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Kind of Blue
Friday, May 29, 2009 IV.5.5. My title and images this week are meant as my own humble homage to Miles Davis, whose birth date was celebrated last week - May 26, 1926. Davis died in September 1991, arguably the most influential American musical figure of, at least, the 20th century. A life worth noting. Also worth noting this week, though with perhaps less fanfare, are our poets for this issue. Scheherazade Me death of a friend and patron just like you and me six white-haired men Simon Armitage Kid Song The Catch Dan Flore dream of me Jim Carroll My Father's Last Words Poem Sick Bird me the draft board Gene Fehler The Marksman Coloring Outside the Lines In the Back Seat Dan Cuddy Getting a Haircut Frances Ellen Watkins Harper Bury Me in a Free Land Me Memorial Day Sapphire Rabbit Man Arunsansu Banerjee Divine Jose Emilio Pacheco Eye Witness Me mondo weirdo Kevin McCann Yet Another Fractal Me Star Trek can wait  My first poem this week is by Mary Swander. It is from her bookHeaven-and-Earth House, published by Knopf in 1994, Swander was born in Iowa in 1950 and grew up in small towns in Iowa. She began college at Georgetown University, but finished an English degree at the University of Iowa, coming back because her mother was dying of cancer. She earned her M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop. She was involved in a variety of pursuits for several years, including becoming a certified and licensed practitioner of therapeutic massage. She began teaching English at Iowa State University, Ames, in 1986. She has published several books - nonfiction, memoir, poetry - and has had a number of poems, essays, short stories, and articles in several national magazines and journals. She continues to live in Iowa and still teaches at Iowa State. She was named this year as Iowa's poet laureate. Scheherazade Batteries and blanket, this spring I've made a little place here down in the cellar to listen to the radio crackle the weather: TORNADO WATCH, high winds and hail, take cover. In this furnace room, I'm alone with the centipedes and cinder blocks, the mouse scurrying to squeeze in from the rain. I'm away from all windows and flying glass, the silver maple that might crash through the roof. Overturned bucket, my chair, I see by an oil lamp on loan from a neighbor. How dumb to depend on lines from the world. In these storms, it's no use to think phone or pump, or switch. In the draft, only the dust churns in the old ducts, their arms branching up, the octopus. Outside, the anemones swim along the grove floor and bend in the inky dark. Once I knew a man who drove a friend here from the East, she belted in, terrified the whole time of a funnel cloud. Just as they crossed the state line, the sky clear and cool, he pulled his VW bug to the side, and ordered her down. "This is it, quick. The only safe place underneath." She dove past the exhaust pipe, crawled and scrunched, scraping her back, her butt, on the pan. He stood on the highway and laughed. Once I lived above a garage, and when I heard the horns, ran to the owners' basement, their ninety-year-old mother, senile, but still strong, nailing shut the door, crying, "Sinbad, Sinbad we're all ruined, lost in the wreck!" Once I was yanked from my sleep, my mother's hand flying me down the three flights of steps. That time, the coal room, and prayers, Hail, Mary, while a twister wound its fury past the house, ripping up everything in its path. Our clothesline and poles were found a mile from town where a barn collapsed on a man milking cows. Holy, Mary, I answered and pressed my legs together, trying to stop the pee from wetting my pants. Upstairs, my father, the engineer, moved from one window to another, opening, closing, each a crack, trying to assure the proper flow of air. But this year the blows have become routine - they howl through the attic vents, feed sacks tumbling across the field smack into the fence. Two a.m., and I'm chewing gum, recounting other times - the snakebite, car wreck, doctor goof, the bolt of lightning so close it fanned the hairs on my arms. Suddenly, I recall the dryer blowing up, the bang, the smoke, the flames in the air, then at age four, the fall from the elm tree, and at thirty, the drunk who broke in, and how, from the second story window, I jumped to safety. Now I sit up and tell these tales to the mouse. His black eyes glare back at me. The two of us know the game. Where on night ends, another begins until all is forgiven, and the sky relents.  