Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Am reading two fine books right now: Epicenter by Wendy Wisner, who should be on somebody's crush list, well, in addition to mine--wait, did I say that aloud? Impulse management, son. And Lark Apprentice, by fellow New Issues labelmate Louise Mathias. Both are super-dooper, engaging reads.


On top of my pc are stacked three copies of my book. One, the very first I ever saw, is on my shelf. Another sits on my coffee table, its cover scuffed. It's weird to feel almost nonchalant about this prized, rare thing. If I stop to look at it, to see my name on the spine, the sensation is surreal.




Here is an old poem in honor of Wendy and Louise:


Girls make me sad. When they are women I mope
incredibly, chewing a torn thumbnail.
When I could be pondering why pulsars spin
like a soccer ball flying towards the goal on a line
or a figure skater careening around on frozen water,
I am instead imagining your third birthday
and what was written in sweet icing on the cake.
Always wear a helmet. Come back soon.
You got lucky this time
. It hardly matters, I suppose.
Except now in this smugly brisk autumn
it does matter. When I sleep alone and find
I’ve kicked the sheets down the length of me,
it does matter. If nothing else, I am warm
knowing my socks can be lonely
because they are just socks after all and have no life
apart from me. Last year my mother found
one of your socks behind a can of corn
on the shelf. I’ve been trying to devise scenarios
in which the orphaned bobby sock
landed there, made possible by Mike Blank,
a friend given to drawing upon napkins
diagrams of soft leather tackle, weights and pulleys,
gas powered generators, harnesses and helmets—
all meant to swing me high in love’s monkey bars
should we find one kiss too boring, the odd sigh
sad or melancholy. I’m crazy for frustrating myself so,
to love you as I do, to draw you up and say
I’m the bull who brought with him his own china shop.

October 21, 1998

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