Sunday, 16 May 2010

carried: to Ohio in a swarm of bees.

Right now I don't feel like writing about my life. So here are some videos with music.

sometimes it takes a song of understated melodic power and a fierce melancholy pull to remind me that there should be nothing ironic about beard-growth.

Not a cover of the Presidents of the U.S.A.'s 1996 hit, but an entirely different song.

Dear M.I.A.: I love you, but I do not believe violence is the answer.

Katrina Miller, whom I've known since prior to being able to speak, is the crying girl in Seattle Rockers (in all senses of the word) Unnatural Helpers hot new hip-swinger.

Thursday, 6 May 2010

"Oh hey. Welcome back."

Got in 11ish. Waited a good forty for my lone bag, my lone bag I'd not intended on checking, but the flight was crowded, so they generously (?) checked my bag for no charge. Took Seattle's mystical light rail home. Until it dropped me at Othello Station I wasn't sure that it actually existed or was simply a taxpayer-funded excuse for the chain-link fences and rubbly parking lots that have become such a cherished part of Seattle's landscape Downtown and south.

Anyway, it's real and the only person I've seen since getting back was Jonny, on his way out the door to work. After getting a pretty good sleep (the planesleep was planesleep) I decided that alright, i've had my time off (watch for Thoughts on NYC soon) time to GET MY WHOLE LIFE IN ORDER.

So to that effect:
I work tommorrow through sunday.
Have a reading on tuesday.

Knew that.

Today I:
* Sent out extensive invitations to the Tuesday reading. Confirmed Details.
* Confirmed an interview for a paid internship at The Vera Project. That'll be monday.
* Filled out the forms for my Unemployment Defferment Request.
E-mailed my various works/internships/people I'm tutoring to let them know I'm back and ready to be at it. Filled out a late timesheet.
* Checked in with the folks. Getting some editing work from Dad, maybe?
* Looked over a bunch of bills I gotta (somehow) pay. That doesn't seem like much, but believe me, the first step is knowing you have a problem.

Today I would Like To:
* Figure out where (the fuck) to send this form so it gets processed quick.
* Get a start on room de-cluttering; once again, important for mental health.
* Finish the (small amount of) unpacking.

I've only got a couple more hours to do these things, so I'm gonna give myself a break and say for the first day back, I've done alright. Over the weekend I have ZAPP sorts of data-entry stuff to do and I want to make broadsides for Genus, Species and Flavour to sell at the gig, produce a bar-job-hunting resume, etc etc.

but its important I catalog the productivities and perhaps the sun that is out as well just so I remember these things happen.

Sunday, 2 May 2010

New york heat and the end of poem-a-day pressure.

Lailey and I are drinking tomato juice and staying inside because the heat is huge and still and dry. Later we'll go to MOMA on the bus and walk over a bridge in Greenpoint. Last night i had "the greenpoint" at Lulu's, which is a bar that gives you a free pizza with your drink, if you ask for it. "The Greenpoint" is two shots of room temperature well vodka. That's it. Named for the neighbourhood's largely polish population.
Lailey is making pancakes and cofee and I am considering a beard trim and thinking about how I'm glad I am here for a week and not just a weekend and am not thinking yet about leaving.
I've been writing a fair amount about my time so far in Brooklyn but that will take some time to Coalesce. Here are the last two of the Nanowripomos I'll be posting. The rest will be fixed or forgotten as time and favor dictate.

God Delegates

be dusk for now, sattelite dish.
spires quiet, stoic over roofs.
be dusk for now, your round dish reflecting.

eventually the world will flood or burn
or change formats.
some will hope for a former option
in all its biblical terror.

ten standing in a crop circle, praying.

Some nights the big dipper is made up of
red-eye flights.

Beam those re-runs up to heaven,
like great literature buried in sealed capsules,
like sacred texts with re-upping returns.


Extra Wide Bathtubs
At night he dreams of prohibition,
streets clean and whispering after 11pm,
of people leaving theaters in unstained gowns
quietly discussing directorial technique.
Of grocery stores with unlimited supplies of juice
of never finding beer cans on his running trails.

He wants it illegal like prostitution is illegal.
Full-bodied whores in saloon dresses taking
virgins into candle-lit rooms; powerful madames
with curly black hair, lilting accents and huge eyes
charming sherriffs and legislators into
delayed investigations.

Nobody wants that, his wife tells him, drinking
coffee in a slim red turtleneck. Her brother's
vineyard does so much business they're opening
another one. The wine, even he has to admit,
is delicious.

At night he dreams of the vineyard, of tousle-haired
youths in rolled up trousers dancing in huge vats of grapes.
Of muscled young couples swept up in eachothers
arms, but the vats are all machine run.

The roads are rich with decaying fruit-rinds,
plastic juice bottles that take forever to break down,
the crowds passing on crosswalks to all their places,

he imagines himself and two other men comparing
bootlegged rye, practices his speakeasy knock, a
kerosene-lit room full of scholars and pirates,
a soul-sad but drink-happy piano player rolling
notes off his fingers like it were just that easy.