Tuesday, January 15, 2013

15 enero 2013

Zucchini Bun

now the small rabbit lives in my garden
nestles among zucchini
as long as I remember to move slowly
it lets me be there too

Cory Doctorow's RIP Aaron Swartz

Cory Doctorow [pic by Joi Ito, courtesy of Creative Commons Wiki]

If you haven't read Little Brother, read it now (free ebook download) & then, read the sequel, Homeland, soon to be released.

this morning I wrote a found poem . . .

I Asked Myself

what items
I wanted
in my culture


newly and justly
to contain
my needs

the world
isn’t a text
to be deciphered

it is a new creation

a cloud
enters you
to begin in

A found poem is something a poet finds in someone else's writing.
The poet makes what she finds into a poem.
Poems are to be found everywhere.
Find your own.

Leroy’s Brain

It’s September in the codex — a gold ink month. Snakebite healing
he wears a sling, but no one believes he’s been bitten. A fall,
a sprain . . . Marie believes him; she sees lots of snakes around . . .

But here’s the funny thing. The shock of the bite — and the trauma
of Ruby’s death — make Leroy tell the truth. Though it sounds
more than ever like lies.

I talk to her, he says, I see her in heaven. He hasn’t had this
experience, has he? What do you think? The brain
exists to soothe you, it tells you how to see the right thing.
The brain is the big trick: you tell it what your codex is. So you can

see that. I talk to her, he says. I see her in the afterlife. Sure you do.
And, if you can describe a vision, maybe that’s having it too.
I talk to her, I see her in the afterlife. Fuck it, I do.


The girls come at dusk wearing red paint

on their lips and cheeks, shouting they are Satanists; one
has red paste jewels in her hair. Everyone’s such a hack ritualist.
I the poet dream of the girls and wake up shaking in Paris.
They say they are driven by their fathers to be sexual
Satanists; they carry the AIDS virus. They say they have to

be like this. Does anyone have to do anything? You can just die . . .

I have to do what Daddy says. He makes me real.

Fill Out Questionnaire for Good

I couldn’t find you in my metrics but I couldn’t change it
could I? I couldn’t change my language; I couldn’t change
my father or his name. I couldn’t rip the rubies out of my
hair; and when I went to her shack to scream whore at her

I knew I was that word. But there is no whore. My feelings
of discomfort are an argument for eternity — you don’t
know what I mean? But you aren’t here. I mean my feelings
may be transitory but are absolute at the moment, I have
stayed so long in moments, so deeply in them that
I came close to being god. Though I felt like someone who

had fallen from unconditional grace: it would love you
no matter what, but you might leave it out of curiosity —
isn’t this way of being tiresome? If I went to hell would I

care, would it really be different from heaven? No
I don’t know what I’m saying; these aren’t my answers.
I don’t care about being alive — women don’t care about
that, they just care about you. Oh you. Only you.

nearly every day now, small rains
I'm not eating as much today
the feeling that I might be starving has passed

1 comment:

  1. that bunny in the zucchini is a found poem itself. As is your ending lines:

    I'm not eating
    as much today.
    Nearly every day now,
    small rains.
    The feeling I might
    be starving
    has passed.

    Your belly makes me worry, but your mind makes
    me smile.