Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
spam blogging and nota bene
This blog has been identified as a spam blog.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Discourse and Intercourse, I. Prologue
Poetry is a martial art—
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Edmund the Confessor
The pay phone is broken.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
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