I attended a funeral this past week for a longtime friend and patron. These three short poems came from that. death of a friend and patron a man in constant motion hard to think of him as still just like you and me traveling south to bury a friend in a crypt beside the sea like the restless, roiling waves he came - and then he went just like you and me six white-haired men six white-haired men stand around the pit watch the box as it is lowered into the hole think of their friend and wonder whose box is next  The next poems are by Simon Armitage from his book Kid, published in 1992 by faber and faber, another of their little poetry books that have been showing up at my local half price bookstores for $1.98. They have become the first thing I look for whenever I go in shopping. Armitage was born in West Yorkshire in 1963, and in 1993 was the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year. He works as a freelance writer, broadcaster, and playwright, and has written extensively for radio and television. I start with the book's title poem. Kid Batman, big shot, when you gave the order grow up, then let me loose to wander leeward, freely through the wild blue yonder as you like to say, or ditched me, rather, in the gutter...well, I turned the corner. Now I've scotched that "he was like a father to me" rumour, sacked it, blown the cover on that "he was like an elder brother" story, let the cat out on the caper with the married woman, how you took her downtown on expenses in the motor. Holy robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker! Holy roll-me-over-in-the-clover, I'm not playing ball boy any longer Batman, now I've doffed that off-the-shoulder Sherwood-Forest-green and scarlet number for a pair of jeans and crew-neck jumper; now I'm taller, harder, stronger, older. Batman, it makes a marvelous picture: you without a shadow, stewing over chicken giblets in the pressure cooker, next to nothing in the walk-in larder, punching the palm of your hand all winter, you baby, now I'm the real boy wonder. Song The bridle-path, the river bank, and where they crossed I took a length of hazel bark, and carved a boat no bigger than a fish, a trout, and set it down and saw it float, then sink. And where it sank and inch of silver flesh declared itself against the sun. Then it was gone. and further south, beyond the bridge, I took a nest of cotton grass and flint to make a fire. Then watched a thread of smoke unhook a pair of seed propellers from a sycamore which turned together and became a dragon fly that drew the smoke downstream. But the fire would not light. Then at night, the house at the mouth of the river. Inside, a fish, a trout, the ounces of its soft smoked meat prepared and on a plate. I sat down there and ate it. It is the way of things, the taking shape of things, beginning with their names; secrets told in acts of sunlight, promises kept by gifts of rain. The Catch Forget the long, smouldering afternoon. It is this moment when the ball scoots off the edge of the bat; upwards, backwards, falling seemingly beyond him yet he reaches and picks it out of its loop like an apple from a branch, the first of the season.  Here's a poem from our Pennsylvania friend Dan Flore Dan is 30 years old and has led many poetry therapy groups for people with serious mental illness. He also hosts a writer's circle. dream of me dream of me as I crawl across sidewalks drink the past with me we'll flatten out the sun and crawl across it till we realize we're on fire remember me embracing you from behind where you never saw the blood in taking the hill we lost the mountain the world is stone can you feel it chipping away? we came from places between stars come back to our old bed we are voids again I have caught the avalanche smelled my own decay the seance died but we saw many ghosts in each other sing to me tonight and I will dream of you with sterling kingdom and oceans where miracles are born pray for me I am a swinging spider eating it's own web  Born in 1950, Jim Carroll is an author, poet, autobiographer, and punk musician, best known for his 1978 autobiographical work The Basketball Diaries, which was made into the a film of the same name in 1995. Born and raised in New York City, Carroll attended Roman Catholic grammar schools from 1955 to 1963. In fall 1963, he entered public school, but in 1964 was awarded a scholarship to the elite Trinity School. Apart from being interested in writing, Carroll was an all-star basketball player throughout his grade school and high school career. He entered the "Biddy League" at age 13 and participated in the National High School All Star Game in 1966. During this time, Carroll was living a double life as a heroin addict who prostituted himself to afford his habit. By age 13, Carroll was using heroin, but was also writing poems. Carroll attracted the attention of the local literati, and published his first book, Organic Trains, at age 17. In 1970, his second collection of poems, 4 Ups and 1 Down was published, and he started working for Andy Warhol. At first, he was writing film dialogue and inventing character names, then, later on, worked as the co-manager of Warhol's Theater. Carroll's first aboveground publication, the collection Living At The Movies, was published in 1973. In 1978, Carroll authored The Basketball Diaries, an autobiographical book concerning his life as a teenager in New York City's hard drug culture. It is an edited collection of the diaries he kept between the ages of twelve and sixteen, detailing his sexual experiences, high school basketball career, and his addiction to heroin. Also in 1978, Carroll formed The Jim Carroll Band, a New Wave/punk rock group, with encouragement from Patti Smith. In the mid-1980s, Carroll returned to writing full time and began to