Friday, July 29, 2005


200 Bottles reminded me of a song lyric I (well whole CD, Turn on Your Bright Lights) I've been digging lately, and I was so sure I'd misheard it so just looked it up for the sake of blogaccuracy, and I'll be (grim right, whoda thunk?), I heard it right. the whole refrain for good measure..

sleep tight, grim right, we have two hundred couches
where you can sleep tight, grim right, we have two hundred couches
where you can sleep tight, grim right, we have two hundred couches
where you can sleep tonight, sleep tonight, sleep tonight, sleep tonight

Of course, I'm only into this band because the lead singer sounds like Ian Curtis of Joy Division. At least that's what I'll say if I ever suck it up to go to one of their all-ages shows. (The dreamy guitars and vocals that sound like they're calling you from the other end of a subway tunnel are pretty hot too.)

Remember being at all ages shows and seeing a couple of clearly another age category rocking out and hearing someone say, "dude, who brought their parents?" ...Get behind me botox!

200 Bottles

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

I don't remember if it's a fragment of a Gertrude Stein quote or part of my imagination, this directive to "caress the noun." I think of it regarding the appropriation of a common noun to something else it is not commonly associated with. Like how Stein named her poodle Basket. Perhaps all names, for people too, are this way. I think of the word bottle differently since I've lived two years with an insistent black cat named Bottle.

After recently seeing an announcement for Effing Press for the umpteenth time, and being an already established appreciator of their fine work, I began to think about this word and its own renewed insistence into the (at least my personal) vernacular. Maybe it's the spelling, but I no longer hear it as f'ing. Just like a bottle is now also a cat or most anything requiring an inordinate amount of attention, here are some other definitions of effing...

..a burgeoning desire with wet wings rub sand into a deep, wooden casement
..the sound of a door opening in the distance either within or without one's own house
..a box labeled "fragile" that contains only stained band T-shirts succumb to an interest in the dating travails of celebrities in a grocery line
..that point on a main road that exceeds any previously experienced traffic backup
..a midnight showing of Moby Dick (starring Gregory Peck) projected onto the side of a public building
..hearing a song in public for the first time that has only previously been heard while alone in a car traveling at high speed while singing at the top of one's lungs
..the act of typing on a keyboard around/under/over a determinately supine feline
..the occurrence of one's legs going out as though being vacated by a ghost
..waiting for them to return

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

A red hockey puck has landed in my lavender. Is that a beneficial? And a GMO spider has built a web across the whole of the patio door. His way of sealing us in? Does this occur in homes without phobias? Spiders belong in the plants. This I learned from Sesame Street. The world in Ernie's windowbox was always a benevolent one. This spider is part wombat and doesn't look like Ernie's bugs. Perhaps it was displaced by the hockey puck. A good friend writes about hockey and once asked people for poems about insects. Perhaps this poem is for her.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Thursday fortune: "Listen often to the quiet voice within." Not exactly peeling back the veil of the universe. Perhaps a second cookie to illuminate and compound the insight of the first: "Your present plans are going to succeed." Great. Now which plans would this be referring to? Finding a new space for the Discrete Series in a month? Getting a new job? Or theoretically leaving the country? Oh Divine cookie powers, be more specific.

Friday: Anniversary, boat cruise, all day flaneuring.

Saturday: Sox (white vs. red) game with J and dads. J said "I've got a good feeling" then we got up to get veggie dogs and a foul ball beaned itself off our empty seats. More fans there rooting for red than white..hey me too since I can't get a ticket to the Cubs. I know Johnny Damon is considered the dreamboat among the ladies, but how in tarnation did his visage get on the T-shirted chests of manly fans?

Sunday: Work and J-show at Rodan.

Monday: Roughed up from night before. Work. Home. Medicinal falafel. Movie. SupaSleep.

Today: Eyebrow wax and Bikram class have me feeling invincible for tomorrow's inty.

