Adhere

Let's call it accidental memoir. I wish I spoke French because the French probably have a really cool, worldly-sounding phrase for it. Le memoir accidental. Something like that. Because today's post was not something I really intended to write, as I've written it elsewhere. But those damn shoes got me running. Thanks to everyone who has responded so positively to it. It's encouraging. If I knew it was something I could get published, if I knew I wouldn't have to lose my mind over placing it like I've had to do with this second collection of poems, I'd probably write it with an acceptably minimal level of complaining. But I fear the great cosmic joke would be to write this book, this form, that I'm so dodgy about, and nobody want it. I would laugh. Then cry. Then laugh some more, in a repetitive cycle that would soon become scary.

If I knew an agent or publisher wanted it, I'd write it. But that's not how it works, I know.

Anyway, thanks everyone. I'll keep thinking about it.

20

Today is Walt Whitman's birthday. Happy birthday, Walt. It's also the twentieth anniversary of the day I broke my neck. Which isn't a big deal, I'm not wearing black, or lighting candles in memory of my twelve year old self, but the fact that it's been twenty years is pretty wild to think about. I still remember it all very clearly, the day, a Saturday after I'd graduated from the sixth grade; what I was wearing, this horrific yellow ensemble of shorts and shirts, seriously hideous, my friends, and these awful K-Mart purchased hightop sneakers, Fleet Street they were called, red and black with absurdly long shoelaces that I had to wrap around the ankle a few times before they could be manageably knotted and even then they would inevitably loosen and whip around everywhere when I walked or ran. I loved those shoes, though. I'd take the early bus to school that year so that I could play a game of baseball on the fields behind the school that were still soaked with dew. Those shoelaces would act like wicks, drinking up the moisture from the grass, and for the rest of the morning my shoes would be a soggy mess. I've told the rest of the story in varying degrees here, and glancingly in my poems: at a party thrown for the small handful of us in the gifted class by the teacher of that class, a pretty, young woman named Joy who'd been with all of us since the first grade, I was sitting on the deck with my best friend Adam while the girls played inside with Joy's baby daughter. We were bored while Joy grilled burgers and hot dogs and seeing this she asked if we'd like to ride bikes until the food was ready. The bikes were ten speeds, old, rarely used, festooned in cobwebs, with tires we had to fill with air. Adam left the garage before me, having pumped his tires first, and I followed after him a few minutes later. Joy's house was atop a hill, fairly steep, and coasting down I realized the brakes didn't work. I wasn't used to riding a ten speed, riding instead my beloved Redline 20 inch BMX bike with its blue 4130 chromoly frame (so light!), so I was immediately scared. I was going fairly fast now on a bike I didn't feel comfortable riding, with no working brakes. I squeezed the caliper brakes, which were like mush. I decided in that instant a crash was probably inevitable so I coasted off into the yard to the right of the driveway, hoping for a softer landing on grass. What I didn't know was there was a ditch at the bottom of the hill, obscured by weeds. I hit it at a good speed and was thrown over the handlebars, breaking both my arms then my neck. There in the weeds I was having trouble breathing. My right arm was under me so I couldn't see it. But my left arm arm lay strangely bent across my chest; I could tell that it was broken. But I felt no pain. I couldn't feel anything, in fact. This anti-sensation was less than numb, or more than numb; it's hard to conceptualize what it feels like. It feels like your body is gone, amputated, floaty, indistinct, gone. It feels like zero. There was a faint ache in my neck. I began, even then, to suspect what had happened. Soon Adam was standing over me, out of breath, asking if I needed help. He'd turned around on his bike just in time to see the wreck happen from down the street. He ran to get Joy. She was there quickly along with her neighbors who'd also seen the accident from their porch. A man told me I was going to be alright, that I'd just knocked the wind from me, that I should stand up. He began to lift me up by the shoulders. I begged him not to move me. He lifted me to my feet. My head fell over, like a flower on a broken stem. I collapsed to my knees. The gravity of the moment was clear. An ambulance was called. On the way to the hospital the paramedics cut those terrible shoes from my feet.

