Belle. (by urbanhaiku)
urbanhaiku: non-haiku sunday Her Southern voice trailed around my throat. It took her eons to say anything. I waited patiently, staring. Expressionless. It wasn’t until the question she finally asked deliberately choked any answer I may have had. I paused: rattling off the bad news in my California accent. Her goodbye took a few painful minutes. I heard what she said under her breath; it...
Monet Refuses the Operation
Doctor, you say that there are no haloes around the streetlights in Paris and what I see is an aberration caused by old age, an affliction. I tell you it has taken me all my life to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels, to soften and blur and finally banish the edges you regret I don’t see, to learn that the line I called the horizon does not exist and sky and water, so...
nothing like watching Hoarding: buried alive and then finding yourself frantically cleaning pre-tour laundry up and putting it away. one piece of costume-filled luggage at a time? there’s always some poem-moments in these tv shows for me, something about the personal belongings/faux treasure voyeurism, how people fill rooms of their homes with tools/stuff to DO things with— but...
Stevens’ individuality is breathtaking. Ultimately, of all the moderns,...– from “Wallace Stevens, What’s He Done? Meditiation and the Narrative.” The Reaper Essays. Mark Jarman & Robert McDowell. this book is keeping me on my poetry toes in the best/worst way. oh man. it’s intense.