stepping out of the shower, I pause briefly to gaze at my naked form in the mirror. And dance a jig. Actually jigs aren't my thing, but I do often pause to enjoy the lingering steam and to further put off the tasks of the day. Sometimes I do this for about 25 minutes, bringing my total showering time to an hour and inevitably making myself late for work.

But I don’t think that I am the only one who has missed time at work in order to prolong my shower. I read on Wikipedia that the first showers were waterfalls. Those who showered in this way probably spent hours, possibly the entire day, in the process of traveling to the waterfall, showering, and returning home. Doing so must have been a pleasant escape from their daily tasks. How might these brave souls, scorners of their own filth, who undoubtedly had journeyed long for this shower, have felt upon stepping out from the refreshing waterfall? Their dissatisfaction must have been incredible as they stared at the mountain path that lay before them and thought about the extra work they would have to do in the rice paddy because they had spent an entire day showering. Perhaps they, like me, would linger near the falls for several minutes, or hours, before putting on their unstylish moccasins and returning to their normal routine.

Soon it was no longer necessary to journey to the waterfall in order to shower. The Greeks, and later the Romans, built bathhouses and extensive plumbing systems in order to make showers a more quotidian experience. But for the Greeks and Romans stepping out of the shower still could not have been pleasant. For them even the liberating sensation of stepping out was mitigated because they would have to tie themselves up in a toga.

-----

After thinking about the experience of stepping out of the shower, I realize that it really isn’t that suitable for an essay, for it is not as universally quotidian as I at first thought; there are many people around the world who lack the opportunity to stand beneath a stream of boiling water every morning, and there are also many people who choose not to (these are usually either raging lunatics or Republicans).

Some in this last category are not entirely lacking in hygiene etiquette; they replace showers with baths. One of these is the protagonist from James Joyce’s Ulysses, Leopold Bloom (called Poldy by friends and lovers). Poldy prepares himself for a funeral by visiting a bathhouse. Before stepping into the bath, he describes it, saying, “clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body” (86). Then while in the bath, he sees “his pale body reclined in it at full, naked in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented soap, softly laved [and] his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow”(86). That truly must have been a delightful experience, but I can’t help but think how much more delighted Poldy would have been and how great a description we would have of his experience if he had taken a shower instead. Still, I cannot blame Poldy for his choice of a bath over a shower. It was probably, at least in part, necessitated by the lack of showering facilities available to the lower classes during this time. But though Poldy is unable to experience the more refined experience of the shower, he is able to appreciate what he has. And though the pleasure of the bath is inferior to that of a shower, his displeasure upon stepping out of that bath is not mitigated, for when Poldy steps out of his bath, he steps directly into Hades (at least the Hades episode of the novel begins at this point).

Another character in Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus, refuses even to bathe. This at first seems like an ingenious method of avoiding having to step out of the shower/bath. If, as Poldy’s experience implies, the shower is equivalent to the womb or birth, and stepping out of the shower is equivalent to facing Hades or death. Stephen, by refusing to shower, is choosing never to be born in order to avoid death. To anyone who is currently debating this mode of escape, it’s not worth it—or at least our time together on the elevator will be more pleasant for me if you choose to live.

-----

Because many people do not step out of the shower every day, this subject obviously does not fulfill that requirement of an essay. However, the most important requirement of an essay IMHO is to allow the author to describe in a pretentious way her, his, or, in this case, my experiences and ideas as if they were important and so:

The water was warm, and, as if Vulcan’s forge, it melded my being, fractured by the tiresome day, into one homologous whole—body and mind and spirit becoming one. And I, surrounded by steamy warmth, lather my hair softly with shampoo—nectar of the gods—infusing it with the essence of various herbs: Chamomile and apple blossom, among others. The pleasant splashes drowning the deafening roar of the outside world, my blithe spirit is free to wander through distant climes—I distinctly remember the Albanian pines. Then, still naked, destitute and longing, I am plunged into this quotidian world, and my former rapture, like a half-forgotten dream, disappears with the steam. But, as I said, I didn’t want this to get so overly sentimental (or rather, I think it’s important to pretend that I don’t want it to be overly sentimental), so—afterwards, I of course eat my shredded wheat, which is not always terrible. In fact, with a little brown sugar and a lot of vanilla soymilk, it’s almost pleasant. And I guess my shoes aren’t that unstylish.

