The house has many rooms, each long vacant. The children moved away and the neighborhood, too. A wide veranda wraps around the house, where once the children played and the adults chatted. But the weathered planks, which once sounded the clopping of shoes, haven't born a step in a very long time.
The window shutters are unfastened and clap against the house when the wind comes in gales. A grime frosts the windows. Paint on the house peels. The yard's fallowed, choked with weeds.
A house as this is a family's homestead, where I imagine many generations have lived: in one of the many rooms or looking out through a window pane. This house, it's a surname house, known to the community for its single family occupancy. "The house there that's the so-and-so house, whose family has left. It's a beautiful house, but no one's buying. Perhaps it allows only a so-and-so for a resident."
3.30.2008
3.26.2008
Our faces were china doll
February 19, 2008
They found us, dead, in the car:
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
March 24, 2008
The deputy he put his hat to his breast,
the sheriff radioed shook and stuttered
sentences to the coroner. His descriptions
were unsure, but not fogged with fright:
without himself, all his years of experience,
all these years of brutality and blood,
couldn't lend sense. The sleep death --
the cherubim choir their chorus to corpses.
March 26, 2008
The coroner came and carried out our bodies
from the car. Our faces were china doll:
a talcum pallor with two ruddy circles
and a rictus smile of good passing. The
coroner he put an ear to my breast, but
found sound: a ticking of time, a noise
unlike noise; the ear was troubled and
the mind garbled and wailed in pain.
They found us, dead, in the car:
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
March 24, 2008
The deputy he put his hat to his breast,
the sheriff radioed shook and stuttered
sentences to the coroner. His descriptions
were unsure, but not fogged with fright:
without himself, all his years of experience,
all these years of brutality and blood,
couldn't lend sense. The sleep death --
the cherubim choir their chorus to corpses.
March 26, 2008
The coroner came and carried out our bodies
from the car. Our faces were china doll:
a talcum pallor with two ruddy circles
and a rictus smile of good passing. The
coroner he put an ear to my breast, but
found sound: a ticking of time, a noise
unlike noise; the ear was troubled and
the mind garbled and wailed in pain.
3.24.2008
The deputy he put his hat to his breast
To the original a second stanza has been added.
February 19, 2008
They found us, dead, in the car:
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
March 24, 2008
The deputy he put his hat to his breast,
the sheriff radioed shook and stuttered
sentences to the coroner. His descriptions
were unsure, but not fogged with fright:
without himself, all his years of experience,
all these years of brutality and blood,
couldn't lend sense. The sleep death --
the cherubim choir their chorus to corpses.
February 19, 2008
They found us, dead, in the car:
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
March 24, 2008
The deputy he put his hat to his breast,
the sheriff radioed shook and stuttered
sentences to the coroner. His descriptions
were unsure, but not fogged with fright:
without himself, all his years of experience,
all these years of brutality and blood,
couldn't lend sense. The sleep death --
the cherubim choir their chorus to corpses.
2.19.2008
A Walking Winter Man
A patient man walks in the cold, steady, without quickening his step, though his travels may be long. He draws in his coat, adjusts his spectacles, and finds pleasant the crunch and pop his boots make against the snow. His eyes are icy-blue, clear and telling. He neither smiles nor frowns -- his lips pressed as to show no emotion. What of this man? I walk toward, then past. I turn for a last take. His hands slip finally into pockets. He continues down the snow-path.
They found us in the car
They found us, dead, in the car:
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
our bodies slouched in our seats,
our heads limp to one side or the other.
From the speakers they heard the sounds
of children's play and laughter,
and in the lap of the front passenger
a player in repeat displayed
a track with question marks for a name.
