un grand radiocassette

Olympia Free Choir Practice!!!

2009-01-26T18:27:00.000-08:00

Here's a video from Free Choir practice! I'm not in it because it was the same day as a Margy Pepper show the time that this person videotaped it, but still totally worth the watch/listen.

Fun Fact: The house this is in is the same one that I checked out way in the beginning of the year with Davy and Spencer! Now Kimya lives there

Olympia Free Choir Practice from Ted Passon on Vimeo.

Morning Walks

2008-12-05T10:18:00.000-08:00

I've been waking up early (ok, 8am isn't THAT early) with Erica to do morning walks in the woods.

Foggy view from the A dorm balcony:

A lumpy mossy tree:

A good climbing spot:

The gnome treehouse - named for a dozen gnomes guarding the area:

A little chair for a little gnome:

Holiday M&Ms

2008-11-12T19:34:00.000-08:00

Are green and red. Is every holiday associated with green and red? I don't think so.

Here is something that I wrote recently, not a Margy Pepper (formerly 4skin) song, just a solo thing. I didn't work very hard recording it, and my voice is post-m&m scratchy (you know when you eat so much chocolate that the inside of your throat feels thick?) But here it is anyway:

Morbid

A-B-Cs

2008-11-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

1. Check out 4skin's 2 recorded songs on our new music myspace: www.myspace.com/4skin4skin We've gotten a lot of good feedback! I check the myspace when I wake up, before class, after class, before I fall asleep.

2. Obama is going to win. Going to gather at a friend's dorm to watch it happen, and then probably dance all night. Wake up to a fresh, bright morning.

3. Gnarliest research paper of all time going on right now. If anyone wants a complete summary of the history and geography (pre-colonial up to the present day) of the Western Shoshone people, hit me up and I'll e-mail you a copy.

PLUS: Really neat guest lecture today about the Indian boarding schools. Did you know: Harvard and Dartmouth both started as institutions meant to christianize and "civilize" native people? Creeeepy.

RIOT

2008-10-31T00:09:00.001-07:00

Here's the new work, this one is a bookbag and it is huge, it is designed to fit LPs:

My snazzy stitching job:

Finito:

The lining and the LP pocket (MOM - the lining isn't CAMO, its CAMO-COLORED clouds, not advocating militarism, just clouds that can hide in the wilderness)

I'm going to take my camera OUT of my room TOMORROW to get some good snaps of the red leaves around here, and halloween costumes.

How Nice !

2008-10-18T13:14:00.000-07:00

Prospective House

Late for the Mail Room

2008-10-15T00:17:00.000-07:00

I was late for the mail room today which means that I missed getting my blanket which means that I'll sleep through another chilly-ish night. It's getting chilly-ish, the days are getting shorter. The few trees around that aren't evergreens are turning yellow and orange.

Tonight I made a fire on the beach with some friends - It was also yellow and orange. We weren't out there for too long, because we meant to go out to see the full moon but .. the coastline faces the wrong direction. We figured out mathematically: We'd have to wait until 1am to see the full moon over the Eld Inlet. Can't do that. Gotta wake up early tomorrow (and pack a lunch!) to go to Squaxin Island with my class. I'm very excited and interested and I have a list of questions to ask.

Here are some new bags. Piers and I have a lot of interested customers, non of whom are interested in paying.... Might set up a stand in Red Square when we've got more product.

Another messenger bag - much cleaner:

And a fanny pack !! Made out of a wild 90s winter jacket found at Goodwill

Also! The girls I've been playing music with (girl band formally called "4Skin") are invited to play a show on campus in November with a few other local bands! Practice all day Thursday (Rock'N'Roll Thursdays, Rock'N'Roll for breakfast, lunch, and dinner).

Just wanted to give a quick update. I'm going to try to carry my camera around more often so that I can post pictures of this world out here.

Serious Business

2008-10-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

Piers and I are making waterproof messenger bags !! We have a lot of ideas of different designs, and we're taking requests! These are our first monsters, pretty simple just to get the hang of it.

Watch out R.E. Load !

Dreams, Realities

2008-10-06T09:09:00.000-07:00

Dreams:

Last night I dreamt that I was in an animal museum with my bathroommate Paula. We were looking at a giant white lizard in a white marble case. I was talking about how I love the way that lizards move, and I started mimicking it, and the lizard got insulted and began to climb out of the cage. We didn't believe that it was climbing out till pretty late, and we started to run away. We tried to climb over a barrier to escape its chase, but I didn't get over and it bit me in the neck. Didn't hurt too bad.

Realities:

My roommate Maddy and I pasted this reminder on the mirror.

Projects

2008-09-25T01:30:00.001-07:00

1. "The Sitting Room Gallery": There are a few sitting rooms outside of bathrooms at Evergreen. They are pretty much white cement rooms with a mirror and a chair. As soon as I've collected enough student artwork, I'm going to curate a show in one. Will go up and come down in one night.

2. "The Lil John Tribute Band": Exactly what it sounds like. I play the mandolin, everyone sings. Will perform in an electrical room found on the rooftop of the library.

Philadelphia -> Olympia

2008-09-20T23:40:00.000-07:00

I'm here, and it's 11:40 pm but it feels like 3 in the morning which makes sense because that's where my brain is at. I just got home from a bonfire in the rainforest which was pretty sweet, meeting people making fire. You can walk up to anyone smiling and make a friend.

Here is my ode to Philadelphia:

Peace yall. Keep the weave tumbling.

Rowhouse

2008-09-16T09:36:00.001-07:00

Its quick entrance and foreseeable exit. The distance between is suspended, sipping light from the front and back doors. There is an underwater pulsing there, in the middle room, a fisheyed darkness. It is a thick place to walk through.

She's standing outside of the front door and talking loudly, though its daytime, and I try not to hear it but the screen door barely filters flies.

Boomp3.com

Checklist

2008-09-15T20:11:00.000-07:00

Each day has become a checklist: pack your things, Items that shouldn't be counted, are: say goodbye, go on a bike ride.

