Archive for January, 2011


hard copy news

Two poems, “The Dream of the Hoplite’s Wife” and “The Muse in a Lineup,” are forthcoming in the 2011 edition of the Oracle Fine Arts Review, which is scheduled for an April print date.

“Letters to the Air: Transits,” which is a revised version of “Sun Trine Chiron,” is forthcoming in the 2011 edition of the Oracle Fine Arts Review.  “Letters to the Air: Decades” will appear in the same volume, which is scheduled for an April print date.

Dear you,

Well after all that monumental pressure to send you an email, I doubt any email can live up to all these expectations!  But you had best learn that you don’t tell a writer to send you an email that is in any way about memory and expect it to be something short, or simple…

Seriously, though, I’m not really sure what you want to me to say; a lot of my life was a blur for a long time, and my memory just isn’t all that great, and when I try to remember things I probably end up making half the details up. I mean, anytime you try to write something, to put a whole picture together from a long time ago or even not so long ago, it’s never really “true” anyway – it’s only ever one perspective, one incomplete perspective, and memory plays tricks.  And putting it in writing is even worse – all this other stuff leaks around the edges and involves itself. It’s nothing like a photograph at all, memory – and the things that stick probably stick only because they they snagged themselves on some signifier or other memory or emotion, got imbued with some larger significance somehow, for whatever reason. So half of what makes a memory a memory instead of something lost probably depends on things that weren’t even happening, but rather things that had just happened, or were about to happen, or were going on behind the scenes or in somebody’s head.
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letters to the air

Dear you,

I feel old, and worn out, and irrevocably damaged, and alone, and taken for granted, and like any sparks of hope I’ve ever had have been a long slow sick game of me fooling myself, of me postponing the inevitable. So when you call, or write, and claim to have missed me, and claim to have almost loved me, and claim not to have any expectations, and claim to just hope you can make me smile – well, I don’t believe you, and I don’t trust you, and even if I managed to for a minute, I’d have to admit that you must be a fool yourself. Because there is nothing here for me. And there is nothing here for you. And I think it would be less painful if we would both stop pretending otherwise.