Cami Park

Posts Tagged ‘Sun’

So many suitcases

In Confessional, Poetry, Prose on March 14, 2010 at 7:44 pm

Issue 11 of NOÖ Journal is up, and I’m very happy to have my story, “Everyone the Same, But Not At Once,” included. It’s an awesome issue altogether, including work from Donna Vitucci, Sasha Fletcher, Erin Elizabeth Smith, Dennis Cooper, and a collaboration between Dobby Gibson and Matt Hart.

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Bed crumbs of all ages spiled

In Photography, Poetry, Sex on February 20, 2010 at 2:46 am

My Bed is Covered Yellow
Peter Orlovsky

        My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more –
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world –
        all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
        or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
        how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
        yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
        lay on you at one time or another

1957, Paris

I’ve never almost almost won anything before

In Art, Confessional, Prose on January 20, 2010 at 7:55 am

Rose Metal Press announced the winner (the excellent Mary Hamilton, for We Know What We Are) and placers of its Fourth Annual Short Short Chapbook Contest this morning, and I was so blown away (LITERALLY!) to discover that I am part of a finalist, for my collection, The Sun Has Packed So Many Suitcases. Other partials are Thisbe Nissen, Tiff Holland, Roxanne Gay, Spencer Dew, and James Tadd Adcox.  Entire finalists are the very fine Mary Miller, Tim Jones-Yelvington, John Jodzio, and Elizabeth Colen. Dinty W. Moore was the judge this year, and judging by the company I’m keeping, this can’t have been easy. Thanks, Rose Metal, for a quality contest and great opportunity.

Simon Schijnvoet Konstboeck

My cybernetic eyes

In Film, Poetry, Travel on December 22, 2009 at 12:41 pm

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Organoptropy
Jason Christie

In this picture, my cybernetic eyes quickly
acclimatized to the early sun, which is amazing
but I still maintain that I am not a robot.
My travelbot mailed you a postcard with
pictures from our trip to Spain on the front.
His handwritten message on the reverse remains
illegible, I thought it said: “You should see this
view!” My wife could hardly believe her new
eyes and ears. She said: “I’d cry if I could.
I’m crying on the inside.” When she asked
about the fuzzy haze on some of the shots,
I said: “I never really liked that robot camera
anyway.” Anyway, last night I voted for the
robot candidate, even though her main platform
policy is the extermination of all human beings.
I believe everyone deserves a chance in a
democracy. “In a democracy no less!”
the robot Optometrist said, “I can’t
believe my eyes.”

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Shield your eyes

In Dream, Photography, Science on November 30, 2009 at 12:10 am

This manipulated photo shows the effects of sunlight on the health of the body.

A rose is most

In Art, Hobby, How to on October 14, 2009 at 7:34 pm

Toxicity Inspector - Obey Giant

A rose is most fragrant when it is one-quarter to two-thirds open and has been slightly warmed by morning sun.

In spite of man, he crumbles

In Philosophy, Poetry, Universe on October 11, 2009 at 2:37 am

Song of Solomon 6:10 Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?

Some strange gravity

In Poetry, Religion, Universe on September 13, 2009 at 8:53 pm

For Elizabeth
Jim Carroll

It is winter ending on earth. The planets align tomorrow in March and grow more distant from the sun and each other like stray, worn soldiers retreating from an enemy that no longer exists. It is a mild spring in purgatory. In green limbo the children whose foreheads are dry, whose hands do not grow, are transformed themselves to seasons of birds circling an obelisk of shivering mercury. None are allowed prey, none are allowed heaven’s crooked beak. They are radiant swallows with thorns for tongues to feed on the shifting mercury from the mythology of God’s hand, which I cannot break, even now, under this tearful scrutiny. I’ve tried. I’ve tried. I am allowing to pass through me a statement of death. You, the catalyst of such distorted memory. In that limbo the children move in some strange gravity within and outside Grace. Their Lord is angry. They have died with their innocence untested. None knows what it has been or will be ~ each day it changes without changing ~ do you understand what I am saying? It is the life you chose on this Earth, the life of junk and lies. But that wasn’t You, I knew You ~ you had perfect lips, eyes like a true child, your breasts unformed, an incandescent mind. This place where I put you now, it is a cursed season, an awkward line, a flawed circle, a snake on fire devouring what tomorrow it will itself become.

Eric Thompson "Jim Carroll"

Eric Thompson "Jim Carroll"

Where did you come from?

In Confessional, History, Universe on July 22, 2009 at 3:00 am

Antique map of the world by Stoopendaal

And where the fuck am I?