O.K. I admit it--Last night, while offering everyone a poem in place of the MTV music awards, instead of writing--I was watching those very awards!!! Please imagine some Lovecraftian narrrative involving deep, undersea squid-men and mad xenophobes leading up to the previous statement. Then you will understand the drama for which I am aiming.

Has anyone seen Mark Ryden's new series "Blood?" I'm not so sure about the title, but some of the paintings are really incredible. delightful? Check out especially "Lincoln's Head 43" at www.markryden.com.

I was so jazzed with Kasey's and Noah's books that I've been reading one poem from each in my two english 1A classes. Rather, I've been reading Kasey in one, and Noah in the other. Reactions to both are still gestating, I think. Though with each, I've had to "prove" that they are indeed poems...I'll continue with the experiment/education throughout the semester.

By the way, can anyone tell me how you post pictures? Do I have to upgrade to super blogger? It sure would be fabulous if Duration started acting as a blog host...

I'm trying to post a poem a post, as a prompt of sorts; however, this is an older poem starring Punch of "...and Judy fame."

Alarm!

Alarum!
Punch
tries to
be the
ghost
of Hamlet's
dad!
Froth foams
from his
lips, ears
and (to be
safe) a
cleaver
sticks
out
of his
head.
"where is
my hat?"
he asks
the guards.
"Without that
I'm only
a ghost of
Shakespeare's
invention!
Lucky for me
this is a
mondernist
rendition!"
Punch pulls a
beanie right
from an actor's
head, but forgets
to take the
head out!
like a "pop"
he plops out
the head
replacing it
with
his own.
Hooray!

In place of tonight's MTV music awards, let me offer a poem for your discernment:

We begin to act like those bereaved.

We build an Acropolis, but the bedroom
is too small. There are no birds to rouse us.
We ask why, ask for something intimately
written in the dark. What are we suppose
to do? Why this insistence on structure
and permanency? Even sex has become
only a small comfort, difficult now that it is marred
with consideration. Hands drape from my face,
the stars behind me. Each constellation becomes
a text, a point of observance, and thus definition.

Each small thing
Each small place
Each small poem
Each small view
Each small theory
Each small everything

Everything has its small death—stars even more so.
You give this to me for comfort; a caress carefully
sewn and left for me to find and return.

Okay. Same day. I know. i was looking at Michael Cross's blog, and his stories of Justin Timberlake-immune students reminded me of this: --as I was looking through student responses, I found this: a student replied to my question of "What was the best essay/novel/short story/play you've read in the last two years?" with this simple answer (in a very pleasant hue of sparkly-green ink):

I don't have a favorite because I hate to read words

Mind you, this student doesn't just hate to read, but hates, especially, the reading of words. i'm going to copy and frame this, I think.

Well, it's certainly been a while--let's see how this experiment pans out.

James Meetze's book release party for Kasey Silem Mohammad and Noah Eli Gordon was great fun. I drank beer, listened to poems, and pondered the idea of ether. Both of these guys manipulate electronic communication, and arrange it into something else that is more than the sum. So maybe all the scientists are wrong: there IS an ether through which we move and can manipulate. it's just that our original definition of it was a little off. I must admit some small love for whack scientists. Lab coats, scribbled charts, and sleep deprivation ARE sexy, and are indicative of genius.

here's a poem from a series I'm working on. I wrote this late at night, without the aid of coffee, and without the aid of a lab coat.

Your skeleton is perfect Art Deco.

Wrens (that would scatter with the softest
of breaths) are etched into each bone,
telling an ideographic
story of simple loss
and a voyage.

We were cryptanalysts,
read from your clavicle:

In order
to complete
any vision
of a paved
and urban
Cthonia,
right off,
we must
determine
how far
apart
our time is
from its
own,
then adjust
our present
speed
appropriately.

Your hair curled neatly
(just so) around your face, and
wind propelled our night into theory.
We argued about phrenology and Scrabble.
I wanted to use Charon and Lethe, but
knew I couldn't.