tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83671702009-06-27T09:53:46.618-05:00chaque notaire porte en soi les débris d’un poète.A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.comBlogger642125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-79208436785096053782009-06-23T06:08:00.001-05:002009-06-23T06:11:23.632-05:00

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=14125http://paperworlds.blogspot.com/2009/06/paul-muldoon-on-colbert-report.htmlnobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-37380754089564630662009-06-15T22:38:00.002-05:002009-06-15T22:42:33.842-05:00

I haven't, but now want to read both Vargas's book and your review—preferably in the wrongest order. (OK, read the review. You/Richard had me at Bukowski—and no one has ever associated me in any way with the concept of being macho.)To say one hasn't "heard of" a poet is a silly point. But the academic, gabacho, pinche, pissant, crappy white asshole (eww), brown nose platform, too, is silly—and

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-60145737761089664872009-01-22T11:53:00.003-06:002009-01-22T12:06:16.597-06:00

Effing love this right now. Thank you, Marc. This may go into my pocket with the Cardenal.(Where might one buy that chapbook?)Here? Are you the "newest post avant"?

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-21837376351397188742009-01-21T19:22:00.003-06:002009-01-21T20:26:38.405-06:00

Hello, loves.Recent evidence suggests that this imaginary man has a heart yet. Who knew.Sloppy translation done a few years ago, now on business card, shirt pocket, keeping it locked down.In losing myself to you, you and I have lost: I because you were what I loved most and you because I was the one that loved you most. But between us you lose more than I: because I will be able to love others

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-4644629614567843732009-01-04T18:25:00.000-06:002009-01-04T18:26:24.985-06:00

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/01/04/true.love.found/index.html

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-48249110264790497522009-01-02T23:47:00.000-06:002009-01-02T23:48:46.527-06:00

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-12890583623428127012008-12-26T16:32:00.003-06:002008-12-26T16:42:55.629-06:00

Is enjoying 2666 and his still-swollen, but hitchless knee.Wants to know if any one has read The Romantic Dogs.Is planning to head to B&N to return some dupe gifts (and probably to pick up that book and Paul's My Index . . .).Just realized that the interest rate on his credit card is lower than that on his student and auto loans.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-45873612505158496372008-12-25T13:10:00.004-06:002008-12-25T13:18:21.383-06:00

Found under the tree:SocksUnderwearScarf2666Mighty Taco money :-)And from the brother:Larry the Cable Guy ticket and apropos sleeveless flannel shirt.:-P

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-1690044823237491632008-12-13T11:26:00.005-06:002008-12-13T23:21:52.357-06:00

This and a specific recording of B.B. King's "Guess Who" are . . .• • •Does it make me a snob that I tend to avoid novels that:Take place in New York City orAre period pieces? (i.e. They're set at a point in the distant past by someone not from the distant past.)• • •Had arthroscopic surgery on my left knee eight days ago—lateral release and what I'm guessing would be called osteoplasty on the

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-88109852082422833392008-12-11T20:21:00.001-06:002008-12-11T20:23:56.757-06:00

Loose the dreams of clockwork faces and cinema,bring round bodies for each skin surviving through the twilight of wine.     After the baby,the window shakes,a bed is packed with every surfacesomething red.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-50177389639509607232008-12-09T20:32:00.000-06:002008-12-09T21:51:30.453-06:00

someone was maybe his today,that a car died,in her onetime baby arms he prayed for but.Let's tell her sure lady,the police called, everyone said it wasn't himwho hadn't returned to us as precious as the son,today let go another thought.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-65637329618551305282008-12-07T20:35:00.000-06:002008-12-07T20:39:36.439-06:00

The writing and I have had a difficult relationship the past several years. (Fortunately, the reading has been good.) There was a line in a novel I just read that summed up the dysfunction well—I'll try to track it down.I think editing and writing copy for a tabloid for a few years left something of a bad taste. Glad to be away from that. Somewhere along the line I stopped feeling wise and/or

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-80801592137587804822008-07-25T22:43:00.001-05:002008-07-25T22:51:45.001-05:00

A great LYL poem here.Read it, if you like.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-78849887545644887922008-07-08T22:54:00.002-05:002008-07-08T22:55:58.878-05:00