Days are ending all of a sudden and I've answered the same questions so many times that the truth of the answers has been lost --

Are you worried? No
Are you excited? Yes
Are you going to miss Philly? Not too much

(If I keep answering this way, I am convinced, I will never worry, I will always be excited, and Philly will always be my home.)

Checklist: Go to college, make friends, graduate from college, retain friendships, get a farm, smash capitalism, live happily

ever

after

Made Fresh Daily

2008-09-12T09:29:00.000-07:00

Hey, so, I want to get used to using this thing again so that when I leave I'll be ready to report. I have six more days in Philly, and I am here at home, an empty house, sipping coffee and plucking my mandolin. I'm getting over a little summer cold, which seems to be going around (or maybe I am spreading it around?).

I found an unfinished song by the Sisters just now. All the music was down in Maine, I added some words just now. It's about biking. I don't know if that was the initial intention, but... Here it is:

Boomp3.com

If anyone would like a copy of the complete Sisters collection, give me your address (in Florida or wherever) and I'll send a lovely little thing your way. Keep in mind: These will be worth a lot of money one day.

Two More

2008-07-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

This song is about needing a foot more space:

boomp3.com

This is Sarah and the waves and some strumming from my fingers:

boomp3.com

Where We've Been

2008-07-13T12:00:00.001-07:00

This one is called "Notes For Out West", and it should play even though it says that the file is deleted. Maybe it won't play, I don't know.

boomp3.com

This one is called "Ode To The Androscoggin". The Androscoggin is a river, and Umbagog is the body of water that that feeds it.

boomp3.com

Poetry-gone-photo-blog.

2008-06-21T19:13:00.000-07:00

Funny:

2008-06-17T12:47:00.001-07:00

"Here are a few tips on how you can make yourself more exciting:

1. Know where you are going in life. Have dreams and ambitions.
2. Have good tastes.
3. Write poetry or music.
4. Be culturally intelligent. Enjoy the arts and read the latest novels reviewed by the New Yorker.
5. Pick up a third or fourth language.
6. Have hobbies you are passionate about.
7. Do crazy things such as sky-diving or rock-climbing.
8. Travel, travel, travel.
9. Stay away from computer and video games. (Spend your time doing things that can make you more interesting or improve your quality of living instead.)
10. Act cool. If you act like you're cool, most people will assume you are cool."

Where Babies Come From (Free Write)

2008-05-20T09:02:00.000-07:00

Babies come from
flour that has puffed over
tin jar walls, and seems to disappear
but actually floats together
to a secret meeting place
in the garden, to make a floury
whole wheat baby.

Copper sulfate reflects blue light
and that is why the sky is blue.

The part of your brain
that is your memory
is locked in a nutshell -
thick, brown, like my bedroom door, hard to crack -
locked so that memory won't seep into the sack
that is your imagination (a fishnet sack, like the French
carry at the marketplace to hold fruits and veggies, when empty
you can ball it up very small) and there are these separations
in your brain, God made them, God help them,
so that you can distinguish what is real
from what is pretend.

Printmaking

2008-05-02T09:21:00.000-07:00

In the style of old newspapers - sepia ink lines - a hand fisted around fabric, the same fabric it is printed on, a delicate, sheer fabric. What is ownership?

Hell

2008-04-30T19:52:00.001-07:00

boomp3.com

Next Year !!!

2008-04-27T16:20:00.000-07:00

Frida 4 !

2008-04-21T09:17:00.001-07:00

She places the gray rectangle of shadow
above her chin, delicately as a name card
at a dinner setting. It is a simple truth –
that the sun's angle would darken this pattern - 
a math she calculates steadily, the way
she pulls silver through her earlobes.

This face invents her –
From it the audience can guess
of her spine, of her hips and wide toes -
It is a face that she’s chosen, a freedom
Known only to painters, to poets and creators.

She sits potted
before the mirror, tracing
over and over, her own contours
until the whole thing is blurred
and strange. Until it is time to reinvent
each line. She paints
the endless Mexican desert
behind her pupils. She sculpts her chin,
purses the red tin of her lips. 

As she works she imagines
tomorrow’s costume, the piles
of color that beg her to let them fall
over her frame at a party,
that want their weight draped around her ankles
that want to hide her whole thing
behind a shadowless, shapeless yellow.

Found Things

2008-04-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

I forget the difference:
Birds and People

The people in the other room
Whose faces I never see, I hear
That they have nose rings
Or blonde hair, features that hold
a swift confidence, a light and flexible neck
Whatever their faces, I know
Their voices; muffled squeaks and squabbles
that come quickly beneath the door
And through whatever spaces
our walls allow.

I forget the difference:
Birds and People
Sewing nests out of found things like
shoe lace or poetry or feathers or melody.

What It Is

2008-04-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

God sprinkles
wheat sprigs
from heaven
and birds use them
to make nests in my hair
and they also use
down feathers
from Spencer's bed.

Spring ends and eggs hatch and winter eats them and my silence grows.

I forget the difference:
Birds and People.
It is like dreadlocks
It is like branches
It is like woven leather
It is like barbed iron
It is like a beehive it is like a tumbler.

The Sea Is Calm

2008-04-08T18:41:00.001-07:00

I got off a few blocks early, today, and walked down Larchwood, home. It smelled like honeysuckles. That made me think of the honeysuckles that used to be in our backyard, that our neighbors tore down. I remembered racing Sarah to get at their sweetness - who could find a flower that hadn't been emptied of it's nectar? It reminded me of summer. Summer reminded me of smoke from grills and barbecues. I can't wait for this summer's barbecues. This summer's fresh lemonade. This summer's air rushing through the car window, on the ride to Detroit, Memphis, Austin, Mexico.

... I think this sounds like I'm comforting an overweight friend

2008-04-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

We stood together on thirteenth and spruce
Analyzing the physics of riding
On handlebars, how your weight
Means less the closer we are to each other.

Blurry Family

2008-03-30T14:02:00.000-07:00

Skip James

2008-03-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

The record ending is a piece of paper crumbled up and eaten.

It reminds me of bugs dying on light bulbs. It reminds me of brown curled leaf-ends. I wrote a letter and then I stopped. My hair crisped from a shooting flame, it felt like a record ending. The dirt has been dry, the roots have been aching over how to feed the leaves. I have a folder full of letters that I'll never send.