2.13.2008
Tables of Measure
Table of Dry Measure:
2 pints = 1 quart
8 quarts = 1 peck
4 pecks = 1 bushel
1 cord = 128 cubic feet
Table of Liquid Measure:
4 gills = 1 pint
2 pints = 1 quart
4 quarts = 1 gallon
31.5 gallons = 1 barrel
2 barrels = 1 hogshead
Table of Paper Measure:
24 sheets = 1 quire
20 quires = 1 ream
10 reams = 1 bale
Table of Apothecaries' Weight:
20 grains = 1 scruple
3 scruples = 1 dram
8 drams = 1 ounce
12 ounces = 1 pound
Table of Avoirdupois Weight:
16 drams = 1 ounce
16 ounce = 1 pound
100 pounds = 1 hundred-weight
2000 pounds = 1 ton
2240 pounds = 1 long ton
2 pints = 1 quart
8 quarts = 1 peck
4 pecks = 1 bushel
1 cord = 128 cubic feet
Table of Liquid Measure:
4 gills = 1 pint
2 pints = 1 quart
4 quarts = 1 gallon
31.5 gallons = 1 barrel
2 barrels = 1 hogshead
Table of Paper Measure:
24 sheets = 1 quire
20 quires = 1 ream
10 reams = 1 bale
Table of Apothecaries' Weight:
20 grains = 1 scruple
3 scruples = 1 dram
8 drams = 1 ounce
12 ounces = 1 pound
Table of Avoirdupois Weight:
16 drams = 1 ounce
16 ounce = 1 pound
100 pounds = 1 hundred-weight
2000 pounds = 1 ton
2240 pounds = 1 long ton
2.12.2008
Piss and Wine in Form
Churning in convection,
the piss and wine,
both bitter, and like acid,
tear at him. Wine,
which is sweeter,
sinks, and piss replaces.
And so it goes—
the heart-furnace cycles
piss and wine.
the piss and wine,
both bitter, and like acid,
tear at him. Wine,
which is sweeter,
sinks, and piss replaces.
And so it goes—
the heart-furnace cycles
piss and wine.
1.17.2008
Street Nothings, New York City
From my visit to New York:
December 22, 2007
"Saturday, the last"
What are you peddling, old man? You have no table; no trinkets. You sit behind nothing. Passersby do not stop for your wares; they continue on, to the next peddler -- who has a card table and things for sale. You sit there, between two honest salesmen. I don't trust you, old man. Not at all.
"Canal St. Station, J-train"
The blast of wind as the subway train passes feels good and cleansing to the face.
December 23, 2007
We sat on a few barstools in the Starbucks along Broadway, sipping our coffees. The weather was wet, and the buildings were darker. New Yorkers, when faced with wet weather, do not adjust their composure; they remain steady: their step, confident. No, Angelenos, they hustle as if wet carried illness.
On the A-train to the airport, I sat across a young black mother of no older than sixteen. She had her baby in a stroller in front of her. The lull of the subway had put the mother to sleep. Don't worry, child-mother, I'll look after her. You sleep for now. She's fine. I won't let anything happen to her. Not on my watch. I wonder who's the father. Is he decent? Well-to-do? Maybe not. You're only sixteen. What good man would knock a girl up at that age? No, no good man.
December 22, 2007
"Saturday, the last"
What are you peddling, old man? You have no table; no trinkets. You sit behind nothing. Passersby do not stop for your wares; they continue on, to the next peddler -- who has a card table and things for sale. You sit there, between two honest salesmen. I don't trust you, old man. Not at all.
"Canal St. Station, J-train"
The blast of wind as the subway train passes feels good and cleansing to the face.
December 23, 2007
We sat on a few barstools in the Starbucks along Broadway, sipping our coffees. The weather was wet, and the buildings were darker. New Yorkers, when faced with wet weather, do not adjust their composure; they remain steady: their step, confident. No, Angelenos, they hustle as if wet carried illness.
On the A-train to the airport, I sat across a young black mother of no older than sixteen. She had her baby in a stroller in front of her. The lull of the subway had put the mother to sleep. Don't worry, child-mother, I'll look after her. You sleep for now. She's fine. I won't let anything happen to her. Not on my watch. I wonder who's the father. Is he decent? Well-to-do? Maybe not. You're only sixteen. What good man would knock a girl up at that age? No, no good man.
1.13.2008
1.10.2008
"Everywhere's an idyll"
Everywhere’s an idyll,
if only I image
the bucolics as real and here.
My home is charming, with trees that shed
in autumn and sweet Sierra grass
and wind-red manzanita.
if only I image
the bucolics as real and here.
My home is charming, with trees that shed
in autumn and sweet Sierra grass
and wind-red manzanita.
"It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat."
It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat.
Embossed with laurels and ribbons,
the buttons hang well at the cuff.
His knitted brow—two long furrows—
are pocked, trench-like between.
How are things, I ask. Fine
He says, the second time. You look
fine. Thanks, he says. He checks
his pocket watch—engraved
on the back. It ticks with the sound
of a grandfather clock. He fumbles
for smokes. I give him one.
Are you all right? You do
seem troubled. I’m fine, he says.
Embossed with laurels and ribbons,
the buttons hang well at the cuff.
His knitted brow—two long furrows—
are pocked, trench-like between.
How are things, I ask. Fine
He says, the second time. You look
fine. Thanks, he says. He checks
his pocket watch—engraved
on the back. It ticks with the sound
of a grandfather clock. He fumbles
for smokes. I give him one.