+ +

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-59799038326276210782008-06-16T21:37:00.001-05:002008-06-16T23:00:44.786-05:00

All work and no play (interpret that as you may—and you'll be correct) has made me one dull(/nonexistent) read. Day-in-the-life is all data management, report-making and Microsoft products. (Have you used SharePoint? It's . . . barf.)* * *But I've been relatively sober, moderate even, lately. I've just got to get out of the bad habit of bitching about limitations at work. Stop tying my hands,

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-30432632945164594672008-06-01T16:13:00.000-05:002008-06-01T16:34:27.559-05:00

Now let's take the desperate reader, who is presumably the audience for the literature of desperation. What do we see? First: the reader is an adolescent or an immature adult, insecure, all nerves. He's the kind of fucking idiot (pardon my language) who committed suicide after reading Werther. Second: he's a limited reader. Why limited? That's easy: because he can only read the literature of

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-92141793107941073192008-05-27T20:26:00.001-05:002008-05-27T20:50:58.015-05:00

Right now, at this moment, I'm putting off work—which entails "tagging" fifty-something pages of regulatory exams for risk categories and other such ilk.I'd rather be reading The Savage Detectives, but I'm afraid that if I don't get through these exams, I'll have it to pay tomorrow. Actually there'll be hell either way, but I'm looking for less.So little to everyday right now, but work.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-5372937636953008302008-05-06T23:02:00.000-05:002008-05-06T23:28:04.433-05:00

It's been four weeks since my last confession.To be honest, I've run out of excitement with myself in this space. My thoughts seem tepid at the end of day. My affairs are shallow compared to what they've been, when I began in New York, then the mania in Nashville.I am working now—back in the ranks of the health-insured. (Not health-ensured.) I'm paying off credit cards and putting off

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-36215297199436234382008-04-06T23:24:00.000-05:002008-04-06T23:33:06.276-05:00

NaPoWriMo has been derailed by some good life mojo. I'm seeing boxes of books out of the basement.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-17274876735552665422008-04-01T22:53:00.003-05:002008-04-02T22:23:33.271-05:00

Interesting reading here. How do your significant other's literary tastes compare to yours? (I've put a poll in the sidebar.)* * *First shot at NaPo was a wretched little list of aphorisms.However, I did like these:Ironic is not a worldview.Sentimentality is the bureaucracy of the beloved.There is no cerulean—only Windex.

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-10118908903469777432008-04-01T17:08:00.001-05:002008-04-01T17:11:08.954-05:00

I suffereda terrible hangover of faith.—from "It Was a Coffin That Sang," by Olena K. Davis

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-37430094873449589602008-03-31T00:38:00.001-05:002008-03-31T00:41:03.919-05:00

I'm cuttinginto the thinly rolled doughof his life. I'm makingover and over the shape that is me.—from "Palimpsest," by Olena K. Davis

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-49770637449003772352008-03-25T22:55:00.003-05:002008-03-25T23:53:03.996-05:00

Just been playing with The Enneagram of Personality.Concluded that I'm probably a five:Fives: Observers, Thinkers, InvestigatorsFives are motivated by the desire to understand the world around them, specifically in terms of facts. Believing they are only worth what they contribute, Fives have learned to withdraw, to watch with keen eyes and speak only when they can shake the world with their

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-42121194544896133462008-03-24T22:57:00.000-05:002008-03-24T23:43:50.210-05:00

She asked what I wanted, aside from job. Answered, "A fireplace, some bookshelves, a nice desk. Maybe a garage."Couldn't say the more immediate things that sprang to mind, knowing not to trust the things—though it's most of what I've thought of since.Have to ride this out again. Money could buy me love—or room of my own, with or without fireplace.. . . a woman must have money and a room of her

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8367170.post-51825504720376005232008-03-23T22:52:00.003-05:002008-03-24T00:42:33.837-05:00

I'm not a cynic.* * ** * *Wish me luck this week. Conversation #3,001 with a recruiter tomorrow, I hope.* * *In other spheres, I am a charmed idiot. Friday we met. Tonight I swooned and yammered. Tomorrow she's gone home, across states. * * *Fireplace-sigh.* * *Keep looking for the book that I suppose I should write. To LYL's "I guess at some point I just gave up and began addressing the

A. D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13356106957900416900noreply@blogger.com0