-----

O tempora! O imbres!

Tempus

2010-11-19T00:04:00.000-08:00

We don't really have to go anywhere.

I've already made my visit,

and in short, I was too bold.

If anything

Prufrock was right about time.

There it is.

And here am I

nestled within its arms,

not yet bald,

prematurely aging

but not yet bald

not yet. No

it wasn't worth it

to play the part

of Lazarus

and die a second time.

The sepulcher has grown colder

in my absence.

Had I known, I would

have rolled over

pretending not to hear.

Plus poesis indecoris

2010-11-18T16:15:00.000-08:00

If you were here now

I would invite you
to sit with me on this park bench

which now to me promises

a little less than aloneness.

While on the bench I think

about how when I get up

I'll stand to face the world

knowing

exactly where I stand,

at least in relation

to this bench,

which with its metallic arms and false patina,
seems a little out of place

in this neighborhood,

then I'll rearrange my hair

and sit back down.

Ride si velis

2010-11-16T20:29:00.001-08:00

It's no longer enough

to trade this memory

for a few

immeasurable increments

of feeling. Laugh

if you want.

It's no longer enough to laugh.

Or to live

pretending to laugh.

The man at the counter

doesn't remember

that I remember him.

It's no longer enough

to remember

or to forget.

Sometimes it's enough

to wander

listening to the Grosse Fuge

and watch people

who also wander

though its never enough.

That's not exactly what I meant,

but you know exactly what I meant.

It's no longer enough

to pretend the washer fluid

is actually blue kool-aid

that somehow cleans the windshield,
and the wipers two happy tongues.

Who knows? Maybe it is.

These words offer nothing.

I accept their offer.

Cena cum sororibus

2010-11-13T13:37:00.000-08:00

Tonight I eat dinner with my sisters.

After complements on my new glasses

and a thirty minute delay,

I make my order:

"Can I get the grilled veggie ciabatta?"

I always get the grilled veggie ciabatta.

No cole slaw.

No fries.

Please Jove, no

mayonaise.

My sisters speak

about life,

that is, about three-and-a-half-star

restaurants at which we could be eating

if I weren't broke.

And I think very seriously

about death,

that is, about this grilled veggie ciabatta

with the stems of some kind of vegetable

with the consistency

of fingernail,

which ciabatta

I will eat over the next three

to five days,

the flavor peaking about day four.

But leaving the ciabatta a while,

I ask for a bite of my sister's ice cream.

I love my sisters.

Though not as much as this Coke with lime.

Afterwards I don't mind the traffic on I-15

while I sing and dance

to crappy music

as if I were really

digging it

which of course I would never admit.

And I don't even curse

at the douche-bag cutting me off,

unless you consider "douche"

or "mother-f'er" a curse.

Litterae ab Harrio ad Hermionem paene fine libris sextantis missae

2010-11-08T13:17:00.000-08:00

Harry to Hermione
Near the end of Book 6

I know it's been hinted at since The Philosopher's Stone,
but seriously,
Ron?
I understand that you're trying to compensate for your muggle heritage
but you should know that some wizarding families
are better than others.
I mean
you've seen his house;
it's not exactly the Gryffindors'.

I don't understand, if you had tried
you could've ended up with the half-blood prince himself
(me, not Snape, though if you're into that, probably him too)
I know I'm sorta with Ginny
at the moment, but I've been looking for a way out of that now for a couple chapters
and I've noticed how you look at me
when I'm on my Firebolt.
Imagine the fun we'd have,
just you and me,
the Firebolt
and maybe an invisibility cloak,
and a magically expandable pocket
full of--why not?--Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.
We'd be half-way to Hogsmeade
before that squib'd get a clue
what's going on.
Even then,
have you seen him on his Cleansweep,
what is it, 11?
Dudley's more graceful on a broomstick,
and could afford at least a Nimbus.
Or have you seen him try a simple Alohamora charm?
He's practically a muggle
with a stick.
Me and my phoenix-feathered holly
on the other hand could sectumsempra
the crap out of a blast-ended skrewt.
If you want, I'll prove it.