Are you all right? You do
seem troubled. I’m fine, he says.
"I am a traveler of cities"
I am a traveler of cities,
of in-between streets
and go-up buildings
that shadow the corners
the hurry-about men
rumble past.
The bustle channels
its din past the cars and
cafes that open onto the
sidewalk the trees are
imprisoned in; they too
are grey.
Though I love its smell and sight,
I am but a traveler, and I will
leave here, to more colorful rustics.
of in-between streets
and go-up buildings
that shadow the corners
the hurry-about men
rumble past.
The bustle channels
its din past the cars and
cafes that open onto the
sidewalk the trees are
imprisoned in; they too
are grey.
Though I love its smell and sight,
I am but a traveler, and I will
leave here, to more colorful rustics.
12.27.2007
From Finnegan's Wake, James Joyce
A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-sons. Dark hawks near us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, elm. Night night. Tehmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!
12.01.2007
From Lavengro, George Burrow
There's night and day, brother,
both sweet things; sun, moon, and
stars, brother, all sweet things; there's
likewise a wind on the heath. Life is
very sweet, brother; who would wish
to die?
both sweet things; sun, moon, and
stars, brother, all sweet things; there's
likewise a wind on the heath. Life is
very sweet, brother; who would wish
to die?
10.11.2007
"Pretty Noises," A Pantoum for English 28D
My admiration welled up inside as she spoke:
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises.
My grin had become rictus; my eyes locked
To hers: they flickered as she read my face.
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises,
Still, on and on she went, until I pressed my lips
To hers: they flickered as I read her face.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, then
On she went, until I pressed my lips
Against my finger and she stopped truncated.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, as
She put her hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Against my fingers and I stopped truncated.
It was over, all over. I understood.
She put her other hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Leave, as she made for the door.
It was over, all over. I don’t understand
And then there was nothing, nothing. I wasn’t ready to
Leave, as she made for the door.
The pretty noises still haunt the rafters, and I still don’t know.
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises.
My grin had become rictus; my eyes locked
To hers: they flickered as she read my face.
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises,
Still, on and on she went, until I pressed my lips
To hers: they flickered as I read her face.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, then
On she went, until I pressed my lips
Against my finger and she stopped truncated.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, as
She put her hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Against my fingers and I stopped truncated.
It was over, all over. I understood.
She put her other hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Leave, as she made for the door.
It was over, all over. I don’t understand
And then there was nothing, nothing. I wasn’t ready to
Leave, as she made for the door.
The pretty noises still haunt the rafters, and I still don’t know.
10.08.2007
Grievances to Lisa the Receptionist, Greenberg Traurig, LLP
From: Radocay, Jonathan (BStf-OC-Rec)
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 6:01 PM
To: Lidestri, Lisa M. (BStf-OC-Rec)
Subject: RIP
Dearest Lisa,
Our beloved printer has passed on. I think we should meet to arrange services. The mortician, Mr. Doray, placed the death at around 5:30 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, the first of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. I am grieved as I am sure you are as well, but we must concentrate on the good times we've shared; the laughs and cries; the wisdom imparted. I don't think we'll ever again be blessed with a printer of such outstanding caliber.
And our mouse. The water proved too much to bear; insanity has afflicted it. I'm sorry. This was my fault. I thought it thirsty -- little did I know then, water is poison to this gentle creature. Mr. Doray comforted me, though. Another mouse will enter our service.
Oh sweet heavens! As I write this morbid letter, our little tucker the mouse has grown well. Mr. Doray, however, has provided a companion just in case. It is in your personal drawer.
I fear of late I am the bringer of death; the bleak grim: a most accursed omen. Forgive me if you ever could. I've half a mind to enter the priesthood, after all that I have done. I can only hope God can forgive my most egregious sins.
With great sorrow and regret,
Jonathan D. Radocay
Intern
Greenberg Traurig, LLP
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 6:01 PM
To: Lidestri, Lisa M. (BStf-OC-Rec)
Subject: RIP
Dearest Lisa,
Our beloved printer has passed on. I think we should meet to arrange services. The mortician, Mr. Doray, placed the death at around 5:30 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, the first of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. I am grieved as I am sure you are as well, but we must concentrate on the good times we've shared; the laughs and cries; the wisdom imparted. I don't think we'll ever again be blessed with a printer of such outstanding caliber.
And our mouse. The water proved too much to bear; insanity has afflicted it. I'm sorry. This was my fault. I thought it thirsty -- little did I know then, water is poison to this gentle creature. Mr. Doray comforted me, though. Another mouse will enter our service.