Distance pt. 4

2008-03-26T06:57:00.000-07:00

It is not written that he beat against the side of the mount or collapsed to tear at the earth: Moses standing on Mount Pisgah, overlooking the land of Israel, exiled by God. It is not written that his skin cracked in the heat like desert floor, that his lips split like the seas.

There are many who stand at borders, exiled behind walls or fences, stuck between checkpoints. Their trunks twist like olive trees, their eyes pain with want, their arms reach to the sky in peace-prayers and guns point at them like long, terrified fingers.

There is violence in borders, in the invisible lines that separate countries. There is violence in the refusal to travel language. There is violence in the refusal to stand at the mount with the exiled.

Mornings

2008-03-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

Open stage, windless instruments.
That early-morning alone with
wintry boughs cracking.

My knees are heaped around my ankles.
There is a crushed pretzel, its grains caught
between the rug loops, sticking, static.
Shadows are ideas from the windows: Muted traffic,
Church bells, someone searching for "Michael!"

The joints in my fingers have crumbled.
My hands lay beside me like empty plastic cups,
sideways and left behind.

Everything has happened already.
Elephants have fought here -
There are moon craters
where our feet danced,
there are mosaics
where we smashed bottles.
A discarded t-shirt flowers and molds in the corner.

Free Write 3/22 (Receipt)

2008-03-22T17:03:00.000-07:00

Time is walking like a crook:
We lived for years
in a tent under the interstate -
blue highway, blue tent,
pools in our ears -
We slept for years
in a refrigerator box on the rooftop
sucking asphalt and sun.

On fourth and lombard
all the people talking like typewriters -
"How could she hate her life, she lives
in Florida?" Long range planning backward
goals, the calendar is a little woman who tempts us
to commit the sin of plastic.

Yesterday the whole front of the bus squished together for a man in a wheelchair who told us not to smoke this is what it had done to him for fourty-seven years like an ex-wife pulling at his veins like reigns. A woman told him "that's proof that the lord loves you, he could have chosen to take you away." He said: "Any smokers on this bus you better quit or you'll end up like me." Today on the train a seventy-six year old homeless man preached: "You are my audience, between this stop and the next you cannot move, you are captive, you will listen to me beg and grovel and guilt your eyes until your pockets find change!"

Tallis, Weave, Scarves (Title?!)

2008-03-13T09:34:00.000-07:00

Six hundred and thirteen knots
hung around my head like mosquitoes,
a veil marking holiness, with blessings
sewn in blue thread: Blessed are you, universe,
blessed are your braids, that hang down a back
in shades of brown (coffee, caramel,
timberland boot tan) the colors found
in ironed streaks to be woven
into tender heads. The colors
tied in a cast down the arms of women:
"Scarves for sale", feathers for sale
from these migrant birds,
soft and heavy on their wings
that spread wide in display
until police come and they run like pigeons
from the foot of a child,
fringes scattering around the corner.

Philadelphian Cynicism

2008-03-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

Street Vendor Woman is holding a Hillary for President sign.
Construction Worker: She's a crook.
Street Vendor Woman: Everybody's a crook.

Seashell

2008-03-09T11:50:00.001-07:00

The washed bone of your spine
curls fetal, it is sun streaked – a shingle
of pail toenail, egg hip. Cream of crusts,
of ends, of palms.

You sleep, displaced, in dry meditation.
Your pulse is a memory of the tide, the bloated
belly of its swell, the soft pull like seaweed
round an ankle. How the water moved without direction,
turned you wet vagabond.

Your arms bend away in a bow,
low, in brown – the eldest orange, father
of sunset, born burnt. Like you,
it once traveled to blue.

Frida 3

2008-03-05T09:20:00.000-08:00

She places the gray rectangle of shadow
above her chin, delicately as a name card
at a dinner setting. It is a simple truth -
that the sun's angle would darken this patten -
a math that she calculates steadily, the way
she pulls silver through her earlobes.

This face invents her
as she sits potted
before the mirror, painting
the endless Mexican desert
behind her pupils, unlit. Pursing
the red tin of her lips.

She recalls sitting in a toilet stall, head sobbing between her bare knees. She recalls sitting on a stoop to call long distance, hesitating on the last digit, and no one answering after five brave rings. She recalls curling fetal on her floor, surrounded by piles of colors, clothes, ideas, straining over which costume to bear.

She mixes these recollections
into a dark rouge
for her cheeks.

Frida 2

2008-02-26T10:25:00.003-08:00

She places the gray rectangle of shadow
above her chin, delicately as a name card
at a dinner setting. It looks like Velcro
and roughs her skin. She hangs silver mirrors
from her earlobes, and paints the endless
Mexican desert behind her pupils, unlit.
She purses the red tin of her lips.

This face invents her
as she sits potted
before the mirror.

Outside of the frame
her hands are cupping the sun and
shifting with its hours.

Frida

2008-02-20T17:49:00.001-08:00

A rectangle of shadow is beneath
her bottom lip, a gray patch, as if
placed there by her own hand,as she invents
a face for the mirror, with an immense look,
like the endless Mexican desert is behind her pupils, unlit,
or like a funerary portrait, the dead eyeing
death. She sits almost potted, there.
Her lips are tin painted red.

Evesdropping On Penn Students

2008-02-20T17:47:00.000-08:00

"I wish that my Uggs
Had rock salt super-glued
To their soles so that
Ice would just melt
Wherever I walked!"

Evesdropping On 6 Year-Olds

2008-02-20T17:35:00.000-08:00

"You're blushing"
"I'm always blushing,
My cheeks are just
Like that - I was born
Blushing, something
Must have embarrassed me
In the womb."

Tallis, Scarves, Condensed

2008-02-19T12:49:00.000-08:00

Six hundred and thirteen knots
mark holiness. Six hundred
and thirteen braids
hanging down a back in shades
of brown (coffee, caramel,
timberland boot tan) the colors
tied in a cast down the arms of these women:
"Scarves for sale", feathers for sale
from these migrant birds, soft
and heavy on their wings spread
wide in display until
police come and they run like pigeons
from the foot of a child,
fringes scattering around the corner.