Anyway, don't take this the wrong way,
Ron's a good kid
but you should be with the coolest wizard at Hogwarts,
therefore, me.

Caseum edens erro

2010-10-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

Oh
I forgot
my keys
(Probably near the couch where I watched 4 hours of HGTV)
So
I wander
eating string cheese
that I found
on the ground
next to somebody's Miata

Oh there is indeed
a certain
blessing
in the gentle breeze:
the smell
of yesterday's sleaze
(I'm not far from some type of sanitation facility).

Cola Oh!,
sick inversion
of my urgent
exclamation,
where are the restrooms?
I really need
to go,
Cola Oh!

Nowhere to go,
I return
to the Miata
and espy
tupperware
in the back seat.
Crazy kids.

De naribus

2010-10-25T16:17:00.000-07:00

Waking up
my nasal passages
were unobstructed
now
they are
obstructed.

Haec non est tristitia

2010-10-16T19:28:00.000-07:00

Michael Scott
has hirpees.
Conan
washes his desk.
And I
drink coke zero
while learning to pass inspection.
This is not despair.
That comes later.

De fine anni unetvicesimi--scriptum multis serius annis

2010-10-12T20:33:00.000-07:00

Oh I am really old--
now barely mature
yet halfway to senility.

But still can I enjoy
the mellow
flavorlessness
of big cola
and the scent of
something really rustic smelling.

Vaticinationes inferni

2010-10-11T22:13:00.000-07:00

No bird soars too high whose wings are cut off.
Everything possible to be believ'd, is believ'd.
The fruit of heaven is the fruit of the earth.

Altum manducandum

2010-09-14T20:30:00.000-07:00

I was planning on sharing my Hi-Chew,
but you never asked,
and I didn't want to press the issue.

Nubes

2010-09-13T16:47:00.000-07:00

behold the all the way warm water
however where one stops another
nevermind the say here
lo the rising clouds

Responsum James Wright iacenti in lecto suspenso

2010-09-11T18:07:00.000-07:00

Me too.
If only my bed had been so comfortable
or the locale so pleasant.

Felicitatem repperi

2010-09-07T19:32:00.001-07:00

I have found it,
happiness.
It is the highest quality potatoes
with natural spices.

Finis

2010-08-25T22:00:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you thought this was over. It isn't. I also thought it was over. But I continue. What else is there? Nothing. At least nothing important. Otherwise I'd know. I type random letters. But they seem to work. So I keep them. Perhaps though there is something else? But what? I can't be sure. Though I feel I were. Am I sure I feel? Yes. Though it is impossible. I'll finish this first. Then perhaps I'll know what. Or at least where. Do they still work. If not I will stop. Though I must continue. I stop.

Ubi

2010-08-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

Why don't I say where. It seems I could. I just have to want. I don't want to apparently. Apparently that is why I don't. But I'll speak of it. When the time comes. It must be spoken. But not now. Apparently there was something else, something to speak of now, at this time. But what. Now I remember. Or is it that I'm forgetting. It doesn't matter. But I remember, I'll use that word though there must be another, I opened a door. Saying apres vous. As if to someone. A woman maybe. I think she was blind. She must have been blind. But I don't remember, I'll err in the way of consistency. But now it seems as if she could see. At least as well as anyone else. Not that I know. I should have asked her. Perhaps I did. No. I only said apres vous. And opened the door. The door was heavy. Or my arm was weak. Perhaps I was tired though. I'm tired now. Of what. I've never been so tired. I think this might be the end. At least the end of the part just before the end, the end before the end, or just before that. I feel though that maybe it isn't. I'm sure that it isn't. Though I'm never sure. But I'm tired. The door was heavy. I remember. Though I didn't realize until later. But the door is not important. But what if I had said something else. I could have. I'm capable of utterance. At least I was then. That was before this, the end before the end or just before. I would utter a few syllables. Three. Maybe four. She would respond. She would know how. Then I would know. Perhaps even remember. As I remember the door. But as I said, the door is not important. Yet I remember it. Clearly. I could describe it at length. Wood. At least it appeared to be wood. I could go on. I will. The knob was silver. Or at least the handle. There was no knob. I'll stop. Though it pleases me to describe it. Afterwards, I entered too. After the woman. Who was she. Perhaps I knew her. Though there's no reason to believe I did. There was no sign of recognition. Perhaps I'll see her again. Or I might have already. It's possible. I wouldn't have known. She was not unlike others. Now I think I have seen her again. And the door. Where did it lead. It seems I enter it often. Daily. Though not anymore. I should have used a different tense.

