Some of my summer reading:
Monica Ali, Brick Lane
Jhumpa Lahiri, Interpreter of Maladies
Sarah MacDonald, Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure
Donald Ritchie, The Image Factory: Fads and Fashions in Japan
Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books
Warren Lehrer & Judith Sloan, Crossing the BLVD: Strangers, Neighbors, Aliens in a New America
Or maybe… maybe… it’s Jorie Graham?
It occurs to me that I probably don’t know this “person” at all!
I imagine that there are plenty of “people” (maybe bored teenagers?) who, out of whatever chain of cruelty and abandonment they themselves may have experienced, make it their “jobs” to try to poison strangers’ psyches via their blogs. That’s one of the unfortunate side-effects of the public nature of blogging.
You know, they look for relevant little bits of personal info in your posts, and I’ve certainly got plenty of that, and then twist it to make it seem as if they know you. It’s a cheap trick.
I’m actually not terribly bothered by this. I know I have the power to simply “zap” this crazy commentator. I sort of like thinking of this “person” as a facet of my own id, though.
Someone who is only identifiable as “hb” is trying to terrorize this blog — see comments to previous post.
Who might this be? Any clues welcome.
The horror. The horror.
Suddenly, mysteriously, taken with the desire to read some poems by Lucie Brock-Broido. So I did. And now I want to barrrrrrrf. Hold out the barf bag, people. Now I’m going to look at a poem by Jorie Graham.
This book will be different from any other book. Already it is. It gains legitimacy by nines.
For one thing, it is transparent.
The hunchback straightens up, looks to the right, peers into the horizon.
Scratchy-straight: fetus found near school
spewing bile.
Mom find her 3 kids
decapitated.
Goof-proof tigers, peacable kingdoms — masks
zapped into straightness.
Broo — airwalk — swipe.
Guilty in slay, blazing through supply of slugs.
Happy banjo tunes — nab chatty.
Ponder once, better think twice about
their gentle smiles, the loving intention.
Kate Hudson’s nice set.
I’m in Manhattan.
The problem of too much beauty, specks of grime, smudges, dried-up
liquids — a floor made to camouflage everyone’s sensitive nape:
“luzca bien.”
Charged. I like charged better than heightened.
Not liking the term “heightened language” in relation to poetry at all, though I understand the need for the concept. We need a better term.
Do poems follow the same principle, and get all condensare* as a reflection of economic conditions?
Or does condensare reflect a different kind of scarcity?
*I had orignially typed “condensare ‘n’ shit” but thought that looked vulgar.