The world's richest fifth:

2008-02-10T13:39:00.000-08:00

Consume 45% of all meat and fish
Consume 58% of total energy
Have 74% of all telephone lines
Consume 84% of all paper
Own 87% of the world’s vehicle fleet

Thinking About Leaving,

2008-02-03T15:07:00.000-08:00

Things to always remember about home:
How the kitchen was, is, will always be yellow and chipping.
The couch pillows being really really dirty on the underside.
The TV antennas that point in all kinds of directions without ever picking up a signal.

Watching Carlos' Kitchen from the Sofabed

2008-02-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

The blue shaded noon light
on the tiles, their golden edges
look like frames wanting paintings.
The microwave knobs are sun dials,
the cabinets are great white columns.

(The way things begin to look
after a few days in Rome.)

Recent Thoughts - Overwhelmed

2008-02-03T07:24:00.000-08:00

Left hand spread wide
to cover his own face,
as he runs crouched, all knees,
eyeballs peeking between fingers,
a hood and a bandana and the night,
anything dark to hide behind.

One person makes a thing and another person makes another thing and everyone wants everything. The peace and order of society becomes more important than the relief of the miserable.

He sprayed a can of red paint
in her face, that's what the blood
looked like, a perfect circle
of aerosol rose. It took 140 stitches
to put her nose back on.

"Criminals get sentenced, but not the machine that keeps churning them out, just as drug addicts get sentenced but not the lifestyle that cries out for chemical consolation and an illusion of escape." - Galeano

Bodies gathered in line to be casted
in the single mold of consumer society.
As we wait our turn, we argue the statistics
of a quarterback, the mechanics of sex.
We emerge from the plaster to become
military men and McDonalds fryers,
even Adam Smith knew: "The man
whose life is spent in performing a few simple operations
generally becomes as stupid and ignorant
as it is possible for a human creature to become."

Sleep Like A King

2008-01-21T07:38:00.000-08:00

I slept so much last night, woke up and kept sleeping, woke up kept sleeping, woke up sleeping. Now I'm at the kitchen table, clean and bare, mom must have felt inspired, all that's on the table is a roll of paper towels, a pen, and a bottle of wine. And now my cup of orange juice and two eggs... I'm going to make eggs in a second.

Thank you Martin Luther King Jr. for a day off from school. It feels good.

The Day After Thanksgiving

2008-01-15T10:15:00.001-08:00

The houses and my face:
Pink blotched cheeks, swollen
wood of door frames in the cold,
locking the weather in or out.

The fogged heat of breath
smothered in a scarf, the intimate
taste of in and out. The frosted
dell in silence, a sleeping cello
whose strings hang loose like wisps
of hair lost from their ponytail.

The cellist only knows lullabies, anyway,
off from school and the dishwashing.

The Art of Rocking a Stoop

2008-01-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

A word resonates
at the end of a line like
a boy on the edge
of a stoop.

Hold (revision)

2008-01-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

Cling fast, as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.
It is the low waver of a church organ.
It radiates from the forehead.

Tucked between holiday cards, I keep
your ash in an envelope. Your face remained
still when I asked you to flick your cigarette
into my palm. It has turned, since, from solid
to smear of rain cloud. Cling

fast, as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.
It is the low waver of a church organ.
It radiates from the forehead.

4 Minutes Attempting Fiction

2008-01-10T10:20:00.000-08:00

The saxaphone hangs like a cross around his neck. He stands onstage, touching its buttons. He lifts it and looks into its bell. He whispers something into it, something private. I wish that I could find something private to say to him. I'm always leaning into his ear with nothing in my mouth.

I am only drinking water. I wonder what the charge will be - for water and watching this musician touch his instrument. This musician. I hope that he'll begin to play soon. I hope that he'll blow loudly enough to excuse me from my silence, some kind of screaming improvisation that doesn't mean anything. Blabbers. I imagine myself whispering blabbers into his ear, him nodding, nodding, turning to look at my face.

He plays C, F7, G7, a blues. The drummer shakes his snare. I eye down the waiter and order a drink. A real drink that costs money.

Observation 2

2008-01-09T13:36:00.003-08:00

West Philly doesn't need tumbleweed. We've got black plastic bags.

Observation 1

2008-01-09T13:36:00.000-08:00

Before mirrors, nakedness
bulges, looses over waist edges,
squeezes into the sharp angles
of ankles. But Before nakedness,
nakedness smooths.

Memory in Present Tense

2008-01-08T17:01:00.000-08:00

Hooded figures run between their groceries and their trunks, treating everything like eggs. My shirt soaks straight to my skin, pink and satin. The rain is a pencil cross hatching. The bus number is a fog light in the distance. A shopping cart flies across the parking lot into a van. A blurry man asks if I need a ride. My hair sticks to my cheeks.

Ode to the Operator

2008-01-08T16:54:00.000-08:00

(Decided to go back and revise this again)

The operator was buried.
She lost her job, and slowly
her cheeks began to hang
like sound waves, and ultimately

The operator was buried.

With her went
the lattice edged ring,
the ear against heavy black,
the fisted grip and slight weight.

There is no longer pleasure in waiting,
no "expected" call, no magic
in the science of wires, only

Why aren't you answering your phone?

I'm calling because I'm on the bus,
cell phone in hand,
with nothing to say.

Tallis, Weave, Scarves, Feathers

2008-01-06T09:22:00.000-08:00

Six hundred and thirteen knots
mark holiness. Six hundred
and thirteen braids
tickling a back in shades
of brown (coffee, caramel,
timberland boot tan).

Shades of brown, the colors
of the scarves tied in a cast
down the arms of the immigrant women
in display, scarves for sale, soft
and heavy on their arms
when police come
and they run like pigeons
from the foot of a child,
scarf fringes scattering.

(They run with their arms spread wide
there is no other way to run
with so many scarves
and only two arms)

Much simpler:

There are these women, immigrants, who sell scarves on the street in Rome. They tie the scarves around their arms so that when they stand still they can be a human sales rack. But what they're doing is illegal, they don't have permits to make money on any particular slab of pavement. And when the police come, they've got to run away. WIth the scarves all hanging from their arms, when they run, they look like huge birds. Like huge pigeons running from the foot of a child. When they make it around the corner, they'll tie the scarves up and put them in a bag and pretend that they aren't birds but regular people who aren't doing anything but walking.