appear regularly on the spoken word circuit. Since 1991, Carroll has performed readings from his unfinished first novel, tentatively titled The Petting Zoo. I have three poems from Carroll's book Void of Course. My Father's Last Words On his death bed He reached up and grabbed my wrist Pulling me close so I could hear he said, "Promise me that you'll never eat Any of that Japanese food. Promise." That may sound racist and perhaps it is but keep in mind my father spent all of World War Two fighting in the Pacific Mainly, the island of Saipan. I myself admire the Japanese, but As they themselves would well appreciate, I must honor my father's last wish. The irony is I've never like Japanese food. The irony is that At his funeral, The Priest that said Mass was Japanese. Poem The wide Mojave sky dark And vain as my heart tonight Walking back by the feel Of the blacktop under foot What's that desert fragrance That lights the 4 A.M. sky With a shampoo green glow? Is that a coyote eye Or a tail reflector that bumped loose From and old English racer? Which are popular on the reservation But never last long They weren't made for this landscape Sick Bird The positions we use when making love Determine the next day's weather Tomorrow it will rain the heat lightning by evening Every time the telephone rings A green sea turtle dies And a phlegmatic guilt chants across your day The side of your head Where you part your hair Dictates the direction The trees lean Left or right In the yard out back A poor Mexican teenager in the Texas panhandle Is suffering from a venereal disease And as he urinates in his bathroom the pain Is too much to bear, so he smashes his closed fist into the plaster Leaving a hole there and discovers a shelf within the wall Filled with stacks of fifty-dollar bills left behind by a drug dealer perhaps Who departed in haste and so he is rich for a lifetime Because of pain and urine A blond woman with a silver tongue stud and gold rings Above her left eye lights a cigarette with a candle In the VIP lounge of a club in Minneapolis And the candle drips wax to the red carpet, somehow causing A lone fisherman on an upstate lake To slip on some odd substance, falling overboard and drowned Eventually eaten by his own propeller While a child from a lake tribe Kneeling in his canoe Watches in distance and mist Unable to do a thing for him He mutters, "That poor man," And paddles through the reeds Skimming the surface with a plank, Continuing to harvest wild rice form the surface of Glacier Lake A popular character actress removes her Emerald brooch After a banquet to raise money For the twin benefit of Los angeles runaways And the Dalai Lama's return to Tibet. By her simple action, undoing the clasp of the brooch The Dalai Lama stubs his left foot on a cabinet in his room At the San Francisco Zen Center's guest house, 800 miles up the coastline Causing alarm among the Roshi and initiates, and a marlin-blue swelling On the big toe of the gentle Lama, who meditates the pain to Maya While in a cluttered shop in the thin streets of Milan, Italy, Its floor filled with rosewood shavings The air cramped with oak dust, The man who built the cabinet On which the Dalai Lama's foot was stubbed Slumps over his workbench with a cerebral hemorrhage. He is dead It has been growing a long while in his mind. It was simply a matter of time. And a young Norwegian film student thoughtlessly Decides to title his short film It was simply a Matter of Time. It has nothing to do With time, however, nor the dead Italian cabinet maker. A mosquito sucks the blood of a post-Soviet Baltic girl And she falls in love with a balding Armenian Who assures her that only girls with strong sexual drives are chosen by these insects The mosquito dies and provides a small meal to a starving bird. That bird's song awakes me at 5 A.M. I shiver with a sudden sense of dread because the mosquito Which it ate was poisoned by the blood of the girl which it bit Because she was imbibed with lies and designer drugs and so the bird sings off-key As it jars me from sleep, and the room is folding over Darker as I rise and I know a change is coming & bad & soon writing this poem  Even now, the funeral last week still has me thinking. the draft board life, such a serious game, no matter how carefully you play it, it kills you every time a random thought, and even i don't know what to do with it just know that that kind of stuff has been on my mind since a funeral i went to last week, not so much the funeral itself affecting me - a nice affair, loose and unassuming, perfectly capturing the man who had left us - but the new evidence of mortality - as if additional evidence is needed in the middle of one's 66th year - like a chapel full of mostly old people who know their own time is coming, an exclusive club of those whose time is running out - exclusive, only in the sense of selective membership and the years of waiting to get on the list, whether you want to or not Groucho said he didn't want to belong to any club whose standards were so low as to accept him that's how i feel about this club of the not yet dead but daily dying - i would like to think i'm overqualified, despite