Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
News
Website is updated.
Good New Books
VERTIGO Martha Ronk (Coffee House)
NO REAL LIGHT Joe Wenderoth (Wave)
DEAR BODY Dan Machlin (ugly duckling)--everything they publish is gorgeous
THE WET COLLECTION Jonie Tevis (Milkweed)
THE FORMS OF YOUTH Stephen Burt (Columbia)
MODERN LIFE Matthea Harvey (Graywolf) +++
Good New Books
VERTIGO Martha Ronk (Coffee House)
NO REAL LIGHT Joe Wenderoth (Wave)
DEAR BODY Dan Machlin (ugly duckling)--everything they publish is gorgeous
THE WET COLLECTION Jonie Tevis (Milkweed)
THE FORMS OF YOUTH Stephen Burt (Columbia)
MODERN LIFE Matthea Harvey (Graywolf) +++
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Dan Machlin
Dear Body:
Whether my mind to my knee or a chest as hollow as a creek bed, these are the questions I am always asking, trying to mutter an answer to. If there was one popular tree on my property, it was the dream tree. Arms spread out in full growth, no shading here. But what do I know—I was a city boy raised in the sky. Now I am wandering into the eternal justification some call lethargy.
This body, he said (as if this specific body had a house, a housing). No, we were not just pleasant beings gazing into the sun, slightly tired and not yet hungry, having eaten lunch much too late.
And who is this “we” anyway—I was alone—tabulating the pros and cons of my history, sitting beside the ache in one’s arrogance meets devastation—this non-man, a rupture.
In the beginning, the land tore itself apart in volcanic ebulliences and simultaneously collapsed inward into tectonic concavity.
It was I who was being carried—a saint in a glass box, lord of Liberty Island, rabbi of abandoned parks.
I did not try to curry favor with the locals, though they tied me to the grammar with their hammers.
Insignificance, a pre-populated field whose minor chord inspired complaints about lost wages.
It was as if, here I was in you, my body, waging devastation on a foreign body—deformed bodies of state.
Whether my mind to my knee or a chest as hollow as a creek bed, these are the questions I am always asking, trying to mutter an answer to. If there was one popular tree on my property, it was the dream tree. Arms spread out in full growth, no shading here. But what do I know—I was a city boy raised in the sky. Now I am wandering into the eternal justification some call lethargy.
This body, he said (as if this specific body had a house, a housing). No, we were not just pleasant beings gazing into the sun, slightly tired and not yet hungry, having eaten lunch much too late.
And who is this “we” anyway—I was alone—tabulating the pros and cons of my history, sitting beside the ache in one’s arrogance meets devastation—this non-man, a rupture.
In the beginning, the land tore itself apart in volcanic ebulliences and simultaneously collapsed inward into tectonic concavity.
It was I who was being carried—a saint in a glass box, lord of Liberty Island, rabbi of abandoned parks.
I did not try to curry favor with the locals, though they tied me to the grammar with their hammers.
Insignificance, a pre-populated field whose minor chord inspired complaints about lost wages.
It was as if, here I was in you, my body, waging devastation on a foreign body—deformed bodies of state.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Saltgrass!
This morning a man in blue wearing a Minnesota Twins hat handed it to me, and this fine new journal, the production and the work inside it, is lovely. Get it!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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