Once I was walking around Boston and stopped at a brick building that had some chalked words written on it. The words were “The Writing.” I kept walking and then I got it. I laughed out loud. What is the writing on your wall? Continue reading “The Writing on the Wall”
We stopped the white Chevy with the rusted tailgate,
Half in the ditch, and walked up the hillside,
Through the pine trees and scrub oak, fall leaves
Like letters in an abandoned apartment cracking
Under our feet. There was nothing and everything
To see in the woods, the snake skin, coyote scat,
Half-hidden killdeer nest, muddy water of the hollow.
He pointed these things out to me, a child learning
to see from her father. We all learn
To see from the people who came before us. Continue reading “The Killdeer”
Another display we’ll have in the museum, besides Marginalia, Doors, and Poet Products, is an interactive one where people can record themselves saying a poem. I just bought 100 blank cassettes off of ebay for this purpose. My other tools are an outdated cassette player gangked from some school in my past and an old karaoke machine that has a cassette player on it (I don’t have one of these yet). Continue reading “Singing as the Farm was Home”
I’m just trying to meet you where you are at.
Let’s make it happen. But avert your eyes. Continue reading “Sunday Night”
I have about twenty poems in my head, speeches from Hamlet and Macbeth, a couple of the Bard’s sonnets, a few by Frost, a few Dickinsons, Yeats’ “The Second Coming,” (the first free verse poem I memorized), Joy Harjo’s “Remember,” Auden, Shelley, pieces of “Ulysses,” and various others, including a few of my own. Continue reading “Remember”
On the blind channel, Jane Russell’s wrists strain the leather straps,
Her bosoms in her filmic Howard-Hughes-created bra,
Contorted like wadded socks in the wash.
The narrator says, “She turns from Billy in disgust.” Continue reading “Asking for It”