Friday's Top Five

1. Drunken Boat
I'm stealing the format of this post from former frontman, current ironman poet, Todd Colby. I'm going to post soon on how I came across Drunken Boat in 1991; back then I thought they were going to be the next Sonic Youth—yes, that big! (and that good).
2. Sephyrus
What other candleshop website quotes Robert Creeley and Ezra Pound? And the candles are smokin'. Go Rachel!
3. Typo Magazine
Issue 10 is a little more uneven quality than is typical for this poezine, but it's still one of the best out there. The two highest points in this issue: Clayton Eshleman's essay "Wind from all Compass Points" and Tony Tost's pieces from Elephant & Obelisk.
4. Mike Tanier's Two Deep Zone
For a few years now over at Football Outsiders Mike Tanier has been cranking out the best football writing around, and some of the best sports writing period.
5. PostSecret
Mail art gone mainstream—what some might consider a guilty pleasure.

Shadowtrain

I have four poems in the recently posted September edition of Shadowtrain. Martin Stannard's Things I Want To Learn may be my favorite poem in the issue.

The Hour

by Paul Blackburn (Nov 24, 1926–Sep 13, 1971)

Noon-and-a-half :
waiting to eat
we have sat on the stone bench in the sun for an hour
ignoring the time
except for the time of our bodies, our
hunger     .     We

sit here fixed,
driven back on ourselves,
                                     listening,
caught in the blue silence of this wind,
     hungering for that too
                                     after northern winter

listening to the warm gnawing in the stomach,
     the warm wind
through the blossoms blowing .
 

Mallarme died today

Mallarmé died today (in 1898). Spume to many sirens, we prowl the seasons to fearless solitude, salute whatever concern saddens dreams and flowers sobs. Blessed torment, deep regret, the pavement in your hair—the evening I thought sleeps down eyes, evoking soot. Pierced swimmer, denying wave, the thousand fists of the sun. Mother of skin, of water, of veils. Bored man and stones, white hair, windows on youthful ago. Warm oils, clocks, cough evening light—river cradling swans, rich memories filled with hungering, stubborn offspring. Cling to dewdrops and scorn angel art. Be previous. The still compels a way. Hold the crystal flight at the risk of beast root. Hovering storm kiss of nothingness, gnawing sterility of stone. Exhausted, haunted—tooth of alone.
      —•—
Weary charm, sevenfold rose, dig the cold with pity. Ashen dawn over graveyard lands, genius reprimands delicate ecstasy—agony moon, constantly he, blue sage's evergreen paint. Signify a cloud in tranquil eyelashes. Like poet wilderness with the soul on fogs, them rags of autumn emerge through birds. Flues smoke in yellow sky. Forgetfulness of straw on which at last lying art triumphs.
      —•—
To yawn in bells and springs of the fog, agony in the sky. No more birds, strange nothing. Sea nights on her swaying wilderness. Tedium fluttering, may that wind scatter the blue yellow leaves crawl in.
      —•—
Shadow fingers walk back, immaculate bathing light. A kiss not by what forgotten. Distance ever in from doomed perfume, what petals welcome within. Fragments reverie, lion's gaze, shivering robes resembling manes. Nonchalant comb, bottles of roses, will you virtue. Leave me—nurse my drunken hair. Human aromatics, cruel conforming jewels, vessels, my dark enough mirror. Mirror framed by hours, memories like leaves, distant evenings, nakedness. Am I a falling tree? And that kiss that will not end, that hand: sinister day? My blood may wander into you, immortal horror, as yet I serve the silent stars. Obscure treasure of being that grows in response to destiny like breast milk, endlessly concealed like primeval sleep, melodious stone of evil times, calyx of caverns and azure veils, inviolate light of icicles and snow and lonely hearts. Last, soon, ancient calm—window's blue shutters. Waves know the sky burns to go where light sleeps. And then—what else? Goodbye flower lips. Unknown cries. Utter feels. Apart.
      —•—
Clear air encumbers doubt. Woods that roses malign—fable error. Blue compare sighs through morning murmurs, wind quick to rain, nothing visible sky. Shores of sunlight—hollow gold foliage—animal born of dives. Hour wiles—musical awake— light by lips that kiss. Untouched teeth—reeds that speak—endless around. Song of contours, love of line.
      —•—
Instrument of lakes, speak more of grapes to regret, empty wild night, inflate the forest of precious feet in which my gaze lingers, and let me embrace the day's shadow roses and savage thorns. Lightning kisses curves, writhes the flesh, tears color from the sky, drunken prey. Horns on passion, hum-enamored desire, ash of leaves touching the feet, the words, too, must open to you.
      —•—
The sandal glittering with sand. The pouring rain glazing the angel statue. Evening's fingers stroking the shoreline. Ephemeral percussions of eternity.
      —•—
That pure lie in twilight, with caged thrusts. Shivering kiss which cannot feel a corner, fold pink eves, pose fire, shadow desire beneath your wing. To writhe in the eyes in darkness like boredom in a child, a star in space. Alive of the forgotten long ago, doomed to sing when the dream inflicts its horror down the neck. From blood laughing absent shred, midnight treasure torch. Vanished hairstyles, nails fall like pillows past midnight. Many ashes, only credence. Mirror, dip of oblivion. Gold scintilla, extinct expires.
      —•—
Into the known voice of the angel, the future drools.
 

