Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Areas A, B, and C are areas of regularity.
I inhabit area B. I may, therefore, go back in time to A, since it does not form part of my "history". I am prohibited from going back to C, however.
What prohibits me? I think we shall find "laws" of regularity in chaos. Maybe "habits" of regularity.
Now some people say we are all descended from some primeval Eve, like "Lucy". Well, that may explain why - if time travel is possible - you see no evidences of time travel. Surely our descendants would be buzzing around bothering us, wouldn't they? But they aren't. This may be due to the "Lucy" effect, and a deeper regularity underlying apparent chaos.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Now Roscoe was still there, using the Men's Room, and taking about 15 to 20 minutes doing it: there were sounds like a wrestling match coming from behind the locked door. Tilly and I, we figure Roscoe's got some really, really heavy Obsessive Compulsive type thing going on, got to hold a wad of paper just the right way to get a hold of the seat, then another wad to use the flusher, lots of hot water, a wad of paper to hit the on/off on the air blower...and he's probably got to hold his breath while the air dryer is blowing and recirculating...well, everything in the men's' room at the speed of light, or at the speed of air dryer air, at least. That explains the great expulsions of breath, followed by great gobbling gasps for air.
So he saunters out and it's all we can do to keep from laughing. "What have you been talking 'bout with the UFOers, Roscoe?" Tilly asks. He shakes his head in a sad, knowing way. He's been here before. "I cain't tell yer. Ya couldn't stand it.You're not..," here he stopped and looked for the right words, words strong enough to condemn me, but not to assign Tilly - dear Tilly - to the same place in hell where I should be. "Yer not strong enough for it." he said. "Couldn't stand it?" says I, doing a thick Irish brogue like Uncle Leonard telling the joke of the time Claude stumbled in drunk and woke up his brother Bill, who happened to be asleep in the front room - his own bedroom being painted, a matter what Claude fergot.
Roscoe shakes his head. "No. It would be too much fer ya. I told a parson..." - he meant person...I think - "... oncet and that parson died." Tilly and I became thoughtful. "Indeed! And who was that, Roscoe?" "Auntie Belle. Last year. She asked me if there was life after...after...ya know, and I wanted to tell her to put her mind at ease. The UFO people know all about Life after D."
After D. indeed! "Aunt Belle was 3/4 dead last year, Roscoe. She was already in the hospice when you spilled your UFO beans. The only reason you got to talk to her was that Death had stopped at the convenience store down the block for a pack o' smokes, 'n got to playin' video poker." Tilly smiled as I said this. "Scoff if ye must. It's too horrible fer human ears. Even coarse and crude ears..." he looked straight at me, "...that hear all kinds of cursing and swearing and...whatnot." Like mine, he's thinking. Like my ears, connected to my crude eyes, just above me unkempt mouth.
"So, Roscoe," says Tilly, "Your sayin' that what the UFOers say is so horrible; is it more horrible than all the bankers in the world taking bets on lame-horse investments and having all the investments being so far behind in the field, they almost are in the next race?" "Ay," says I. "Is it more horrible than having bankers piss your money away, then having to bail them out?"
Tilly grew more and more animated. "Is it worse than yer $200,000 house being worth $90,000 and change now? Worse than a foreclosure and sitting on yer sorry tail-crack on the kerbside?" "Is it worse than not being able to afford health care, Roscoe? Do the UFO people tell you stories of Death Panels in the Sky?" "What of inflation, Roscoe? Unemployment..."
Roscoe had run. He crossed against the light. He had some small scraps of toilet paper and paper towels from the men's room he was shoving into his ears, trying to stop the sound of our voices. "Shut up !! Don't...wanna...hear !!! " he yelled as he ran into traffic. Tilly smiled at me. "You'll burn in hell for that." I laughed. "Won't be alone, gal", and I went out.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
A poem is not something made; it is a making. It is not the finished act, the ergon as the Greeks have it; it is the energia, the energy, the doing of something. An Op-Ed column is read; a poem is something we grapple with, run with, make love to, share years with, are repelled by: it is a dynamic which comes from one being to another and creates an ongoing whirlpool of mind. There are the bricks and mortars of poems; there are ways to make poems; the only true poem is a making, regardless of the meter, the words, the scansion.
A poem that is merely made tumbles from the living to the dead, a vampire. That's why the vampire image is so popular today - the vampire and the zombie: we have fallen from Life into Death in Life. Our Cult of Celebrity is dead and phoney art, a thrill where no real sensuality exists: a death rattle mistaken for an orgasm. Make poetry, not war.