finally, a good example

natalie portman is an only child.

i have an easy example now of a well-adjusted, socialized and "not worse for not having siblings" only child.

this should work as a nice answer to the "when are you having more kids" question and "but evie needs a sister/brother".

fun fact: natalie portman played a character named evie in "v for vendetta". wooooooo!

besides being first in crime...

...(the city of detroit, not the whole state of michigan), we here in the Mitt can now lay claim to this.

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nitwits and poetry

Jim Harrison, writing about Charles Bukowski in yesterday's New York Times Book Review:

Our perceptions of Bukowski, like our perceptions of Kerouac, are muddied by the fact that many of his most ardent fans are nitwits who love him to the exclusion of any of his contemporaries. I would suggest you can appreciate Bukowski with the same brain that loves Wallace Stegner and Gary Snyder.

Thank you, Jim Harrison!

Poets whose "extreme" fans are also nitwits:

Robert Frost
Allen Ginsberg
Sylvia Plath
Shakespeare

I define "extreme" here as being obsessed with an author (poet), acting like they're "yours" when really they are the worst kept literary secret in the history of modern lit., and not making an effort to read beyond "your poet".

I swear, every time I have ever heard someone begin to expound on the virtues of Shakespeare, etc., I have wanted to put my head right through the wall. And, for the record, I like Sylvia Plath. But that's where it ends.

Feel free to add to the list!

Only one cup of coffee into the day = Angela is SNARKY!

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what if...

...instead of a typical "christmas tree" we still had the actual tree, but made a "peace tree"? i am thinking of those "peace poles" i'd always see when canvassing, and even now in lansing at churches.

so what would this even look like? aside from lots of white lights...or purple lights, i suppose...or ribbons? i can't remember what color ribbons military families use (you'd think i would know, but i'm still on my 2nd cup of coffee!)

any ideas? thoughts?

trying not to have a consumer-ific holiday season!

last new poem

UPPER PENINSULA EPHEMERA

a postcard for Boog, who grew up in the UP

 

 

I didn't want to be the one

to tell you, but the trees are burning, Boog.

There is fire everywhere.

 

We can't reach Munising

from Taquahmenon Falls

except by dirt road.

 

Even then

there is so much ash

my mouth tastes of old campfire.

 

We are in Shelter Bay.

It is only August 4^th.

The leaves are unclenching

 

their jaws from the branches.

By the time they reach the

ground they look like bleeding gums,

 

they are so red. And lovely.

An entire national forest burned

by one lightning strike.

 

Everything is more frightening than it ought to be:

 

the Mackinac Bridge

suspended by dental floss; meteor showers

so close and so bright it feels like Mosul;

 

a Vietnam vet named Ron Stokes

who is half-deaf and hermitic and

possibly your future self.

 

Worst of all, Boog, is not that he paints

in a Bob Ross-style, or that he drinks

mainly Busch Light; it is that he goes

 

entire calendar years without speaking

to anyone, as though his mouth

opens to a tunnel of fire.

 

This does not stop him from smoking.

 

But when I see you, you are already drunk,

beer cans rattling like empty shell casings

in your speech. The maple planks

 

of the table scorch. The folds of the paper

curl and brown, waltz away

from my fingers and yours.

 

Before I can tell you of the joys of US-2,

how safe we feel so close

to Lake Michigan, your face is red

 

and your hair rising to the ceiling

with electric charge.

 

I only wanted to warn you, Boog:

Mr. Stokes looks to be

what I can only describe as spent munitions.

 

Most of his teeth are rotten, the rest missing,

and you, old friend, have always had

such lovely teeth.

 

 

 

another new poem

BECAUSE I DON'T ALWAYS KNOW WHY I LOVE YOU, BUT I ALWAYS KNOW WHY I STAY

 

 

I.

 

You had asked to feel

the slow kick

of our child in me

like hooves on dirt

to sleep again beside me

 

some strange new gleam

to your face.

 

 

II.

 

A full foot taller than me, your shins

ankles and toes hang

over the edge of the bed. Even asleep

you are a man Caravaggio

would have loved, feet breaking through

the frame of the bedsheets.

 

Dirt stains the soles

of your feet, leaves pentimenti

every place you've been.

Like a rough sketch, a first draft.

 

 

III.

 

I took the Caravaggio book

from the shelf

to show you

The Conversion of St. Paul.

It took him two attempts

to get it

right:

    

thrown from horse

smooth on his back

arms wide

eyes closed against the light

the horse looking down at him

foreleg paused mid-trot:

 

because in this second version

Paul did not cover his eyes

or cower.

 

 

a new poem

STILL LIFE

 

 

A stray shallot

rotted down

to its own papery

peels,

something culled

from Caravaggio:

Boy with a Basket

of Fruit.

 

One    flat    rock.

 

Surgical staples.

 

Our last surviving

wine glass, crusted

with Black Box

cabernet sauvignon.

 

One potted tiger lily.

 

The extra seeds

from our spring garden:

green beans

serrano peppers

cucumbers and cilantro.

 

The missing pieces

for the board games

Diplomacy and Risk.