But You've Got to Say Something

Time flies when it's summer
and you're busy with
shit you should have done
a long time ago like
who knows,
but you know.
And then the book
you've started is growing
but going in the direction
of a growth that
starts on a person's shoulder,
most likely because
of sun-exposure.
Either way, you don't update
the blog like you should
but then who's to say
what you should.
I don't, and I'm even talking
about myself.

It Is Not Very Rock-N-Roll

to have a baby monitor on the amp.

Galatea!

A new review of Poet's Bookshelf.

I Am Writing a New Book

I am writing a new book.

The Sweet Kids

Neither of my children sport a Hitler-style mustache.

Why I Don't Like Sestinas Sestina

The fucking rules
drive me crazy.
I"m not that kinda guy.
But I find myself here
and I don't like it.
Fucking sestina.

Fucking sestinas
are stupid, that's the rule.
You can tell it
by bullshit like this. It's crazy
that here
is some guy's

idea of poetry. There's a guy
who loves sestinas.
I'm here
but it's not me. Fuck rules.
I'm crazy.
Fuck it.

What is it?
It's guys
who are crazy
for sestinas
and rules.
Here

is where here
doesn't make sense. It
is this rule
involving a guy
writing sestinas
and acting crazy.

Inevitably, it's crazy.
He's here.
In this sestina.
Hating it.
Hating himself, the guy
who can't rule

himself. The crazy rules
don't make sense. The guy can hear
it now: That's not a sestina.

Being Unable To Answer The Basic Questions Sestina

Here's the thing about Beverly Hills
9
0
2
1
0

There was a time in my life when, O,
I don't know, Beverly Hills
seemed like one
place I wouldn't go. By 9
I was usually drunk. By two
I was super drunk. O,

anyway, thinking it over now, O
I have no idea why. O,
beside being drunk, I was stoned too.
Could that be why Beverly Hills
90210 struck such a chord? 9
times out of 10 I was stoned. One

time, in one
episode, Dylan started calling Brandon, "Brando"
That was sweet. I was on cloud 9.
Brando.
That was Beverly Hills.
That was 90210. Too

many shows try to
be 90210, but there is only one.
It's in Beverly Hills.
O, O, O
O, O, O!
I could O nine

more times but that's so transparent. I need to use 9
and that's important too.
But nothing like 90210. I mean 90210
deserves praise. And one
way to do that might be a structured poem. But O,
a poem is a very small hill

in Beverly Hills. A poem is like having 9
parts out of 1,000. And that's making it sound good too!
It's more like a poem is worth 1 and 90210 is worth 90,210.

The Dylan MaKay (90210) Sestina

I don't know why but I keep thinking of Dylan.
Of course, with Dylan, I think of Brenda.
I think stuff like Jeez, Dylan,
that guy was something. No wonder Brenda
fell for him. You wanna talk bad boy, Dylan
was bad, bad boy. A girl like Brenda

(cause she was really just a girl)... Brenda
could barely handle Dylan.
But she kinda could handle Dylan,
but not really, because ultimately Brenda
went back to Minnesota (or Paris--Brenda
was gone is the point) and Dylan

left alone, as only Dylan
could be. Even when he was with Brenda
he was alone. Brenda
couldn't penetrate that aloneness. Nobody but Dylan
could do something about that. Brenda
tried, but you can't just change Dylan.

At seventeen, Dylan
was the Dylan of sideburns, of Porsches, the Dylan
of arched eye and wrinkled brow. Brenda
was no match. Brenda
was smart, but Dylan was smart too. Dylan smart. Dlyan
smart is smarter than Brenda smart. Brenda

smart still lived at the Walsh home. Brenda
smart was unsure. Dylan smart was Dylan
sure. And Dylan sure was sure about one thing: Dylan
lived free and was sure about who Dylan was. Dylan
wasn't Brenda. Brenda's life was fine for Brenda,
but it wasn't for Dylan. Brenda

gave Dylan her virginity. Brenda
gave everything she was to him. Brenda
gave it all. Her parents said, "Brenda,
look at what you're doing." And she was doing Dylan.
And they knew that she was doing Dylan.
And they thought they knew Dylan.

But they didn't know Dylan. They didn't even know Brenda.
They didn't know how Dylan loved Brenda.
It wasn't their fault. They were unknowable, Dylan and Brenda.

