last week i worked 6 days in a row. i was tired, but now i've recovered. i sorta tried to put in my two weeks at the bar (you knew it was coming...) but it simply didn't work. so, the solution is, is i'm only going to be there on wednesday. for awhile at least. i'm on burnout.

today is veteran's day, a big day on sawtelle avenue! thank you to all that have served.


also: i have been thinking a looooong time that i am bored slap silly with most of the poetry i'm reading in journals. boring. just plain bad. bad philos. heady nothings. what the f- is going on?

[if you offer a negative, offer a positive]

martha ronk has some good poems in the new issue of pool. the rest of that journal (in concept & across the board, historically...) is mostly blah.

and now to the new yorker.... what! the new yorker?

the new yorker's been publishing a bunch of john ashbery & james schuyler. hip!

Africa! Africa! by schuyler

A match clears the air, congestion
of the chapel organ tones family
circle faces. How we hate to love!
Nephew Noxious pops his teeth and
the nameless others fatly quiver.
Boredom's puffy toes kick us in
our Sunday-supper-swollen guts. I
flip my butterfly routine, sundry
as Monday wash. Hairpins detonate.
On the wall Christ refutes doctors,
germanically, divinity, come back,
fudge us again, us lost ladies
who heard a bullet, stop to answer
the craftiest command of inert man
rolled from the colossal ear. Year
of hell and harmony, spill you a
good sleep, near the zebra's hoof.


i like poems like this because one can tell the poet is a-l-i-v-e, doing some living. not some deep introvert writing from a closet bunker shell, oh poorness, i cannot venture out today, the world's a wolf, i tuck myself in gently. LIVE, poets, LIVE> before the rest of us (us, including) die of freakin boredom.

thank you wednesday.

it's 80 degrees in Tucson & i'm sweating in the living room watching 'Kath & Kim.'