Much different:

There are migrant birds who sell their feathers on the streets of Rome. Their feathers are very valuable, and come in all shades of brown. They stand on the corners with their wings spread wide so that passersby can see their collection and admire their beauty and softness and weight.

Hold

2008-01-03T15:06:00.001-08:00

I've kept your cigarette ash
in an envelope, labeled it,
tucked it between old holiday cards
and journals. The inside is a smear
of rain cloud, you've got to peer
delicately in.

What is keeping? How do you hold?

According To My Sister...

2008-01-01T14:48:00.000-08:00

Some writer wrote something about measuring Rome's grandeur by the weight of water that runs through it daily. Do you know that they have fountains all over the city? And drinking fountains, for walkers and their dogs? And thousands of sinks, and showers, and toilets? And a hundred million teeth to be brushed in the morning. There is a universal tooth-brushing face, whether you live in a city rushing with water, or not. There is a certain pained rectangle that every mouth becomes.

DROOL

2007-12-28T05:23:00.000-08:00

Sounds of Silence

2007-12-26T14:58:00.001-08:00

Sarah is breathing. If a metronome were made of cotton, it would be her sleeping beat. The balcony is behind me and the long blue curtains, and below that, cars on the cobblestones, and closed-down shops, and the last dog-walkers of the night. Sarah just whispered something, sounded like "delinquent" or "did he quit". The pipes are dripping water somewhere. Everything is louder in the dark. I want to know about being alone. About relationships. About columns, and their arches, and their strength and their balance. I want to know whether my breath matches my sister's in the night, how the room sounds when no one is listening. Today I heard "The Sounds of Silence" played by an Ecuadorian street musician, in Rome. I recognized the tune as it came up the hill to where we stood over the Forum, looking out over that field of ruins. Carlos sang along in Spanish. I want to know who stole bricks from the Colosseum and where they are now. There are holes in all of the ruins, where bricks used to be, empty little altars, homes for pigeons, cloaks from the rain.

Dear E.K. Daniel,

2007-12-19T08:22:00.000-08:00

Why does the universe need a cause or explaination?
How come God can exist without a cause or explaination
and the universe can't?
Eff you,

Ruth.

Mother - rough

2007-12-17T08:52:00.000-08:00

She holds the milkman's hours
on her eyelids, five thirty, six o'clock
in the creases of her palm.

Does the early kitchen fog
remind her of Ohio?
Does the pressing coffee remind her
of her father's cream jugs?

A gray damp newspaper
creases under her elbow
and the radio voices glimpse
like birds at the feeder.

She's shaped her windows like his.

TO DO

2007-12-16T16:48:00.001-08:00

More like: DOODOO.

Secrets

2007-12-09T10:19:00.001-08:00

I can hold my cheeks
and shut my eyes
and be a fog horn.

Packing Tea For David Hall (rev)

2007-12-06T10:35:00.000-08:00

Dearest Donald Hall of Kensington, Massachusetts,
I packed your tea today.
I watched every leaf and stem
roll like dirt and stones
from a corroding mountain.
I imagined how they would open in your cup,
and how you would think of words to describe them,
such as "flowering" and "rain-wet".

Mr. Hall, perhaps
my tea would appear
in your poems!

I filled your bags delicately,
all of those hearty Keemuns,
and chest-heaving Yunnans -
What are you doing
drinking such dark teas,
Donald?

I was going to copy down your address
(and I’d be the most gentle stalker)
when I noticed that you are a David,
a painter, a carpenter, a businessman,
a Massachusetts man with no relation to Donald at all.

I imagined you finding tea at your doorstep
in the morning, and brewing it in the late evening,
smeared yellow oil on your cheek,
a hammer in your back pocket,
your briefcase tired and opened.

I hope you find the Christmas cookies
hidden between the pages
of your receipt.

Ode to the Old Ringer (rev)

2007-12-06T10:27:00.000-08:00

Title?

There is more than conversation
in Bogart's hand, his cigarette teeth speak
to substance, and his eyes can almost see
the operator’s cheek, that curves
like a wave of sound.

It is no longer
the lattice edged ring,
not the ear against heavy black.
It is not the same grip, or weight.
There's really not much
to hold onto
at all.

There is no pleasure of waiting, anymore
no "expected" call, no magic
in the science of wires, only

Why aren't you answering your phone?

I'm calling you because I'm on the bus
and my phone is in my hand
and I have nothing to say.

Tea Person 2 (rev)

2007-12-04T19:44:00.000-08:00

"Just shows you the boss is listening", a shaking referral to the rain and God and our complaints. His teeth are everywhere, leaning in every direction, swinging when he speaks. An unintended force behind his language.

Light is coming between his ear and balding skull, from that place where magicians find quarters, handkerchiefs, rabbits.

He finds the perfect Assam, like a king, pointing, chin up, summoning forth each tin, too fat, too skinny, just right. He smells it tenderly, Sessa, over and over, as I count up his change.

When The Polar Ice Caps Melt

2007-12-02T12:01:00.001-08:00

The night is underwater
and the globe doesn't mind,
it is spinning in circles, as usual.

The people are puff-cheeked
and wide-eyed, an ending that is neither
epic or romantic, just a little goofy,
as we doggy paddle toward each other
and attempt to express our last minute love
for one another, that kiss of life - with the violins
and the death-drop background - is impossible.
Any embrace would be too heavy
to float.

Cutting Weight

2007-12-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

He sleeps in trash bags.
He runs in them, too.
He's collecting his sweat
in glass jars
and sending them
to his mother.

Thank you for the fat,
I used it, thank you.

Packing Tea for Donald Hall

2007-11-27T19:13:00.000-08:00

Dearest David Hall
of Kensington, Massachusetts,
I packed your tea today
thinking you were Donald Hall,
esteemed poet.

I watched every leaf and stem
and imagined how they would open in your cup,
and how you would think of words to describe them,
such as "flowering" and "rain-wet".

