I ran into a young lady last month...at the Saturday Morning Farmer's Market...and we got to talking about Ecoasis which is a visionary plan to change some old cruddy lots around here into community gardens, etc. I think it is truly exciting to be living in such a time and such a place that invites people to exchange ideas, good food and according to an email I just received...good words. Open Mic night is projected for first Fridays and this is truly needed in the poetic environs of Bisbee, Arizona.

So Far So Good

To erase it all up and memorize
the gaps run through it as mis-spellings
truly rain. Body up and pretend
to know what it is you are doing
again, wash it up and thread
it with one eye closed as they used
to do this in borrowed tenses.
That was silence for it is
not remembered as much until
the last licked thread lingers
a great long time in the wrong mouth,
the bitten cheeks and punctual
lips pursed to help fingers
to sequel the camel,
balance the angels,
squish out the remaining air,
the gaps, the light in the gaps.
The light is in the gaps now,
tire dish now, surer than that
tire dish now, please be speaking
on between sundowns. On after the overs
and he is gone now, those are his now.
This isn't ours or us anymore.
Some sentences tear apart
and tear apart the aperture
where the light works, the hole surrenders.

This is a Job for Super Kent

The Greatest Living Actor? Certainly. His cleft lip scar to me is mesmerizing....wonderful. And this too is wonderful.

"What can you tell us about your days with the Una Bomber?" Letterman to Phoenix

Anselm Berrigan interlocutes an eloquent statement to an offscreen partner regarding his own particular refusenik status pertaining perhaps to poetry or perhaps to angelism scornforkery. Hard to tell but all the same, it's worth a read and holds the reader save for a bit of clumsy shirk-quirkspew in the middle. Perhaps he is not the most boring poet alive afterall.

http://peacockonlinereview.com/poems/july10/anselm_berrigan.pdf

Back from the old country again and everything is just as I left it...in both places. Not a shred of evidence that anyone whatsoever has been in either residence since I last closed a door and vanished. That spooks the heck out of me and condolences then, yes.

Haris Homestead, 09/10

We know exactly where the grapes
these figs start and stop
where they fell and by which
hand they are brought to tent
and table, I wish for a longer
but less a vist than a lifestyle,
on the two banks of the ocean,
the water spelling and spreading
me, my eyes, cutting
all this property we've acquired
all of this in half, even
the memory of which closet
I locked last
is parceled out like summer
melon, the fog is sure
rolling in, peeling up
the summer layers, the weddings
scalping the low low waves
of the Mediterranean Sea
as boys are prepared for school,
each new book is a promise
and each girls' first smile
but there's no one to stop this
moving on that we're doing,
no tree to grab onto
as we flash by and away
years at a time.

Fantabulous poem, great reading and spooktacular book cover. Kate Hall reads Insomnia from her book The Certainty Dream