December 2009
12 posts
MAYAKOVSKY
mugwumpian:
I
My heart’s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. Mother, mother who am I? If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing!
then I can put on my lcothes I guess, and walk the streets.
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I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.
Words! Be sick as I am sick, swoon,...
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Bed/Breakfast
Bed Duane Street Hotel
Breakfast Upstairs at Bouley
.2 miles away from each other.
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Fuck the lardons, eat the tomato
I had daydreamed that my arrival in New York would go like this: Check into hotel. Walk across street to Bouchon Bakery. Order brioche and hot chocolate. Eat, with gloves on, in snowy Central Park.
Two things happened that changed that plan: First, I was starving—I ordered foccacia with zucchini, tomatoes and lardons instead. Second, it wasn’t snowing outside. It was pouring rain.
I...
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From Poetry 12/09
True Love (Nate Klug, Poetry, 12/09)
Off rows of windshields in the Amtrak lot rain in sudden clumps like jacks. Parked cars with people in them awaiting people they imagine hurtling through suburbs of silver woods awaiting them. True love needs interference, a certain blizzard distance, for the words to worm through. Remember Iowa? August storms that would self-spark as if our fights could trip...
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I've been humming these songs all day. →
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Watch
It's probably a common mistake
Make note: Hay Fever is not Spring Fever. I thought I had Hay today but it’s really Spring. Though Spring doesn’t quite capture it either. But you know what I mean.
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Like plasma
Yesterday I went swimming for exercise. It’d been years. I thought to myself: No resistance. Nothing that I can strain my back doing, or hurt my leg.
The pool was empty. The room was warm but the water was cool. I eased into it, but then wondered what a real swimmer would do. I figured he would dunk himself. So that’s what I did. It was freezing.
I was in the water now. My arm hair...
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From Poetry 9/09:
If Nicholson Baker weren’t so sarcastic I might be clear on what he’s trying to say about rhymed poetry in The Anthologist. But he is, and so I’m not. Which leaves me to trust my own instinct, which is still in its infancy, but is informed by this Don Paterson poem, which I was really into—until I realized it rhymed. Now I’m into it a little less.
Why do you stay up...
This could be urgent
For the past 24 hours—ever since seeing a Tweet from a friend with a link in it—I’ve been cruising TheAwl.com. Like so many other things (The Rolling Stones; homoism), I’m late to the game with this one. So I’m playing catch up.
I think The Awl is good, and the reason I know I think this is because after reading some of its pieces I’ve experienced a familiar...