One

In between your second helping of potato salad, or baked beans, or whatever, and your first burger off the grill, I thought I'd share a little personal good news.

I just found out New Michigan Press will be publishing my chapbook Exit Interview in their 2006 series. Which is totally cool, if I may say so.

A couple of months ago in a blog entry, I mentioned, offhand, a secret project. Exit Interview was it. I guess, in some ways, it's the precursor to whatever my third book becomes, a prelude, maybe.

At any rate, that's all the info I have now. Just wanted to share; I'm excited.

Tattoo me

Happy Memorial Day, y'all.

***

X-Men 3 wasn't all that great, I thought, a mixed bag. I enjoyed it but there's a lot of problems with it, the greatest of them being all the shortcuts needed to get the film done on its hyper-rushed schedule. For example, Wolverine severs a Sentinel's head off-screen, which thunks to the ground; he then steps from behind it and it's clear that he just, uh, walked out from behind this prop. It's not exactly bad-ass. And the Juggernaut looks fairly retarded, especially the cheap-o helmet mashed on his melon of a head. Nothing ever quite feels as epic as what they were hoping for, I think.

Still, there's a lot that's good. It keeps the same look, visually, as the previous films. There's a nice flashback scene with Magneto wearing a purple leisure suit, which screams pimp. There's a betrayal that really works, that I really felt. It's funnier than the previous two. The very last shot. The hidden scene after the credits. The last scene between Wolverine and Jean.

I'm not sure why I'm writing so much about this; I never really read the X-Men comics. I guess it's useful to think about missing the mark.

***

Still high on the Dwight concert.

I know I'm well behind the curve on this but I love the cover of "One" Mary J. Blige does with, well, U2. Seeing her perform it the other night reminded me it was out there, so I got it off iTunes. Now I want her to do an album with them.

***

I've been thinking again about memoir. Mine. How does one write so much? Especially about one's self?

Maybe I'll do it.

***

Who's grilling out? What should I bring?

If there was a way

Dwight Yoakam was a kick in the head last night. Great show. The concert was sold out or very nearly so: a great atmosphere, though in the intermission between the opening act, a local band I thought were pretty great, people would start to whistle, stomp, cheer, clap. The clapping would start to spread only to splinter off. Definite rhythm deficit in full effect. Dwight's entrance was full of the inimitable hip/knee action he's got down, guitar cradling back and forth, spinning honky tonk pirouettes.

A fierce-looking, dark headed, humorless girl was seated beside me, looking like she was certain I'd soon bite. Two grandmotherly ladies behind me chatted me up the whole evening.

What kept ocurring to me was how many great song weren't being played because, well, all the
other great songs were being played.

I thought about leaving halfway through: I hadn't had much to eat all day and started feeling light-headed, woozy, but it passed after a while. I'm glad I didn't.

***

Today, X-Men 3.

Idyll

Busy, busy, but with what? I wish I knew. The days get away.

***

Thanks to those who ordered books. They'll be going out in the next day or so. I promise nobody's copy will ride around in the back of my brother's car for two weeks this time.

I still have a few copies left if anyone still wants one.

***

Tomorrow night: Dwight Yoakam. I'd completely forgotten.

***

70,000 visitors to this blog! That's insane. Thank you, all.

Saluki

I love this story. During my Carbondale days, I saw some deer but I was never menaced by any, thankfully. Those years were plenty crazy enough, thank you very much.

***

The Da Vinci Code wasn't bad, though I was about eighteen steps ahead of it most of the time. And Alfred Molina really bugged me: he seemed to radiate a completely inauthentic vibe as the priest. I never believed him. I mostly thought about his little priest costume being ill-fitting.

But, that said, I liked it ok. A really crazy director probably could have made something incendiary with it, something potent, but Ron Howard, well, he's Ron Howard.

***

Feeling good. New poems soon. At least I hope so.

St.

On the mend, or, rather, mended, I think. Feeling back to my usual self, it appears. I had been listless, tired, run down. Now I'm back to restless and bored. Normal, in other words.

