In Confessional, Poetry, Science on September 8, 2010 at 6:25 pm
Such is the way of windows, of gravity and rock– conventional weather.
—John Pursley III, from A CONVENTIONAL WEATHER
A Conventional Weather, John Pursley III
A Conventional Weather, by John Pursley III, is an exquisitely written collection of 19 portraits of people, places and experience, published by New Michigan Press.
Pursley writes flawlessly, with profound insight and emotional depth, of the conventional lives of conventional people in environments so compellingly drawn as to be both inseparable from, and nearly separate, characters themselves. The Ground Is Swollen & Black: the Air Not Moving at All is a portrait of Pursley‘s father fully wrought with love and pain; almost unbearable to read. The opening lines introduce his father:
Tonight, my father walks the narrow row of railroad ties, now delicate
As the dirt itself & crumbling, the way a mushroom will, when
It begins to dry & draws its moisture to the surface, like a protective skin
and our image of him is inseparable from the land the man is walking: railroad ties, dirt, dryness. Read the rest of this entry »
In Confessional, Music, Science on August 29, 2009 at 9:35 pm
Waiting for it to be unlocked. According to Charles Darwin and natural selection, a few tens of thousands of years, and I might have made it. Well, not me, my descendants, maybe, but, anyway.
In Confessional, Poetry, Sex on August 10, 2009 at 12:03 am
I am so achy
waiting for the world to come back to me
or for me to come back to the world
No one to tell these stories to
only others’ stories to tell
No way of telling where
these things will always ever end up
excerpt from FOR ORTS
by Ander Monson
I think of sex & of Godzilla with the wake of detritus that trails behind
his fiery gaze—millions of extension cords, telephone line & fiber (think
cereal, think sincere & serial addictions; repeat) optic cable (so hot,
that Godzilla, that I can dial him up, that I can give into
his new sex games, that big-ass monster Yes). I am so tight
I cannot speak. This yes this rash of it this gush. Reply, then rinse.
Repeat. I think of cream & a monster foot set down on it & thus
it is in me. I am this print fossilized in Nivea. I wait to be filled in
with whatever comes next. I hope it looks like love.
In Exes, Poetry, T-shirt on June 24, 2009 at 12:39 am
My first boyfriend
wore t-shirts all the time.
He had glasses, and
dimples when he smiled.
He was the first boy
I ever really
ever really loved
I think he wears ties and stuff now.
In Confessional, History, Poetry on June 16, 2009 at 8:45 pm
Once we got the hang of it, we
breathed circles around each other.
Skipped foreheads off
left to their own
devices, developed spines, got
made Gods of sticks.
–Cami Park (me)
originally published in tinfoildresses