Ignis et gelum

2010-08-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I know of Fellman® socks
I hold that my toes
Will be comfortable
Either way.
- After Bella Swan's "Fire and Ice"

Quid?

2010-08-05T07:37:00.000-07:00

Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.

Mon âme éternelle,
Observe ton voeu
Malgré la nuit seule
Et le jour en feu.

Donc tu te dégages
Des humains suffrages
Des communs élans
Et voles selon...

- Jamais d'espérance
Pas d'orietur.
Science et patience,
Le supplice est sûr.

Plus de lendemain,
Braises de satin,
Votre ardeur
Est le devoir.

Elle est retrouvée !
- Quoi ? - L'Éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.

Arthur Rimbaud

Adonis Percii Bysshis Shellii

2010-07-20T15:08:00.000-07:00

Formosum fleo Adonem qui est defunctus. Adonem
flete gelo circum caputem eius non liquefacto.

Non possum progredi, progrediar

2010-06-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Dies Floris

2010-06-16T19:17:00.001-07:00

Tacine?

2010-06-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

(Por la mañana)
Que horas son?
Las siete y media.
Unos taquitos no?
Bueno. Vamos.

(Por la tarde)
Que horas son?
Las siete y media.
Unos taquitos no?
Bueno. Vamos.

De spectando "puerum cum papaveribus roseis"

2010-05-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

Looking at "A Boy With Red Poppies"

I guess I don't get it.
I mean I'm not moved,
or touched even,
certainly not
overwhelmed.
My 42"LCD on the other hand--
with its 6.2 digital
surround sound, that thing
will literally move you.
And the image is
crystal clear.
Unlike this foggy picture of
"A Boy With Red Poppies."
That doesn't do a thing for me.
But apparently it did for Robert,
I mean what kind of person
spends his time staring at a small boy
playing in some flowers.
Robert had probably just
smoked a few of those
delightful poppies;
perhaps that's why
the image is so blurry. But I guess I shouldn't
be too harsh on him, I mean I too
now stand here gazing at a
little boy
surrounded by pink poppies.
Maybe I'm the pedophile,
the opium-eater--
I'm certainly not the artist,
or the critic even.
I suppose a critic
would point to some artistic dichotomy
or juxtaposition, perhaps of the
boy's innocence and the illicit
gaze of the artist,
the bestial predator. I suppose
she would say that
looking at the boy
amidst the delightful poppies, blurred
by the artist's hand, is like
looking at life
through stained-glass pains.
I would say she must have
got her hands on a few of those poppies.
But like I said,
maybe I just don't get it,
maybe I should stick to watching Rocketman
in 1080 HD

De poesi

2010-05-12T20:08:00.000-07:00

There are no good
or bad poems;
there are sentimental,
pathetic, makes-me-squirm-unpleasantly,
viscera-wrenching poems
and one or two others.