Perhaps my tea
would appear
in your poems!

I filled your bags delicately,
all of those hearty Keemuns,
and chest-heaving Yunnans -
What are you doing
drinking such dark teas,
Donald? ... David?

I was going to copy down your address
when I noticed that you are David Hall,
perhaps a distant cousin of Donald's,
a painter, or perhaps a Massachusetts man
with no relation at all. Whoever you are,
I gave you a few Christmas cookies.

College Applications

2007-11-25T11:31:00.000-08:00

i know my own name
and my social security number
and my address (permanent and mailing)
and my parent's names
and the name of my high school
soooooo well.

A Poem About Cell Phones?

2007-11-22T09:01:00.000-08:00

(Brainstorming the things
you could be doing instead
of answering my phone calls)

1. Killing someone
2. Painting someone
3. Making a sandwich
4. Lost somewhere

It is no longer
the lattice edged ring,
not the ear against heavy black plastic -
Bogart's ear, and his cigarette teeth,
and his eyes pointed down suspiciously.

It is not even
the same grip, anymore.
There's really not much
to hold onto
at all.

There is no pleasure of waiting
by the telephone, no "expected" call,
no magic in the science
of wires, only

Why aren't you answering your phone?

I'm calling you because I'm on the bus
and my phone is in my hand and I have nothing
to say.

AP Biology

2007-11-19T19:00:00.000-08:00

Explain your body, held
in its own hands -
Who does it need and
how does it occur?

Father is cooking

2007-11-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

"I was born in a house with Thelonious Monk on all the time."

Places That Are Difficult To Find

2007-11-14T18:26:00.000-08:00

I don't want
to call your skin
transparent -
it is less glass
than tracing paper.

But I do imagine
finding things
in your veins -
dogs or candy bars,
such things as we find
in clouds.

But let's forget
the familiar -

What can you tell me
about the brownish corners
of my lips, that look
like the syrup residue
of a hot chocolate?

Self Aware Poem (cut short)

2007-11-14T18:22:00.000-08:00

Hello you are reading a poem starting now,
Do as I say.

Write poem on your index finger:
Po-knuckle-em.

Hook the thing around your belt loop on the side,
and stand with all your weight on that hip and just
stare past the man walking by who wants to ask you to dinner,
you know, just ask yourself to dinner.

Take yourself home, too, flatter and flirt with yourself.
Push your own breast into your own chest.
Push this poem into the soft hair of your genitals,
and curl them around this poem, let them learn it.

HamburgerRuebenChickenSaladSquash!

2007-11-05T09:38:00.000-08:00

kind of wanting a fixed gear.
kind of for the snob appeal.
but also:

"I still feel that varable gears are only for people over forty-five. Isn't it better to triumph by the strength of your muscles than by the artifice of a derailer? We are getting soft...As for me, give me a fixed gear!"
--Henri Desgrange, L'Équipe article of 1902

i kind of want to be that guy.

then again, may be dangerous.
especially considering that
all i think about while biking
is food.

Fame!

2007-11-05T09:31:00.001-08:00

looklook magical gianna drew mah character:

Sister

2007-11-04T09:52:00.000-08:00

Sister
I can't wait to see you
and remember how our brains fit together
like snuggling,
I was just thinking about how we would share
new writings with each other
and know just
what the other isn't remembering
to think of.
Twin! I missyou.

Am I Too Far Gone? (College Essay Intro?)

2007-11-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

We are taking our senior class picture: One hundred and fifty kids on the front steps, arms thrown up like a roller coaster ride. But the reality of graduation is stuffing the screams, for me, it is all muted. The let-down of our "legacy" is holding fast the camera's clicks, wrapping the school bell in a silent ring.

A ring that is a mosquito stuck in my skull, as a mideival torture device, a bell rung in an ear to drive one mad. Or, it is a ring that I wear in marraige with this high school experience, a heavy and permanent reminder, as the coffee ring on the table, from hours of reading and drinking and reading, looking up to see the ring around the moon, the day gone by.

(ring --> city)

You see, the city lights spell out truths at night. They do. I've stood on rooftops reading them. They say: "It is all in here", "it is all elsewhere". In a constellation, they spell the words of Robert Creeley: "It is, rather, that there is no relief, no solution or ending to come to. Only place itself can offer a place to be, a chance to recognize the world with whatever one has brought to it."

You see, the city lights reflect a thousand twinkling moons into the river, enough little moons for us all to drown reaching for. A person can pay their whole body and mind for that thought. And a person can drown in it. The secret is to stand firmly in balance, frame wide, and to begin and end with questions.

he is god.

2007-11-01T07:25:00.001-07:00

Susan M. Williams, Nashville, TN: Robert Haas, what is your favorite word?
your least favorite word?
What turns you on?
What turns you off?
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?
What profession, other than yours, would you not like to participate in?
Finally, if heaven exists, what do you expect to hear God say when you arrive?

Robert Hass: What is the necessary word?
What are the least sufficient words?
What turns you in?
What turns you out?
What species of New England bog berry do you love, regret in the pulp and the sky ashy?
What animal insolence, what bell of what round in the contest between anguish and delight provokes you?
What feather of the winter cardinal would you like to attempt?
What taxi cab meter, measuring the fare uptown toward coffee con leche or the hurt dance of recalcitrant marionettes would you not like to participate in?
Finally, if poetry exists, what do you expect the grass to say, Susan?

Crazy Trolley Man

2007-10-31T09:51:00.000-07:00

Singing a throat-throbbing dry song, veteran,
your faded army cap shades your eyes, watching
your index and thumb, so poised in space,
a ballet trigger practiced stillness,
pulling the invisible string of a chord
along in the air

Now, shaking cracked hands, you know both ways,
a loose pleading gesture, up and down
as if you're centering a pot - but stone,
not soft mud and clay, never in those hands,
always the rought, sedentary edges.

Lean back onto no pillow,
lean back into space and sleep.

For Love of Sleep

2007-10-29T19:18:00.000-07:00

I started to study,
already read a few pages, so,
now I know more than I did before,
and will do better on the test
than if I'd done nothing at all.

That is logical, for love of sleep, yes, sleep.

