quick poem: Midsummer+1

June 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

5.07, or thereabouts, in the afternoon
— it’s too light outside to near evening —
And the strain in my chest might just be the cups of coffee I’ve been drinking.
87% of my waking time these days seems to feature some kind of screen,
Which for the time is nothing surprising
but which doesn’t suit me well.

At 17 I used to look at male roadworkers and feel almost envious
And wish myself a carpenter or a painter of houses, or something like that.
Now, I still don’t have a trade and
words are too many, finickety and proud to hone, repeat and perfect.

I watched Jiro Dreams of Sushi
And, going to bed,
still could not think beyond the pen.

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DotA

June 20, 2014 § Leave a comment

from Lunch Poems

June 20, 2014 § Leave a comment

A STEP AWAY FROM THEM
Frank O'Hara
It's my lunch hour, so I go for a walk among the hum-colored cabs. First, down the sidewalk where laborers feed their dirty glistening torsos sandwiches and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets on. They protect them from falling bricks, I guess. Then onto the avenue where skirts are flipping above heels and blow up over grates. The sun is hot, but the cabs stir up the air. I look at bargains in wristwatches. There are cats playing in sawdust. On to Times Square, where the sign blows smoke over my head, and higher the waterfall pours lightly. A Negro stands in a doorway with a toothpick, languorously agitating. A blonde chorus girl clicks: he smiles and rubs his chin. Everything suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of a Thursday. Neon in daylight is a great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would write, as are light bulbs in daylight. I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of Federico Fellini, è bell' attrice. And chocolate malted. A lady in foxes on such a day puts her poodle in a cab. There are several Puerto Ricans on the avenue today, which makes it beautiful and warm. First Bunny died, then John Latouche, then Jackson Pollock. But is the earth as full as life was full, of them? And one has eaten and one walks, past the magazines with nudes and the posters for BULLFIGHT and the Manhattan Storage Warehouse, which they'll soon tear down. I used to think they had the Armory Show there. A glass of papaya juice and back to work. My heart is in my pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy. [1956]

Tara Stiles

June 20, 2014 § 1 Comment

tara stiles

June 17, 2014 § Leave a comment

he not busy being born is busy dying

Bob Dylan
It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

by Paul Kwilecki

June 9, 2014 § Leave a comment

Prisoner cleaning up Oak City Cemetery, 1986  Paul Kwilecki

Prisoner cleaning up Oak City Cemetery, 1986

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gesture

June 6, 2014 § Leave a comment

   The girl with dark hair was coming towards him across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. This too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word ‘Shakespeare’ on his lips.

— Orwell, 1984

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