Wednesday, November 19, 2008

First Week of November

Saturday-Mary takes us on a Rock Retrieval mission to a BLM site out by Cuba. The drive is dazzling. And the area for picking up moss rock magical.

Sunday - We drive back and hike (well, walk. amble.) in the area Mary pointed to the day before, just past the turn off to San Isidro. It was gorgeous.

Sunday night - Day of the Dead parade in South Valley
Kate sent an APB to the girl-gang about this, and Lisa commented to all that it made gay pride look tame. So we made a point of going, managing to get lost and have panic attacks about where to park. It was everything one could have hoped.

Monday night - Gloria went with me to the poetry salon hosted by Ken Gurney and Diane Schliess. Sari Kronsky, Bob Reeves, Ken, Gloria and myself. I brought Walt Whitman. Maureen Seaton made a surprise appearance.

Wanderlust: the dark side.
Or--Office Supply Slut
by Dottie Webb

Dear Notebook,
You are the perfect size and shape.
We had a charmed beginning.
I composed haiku
and sketched leaves.

But now the honeymoon is over--just like that.
I'm carrying you, carrying you,
still taking you everywhere,
hopeful (but secretly defeated)
fallow / thallow / callow
I stare at you. Nothing.
The haiku have dried up.
I have stopped trying to sketch.
And won't stoop to scratching out shopping lists--
I respect you too much for that....

Yesterday I wanted to cheat on you.
I prowled the office supply section of the bookstore,
my fingers trailing lightly over tablets, notepads,
plastic-coated blocks of index cards--ruled or unlined.
Oh yes, I've already dated those--
piles of them everywhere at the house.
I abandoned them too.

That is what I do--give up. Go looking
for the next one. Maybe a spiral-bound bit of French
parchment with extra-still backing.

Saying something--do something to woo me!
There's a 6" x 10" buff, little, recycled Japanese number on an end cap
for five and a quarter and she's
whispering my name.

by Kenneth Gurney

Death comes
right through your door,
not so much as a "by your leave,"
takes the funny papers from your hand,
pours coffee into a dirty cup from the sink,
puts the roach motel in his pocket,
eats the last jelly roll.

He looks over your shoulder,
cusses—the Cubs lost again,
smiles—Sammy’s 22nd homerun.

He takes control of the remote,
hopes for Monty Python’s
"dead parrot" sketch,
turns to the comedy channel,
then A&E, then the History Channel,
settles for a holocaust documentary,
watches until the show ends.

Death grabs a post-it note from the fridge,
writes something in a cryptic script,
paces back and forth pondering,
goes to that old school clock
you keep by the door,
opens the glass face,
moves the hands backward
three minutes and seven seconds,
then places the hand written


on your forehead.

Non sequitur.

In the interest of growing, trying new things, stepping outside my comfort zone, I tried out Flickr (and really liked it), and Facebook (a bit overstimulating while already in a job with swirl and Drama and anxiety and the least personal space I've ever had to cope with for the bulk of my waking hours).

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