De gradiendo ex balneo

2010-04-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

et in lagenam plenam acido cotidiano
   This morning, on stepping out of the shower, I of course put some clothes on. But then, as I had just read an essay on how the best essays are always about the most ordinary everyday experiences, and, as I had been assigned to write an essay (I think the exact word used by my instructor wasreflection), I thought that I could turn this most routine experience of stepping out of the shower into an essay, a form which I find to be especially pretentious and in which the author always seems to be asserting that his own views are superior to all others and assuming that others will find interesting his own banal experiences.
      But returning to my subject, “stepping out” is often used as a declaration of freedom, as in the song by the California-based punk band, Rancid; fortunately, I don’t remember the name of the song. And in truth, sometimes stepping out of the shower does yield something of a liberating sensation, but it is not of this that I want to write, nor do I think it would be an appropriate subject for anyone to write about.
      For me, stepping out of the shower is the most depressing moment of the day. I’m sure many would claim that hearing the alarm clock is more depressing, but at least then there is the possibility of hitting snooze and the promise of a warm shower before the inevitable misery of the day begins. Many people often ask the question, “what gets you out of bed in the morning?” For me, the answer is a warm shower and lower-back pain. On stepping out of the shower, however, there is nothing to look forward to before putting on my terribly unstylish shoes and facing the quotidians of the day. Also, the misery of this moment is intensified because I’ve had those additional 5,10, or 35 minutes in the shower to think about just how bad that day is going to be.
      I must admit that stepping out of the shower is not always so miserable an experience; it can sometimes be delightful. Such is the case when showering in a cheap hotel or when showering, in the absence of a normal shower, by means of bucketfuls of tepid water heated with an iron, in the dark because I blew a fuse when I shocked myself trying to pull the iron out of the bucket. In these instances, escaping from the dreadful experience of the shower compensates for the fact that I must face many more banal experiences before the day is done.
      Occasionally, after stepping out of the shower, I pause briefly to gaze at my naked form in the mirror. And dance a jig. No, actually I never dance jigs--jigs aren’t really my thing--but I do often pause to enjoy the lingering steam and to further put off the tasks of the day. Sometimes I do this for about 25 minutes, bringing my total showering time to an hour and inevitably making myself late for work.
      After thinking about the experience of stepping out of the shower, I realize that it really isn’t that suitable for an essay, for it is not as universally quotidian as I at first thought; there are many people around the world who lack the opportunity to stand beneath a stream of boiling water every morning, and there are also many people who choose not to (these are usually either raging lunatics or republicans). However, it does fit the other requirement of an essay: it allows me to pretentiously declare my own senseless maundering as if it were a universal truth.

Partitiones

2010-04-06T06:03:00.000-07:00

Some Taxonomies

My experience is that the current taxonomic system for food is entirely useless. Not only is it in constant flux, it is unable to sufficiently classify such foods as the tomato. Furthermore, what good would it serve me even if I could say that the tomato was definitively a fruit? I would still know nothing at all useful about the tomato; I still would not know if I should put it on my sandwich or whether it would compliment my puffed rice. Because of these deficiencies (and of course others which I think are better left unmentioned) I propose we abolish this system and establish a new taxonomy in which useless classes such as fruit, vegetable, dairy, etc. are replaced by one simple scale based on how good the food tastes. A grape for example would receive a 10, a papaya a 1, and gravel a 2. Thus not only will we avoid confusion, but also everyone will know exactly which foods to eat and which to avoid.

While on the subject of classification problems, I also will propose a solution to the current taxonomic chaos regarding the categorization of people. There are many currently fashionable means for classifying one's neighbor: political affiliation, religious beliefs, age, class, gender, ethnicity, intelligence, hair color, brain color, bone density, size of big to in relation to second toe, etc. These, like those used in the current food system, are useless. What good does it serve me to know that my neighbor is liberal? What I really need to know is whether he will turn me into the cops if I steal his motorcycle. Or what good does it serve me to know that my boss is incredibly intelligent when I don't even know if I'm to be fired for throwing up on his jacket? To solve this problem I propose another numeric scale, which I will call the affability scale. Each person will be assigned a number based on how nice/mean they are. For example I would likely receive a 10, my high school Biology teacher a 1, Ghandi a 9, Hitler a 2, Obama an 8. This number will be the individual's affability rating and will be infinitely more useful than any other information about that individual. From now on an affability number is all that need be present on driver's licenses, passports, visas, job resumes, Facebook profiles, scholarship applications, etc. This will create a more pleasant environment for us all.

