Log in

Angst For The Memories [entries|friends|calendar]

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[07 May 2010|02:17pm]
Inseminating the Elephant
Excerpt from "Virtue Is the Best Helmet"

One of these days I'm going to get myself an avatar
so I can ride an archaeopteryx in cyberspace—
goodbye, the meat cage.
Pray the server doesn't crash, pray
against the curse of carpal tunnel syndrome.

But then my friend the lactation consultant
brings up the quadriplegic who gave birth
(two times no less)
(motorcycle wreck)
just to make her body do
one thing the meat could still remember.

Somebody has to position the babies
to sip the breastmilk rivulets.
And the cells exude
despite their slumber. One minute
too much silence, the next there's so much screaming.

Lucia Perillo
post comment

[18 Dec 2009|08:50pm]
Judd Apatow needs to remake Frosty the Snowman with Seth Rogan as Frosty, Jason Segel as Santa and Paul Rudd as the Narrator. Steve Carell can be the washed up hat stealing magician.
post comment

[27 Sep 2009|09:04pm]
There are 1500 shelters for battered women in the United States. There are 3800 animal shelters (Schneider, 1990)
post comment

[08 Jun 2009|07:33pm]
I used to think that the worst thing that could happen to a woman was to take away her right to choose to terminate a pregnancy. Now I have come to realize that choice advocates must not stop at the clinic door. For those who chose the path of birth I will fight with all that I am for your voice to be heard, your body to be respected, your choices honored.
1 comment|post comment

[31 May 2009|08:42pm]
Just once I wish a member of the pro-choice side was crazy enough to go after a pro-lifer.

With hugs.
1 comment|post comment

[21 Apr 2009|11:03pm]
Lying In A Hammock At William Duffy's Farm In Pine Island, Minnesota

James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
1 comment|post comment

[17 Apr 2009|07:37pm]
A Newborn Girl at Passover
by Nan Cohen

Consider one apricot in a basket of them.
It is very much like all the other apricots–
an individual already, skin and seed.

Now think of this day. One you will probably forget.
The next breath you take, a long drink of air.
Holiday or not, it doesn’t matter.

A child is born and doesn’t know what day it is.
The particular joy in my heart she cannot imagine.
The taste of apricots is in store for her.
1 comment|post comment

[30 Mar 2009|08:45pm]
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come out right.

'Simple Gifts'
Elder Joseph Brackett Jr.
2 comments|post comment

If you are not paying attention you will have nothing left [25 Mar 2009|09:50pm]
1 comment|post comment

[04 Mar 2009|11:30pm]

       Have you forgotten what we were like then
       when we were still first rate
       and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
       it's no use worrying about Time
       but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
       and turned some sharp corners
       the whole pasture looked like our meal
       we didn't need speedometers
       we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
       I wouldn't want to be faster
       or greener than now if you were with me O you
       were the best of all my days.

                                        Frank O'Hara
post comment

[18 Feb 2009|10:16pm]
I am not being trivial. Your separateness could kill you unless I take it from you as a sickness. What if you get stranded in the town where pears and winter are variants for one another? Can you eat winter? No. Can you live six months inside a frozen pear? No. But there is a place, I know the place, where you will stand and see pear and winter side by side as walls stand by silence. Can you punctuate yourself into silence? You will see the edges cut away from you, back into a world of another kind—back into real emptiness, some would say. Well, we are objects in a wind that stopped, is my view. There are regular towns and irregular towns, there are wounded towns and sober towns and fiercely remembered towns, there are useless but passionate towns that battle on, there are towns where the snow slides from the roofs of the houses with such force that the victims are killed, but there are no empty towns (just empty scholars) and there is no regret. Now move along.

-Ann Carson
The Life of Towns

post comment

[10 Feb 2009|12:11am]
These Poems, She Said
by Robert Bringhurst

These poems she said

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket's
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said. . . .
You are, he said,
That is not love, she said rightly.
post comment

[01 Feb 2009|09:15pm]

Beside you,
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.

Your turning
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,

and there,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,

held there,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing

to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart's breast, keep

on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.

Philip Booth
post comment

[22 Jan 2009|11:18pm]


How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Sherman Alexie

6 comments|post comment

No arms, no cake! [16 Jan 2009|09:28am]
"President George W. Bush said farewell to the nation, but the nation wasn't paying attention. TV barely cut to him in time for his first words Thursday evening and couldn't wait to cut away when he finished 13 minutes later. Something unexpected and awesome had happened to shoulder him out of the picture: a jet gliding to a stop in the middle of the Hudson River, with everyone emerging safe. "

You see folks that's how G-d tells a joke. That plane crash was a celestial rim shot for a long form joke that nobody got.

1 comment|post comment

Yakima Cargo Box [03 Jan 2009|03:53pm]
I'm going out on a limb here but I'm looking for a Yakima cargo box. Any model,  any size. New ones cost as much as my car so I'm hoping someone has one collecting dust in their garage. Let me know.
post comment

[31 Dec 2008|10:19pm]
Year in review - post the first line from the first post in each month.

*January: Im back.
*Feburary: Man.
*March: So I am now taking a dozen pills a day.
*April: We have taken the show down in the gallery.
*May: The Department of Otolaryngology is undertaking a joint study with the Department of Urology examining the effects of human semen on speech.
*June: I knew there would eventually be one shinning example of why I moved out of the DC metro area.
*July: I am very happy about how well the show went.
*August: I have a hard time missing you baby, with my pistol in your mouth.
*September: The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
*October: Kannazuki, the old Japanese name for the month of October, is “the month of no gods.”
*November: *exhale*
*December: I love the ads that promise you can do enough kegels to hold a pencil, but for the life of me I cant think of a time when writing with my snacth would be ok. 

Show biz, sex and despair. 

post comment

[30 Dec 2008|11:35pm]
Today my son is 17 and the same age I was when I moved to Rochester 15 years ago on January 1st.
post comment

[17 Dec 2008|09:21pm]
Yeah Muppets of Burlesque -

That was so '06.


post comment

A love letter for Bettie [12 Dec 2008|05:45pm]
The first time I ever saw Bettie Page was on the wall of Christians fathers bedroom in between the posters for Anthrax and Metalica. It was a side profile head shot that, try as I might, I've never been able to find again. I was enamored.

Over the years I have amassed a good size cache of memorabilia. I had a tshirt with her on it that Christian begged me for when he was about 14. The same age as his dad was when he fell in love with her too.

I had nudie buttons that fell into the boys hands, when Goose heard the arguing commotion they told him that they just liked her - they didnt know why.

I have no idea what she looked like in the end, because she had no desire for any of us to know what she looked like. That way she is always beautiful, always young and kinky and always stealing the hearts of the men who find her.

2 comments|post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]