Picture of the Day

Poem in the Middle of the Afternoon

This afternoon I am bored by poetry
so I open the window to my bedroom
and feed a pigeon named Rex, “a flying rat,”
as my octogenarian neighbor calls it,
and yell to the super down in the courtyard
that the actress I am seeing,
a leggy, toothsome brunette from Estonia,
or perhaps the former Czechoslovakia,
I don’t remember which one, exactly,
because maps are confusing to read and borders
are always redrawn to suit the wishes of military
strongmen anyhow, has asked me
to marry her, even though we’ve never
met in real life, as the kids like to say—
just in the pages of the local celebrity
magazine, each new edition of which I keep
in a locked, lead box under my bed
in the event that I miss her and feel the need
to rub my face with a picture of her
at the Oscars or a charity golf game,
even though I don’t particularly like popular films,
and despite the truth that golf is meant
as a leisure activity for the bourgeoisie. My super,
who goes by “Papi” or “San Isidro,” depending
on the weather forecast, yells something
in Spanish (Quechua?) so twisted it sounds
like he’s repeating a recipe, one which does not
call for capers, despite my fondness for them
and for exotic tastes in general. As a way of saying
thanks, I call him a “son of a bitch” and an “asshole,”
because this is how men in New York behave,
even when there is nothing to be angry about;
“such are the vagaries of language and the human
spirit,” I add in the event that he expects a healthy
tip, during Christmastime, for his efforts. I then close
the window, making sure Rex remains on the ledge,
and later wonder, while sitting in an E-Z chair,
what to make of this American malaise.

It's a Plath Christmas

I Want, I Want

Open-mouthed, the baby god
Immense, bald, though baby-headed,
Cried out for the mother's dug.
The dry volcanoes cracked and split,

Sand abraded the milkless lip.
Cried then for the father's blood
Who set wasp, wolf and shark to work,
Engineered the gannet's beak.

Dry-eyed, the inveterate patriarch
Raised his men of skin and bone,
Barbs on the crown of gilded wire,
Thorns on the bloody rose-stem.

--Sylvia Plath

Knock, knock. Come in, Old Man Winter.

The Snowman

One must have a mind of winter 
To regard the frost and the boughs 
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time 
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, 
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and think 
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land 
Full of the same wind 
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 
And, nothing himself, beholds 
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

--Wallace Stevens

Get a load of these jazz hands!

Sudden Death

No. This blog has not died. Here's the proof (as best we can provide it):

1. Miami Horror - "Sometimes" - [Caroline]
2. Tortoise - "High Class Slim Came Floatin' In" - [Thrill Jockey]
3. Fucked Up - "Police" - [Deranged]
4. Basement Jaxx - "My Turn" - [Ultra]
5. Panthers - "Panther Moderns" - [Vice]
6. Jim O'Rourke - The Visitor - [Drag City]
7. Wilco - "Solitaire" - [Nonesuch]
8. Mariachi El Bronx - "Cell Mates" - [Swami]
9. The Aggrolites - "Mister Misery" - [Hellcat]
10. Grizzly Bear - "Two Weeks" - [Warp]

Italics denotes full album. All noise, surface or otherwise, is intentional.

[D | R]

The Other Side.

At the risk of losing street cred, I must admit that my next-door neighbor, whose name I do not know, frightens me. At least once a week, she turns on the hose at 6 AM, and sprays the sidewalk. Since my room faces the street, I am awakened by my neighbor and her seemingly unrelenting urge to hear water meeting pavement. She does this chore while singing songs by Kanye West, and while I don't mind hearing a genuine Kanye track from time to time (how does he see through those slitted shades?), there's no reason to be awakened by the sound of a human radio station (radio - there's an idea). I should mention that my neighbor is a woman in her mid-forties, who seemingly spends her days chain-smoking and sitting on her front porch.

Earlier this evening, as I was coming in with my laundry, I heard her say, to me I think, "They want to kill my mother." Like so many things I ignore about New York, I pretended not to hear a damn thing.