Sunday, August 30, 2009

Richard Lovelace, Vaudevillian

"See!" With what constant motion, even & glorious as the sun, Gratiana steers that noble frame, closing the door behind her.

"What beautiful flowers!" I say, lighting a cigar, "Soft as your breast, sweet as your voice that gives each winding law & poise--"

Swifter than the wings of fame, she beat the happy pavement by such a star made firmament, which now no more the roof envies & interjects, "It was your idea."

"My idea?" A puff of cigar smoke swells up high with Atlas even, bearing the brighter, nobler heaven & in her, all the deities.

"Sure," she explains, looking for a vase, as if each step trods out a lover's thought & the ambitious hopes he brought, chained to her brave feet with such art. "You know Amarantha just got out of the hospital & you told me when I visit her, I should take her flowers. Remember?"

"Yes, of course." Such sweet command & gentle awe as when she ceased, pausing to place the flowers in the vase, we sighing saw the floor lay paved with broken hearts.

"Well, I went to see her this afternoon &--" So did she move, so did she sing like the harmonious spheres that bring unto their rounds music's aid. "I thought about what you said & when she left the room, I took her flowers."

Which she performed such a way as all the enamored world will say the Graces danced & Apollo played.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Odds Bodkins in the Land of Nod

Did anyone see District 9? Now that's one awful movie. I say this because it wasn't a double feature or it would be two horrible movies. Who knew the shantytown aliens would turn out to be more human than human beings? Who knew de Jerk would turn into a "prawn"? I'd guess everyone. If Peter Jackson's not ashamed of himself, I am of myself for paying to see this predictable pile of extra terrestrial poop.

Speaking of extra terrestrials, I saw E.T. for the first time the other day. Is it one of the best movies of the 80s? In a word, no. Spielberg tends to lay on the shmaltz way too thick--& please don't tell me E.T. was made for kids. That doesn't change the fact I've been puking shmaltz since Saturday.

I'm trying to remember the last good movie I've seen. It sure wasn't Star Trek Babies nor the latest Harry Potter. What was the title, Harry Potter & the Milking of the Franchise? Sheesh, other than the opening scene in which Snape swears his loyalty to Voldemort, nothing else that happens has anything to do with the ending. It's all irrelevant filler. Oh, sure, it's artsy, but if the point is that teens wanna get it on, I can find more graphic depictions at no cost on the web.

I would do well to stay immersed in poetry if for no other reason than to avoid such excruciating experiences. I certainly have plenty to do. I have a full-length book manuscript--a semi-finalist in a recent competition--I'm continuing to circulate, as well as two new chapbooks I'm working on. Plus, I have several new poems I want to send out. Hey, how come no one's offered to make movies out of my poems? Sadly, I'm relegated to surveillance cameras at Dollar General.

Wait, I got one, a good movie I've seen recently: I'm a Cyborg, But That's OK. Let's just say I was skeptical because it stars Rain--cheap shot, sorry--but I enjoyed the surrealistic probing of the line between reality & fantasy, illustrated by the delusions of patients in a psychiatric hospital. I especially like the part in which Peter Jackson, his enormous head wrapped in aluminum foil, apologizes profusely for everything while J.K. Rowling sings rich mushy love songs. Spielberg, ass bared in his untied gown, fancies himself the world's greatest ping-pong player until Leonard Nimoy with rabbit ears bursts into the room & confesses--he's the thief!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Greetings from Boston

I recently returned from a trip to Boston. Not to tell stories out of school--more about that later--but I overheard a British couple complaining about the cold, rainy weather, if that tells you anything.

My travel guide called the Boston Museum one of world's largest. I love museums, but world's largest . . . not. Great gift shop, though. It also has a Great Hall which looks something like this:

As many of my readers know, I went to Harvard--not only on Friday, but Saturday too! Here's a picture of me at the Sackler Museum--the "Slacker" as it's called in my dyslexic subjective reality--mugging with the bust of fellow poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

Speaking of, here's a poem from Nearing Narcoma that mentions Longfellow:
Whitman Sampler

The last great poet has died,
having joined the immortals
for a softball game in the sky.
He lofts a deep fly to center,
his soul a can of corn.

That rummy Edgar Allan Poe
tags at third & foots the line,
testing the unknown arm of
aloof academician
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I can watch them play all day
if I gaze into the sun
& stand on one leg just so.
And when the sun goes down,
I close my eyes & listen.

What slow summer evenings
I've heard the muse calling
Emily Dickinson--sliding,
cleats high, across the plate
in a cloud of dust--safe at home.