You know what?
I am getting marks in my pages
kneeling towards a freedom
of being
crossing over situations,
not speaking of minutes
on my knees, listening
to a buzz.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Connected by JKD
After AD's untitled after BBB's Selected Letters
I am getting you from time
marks not to speak of minutes
ahead of night
scars
covered sentences dream
crossover
into tomorrow
half kneeling, half seconded
freedom
sails triangulated
museums, women, things
said into her
pages
cards
personalized impotence: a situation
she said to
or a sentence
in a nightmare
the most important part of
is being
you know what?
listened
listen
to
I am getting you from time
marks not to speak of minutes
ahead of night
scars
covered sentences dream
crossover
into tomorrow
half kneeling, half seconded
freedom
sails triangulated
museums, women, things
said into her
pages
cards
personalized impotence: a situation
she said to
or a sentence
in a nightmare
the most important part of
is being
you know what?
listened
listen
to
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Untitled by AD after BBB's Selected Letters
ahead of time
she has no minutes to speak of
half covered night
dream a sentence that
would cross over into tomorrow
working complete
half knee
freedom
painting on cards,
a woman in the museum,
triangles of sails
said into her phone
“am I getting you from something?”
marks my page
on the card
her phone
personal situation
she said to her phone
a sentence
a dream
“I think the most important part of being is. You know what? You listen.”
she has no minutes to speak of
half covered night
dream a sentence that
would cross over into tomorrow
working complete
half knee
freedom
painting on cards,
a woman in the museum,
triangles of sails
said into her phone
“am I getting you from something?”
marks my page
on the card
her phone
personal situation
she said to her phone
a sentence
a dream
“I think the most important part of being is. You know what? You listen.”
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
In Alabaster Books, the clerk and I...
In Alabaster Books
the clerk and I,
we read Sophie Calle
ask two blind men
what their definition
of beauty is.
It is a day of marvelous
insight
from blue veiled nuns
washing along the subway platform
to tears rivering down my
cheeks
I ride subways all day long
uptown
downtown
each turn
I am along for the ride
and it takes me places I never expected.
-- 9/2010
the clerk and I,
we read Sophie Calle
ask two blind men
what their definition
of beauty is.
It is a day of marvelous
insight
from blue veiled nuns
washing along the subway platform
to tears rivering down my
cheeks
I ride subways all day long
uptown
downtown
each turn
I am along for the ride
and it takes me places I never expected.
-- 9/2010
New: Bulb by Amanda Deutch ( partially reworded from Sunday's NY Times Book Review)
Bulb
Show
between
a space--
it's strong
like
**sea
in a way
no language
can tell.
New: 53rd and Lex by Amanda Deutch
53rd and Lexington
Nuns flood the crowded subway platform
on 53rd and Lex.
"Follow the blue veils," one shouts.
I am trying to photograph them
as they blush and raise
their hands to their faces.
Nuns flood the crowded subway platform
on 53rd and Lex.
"Follow the blue veils," one shouts.
I am trying to photograph them
as they blush and raise
their hands to their faces.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
“SELECTED LETTERS 1910-1944” AND A POSTCARD PANTOUM (New) by BBB
Last night lying on straw, a dream so beautiful:
his last letter to Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
In the dream, a sentence he couldn’t read
because a kerchief half-covered her knee,
he wrote Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
Tomorrow, he said, they would cross into Spain
(but the kerchief half-covered her knee)
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.
Tomorrow they’ll cross into Spain,
freedom, America, a white triangle of sail,
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.
Marking the page, a postcard, a painting:
a freeway, America, white triangle of sail.
“Well, this doesn’t do much for me”—
the painting on the card that marks my page—
the woman in the museum said into her phone.
“Well, this doesn’t do much for me—
am I getting you from something?”
in the museum she said to her phone.
Extend my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.
“Am I getting you from something?”
My personal situation is no better,
but my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.
My personal situation is no better.
Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.
Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
Last night lying on straw, a dream so beautiful.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.
In his dream, a sentence he couldn’t read.
his last letter to Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
In the dream, a sentence he couldn’t read
because a kerchief half-covered her knee,
he wrote Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
Tomorrow, he said, they would cross into Spain
(but the kerchief half-covered her knee)
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.
Tomorrow they’ll cross into Spain,
freedom, America, a white triangle of sail,
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.
Marking the page, a postcard, a painting:
a freeway, America, white triangle of sail.
“Well, this doesn’t do much for me”—
the painting on the card that marks my page—
the woman in the museum said into her phone.
“Well, this doesn’t do much for me—
am I getting you from something?”
in the museum she said to her phone.
Extend my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.
“Am I getting you from something?”
My personal situation is no better,
but my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.
My personal situation is no better.
Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.
Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
Last night lying on straw, a dream so beautiful.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.
In his dream, a sentence he couldn’t read.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Execution, by Brandon Shimoda
after "The radiant point" by Megan M. Garr
The passing blazes
Does not fast
Enough. Look up
The wind
Along the lines
Might get
To everyone more than just
As concentrated
Storm and Prussian
Blue, vermilion and white
Equally near to shadow—
The sound
Approaching
Onslaught—
Every event is this
Every night this night. Burnt earth and even vermilion—
Every arm incorrigibly composed
Upon the solar
Gesture, every gesture violence gray, moving
The radiant dome, the stars
Do exit
Swallowed
Into muscle—
Every history
Is this
Hand perhaps
It opens out
The flesh sings wide at the new
Architecture, holding
The execution
Together
What can I do with such small
Children on my hands?
The passing blazes
Does not fast
Enough. Look up
The wind
Along the lines
Might get
To everyone more than just
As concentrated
Storm and Prussian
Blue, vermilion and white
Equally near to shadow—
The sound
Approaching
Onslaught—
Every event is this
Every night this night. Burnt earth and even vermilion—
Every arm incorrigibly composed
Upon the solar
Gesture, every gesture violence gray, moving
The radiant dome, the stars
Do exit
Swallowed
Into muscle—
Every history
Is this
Hand perhaps
It opens out
The flesh sings wide at the new
Architecture, holding
The execution
Together
What can I do with such small
Children on my hands?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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