In Art, Photography, Poetry on August 20, 2009 at 2:53 am
I like it with nothing. Is it
what I was? What I will be?
I look out there by the hour,
so clear, so sure. I could
smile, or frown—still nothing.
Be my father, be my mother,
great sleep of blue; reach
far within me; open doors,
find whatever is hiding; invite it
for many clear days in the sun.
When I turn away I know
you are there. We won’t forget
each other: every look is a promise.
Others can’t tell what you say
when it’s the blue voice, when
you come to the window and look for me.
Your word arches over
the roof all day. I know it
within my bowed head where
the other sky listens.
You will bring me
everything when the time comes.
by Willliam Stafford
In Art, Music, Prose on August 19, 2009 at 9:35 pm
Peter Callesen "Alive, but Dead" 2006
A few years later, Lisa’s mom took me to where my mom was buried. She’d planted petunias. I could never remember how to get back there after that, but I remember the stone, pressed flat into the earth, read “MOTHER.”
excerpt from Lisa Duncan’s Mom
by Cami Park (me)
originally published in Pindeldyboz
In Art, How to, Prose on August 18, 2009 at 8:53 am
by Kevin White
It all started with an image out of the corner of my eye. There was no corresponding smell. The sounds of someone running. Laughing. crying.
She was Italian through and through.
Move ‘A’ off of the defined space. Move it towards the wall and turn it sideways to fit. Drag ‘B’ off (towards the double door). Leave ‘B’ positioned parallel to the transept shouldar 12e.
All remaining objects, lint, dirt, are to be removed. Begin rolling article 13c. towards the main door. Begin by rolling a tube approx.; 2″ in diameter. Upon finishing the rolling, tie 13c. with 10 guage steel wire at 25″ intervals.
via Calamari Press
In Art, Confessional, Prose on August 17, 2009 at 3:03 am
Christine Lim Simpson
The sprinkler outside my window sounds like a spitting cat.
In Drama, Music, Prose on August 16, 2009 at 1:59 am
In Poetry, Prose, T-shirt on August 15, 2009 at 1:15 am
Okay, so The Collagist opened today, and it looks great and has great writing (I particularly liked the particular poem Autumn Scene as Lullaby, by Oliver de la Paz), which is all well and good.
But Saturday is Abjective day, and Eric Beeny‘s story this week, Milk Like a Melted Ghost, is no exception. To being a story in Abjective on Saturday, I mean. Another one that makes me realize how original combinations of words and sentences and paragraphs can be. An example: Little yellow birds flew out of their shells, she fell to her knees, the birds flying around her head, a locked cage. This image is going to be flying around my head for some time, I think.
Something else, though– Kim Chinquee has 3 stories in The Collagist, one of which very coincidentally has a connection with Eric Beeny’s Abjective story. I won’t say exactly what, because I don’t want to spoil anyone. Hint: it rhymes with “laceless Roman.”
In Confessional, Fashion, Photography on August 14, 2009 at 2:23 pm
I don’t know where this is, who erases it, if it has to be done daily, or if there’s even a blackboard big enough for all of my fears. But I like the existence of it all– the sign, the board, the man in the cowboy hat and skirt and his pink-trimmed bike; the photograph. I am grateful.
In Confessional, Photography, Science on August 13, 2009 at 9:53 pm
I had never heard of these before. They look like cotton balls, or the backs of shaggy llamas.
In How to, Music, Poetry on August 12, 2009 at 12:07 am
Brandi Wells Review posted a thing of mine, which was nice to do, I think. It’s a cool place, and Brandi would love for people to send her stuff, so maybe people should.
I burned the fuck out of myself today. For those who don’t know, burning the fuck out of yourself is at least a three degree burn. I’m not sure how many degrees burns go up to. It was my finger, so I held on to frozen things until it stopped hurting. It’s better now.