Wednesday, November 29, 2006

i-pod wars

Your black Lexus has Two hundred thousand miles Underneath the missing roads You don't know where you're going Almost anytime Things lost just lighten up your load Maybe you're headin' out To LA See if they'll put you in a show First you'll check with the stars Read both your sign and mine In the back of the New York Post

--joseph arthur

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

paperclip song # 2

well you say you will, but we know you won’t,
little pink bag
you say you like, but we know you don’t,
little pink bag
--chinese folk song


what’s your obsession for confession tunnel dan
was it the bubble lack pram
the almond gelatin in your little pink bag
turtles struggling on the beach and all you knew to do was document

wait, is that a cough at the other end
is there someone down there trying to wait you out
breath on your neck on the morning train

there’s a guy in san diego who won’t let anyone say your name
that makes your name a name that will not be spoken
or perhaps that makes you person unaware
you have time, write a paper on the matter
the matter of dan, single spaced like sliced american cheese
artichoke hearted, spread like some minor key
a bright light canary who conducts the coalmine
everything between the ears then, a lie
the kind that tie you down without the fun



(what is the significance of the little pink bag)




years later, tunnel dan rides the train to see what trains had done
the motion of a girl closing her sly smile
a hand walked by crossing over her face in a backwards evolution
right there, he got down on his knees

some bugs are in the bed
some artichokes end up on bread
some hybrid the walking and talking of certainty and fabrication
where you go to meet, but it feels nothing like halfway
more like the casual nature of college wine intellectualism
a careful sex weaving riddle
a different voice for the telephone

tunnel dan knew that you should be afraid of some of the people that you meet between your hips
six months between trips to the lower lip
she looked like someone else
she refused to turn a phrase
he grabbed at her non-existent vocabulary
threw it in the little pink bag and tied it off
air tight holding it all in

cable slack

tunnel dan returns to the scene of the crime to hear the metal twisting
the milking cow hits the empty bucket
a loosening of hair over a midwestern accent
whittled down words rewritten on top of each other

in bed two people will eventually invite someone else in some way or another

tunnel dan eats an ice cream and miscounts
does not bother to correct the number of women he slept with
individually

tunnel dan coaster man stripped down into the station
like a radio receiver in a new aperture
dynamite off the line, or however they make it
there are, golden retriever, people who produce explosions as a job
and yet in most places seeming endless or under, light is a noise amplified
this is the ability to keep on
the ability to say the wrong thing to faces behind faces

later, he notices everything, literally
this comes from not being allowed during the concentration
or what he allows in two different places
tunnel dan is a dangerous man
you should keep him out of your shirts

Friday, November 17, 2006

the moderns

right now the perfect girl is evan dando singing I just want a bit part in your life, a walk on would be fine.

this morning backed into me in the bathroom as I rubbed lotion on her back
a purposeful thing of hair hanging down over her face
cousin “it” from the adams family with a crooked smile
terrance singing do you love me…
caddy shack gopher dance

the bus is a giant vibrator, but I may not be feeling it the same as you
tell me—where is it
“no, you’re wrong, it’s being young that lets us know things”
future revisionaries
vampire sucking past
occurrence shift
a bus moving for a city starting with “san” or “santa”
a theory mention of the middle status
lasting miles, days, ways to reflect this is your buying
your seducation
up all night at the window of forgot to mention
“who”
“oh, I don’t know, she was someone’s roommate”
“that’s vague”
“exactly”
“are you jealous”
“no”
“I didn’t think you would be”
“if it makes you feel better a good 12 of the last 24 hours were yours”
“thanks”
“you were sliding down banisters
your eyes were dark, endless, that sort of thinking
the most I’d figure out by them was the shine
or movie brilliant”
“it’s time for my bath”
“what do you do in there”
“the water runs like mechanized things, the way your brain smoothes out your skin and hands eventually, a voice to fade the head of the word leaving the heat to rise blood-red on you skin”
“that doesn’t mean anything”
“yeah, but it sounded pretty”

gone neutral now
so maybe I need the smallest hint of possibility
or maybe I just know enough of you

as it is it got to sit there in the middle of the table anyway, like a bowl of mashed potatoes on a thursday in november, growing more beautiful as you spoke, replacing an early evening static with a late night former silence hour’s away from this morning’s front page violence.

I am a reverie
I glow and shape-shift
I am my bones and their habitat
I have become my own perfect girl

lines

high yellow mondrian
big white pillow curtains
someone to rub your back still straight
don’t think I didn’t notice that

“take the trolley down past those houses”
tulane and back
the rain warms through an aquarium glass roof
miles skip like rocks
“it’s too hot to sleep”
too cool for sweat to dry on your skin

backbones curl without touch
like the neglect of a married man
a smile refusing teeth
coltrane and hartman bitten as if they were food
pause moving to absent
as if the voice you imagined was the weight
of it coming down on your chest
a ride worn intermission
blackilicious on the broken cd player in her room
mondrian without clothes, but not naked
more of a highway headed north and west
wherever is that direction of men leaving men behind

here I like to stop
before the bruising
before wading in
there is a lurking follow-through of start to keep on
towards sleep which you thought was giving in
now you’re sure

Thursday, November 16, 2006

OED definitions

Modern--

A. adj. I. General uses.
1. Being in existence at this time; current, present. Freq. applied (sometimes as a postmodifier) to the current holder or incumbent of an office or position, esp. a reigning monarch. Obs. Quot. c1485 perh. belongs to sense 2.