***

The Da Vinci Code today? It's getting drubbed, but I think there's a schadenfreude going on with the reviews, a piling on. Ron Howard is probably the one miscast here. He's too much of a populist to really stir this potboiler up.

I've never read the book so it'll at least be new to me.

***


I have 7 copies of my book I'd like to sell. Ten bucks, signed, postage included. Anyone interested? E-mail me if so.

Thursday

Still feeling a bit rundown, which is normal. I'm sleeping like a rock but of course I start nodding at 8:30. I'll be glad when I'm back up to speed.

***

Really great good news for two of my friends this week, so that lightens the mood considerably. Been taking the downtime to watch stuff like Deadwood, which is great but almost distractingly profane; 24; Veronica Mars; and whatever else catches my attention.

***

Sleepy even now. Wake me up!

Clouds

Apparently I stopped breathing during the seizure the other night: my face and lips were blue. That's a comforting thought, no?

***

Still feeling a little rundown, tired, but otherwise fine. I even babysat yesterday and sent off a few job applications. Wish me luck on those.

***

Looks like rain where I am.

Today

Stanley Kunitz Dies

So

I think I must be cashing in some forgotten store of bad karma because the crap just won't stop. It's nothing I want to discuss in public like this, it's private, and in some ways it's the most disappointing occurrence of all in this last awful week. So I expect more of the same this week, so, c'mon, everybody, pile on, you've got a free pass.

Gran

My awesome week continues:

I spent all night last night in the ER after having a seizure. The last thing I remember was sometime after eleven, watching tv. I had a split second of wooziness then woke up in the ambulance.

I've had a handful, maybe six, of seizures over the last ten years, the last one being around four years ago. So it's not a serious or disruptive problem. Still, I wish I had none.

We've never been able to discover what causes them, what triggers them, which is the way these things are.

Tired. Didn't get out until around six this morning.

24 fps

INSTEAD

In movies when much is made of the dead

wife or the dying boy with hair like

Prince Valiant or the father still

imperious in his grave, I’m waiting

for the gun to go off or the mothership

to disgorge its light show

or the chase to begin shredding replicated

Ferraris. I’m looking up

through the beam all this bustle

bustles through, trying to see where light

is impinged upon by dark

because I’m bored, because alone

I’ve come to guess two acts too soon

who is killing off left-handed

postal workers in Seattle. Outside

there’s rain but it’s not endless

and through it I’ll walk home

without erupting in song,

wishing for an umbrella

parabolic to the rain,

I’ll tell myself some better story than this.

Circle

One of my favorite people in the cosmos entire is up today at Poetry Daily.

Crap

Really, just shoot me: the cat just stole my sandwich. Right out of my mouth.

Beggar

So I make with the jokes about the complete disaster that is my life these days, but in truth it isn't particularly amusing. I've been unemployed for nearly a year and I'm broke. So if anyone out there knows of any teaching positions that might be open or opening, I'd appreciate hearing from you. I'm not even talking about tenure track; if lecturer positions are available, I'm interested.

And, yes, I'm pathetic.

Bloody Monday

I love going to the mailbox, almost without reservation, even with its contant freight of bills, coupons, promises of free panties from Victoria's Secret. Some days, when you're a writer, you find that SASE you prepared some time ago: weeks, months, perhaps even years. My SASE's are meticulous, addressed by my printer, complete with printed postage. It's a little antiseptic, sterile, but it makes the process infinitely easier for me. I'm sorry, editors, but my handwriting would never successfully reach you. I don't even have handwriting. It's mouthwriting: I sign things with a pen held in my mouth, which I do just fine. Anything beyond that, though, I'm not so great with. So the printer it is.

Anyway, I was talking about loving the mail. Most days I do. But today may cure me of that for good. In the box were the following:

• a rejection from The Georgia Review, which is no big deal. Who don't they reject?
  
• a letter from Hollins University, where I was up for a job, but now am not. At least I got my book back.
• a rejection letter from University of Illinois Press regarding my manuscript. At least I got a handwritten note with it that said it was "a very compelling and distinctive collection." Except, uh, not compelling and distinctive enough.

