In my words, September 23 – 29

I think I have been going faster than I am thinking. Classes continue, students come and go the first week; this is usual. You don’t have to like a student to do him or her some good, although it helps. Work can be a challenge. Akram continues looking for a job as a doctor which is usual too. We have begun to have oatmeal for breakfast again now that things are getting cooler with some raisins, bananas and a little butter added for flavor and color. And I started looking through old vimeos I shot awhile ago and didn’t think much of then, but now have found some poetry worth preserving in them, so A Few Swimmers Appear is complete on the blog with both a poem and video, just as I’d intended.

On seeing a wasp in a mountain stream

Come, look with me
a small thing spins
with delicate legs and delicate wings
soon not to be intact
among the rapids and the rocks.

Who will kneel to pick it out?

If it stings it must
unlike us.

To a virgin

As you weep, so shall you learn
on being entered, first it burns.

It all depends which way you breathe
whether you come or whether you bleed.

An Invitation to approach me across the Impossible

Fish will make fish, bread is bread
Hunger’s the same mouth, craw, and pain
gathered in so many on the hillside.

Then come but not fearing
with white knuckles clinging
to a wooden heaving boat.
Those weren’t Galilee’s
you saw me still
but the wild waves in my soul.

Empty buoys you like the land.
Leave all behind is all that matters.
Here, I’ll hold out my hand.

Before two sculptures

Stone boy, stone girl everlasting kiss.
Everfalling wax fingers has Icarus.

Let artists speak: they mean no harm.
But promised comes the dawn
to shine on rough stone as the hewn.

O Night, your crickets prophesy.
Heard but not seen in black nothing
Sound grows, outlines and glows
Aurora’s pink and jagged edge.

Then in the hedge sweet meet the legs to sing,
“What’s art is dead, all choice is dust
when minds are light, the light is just
and you’re as beautiful as all is beautiful
when shone upon enough.”


The sky was overcast on Friday. The morning began sunny but by the afternoon there was a chill in my bones. The leaves, drying brown and yellow, were beginning to fall, and all of the squirrels had acorns in their mouths. The Joe Pye Weed by the pond was no longer pink, but a dull brown without any butterflies around. Around the fountain in the Conservatory Garden children wandered, walkers looked, some took photos, and just like from the beginning of time lovers lingered in each other’s arms.


I’d forgotten about this—like one might forget for a moment the good old days—but I remember it now: I was a lucky duck and had one of the best times in a long time attending the opening night of the Lee Black Childers’ photography exhibition, “Pulled Pork…Unseen images from Warhol’s Only Play,” on Friday the 13th at The Leslie-Lohman Old Basement Gallery 127-B Prince St with readings from the play by Tony Zanetta and Ruby Lynn Reyner, and a monologue by Zoe Hanson that was unfortunately too softly spoken to record well. But Tony and Ruby’s performance sounds good although I was a little far back in the crowd and had to hold my hand with the recording iPhone up above it all trying to be as still as possible. The night before (talk about bad luck) I’d fallen down the stairwell in my building slipping on the rainswept steps and was lucky really that I wasn’t dead or paralyzed (talk about good luck), but my lower back and shoulder hurt, yet I kept my arm up as best as I could for the sake of art. And here you are: some Pork.

“I am at Fanelli’s on Prince having a vodka on the rocks (good for an aching lower back). I want to tell the bartender that she is beautiful both inside and out and that she shouldn’t just give it away, but she might take it wrong. The guy next to me hitting on the blonde talking about movies has said, “I seen it,” twice, but I am keeping my mouth shut. Are these too many characters for a Tweet?”

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