Nobody here

If 2004 and 2006 are any indication, this is the time of year when my little burst of summer blogging comes to an end. I'd like to keep Nobody here from going into complete hibernation this fall and winter (and spring), but I've no idea whether I'll be moved enough to make that happen. No post yesterday because I was working on some poems. Not much of a post today because I'll be using this morning's "free time" to find out more about "unschooling." There's been some talk about it over at the Poetics List and Possum Ego. I'd never heard of it before, but I've read enough now to pique my interest.

The drive home

The drive home made all the more slow by the broken antenna. One station all that comes in. I-95. Classic rock. "Two for Tuesday." Would've prayed to God to let the second Rush song be "Working Man" if I thought it would've helped. Instead I get "Subdivisions." Turn the volume down. Down, down, through the construction, route 7. Entering New Milford from the south, widened now to four lanes, can cruise along at 55, 60. Not bad. So they had to knock down some trees. Down, down, to the flashing lights, through the orange-and-white barrels, road workers in the overtime night. Down, down, this descent of autumn. That Williams could find, in his descent of winter, elation in his own underwear. Boxers or briefs, I don't suppose we know. I'll find elation when I shake this cough. My car is small amid the construction sea. No plate on the front. Faded light of the dash. Half a tank a gas. No stars. No moon. No sky.

Labor Day evening

Labor Day evening. Half the house asleep. Sitting in the yellow light of the backroom. The cat licking at her water dish under the desk in the kitchen. Stomach still not settled. Throat soar. Words fall. Days uncomfortable. Art impossible. Subjects weaving in and out. Focus lacking. Labor Day evening. Half the house asleep. The yellow light of the backroom, compact fluorescent light taking its color from the wall and the stained-glass fixture hanging from the ceiling. The cat crunching her food under the desk in the kitchen. The window behind me partially blocked by a sheet from Vaughn's art pad painted with bright animal shapes: red bunny, blue pony, red pig, brown horse, brown cow, yellow chickens, black sheep. The refrigerator hums. KC flips the page of her magazine in the living room. The goddamn cars go by outside like muffled screams. Slouching in my chair, leaning backward into fall, into might as well be silent.

Sunday morning

Sunday morning with its slow motions. The porch a frustration with its layers of dirt spit up from the road. The pressboard home going up across the street looks like vomit. Around where the picture window will go, the paper hangs down like a tear drop in a Man Ray photo, way more beautiful than Old Glory drooping over the stoop of the next house over. The 9 a.m. sun shining bright, but not on the new construction. The foundation, deep gray, in shadow. The cars already go by at steady intervals. Living in the valley of the SUVs. Almost wanting to pick up a rock and chuck it at the next one that passes. Like when I was five, and mom and I were living in our first apartment after the divorce, on Watertown Ave not far from the stadium, how I'd chuck rocks from our dirt-and-rock lot separated from the road by a steep slope and a few layers of trees, mostly pines, I think. How I'd thought I'd hit a couple of cars until finally I heard the thunk of hitting one, probably on the roof or trunk, I'd suppose later. How I never felt bad, and kept on throwing rocks, or snowballs, for the rest of the year, or however long it was, that we lived there. But of course now I just grab my empty mug and head back inside, which is good I guess.

Saw a blue moon

Saw a blue moon on the drive home. Course, it was blue because of the tinted part of the windshield I caught it through. Blue as the cover of a philosophy reader. Blue as the thought of "What are we to do?" Forty-eight things to do in this world: 1. Open a book store; 2. Eat a lobster in Maine; 3. Coin a phrase ("kiss a brick"); 4. Kiss the tomb of Oscar Wilde; 5. Listen to the cat pee in her litter box; 6. Clean the litter box; 7. Let one perception lead you to another; 8. Stay out of the way of oncoming traffic; 9. Drink a glass of water; 10. Clear your throat; 11. Drink more water; 12. Make yourself a midnight snack—sharp cheddar & pepperoni maybe; 13. Order Chinese; 14. Sing a song in your head and don't tell anyone; 15. Inhabit your lover anyhow; 16. Quote somebody famous ("Future references lead us nowhere," Elio Schneeman); 17. Realize the cat took a shit, too, and god it stinks; 18. Use "transubstantiation" in conversation; 19. Piss; 20. Make a "Piss Christ" print and display it over your toilet; 21. Create a controversial work of art using only the letter S; 22. Save your money in a pillow case in the closet; 23. Spend time with kids, teach them something; 24. Fuck in the cemetery; 25. Swat flies; 26. Lose yourself in a movie; 27. Hold a book to your chest; 28. Cop a feel, or better, feel a cop; 29. Consider what your last words could be; 30. Make a clock, keep it forever; 31. Challenge a stranger to a foot race at the mall; 32. Buy all your clothes from thrift stores; 33. Eat meat with your hands if you're going to eat it at all; 34. Think of forty-eight things to do and write them down; 35. Bet the house on the Cowboys to cover the spread; 36. Improvise a song while standing in the checkout line: sing it to the cashier with feeling; 37. Don't forget the war; 38. Stay up all night; 39. Wake up before sunrise; 40. Talk in your sleep; 41. Talk with the dead; 42. Feel your way through your place with the lights off; 43. Look for the lunar eclipse; 44. Research jobs where a person can be suspended with pay: get one of those jobs and get suspended; 45. Start a think-tank: don't tell anyone; 46. Pretend to have lost your voice for a day; 47. Scream as loud as you can and see if it isn't therapeutic; 48. Wash your face and hands and brush your teeth.