Got my transfer orders the other day,
be heading out to my next post
real soon. Brushing off the
old dust, washing all those memories
of the process right out of my head.
Delivery was a tortuous path,
and labor was unusually lengthy –
not like the last time when the path
was smooth and we just slid right
out. Oh no, this time was painful,
and slow and unpredictable – but in
some ways better, thorough, meaningful,
more comprehensive. Thank God it’s the
last transfer point on the Orange Line.
Found Poetry (notes from LSC 557)
love, the layout of the homepage –
hyperlinks to all contents
print function takes you to a list
of pdf’s that are transcripts for each section –
first game: concept blocking, also called nesting
another crazy dance with Maria dos Santos Pittsylvania:
she loves to do the Tango, Lambada, Kizomba –
always well-dressed, her steps are technically
choreographed, mechanically proficient.
The rhythm, the beat of the music determines
each step, each twirl, each bump, each groove:
but the melody stirs the heart, and you want
to peek into her eyes, cast a flirtatious glance, at least –
then the beat shifts, requiring a technical adjustment,
precision; and attention to the glance you seek
gets diverted to the mechanics of the dance, again –
and you know it’s OK, because Maria is an android
in a pretty pink body suit. And you think yourself
a knight in shining armor – this is Second Life, silly.
Morning river walk
The tide is low
the current is calm –
and flat, and still
like a mirror, reflecting
in near perfect symmetry
images of flora and statuary
from the far side –
and on the near side
the polk salad weeds are
and bowing over –
their leaves too long,
for human consumption.
I wake up with the hiccups,
my coffee jones is down on me –
I stumble to the kitchen,
still some powder left in the grinder
from yesterday’s yesterdays –
I fire up the kettle – twice-boiled
water will do just fine, thank you.
My hiccups are getting worse…
The french press is full of sludge.
I pour the sludge out – most of it –
what remains will season the new batch,
sort of like making yogurt. The whistle
is blowing, the water is boiling again.
Won’t be long now. Won’t be long.
High culture and low
polished and profaned
sanctified and ghettoized –
all the decisions we make
stem from false dichotomies
presented to us – opposing options
in a narrative, neither of which
makes us better or worse for the wear —
just older and grayer –
more wrinkled and cataract’d
until our vision is blocked,
and our tastebuds deadened
by the novocaine they give us –
for good behavior.