Train-train

The world is rolling around one more time,
giving me another chance to do the things I’ve
successfully deferred every day so far.
I go to the market
and a girl climbs into my eyes like they do every couple hours.
Reasons to fall assemble easily:
because of the way she’s smearing jelly
between two cookies with a dull, shiny knife,
because of the way she almost kisses the glass display case
when she breaths on it to clean it,
because of the way the flowers in black plastic barrels
surround her, eager to be gathered up and delivered
to her arms. (If it’s at all about love, it’s as much about
ferrying the flowers to their respective destinies)
Two models sit near me
looking just like how models are supposed to look, but somehow
they are not attractive to me, their beauty too flagrant a reminder
of the imbalance of things. I suspect I am not the kind
of man they require and silently rescind myself.
I prefer the jelly girl,
whose beauty is subdued by a kind of helplessness. She shares an
oppression with me, being meek enough to have arrived behind that counter,
at the mercy of the clock spinning her toward a boredom of her own choosing.

I should talk to her. Instead, I watch the
steam rising from my coffee, continually refreshing
the idea of death, which remains unconvincing.
In case I’m wrong, I should talk to her.
A hundred million years from now
none of it will have mattered
as right now all of it matters so much.
Every discarded moment piles into
an ever-rising crest of Now.
Now is here. That much is clear.
Go talk to her. Go talk to her. Go talk to her
(My mind is always giving an ineffectual pep talk,
I seem to be a sightseer touring all the various guilt trips of life).
I can’t think my way into the brief lapse of thought
we call courage. I’m entrenched. I've done all I can
to make myself impervious to chance,
to ensure safe, undisrupted passage down the corridor of each day.
I’ve plied my aloneness into solitude,
where shrewder ones have learned to
accompany it with people.

The familiar, gloomy conclusion
revises itself for today’s dilemma:
If I talk to her, it won’t make me any less alone.
Once again I have bartered bravery and the dim possibility
of elation for the patchy cloak of thought.

Starting home, I am pleased to feel
my feet hijack my body. They take me
on a detour by her booth.
I clutch an alibi: I’m only looking at the cakes.
I pretend to look at the cakes
while actually looking at the cakes
when I feel her walk up
(I've endowed her with such magnitude).

I brave a look at her.
She smiles at me.
I may have twitched
something back before fleeing.
I cherish the smile all day on into the night.
It justified the whole thing somehow.
She smiled at me. I've seen it.
Tomorrow I’ll say everything to her.

REASONS FOR LIVING: Nov. 21st 2009.

Here's some media that I've been exploring/enjoying lately that I thought I might share with you.


Six Moral Tales: by Eric Rohmer
Criterion boxset

The title may be mistranslated/misleading, as these films aren't really parables of any kind, but instead are sure handed stories of people grappling with love and their own moralities. These films were first written as a series of stories (Collected in a book included in the box set) by Eric Rohmer, a somewhat neglected member of the French New Wave, and certainly exude a literary bone-structure. Either dialogue or voice over heavy, the films are a wonderful and unique marriage of visual poetry and oral sophistication which prove that neither dialogue nor narration is uncinematic.


Bob Dylan and the Band - The Basement Tapes

Saw Bob Dylan in concert a couple weeks ago, and although I am always listening to him, it inspired me to explore albums and songs I hadn't before. The man's body of work is staggering. I remember looking at my parent's copy of this album and thinking the song titles were incredibly bizarre, and probably covers of old Americana stuff. I am shocked to discover that the songs are all original. This album is an anomaly. A complete freak parade. Favorite tracks: "Odds and Ends", "Yazoo Street Scandal", "Apple Suckling Tree."

P.S.-Never liked The Band too much, but I can appreciate what they do. Robbie Robertson is one of my favorite guitar players, Levon Helm kicks ass ("Yazoo" is one of the best vocal performances I've ever heard), Danko and Manuel have beautiful voices and Garth Hudson is about the best rock organist ever. Still, something about their sound doesn't quite add up for me. I like them, but I'm not in love with them.

Here's a video example of Bob Dylan's unparalleled talent for being both a genius and completely weird at the same time.



Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Dir. Terry Gilliam
Maybe one of the best comedic performances ever: Benicio Del Toro as the Attorney. I think for a lot of the film you can see Depp's acting, his pretty good impersonation of Hunter S. Thompson, but Del Toro, perhaps having the advantage of playing a person who's not quite as visible a public figure, proves that the most bone-cutting comedy is played with serious gravity. This movie doesn't quite work in every way, but it is funny as hell.

Goldfish Hands - Bernard Diabolik
One of the great poet/shaman/seers/troubadours of our time, Bernard Diabolik drools this 16 minute epic devotional of unrequited love. Best lines:

Scar me with your flaming whip,
Lick me with your serpent tongue,
Bite me with your fangs,
I'm not gonna run.


Taylor Swift
May be the musical artist of her generation. A star with the talent, charisma and magnitude of Elvis, Michael Jackson, Dolly Parton, anybody. She's gonna last. Or maybe I'm just in love with her.

The North Market
Cheap, good food, all conveniently located under one roof. I'm writing this upstairs compliments of their free wi-fi.

The Writer's Almanac podcast
Hosted by Garrison Keillor, a poem a day is good for you.

Bullet Park by John Cheever
I've read a lot of Cheever, which is surprising because I don't particularly love his writing. I really want to, but he's just so wildly erratic. He's very easy to read. Sometimes he's a genius, sometimes there's nothing there, but it always flows. This may be the best Cheever I've read yet. An interesting take on the 1960s from a reluctant lover/ poet laureate of the suburbs.