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blogs:

$650 apartment for $650
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annandale dream gazette
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asthma chronicles
attention without a me
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a view from the potholes
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both both
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bread and jam for frances
the brother swimming beneath me
the burning chair
caconrad
commutiny
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can of corn
catherine daly's blog
chaxblog
chicago postmodern poetry
chicana poetics
chicks dig poetry
clay matthews
collin kelley
conchology
cosmopoetica
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culture industry
dagzine
dbqp: visualizing poetics
delirious hem
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the dishwasher's tears
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do gummi bears dream
dumbfoundry
effing blog
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elephant seals negate
elsewhere
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e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e-v-a-l-u-e-s
eyeball hatred 
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here comes everybody
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hg poetics
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humanophone
human's animal
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i am yer grammer
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immoweth
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the lovely arc
lovers' last go around
luna
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mappemunde
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micawberesque
mindful ramblings
minimalist concrete poetry
minor american
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mr. tong bliss' journal
narcissusworks
the neglectorino project
nervous unto thirst
never mind the beasts
thenewermetaphysicals
nice guy syndrome
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nothing to say and saying it
now then
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the pangrammaticon
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peek thru the pines
phactory
philly sound
poetry hut
poesy galore
poets' corner
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pshares blog
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qbdp: the mailartworks
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samizdat blog
sandra alland's blog-like entity
sandra simonds swims and swims
say something wonderful
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serif of nottingham
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stamped & metered flying fish
st*rnosedmole
the steinach operation
stephen vincent
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texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they
third factory
this is all your fault
this morning in poetry
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transsubmutation
twenty thousand thousand
ululations
understory
the unquiet grave
unreliable narrator
venepoetics
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
what an errand knave
wild horses of fire
wind meals
wood s lot
the word cage
wordstrumpet
yes, starlings! yes!
you are here
ysleta poeta
zach barocas
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journals/small press/reviews:

1913
6 X 6
abraham lincoln
above/ground press
absent magazine
action yes
ahsahta press
alice blue
apocryphaltext
big game
bird dog
blackbird
black lodge press
black ocean press
bookslut
the brooklyn rail
calamari press
cannibal
carve
chax press
circumference
coconut
coldfront magazine
conduit
the constant critic
cue
the cultural society
cutbank
cy gist press
cy press
diagram
dusie
effing press
eoagh
fascicle
faux press e chapbooks
fewer & further press
flim forum press
free verse
galatea resurrects
g o n g press
gutcult
half empty/half full
the hat
hot whiskey press
handsome
h_ngm_n
hooke press
horse less press
house press
how2/barbara guest memory bank
jacket
katalanche press
kitchen press
konundrum engine literary review
la petite zine
lame house press
lit
little red leaves
milk
mipoesias
new pages
no
no tell motel
octopus
octopusbooks
omg press
omnidawn
onedit
the page
phylum press
poetry 365
the poker
portable press at yo-yo labs
rain taxi
realpoetik
rhino
rhubarb is susan
rose metal press
rust buckle
saltgrass
seconds
shampoo
skanky possum
sleepingfish
slope
sona books
spell
tool a magazine
three candles
transmission press
typo
ugly duckling presse
vanitas
wintered press
wire sandwich
womb
word for/word
xantippe
zafusy

selby's list

audio/radio/video:

AudibleWord.Org
The Continental Review
Frequency 
Kelly Writers House webcasts
Laurable
LINEbreak
miPOradio
miPOradio POdcast
Naropa archives
PENNsound
Rabbit Light Movies
to the sound
UbuWeb
a voice box

30 OCT 05
I've received a record amount of good mail in recent weeks, including some beautiful books I haven't had the chance to read. I blame Jess Mynes' In(ex)teriors Ex(in)teriors (Anchorite Press 2005). I read the first half of it a few times before starting the second, can't say why. Kept wanting to start over, hear it all again before moving on. I read the second half, then resumed from front to back. It's that kind of book. Without quoting pages, I don't feel I can do justice to the rhythm he gets going--but to give you an idea:

"I miss the people the most." Can't it any more? Forgotten of me. Why can't I? Ergo ego. Ecconomics really. Squeezed out. Continue what I am repeating toward a purpose. Cold facts keep me in place. Walk from the beach for fries. No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service. Beach closed local news interview, grandfather at front awning leaning on cane, "It's hurt business a little, yeah." Too many onion rings per order reprimand. Seasonal removing of outdoor entrance. I know, no longer.