Do You Taste Organic?

2007-10-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

I'm only writing short prose observations of crazy people right now. what is that about? im really accumulating a bunch of them... "crazy veteran on trolley", "blind flute lady", "ms. tired eyes", and on and on. i suppose i am putting my people-watching skills to some good use, but... good use? really? what does an observation peice matter? what does it add to art? does everything have to mean something? Answer: No, no, no, some things are vegetable broth, some things are duck soup. Remember? Yes. I remember.

School related stress right now. That's no good. I really don't believe in it. I can't wait until these college applications are gone gone gone. Maybe this warrants a blues tune.

This morning someone was blasting Hendrix in the hallway at school. A stereo plugged into the wall just sitting there by my locker, didn't seem to belong to anyone. It was there when I left, all untended and loud. Did you know that I listened to all and only Jimi Hendrix for a good few years of my life? Fact.

Today some health food nuts came to CAPA and gave a huge bag of apples to each advisory. I stole the bag for advisory number 304 and ran around the lunchroom throwing them like money. That felt good. Except they weren't actually apples, they were bags of sliced apples that had some additive to keep them looking fresh. Amber said "these don't taste organic".

Oh, and: Pomegranates are native to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, and North India.

Tea Person 2

2007-10-27T13:31:00.000-07:00

Shaking words, "just shows you the boss is listening", referring to the rain and God and our complaints. His teeth are really everywhere, leaning in every direction, swinging when he speaks.

The light is somewhere between his ear and balding skull, coming in to shine in my eyes, in that place where magicians find quarters and handkerchiefs. It is blinding his face from me. Maybe he is Jesus. Might mistake him for homeless outside, but here, he finds the perfect Assam, like a king, pointing, chin up, summoning forth each tin, too fat, too skinny, just right. He smells it tenderly, Sessa, over and over, as I count up change for his fifty dollar bill.

Tea Person 1

2007-10-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

A curled old woman, skin flaking in drops from her chin and nose-tip, eyes so glassly, like she's about to cry. What is this condition, disease? A charcoal line on her eyelids, a perfect curve, as she looks down to count her dollars.

get pumped.

2007-10-20T07:33:00.001-07:00

(I'm going to try to post pictures of my bruises later.)

(i got into 2 bike accidents yesterday.)

Short Story in Jumbles

2007-10-20T07:11:00.000-07:00

My hair sticks to my cheeks when I whip my head around,
trying to watch all of my sides.

A shopping cart flies across the parking lot
as if posessed, a great hand of wind and rain tricking it into the side of a van,
whose alarm sounds, threatening the thief, the rain, the shopping cart,
all turned over and shaking, now, wheels spinning.

A blurry man with a beard and a stuffed car asks if I need a ride.

This strip mall, a few hooded figures running between their groceries and their trunks,
trying to keep the bread dry, perhaps, trying not to crush the eggs, trying to keep the ice cream
cold. It would stay cold, this night. My shirt soaked straight to my skin, pink and satin,
that felt like a cut, and the rain stinging its walls like peroxide.

A pencil grey cross hatch surrounding everything. A bus in the distance
taking so long, it's name and number like a fog light,
orange, casting sickness across my face.

ALRIGHT, feel bad for my sorry ass.

LONG AND ROUGH (is how i like my poems)

2007-10-18T17:53:00.000-07:00

Jessica's breads in a tin foil bundle,
the banana candy insides, all wafting upwards -
Do smells disappear?
Do they land on the shoulders of boys,
who carry them so far as the swimming pool,
and later, so far as the locker room shower,
and still later, to the ocean's edge.

Or do they separate and fade, like couples,
continents, the words of a poem.
If so, then, where are their graves?
My grandfather's cigarette train,
my sister's vanilla garden,
Cara's basketball sweat embrace,
where do they fall, where can I go to visit them,
with flowers and stones?

----

**and then maybe this additional bit:

I remember the passenger seat of our dust blue Nissan,
the straps pulling at my neck when I'd ask
my driving mother to please explain the science in everything.

Do smells disappear?

She told me to keep a notebook of questions.

**and somehow get to:

Many poems are only questions,
many words separate and fade,
many words stick to the pockets of my jeans
through the laundry, through the walking of three days,
and rediscovered..

**what?

Running Water is Also Evil

2007-10-14T17:06:00.000-07:00

Reed interview today - went well. Probably because I danced for a good half hour beforehand to Taj Mahal. He really brightens up everything, I always have a good day when I listen to him in the mornings. Anyhow, me and this Luke person talked about biking and poetry and gentrification and West Africa and it all felt good good good. I was really happy about the interview. He encouraged me to to send poetry with my application, and said that they'd rather have a great, interesting student who looks mediocre on paper than a bland person who looks perfect on paper. Word.

Also: Looking at chocolate bars at Penn Bookstore Cafe beforehand. One of them had like.. chocolate related astrology things? "Aries: Will eat the entire bar on the way home from the shop." And I did just that. (Sarah - the Libra one said: "Will buy two bars, to share with someone." You punk.)

Now for the homework.

(Afterthought)

2007-10-10T09:55:00.000-07:00

What is there to say about four women,
strangers to each other, sitting together, staring
at computers.

I wish we would stare with that dedication
into each other's faces. To learn them.

Isn't that what this is all about?
Making things less strange?

(One of us throws her hands to her ears
when the construction machines sound,
it is such a fearful, immediate gesture..)

Revision - She'll Be A Church Lady One Day, But Not Today, Today She Has A Son

2007-10-09T18:21:00.001-07:00

She is thinking about the expression:
"cling fast", as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.

The low waver of the church organ
radiates from her forehead.

Her ache sits still
between her belly and her thighs:
Her sun in half-sleep, fingers curled
around her braids, that crawl her back
like spiders, tickle her skin like
tall grass. His laughter hangs
from his chin like spit.

Folk Song Remix

2007-10-09T10:57:00.000-07:00

When there is no more paper
left in my house, no scraps left
to write upon, when my walls
and floors are black
and my ceilings,
and the backs of my hands,
when my arms and thighs
are covered in script tattoos,
I will peel off my skin,
I will pile all the papers,
I will pull down the wallpaper -
those long thin Torah strips -
and in one cardboard box,
box big as a house,
I will send it to you,
the whole of it,
and this poem will be a letter
taped on top.
When you read it, you will understand
your duty to unpack.