Saturday, July 23, 2005


Saw this morning as I turned onto the access road leading onto the campus of WORK: 4 Amish folks, 2 guys, 2 gals, standing in the drive smoking. I can't recall ever seeing the Amish in the Chicago area...nearest communities are in Indiana, so first that's a curiosity. And why were they here of all places- looking sneaky about smoking? They did look like teens or slightly older (ergo the sneaky). Were they on a family trip to the zoo or was there a big family reunion in the forest preserve? It's curious. These are the suburbs after all. Anyone who doesn't have big hair and isn't driving an SUV with a "W" sticker on it stands out.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

I can't remember if this is the Congress St. bridge, but it's one of them on the south branch of the Chicago River. We went under several on an architectural boat cruise...I can't count how many times the docent pointed to an historic building and said "it has since been developed into retail space and condos." And thinking about Daniel Burnham and Montgomery Ward and all the other civic-minded city planners at the end of the 19th century who fought for parks, greenspaces, promenades, etc. What would they think of this? Public spaces (in the States anyway) don't seem to be valued as much as they once were, so civic planning seems to be a matter of selling desirable locations that have traditionally been public ways, in this case, the riverfront, to those who would wall them off as private, individual space. How sad that this is what city officials proudly point to as preservation. One of the few spaces that has been somewhat successfully preserved- that is, its function preserved as well as its aesthetic features- is the The Fine Arts Building. It's not where you'd go to take in the most interesting or innovative work- except for the Nancarrow concert for four hands in an intimate piano showroom last fall- but at least it hasn't been gutted and turned into condos.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

7/20/05. It seems important to begin with the date because the air outside is an ashen tornado-colored dusk, from what I can see between my building and the highrise to the south anyway. A color that suggests rain to an amnesiac summer. I have played hooky today, and even though it is past the hour of my usual return from work, this still feels like giddy, stolen time. Hooky because J & I were up talking from 5:30 last night to 4:30 this morning. Well, a talk dotted with incomplete movie viewing, dinner making, wine... It has taken me a full day to recover; The headache is the facemask-of-plate-tectonics variety. Reading Matthew Goulish's "39 Microlectures in proximity of performance" is having an antidotal effect... the perfect remedy to days/months of creative malaise is now seeing the disparate collectings in blogland, notebooks, photos and memory being able to be conjured into relation.

So in my condition today- a waning attention- I've thumbed through the New Yorker, a Pottery Barn catalog, and a book about Paris that is sadly a surrealist hack job at travel writing, but happily, at least, beautifully made as a physical object. All have concluded with drowsiness. In and out of the nap state. A perfect day if not for convalescing. So I'm reading the Microlectures from the beginning (even though he states in the intro that the book can be read in any order, stickler, traditionalist me...what non-linear poet is this that is so compelled to revere the book object with such orthodoxy?) and around pages 34, 35 my vision begins to trail and blur into a stereoscope of text from each page. At this point I should research and say something about stereoscopic photography or the physiology of the human ocular system. Instead, the ideas that got up and met in my vision of the text were a. the informed vs. the ecstatic artist/audience and what has led me to think that the ecstatic response is more desirable. And Ernesto, b., a fictional boy reading a book with a hole burned through its center by a molten instrument. Which reminds me of the time J & I obscured most of our TV (already dinky) to watch only the top 2 inches of television. Since we don't have cable, it made our limited network choices more interesting.

I have to include this paragraph from one of Goulish's lectures on Multiplicity because the sidebars to follow spun initially from it and depend on it (parasitically).

"If we picture our lives taking place on a calendar-a desk calendar, the kind with one date on each page, and all the pages stacked up-if we picture each day of our lives taking place on the surface of these pages-and we drill out and remove a core sample of this calendar at any particular moment-for example, that moment when one wakes up in the morning and gets out of bed-then we line up all these moments in a row-one could see oneself in a kind of film, each frame of which shows a different picture of one getting out of bed in the morning. In this way, one could say, 'I am always waking up. I am always getting out of bed. Every time it's different. This is my life.'"

