You, the you I write to.
The whole so what.
I know that I have your
attention. And now
I'll keep showing you
scenes, presenting them
like tattered bouquets.
You, you can look
at them, the images
that I bundle and display.
I bring them because
what else can be done
with the disorder
of how this happens
except to make collections
and place them at your feet.
Pages
▼
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009: Notcot #25897
How to Live in a Tree
If the tree is going to fall, let it fall.
If it will live, allow it to,
and build your house around it.
Trust it to hold your weight.
Remember that you don't have
a front yard, just a yawning space
and majestic view and a narrow set
of stairs. Yes, watch your step in
this life within life.
If the tree is going to fall, let it fall.
If it will live, allow it to,
and build your house around it.
Trust it to hold your weight.
Remember that you don't have
a front yard, just a yawning space
and majestic view and a narrow set
of stairs. Yes, watch your step in
this life within life.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009: Notcot #25822
Safe
Locked into a safe,
a box with a latch and a lock.
The lid remains closed,
the latch snapped, sealed.
What of the glittering thing
in the dark chamber--
what is it like
in that crate, no air,
no light. Safe, we call it,
from rougher hands,
from the calendar flipping
fast as a bicycle's spokes.
Locked into a safe,
a box with a latch and a lock.
The lid remains closed,
the latch snapped, sealed.
What of the glittering thing
in the dark chamber--
what is it like
in that crate, no air,
no light. Safe, we call it,
from rougher hands,
from the calendar flipping
fast as a bicycle's spokes.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009: Notcot #25833
The Lake Keeper
You have entered onto someone else's land.
This much is clear as you watch water slap shore
and your breath leave you in pale puffs,
perfume from an atomizer.
Even your silence is borrowed, is an interruption.
Three raccoons scuttle from beneath
the skirt of a pine. Ducks clatter in the water,
dirty dishes clanking in a sink.
Probably a squirrel gripped a branch.
Leaves collected against leaves.
Only you watched, thinking your silence
qualified you to belong to this moment.
You have entered onto someone else's land.
This much is clear as you watch water slap shore
and your breath leave you in pale puffs,
perfume from an atomizer.
Even your silence is borrowed, is an interruption.
Three raccoons scuttle from beneath
the skirt of a pine. Ducks clatter in the water,
dirty dishes clanking in a sink.
Probably a squirrel gripped a branch.
Leaves collected against leaves.
Only you watched, thinking your silence
qualified you to belong to this moment.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009: photo by Marcos Armstrong (via his Flickr)
Strange Design
Strange design has been applied
to this sheet metal. Water’s
drooled, dragging rusty stalactites,
brown daggers. Perforated
stencils—labels of ounces and pounds,
an emblem resembling a sheriff’s badge.
The most recent revision: seventeen
bullet holes, a constellation
of freckles, troublesome moles. We process
the punctures as polka dots, black
spots, dark drops of paint.
This metal is aging artfully,
unwittingly, thanks to the dusky
palette of decay, graffiti.
Strange design has been applied
to this sheet metal. Water’s
drooled, dragging rusty stalactites,
brown daggers. Perforated
stencils—labels of ounces and pounds,
an emblem resembling a sheriff’s badge.
The most recent revision: seventeen
bullet holes, a constellation
of freckles, troublesome moles. We process
the punctures as polka dots, black
spots, dark drops of paint.
This metal is aging artfully,
unwittingly, thanks to the dusky
palette of decay, graffiti.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009: Materialicious--Ecolodge in Egypt
Sand, Snow
Sand kneaded with saltwater
and scooped with a bucket
keeps its shape when overturned.
It will crumble if it dries,
and will fall once again into sand,
knocked loose of all tension.
The inverse of sand is snow.
Snow will also respond well
to condensing, to being packed
in a gloved grip to temporary solidity.
Sand, snow--kick it, throw it,
build with it. Use it to destroy
or assemble. It will regenerate,
smithereens of lost water or ground.
Sand kneaded with saltwater
and scooped with a bucket
keeps its shape when overturned.
It will crumble if it dries,
and will fall once again into sand,
knocked loose of all tension.
The inverse of sand is snow.
Snow will also respond well
to condensing, to being packed
in a gloved grip to temporary solidity.
Sand, snow--kick it, throw it,
build with it. Use it to destroy
or assemble. It will regenerate,
smithereens of lost water or ground.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009: Ffffound! Quoted from: Friends of Type
Everywhere,
every place.