There is one other beauty I've been spending time with--

"burning like a ship, crashing like a pulpit"

"The heat in a wave of wind."

"In an underwater castle, I've spent the whole day as a ghost."

Sister by Gabriella Torres, the debut volume from Lame House Press. Tragic, eddy, spiral, billow, surge, ripple, twist, reap the wild whirwind.

"When he put the pistol in my hand I didn't"

28 OCT 05

26 OCT 05

Some uses of poetry. To crack, to create a crack of light (a space sometimes called "prayer"). To join. And (doesn't Keats say somewhere?) to help. To be a companion.

24 OCT 05

Asked what she believed in, answered: compost. Every year the soil is richer & blacker, holds more water. This is the first year the soybeans did really well. Butterbeans, called "Envy."

Things look a little sad out there right now. Though we still have herbs, some sweet & hot peppers, more green tomatoes. Zinnias opening like pinecones.

I have no time to garden--only real gardeners do. But every spring I forget, feel the need to cover seeds with dirt, watch and water and wait for them to sprout. Isn't that how we all got here?

C.D. Wright, Deepstep: "Morning glories. What's your favorite."   

Heavenly blue.

22 OCT 05Learning to make graphs & charts in Excel for work.

Excellent chart! This tells us everything we need to know.

 20 OCT 05

At her new (second) blog, Laura Carter has been posting some beautiful work from the New Collected Poems of George Oppen (I'm not a desert-island-ten-books type but--definitely, this book). Back before I acquired the New Collected, I came upon a photo online (here) of a signed & folded typescript of Oppen's poem "Alpine." And although he made subsequent revisions, this is my favorite version:

Alpine

We were hiding
Somewhere in the Alps
In a barn among animals. We knew
Our daughter should not know
We were there. It was cold
Was the point of the dream
And the snow was falling

Which must be an old dream of families
Dispersing into adulthood

And the will cowers
In the given

The outlaw winds
That move within barns

A public
Music

As tho one had lost
The one who is sleeping

And his enviable songs

Does that one die
First as one dies

And the distinction of what one does
And what is done to him blurrs

Bodies dream selves
For themselves

From the substance
Of the cold

Yet we move
Are moving

Are we not

Does one hear the heavy moving
Of the past in barns

18 OCT 05
"Interaction with others is dramatic and provides tension."
(Gillian Roberts, You Can Write A Mystery)

16 OCT 05
[quilt square]
Bedside. One side:

He's waiting for her in the blind spot. More & more, he's wearing his story in his face--it wasn't always like that. Lots of people are talented. I knew them all. They liked the right music. Now they want me to "believe" in Jesus... How do they do it? My face hurts.

I can't live my life for everybody else. What about art? I'm not a girl--I'm old. It's taken so much. Now my face really hurts. What will I do? What am I gonna do, right this minute? Man, now everything's starting to hurt. A lot of people have talent, but it's not enough.

We were all young, at one time. Nobody knew how it would be. Nobody had any idea. I was thinking of--what was her name? From San Clemente. She had pain and they "took a look" and it was all through her body. They gave her 2 months and she died in 2 months. That was it. She had kids. Something is definitely moving in there. It's like having a cat in there. "Don't have a kitten." [laughs] That's an expression.

I keep thinking about Jackie. The idea that God will make it up to her. He's gonna be a busy guy, making it up to everybody. I keep thinking of things I have to do. I'm just wasting the whole day here. I might be able to rest for a minute, I've gotten so tired.

Just people…and clothes… My mother… I just see her, you know? Things she wanted. I feel like I absorbed so much from her. As a child, I really absorbed from her--and from my father too--the idea that sex was something a person should avoid at all costs. Because it hurt them so much. Where the fuck do I think I'm going? I've been eating funny. Even if I wasn't sick, my stomach might feel weird. I'm not sure what that proves--it's just a thought.

Somebody's yelling out there. I have to try, don't I? Something must be real. I keep hearing that song "Bye Bye Blackbird." The body knows it's gonna die. You told me that. Bye-bye blackbird, thirteen ways.

I might feel better tomorrow. I wonder if it would be possible for me to go to sleep. If I could sleep I'd feel better when I woke up. I'd like to rest for a minute. I think I might just close my eyes. I keep thinking, "Jesus, you're wasting the whole day." But I'd like to close my eyes.

. . . . . . . .

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