Prayer 2, or, Angst Galore

2007-10-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

God, I am naked
and all the water in the world
is too shallow
to cover me.
I've been robbed,
what shall I do?
I am here.
Can you hear me?
You have robbed me.
What shall I do?

CMON EDDIE LEMME SNEAK THIS ONE BY

2007-10-05T10:20:00.001-07:00

ARGHH

i can't get any new books out

cuz i still haven't returned James Tate

(he is the shit. the depressing shit, but whatever.)

MOTHERFUCK.

College Essay Attempt #10,000,000

2007-10-05T10:03:00.001-07:00

(On the blog because the library won't save your files.)

We've just taken our senior class picture: One hundred and fifty kids on the front steps, arms thrown up and screaming, like a roller coaster ride. The reality of graduation and college is muting everything - I can't hear the screams, the camera's clicks, the schoolbell ringing.

I remember road trips, when I was younger. I used to gaze out of the window, and the blurring trees and traffic symbols, and plot out my imaginary farm. Draw the plans for my future community center, my cafe, my bookstore. Awake, I could dream forever of college life. In these fantasies, I was my best self, curled up in a chair with a book, or involved in animated conversation with friends, discussing Locke, Kant, Shakespeare, Homer. I imagined class discussions: A bunch of students and our proffessor, searching together for the essence of some subject. This would be - not the life - but life itself. Living. Living is in spirited conversation and meaningful texts. I couldn't stop dreaming.

That living is where I wished I was, it was what I imitated when I skipped school to go to my favorite cafe and read.

I've hated high school. I've felt under-educated, uninspired, alienated. So I didn't try very hard. I was impatient. Early on, I began to believe in self-education, the way a scientist believes in Carbon. (See Exhibit A. **I made a collage of some notes I've taken in self-education, quotations from different books, graphs of plots, things from my notebooks, if you've ever seen my notebooks.) I read poetry, literature, philosophy, anything I could get my hands on, and researched a LOT about education theory and alternative schooling.

And oh, conicidence! Two women sitting across from me are discussing where to send their kids to high school. "Don't do it! Don't send them! Let them roam and study what their hearts desire!!" I want to tell them, "High school is an oppressive institution, it will ruin their minds, it will devour their inspiration, it will turn their thoughts into badly analyzed numbers." One of them is wearing a shirt that says "American Woman". Yes, this is correct, public education is an American problem.

And then I really begin to ramble about how shitty Philly schools are, and the causes (capitalism, racism, classism), so here I stop. Thoughts? Should I not mention skipping school? This is just a beginning, but it's the best version I've written so far. Also - should I mention how I am friends with the security guard at the library (above mentioned - Eddie)? And I need to work in how I left Masterman because I hated their philosophy, but how CAPA hasn't fit well because their standards are so low, and how I've been trying to work this education thing out my way, by taking classes at Rutgers this year, but it's all still so UNSATISFYING.

No college will ever accept me.

Revision!

2007-10-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

His voice was once a silver trumpet -
all the pride of the shining band
was in his air song,
was in his dust stomp.

All gone to the mice,
to the blues, now, to Georgian heat
on the killing room floor.

The clock in his cab says
11:15 in the dazzling afternoon.
It says that. Though it is 9pm and raining.
It lies like that. All spelled out clear, in red digital dots.
Like the constellations in city lights this night,
that spell out line drawings
of the mythical heroes of America:

Wave-riding cowboys, freight-hopping vagabonds,
with bullets to spare.

This is not a voice to be won or lost, he thinks.
No, it is only to be dampened, to be moldy, a loaf of bread
on the sidewalk this night. It is only
to thin out like an old flannel nightgown,
to scratch last hollers to the moon.

i love the word "vagabond"

2007-10-02T15:53:00.000-07:00

His voice was once a slick trumpet,
shining in an outdoor band.
His throat has since been scratched out
by malevolent mice, this killer sickness
that crawls through his cab, hides behind his wheel,
stares with him at his digital clock until three am.

All of his old Nigerian air song, gone to the mice.
Just blues now, just Georgian heat
on the killing room floor.

It is dark and raining, though his clock says
eleven fifteen in the dazzling afternoon.
It says that. It lies like that. All spelled out in clear, red digital dots.
Like the constellations in city lights at night,
the line drawings of the mythical heroes of America:

Wave-riding cowboys, wet vagabonds, with bullets to spare.

This is not a land to be won or lost, he thinks,
no, it is only a song, to be dampened,
to become moldy, to thin out like an old flannel nightgown,
to scratch last hollers to the moon.

Song 1

2007-10-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

Hell is in the back pocket of her pants,
folded in a sqaure, a little letter to a man.
Hell, hell, hell in the pocket of her pants,
when I grabbed her ass, it burnt my hand.

My Brain, Your Brain

2007-09-27T18:44:00.000-07:00

This is for my brain:
1. Wake up
2. Get dressed
3. Use MOM'S bike, not YOURS, or you will DIE from not having BRAKES
4. Go to school
5. Go to Mr. Meketon
6. At 2:30 meet Keith and Bill and bike home with them
7. Force them to fix your bike
8. Meet Phil - Jobs for Justice Dinner (DON'T BE GRIMEY)
9. Go to Tosh's house
10. Drink some wine and sing some songs
11. SLEEP

This is for yours:
1. Do you hate waking up to alarm clocks?
2. Do you think about what you wear?
3. Do your brakes hang low, do they wobble to and fro?
4. Do you think that school is oppressive or liberating?
5. Do you have a wonderful mentor?
6. Do you think that bikers are cooler than regular people?
7. Do you think that my bike is fixable?
8. Do you know what Jobs for Justice is?
9. Do you think that Tosh is good people?
10. Do you think that wine and singing is a sophisticated way to spend an evening?
11. Do you love to sleep?

in my dreams i have facial hair

2007-09-26T14:30:00.000-07:00

look look! there goes ruth in her house boat!!