There’s a new Blogoview question up.

And, some new Google searches that may be begging to be poems:

> cheese camp kitsch
> poems about a dry spell
> gay desexualization literature
> how to get taller
> now, someone loves romeo and he is in love again. both have become attracted by each other
> phallus envy
> numbers a dream
> what’s it mean when i dream about murdering someone
> bird in the house superstition

Summer Ends

I will not name you again.

I will not reduce you like a memory to your smallest parts,
      little fantastic machine-heart slaving away its heat
      little controlled burn
      little smolder-fire wicking toward the dry brush.

I will not replace this moment with the next,
      will not exchange you with clocks,
      with steady breaths or the tsk-tsk of the nearest metronome
      the pulse of lost touches that never made landfall.

I will not end when the summer ends,
      this small, small moment bird-like in its nervousness
      our bodies near touch-to-touch
      there are new nervous octaves nested in my throat

which will be anything for you,
      be bird for you,
      be timepiece of wrists for you, be shadow and wind for you.
      be jeans for you. Licks for you. Oh, summer ends

bemoaning its own misfortune. I sit near you
      and the dusk comes on like the dizzy sweet sting of your cologne.

For you I could be the longest day, all of your sunlight,
      if for me you made yourself coda,
      made nightfall, made yourself nest.


1. The person who passed the baton to you?

The wonderful Laura Carter at écritures bleues

2. Total volume of music files on your computer.

1686 songs
4 days, 19 hours, 12 minutes, and 59 seconds of music
7.41 GB

3. The title and artist of the last CD you bought.

I thought three at once:
Songs for Silverman, Ben Folds
The Beekeeper, Tori Amos
Silent Alarm, Bloc Party

4. Song playing at the moment of writing.

It’s too early to be playing music.

Passing this to Emily, Woody, Paul Guest.

Vacation / All I Ever Wanted…

I’m officially on vacation. This means for the next five days I’ll be:

>Transcribing the March interview Sarah and I did with D. A. Powell, which is actually a joy because he speaks slowly and plus, Sarah and Doug are adorable;

>Playing around with an idea I have for the prose poems. Something chapbooky.

>Cleaning my office.

But today I’m going to treat myself by buying Ben Folds’s Songs for Silverman and Tori Amos’s The Beekeeper—both overdue in my life.