memorial for a brilliant woman

Friday, June 17, 2011

I'm from the FDA and I'm here to kill you...

Watch this movie free thru Sunday night-

seriously- watch it!!!

I'm from the FDA and I'm here to kill you...oh- and to get rich from your money while I do it!

Thursday, June 16, 2011

June 14 poem-a-day

Why Poets are not Optimists

up too late
assembling chapbooks
she hopes to make gas money,
maybe get a sandwich,
have a little extra for the weekend
for the farmers market-
early tomatoes, peaches, maybe,
feel like a success
in the face of so many
people grinding out poetry,
she doesn’t even have
what she’ll read
picked out
or her dress
nothing is timed
nor in large fonts
now she won’t get
enough sleep
she never does
preparing to tell strangers
her deepest secrets
they should at least
buy a lousy chapbook.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Mark Rylance on the Tony Awards

In case you thought Mark Rylance was riffing- here is the prose poem he used in his acceptance speech...


Don't tell me poetry can't be memorized if it doesn't rhyme!

June 12 poem-a-day


Jumble of covers,
I am not trapped,
I am not trapped.
Aggregate calamities,
opportunity + idea = advantage.
Covert operations indicate
a lack of documentation.
Sancho Panza got it right
(about the pitcher).

Slipping into tepid waters,
I remember how to swim.
Under the influence/
it is too easy to ignore
the obvious
old injuries
telegraph a warning,
too late, too late
I throw myself against the wall of your smile.

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

June 6 poem-a-day

Half an inch of water

I’ve never been confused for someone else,
who’s missed a plane to Memphis,
fought with a ragtag few against the many,
stepping forward when those near me don't.

I’d rather duck and run, look busy, divert
attention when necessary, or just say No.
As the rope gets to me, I’ll ease it out,
unwilling to hang alone or with others.

When it is time to stand I’ll watch
from a comfortable distance in a lawn chair,
shaded under the gnarl of a grape arbor,
as the vine grows to cover my transgressions.

I’ll never be a martyr, or a blessed saint,
my convictions are fluid, convenient,
fleeting as first love, only a pin prick deep,
silent in mourning, I will not speak first.