Wasn't there a film- starring Robin Williams- that had a scene just like this? RW plays an editor who cuts the films of people's lives into an uplifting funeral homage once the individual dies (and their brain chip that's been recording their lives has been removed). I didn't say it was a good picture, but it was these moments, the daily pause in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning that were the outtakes RW's character personally collected. I don't know. Is this a movie?

And who said, "there is no such thing as repetition?" I take this to be because of the ever-changing context for the similar gesture provided by time. Googling the quote to find the sayer (Gertrude Stein) I am taken to a website for BookForum, spring 2003. It is an interview with Alain Robbe-Grillet whose book The Voyeur I happen to be presently reading, and the complete quote is, "there is no such thing as repetition, only insistence." Also called up by the Google search: "American Rhetoric: Theodore Roosevelt-The Man with the Muck-rake," "Mantra Japa by Swami Krishnananda," and "Myths of Individualism." All sound like interesting articles I would not have felt connected to otherwise. Kind of like my recent practice of reading the New York Times online beginning with "the most emailed articles."

If we do accept the idea of repetition however, how do we know when we've detected enough resemblance to say that something repeats? This reminds me of a news story on NPR a few months ago that J recounted to me. After receiving many customer complaints that the I-Pod shuffle function may not be truly random because individuals claimed to hear the same song often replayed, a team of scientists took up the task of seeing whether it did in fact repeat songs as mathematically often as people perceived. Their conclusion: repetition doesn't occur as often as we perceive. The human mind is apparently overly eager to pick out repetition and find patterns in random activity. Does this mean we are biologically predisposed to fear chaos?

Friday, July 15, 2005

Film Fiesta

watching mucho movies this week...

The End of the Century--I think that was the title, which will explain why I had Ramones songs in the ear this week. Not your usual crash and burn rock bio pic, but I guess the R's didn't quite peak so high as the typical narrative dictates. I didn't realize that they came along so early on the punk scene and influenced dozens/gazillions of other bands. Dee-Dee (applause for degree of functionality while on drugs) was the most vivid- like it was only yesterday with no length of jading years between- recalling their heyday. Video store guy tried talking me into renting the GiGi Allen biopic (speaking enthusiastically of feces throwing) when I was returning this one which made me embarrassed to ask if he had Before Sunset.

Before Sunset--So I'm the same age as these characters and of course my developmental stages have so far all proven to be spot-on with every cliche there is which is why I found the first one (Before Sunrise) so dreamily resonant of every late night existential conversation I ever had... And since we're on a Paris kick, and a kick for expatriation in general, it seemed like if there was ever a plausible excuse for bringing home a movie with Ethan Hawke in it, this was it. And you know, I have to say, that Linklater is indeed still in step with the questions of the age, but more than that- I've decided I'm a huge fan of films that are basically 2 hours of a good conversation. Plot? Piffle! Perhaps it's my poet bias, but I wish more films made a go of the rhizomatic structure.

The Spanish Apartment--(probably more easily recognized by its French title, but I returned it, and I don't have a French dictionary handy.) Kind of a sweet group-living/studying abroad picture with a microcosm EU of studentry. Of course the Brits are portrayed as either neurotic or oafish and the American character is too stoned to achieve even oafishness. One of the best scenes is at the end when the main character returns to France for his first job after college, suit, tie, briefcase in hand, and he is shown to his bland, corporate-looking office where two of his older coworkers begin to fill him in on, I don't know, who does what, who takes long coffee breaks, how to finesse extra staples out of the supply room guardian and all the twaddle that consumes anyone who has been in a workplace for any length of time (but this seems to take root at some point in one's 30's and people seem to really take this stuff seriously from then on.. at least I've found=scary.) So of course he runs out of there screaming because he knows better... note to self: keep knowing better.

