What’s going on

My recent stuff is my best. One element of that is I wrote it on paper, with pen, in notebooks. Transcription is evil, made no less so by necessity.

In the meantime you guys are gonna be left with the dregs of poems I have in (try not to say cloud, or bits, or electronically. try not to say agh, in a digital, agh form)

We begin with whaat to include.rtf, a richtext file on my desktop. It was created Wednesday, November 2, 2011 2:02 AM, modified Tuesday, November 8, 2011 6:43 PM, and last opened now. It has no label.

The first line of the document is:
a short selection of current poems not stuck on paper

The first poem Driftwood is black helevetica 12 pt. Titles are bold. Some poems are 50% black—already posted. Some of the black ones are really really bad.

But not all, I am posting all the remaining black ones that I can bear. Maybe all of them. I am going to tag them black (until I can figure out if this calls for a new taxonomy, post-type, custom field, or series).

UPDATE: I just tagged the others grey so you can look at the whole set if you want. (that I’ve had the balls to post). The only exceptions is the Chinese Problem is tagged both black and grey because it should have made the first cut.

The Chinese Problem

I wouldn’t be apprehensive about Chinese
if it weren’t all space invading octopuses.

(You should be imagining
a yellowing handmade sheet of paper,
its rough edges frame
a fishing village and its surrounding mountains.

There are 3 to 5 vertical lines of Chinese calligraphy.)

Binomially nomenclate this

Introduction

Wherein I ask for a scientific and a common name for a plant.

Main Content

What would you name a demonic evergreen variety whose needles are caustic to human flesh?

A segment

Either depression, or a Buffy re-watch marathon, has kept me from posting anything in a while, so I thought I should. Here’s a segment of a scene of a collaboration I’m working on.

Poseur and the Gent peer into the darkness and slowly unclasp their hands. The air is heavy and low with despair. A distant foghorn echoes through the cavernous alleyways and explodes into the courtyard; its deep notes harmonize with the creaking of lumber, and is punctuated by the popping of moths drawn into a lamp’s mantle.

Amorphous shadows roll over pavement and shimmy up dilapidated buildings. With a hesitant well then, the Gent saunters towards the struggling beacon. It flares between his breath, ripping ragged patches out of the shadows.

A fuzzy shape streaks the periphery. Eldridge catches a breath, and with a grimace, shifts his eyes towards the disturbance. Continue reading A segment