Thursday, March 25, 2010


No I'm not full of lies.
I don't think we're full of anything,
not even blood or guts or love.

I listen to songs sometimes that
break out in a rash about the number of lies
that some lover told;
and how they seem to leak illness the way fries leak oil
But I guess numbers are hard to tell; and counting is really so absurd.

I'm an apprentice
and I know that I'm darker than anything I say.
I'm not evil, no. Just limp and sideways and sometimes empty:
so when I lie it is occasionally a way of finding a way
out and not saving my changes.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

away away

I'm all dry of words and my insides feel pickled and I have all my assignments dinosauring their way towards me. If I could see myself in a series of visuals with the appropriate bleak light, I might be moved.

But here's a poem that makes weariness thin, every time. Dear, dear Raymond Carver.

Late Fragment

And did you get what

you wanted from life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The Marvellous Adam Smith

"The word VALUE, it is to be observed, has two different meanings, and sometimes expresses the utility of some particular object, and sometimes the power of purchasing other goods which the possession of that object conveys. The one may be called 'value in use'; the other, 'value in exchange'.

The things which have the greatest value in use have frequently little or no value in exchange; and, on the contrary, those which have the greatest value in exchange have frequently little or no value in use."

Maybe this sounds more profound to me because I'm listening to Yann Tiersen. Still.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

"I thought poetry could change everything, could change history and could humanize, and I think that the illusion is very necessary to push poets to be involved and to believe, but now I think that poetry changes only the poet."

--Mahmoud Darwish

Saturday, March 13, 2010


(A second poem by Margaret Atwood. This is inappropriate, maybe, for a blog that's my blog. But her words make my blood crash and I hope they do the same to you)

Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller

Give up this medical concern
buttoned, attentive,
permit yourself anger, and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your surprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but against you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.


Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

where painfully, and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire.

(by Margaret Atwood)

Thursday, March 11, 2010

a summing up

Renounce Renounce Renounce.

Then, consume.

Friday, March 5, 2010

So much for dryness

You wandered into me from a neighbouring city: I had stuff to do and was annoyed,

but you came like a rain-wet child who cannot fathom the sanctity of a dry sofa.