Oh sweet heavens! As I write this morbid letter, our little tucker the mouse has grown well. Mr. Doray, however, has provided a companion just in case. It is in your personal drawer.
I fear of late I am the bringer of death; the bleak grim: a most accursed omen. Forgive me if you ever could. I've half a mind to enter the priesthood, after all that I have done. I can only hope God can forgive my most egregious sins.
With great sorrow and regret,
Jonathan D. Radocay
Intern
Greenberg Traurig, LLP
9.25.2007
The Human in Supplication, Psalm 13
לַמְנַצֵּחַ, מִזְמוֹר לְדָוִד
ב עַד-אָנָה יְהוָה, תִּשְׁכָּחֵנִי נֶצַח; עַד-אָנָה, תַּסְתִּיר אֶת-פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי
ג עַד-אָנָה אָשִׁית עֵצוֹת, בְּנַפְשִׁי-- יָגוֹן בִּלְבָבִי יוֹמָם;עַד-אָנָה, יָרוּם אֹיְבִי עָלָי
ד הַבִּיטָה עֲנֵנִי, יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי; הָאִירָה עֵינַי, פֶּן-אִישַׁן הַמָּוֶת
ה פֶּן-יֹאמַר אֹיְבִי יְכָלְתִּיו; צָרַי יָגִילוּ, כִּי אֶמּוֹט
ו וַאֲנִי, בְּחַסְדְּךָ בָטַחְתִּי-- יָגֵל לִבִּי, בִּישׁוּעָתֶךָ:אָשִׁירָה לַיהוָה, כִּי גָמַל עָלָי
ב עַד-אָנָה יְהוָה, תִּשְׁכָּחֵנִי נֶצַח; עַד-אָנָה, תַּסְתִּיר אֶת-פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי
ג עַד-אָנָה אָשִׁית עֵצוֹת, בְּנַפְשִׁי-- יָגוֹן בִּלְבָבִי יוֹמָם;עַד-אָנָה, יָרוּם אֹיְבִי עָלָי
ד הַבִּיטָה עֲנֵנִי, יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי; הָאִירָה עֵינַי, פֶּן-אִישַׁן הַמָּוֶת
ה פֶּן-יֹאמַר אֹיְבִי יְכָלְתִּיו; צָרַי יָגִילוּ, כִּי אֶמּוֹט
ו וַאֲנִי, בְּחַסְדְּךָ בָטַחְתִּי-- יָגֵל לִבִּי, בִּישׁוּעָתֶךָ:אָשִׁירָה לַיהוָה, כִּי גָמַל עָלָי
_____________________________________
For the Leader. A Psalm of David
1. How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
2. How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3. Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4. Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.
2. How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3. Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4. Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.
9.04.2007
Satin, you're pedantic. Get off it.
Pedantry is like sheets of satin.
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?
9.02.2007
To happiness
Its taste is sweet;
its passage down loosens the body,
like a draught of mulled wine quaffed in the company of friends.
its passage down loosens the body,
like a draught of mulled wine quaffed in the company of friends.
The feeling -- worries are dulled -- brims about the heart,
but it nigh always'll overflow, roaring down the heart-walls.
What is left is a feeling not brimming, but sickly comfortable,
as if required to settle for a bit less than before.
In general, however, you feel untroubled, yet slightly wanting.
I suppose it's the nature of happiness, its fleeting quality:
the flower wilts because it is beautiful.
Pretty things are decked in fineries ephemeral.
You should know. You can't very well ooo and ahh all day long,
or laugh incessantly.
Do I express sorrow or regret?
No, quite the contrary.
Consider this -- this poem -- an ode.
An ode to happiness; may it forever be in flight.
8.21.2007
Podcasts, podcasts, podcasts
"The Ethicist," Randy Cohen, The New York Times
Flight of the Conchords, Bret Mckenzie and Jemaine Clement
The Harvard Press: "Authors Off the Page"
IndieFeed: Indie Pop Music
KCRW's Bookworm, Film Reviews, Morning Becomes Eclectic, To the Point and Today's Top Tune
Animated Cartoons from The New Yorker
Fiction from The New Yorker
Wine Library TV
Flight of the Conchords, Bret Mckenzie and Jemaine Clement
The Harvard Press: "Authors Off the Page"
IndieFeed: Indie Pop Music
KCRW's Bookworm, Film Reviews, Morning Becomes Eclectic, To the Point and Today's Top Tune
Animated Cartoons from The New Yorker
Fiction from The New Yorker
Wine Library TV
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