Sunday, August 16, 2009


A boy

rested his head on his hands

and wondered about death

That tail-coated fellow had on a green scarf

that stared to the Boston wind and said

“Let's sail along now

The red moon is rising”

And he snapped his pocket watch shut

and walked toward the shore

Past the snoring one with the knit cap

that woke when the tail coats

sauntered by

and muttered a hymn that said

“I used to love you”

But you said so long

And took them all with you,

from my cottonwood hands

which are left with hourglass sand

because the scarf man goes to the sea

And the sea is all there is

I cried for the boy

“For all there never was.”

Friday, August 07, 2009

Why Hamlet Hated Claudius-It was Shakespeare's Fault

Dear Sigmund,
You have decidedly ruined my morning. You and your inextricable collaboration with Mitch, Maryellen, Steamboat Willy, a schitzo, and Walter Murdoch.
I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee to shake the blues and here you stick your nose in everybody's happenings and you decide to show up in my light reading, "Critical Theory-An Introduction" (It's a lovely little number- The basics of theory comprised in a comic book fashion). You muttered something about the interpretation of dreams and I cursed under my breath because last night I dreamt about jiving in a bunny suit which I like to interpret as a happy mishap. And you, snobish highbrow, dare to tell me it was about sex.
But that I could forgive.
But the bit abour writers? That was regrettable. You said that every word ever written, from Shakespeare to my drabbling in journals, whether purposefully or merely by habit, is (and I quote) "a window into the artist's sex tormented soul". It: reveals the writer's "inner life" you said. Well! When I wrote the charming little rim-ram about Steamboat Willy, a homeless man with diamondic tendancies, I was anything but suffering from a harsh Oedipal complex. And Mitch, Walter, and the whole lot of comedic realism, were burnouts suffering from bouts of insanity. Of which? I plead innocent.
How dare you usurp my authority. My own writing! It's lewd. I mean rude. (Freudian slip.)
Then again, I am writing a letter to a dead man.

Crying on the inside,

Monday, August 03, 2009

Haiku Palindromes: reflecting my most recent thoughts on Theology

We panic in a pew.

Madam, I'm Adam
No garden, & a dragon
Cain: A maniac

Bosnia, pain, sob
War-distended nets I draw
No devil lived on

Dogma: I am God
Devil, never even lived
Xerxes sussex rex

Ned, go gag Ogden
Deny a God, oh gay Ned?
Egad! No bondage!

Swap God for a jan-
itor. A ha ha! Rot in
a jar of dog paws.

Won't lovers revolt now?

Sunday, August 02, 2009

On Fingernails and Something Right

I have lost my summer. I put it all down into a book, that was well chosen for its recycled paper and poetic design. It had sizable paper that was just enough to hold a decent thought but not large enough to make that thought seem lost in a sea of white space. It had no lines, college-ruled or otherwise, that say, “You write too big,” or, “Your pictures have no place here.”
It was bound perfection.
And I invested heavily into it, as if the market were down and the bull made it the perfect time to buy. Every thought, vital statistic, emotion, road trip, and cigarette was retained in those pages so that my mind would be free to participate in more infiltrating discussions that were free from the weighty deed of remembering.
And then I lost it. And all that remembering.
So here I am, with my petty distaste for technology and every piece of beautiful humanity that it destroys, creating a blog that will secure my thoughts in a place where I cannot lose them. Good luck, world of internet traffic. Please keep my mind's eye safe.
And it's probably about time.
I painted my fingernails today successfully. I did two things right. (I did many things wrong: spilt my tea on someone's pants, melted an ice cube tray on the stove, and went to the beach when it was much too cold.) I was patient with my fingernails, and I started a blog.