Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Sadness That Resides in Everything
You see it in the carriage of the woman
once a man, in her careful
navigation of cobble, hands jammed
in the pockets of her leather jacket; it trails
like a scarf, lingers in the shadow
that slides along the church wall, hovers
around her booted ankles in a swirl
of trash and dusty leaves. It makes you
want an accordion player to follow
behind her in perpetual serenade, though
that too would be devastatingly sad—
the old musician stumbling finally
to bed, the accordion left in the hall
to fart itself into restless silence.
And you can spot it in the young man
allowing life to stream around him:
it’s carried in his shoulders,
which hang on a broken coat hanger,
and caught in hands that mime
knotting a rope from a boat decades
shipwrecked. It’s there in the dusty
old dog napping on its side
in a depression of sun, and in
the young girl’s hard pull
against mother’s restraining hand.
In storefront signs, handbills
blowing down the street; in the clouds
huddling above your head. And
there in your chest, hard
as a plum pit, cracked and brittle;
and in your eyes squinting
into the day’s last sun; in the fleeting
look that no one cares to read, reflected
in the window of the kite shop
closed for the season.
once a man, in her careful
navigation of cobble, hands jammed
in the pockets of her leather jacket; it trails
like a scarf, lingers in the shadow
that slides along the church wall, hovers
around her booted ankles in a swirl
of trash and dusty leaves. It makes you
want an accordion player to follow
behind her in perpetual serenade, though
that too would be devastatingly sad—
the old musician stumbling finally
to bed, the accordion left in the hall
to fart itself into restless silence.
And you can spot it in the young man
allowing life to stream around him:
it’s carried in his shoulders,
which hang on a broken coat hanger,
and caught in hands that mime
knotting a rope from a boat decades
shipwrecked. It’s there in the dusty
old dog napping on its side
in a depression of sun, and in
the young girl’s hard pull
against mother’s restraining hand.
In storefront signs, handbills
blowing down the street; in the clouds
huddling above your head. And
there in your chest, hard
as a plum pit, cracked and brittle;
and in your eyes squinting
into the day’s last sun; in the fleeting
look that no one cares to read, reflected
in the window of the kite shop
closed for the season.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Walking with Walter
Original Drawing by Bill Matthews
for "Walking with Walter" letterpress broadside
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Coolest Thing on the Table at the Re-Viewing BMC Conference Last Weekend in Asheville
All Summer Long, you should find it on-line and purchase this amazing object--it's third journal, third surf sound bible & third academic treatise on style and LA
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
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