2. a. Of or relating to the present and recent times, as opposed to the remote past; of, relating to, or originating in the current age or period. Often contrasted with ancient and hence in historical contexts taken as applying either to the entire period following the fall of the Western Roman Empire, or (when medieval began to be used to signify a distinct period) to the time subsequent to the Middle Ages. modern history: see HISTORY n. 3b.

b. Designating the form of a language that is currently used, or the form representing the most recent significant stage of development, as opposed to any earlier form. Cf. MODERN LATIN n. and a. In historical philology applied to the last of the three periods into which it is customary to divide the history of most living languages (as distinguished from Old and Middle). Cf. MODERN ENGLISH n. and a.

d. Of, relating to, or designating a current or recent movement or trend in art, architecture, etc., characterized by a departure from or a repudiation of accepted or traditional styles and values. Also: designating or relating to work produced by such a movement; = MODERNIST a. Cf. ABSTRACT a. 4d.

3. a. Characteristic of the present time, or the time of writing; not old-fashioned, antiquated, or obsolete; employing the most up-to-date ideas, techniques, or equipment. In early use chiefly with reference to warfare.

b. Of a person or (occas.) something personified: up to date in behaviour, outlook, opinions, etc.; embracing innovation and new ideas; liberal-minded. Esp. in modern girl, woman.


B. n. Chiefly in pl.
1. a. A person who lives in or belongs to the present time; a person who belongs to a modern period or epoch, as contrasted with an ancient one.

3. a. A person with modern tastes or opinions, or who belongs to the modern school of thought on any subject; a person who advocates or practises a departure from traditional styles or values in any sphere; = MODERNIST n. 4.

b. A work of art, architecture, etc., which is the product of a modern trend or movement.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

at the rack

"dawn was infusing the countryside; it seemed to rise from the tender green wheat, from the rocks and the dripping trees, and mount imperceptibly towards a blank sky. the chiarchiaro of gramoli, incongruous in green uplands, looked like a huge, black-holed sponge soaking up the light flooding the landscape. captain bellodi had reached that point of exhaustion and sleeplessness which produces a series of incandescent fantasies: hunger does the same; at a certain intensity it fades into a kind of lucid starvation which rejects any idea of food. the captain thought: "this is where god throws in the sponge," associating the sight of the chiarchiaro with the struggle and defeat of god in the human heart."

--from the day of the owl by leonardo sciascia

Thursday, November 09, 2006

edwards drive-in

"andrei rublev", directed by andrei tarkovsky is about the life of the 15th century icon painter. the movie itself feels religious, but in an untouched way. the movie is technically great and yet you don't even think about that until later when the movie comes back on you, as it does. the movie was made in 1966, but was suppressed by the soviet union and wasn't seen the way it was intended for over 20 years. it's long, over three hours, and deliberate, and yet it doesn't drag. a review of the film that I read said "if god ever watched a movie, he might as well pick this one".

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

that was the year...

that was the year that music sounded like the global digitalization of bird calls, tasted like mint. I hate mint. yet I buttered your bread. forced the crucifixion, emphasis on fiction. my liars. my needless vote written in crayon, once every two years to ratify the selling. here in california they have us connect the dots, an easier democracy, blind but built sturdy to build on top of the smell of old cigarette smoke machines. then, as you head out towards the beach along the park on the fulton 5, slipping into the fog, you imagine you could get off somewhere and get lost, like any other dog in heat.

Friday, November 03, 2006

kilroy was here

indian summer came to my city like a flip-phone
like the soft fuzz hair that you see in some light on a particular woman’s shoulders
it left me wanting to talk to a ficticious hero, but I couldn’t figure out which one
let’s go with bucky I thought, any bucky will do
let’s put him in a dehydrated kiss of a spot where everyone has heard the stains
that you just now noticed on the street

I say “bucky, look at that”
bucky says “you’re so catholic again lately john-joe”
“no bucky, I’m just lucky”. (oh, that’s bad and my tooth aches so I lose the thread)

“but listen bucky, what if I’ve never really been sure that I’ve got the girl”
“I thought you had a girl”
“oh I do, but what if she doesn’t act exactly as I imagined”
“bucky is a stupid name”
“I know, I couldn’t think of anything else. how about if you be dennis deyoung from styx”
“only if you rub my neck”
“shut up”
“oh get over it”

later, under softer lights, you could feel the heat of the day in my third floor apartment
you could feel the ghost of columbus discovering the night about to be as cold as an
ice cream social
we didn’t care, dennis has his eighties perm haircut and we put on thin lizzy and we
smoked out a bit to an over and under bet on how long
“dennis, listen”
“I’m listening john-joe”
“the mr. roboto thing, even if it did stick in the head, that was some fucked up shit”
“I am not having this conversation”
“okay, okay, listen dennis, listen to this”
“what”
“I’m sailing…”
“fuck that, I’m out of here”
“okay, no, really, I want to ask you something. when you close your eyes dennis, when you finally allow a silence at the end of the day and you’re lying there. do you ever see faces of people like you’re surrounded, good and bad. is it people dennis, or is it yourself”
“you mean like ghosts”
“no, I’m not talking about tommy shaw you stupid fucker. I’m talking about how it is, how it really is, the way it chips away at you until the hammer slips and then it can’t be fixed and you can’t find a song for a month that sounds good to you and you don’t know just who to think of in the dark or why certain faces keep coming and when you take a step back it’s all a business, a repetition as a way to figure out how to be dead”
“you really think mr. roboto sucked”
“it wasn’t ‘boat on the river’ that’s for sure”
“oh man, you suck”

indian summer arrives in my city in every october as another detail you can ignore, just like bucky being on meds, or dennis having a secret lair underground
either way the passersby are looking
dying at a rate we have never begun to fathom
and yet, in our heads we walk little seedlings with time to come out, another little trick of vinyl on pages