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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Monday, February 06, 2006

I love jimmy carter.

new yorker poem #6

The snow came down like an afterthought,
like elegant wallpaper, a pilgrim dress,
a simple shake of the head. Total lack
of emotional involvement can change
your nights. I have a problem with
boundaries, and these activities have
tempered this instinct for forgiveness.
He took a step, and another, and went
on, amazed, focusing on trees growing
wildly in fields. He stayed quiet
and hydrated, kept flashlight use
to a minimum, but was later observed
making all too human errors. No points
will be awarded for guessing what happens
next. Like many great adventures, this one
begins with a passageway. A maker
of fences in the nineteenth century
advertised a new kind of fence as being
“bull strong, horse high and pig tight.”
Blackberry and wild rose and unnamed
vines entangled so thickly as to make
a wall. People tell you to use your brain,
to use your body, and those are well
and good. I snatched up a length
of two by four and began to tear
at the earth as if I’d been born to it.
It doesn’t take much of a nudge for the
subtext to rise to the surface. He acted
on his instinct to cure his fears
by plunging into them. She stands there
clad only in a pair of black underpants,
but this too, is wrong. It makes her
sound sweet, whereas she is actually
tough and wise. As usual, the region,
a “sensitive area,”is being evacuated.
Through the tree, she made out
the almost inaudible sound of breathing.
The said sun, an enormous orange ball,
peeks through. “All right,” he said,
“if it is that important to you,
it is everything.” She absent-mindedly
rubbed her thumb across the glass,
cleaning off a fine layer of dust.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

this cracked me up.

mettre en abime

the desire of deconstruction has also the opposite allure. Deconstruction seems to offer a way out of the closure of knowledge. By inaugerating the open-ended indefiniteness of shows the lure of the abyss as freedom. The fall into the abyss of deconstruction inspires us with as much pleasure as fear. We are intoxicated with the prospect of never hitting bottom.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

guess who said this

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does.