all evidence to the contrary but it's like the draft board on my eighteenth birthday, there was not a lot of concern with my preferences on the matter  I have three poems now by poet Gene Fehler from Golden Jubilee Anthology, 1949-1999 published by the Austin Poetry Society in 2000. Formerly of Austin, Fehler teaches poetry in elementary and middle schools in South Carolina. He is a frequently published poet and author, concentrating mostly on sports books for young readers. The Marksman Of all the things I loved about my granddad the best was not the fact that he let me sit next to him on the front seat of the township truck when he drove to the quarry for a load of gravel but the way his spray of sweet-smelling chewing tobacco sailed over my lap while we bounced over country roads at forty miles an hour and pinged dead center in the coffee can every time. Coloring Outside the Lines got me kept after school in first grade, especially when Mrs. Dobbish found I was doing it on purpose, running the orange crayon all the way across my page and onto my desk, where I drew a flat nose, big eyes, smiling mouth on a bright round sun that Mrs. Dobbish, in spite of the smile, thought looked like her. In the Back Seat In the back seat of my '54 Ford on my ninth date with pretty Julie Mae on Potter's Road down where the leaves danced under a romantic May moon nothing much happened again.  Now here's a poem from another one of our Dan-friends, this one Dan Cuddy from Baltimore. Getting A Haircut i sit with my mouth shut a barber shop you need to keep your mouth shut they play with razors like people pic guitars Oh, no reenactment of Sweeney Todd the music is John Philip Sousa the talk is pure Ronald Reagan the barber doesn't use deodorant a rank place but ya gotta get the wild hairs cut ya gotta look like ya belong someplace besides the island in the middle of the street with a cardboard sign "will harass for money" ya aren't like that ya gotta a credit card and the trumpets play "Charge" every time you become a part of this Greatest Little Economy on Earth okay, the talc, the aftershave your neck feeling red your heart beating red, white and blue you will vote Republican because you do and you like money you put up with a cheap apartment because you like to spend on electronics you like to be wired into the world ah, the barber slides your plastic numbers are changing microscopically in the macro world  Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, born a free black woman in Baltimore, Maryland in 1824 earned financial independence and nationwide acclaim with her poetry, essays, fiction and public readings on behalf of racial equality, women's and children's rights, Christian morality and temperance. She died in 1911, The poem by Harper is from African American Poetry, an Anthology, 1773-1927, published in 1977 by Dover Publications. Bury Me in a Free Land Make me a grave where'er you will, In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill, Make it among earth's humblest graves, But not in a land where men are slaves. I could not rest if around my grave I heard the steps of a trembling slave: His shadow above my silent tomb Would make it a place of fearful gloom. I could not rest if I heard the tread Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, And the mother's shriek of wild despair Rise like a curse on the trembling air. I could not sleep if I saw the lash Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, And I saw her babes torn from her breast, Like trembling doves from their parent nest. I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay Of blood-hounds seizing their human prey, And I heard the captive plead in vain As the bound afresh his galling chain. If I saw young girls from their mother's arms Bartered and sold for their youthful charms, My eye would flash with a mournful flame My death-paled cheeks grow red with shame. I would sleep, dear friends , where bloated might Can rob no man of his dearest right; My rest shall be calm in any grave Where none can call his brother a slave. I ask no monument, proud and high To arrest the gaze of the passer-by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves.  I wrote a Memorial Day poem for the occasion last Monday. Memorial Day i served but did not fight i did my time, instead, bent over a radio seeking out the secrets of those who we thought to be our enemies and since the secrets i found did not seem very interesting to me or to anyone else, it never occurred to me my contribution to the security of my country amounted to much another cog in the military-industrial machine, that's all i ever was - the outcome of choice for me but while i did what i did, there were others who did fight during those same years - 1967 through 1969 - and, among them, thousands who died gave their lives for their country, is the way we describe it what a conceit that is the idea that the lives of those who did not fight or die were of such value - "had better things to do" in the words of one former vice-president who enjoyed his five deferments - that men and women would give up lives and future for those who had "better things to do" give