In Confessional, Poetry, Prose on September 27, 2010 at 7:36 am
Though I wouldn’t tell her
I see tattooed ships
across her breasts,
from the main,
a sailor appears in her sleep
and hands me scrimshaw
wrapped in butcher’s paper.
Until morning we arrange
shells into sentences
that I send away
as ransom notes.
In Fashion, Household, Poetry on September 2, 2010 at 7:55 am
I was tending the garden when a bee flew
up my blouse stung my left nipple
I was claimed then
I wanted to be a better woman
reaching back with a corked finger
I carry ice
My body is split
& wet in spite of alcohol
with the goaty head man
nails curling down
I’m not alarmed
I like the pillow
I fold the clothes of my dead
into plastic bags dresses shirts
socks slippers the whole shebang
my dead smell like lemons
their teeth are marshmallow white
my sister is perfect
she has a perfect body
her hair is a gold wasp’s nest
I fold her Snow White pajamas
into a square
I see the reptile man on television
& realize it is my husband
holding a two-headed turtle to the camera
all three of them smile
In Confessional, History, Poetry on August 28, 2010 at 11:43 am
These are the titles I won’t be posting about for National Poetry Month last April, but instead will be doing daily in September. I’m pulling them at random from a suitcase right next to me to determine the order. There aren’t quite enough for an entire month, so if anybody has a poetry book they’d like me to talk about this month, feel free to comment, or e-mail me at oddcitrusdotcamiatgmaildotcom and we can figure it out. Any leftover days will be for poetry publications and anthologies, I think.
Sept. 1 – Personationskin, by Karl Parker
Sept. 2 – Cadaver Dogs, by Rebecca Loudon
Sept. 3 – God Damsel, by Reb Livingston
Sept. 4 – We Were Eternal and Gigantic, by Evelyn Hampton
Sept. 5 – A Conventional Weather, by John Pursley III
Sept. 6 – Say, Poem, by Adam Robinson
Sept. 7 – In Another Castle, by Matthew Shindell
Sept. 8 – Feign, by Kristy Bowen
Sept. 9 - MC Oroville’s Answering Machine, by Mike Young
Sept. 10 – In the Particular Particular, by Stephanie Anderson
Sept. 11 – The Forgiveness Parade, by Jeffrey McDaniel
Sept. 12 – Lamu, by Steve Timm
Sept. 13 – Arbor, by Melissa Ginsburg
Sept. 14 – Exit Interview, by Paul Guest
Sept. 15 – Radish King, by Rebecca Loudon
Sept. 16 – The Emperor’s Sofa, by Greg Santos
Sept. 17 – make-believe love-making, by Ana Carrete
Robin Camille Davis
In Art, Drama, Poetry on July 5, 2010 at 12:25 pm
Rebecca Loudon is at Everyday Genius, and boy is she ever. Genius, I mean. These poems are pounding and terrible and good.
Otherwise, I guess Eyeshot was gone, and now it’s back
Tin House is badly misunderstood.
In Confessional, Film, Science on May 31, 2010 at 9:20 am
I watched Man on Wire yesterday, about Philippe Petit, who did the most subversive thing in 1974, which was to walk a tightrope between the World Trade Center towers. It was a beautiful, sublime act, a fantastic insanity. One of the interviewed commented that Petit approached each day like a work of art. Someone else said that in order to pass as an American, he put a lot of pens in his pocket, because Americans like to do that, apparently.
I think we are all animals, and simply making the best of it.
In Confessional, Film, Poetry on February 28, 2010 at 11:08 am
Chelsea Martin and Elizabeth Ellen offer their insights into major minor writers players in the internet literary scene. I learned some things.
In Art, Confessional, Link collage on February 26, 2010 at 7:00 pm
Received this resonant thing in the mail today from Angela Simione, so I thought I’d do one of my link collages in honor. Enjoy (hopefully).
It is easy to say, but believe me it is horrifying to see 20 people die in front of you.
It takes some serious nerve to have a person die in front of you, and ask people how good your lighting is.
I believe that seeing someone you love die in front of you or watching your own body collapse makes it more difficult to act in bad faith.
Suppose you have a (possibly biased) die in front of you.
I remember covering the famine in Sudan and seeing people die in front of you.
It would be exquisite to die in front of you, I thought.
when he turns 10000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 years old so he wont die in front of you fatass!!
Otherwise I’ll die in front of you.
It’s not the greatest feeling I tell ya but to watch mates etc die in front of you in time of war?????
Like, I could write about the Triple Crown, but it’s hard to wrap your arms around a sport where the star athletes have a tendency to, you know, die in front of you.
Dying mice may come out from their hiding places and die in front of you.
Shall we die in front of you just because all our silver is gone?
In Celebrity, Film, Poetry on January 15, 2010 at 6:04 pm
Margaret Watches The Misfits
It’s the way Marilyn’s mouth moves;
upper lip swabbing her teeth,
a constant undulation.
Her long breasts slope,
loose against the white blouse,
its little darts tucked
for women without breasts.
Margaret unravels the fringe
on her bedspread one braid at a time,
fanning the frizzed yarn.
In a year she has made it nearly half
way around. She sips port from a child’s
plastic cup, hair a brown scrub.
All that Nevada dust presses
into her clothes, pushing, insisting.
Clark Gable’s paunch sloops
under his cowboy shirt, new jeans
pulled up to his chest. Eli Wallach
pumps his fat, clumsy legs against
Marilyn’s ass. Margaret pours
another cup of port as they suck
at the blonde’s mouth, lift her
off the porch, their white arms
soft as bread.
The mustangs kick and jerk
at Margaret’s ribs. Hooves,
sharp blades, pummel her heart.
She curls fists against stomach,
dry hair wisping as she leans
toward the floor to smooth
the bedspread with her hands.