tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68888934313849142302024-03-05T05:43:11.582-06:00We Are Not AVerseAre we?Tim DeMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04772800507437961307noreply@blogger.comBlogger460125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-26165647811823618092013-03-31T23:06:00.000-05:002013-03-31T23:08:29.351-05:00cinema vows<span style="font-size: x-small;">it'll never be perfect like </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">breakfast at tiffany's, but</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">we can still get a cat named cat,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and i'll still kiss you 'i'm sorry' </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">in the rain on 57th street. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">i promise to write all our fights like </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">aaron sorkin, quick quips quilting</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">together until they hang between us in sheets,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">all barbed wire and typewriter keys. (it's fine,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">we'll use them as drapes). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and if christopher nolan ever flips </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">our hallway, i promise, i'll throw the gun away</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">before my subconscious can fire at anything</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">your mom bought us. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and if kubrick's elevator ever opens up</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and all the blood pours out,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">i promise, i'll be there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">i'll have floaties. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and even if this whole world turns </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">out to be a fake, i promise, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">i'll unplug us from the matrix, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">and we'll go learn kung-fu. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">but more than this, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">more than any of it, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">i promise,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">we will never, ever, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">become gigli. </span></div>
Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-70821423205571599712012-05-01T00:13:00.002-05:002012-05-01T00:13:14.874-05:00The PITTonight I stepped on a lobster.<div>
A live lobster.</div>
<div>
Like really alive.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I ruined its escape. </div>
<div>
It made it out of the Whole Foods bag</div>
<div>
and was headed for Coney Island.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Its sad little claws</div>
<div>
bound by rubber bands. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a hard life on the streets</div>
<div>
for a lobster. </div>Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-66528670691818546232012-04-30T16:19:00.000-05:002012-04-30T16:19:36.931-05:00Made ItIf you wait long enough,<br />
maybe<br />
the destination will arrive at you.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-4568146461155672562012-04-29T23:15:00.001-05:002012-04-29T23:18:53.293-05:00U.S. UniformTo show off spring<br />
colors, they've assembled<br />
rows of white ass.<br />
From the back, hips<br />
jut suggestively outward,<br />
small swatches of plastic<br />
covered by panties<br />
in cool greens and blues.<br />
<br />
But these are man-hips,<br />
boy-hips in truth,<br />
that line the window<br />
in their garish fluorescence.<br />
No man would contort<br />
himself thus for show,<br />
and I feel dirty letting<br />
these boys thrust for me.<br />
<br />
I walk past late at night<br />
and see my own face<br />
superimposed on the bright<br />
briefes, the manifest bulges,<br />
and wonder what they'd like<br />
me to buy, and who would,<br />
from one who would twist<br />
even plastic boys this way.dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-37638652047049481582012-04-29T10:13:00.002-05:002012-04-29T10:14:14.518-05:00If chivalry is really dead,<br />
then maybe I should stop minding<br />
its fontanelle.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-49092399410194678722012-04-28T22:34:00.001-05:002012-04-28T22:40:53.064-05:00Cabin in the Woods<div><p>I just saw a film by Joss Whedon<br>
Where we all got to laugh about Sweden<br>
But the US failed too<br>
So the old Gods renew<br>
Their strength, thanks to Shaggy the hedon.</p>
</div>dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-57249578843561068052012-04-28T16:09:00.001-05:002012-04-28T16:10:47.256-05:00One YearIt never would have worked.<br />
<br />
You hate limes. You sleep with<br />
one sock on. You dislike modern<br />
art and Les Fleurs du Mal and you<br />
were only so-so on Sufjan.<br />
<br />
You never noticed what I wore,<br />
what perfume I put on, if my<br />
hair fell differently. You didn't<br />
read Invisible Cities even though<br />
you had it for five months.<br />
<br />
You fought dirty, always wrapping<br />
your words in barbed wire. You<br />
like the Harry Potter films more<br />
than the books. You run at 4am.<br />
<br />
Who runs at 4am?<br />
<br />
And whenever I'd lean over, you'd spread out,<br />
taking up every inch of warm space under<br />
the sheets and laughing when I'd kick you<br />
and try to take it back again.<br />
<br />
It never would have worked.<br />
<br />
Though once in a while, I'll find<br />
an orphaned sock under the bed,<br />
a freckle of you,<br />
left behind,<br />
and I think,<br />
<br />
what I wouldn't give<br />
to have tired of you.<br />
<br />Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-64256224766406881962012-04-28T13:05:00.002-05:002012-04-28T14:02:04.954-05:00ExtinctionWhen my internet lags,<br />
I feel as though someone<br />
