Thursday, June 9, 2011


…Last night I saw "The Airborne Toxic Event." (That's them in the photo.) They were spectacular! Really, they were.
The lead singer moshed twice all the while singing full-boar into a microphone. He fell twice. He was lifted back up. He said he thought maybe his nose got broken.
He climbed some scaffolding and sang from the ceiling.
Anna, the smoldering violinist, moshed, too, while swinging a tambourine.
The band played for two hours. Played hard. They tore it up.
"Mona," a rocking band from Nashville opened the show. They were so good. The lead singer looked like Joe Strummer. The drummer pretty much made love to his cymbals and kit. The bassist shredded.
Fun times at Ridgemont High.

…Yesterday I finished "In the Broken Things," by Gillian Prew. Her poetry is staggering, it's so good. Her language becomes an icicle that breaks free from an overhanging door eave and slays your heart. Here:

"Even men
need love
though sex is important, and reason often
redundant. Women

's hearts are soft as their deliquescing breasts

…two premises
with a watertight conclusion

inspired by gravity, if
external forces are like poetry, or
something more sinister."

And this:

"I collect weather. I have a tray of rainbows
but they are dead. I live in fog.

Keep your egos. You will need them
but always treat them with a little contempt

they are used to it.

Yes, there is the sun


Yes, she is good.

…Consequently I took a break from the novel (not a good habit) and wrote poetry all day.
All day.
Tubs of words I wrote. Sewed them together. Broke them off. Bit some in two. Spat out others. Gargled some. Regurgitated others. Cut and pasted and ground under my shoe more than one or two. It was a lot of fun. It was a lot of writing about hard things with jagged edges.

…It feels good to do this, the writing down part, the pouring out.
Feels a bit like tilling the ground with my bare hands, making seams in the earth, dropping seeds into the dirt valley and covering them up with brown soil blankets, adding water and a wish.
The words are words made of ink, Rorschach blots. What do they really mean? What is my subconscious trying to tell me, or you?
The words have been sitting there like a genie trapped inside a bottle for centuries.
The words are slippery, like oil or blood.
The words stand up straight but take a punch. They do not talk back or complain. Not this time. They speak a recognizable truth.
It feels good to write them, as if I've been waiting to do so my entire life. It feels urgent and necessary, yet I don’t feel released from any consequences.
The words tell a mostly beautiful story. I think any reader would find it enthralling.
Is there anything you have to add?

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