November 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
i want to write to him to make sure he is preserving the winter in a decent fashion:
beer, food, and blankets.
i bet his apartment is overheated.
i bet he doesn’t remember the poem i wrote about us and included in my final portfolio last year.
i remember now that i never showed it to him.
that november i was in love with the idea of the cold seeping. i was sick and my skin was stiff over bones that were envisioned less white. more blue.
i was thinking about my bloated stomach cradled against his.
how gross and moronic that i can feel furred flesh close to my collarbone
even at a time like this. i apologized on the phone. he said: you have no reason to be sorry. he was right. i wasn’t even almost sorry. i was embarrassed that i’ve been so embalmed. i was sad that i needed to shut my “no” off so we could share some dive bar static. i was sad that i woke up and smiled and had someone who kept the film reel running recite back to me the mad lib that was the night before. who filled in all those ridiculous words!? slouchy verbs! tired chin poses!? retrospectively i was undertired and gazing at a star that had burned out– but clung to the skies’ memory.
how unfair to feel. how easy to mute the senses with binding impressions of others yammer. i have a suggestion: write it down and swallow it. put it in your skin to watch it fade. stay away from me or i’ll cycle these stale tasteless pieces back into something palpable.
November 28, 2010 § 2 Comments
reading audre lorde makes the construction of memory seem really easy to chop and burn.
keep warm and let loose. images strung together in heat only.
Spectators root for their most aggressively burning log:
go to another house and they build a fire differently:
shove the wood (heel of hand),
no kindling: just add to the murmur. wood stove.
owners need the heat to spread
not like flames
hungry for air.
combustion with proven physics and
this is not the fire at the campsite in the summer. the one you gathered kindling for. Nor is this the excellence of dampened wood that has learned to burn, a soft lure that makes one lean into its flames in one’s bathing suit that would be slept in. When all died down and thin blankets trapped the damp; the long arm of the cape would be sweeping the sauna into red-glazed eyes.
smoke was gasped in to little lungs and not the faintest idea of consequence flickered.
this fire is contained:
its soft vacuum is necessary, but reduced to the smell and thick of poppy fields and
it is a hand on a sleeping shoulder:
i am asleep: i am not frozen
the sneeze bursts inside the soot-pipes. cracking and hissing
pops into the glass barrel chest.
visions appear when the glow is low:
dreams of men who have aged,
who are now residents of this batch of collapsed apple wood.
two men in their thirties who are competing:
one will grow old and the other will be trapped in
youngface and old steel eyelids.
one sings brightly like a nervous bride
and the other is the heavy crow who has
lost its caw-box.
waking to cold is sullen and lit only by
a window who no one has thought to curtain.
the bitter tasting metals have sunk to the floor
and feet crammed in wool are thankful
footing is found and the fire is smirked and
grimaced into the fading trot of mares
and the heart grievance relief of hours 3-7.
all fires are shocked when still:
all morning are illuminated by something else.
November 2, 2010 § Leave a comment
I am currently in the New York Public Library. South reading room. The ceilings are carved and gilded. The tables are real wood. I thought for a second I might scam on some hotties, but then, eh. They are all wearing ugly fleece. Of course I’m sitting in a room with almost a few hundred people and wondering why they’re here. Free wireless? The blasting air conditioning in November? (There is a woman here who was in a pretty good Law and Order episode.)
I’m here because I’m looking through the correspondence between May Sarton and Muriel Rukeyser. I love old letters. I love holding something Muriel once held and read for the first time. I get off on thinking about what her reaction might have been like- and then realizing that I could never even guess. Letters provide some insight- but not enough to gauge continued emotions and real life occurrences. Maybe I can piece it together by reading her poetry and extracting personal sentiment from that? Impossible. The whole reason I’m researching at the Berg Collection is to gain insight into the private world of Rukeyser. I don’t know if I’m any nearer though. I’ve been copying down some of Sarton’s most obvious sentiments about Rukeyser. I haven’t seen Rukeyser’s outgoing post though- so that’ll be another piece to a puzzle that I am not even sure the form of.
I had a pen pal in Denmark that I met when I was 12 and we fell out of touch because we had nothing in common and neither of us could really facilitate language to the others benefit. I think her name was Eva Marie. It would seem silly that I’d forgotten her name, but this is a symptom of life, no? I was sick in bed once and she was the neighbor of the people I was staying with. I was so miserable because I didn’t like open-faced sandwiches and it rained all the time. This was my unfortunate summation of Denmark. It generally holds to this day. She came over and she didn’t speak fantastic English, but we both realized we had a knack for cartooning. I still have the notepad with all of our cartoons. (Along with other things like: went to some famous building in Sweden or Norway, got some Good Humor ice cream)
I think I’d like to go back to Europe some day. I’m pretty into travel as a rule. I’ve been on an America kick for awhile. How many times am I going to visit the west coast for “no reason.” (+to see friends and to soak some good energy but not to partake in academia or employment)
I like to have the safety of a travel partner- someone you can glance to when everything goes to shit and give them the “it’ll be okay” look to actually make yourself feel better. I know a few really ridiculous people who have to fly every other day – or straddle both coasts (!) but they seem meant for it. The first time I roadtripped I bought an atlas of the United States and circled a few places in the south. That was it. We went.
I think I’m too old and worrisome to do that now (?) I can barely do that in New York these days. I do make whim decisions all the time to go upstate or go to Brooklyn (of all places- not a put-down- just a note on how trivial it may have seemed to go 5 miles about 5 years ago).
It is my favorite time of year for the Six Train. Catch an express and you’ll be hurled over the river and past Whitlock Ave. while dragging your claws on the tracks to enjoy just one more moment of November sun as it fucks the shit out of the sky. Thank G-d this is a precursor to most academic mornings. (Even better when I’m going to work though: it kind of whets my patience. If the sky is fucked and the windshield doesn’t defog I kind of want to drive the car into the Long Island Sound and sit on the trunk while whittling a whale out of Balsa.)
I think I’m on the border of crisis because I realize how hard it will be to support myself and how I don’t know (believe) that I have the oomph right now to pick up my stuff and start really getting into the scrappy shape it’ll take to tackle the poetry I’ve laid down the tracks for. (Long sentences on the run) I’m having some issues with line length. This all seemed easier BEFORE I went back to school. My subject matter is getting more and more disturbing by the day. Gone are the blissful and Thoreauvian days of September. Here are the ugly New York City glumbuckets of thirsty subway rats and my obsessive need for carb-laden beverages with high APV. (Also- my obsession with goat cheese picks up again.) Of course I’m gonna wade into the new year with buckets of soup on my shoulders and worn leather shoes which I have no energy to clean or repair. I hope the anxiety of my future expectations does not weigh on the present too much. I’ve got to put on my red shoes.