I Only See Things When They Move

I stole the title of this poem from this guy. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olafur_Eliasson

This photo is from The Weather Project at the Tate Modern in 2003.

He has a show at PS1 until June 30. I want to go. http://www.ps1.org/ps1_site/content/view/311/102/

I Only See Things When They Move

Restless construction,
your grievances
shake your frame

in unflattering
ways. I have been
dreaming of ballrooms

where everyone is
dancing like whirlpools
and when they tire,

couples sit and kiss
on couches that move
like whirlpools.

I have conversations
but am unable to hear
the other voice. Green-line

guard, you are the keeper
of depositing places
and relief. Low

ridicule, your potted
hands in dirt and roots,
your anisette coating

knocked back briskly.
Our movements under
the microscope show

steepled edges with no
mysterious cry
that adhere

to the surface
when made to adhere.
There is no misconception;

testimonials bore
bookcases; things are
getting worse.

Brief tidings
jut out from
suspension bridges

but aren’t mentioned
until they swing
loose. I am

encouraging applause
because it is pleasing
to be in agreement,

in red velvet
saddles, provocateurs
of the fourth wall.

Then a flurry
of clay pigeons,
canary-sweet

then scattered,
blankets
the entire scene.

From the Academy of American Poets: Poem-A-Day

Here is the poem I am essentially waking up to this morning: “Sleep Door” by Kazim Ali

Perfect.

http://poets.org/sponsor-book-profile.php/prmBookID/531/prmSponsorID/118?utm_source=poemaday_042208&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_campaign=content_link&utm_term=conent_sponsorbook

More sweet stuff courtesy of Syd Barrett and The Be Good Tanyas:

The Be Good Tanyas – the littlest birds

What I learned while in D.C.

Notice the reflection of some random guy next to me and JF in the glass. Perhaps he was stunned too.

In case you can’t make out what the bottom, right-hand corner of the ad says I took a picture for you.

Notice how happy the couple is to be making more money.

In addition to this, the hotel we stayed at in our nation’s capital had this to offer in the lobby between 6-9am:

Yum, lobby waffles.

In other news, this video has been brought to my attention and I simply cannot shake its brilliance. Anyone who has heard me talk about my roommate’s cat will understand where I am coming from.

Today is all about Being There. wilco_hotel arizona

Is that a poem in your pocket?

…even Mayor Bloomberg got in on it:

*Spoiler*
It rhymes…http://gothamist.com/2008/04/17/bloomberg_shows.php

After rummaging through my bag (that’s an extension of my pocket, right?) I found this cut out taped in my notebook:

If you are chosen
town clerk,
forsooth, you cannot go to
Tierra del Fuego
this summer:
but you may go
to the land of infernal fire
nonetheless.

-Henry Thoreau

Indeed.

I love the radio.

Timing is everything sometimes.

I love when the radio plays songs that are perfect for right then and there. Feels kinda magical.

bob dylan_mississippi

Also, more poetry readings!

So this Friday is Burning Chair (see previous post).

&

This Sunday, April 20

Tea Leaf Reading Series

7pm at Tea Lounge, 837 Union Street between 7th and 6th in Park Slope.

Featuring New School MFA Students:

Ben Mirov

PJ Gallo

Paige Taggart

And featured reader Sarah White, author of Cleopatra Haunts the Hudson, Spuyten Duyvil 2007.

Read a review here: http://reviews.coldfrontmag.com/2007/04/cleopatra_haunt.html

See you there?

Flash Fables

1.

Behind surrender lies a small pool. There people gather and wade in up to their knees. They scoop up handfuls of sand from the bottom, sifting for white stones. The pool is calm until it is not, until a current shrugs forth surprising the people every time. They continue sifting; they each always have something to show.

2.

We pull over. We park and enter a flurry of activity. The big, long stretch and the essays from magazines. After some time we decide to get going again. The formula mostly looks out across the dash, a moral sheen, and heating vents. We don’t pay attention after a while. We watch lights on the dash turn on and off. We never talk at the toll booth, alternating snaps. The woman next to us gets out and opens her trunk. She removes the boxes from inside and places them on the asphalt. She climbs in and closes the lid behind her.