Actum authenticum

2010-04-05T07:08:00.000-07:00

"Hey do you know where is a discount auto parts store around here?"
"No."
bah du bah du bah du
"Are you just here for the conference then?"
"Yeah."
"Me too. I bought tickets and everything. Only my wife stayed home because my two girls have had a fever and . . . "
"So your car doesn't work?"
"Yeah well I was on my way to the conference, I bought tickets and everything, and my car broke down (it's an older car) and they told me to go to the, what is it, Napa, to get the piece I needed so I went but the problem is that lately we've been having troubles and . . . but would you believe it I was three dollars short and so then I went to . . . and now I'm looking for a discount parts store around here."
"I haven't seen one."
bah du bah du bah du
"So when does the conference start?"
"It ended an hour ago."
"Yeah I've never been before but I heard that it was really good, so I wanted to go. We already bought tickets and . . . and we just got new debit cards, my wife's came first but she had it stolen with her entire purse, and mine hasn't come yet or . . . "
"Esta duro."
bah du bah du bah du
"Thanks again."
"Actually, I'm going that way too."

Vocatio

2010-03-22T21:49:00.000-07:00

Imago eius in animam aeternaliter transierat nullumque verbum ruperat silencium sacrosanctum exstasiae suae. Lumina eius eum vocarant et anima sua vocatione saluerat.

Naturaliter

2010-03-18T22:04:00.000-07:00

Naturally
I complied
when you asked me fishing.
Then, when you asked me
could I drive, naturally
I lied.
Then, after you'd swum to the shore,
I died,
naturally.

De ballando connudatus in cubiculo solus luminibus extinctis et fenestra tecta

2010-03-13T00:07:00.001-08:00

What?!

De biologia

2010-03-12T09:03:00.000-08:00

The biologist studies life,
usually
after it's dead.
He'll disect a man
and take what he can,
dead piece
by dead piece,
so his grandchildren
'll be taller.

Quod vidi

2010-03-08T09:45:00.000-08:00

I look at a monument once raised to the base of heaven, at the stones where Socrates pondered and Plato stewed.
I look at the waves where wily Odysseus surely sailed and Aphrodite emerged from the foam.
I look at the field where emperors engaged and a million soldiers' blood turned green.
I look and think that here a million pilgramages ended, and a million more just before the hill, that here Caesar and Alexander are names of mortals only.
I look up to where Ptolemy saw the celestial spheres turn in perfect harmony and the better half of Ovid soared.
I look at the bridge that Horatius defended and the spot where Hercules finished his life's last labor.
I look at all this and see
a pile of stones
and some grass

Vel/vel

2010-03-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

The geese
stood not far from me--
so pretty
that, if I had a
tortilla,
I would have fed them
from my hand,
or
blasted them dead,
if I had a shotgun.

Linea et circulus

2010-02-22T22:04:00.000-08:00

Litus

2010-02-16T21:35:00.000-08:00

The stick "jutting forth from the sand"
in line one is an obvious
allusion to the tree of life, and then it moves
on to the swimmer "crawling gracefully"
who represents humanity's quest for
perfection. Now you might want
to see the image in line eight of
"the snail smudging down the beach"
(thats an odd word to describe a snail--smudge) as
representing life's futility, but clearly
the slow progression
is meant to convey something less tangible,
maybe some sort of static aesthetic.
And the chilling juxtaposition of the
"freezing water" and "lifeless sand" is ostensibly
about erosion and heat transfer but is actuallly
about the conflict between Pan and Apollo
and about a million other things.
Then there's that hermit crab which
precludes a clear Marxist reading, unless you want to
take it as the proletariat, in which case the sea urchin becomes
the wage-labour commodity, but then what do you do with
the spray in line twenty-three? No,
a Marxist reading would be hard to pull off.
Actually, by combining several seemingly contradictory
images, the text resists any simple interpretation; the only
way to go at it is to squint your eyes a little and
look at it from an angle. Then you really start
to see some cool stuff.

