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Should not be here, but can't resist.
Yesterday was one of Those days when everything was aggravating--stupid meetings, stupidstupid admin crap, veryverystupid deadlines, argh, gah *spits up furball*. Burned enough karma being pissed off to bring me back as a sea cucumber for the next two lives. At 11fuckin30 finally left the office, totally evil, fangs out, hissing green poison etc.
Got to home subway station (yes, the one formerly decorated with interesting wiring). There was a poet in the exit tunnel. Big handwritten sign: Poem $1, Book of Poems $10. I gave him $1 and he said his books were all sold, and so were his single sheets of poems, but I could hear him recite one on the internet & he gave me the url. So I said, Would you recite one now? And he did, and it was lovely, and he recited it like a fire engine running the reds down Broadway at midnight. (And since there were, in fact, sirens upstairs, and it was, in fact, midnight, this was very euphonious and syncretic and whatnot.) Then he gave me his last copy, all folded up from his pocket.
I hope he won't mind my posting it.
( Love's Hand )
Am chastened. At this point I should probably make a charitable donation to the MTA Psychological Welfare Program, because, dude, it is cheaper than either therapy or the bar.
For more Donald Green pomes, and in general a nice website for vernacular poetry: Drunken Boat
Yesterday was one of Those days when everything was aggravating--stupid meetings, stupidstupid admin crap, veryverystupid deadlines, argh, gah *spits up furball*. Burned enough karma being pissed off to bring me back as a sea cucumber for the next two lives. At 11fuckin30 finally left the office, totally evil, fangs out, hissing green poison etc.
Got to home subway station (yes, the one formerly decorated with interesting wiring). There was a poet in the exit tunnel. Big handwritten sign: Poem $1, Book of Poems $10. I gave him $1 and he said his books were all sold, and so were his single sheets of poems, but I could hear him recite one on the internet & he gave me the url. So I said, Would you recite one now? And he did, and it was lovely, and he recited it like a fire engine running the reds down Broadway at midnight. (And since there were, in fact, sirens upstairs, and it was, in fact, midnight, this was very euphonious and syncretic and whatnot.) Then he gave me his last copy, all folded up from his pocket.
I hope he won't mind my posting it.
( Love's Hand )
Am chastened. At this point I should probably make a charitable donation to the MTA Psychological Welfare Program, because, dude, it is cheaper than either therapy or the bar.
For more Donald Green pomes, and in general a nice website for vernacular poetry: Drunken Boat