up education never completed give up marriages never consummated; the midnight kiss; making love with the new sun rising give up the joy of watching their son or daughter bat or catch a fly in little league play; the crack of the bat; the slap of a hard thrown ball as it hits the catcher's mitt give up future careers and professional accomplishment give up all - give up, everything that could ever be, everything that those who did not serve and fight would come to accept as their due in life for my limited service i got two years of college and a government backed loan for my first house but what can you give a soldier dead for weeks or years? nothing, i'm afraid, but honor and respect for the time they gave us the lives of these good men and women was a loan, given to us in good faith, that must be repaid with the honors that are the best we can do and today is one of the 365 days this year to do it  Sapphire does not write "nice" poems; she does not write "soft" poems. Sapphire writes hard, nasty poems that take your breath away. Rabbit Man 1. he's the night chasing rabbits, a pot of dust under the asphalt sky cracked with stars. athlete, "colored boy from Houston makes good." standing straight as a razor he cuts my vagina open stretches it like bleeding lights thru dark air his rabbit teeth drag my tongue over sabers hidden in salt, from the slit tip red roses drip screaming: daddy don't. I'm not supposed to be your dinner nigger. your semen forms fingers in my throat, furry fingers, i cough all the time rabbit man colored boy run jump hurdle after hurdle - higher till your penis melts like a marshmallow in fire and your fear is a desert with no flowers except two daughters, American Beauties, tight rosebuds you hew open, petals of pink light left bleeding under a broken moon. pine needles spring up in the sand but you don't ask what they're for surrounded like you are by infant daughters, little dog fish drowning in diapers. you did this rabbit dick, rabbit dick rabbit dick hopping coprophagous freak blind eyes opening like terminal disease in mouth after mouth - paralyzing light. 2. I slide between cold polyester rooms, into your bed - everything is so cheap and falling apart. I recoil from the blond skin and bleeding blue eyes of Jesus. most nights you slept in the obituary of light - alone. the picture is positioned so when you head hit the pillow you saw Jesus. the what? 3. you saw death like the black legs of your mother like the bent teeth of your retarded sister like the wet smell of light in a fish's eye. you saw death riding without a car or credit cards. you saw death creeping waddling like the fat women you hated. you saw Jesus could not save you. god's hand is creased with the smell of burnt hair and hot grease, she hears you tell your sons don't get no black nappy-head woman. her titties sag down sad snakes that crawl up your legs till your penis talks and with blind sight you see the two daughters you left in the desert without water. oh death knows you and invites you to dinner, rolls out the driveway like a coupe de ville, is a snake-tongued daughter who turns on you, is a thirsty rabbit choking on a lonely road. death is an ax in an elevator rising to the sun. death is god's egg. death is a daughter who eats. you are the table now the wet black earth lays upon - you are dinner for dirt, a cadillac spinning back to a one-room shack. you are the rabbit released from fear, the circle broken by sun the handle of a buried ax, head rolling thru desert like a tumble weed - back to Neptune. 4. now I am the queen of sand, wind wrapping like wire around the rabbit's neck, the end of a cycle. my children refuse to believe your penis is a lollipop. my children are the desert in bloom; cactus flowers opening to forgiveness, millions of rabbits hopping - hopping over you.  Next I have a short piece (a Tanka) from our friend Arunansu Banerjee, from from Calcutta, West Bengal, India. Since childhood, Arunsansu says, he has been a prolific painter and a "bookworm." He is a teacher by profession, with a degree in physics and specialized expertise in softwares. His primary love is listening to Indian Classical music. His favorite poets are Emily Dickinson and Rabindranath Tagore. Arunsansu explains that this poem is about the painting of the Goddess Durga. He says that the greatest appeal of the Goddess "lies in her eyes. The artist's rendition of her eyes are thus almost at par with drawing forth her soul, so an auspicious moment is chosen for the painting of the Goddesses eyes." Divine A brush paints the three brightest eyes over cold clay. Light watches darkness, folded hands cling to prayers.  