Listening to some old David Bowie. His 80's stuff is so weird, all that plastic soul.
***
Very cool email this afternoon from Crazyhorse: I have a poem forthcoming in the next issue, which has come up four pages short, so they asked for a new batch of poems to fill out the issue before it goes to press. Hopefully, they'll find something they like but, truth be told, I had precious few poems to choose from. Almost everything in my second ms. is published, or will be. A good problem to have.
***
Freezing rain coming in tonight. Very cold out, misting and gusty. The world where you are?
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What happened to your lovely sun? We are back to drizzly 50's here -- but it's been so unnaturally warm of late that the bears (who should still be hibernating) are waking up. The yellow crocuses and the pulmonaria and some early camellias are in bloom.
Let's dance.
The sun has fled and now we're in the teens. After it being 68 on Wed. Bah!
Let's dance. Under the moonlight, the serious moonlight.
Bah, indeed. I'm putting on my red shoes...
Ha! In my world it's sunny, warm, smell of salt. I have a hearty tropical libation with an unbrella in it. Hammocks are involved.
Or, maybe a nice green meadow, and a picnic blanket. Fried chicken, potato salad, and iced tea. Kites.
Or, well, you get the idea.
I was sitting in a stupid family resteraunt last night, with the inane mix of loud eitghties music blaring overhead, when sudennly, as if the sky had opened, "Young Americans" came on. I was singing too loud at the table. THe man is a genious.
Turn And Face The Stranger
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes: Your face, lifted
and worshipping that cold, cancerous eye, crinkly,
or so you said--from this distance (try
and measure longing, friend, and you'll find
there aren't enough minutes or inches, hours
or miles) she (I) couldn't tell the difference
(third person, her preference to prevent
self-revelation or the proximity of actual
desire) between deepening wrinkles, the crevices
digging through the skin's granite
will someday give you the label distinguished
while she (I) will merely be shriveled
and old--oh crone, how I loathe the hag
inside crouched before the fire warming
her frigid claws--and fleeting smile.
Tonight your cheeks, pinked from greed, singed
by want of spring and love of sun, will seize
your scalp and skull, a mask too tight to pry off.
Blink, and your whole face will move. The trickle
of a tear will burn a hot trail. Regret, always
at a low simmer will boil over. And the stranger
in the mirror will complain about the pain
in his neck, stiff from staring at the sun
too long, from wanting what has yet to come.
Somewhere, the curvature has already begun,
my spine fetaling in as she stirs the cauldron.
Hi Paul,
Have posted one of your poems on Slate's PoemsFray.
Congratulations on your publishing problems!
Here in my neck of the woods we have a good nor’easter blowing, which here translates into sunshine and extremely dry weather. Trees and flowers don’t like it much.
Alberto
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