Saturday, December 4, 2010

i drag my homeless looking self out of bed for myself & for the world & for good 'humour' as the brits would say. today i shall not. tuck in & write.

last nite i did look full on grungy in my overalls & a big ole toodie hood as granny would say--& so i drug myself in the shower & n & i went to the reading. was good. i enjoy seeing old friends & feel afterwards like i should get out more--be more active in my local poetry culture. jane miller is so beautiful--her very presence reminds me to live life more fully--that one is fine as spitfire--as vulnerable--to be a passionate member verus straightback, & so she goes to me. jmw gave a good reading. i quite enjoyed it. ran into frankie leaving out the poetry center door who delivered some stellar news: that she is in the process of reviewing heifer. n & i went to poca cosa afterwards & i had the second most divine dinner ive ever had in tucson, az. the first best was dining between jim harrison & elmore leonard & having the sensation of 6 plates hit the table every couple mins. how does one keep up? at poca cosa, we had a gorgeous bottle of rioja--& we toasted frankie numerous times (see, if you review heifer, you will be toasted & i'll tell jesus to remember you kindly...enough!)--& then we had the most elaborate fine mexican food of my life. it was lovely. well i did have the best dining partner ever created. today im skipping out on kite flying & ab fab w/ two of my most favorite tucson people, drew & annie, because im going to write a bit. im sorry i love you both! im still in bed now! with frank stanford's the battlefield where the moon says i love you. write. im just now taking a lil break! & then ima grade. & then i'll grade some more.

--

dear frank i love you.

dear poet:

i'll enter the old mansions or not where the furniture
is draped in sheets like ghosts wherre there is so much dust
on the mirror I can finish writing my given name
be it nothing more than an afternoon spent at the bedside
of a dying jew I baked the cake I put the stamps on his album
the others were playing mexican standoff outside the tent
I was dreaming be it nothing more than the odor of a gypsy girl
if you can teach me I will hold my tongue until then I curse
the niht in which it was said a man child is born I should have been
as though I had not been I should have been carried from the womb
to the grave it was water last time they say it'll be fire the next time
there are two words for my cross-eyed visions of what goes on by night
and by day in my antediluvian residence where these mules and people
stanchions of stillness these folks taking the fishbone out they throats
with that look in their eye adagio delta eye pavane by and by

from frank stanford's battlefield. yikes.