I'm Not Going to Say Her Name

On a good day, she gardens.
I don't know what she plants, but she digs in the dirt and gets
an insect bite. She comes in, wiping her face with a bandanna.
I believe there are ice cubes in her glass.
On a good day, she sorts the bills and talks on the phone. She
is very cheerful when she receives the mail. She thanks the mailman.
On a good day, she takes her time at the store, shopping for
razors to shave her legs. She likes her legs.
On a medium day, she has a feeling when she reads the newspaper
that is a little like envy, but is also like greatness. There is also
a sense of futility. It is a stinging sensation and she
doesn't like it.
On a medium day, she laughs with her kids. She gets a haircut.
When she is writing poetry, on a medium day, she is writing with
a sense that she is really great. She thinks to herself, Fuck, I'm good.
These are delusions of grandeur. She is self-centered.
Her delusions are true. If only she believed the truth.
On a bad day, she's frantic. She's pissed. She wants the cars to drive
faster. She is not happy with the dirt inside her head. She imagines
removing her brain with a giant ice cream scooper. It is not okay
to be stupid, she says.
But on a good day, she's okay with things. I'm not stupid
she says with a laugh. Ha, ha, ha, who's laughing now?
But on a medium day, she is not eating cookies.
On a bad day, she's got her head in the oven.

"There's No Real Pleasure in Life--"

There are things like haircuts indicative
of the 1980's. There are also suit jackets
that call to mind a certain era.

There's nothing I like less than interviews with actors.
But I'm also not a big fan of poetry.
Except in the concrete.

But in the abstract, where it wears diapers
and drags on clove cigarettes,
I am not happy with any journalism.

Except poetry, which is always a dead basket to me.
So people like me and you swim in these fish.
That bread is hollow, man. It's no picnic.

Buddism

Are you a person too?
Have your parents fucked you up
or have your parents been terrific, like mine?
Even if questions aren't very interesting,
neither are answers.
You find yourself with friends, or without friends.
You find yourself with a family, or without a family.
You do or do not find yourself alone, or not alone.
There are things with the past that look
like long, layered feathers and you want to
look at them closely, on the other hand, it's boring.
If you drink, you drink more or less.
If you watch TV, you watch it more or you watch it less.
It doesn't matter if you lose people along the way
or if you grow more or less alert.
You find that you can't tell someone you love
something that's important to you.
Even when people visit graves, or witness fake deaths
on TV, the fake snow feels like the real snow.

Another Photo I Have

Here is another example of the role of the rock-n-roll lackey. That guy is in Elvis's band. His name is probably Joe. He seems to say with his face, Yes, Elvis, what you're doing is good--So good I want to do it too. Elvis looks actually happy.

One Photo I Have

What I like about this photo, taken by someone in Indianapolis, is that Miami Steve looks genuinely confused. Like he's saying, Boss, what's that you do to the guitar? And Bruce looks pleased, like, Here, he says, I'll show you, my slow friend.

The World I'm Talking about Has Many Flakes to It

Today I'm thinking about what it constitutes to publish a poem.
I am also thinking about why I'm not a full human.
This is bothering me like, like, wool fabric.

It's not like prison, where I become a Christian and pursue
a higher education. I'm not the forgiving victim type, but
I value not being myself.

Well, anyway. There is no need to write sub-titles at the bottom.
Anyway, the bottom is also a well.
When you get there, hello.

Even when the language isn't from a lawyer,
the lawyer is in the room.
I got fat florescent shoelaces and break dance!

This Has Been Going on for Years

Very quickly the days pass. Soon it is Saturday, again.
You say to yourself, This is my whole life here. This is what happens.
Other people can sympathize.

That's all crap when considered with the Star Trek episode on TV.
I don't even watch Star Trek, but on my TV
it's Star Trek. I say, Forget it.

I don't want to write a poem or a letter or a note or a memo.
I don't want to write a novel or etc. I'm just saying that
I want you to understand. And, in regards to that, I'm baffled.

Which isn't much. The dew waits to be born on the grass.
It says, Why am I here?
No one laughs, exactly, but people want to.

Thinking about the New Book

Well, what's important to me is very hard to identify.
I think it's important to not be Ron Silliman.
I also think it's important to not be a person who isn't Ron Silliman.

What's especially important is to not know who Ron Silliman is.
Unless you're Ron Silliman.
In that case it is important to know who you are.

I want to write sentences that aren't even new.
I certainly am not interested in not writing, though writing seems
too lonely and vague. O, the horrible.

Listen: I didn't mention Kurt Vonnegut's death, but that doesn't
mean I haven't been thinking about it.

The Trouble with Trouble

You know, people say to me. "Pete. The cats with Hitler Mustaches?" Etc.
Yes, I say, I know there are cats with what appears to be a mustache.
I don't have a problem with any of this.

My wife points out that what I'm concerned about (my feelings) is exactly
what no one else is concerned with.
She's right I think. Thank goodness. She's got an excellent point.

I'm watching Bon Jovi on American Idol and saying, Listen, I write
better songs than that, but I'm living in a bizarro world
where what is awful is what is good and what is good is what is awful.

My wife's got a hot body and a good attitude.
Still I find myself depressed.
You find a good thing, and you go for it.