In every location,
each site,
all areas,
and each point.
Far and wide,
the world over,
in each and every
space, with name
and without,
here is where
thought yields
horizon, the heart
fashions milemarkers
and arbitrary arrows.
every place.
In every location,
each site,
all areas,
and each point.
Far and wide,
the world over,
in each and every
space, with name
and without,
here is where
thought yields
horizon, the heart
fashions milemarkers
and arbitrary arrows.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009: Jillian Tamaki at Drawger
The genre of mystery
hinges on resolvability,
on whether the clues
presented to you
add up to a culprit,
or at least enlightenment.
The genre answers
the reader's need
for objects, people
to be clues, to be
crucial to the plot,
mostly in hindsight.
hinges on resolvability,
on whether the clues
presented to you
add up to a culprit,
or at least enlightenment.
The genre answers
the reader's need
for objects, people
to be clues, to be
crucial to the plot,
mostly in hindsight.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009: Ffffound!--Quoted from: tofutti break
In and around our lives,
there are catalysts that help us release.
A flood sends a basement's worth
of belongings afloat.
The next day, black garbage bags line the curb,
dark bulbs waiting to be planted.
Let this go,
let it slip from your hands
as children clamber over a jungle gym
and fling themselves down the slide.
there are catalysts that help us release.
A flood sends a basement's worth
of belongings afloat.
The next day, black garbage bags line the curb,
dark bulbs waiting to be planted.
Let this go,
let it slip from your hands
as children clamber over a jungle gym
and fling themselves down the slide.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009: Ffffound! Quoted from:///latest///
Think of all the greeting cards sent
with the merest amendments--
two names, or only one,
the sender and the receiver.
The margins corral the printed
text, italicized, centered.
A column of lines like an upended
barcode for specialized birthdays,
for sons and daughters,
for their children; two sentences
for condelences, their fonts
intertwined, tendrilly.
The greeting card has gained the trust
of anyone who cannot write
what they feel, or anyone
who does not know what to feel,
what to say, how to verbalize
the way we are catapulted
into the future. Tell me how
to congratulate and offer sympathy.
I will sign my name.
with the merest amendments--
two names, or only one,
the sender and the receiver.
The margins corral the printed
text, italicized, centered.
A column of lines like an upended
barcode for specialized birthdays,
for sons and daughters,
for their children; two sentences
for condelences, their fonts
intertwined, tendrilly.
The greeting card has gained the trust
of anyone who cannot write
what they feel, or anyone
who does not know what to feel,
what to say, how to verbalize
the way we are catapulted
into the future. Tell me how
to congratulate and offer sympathy.
I will sign my name.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009: Notcot #25548
All roar and defiant vulnerability,
riding a motorcycle is a statement.
I'm tough, and wish that I could fly,
or I am in control of all of this or
My skull is my helmet.
The motorcyclist's clothes are armor,
accelerator, made to cut through air
cleanly, a beetle's shiny wings.
They are stared at by those inside
of metal vehicles, who cling to steering
wheels and turn knobs for music or heat,
grateful for the coverage, the climate control.
riding a motorcycle is a statement.
I'm tough, and wish that I could fly,
or I am in control of all of this or
My skull is my helmet.
The motorcyclist's clothes are armor,
accelerator, made to cut through air
cleanly, a beetle's shiny wings.
They are stared at by those inside
of metal vehicles, who cling to steering
wheels and turn knobs for music or heat,
grateful for the coverage, the climate control.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009: Quoted from: Flickr Photo Download: Cinderella concept
In fairy tales, the stakes are high,
and all trials must be timed:
before midnight, at sixteen,
by sunset on the third day.
Never a minute early, the problems
are solved at the deadline. The moral
of these stories? Be patient, and wait,
look out the window, and dream, and sigh.
and all trials must be timed:
before midnight, at sixteen,
by sunset on the third day.
Never a minute early, the problems
are solved at the deadline. The moral
of these stories? Be patient, and wait,
look out the window, and dream, and sigh.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009: Quoted from: Bacardi on the Behance Network
Shape Shifter
Wax changes form without complaint
and each time, wick hunches under flame.
Who is not a shape shifter, prodded one way
or another--not by force, but by unseen
heat, bringing molecules to their knees.
Wax changes form without complaint
and each time, wick hunches under flame.