Closer--While it was absorbing at the time, once it was over it really bothered me. The plot and the dialogue have that smarmy, precocious David Mamet/Greek tragedy style that all the Yale dramaphiles win prizes for, right? But it's just so artificial, so self-conscious, too connecty (it's that Hollywood device of the main characters repeating some irritating catch phrase throughout the movie to create the illusion of (stoner voice:)"whoa, everything's connected!") Even though this film doesn't do that outright parrot trick, its desire to be tidy, especially disappointing since its characters start out so inexplicably messy, is a real let down. Plus, the last 5 years of Bush's America has made me damn sick of simplistic moralizing- that goes for art, politics, entertainment, etc.

Belle du Jour--viewed the same night as Closer, this is a much more intresting study in deception. The characters are nuanced and have motives I can understand even when they use them to make choices (way!) outside that territory of understanding.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Today's earworm: Sheena is a Punk Rocker

Saturday, July 09, 2005

As a rule if I'm going to injure myself or feel generally unwell it will occur in the morning on a workday which leads me to conclude that I must have a Munchausen disorder activated primarily by my dislike of going to work..and I don't know the difference between a stub and a break but walking into a pile of drum hardware still hurts like hell 3 hours later..this after the great slumber of the enchilada con mole: 11 hours, hallucey-type dreams of conceptual art.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Gustaf Sobin

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

Sad news today that Gustaf Sobin is gone. Before I knew what Objectivism was I was drawn to his work from what I found in magazines like New American Writing and Jacket. He was so generous and responsive to my fawning and solicitous undergraduate emails for the college literary magazine. I had always assumed I'd have a chance to meet him.

Recent Reading

What I've been doing with my 5.7 hours per week...

Leave the Room to Itself- Graham Foust
He gave an excellent reading for Discrete a while back, and I've read As In Every Deafness a few times now for its tautness and perceptive acumen. This book bears his signature style but is much more spare- like rooms very briefly haunted.

In the Absent Everyday- Tsering Whangpo Dhompa (not* "Desiring WinZip Dumpy" as spellcheck would have it)
Another poet I feel fortunate to have heard read (last year, Chi Poetry Project). Her narratives are as absorbing as they are tender.

Precious- Chuck Stebelton
A beaut of a chapbook by David Pavelich's Answer Tag Home Press. I do believe this is the first book of poetry I've ever encountered that kicks off with an epigraph by Wesley Willis.

Often Capital- Jennifer Moxley
I need to read this several more times. At first read I think I swung above it on a trapeze.

And So On- Patrick Durgin
The first in a string of e-chapbooks (not exactly new, but new to me) I've discovered I can read on the sly at work. Informs the rugged virtuosity of Sorter and Durgin's other more recent work with which I had been more familiar.

Pollux- Pam Rehm
Another e-book from the Duration online archive. I've long been an admirer of Pam's work and while I can't find the notes I made to myself while reading this one, I remember being very engaged by it.

It's Alive She Says- Cole Swensen
The last of my e-book spree and an early (mid 80's if I remember) title for Cole. Very different from her writing of the last 10 years, but it's interesting to see all the tendencies and inclinations there. This work seems to be coming from a more chatty approach to questions of knowing/perception. It is a metaphor dynamo and image-rich without the movement of the line/field that has become a regular dimension of her work since.

There Were Hostilities- Stacy Szymaszek
Talky, NY-Schooly, with humor and spitfire pertaining to neighbors, friends and picking up chicks.