Now I have a poem by Jose Emilio Pacheco, from his book The Ark of the Next Millennium, published by the University of Texas Press in 1993. Pacheco was born in 1939, in Mexico City. He studied at Autonomous National University of Mexico. After graduating Pacheco worked as the Assistant Editor for Revista de la Universidad de Mexico from 1959 until 1960, then as Associate Editor to La Cultura en Mexico, and then went on to teach literature at the University of Essex in the United Kingdom. Pacheco's first book of poetry, Los elementos de la noche (The Elements of Night), was published in 1963, when he was barely twenty. . Pacheco is a well-known translator of works by Samuel Beckett, Yevgeny Yevtuschenko, and Albert Einstein, among others. He was awarded with the Mexican National Poetry Prize in 1969 for his collection No me preguntas como pasa el tiempo (Don't Ask Me How the Time Goes By). His collection El silencio de la luna (The Silence of the Moon) was awarded the Premio Jose Asuncion Silva for the best book in Spanish to appear in any country between 1990 and 1995. Pacheco is considered the most important Mexican poet of the generation following Octavio Paz and Alfonso Reyes. He currently lives and teaches in Mexico City. The poems in the book were translated by Margaret Sayers Peden. Eye Witness At the edge of the sea, curving sand and a line of dead fish Like shields abandoned after battle No sign of suffocation or visible putrefaction Jewels polished by the sea sarcophagi enclosing their own deaths Those fish shared a ghostly peculiarity None had eyes Twin cavities in each head As if something said the land might claim their bodies But their eyes belong to the sea the sea sees through them So when a fish dies on the sand its eyes evaporate and with the tide the sea recovers what is hers  Like the poem says, I don't know where this came from, but here it is. mondo weirdo don't know why i thought of this but i remember reading in Believe It or Not about this businessman, an owner of a big company back East who had himself stuffed or embalmed or whatever when he died back in 1837 or something like that, a long time ago, anyway, who put a clause in his will that his body be wheeled out and sat at the head of the table at every board of directors meeting this had been going on since he died back in whenever up to 1955 or 1956 when i read about him in my Believe It or Not book i was 11 or 12 years old at the time and i loved that book, full as it was of great stuff like that and several years later, the Italian movie Mondo Cane a cinematic Believe It or Not with a few naked people and a theme song More remembered today, while its source is forgotten by most, as are the many mondo-movie rip-offs, usually with even stranger stuff than the original and increasing numbers, with each new version, of naked people, and, eventually naked people simulating sex. naked people having sex and, finally, naked people having weird sex and their still making them, you know, except they're on TV now, shows that don't go off to some far-away exotic land to find the strange and twisted, but right next door, instead, to our neighbors, those staid upright looking people who, it seems, will do anything to be on television, to be famous, to be famous for doing things not discussed in the world i grew up in back in 1955 and 1956 i saw all those mondo-movies, loved them from my young perch in the world of the mid-50's - loved them for the shock of their strangeness shock and strangeness was not in big supply where i came from and finding it in a movie theater was a gift to that young inquiring mind this new stuff - i don't watch it living right in the middle of all that weirdness is a little unsettling for an older guy like me - long past any young fascination with shock and awe  Here's a short piece by our friend Kevin McCann. Kevin has been a full-time writer for 16 years now. He's published six limited edition pamphlets in England, including I Killed George Formby, which includes this poem. Yet Another Fractal After being adored by ants For the honeydew Excreted from her back, She's cocooned inside their nest Until, silk shell splitting And resurrected as a butterfly She totters outside, Her new wings unfurled, They curve on the air, Spinning each breeze To a twister That'll wring trees leafless, Rip off rooftops, Stampede waves crag height While Fundamentalists explain : Our God is angry ! Our God's in pain ! (Yet again.)  Mostly dark and/or weird poems from me this week. Here's something a little brighter to close on. Star Trek can wait rain blew in from the north yesterday and while the rain's gone today, the north wind continues to blow, cleaning the air, leaving it crystal sharp, the humidity that usually leaves an soft damp film over everything, like looking at the world through a glass of water, has been pushed back to the coast it's like waking up from a long sleep, colors bright as fresh paint, green especially, leaves and grass sagging from heat and humidity yesterday erect after the rain, like green flags waving at a spring parade we had meant to go to a movie this afternoon but it is a beautiful day and we decided not to waste it in a dark theater Star Trek can wait until summer returns tomorrow  So we're on the road again to next week, when our party favors will include poems by Cornelius Eady, Tu Fu, John Ashbery, Jane Hirshfield, Henri Coulette and another one of those dark German expressionists. Until they show up, remember all of the material presented in this blog remains the property of its creators. The blog itself was produced by and is the property of me...allen itz. |
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