| Twins | Bob Hicok |
[Dec. 31st, 2009|12:50 pm] |
She has a dream and she has the same dream.
She says moon and she says moon and both put their she-phones
to their chests.
She says in my dream I slept between your mattress and box spring
and she nods and she hears her nod.
She says I was in the blue dress before you put it on
and after you put it on, like a soft paper flower she says
and she says yes, like a soft paper flower.
She nestles the phone in her crotch and she nestles the phone
in her crotch and the pubic hairs say it was warm in the dream.
She puts her face against the cool window and they play
where's my face and she guesses against the cool window.
She says I hung up the phone an hour ago and she says
I hung up the phone last year and still we go on talking
she says and she says we go on talking even while I am dead
and even while I am coming back to life.
She is two places at once and she is two places at once
which is four places at once.
She has to go back to sleep now and she has to go back to sleep now.
She says are you asleep now and she says yes and are you asleep now
and she says yes and they go on talking about being asleep now.
She has a dream and she has the same dream and in the dream
she is dreaming what she dreams and she is dreaming what she dreams.
Then it rains. |
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| Free NYE night. |
[Dec. 31st, 2009|05:53 am] |
New Year's Eve at The Way Station!
Thursday, December 31
7pm-4am
Free
Featuring the Fritz and Anders show behind the bar.
Live music by Discovery.
Come ring in the new year at Prospect Height's newest bar!
http://waystationbk.blogspot.com/
If you guys want this place to stay open it needs are soport now. They have hit a huge issue with city red tape
Read the whole thing here : http://www.brooklynpaper.com/stories/33/1/33_01_sk_way_station.html
If we do not help them now then they might not make it to being ok.
So go if you can, spread the word about the bar and lets help them keep it so we have a place to go , hang out, drink and have fun.
Andy and Doc who own the place are great guys who should have there dream of owning a great place like this. |
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| a wonderful sad dance |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|01:53 pm] |
Pavane | Jack Gilbert
I thought it said on the girl's red purse
A kind of sad dance and all day
wondered what was being defined.
Wisdom? The history of Poland?
All the ways of growing old?
No, I decided (walking back
to the hotel this morning), it must be love.
The real love that follows
early delight and ignorance.
A wonderful sad dance that comes after. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|11:33 am] |
How To Like It
by Stephen Dobyns
These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let's go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let's tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let's pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let's dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn't been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let's go down to the diner and sniff
people's legs. Let's stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man's mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let's go to sleep. Let's lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he'll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he'll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let's just go back inside.
Let's not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let's go make a sandwich.
Let's make the tallest sandwich anyone's ever seen.
And that's what they do and that's where the man's
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept-
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it. |
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| frank bidart: for an unwritten opera |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|09:35 pm] |
For an Unwritten Opera
Frank Bidart
Once you had a secret love: seeing
even his photo, a window is flung open
high in the airless edifice that is you.
Though everything looks as if it is continuing
just as before, it is not, it is continuing
in a new way (sweet lingo O'Hara and Ashbery
teach). That's not how you naturally speak:
you tell yourself, first, that he is not the air
you need; second, that you loathe air.
As a boy you despised the world for replacing
God with another addiction, love.
Despised yourself. Was there no third thing?
But every blue moon the skeptical, the adamantly
disabused find themselves, like you,
returned to life by a secret: like him, in you.
Now you understand Janácek at
seventy, in love with a much younger
married woman, chastely writing her.
As in Mozart song remains no matter how
ordinary, how flawed the personae. For us poor
mortals: private accommodations. Magpie beauty. |
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| The Arsonist Stood Up In Court And Said | Jeffrey McDaniel |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|09:27 pm] |
I am not an arsonist. I dreamt
the building was a phoenix
and needed my help. Before sticking me
in a sentence, like a four-syllable word
with only one meaning, consider
what becomes of the ashes: see
how after smearing a palm-full
hair grows on a bald man's scalp, how
just a sprinkle makes irises sprout through
sidewalk cracks. You call me sick,
but have you ever seen a suicidal
parakeet, a homeless butterfly?
You want to know how you go crazy?
One marble at a time. It's the law
of your language that dictates mess
is the precursor for messiah. You don't
understand my logic to the hmph degree.
Your style of math is forty-three floors
beneath me. But you should have seen
the fire, a symphony of mayhem, people
leaping from windows, like lightning
bolts somersaulting out of a terrible cloud. |
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