Pizza cordis

2010-02-11T09:21:00.000-08:00

Just for fun I thought that I'd order a heart-shaped pizza. When it came I was pleasantly surprised by how nice it looked:

It's surprisingly accurate.

Extasis

2010-02-08T09:06:00.000-08:00

I'm, at this moment, in a trance,
so I though I'd pick up a
pen(cil) (I keep one on hand, in case I feel a trance
coming over me), and now that I'm in the
fifth line, I can say
with some certainty that this particular piece
will have no meter,
but I think I need to wait at least
until the next stanza before I know how
the overall shape will end up.

Now it's pretty obvious
that this will end up
a twenty-two-line piece
organized into three stanzas
making fun of a guy
who managed to write some pretty decent poems
before dying some time ago.

Though this is fairly
rough and unfinished, the trance is done,
and it would be unprofessional to
finish or revise it in any rational state of mind.

Flevi

2010-02-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

I cried the day Spot ran away. Well I guess it wasn't the very day; it took awhile to hit me, but soon I was, as I said, crying. Of course I never went to look for him; the neighbor said he'd be back soon. Sometimes I think about what might have happened to him, but not usually. I took the day off work. I took the week off work; it was during the Australian Open. My boss was really sympathetic; I think he's a dog lover too. Sometimes I still break down at work over the whole thing; then I go home and order Chinese. Won Ton soup helps me keep my mind off things. The neighbor said he'd be back, but it's been six weeks. Once I wondered if he got picked up by a loving family with three kids who take him to the park on Saturdays. Of course I realize this is unlikely; I usually don't think about it at all. That's my method of handling things. Soon, I won't be able to think about anything, but there's nothing I'd rather not think about more than poor Spot. The emotional strain is too much on me; I don't think I'll make it to work tomorrow.

Vidistine

2010-01-28T09:08:00.000-08:00

Did you see
while we were sitting there
that wasp go right past my face,
or the great black beetle
crawl across the walkway--
that bugger made it in like 15 seconds--
or the pigeon hobble up to that older man
to eat the crumbs from his BLT,
or the birds flying in some strange formation,
or the dog chase that squirrel up a tree--
I think that was while you were mentioning
something about Goethe--
or the Earth roll up like a scroll
and the ants circle round the dropped popsicle--
did you see all this?
I did.
Except of course the scroll
and the birds.

Columna

2010-01-26T15:23:00.000-08:00

I'm so post-postmodern that I copied someone else's song, added a "post"--then put up a fence.

Quod remaneat

2010-01-24T07:02:00.000-08:00

Waking, watching, taking
what's left
after scraping. That of the
viburnam in November. Quiet and still
but cold. Peach and hopeful
but cold. Pity and tragic
but still cold. Stubbornly taking,
fitfully waking and then watching
what's left, only--alemontai--it's cold.

Ineluctabilis modus esculentorum

2010-01-21T17:13:00.000-08:00

Ineluctable modality of the edible: at least that if no more, thought through my stomach. Squashy nanners and parchy simmies. Can go month, more. Seventeen hours almost tipsy. But one grain rice only. Starchy hydrocarbon strings. No, shut. How? Blue, green, faint, strong, flowers, soft, smooth, slimey. Here? No, ditch. Again? Done. Sweet, sour. Why? Change molecularly. Different percipienda different. Acid and bacteria. Pink sweet, green sour.

Canticulum x: Cura tui

2010-01-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry about the house,
the car,
the money,
your arm,
leg, and
lower back,
your reputation,
the emotional damage,
the lengthy rehabilitation process,
your family,
your life,
your brown shoes,
but
I did it because I care about you.

Canticulum ix: Candidule

2010-01-15T22:37:00.000-08:00

Honestly, nothing is nearer my heart
than you are, excepting a few
of my own vital organs,
and some ribs. But truly, nothing is dearer to me
than your smile
and your laugh
except maybe
my smile
and probably also
my laugh.
Nothing is sweeter than your voice though,
especially,
when you lie. That, I know, is
without exception. Sincerely, P.