ok, fell down in my poetry duties yesterday; started up with Brussenbrugge, NEST this a.m., pretty dull, now to Lew Welch, Ring of Bone, very funny the cab driver poem in ON OUT

mass produced victoriana, forms, the timbre of Pound and Stein
tradgedy of modernism as a style, minimal, slender, economical ideas

I had all of these dreams about contract deadlines

yard poems

all the weed trees, a sort of cherry the wind and birds plant
a hillside, very steep, made of stumps from weed trees and weed trees and weeds
the laborers want to grind with a machine rather than digging, since
but then you can't plant anything, a pretty flower, a garden pathway

the weed trees are the burgeoning pigeons, rats, and oaches of the disturbed environment
hard to believe azaleas solve anything


bringing books BACK from Florida -- this first batch is books from AWP I don't need there; seems useful to touch them for this poem a day thing in the same way as the mouldy through no fault of their own books

"I need general material."

"A random number suggests stopping at a random place, when I just as easily could keep on."
Amy England

to martial success
"I was only following..."

inevitable numbers solutions
correct numbers
relationships to each other
one an-
world describes, check mark tic
next, not an x

seems very comment on oulipo to me
Jennifer Kwon Dobbs & Neil Aitken - Poetry Reading
Tagline: Live in Pacific Palisades...
Host: Village Books
Type: Music/Arts - Performance
Time and Place Date: Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Time: 7:30pm - 8:30pm
Location: Village Books
Street: 1039 Swarthmore Ave
City/Town: Pacific Palisades, CA


I feel this one is cheating; I really wrote it last night

the elegy here (this is a continuation of yesterday mornings) is for Tom Floyd

Ron found he is still standing on his front porch at Google maps street view!

Desert Geometries -- basically, I have a group of books here in Florida which got food spilled on them, meaning, in Florida, that they are beginning to mold now and will need to be thrown away -- stopped being a useful text where this ends. I started rereading the maximus (another damaged book), and was blown away by the birds and saints there --

not in this piece yet

Birds of prey
do what they do. Describing,
no, we are not safeguarded,
are no less victims.

Falcons, hawks,
or carrion creatures
reassemble nothing.
Killing cruelty circle, tighter, down, strike
after watch, watch, watch.
The shrieking is not about that.

Was stark fear and relief
"whitens a vine at the edge/... unsaid"
subsumed in grief formerly?

where is
the dark

what is

where is

loose dtrife
"loosestrife / purpling the hill"

lets loose
(all this striving)


nationa poetry month

a poem a day in april

April 1

I could never show trees how I saw them
to my writing teachers. I showed them in some drawings
and in my yard, but I am not understood.
This tree has red tropical leaves, poorly pruned. That tree is a weed.
The tree my landlady thinks is a big bonsai is not, but I like the idea.

Clouds, too, apparently should escape my notice.
Is it for the same reason I shouldn't sing?
I track them always, like song; they not only distract me from commercial and social purposes, but also from any purpose.

April 2

after Martha Ronk's desert Geometries, in Florida

Mourning has been taught to us

"one blue bird / ... swoop(s)"

why am I sparkling?
I am naked.
Oh, I am married.

Jalousies, miniblinds, verticals
only impede the insistent foliage.

Many lizards, mangroves,

nothing careful as a note,
as temporary that way.

The horizon line is blurrier over sea than over rock
but over the Keys, behind condos --
are they elegaic? in the summer --
just an apparent line, meeting,
meeting as appearance, aperature.
Only elegies open this way.

We make no frame, either;


To leaves, to shells.

What if we don't remember, if nothing around us
triggers it
(what? memory)
(of what?)