Friday, October 31, 2008

Why Not to Put a Political Sign in Your Yard

I was at a kid's Halloween Party
and this older woman said something to me
about how
she didn't have a McCain sign because
she feared retribution
"Either they win and get drunk and go
and stuff, or they lose and get drunk
and go looting
and stuff..."


Thursday, October 30, 2008

"using abortion as birth control"

People getting ready to
have sex, say,
"Hey, I don't have
any condoms, let's
use abortion."

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

The Situation with My Hair

The situation with my hair has become a bit unreasonable.

I haven't trimmed or done anything to it in months

but I am starting to notice it.

All of this is even less important than the nervousness I feel

about the election.

The most beautiful thing about Obama's extended ad

tonight was that he didn't talk about God.

What bothers me about God is his whole being a figment-of-the-imagination thing.

I'm so glad I don't have to be a weirdo to vote.

Obama also didn't mention McCain or Palin.

Had this been an extended ad for McCain, he would have

spent most of the time talking about Obama and Ayers

and whatnot, the other bit of his time would have been about him

being a POW, the next bit about God, the next bit about

moose hunting.

It hurts me when I imagine all of the hair on a moose.

Also, the neather hairs of Bristol Palin.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

All the Beads Are on a Single Necklace!

Also something else I've suspected from, like, high school:
all moments occur at the same time. As a human, all you are doing is drifting from one moment to the next, all lined up like infinite beads on a necklace. You are a male or female ghost! Yikes, ghost-person! I'm not saying this is right, but I'm not a mathematician.

Monday, October 27, 2008


I heard on James Dobson that Sarah Palin says she is leaving the election in God's hands. I hope that means that if Obama wins she will say, "Thank God, God! I'm so glad that we weren't elected and that I can fulfill a part of His plan by being the loser." Yea, for everyone!

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Self Portrait, July 1995

I was in Paris, staying with my friend Scott and his French wife, whose name I can't spell correctly. She showed me a terrific recipe involving sour cream, lemon, onion, chicken and butter. O, we had fun. We all drank wine and walked around. All was well.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

I Don't Even Know What to Say

Are you serious? My daughter isn't more lovable than the most lovable little girls in the world, but she is as lovable any little girl in the world. This concept is clearly embodied in this photograph, which arrived via regular mail from my mother-in-law. I would like to have you explain things to me, or for me to explain them to you, but we all know that's pretty silly.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008


Sunday, October 19, 2008

Little Stuff

Friday, October 17, 2008

Self Portrait

The Worst Is Distressing

Tuesday, October 14, 2008


I have about a million things to say without any real will or un-will to say them.
I could list them for you like little fishy fish on a little series of fish hooks.
O, how I'm tired of metaphors and similes.
I am also tired of communicating and not communicating.
Somehow, I've been thinking about writing a review or two. I want to write a review in praise of Kent Johnson's Homage to the Last Avant-Garde and I also want to write a review that is critical of another very cool contemporary poet. I will not mention this poet's name because I probably won't write it and I'm a pussy, too.
I don't know why I'd want to praise someone or why I'd want to say negative things about someone else. Being human is heartbreaking.
One of the things I've noticed about being a poet and dealing with other poets is that the community (not the community is the best word, it's just a word) is fragile and explosive. Also, I've found that either I'm crazy and/or everyone else is crazy too. Depression runs amuck. Egos bob like bobbers.
I've made some friends in poetry but, mostly, I haven't. Most poets are really good people with good intentions, I think. I think that about most everybody. But I am full of lightening, people. i.e. I contain anxiety.
I do believe in being polite. So do some other people.
Anyway, my face is mostly blotted out. What am I to do? I'm not a gangster with gang signs, I'm not even a TV producer.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Self Portrait


Sunday, October 12, 2008

Bad Ideas Ookie!

People, I have so many cute things to say about my kids that I can't remember any of them at this particular moment. What's more important is the Oh My Goodness-ness of my overall dismay at finding myself writing again. Of course I love what I hate, but I can't seem to find the appropriate exclamation that makes my dismayity at my Oh My Goodness-ness enough. Yikes! We're all dying now!

Baseball is on and the Colts won. Max spent most of the day dressed as Obewon Knowbi and we snuck around the yard, stalking Jenn-Sith-ifer, while she planted flowers in the front yard. Ms. Baby Girl napped and then, later, repeatedly covered my face with a towel and said, "Where Daddi?" and then wanted to hold her brother's hand and have him run so fast that she fell to the ground.

I have never been happy with my body. My whole life my reflection has just always been a thing that has faults. If we were going to talk about happiness, I'd have to event new words like "fringe" and "nofringe" and "umpire" and "invent". I mention all of this because I do not know. (Please pronounce "do not know" as "dooo newwwt kneeeeeeew".) It pisses me off how frequently I notice mispronunciations.

