31 October 2005
    


“…retro me…”


30 October 2005
    

Best sentence from the
“A Spooky Sleepy Hollow October”
information guide:

“No flashlights, strobe lights, video cameras or flash cameras may be shined at the Headless Horseman.”


20 October 2005
    
I will die. You will die. Hell—maybe we’ll all kick off together. But before we do, at least one of us will get hired to give pop-up demonstrations for two days at a colossal advertising convention in Atlanta, Georgia.
So poet Rives..?
The paper I’d ordered for my demonstrations didn’t get unpacked by the people who set up the booth, so I snagged a give-away pack of promotional playing cards and spent the first day just making this.
…is a page poet?
And you know what sucks? I mean, besides the Georgia World Convention Center food court (specifically), and “silent auctions” (in general)? I didn’t have time to go here.


15 October 2005
    

Seven straight days of New York rain got you down?
Why not build a squirrel house?

This charming, split-level squirrel house (32 x 20 x 50 cm) was constructed by a local craftsman using traditional materials dug out of trash bins in the East Village. The squirrel house’s main structure is a crate for Chateau d’Armailhac merlot, its facade is the bottom of a drawer, and its bold, unornamented torus finial is a piece of molding the craftsman finally managed to kick off the bottom of a crib.
This is the website of the poet Rives. .
The sheet tin that was used to waterproof the roof of the squirrel house was possibly obtained by methods considered less than entirely legal. The leftover scraps were fashioned into whimsical emblems of the craftsman’s personal iconography. Oh—and he nailed them down with thumbtacks. On the right side we find a “sun” and “moon” (most likely to symbolize “day” and “night") and on the left side, a stylized map of Manhattan, and below it a plaque engraved with the Latin inscription: “SCIVRI AVES ET VESPERTILIONES” or: “Squirrels, Birds, and Bats.”


06 October 2005
    

Samhainaphobia?

Quite a few emails about the Halloween thing, so:

No, I did not know that “samhainaphobia” means “fear of Halloween.” In fact, Carla, I thought your email was a joke until I found this. But what the fuck? Aren’t you supposed to be afraid of Halloween? Is there a word for being afraid of getting flushed down the potty when you’re four? No. Because you’re supposed to be afraid of getting flushed down the potty when you’re four. You deal with it.

Also: Did I know that Houdini died on Halloween? Yep—all Halloween people know that. But did I know that he was buried in a cemetery in Queens, New York, just a handful of subway stops from where I type this? Nope–didn’t know that. So thanks, Kelley—now I gotta go to frikkin’ Queens. Or I can just watch the footage (from 1926!) of his funeral here.


05 October 2005
    

ATTENTION WASHINGTON DC: Tomorrow night I will be here.


04 October 2005
    



Suicide King Geoff Trenchard and 1999 Indy Champ Roger Bonair-Agard watch new sensation Kim Johnson at Bar 13 last night.

Kim is the only other poet I know of besides me and John Keats who was born on Halloween. Seems like there should be more. Check out “Superstitions—BIRTH” at www.hallowfreaks.com, and don’t miss the typo in number 4. I also really like the snail thing under “MARRAIGE.”


01 October 2005
    

Memorize the last two lines of this poem if you want an all-weather mantra. That’s all I’m saying. The poem is by Tara Betts, and I asked her for it, and she…let me have it. I also asked her for a little back story, and frankly—I thought she would give me at least a little gossip, and maybe even the the real “Real Reason.” Did she do that? Find out for yourself. For Tara’s explanation of her poem, click here. For more poems and other Tara thangs, go to tarabetts.net.

The Real Reason

The real reason you left is a question mark,
a comma with a crazy pause bent on gangsta lean
against the walls of my brain, an ellipsis
where every pregnant pause is abandoned.

No room is left in the well for wishes, just
enough water to be quenched
with dreams of stones
that hold water within
cemented congregation.

The reason you left is a sealed envelope,
a pot too hot to touch, a linch pin that
would crash the whole machine if I pulled it.
Why even ask for the reason?

When a chime through a litany of w’s
does not count any of the ways
a mirror loves me, the number of smiles
collected in a day
like shells gathered in a pail?

Words litter the side of my bed
hollowed out on the left side.
This mouth down to my feet is
all sugar cane so the reason never mattered.

Tara Betts is all sugar cane and then some.

—Tara Betts, July 22, 2004