100th Post

My blog dashboard just informed me that my last post was my 100th.  Cool.  To celebrate, my high school self will perform a big hair dance.

Still shot from Big Hair Dance.

27 March 2010

Housing Works, one of my favorite places that I rarely come to in the city -- books, coffee, hardwood floors, high ceiling, balcony, small wooden chairs and round tables . . . over stimulation of nostalgia and loved ones everywhere:

• Monet and Brklyn Bridge books = Mom
• tables/chairs = Tulsa dreams of Beats in NY
• Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell = Brixton-aparment sutra epiphany
• cute wife and notebooks = college IHop late nights/early mornings
• metal rolling ladder to high shelf = smell of portland mix, sun burnt arms/neck, stained hands of summer stone masonry
• stage lights strapped to pillars and celing = back stage of ORU's Howard Auditorium where I catch Leslie who stradles and kisses me in costume shop
• inappropriate children run and scream 'round shelves = inappropriate children run and scream 'round pues of worship
• charity to prevent AIDS and HIV = all forbidden scandalous thoughts of homosexuality and poets and classics and Michealangelo, Whitman, and Nureyev
• coffee buzz, rock music, bookshelves = dreams of intellectual peers, coffee buzz "behind the eyes", tape recorded conversations w/brother in midnight living room on E 21st in Tulsa

Amazing/eerie vibe of life collage in scene, as in a dream.

yes, I still write these things

I want to dance the
rainy Brooklyn sidewalks, lead the
bums and misfits into a choreographed
showtune of puddle splashin',
lightning lighting, thunder percussion --
spin off the walls and wail into
the lamp posts

     Cliche crab apple Hollywood cream and more . . .


I'll tie his shoes and he'll spit
shine mine . . . then, an arm-and-
arm street-funk shuffle, by couples,
'cross the Brooklyn Bridge
-- small lighted
globes on girders are the only stars in
the galaxy of soft-shoe stutter-step
into Big Town . . .

Baby baby baby it's gonna be
a long night of kiss and squeeze --
straight to hell, and OH the
happy Persephone parade . . .

Blind folded, one by one -- tick-tock
cadence of moon tide clicks our
stiff limbs into clop clop
clop, one-by-one moan stride . . .

-- all hidden eyes blazin' with glow of
ocean --

(Oh, each of us -- a drop in a

tidal wave . . . but we're comin' down,

baby, we're comin' down)

     *sound of wave crashin' . . . 

whatever the sound of ideas, people (water?), and 

bloody hearts upon

pavement (stone hearts) sounds like*

*whatever that sounds like*

What Poetry Does to Your Face

Before

After*

*You're right, it's likely the booze.