Should I or Should I Not

Post a jpeg of the Eakins postcard I've put into the deep, white frame? It might bring down the censoring wrath of the genteel blokes at Blogger, so... Yes, let's!



I just wrote a poem that doesn't make much sense. I think I was really trying to write a different one about boundaries instead. Ooh, with cartography as theme! Why must one work through secondary things to reach the primary? Hmm... Might post the detached bundle of grammatically linked stuff anyway, since this is my bloody blog and I can do right what I will with it (imagine that in a sort of couched Cockney accent and it sounds less pinwheely). Besides, bad art, if earnest, is still art mwahahaha...

But what if it's... not even good enough to be bad, but just OK? Ewww. However, I do like the word, "OK", very much. There is really nothing else like it--that suggestion of sloppy equilibrium and passability through a narrow, but not too particular channel of one's clumsily commandeered vessel.

TV obsessions at the moment: actually, it's just one obsession over America's Next Top Model. I love how every season they do try to pick at least one relatively smart person, oftentimes two so that one can be more likable and the other a convincing villainess. How boring are incompetent nemeses in a melodrama? In a comedy (a true one, not Mr. Allen's most recent "Melinda" meditation), they might be invaluable, but I prefer a juicy mosquito so that when you quash it with fatal focus, you can be rewarded with the horror of how much blood--viscous, metallic red pulp that might still be *alive*--it actually suctioned out of you with its indifferent and greedy parasitic feeder.

Was that visceral enough for a quiet Sunday night at home? I think so. Or perhaps my lambs are getting a bit restless and need a long, wild gambol after a satisfying graze on some tempestual moorlands. My words, I mean. I just added "auricle" to the flock today. It's so gurgly and medi-serious, coldly cute in a curlicue-locks-in-carved-white-resin kind of way.

And now for the nonsensical poem:

* * *

I Stand

At the roadside and put such beauty
of whole cloves, melodic rounds

Into my eyes. Everything enters
worsted gates. You did.

New kings and queens pass by
in the recent light

and move into the future like air.
My costume is heavy with ointment.

I love its smell of black grasses
that swish away the flies and other

things of uncertain heading.
This is necessary, this is living.

Everyone enters an opened gate.
Like you, I now would.

* * *