Grindhouse Day

It was as if the April 6th release date would never come.


#7

How does a hand go so floppy
and cold in this hothouse? Speak
easy spring, a series of clicks.

Stranded along a strange vector. The wrist
remembers everything, telling
the future to a busty blonde/brunette. The lead

fans his golden beef onto the screen, as if
he could contact time. Escape road
is thickly oiled, darting out toward the same
hands: a knitted construction. Listen closely.

Steps swoon, sky heavily seasoned.
Sworn trees tossed tender – a secret lift.

Yes, I spelled "smorgasbord" correctly the 1st time

Yesterday was the kind of snow that gives snow a romantic reputation - for ten minutes late in the afternoon, my humble New York City turned into a cinematic snow globe. Then I got to see the metal hardware that is going to be used to hang Robert DiNiro's curtains - what a weird perspective I'm starting to have. They were very Art Deco.

Here's #6:

This is one of them Holly-wood sets where the world is painted up,
sourcing sky-lips out of time. A certain still.
Chain linked message all swirled up into
a wild world where nothing happens.

Squishy goodness of A-merica sandwich time, the
plastered sensation of a table, a plain setting.
Flattering outlines all let go on
this slab, much like the blue blood in my first DiPalma.

Tremble goes to flotsam.
Flotsam goes to sleep, smorgasbord of the undead.
Heaping mess of Dazzleberry pie. Up to our arms in
canoe berry.

Toughest Post Yet

Writing poetry is a lot like fasting. Days 1-3 are fine. 5 & 6 are unbearable and the rest...we'll see.

Day 5 is for Bob Clark. He was an amazing director who died yesterday with his 22 year old son when a drunk driver in a Yukon hit their vehicle. One of my favorites is Deathdream (thank you, Steve Burhans, for showing it to me) but Clark will be the most remembered for A Christmas Story (which my mom makes us watch every Xmas for 24 hours, with commercials, on TBS). So, none of my art today, but a fantastic still from Deathdream instead. And, of course, the lovely, emotive poem:

5
(for Bob Clark)

Fearsome flesh monster – you are the monkey’s paw of the plot. You are the simple blood junkie with a heart of gold. You are a broken lawn chair, the forgery of speech and this town’s own self-made, fucked-up paramedic. You are a walking soldier hamburger with a miniature U.S. flag toothpick stuck in the center. Foreign policy has kidnapped your blood but you can still feel your wormy astronaut body.

Day 4 and still going strong

I think my kitchen is haunted. Nathan says I'm probably right. The window shattered (but because it has 2 panes, our landlord is ingnoring it), the fridge got really weird and loud, the radiator squeals and shoots out water and there are oh, so many mice coming to eat trash!
But, the poetry continues...



4

Terror finds us underground.
Begs for a classic tongue-lashing.
Light rain or a filtered voice answers –
flood of 20 electronic questions.
The studded gypsum quickly decomposes
and is reborn as fierce torpedo boats.
Pull those supplies close to your heart
and form a real live quiver.
Never stop clawing the eyes of
each neighbor, not until every account
is accounted for.

Poetry day 3

3

Nighttime grid defines this manhunt,
a heavy splatter on the concrete.
How the heavens stir!
Like being licked, little pot roast?
Are you still up, lambchop?
Wrap your hands around this
soft, raw fruit of our wet city.
Stacks of light follow both directions,
unbound, a more expressive
horizon.

NaPoWriMo Day#2

So it's not a collage but it is the crazy sleet storm that I lived through March 16, 2007. In all my 5 snowy years, i have never experienced such unrelenting sleet. Photo: Sleet, by Callalillie.

2

Hanging overhead: negative of
the solar dream we dreamt.
What’s so tentative about the
icy skies and the even icier sequence?
Blast of weather descended today,
Written on all the surfaces:
the structure of sky,
falling open to reach
the room, traces along the rail.
Shuddered internal walls –
cahoots with their weather
which whisper past, line to line.

New month, time for poetry

April is poetry month - a bougie little invention that i will use to fuel my entries to this little blog. Every day i will try to post a new poem paired with one of my collages.

1.

Modern house-planning left a space
for us here. A pixilated magic, four
colors make a ghost a ghost, a chair
a chair. Slight proportion stretched
along an architectural seam: a peep-
hole is revealed and you are already
there. How should a modern house
proceed? Dissarrange ornament
and re-light the drawing room.
A quick fix.