Sunday, August 8, 2010

A Sunday Notebook

"Gender agreement." Really?
Il Poeta goes on a nod.
Nota bene:


Does the beauty of what's left out
exceed the beauty of what's included?

Isn't that why art is continually renewed
by what was previously discarded?


Do you trust facility?

Do you stick with what you know you can do?


What place does revelation have in your life?

To what extent are you willing to expose yourself to the world?


I'm impulsive
but don't trust
my own instincts.
That can
be a problem
(both for myself
and for poetry).


I'm riffing.

Los Lobos
on the box.

Fans purring.

Warm August day.


The anxiety's abated a little.
The depression's pulled back some.
My right knee is burning and the corresponding hamstring
is giving me fits.


I've forgotten
the unforgettable scenes
in a novel
I once loved,
a film I once praised.


Barb looked at me
in that way she has
last night
when I said to stop
blotting the ground beef.

You want this grease
she asked?

It's the cradle
of Civilization.

Show some respect
I replied.


Geof often says that puns
are the highest form
of poetry. I often
veer the same way.

I once wrote
a longish poem
pretty much entirely
in puns. It was called
Stupid Poet Tricks.

I even sent it
to David Letterman
hoping to get on the show.

I can be an idiot.


Tell a vision.


How do you
think about death?

Is it
a continuation
of life?

Or a
full stop?



  1. I have this vision. all of Beckett's fans -- first editions open for autographs -- lined up on his sidewalk -- purring.

  2. Alex,

    You are sweetly delusional. I like that.


  3. if I weren't Tom I'd cry myself to death...

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  6. see Tom you do have fans. you're very big in China.

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