maybe I should start a separate blog just for poetry...but what would I call it?

Here's a new poem that I'm still kind of feeling out...

Tincture of an event, with

some sense of determination and exploration and how does one begin to approach an end to something when his/her only compass is a feeling of lightness sometimes at the base of the skull? Copious note-taking, enlarged hypothalamuses, a history of mythography in the west—none of these things will act as the thing itself that is soon ending. The tincture should only be so sweet and should not be expected to help

It's always a great pleasure to discover that someone you've known for a year or two is a writer. It's an even greater pleasure to discover that you think his or her writing is phenomenal. Check out the link below (The Demanding Birth...) for some of the best short fiction I've read since Borges (really).

Send him an email if you enjoy the stories, hate the stories, or want to accuse him of appropriating elements of your life without permission.

Ach! On the day of poet’s theater, my car’s clutch breaks, but my mechanic (a super guy) saves the day by offering a free loaner (a Mercury Sable). I was supposed to pick the car up at six. At six, there’s no car yet, and when it does show up, at 7 or so, it’s transmission is slipping so bad that it barely moves. Needless to say, I missed poet’s theater, several surely wonderful plays, and eventually found myself broken down in a foreign car late at night in Oakland. Sweet.

Okay, I know that was mostly unnecessary and long-winded, but please allow me to offer a fun exquisite corpse (we only knew the last word of the last line) I wrote with my girl, Ammie, as recompense:


Live/time

A rabbit breathes on a cold night
The steamy heat attracts an owl in the tree above.

And such weight pulled our eyes to the ground to the details of

A Romantic painting, soft and dreamlike.
So we began collecting curiosities—moths, robots, incantations.

The air was crisp and smoky
Then, we planned how we would react to rain. We’d only

Risen to greet each day out of habit.
It was all we knew. We’d visit, often,

The surface of the sun.
Ammie, you always were so stylish.

Flax, raspberry, ochre, and lavender palettes were
Stupefied, shell-shocked, aroused, fractured, but most of all

Lined neatly in a row, much like the famous
And dead.

But it didn’t stop there; a vast fleet of
Debonair obsolescence. Even far off cosmonauts
Settled nicely on the fourteenth star, and the forest was at peace.