Cold Spells

I would like to be congratulated for being the last person in the known universe to have acquired a high-speed internet connection, which is pure genius. I can now download all sorts of songs, recipes, and instructions for constructing ray-guns without having to wait for what feels like weeks.

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Cat Power's version of "New York, New York" (simply "New York") makes me tremble: If this is emotional tyranny, then I don't want freedom.

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cold-drill, the journal of the MFA program at Boise State University, has accepted "This Medicine May Cause Blurred Vision" for publication.

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After seeing Il Postino again (with Laura, this time), that terribly sweet film about love and exile, I remain convinced that poetry does have some sort of purpose, that it does, indeed, have a place in the lives of the [un]common, the now.

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Currently in rotation:

Sons & Daughters - "Chains"
Bruce Springsteen - "Radio Nowhere"
Paul Westerberg - "High Time"
Asian Dub Foundation - "Naxalite"

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The poet, whose name I cannot recall at the moment, says:

We love what we cannot know...

[d | r]

Charles Simic for the Win

Charles Simic has been named the new poet laureate of the United States. Of the new consultant to the Library of Congress, the Academy of American Poets writes: Simic was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2007. About the appointment, Librarian of Congress James H. Billington said, "The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor."

Late September

The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.

Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.