So basically I was annihilated on all fronts. I think the only thing missing is an imaginary girlfriend dumping me. Any volunteers? C'mon, it's easy, lots of girls have done it, you can too!

***

To that end, I think I'm going to put myself up for auction. Basically a going out of business sale. Starting now, my smarts (ha!), my mad poetic skills, my awesome career prospects, my fame, my wealth, my undying love, all of it can be yours.

Do I hear one dollar?

Mystery

I finished watching the fifth season of The Sopranos this weekend. Jesus, they piled on the misery: Adriana's story finally coming to a resolution, Tony B.'s short happy life, Tony Soprano's continued struggle. I don't have HBO so it'll be forever before the sixth and final season is on dvd. I think I'll try Deadwood next.

***

I took my cousin to see Mission: Impossible 3. Not bad. Like the biggest ever episode of Alias, which would have been infinitely better. Fun to see some cameos from Alias regulars: Greg Grunberg, of course, and the spooky Russian guy who was Lena Olin's right hand man. He's British, though. Who knew?

I tried to take Ryan to get an ice cream afterwards but he declined. This is the second person to turn down ice cream with me recently. The next time I'm going to take it personally.

Flip

Two, or maybe three, poems accepted today, which is very good, though I'm unclear on that third poem, whether or not they want it or want to suggest some revisions before they'll take it. I'm always open to that: it's a real gift to know your work has been read so closely. Of course, I say all that before saying I decided against some suggestions the editor had for the second poem, which they wanted whether or not the changes were made. Good editors have in the past made lots of suggestions I went with; for my book, I got something like 7 pages of notes and only refused one, which had to do with a comma. The rest were gold. But in this case I felt like it was how I wanted it to be.

And I felt awful saying no! Like I was refusing a gift. Or chocolate. Which is something crazy people do.

As for the first poem, it's funny: when I finished writing it, I really despaired; I showed it to a friend, saying it was a crappy poem. Strange how your own vision is , or can be, clouded at times.

Not that publishing a poem is any certain measure of validation; I've published bad poems before, too often, in fact. But what can you do? Write the next one.

Still, I think this one is, after all, a pretty good poem.

***

I've been in a funk.

ONE MORE THEORY ABOUT HAPPINESS

That it comes to you like an accident

with a powder-actuated nail gun,

that it’s wisdom of the sort

you hear in line with your cargo

of toothpaste, detergent, condoms,

salt, whatever has appeared

on the vacant horizon of the day

like ink smudge or birds on the wing

for Mexico. That it multiplies

with the mythic, sexual frenzy of the rabbit,

which you regard, now,

like Fellini played backwards

at half-speed. That whole libraries

to it are devoted like pious

women in a foreign country,

perhaps Spain, their white hair ignored.

That you will reap it

according to what you sow.

That you will speak of it

the way you remember an unread book.

That you’ll find it.

That in eternity your keys find you.

That desire is the cause

of all human suffering

according to Buddha,

according to Jesus,

according to the man whose arms dead-end

at the bulbs of his elbows

kicking a dog

from the sidewalk with savage joy.

That the dog in this

matter has no say,

except to articulate miniature outrage.

That it is better to have no arms than four legs.

93

United 93 is a fascinating experience, beyond even its correlation to history, in that it leads to consideration of the trappings of fiction. Watching it, you realize the incredible preponderance of narrative contrivance necessary for telling a story. In that this is essentially a re-enactment of maybe two hours on September 11, there are no backstories, sideplots, character arcs, etc. No one speaks in movie language: people chat about the weather, magazines, anniversaries, or they're gripped by breathless, sweaty terror. Paul Greengrass never intrudes in his direction, using a lot of hand-held camera, some actual footage, and many people playing themselves. The now mythic "let's roll" is barely audible, a frantic whisper. Weird, too, is how you find yourself rooting for the passengers when they make their terrifying rush towards the cockpit, hoping they'll save themselves, even though they don't, of course. It's a wonderful movie, though probably the sort you only want to see once.

***

New issue of Diagram here.

***

It was bound to happen, it had to happen: yesterday's mail brought the first rejection for my manuscript since I started sending it out again. Yay me, I suck.