Further and Further

Morning is smudged
with all this melting
of briny sludge into
the blue function of winter,
an agreed upon standard
for the naming of time.
I shall remind myself
to head south next year
where the pulse of the weather
beats a warm thrum well into October.
In the meantime: I'll shiver my
timbers in salt-kissed boots; the
white rings around the vamp
are dedicated to that
blank look people get
in this hemisphere
in darkest January. My peeps.

Maggy Poetry Magazine

Next week! Maggy Poetry Magazine.

Splash State - The Song Cave

I'm happy & proud to announce that The Song Cave will publish my next book of poetry, Splash State. It comes out September 2014...XO!

Grace Kelly's Hair Test

By midmorning,
everyone was dazed
and lethargic from the oily sugar
of the doughnuts whose crumbs
dotted the surface of the rickety
card table. Thanks, Doughnut Castle.
When we went out to fetch Grace
and help her into her dressing room,
she was despondent, having spent
the better part of the day
playing an out of tune banjo
owned by none other than
Phil Ochs. I'll always have you,
I said, and I meant it.

Over at Marianne's

Southard Reid Gallery: Staging Interruptions (Stream of Life)

Thanks to Mary Rinebold for these photos. "Staging Interruptions (Stream of Life)" runs now through February 2014 at Southard Reid Gallery, in London.

Photo 1: Laetitia Sadier singing over my words/piece on the floor: "Ferocious bands of snow."


Photo 2: Sarina Basta standing at the window with my words/piece: "The amenities are insane." Three other "pieces" are also in the show, not pictured here.

Old Home

I fetched a dusty book
from under the bed right before
the cream of pop spangled the throw.
I plastered the wall with crayon drawings
and battery powered devices that provided
relief from the tension of work and people.
The wainscoting had a terrific flare
in the otherwise bland room. I occupied the apartment
for the better part of a half of a quarter
of a century. The familiarity made the interior
navigable, even with closed eyes, or no moon nights.
The smell of toast burning
was a sign that the heart was in trouble.
Creaking floors gave the radio feedback.
If all goes according to my plans, a forest
will fill the highway and I will once
again hear birds above the roar of malice.
In other news, it feels like my bones
have been replaced with snow; the crisp
icy kind that people slip on.

Friday Top 10

1) "Cry, Trojans (Troilus and Cressida)" by The Wooster Group.

2) A Mountain City of Toad Splendor by Megan McShea.

3) Flying Object. February 1, 2014.

4) Pierre Reverdy edited by Mary Ann Caws.

5) Snowball USB Microphone.

6) Stainless steel Waterman refillable fountain pen.

7) Raspberry Jelly.

8) Michael Silverblatt's show Bookworm on KCRW.ORG.

9) Tulum, Mexico.

10) Staging Interruptions. At Southard Reid Gallery, London.

Thursdays Are My Fridays

I can palm a ball, pick up a tab,
and drink from a flask. I can mutilate,
kick back, and get the rhythm of radio news.
All a person has to do is get better
at not giving a fuck. They told me that,
and then they tried to spoon me. A lower
caution point like orange, or a beaker
filled with something blinding and yellow as a sign.
They take pictures with a very high-tech
camera. They hold long lenses like cans of black
orange juice. I want a place among them.
I'll carve a face on my forearm and show
it to them at the door. I don't know what
I'm talking about. Thursdays are my Fridays.

Staging Interruptions

If you're in London, drop by this amazing visual art show I'm in.

Cat Power - Evolution

Old Days

Thanks, Mike Phillips.

Scram

Do you remember when people used to say they
couldn’t feel their arms? Do you remember when all this
city air was ventilated with balsam fronds and the cold
rush of peppermint gas was brought in through
a pink tube in the trees, hung with zip ties and foil?
Do you remember when the crowds
would disperse along the river and wander
into the hills split by the muted
nobility of earnestness and palimpsests?
Do you remember when the dirge of the day
sounded regal and pointed, not harsh and blotted?
Do you remember the lucrative jangle of rented spaces
and wet-throated desire was for the warm,
honey-lobbed spank of Mulberry?
Do you remember when the pastries were coarse
and inedible, powdered not with sugar but
the richest cream of tartar? Do you remember when
the moist towelettes would stack neatly in the vestibule
halting not just the flow of blood, but also of all thought
and intent? Do you remember when the soft breezes
of March carried birds that would fly in soft circles,
signifying something new and slightly scary?
Well, I‘d like to have a word with you.

Silver Falcon

What that amazing bird of prey does
is get all up in your grill in a sentence
that lets you know a silver falcon is flying
toward your face.

Home Again, Home Again

Happy New Year

Very Very Bird