dropped me in the La Brea tar pits.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was a slow connection<br />
that killed the dinosaurs.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-72439581005079656252012-04-27T23:09:00.001-05:002012-04-27T23:09:04.359-05:00AA<div><p>Tall blue silhouttes<br>
How many do you stand for?<br>
Anonymous all.</p>
</div>dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-719105698868163092012-04-27T16:33:00.000-05:002012-04-27T16:33:02.513-05:00Wasting TimeThere's an undeniable<br />
beauty<br />
in sleeping<br />
till noon.<br />
<br />
But why<br />
does it feel<br />
so wasteful?Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-50046942206506065762012-04-26T22:12:00.001-05:002012-04-26T22:12:34.757-05:00Golden<div><p>The leash is a formality<br>
they do not bother anymore.<br>
The great oaf grins blindly<br>
on his morning walk<br>
which often as not<br>
is in small circles on the sidewalk.</p>
<p>There's a labrador on his block,<br>
and a full poodle, even a dane once,<br>
but the plodding, smiling one<br>
instills no sense of grandeur in size<br>
as the others do. He is nothing<br>
to fear, but perhaps everything<br>
to the well-shorn man who walks him.</p>
<p>This is a true Golden. His coat<br>
does not show his age, only the<br>
sag and squint of him, and the grin<br>
that so clearly chants each morning<br>
I am glad for this one more day.<br>
Plod on, Golden, and gaurd your block<br>
as it will gaurd your body in the earth<br>
one day. But not today, good boy, not today.</p>
</div>dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-75994370417813646372012-04-26T17:52:00.001-05:002012-04-26T17:52:32.417-05:00I Try Not ToBut some days<br />
I love you<br />
<br />
from the top of my heart.Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-81467657170873360412012-04-26T14:04:00.000-05:002012-04-26T15:57:34.574-05:00Ode on a Just Salad Black Bowl<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today I saw one in the wild,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">cradled in a stranger's hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My base temptation at once was riled,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">the sight was near too much to stand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I thought to snatch it from their grasp</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">if only so I could briefly clasp,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">that beautiful black bowl.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because my salad loving soul</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">longs with every single beat,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">to fill that bowl with cheese, and beets.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But in my heart I couldn’t steal,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">that patron’s hard-earned bowl</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">for I would know how it would feel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">to exist with a bowl-shaped hole</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">in your lunch-time routine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For my life has quite sadly been</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">bereft of the bowl so black,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and my daily trips to Just Salad lack</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">the ecstasy of that ebon dish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">O, to have one is my dearest wish.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ye Just Salad deities, if you are truly just</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">teach me how this bowl is earned</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll do anything that I must.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These months, each day at lunch I’ve yearned,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">to take the vessel to Just Salad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and sing a tender loving ballad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">to my black-bowl of kale.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now we must ask at the end of my tale,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">will it be one of pain or pleasure?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will I ever find a bowl, that I can truly treasure?</span>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-4249606694667661462012-04-25T20:19:00.002-05:002012-04-25T20:20:00.941-05:00AnonymousAnon,<br />
a naan,<br />
and on and on,<br />
na Na na Na<br />
na Na na Na.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-16949113557728164692012-04-25T17:25:00.002-05:002012-04-25T17:30:10.063-05:00Maybe it's just the thick glasses talking.<div><span >Lincoln once gave a speech so great that there is no record of it.</span></div><div><span >Every short-hand in the room dropped its pencil when the president spoke for the passion of his oratory rushed through the hall and filled every chest with a plea</span></div><div><span >that no other heart be slave to another. At least not in the truly physical sense.</span></div><div><span >Lincoln did not use a teleprompter, and no one ever threatened to shoot him through one, but we know that happened anyway.</span></div><div><span >He sometimes wrote his speeches on the backs of envelopes, and then did the opposite of what one usually does with an envelope,</span></div><div><span >gave his words to a thousand people once rather than one forever. A gift of the moment, they could never re-gift, the gift of feeling and story that cannot be matched.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >I too write on envelopes, and playbills, and yes, even the occasional cliched napkin when I find myself without a notebook</span></div><div><span >but somehow I always assume the notes will be read.</span></div><div><span >Maybe I will turn them into a poem later, or a letter to my lover, or my intrepid biographer will dig up this coaster from the High Line Ballroom</span></div><div><span >and glean insight about how a young artist felt about the acoustics of a cello.