Who is not a shape shifter, prodded one way
or another--not by force, but by unseen
heat, bringing molecules to their knees.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009: Notcot #25440
Under each streetlight,
a circular pool
of weak illumination
puddles atop concrete
Either a puddle or
a manhole, a trapdoor
Just light on a surface,
unwavering until
morning, fixed on
this spot, here
a circular pool
of weak illumination
puddles atop concrete
Either a puddle or
a manhole, a trapdoor
Just light on a surface,
unwavering until
morning, fixed on
this spot, here
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009: Notcot #25379
Plants have it figured out.
Clothed in aerodynamics,
seeds pull free of tree limb
or stem, and spin, or flutter,
or drift toward soil.
Even in death, the fragile,
dried-out blossoms or
leaves heave themselves
upon whatever earth is available.
Clothed in aerodynamics,
seeds pull free of tree limb
or stem, and spin, or flutter,
or drift toward soil.
Even in death, the fragile,
dried-out blossoms or
leaves heave themselves
upon whatever earth is available.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009: Mark Fisher at Drawger--Steel Life in Mummytown
Did you learn to float,
to trust the cool water to hold you
Did you think of ice cubes
displacing only their weight
and even in melting to maintain
the water's surface, to remain level
Did you need arms beneath you
stiff as the runners on the bottom of a sled
while you closed your eyes
against the heat of the sun
and the give of the water's slack surface
to trust the cool water to hold you
Did you think of ice cubes
displacing only their weight
and even in melting to maintain
the water's surface, to remain level
Did you need arms beneath you
stiff as the runners on the bottom of a sled
while you closed your eyes
against the heat of the sun
and the give of the water's slack surface
Monday, October 5, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009: Notcot #25251
In all of the refined science
of our age,
little diseases flourish, defiant.
We gauge
each symptom, Google it with dread.
A cough
can worsen quickly, or might spread.
Swear off
every pleasurable food or drink,
and douse
your hands with Purell. You might think
your house,
your community is immune
to germs
that sound sprung from myth or cartoon,
but worms
still push their way through dogs' hearts,
and red
spots are called a pox. Our parts
are fed,
and our modernity, to bugs,
to flus.
We can only make the drugs,
the news.
of our age,
little diseases flourish, defiant.
We gauge
each symptom, Google it with dread.
A cough
can worsen quickly, or might spread.
Swear off
every pleasurable food or drink,
and douse
your hands with Purell. You might think
your house,
your community is immune
to germs
that sound sprung from myth or cartoon,
but worms
still push their way through dogs' hearts,
and red
spots are called a pox. Our parts
are fed,
and our modernity, to bugs,
to flus.
We can only make the drugs,
the news.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009: Behance—Small Talk
Sensibility
Deserving praise and protection,
those with a great sensibility
exhibit the classic symptoms:
Quickening heartbeat,
flush brought on by fear or excitement,
water pooling in the eyes for small dogs
and other helplessness.
Science sought to measure
this titillating theory—
that the body replicates and regulates
passion, desire, pity.
The body is sympathetic to itself,
winds the pulse like a watch,
directs blood and allows it to be shown through skin.
Not the piano keys, nor the player,
but the pedals--
hushing, obstructing, sustaining.
Deserving praise and protection,
those with a great sensibility
exhibit the classic symptoms:
Quickening heartbeat,
flush brought on by fear or excitement,
water pooling in the eyes for small dogs
and other helplessness.
Science sought to measure
this titillating theory—
that the body replicates and regulates
passion, desire, pity.
The body is sympathetic to itself,
winds the pulse like a watch,
directs blood and allows it to be shown through skin.
Not the piano keys, nor the player,
but the pedals--
hushing, obstructing, sustaining.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009: Drawger: Walter Schnackenberg (via Rob Dunlavey)
It is four in the morning.
Legions of deep sleepers cling to pillows,
their dreams the day's reverberations,
or else nothing, starless.
Some of us stir,
eyes open and seeing shapes in the blue-dark.
Memories come crawling toward us, unbidden.
They are made significant only by the hour.
Remember this.
Legions of deep sleepers cling to pillows,
their dreams the day's reverberations,
or else nothing, starless.
Some of us stir,
eyes open and seeing shapes in the blue-dark.
Memories come crawling toward us, unbidden.
They are made significant only by the hour.
Remember this.