For instance, I believe "for instance" should be pronounced "frough unstancey" . I would prefer that "prefer" was pronounced "Prayfruit". My hoowel loof is a furnace and I'm about to boooon sooom woooood.

Ullso, oute ishue is doo silence inherit in asking. Whatever I am looking for in pooitree is ubsent. The approval I seek usent external. In fact, everything I'm looking for is invisible (like a window). Ahh.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

I'm Bothered That He's Bothered

"... in 30 years that text is likely to turn up on my* record. This is not some victimless prank. It's a world class Stupid Artist's Trick."

Ron Silliman writes this in response to Nada Gordon in the comments stream at his blog in his "Issue 1" post of a few days back...I can hardly improve on Nada's response, but, still, I guess I just want to give Ron shit about this. I know Ron doesn't need shit from me, but I can't hardly stop myself. Why does "Issue 1" offend Ron? Because it uses his name in vain.** I could understand Ron being upset if they actually were writing slanderous stuff about him, but instead, the editors are clearly engaged in an interesting creative project. There is absolutely no way that people who care about poetry won't get that. Ron, you have nothing to fear! Your "record" will be spotless! To prove my point, I will write another poem attributed to you, which, I will make certain, doesn't affect your literary standing at all.

Dear The Future,

Even though I'm not actually

Ron Silliman, I'm pretending

to be just for the sake

of this poem.


I'm a pretty good guy

who is an important part

of the literary community,

but I'm kinda being

a grumpy old tool

when it comes to this

Issue 1 thing.

--Ron Silliman

*The emphasis on my is Ron's.

**If you threaten to sue me or something I promise to take this down immediately and make a public apology.


Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Poetry Matters

This whole thing about the "Issue 1" online anthology is just so crazy and stupid. I don't mean the anthology, but the silly reactions to it. What a great way to expose the endless ego of so many poets. Listen: I want to be perfectly clear about this; no matter how ordinary or unique your name is, you do not own that name, unless, I guess you have some sort of trademark or something. Six years ago I used to say to my friend, Darren Trautman, that I was going to name my son "Darren Trautman Davis" but that I wouldn't be at all referring to my friend, it would just be a cool name I'd come up with for my kid.

Monday, October 06, 2008

Monday Evening

There's so much to say, and so little.
I want to praise Kent Johnson and I also want die a little,too.
Those things aren't related. Just the opposite, really.
The moment I begin writing this poem
the words begin filing my insides and causing a lot
of internal disturbance, making me lonely and scared
and whiny. I can't even write a good blues song.
That should be easy but I'm too dumb and unable.
Kent Johnson is much, much smarter than me.
I can set mouse traps but I'm always afraid I'll
snap my fingers. My wife just screamed and I went upstairs to
put a still squirming mouse in a plastic bag and then went
outside and beat it on the concrete. I have
little feelings about this. I'm not happy about it, but
I'm not noticeably shaken either. Some of Kent's
poems shake me in a good or frightening way. I think of him
and imagine a gentleman.
I keep a saddish secret in my un-tited breast. Thus,
as when my ribcage is opened as is a refrigerator
the light that pops on has a defeated, burpy glow.
If Kent Johnson were to make a well-mannered sandwich now,
placing the mustard colored mustard on his cold, slick,
turkey meat, he may make a orderly, layered meal
that would be worthy of his grief. And his is a grief
that poets make meals of because us fuckers
must eat something. Having to say all this is evidence of
my terrible judgement. Not because of anything involving
Kent, but just that I have to live with myself.
I can imagine this: my hands are Georgian turtles, my thighs
are stupid logs, and my knees, my little knees, people, are little,
lead cannonballs. All of this is very, very scary. Not because
it's violent or gonna fucking stick you with a knife or something,
but because I have an imagination.
That's always the trouble. All this articulation is going to have its
day to dance of my goofy forehead. My poor, goofy forehead.


Sunday, October 05, 2008

Sunday Evening

I was involved in this Art's Kaleidoscope thing on Saturday. I should have put up something about it prior to the event. I've been lazy. But here's one of the poems I read, from the nice looking book they put together. Yvonne Williams organized this thing and did a really terrific job.

Also, there's other stuff. There's this, which is new and hilarious. Most hilarious are the poets saying stuff like, "You can't use my name! That's not my poem! I didn't write that! I'm gonna sue or just be super nasty!" It's funny for many reasons. Not so much the idea, but the people involved, which is, of course, the idea. My name appears on page 3,153.

Also, while Max and I were being Leo and Michelangelo, him on his bike and me on my skateboard, we stopped at this park by our house. We were running around checking out all these trees that have been planted in memory of someone. They all have an engraved, giant stone beside them and Leo would read them all as, "A great warrior, Donnie...who died in a tremendous battle with Shredder." Etc. It was excellent.