</span></div><div><span >When I say something clever or devise a moving argument, I post it to my blog for the world to access forever and always. That is my gift, and it feels cheap.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Speeches are on Powerpoints now, delivered in advanced on the AP wire so that we can watch in real-time closed-caption and dissect</span></div><div><span >every position a pundit has ever stated. Every mic is secretly hot, unless you fail to say anything interesting.</span></div><div><span >How many uninteresting things we write down, for all the true pith that passes our lips.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >I long for epistolary revelation. I long to hear a speech so great the alphabet weeps and lays aside its vowels in refusal to capture it.</span></div><div><span >We are sentenced to 140 characters, eight second sound-bites, scrolling headlines and the speed at which the hands can type.</span></div><div><span >The ears hear more. Speak to me. Let me watch you, and listen.</span></div>dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-92229094373387343992012-04-24T23:06:00.002-05:002012-04-26T17:53:31.204-05:00Basement ThingsTell me<br />
we've shaken it off.<br />
<br />
Tell me it's past and that<br />
past is a thing that is buried<br />
in a box in the dirt under<br />
the floorboards of a house<br />
we never lived in.<br />
<br />
Tell me one ghost story<br />
that's not about us.Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-18507265662684496752012-04-24T20:07:00.000-05:002012-04-24T20:07:19.480-05:00JavelinIt's smooth arc<br />
was a beauty to behold.<br />
<br />
But<br />
<br />
He never saw the spear,<br />
until it burst through it chest.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-82729549221091601192012-04-23T22:38:00.001-05:002012-04-23T22:41:34.079-05:00It has been said that death <br>Is evil, for the gods <br>Will not partake in it. <br><br>So birth damns us all. <br>We should create fewer <br>Lives, to spare the world. <br><br>The only good thing <br>Is to live. <br>To live with the living.dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-90174701958333218242012-04-23T20:26:00.000-05:002012-04-23T20:29:14.960-05:00we walk and guess what our mother thought<br />
--was thinking<br />
when she was our age<br />
--our ages<br />
<br />
it is brisk and windy, as usual<br />
--colder to you<br />
so I have outfitted you in Chicago clothes<br />
--my Californian sister<br />
<br />
how many more mornings will be like this?<br />
where will we walk, if not to breakfast?<br />
<br />
I don’t know when I lost<br />
--grew out of?<br />
that desperation to be as good as you<br />
--to be you<br />
<br />
I just want to keep walking<br />
both of us wearing my coats.Karenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15732064344304346517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-46352158892687977032012-04-23T20:12:00.000-05:002012-04-23T20:13:13.866-05:00sometimes words are useless things.<br />
they make poor buckets for what<br />
we mean to fill them with.<br />
<br />
and mine usually have holes in the bottom.Evynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17011238999533632854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-28729037817458237072012-04-23T19:46:00.000-05:002012-04-23T19:46:47.475-05:00A Dream of AutumnToday,<br />
for just a moment,<br />
I thought that it was fall.<br />
<br />
What a lovely thought.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-13772170822622122462012-04-22T21:17:00.000-05:002012-04-22T21:19:51.739-05:00A Sister's Prayer<i>May the Lord bless you and keep you.</i><br />
<br />
Good luck with the interview, little brother.
<br />
<br />
<i>May He protect and defend you.</i><br />
<br />
Whether you are hunting<br />
or licking your wounds,<br />
you always have a bed with me.<br />
Follow my voice beyond the din,<br />
out of the white noise of your stress.<br />
<br />
<i>May God's face shine toward you and show you favor.</i><br />
<br />
You have always been the wise one,<br />
to know even this will get better.<br />
It is only on you not to mumble<br />
or hide your face.<br />
Your squint makes you look wily<br />
in a charming way.<br />
<br />
<i>May He watch over you and grant you peace.</i><br />
<br />
Good night, little brother. Eggs in the morning.dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-84648780086866961072012-04-22T13:43:00.000-05:002012-04-22T15:52:17.489-05:00Trying to FindToday I looked for an envelope<br />
that I had misplaced on top of my dresser<br />
some time ago. So I began to<br />
dig through a pile soy miscellany.<br />
<br />
Magazines, receipts,<br />
a ziploc bag full of coins.<br />
Ticket stubs,<br />
gum wrappers,<br />
a fresh peppermint.<br />
<br />
Fifteen to twenty<br />
other envelopes.<br />
<br />
Pens, deodorant,<br />
a slightly broken comb.<br />
Playbills,<br />
my wristwatch,<br />
a baseball cap.<br />
<br />
Some particleboard,<br />
a pile of socks,<br />
freshly washed towels.<br />
Shims, a rug,<br />
the floorboards.<br />
<br />
Aw, shit. <br />
Now I better start looking for some nails.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-32243935220609790122012-04-21T23:31:00.001-05:002012-04-21T23:31:29.681-05:00Kai<div><p>For a time Kai sat in laps<br>
and watched his father<br>
make spreadsheets.</p>
<p>Now that he goes to preschool<br>
Kai takes attendance at home.<br>
Lines are crooked. Stakes are high.</p>
<p>Kai does make things harder<br>
when we go bowling<br>
and every dancing pin reads</p>
<p>Kai<br>
Kai<br>
Kai</p>
<p>Whose turn is it, Kai?<br>
Will they make it to the lane<br>
in time?</p>
</div>dinahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12812807635837507797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6888893431384914230.post-28023982633615821922012-04-21T15:10:00.001-05:002012-04-21T15:10:56.444-05:00RunAching muscles,<br />
sore feet,<br />
crackling knees,<br />
sandpaper lungs.<br />
<br />
Bite marks.<br />
<br />
Turns out,<br />
I can't outrun a horde of zombies.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02559524077331568016noreply@blogger.com0