I could almost swear I just saw a coyote standing on the roof of the Kentile building as I rode past on the F train this morning. I am aware that this is impossible, and that the creature I saw was likely a coyote-like dog, but I do like the idea of a coyote on a rooftop in Brooklyn. To make my notion even more romantic: I’m pretty sure the coyote-ish beast only had three legs.
Just a hallucination brought on by forced compliance with daylight savings time? Maybe.
— Post From My iPhone
Theda Bara
and…
(photo by Mel Nichols)
At the end of last week, still so fatigued in flu’s aftermath: why is it so decimating? But most major symptoms are gone, even if I’m pale, easily tired, and just generally still Victorianly pathetic. I did drag my sorry ass to Friday’s dance class after a two-week absence, and yesterday’s unusually balmy faux-spring offered some succor.(Say that last word out loud. Funny, right?)I suppose then that things are on the up-and-up, even if the trees remain resolutely leafless.
I did, though, manage to wear myself out further last week obsessively working for hours on end on a new project in a new medium. I made a collage movie out of $1 DVDs from the local discount store. It’s called “You Won’t Ever Learn” and it’s just under 23 minutes long. It’s really, in the common parlance, “fucked up,” as in “deeply disturbing,” and I love it. Major themes: desire, education, mortality (you can’t go wrong with those chestnuts, right?). There will be more, and I’m not sure if that’s a threat or a promise.
Clips of yesterday’s terrific Segue readings to come very soon, maybe even today.
Thinking, like everyone else, about the not just stagnating but plunging economy, and what it means, or will mean, for our lives. It means that even if we are not suffering (yet) from it, we can make fewer choices at least about our external conditions. It creates a stagnancy in the possibilities we can impose on the quotidian. Who among us now is starting a business or taking a year off to travel?
Well, I’m glad I have basic life skills, by which I mean I can cook and sew, and that I can entertain myself so cheaply by making movies with $1 DVDs from Pergament. And grateful that the only mouths I have to feed are those of the little felines, oh and Gary’s, too (but he, of course, pitches in).
Poetry’s basically a very cheap endeavor, and one can only rejoice about that.
I dreamed this morning that I was growing all these extra toes. They were a little shorter than my other toes kind of budding up in between. Seven total on the right foot and eight on the left, I think.
(yes, Lynn, sure, go ahead and take this)
http://youtube.com/v/_dZnxDAAZOE
This made me think of what was written on the container of Haagen-Dasz strawberry sorbet I took some spoonfuls out of very late last night: Honeybees are disappearing, and nobody knows why.
Lovely Human
I am not an Exoskeleton.
Prancing as if I am a prancer
Sallow with great desire
I am not an exoskeleton
Replicate me as I am should be
Love makes me wander
Walking around the corn
Finding hidden holes
Is love only for Mexicans?
My Lap
Love me like an intriguing notion
Love me velvet-creepily
Search my sour turmoil…
Have I now be your sour mate?
My lap…
I try to write you down my frantic annotations
into the bottom of honey ‘till there’s no more travesty
This love letter shall remind me
Love fabricates (fellates) us this far and it should be!
Well, I edit out the best of you
to see you receding always…
Ovaltine Love Feeling
or
The Beauty of Love
The beauty of love that I feel in mimic of eyes’ slippage
Into the “cubistic environment” of my soul
As if my body ripped the experienced chaos of everyday life
By the deepest of love’s neglected child.
Understanding love as a more fundamental set of dualisms
Translate life into a visual corollary of a word trap:
A perfect feeling like an echo chamber.
There’s nothing impossible: I work with ephemera.
I walk with passion, oar buckets, shovels, etc.
Try to stand with the power of love and artichoke suppers.
Have you waiting for my damn thing or my big star-studded names?
And say love words in language as a damnation of human sensibility into the blinder mouths of politicans?
The legendary John Giorno reads his poem, “It Doesn’t Get Better” at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City on 2/28/09.
High art and low art are pals. I guess I’ve always found that in art but now, this has helped me to find it in my reality, that the world full of TV and come-downs and stresses and tests, is all part of the beauty. It mustn’t be chained away some place, it mustn’t be victimized, it mustn’t be labeled as diseased, it mustn’t be cured with a pill. It must be first embraced, as much as it embraces us.
