Poetry-gone-photo-blog.

Funny:

"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)

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

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

boomp3.com

Next Year !!!

Frida 4 !

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.