. . . . . . .
1. Virgin America: pink mood and purple lighting, digital t.v. Early landing in NYC. "Seat 9F has sent you a message. Would you like to accept?"
2. "I laughed ambiguously. Deep night in the fireless temple. Cold knees. The great ancient pillars of the temple towered round us as we sat there huddled in our secret conversation."
3. Chelsea Hotel, corner of Lexington and 23rd. The darkness makes a scarf.
4. Michael Burkard reads a ruby. He touches my book. My shadow laughs.
5. Apizz. An Italian gnozzi. A walk to St. Marks. A mouth, a bruise before morning.
6. I sign my book and someone claps and says "passion."
7. A thief pursues his darkness. If you dare me to, I will exploit the underside of this beauty.
I've come home with these books:
Michael Burkard's Envelope of Night
Tadeusz Rozewicz' New Poems
Paul Guest's Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World
Rigoberto Gonzalez' Butterfly Boy
Jane Miller Midnights
Donald Revell Thief of Strings
Laura Jensen's Memory
Dean Young's Primitive Mentor
Kazim Ali's The Fortieth Day
Juliet Patterson's The Truant Lover
and four chapbooks:
Sean Nevin's A House That Falls
Charlie Jensen's The Strange Case of Maribel Dixon
Mathias Svalina's Creation Myths
Stephanie Lenox's The Heart That Lies Outside the Body
8. Breakfast at 5 in the evening. 2 Girls and a Cup. A few hours drink themselves like smokes at night to absence. James Hall. Eduardo. A storm of black.
9. I get a Valentine Tattoo. She steals my pen, then gives me a nail file to make my great escape.
10. Eduardo you snore like a Godzilla. But first: "Did you feed him?"
11. Rathkamp, Pollack, Schnabel, MOMA. Winter, your blackbird is broken into pencil, green shadow.
12. My book sells out, thanks to Javi Huerta. His book is worth two of mine.
NY Fashion Week, I love your heels and glam!
14. I marry Kelly and B. A rip in time. Bathsheba is imagined, born, loved, loathed and sold into pornography.
13. On the white envelope we pay the bill. We eat the pizza next to a time warp. Time loves us, the way we love each other.
15. Two Aussies in Central Park. The high kick. I say, she's so demure. He says, you're not tall enough to model. Anyone call themself a mandarin?
16. Perseus has a great ass. At the Met more Rothko and Twombly. More gold mask. More than green rain.
17. I love to shop at Faconnable and split my feet until I eat some lollies. Wear flats?! You must be crazy--
18. Two bags, Whole Foods. Opera Singer, hurtling softly his Italian arpeggios through the late car toward the subway Bronx.
19. Mint Teabag. he Want, he got.
20. Snow. To return. Green foam is sprayed on each wing.
This is a an imaginary diary of facts, confessions, or messages. This is a notebook of working but broken ideas, lines, images, notes on books I'm reading, writers I admire, and brief fantasies of language. Here unfiltered all mannerings pseudo-private, publicized, ur-. Here I am art and unrevealed: poetic, political and pop. These are my moonlit rough beginnings and should not be taken literally, directly, truthfully, reliably, and none of it is legally binding. These lies are all choreographed, but only haphazardly. Beware.
My work has been awarded the Katherine C. Turner Prize from the Academy of American Poets, a Swarthout Award, and has twice been nominated and shortlisted for the Pushcart Prize. My first book, A Book Called Rats, was selected for the Blue Lynx Prize for Poetry (Eastern Washington University Press 2007). I'm curating editor for the online journal of poetry: PISTOLA and my poems and reviews most recently appear in Massachusetts Review, Beloit, Ploughshares and RAIN TAXI. I currently teach writing and literature at Santa Monica College in southern California.
FRIENDS AND STRANGERS
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- ► 2007 (40)