Saturday, February 11, 2006
My pictorial adventure in hand-bookbinding is up at
Big Game.
It would be silly to buy a perfect-binding machine, right? Yes, but . . .
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Friday, February 10, 2006
People keep getting here by googling "things that rhyme with nantucket," and "dirty poem nantucket." You need to google that crap? Those things practically write themselves! For shame, America. If you can't write a dirty limerick without an aide-de-memoire, I fear for the future of this country.
Finally edited some meat poems. Yay! Many of my last week's edits hold up under scrutiny, and I made some additional changes to some others, that kind of make me wish I'd held off on my poem-submitting-frenzy of last week. Oh, well. Most changes are minor, and as far as those "Only send your best, completely edited work," magazines go, if I did that, I'd have to wait until I was dead to submit. After all, I've even gone through my own chapbooks (after they're published) and re-edited stuff. I'm going to try to hold off on actually publishing the Spectacle of Meat until I'm good and ready, though.
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Thursday, February 09, 2006
I have now cut 650 sheets of paper to A5 size. Last time I use British sizes for a project -- I can't find good quality A5 paper anyplace. On the poetry front: the meat poems are still waiting for their time in the sun. In the meantime, I'm exorcising old demons by rewriting a terrible pantoum I wrote years ago. The first two lines were good. The old poem = whiny. The new poem = shiny.
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Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I really, really, really need to edit my meat poems. And last night was a perfect opportunity -- for the first time in weeks, I got out of work before eight. So did I edit? Nope . . . lazed around watching tv. O, glorious tv. You're the friend that does the playing for me.
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Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Tengo un poema en
la revista pequeñita.
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Last night's dreamJoseph Ceravolo is being held captive in Rome's
Castel Sant Angel. He escapes, blowing a giant hole in the side of the castle with dynamite. And then my parents come to visit.
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Monday, February 06, 2006
The Spectacle of Meat is exactly like meat. I'm sure it will be tasty on the plate, at the end, but your stomach would turn if only you saw how it's made. You'd be better off finding some xeroxed poems about vegetables, that's for sure. I can't tell you how many rutabagas the money I just spent on fancy paper would buy.
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The phrase I type most (and therefore write most) in the world is: explain the discrepancy. Nevermind why that's so, but I type the phrase so often that it's become talismanic, each motion of my fingers needed to type the phrase now encoded in my body memory, so that I can write it unthinkingly, unhesitatingly. Even when I am called upon to pronounce the phrase, each word seems to have an odd weight. I am forced to conclude that if I were lowered into an existantial netherworld wherein I might commune directly with whatever uncaring and indifferent forces happen to oversee the universe, I would not ask "Why?" or even "How much wood could a woodchuck . . ." Nope. Instead, I would be yelling, "EXPLAIN. THE. DISCREPANCY."
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Sunday, February 05, 2006
Whee. My weekend started out with beer and yummy middle-eastern food, then graduated to a
car accident (two tiny cars hitting each other, and bouncing pretty harmlessly off (at least for the passengers -- the headlights weren't so lucky)), and then letterpressing Valentine cards, which go out to their various recipients on the morrow. Also sent off some more poems, neglected to edit others, and wrapped an extremely late birthday gift and an even later Xmas gift.
Tomorrow: a festival of mailing.
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