I’ve pulled six books
from my shelves in hopes
that one would yield a poem.
A Concise Encyclopedia, Pauline Brown’s Guide to Beginning Patchwork, a small bound edition of the U.S. Constitution, Seamus Heaney’s translation of “Beowulf,” Peter Irons’ Jim Crow’s Children—a discussion of the Brown decision, and a New Living Translation of the Holy Bible.
Surely in these poems and proverbs, these
facts and fabrics, these laws and their
verdicts, there is a short verse worth my ink.
And when I find it, I will be sure
to send it your way. A little lateral
literacy to enlighten your lives.
And if it bends the eye the way my
grandfather once claimed I could bend the ear
then my poem will not be an end in itself
but a beginning and a beginning and a beginning.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
June 12, 2009
An Exercise in Typography (3)
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home.
Amen.
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home.
Amen.
June 11, 2009
An Exercise in Typography (2)
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home
a man.
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home
a man.
June 10, 2009
An Exercise in Typography (1)
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home,
Aman
Thirteen
able bodied
men from Catalina
went sailing, only one came home,
Aman
June 9, 2009
Open Letter to Stephenie Meyer
I have not read your books.
I do not plan to.
I have heard they are
a great story penned by
a willing if inadequate writer.
I congratulate you on
overcoming your name.
I believe, until now,
the highest honor a “Stephenie”
has received was Lieutenant Colonel
of her high school drill team.
You’ve really showed the world
what big hair and high kicks
can do when unfettered by the
yoke of character development.
I have not read your books.
I do not plan to.
I have heard they are
a great story penned by
a willing if inadequate writer.
I congratulate you on
overcoming your name.
I believe, until now,
the highest honor a “Stephenie”
has received was Lieutenant Colonel
of her high school drill team.
You’ve really showed the world
what big hair and high kicks
can do when unfettered by the
yoke of character development.
June 8, 2009
Heloise was not beautiful,
but she held her ugly
in a champagne flute
such that the gentlemen
never drank too much.
but she held her ugly
in a champagne flute
such that the gentlemen
never drank too much.
June 7, 2009
Simple Sentences
A sentence always has a subject and a verb:
I won
Phillippe snores.
The soup is cold.
-Rules of Thumb: A Guide for Writers, 7thedition
But what did I win?
And what is the prize?
And who, if anyone, did I best?
And are they angry? And if not,
shouldn’t they be?
And is it over, or will I
have to defend my title tomorrow?
And how will I
continue holding the
trophy with both hands
when there are so
many people here
to congratulate me?
Surely Phillippe does not snore.
He may breathe deeply or sigh
loudly, but he wears a heavy crown.
You did not tell us what
he did before he lay down
on that embroidered pillow.
You did not tell us
what page or small peasant revolt
he will conquer upon waking.
You did not tell us if it is
tonight during his, what you have
casually called , “snoring,” that his
throat will be slit and let his
royal blood flow like the Seine.
And what about the body,
slumped over the table?
What about the wooden hilt
that branches from the woman’s
spine? What about the sweat
on her brow? Is it not also cold,
the winter door left open, her
mute son still running.
A sentence always has a subject and a verb:
I won
Phillippe snores.
The soup is cold.
-Rules of Thumb: A Guide for Writers, 7thedition
But what did I win?
And what is the prize?
And who, if anyone, did I best?
And are they angry? And if not,
shouldn’t they be?
And is it over, or will I
have to defend my title tomorrow?
And how will I
continue holding the
trophy with both hands
when there are so
many people here
to congratulate me?
Surely Phillippe does not snore.
He may breathe deeply or sigh
loudly, but he wears a heavy crown.
You did not tell us what
he did before he lay down
on that embroidered pillow.
You did not tell us
what page or small peasant revolt
he will conquer upon waking.
You did not tell us if it is
tonight during his, what you have
casually called , “snoring,” that his
throat will be slit and let his
royal blood flow like the Seine.
And what about the body,
slumped over the table?
What about the wooden hilt
that branches from the woman’s
spine? What about the sweat
on her brow? Is it not also cold,
the winter door left open, her
mute son still running.
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