effing blog: the time is :

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

the time is :

dear ______ ,

on days like today, rainy and such, you know what i want to do. i wanna curl with books n herbs and make a cocoon in the afternoon. make art on the floor with shadows of swinging trees and dancing branch. deep cello in the air. a heater will hiss in the waning light.

it still helps to imagine who i’m writing to.

i've decided not to go to denton this weekend to read at that festival. i simply denton want to go. ha ha. you better laugh or i will dentonate your garage house. ha ha.

so here comes another weekend w/ no interruption. i am getting much done in my solitude - it is a candy-coated furniture world and i am feeling good. at least two chapbooks will be ready for the sunlight at the end of this winter weekday tunnel, if the sun will have us so, and two pretty books will have legs then. or wings. or grenades. or bunched flowers. whatever.

it's good.

you don't talk like you used to on your blog or is it another blog you now desire? for whom do you post your pains and your photos so deep in grayscale they step from the screen. the one with the planks and siding lifting toward the sky no doubt by a crane, i love this picture. the yellow backdrop - could that be sky - it blinds me enough that the foregrounded object is strange, seductive, familiar. who knew i could get so silly for some rope and wood. of course i did and you did. but you did it with that picture. i will bring up this picture again one day. i may ask you to show it to me once more.

i've been a funny ass at the machine all day it is a wonder i have spine at all. the back aches. say, if the elbow is out of place that will cost. in time, i don't know. but in complaints and bent profile clicking out of place, every movement costs. so this is how it goes.

why not post on your clog again? what about ____’s clog? the _____s, where'd they go?

i don't much like clogs anymore. i might put this on my clog. i am the wrong person to disperse private information. why, then. i don't want to be the say, even if it is my god given say. my say is mine yours is yours i don't think we really have to hear it or have it out. i've been touching on this for weeks of course in my private notebooks and not on my clog. that poetry is a selected bit of time. the values of the language are hardly different in and out of the supposed art. i don't know. where as such thoughts are disappointing it does open other doors. doors nearby. when one doesn't have the muse one can still have the birds in the front yard. for the sake of imagination mingling with experience why not make it from the tools at hand. i say. i can say that on my clog. or you can on yours. it doesn't matter of course. clogs, cogs, bogs, it is so very temporary and CNN and we have our outside world (or simply feeling life) that serves us better. what do we serve, well, not our clogs. not our bogs. we build but not this way. who cares.

so it is that time, time to motor home to the cat face, to the heater, to the stove. feed, read, weed. it isn't terrible. i hope that it isn't for you either.

love,

______