Magazine Cypress #3-
A thoughtful arrangement of writing by an exciting ensemble of writers who have their ears to the ground. Especially enjoyed the pieces by Jordan Davis, James Meetze and Laura Elrick.
today's the other half of my weekend...walked some errands involving a mango shake and mailing Discrete paraphernalia at the post off. sat by buckingham fountain and read for a bit while accumulating a goodly sunburn. then to MoCP where I bumped into two of my former poetry students (working there)--always awkward, me thinking "did I give them OK grades?" and it always seems a rehabilitation or do over of a relationship now that we're not in the stifling position of teacher/student- me no longer having to act tough about absences, etc. so the show up at MoCP is themed around photography affected by painting in some manner and a grouping of photos by Moni K. Huber caught my eye for their technique: takes video, selects stills, prints them on inkjet and enhances them with watercolors while ink is still wet. 3 little gems by Gerhard Richter- apparently part of the museum's permanent collection- vibrant little landscape snaps smeared with paint, colors echoing those in the photos--sweet little puns on his photorealist fact I had to read the description twice to make sure they weren't entirely paintings. following the exhibit up to the second floor to a series of recent photos by gregory scott- didn't really snap my socks- their schtick is that he stages these self-portraits (black & white) and some portion of his body is obscured by a canvas on which he's more or less realistically painted that segment of his body. what stopped me in my tracks in front of "Statuesque, 2004" was that I had taken a similar photo once before, though in color and without myself posed as a Greek statue within it--but because all of it was staged in the courtyard of a building J and I used to live in from 2001-2002 (when I wasn't in Prov). There's no mistaking the corroded statue in the center- a little boy and girl huddling under a parasol, layers of white goopy paint chipping away at their knees. And beyond it an unassuming window just to right of the doorway-that was our one porthole of light in that dank, subterranean lair de los centipedes..Ah, remembering the intimate liquid sounds of our neighbors peeing with the gusto of bodies fortified by sunlight. And the retirement complexes on either side of the building furnishing the regular scrape of walkers edging by on the sidewalk in front.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

My Chicago

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

As the New York Times has written yet another insipid travel article about my old hood Wicker Park, I am thinking again of what my Chicago traveler's guide would include. Artists should really be the ones writing these things, as city guides always disappoint me...any boob can figure out where to eat and sleep, and who gives a shit about shopping- how about some substance? If we're talking Wicker Park it's pretty fucking obvious where I can buy an $80 T-shirt or a cranberry chocolate scone. How about where I can see an anarchist fashion show on the roof of a building next the el tracks? How about the wolf man that howls on the bus stop on Milwaukee at the most austere moments of a poetry reading at Myopic? How about a travel guide of what's been lost to the gentrification of Wicker Park over the last 10 years? The giant bull on top of the tire salvage shop on Paulina; The Caribbean restaurant Ezuli that featured larger than life photos of breasts on the walls; Hito's Liquor Store where the task of choosing a six pack was greatly simplified by all that was out of stock on any given day; late night outdoor drinks at the Pontiac before the neighbors sensitive to noise past 11 p.m. moved in...

Photo is from Northerly Island, a few years ago a private airstrip right along the lake that Daley bulldozed in the middle of the night under the auspices of "fighting terrorism." In spite of the city's lucrative deal with Clear Channel to host concerts there, much of island is a wildflower and migratory bird oasis.
"Americans are particularly ill-suited to be flaneurs...they are always driven by the urge towards self-improvement." (Edmund White)

True not just for reasons of culturally-predisposed temperament, but that American environments seldom permit the true aimless jaunt that produces the sensation of a myriad of sights and sounds and feeling "wed to the crowd." With the exception of perhaps New York and San Francisco, few American cities offer such stretches of the extraordinary- both socially and architecturally- to sustain more than a 25 minute walk in any direction from a starting point. Even Chicago- civic booster that I am- is giving in to the homogenized landscape that scarcely distinguishes Phoenix from LA, Boston from Milwaukee. Hopefully Europe can resist this blandification, though globalization seems to be transforming the Paris, London, Barcelona that I visited now a mighty six years ago.

Perhaps the only American flaneur experience is indoors, in say, Wal-Mart. Where one may wander without purpose for an hour or more, enticed by a new category of items around every corner. In the span of an hour one may touch pink silken briefs, compare the size and appearance of a number of vases, read and consider the immediate occasions for greeting cards, be blasted on both hemispheres of the body at once by high-definition football in a crisp synch of rows of TVs, carry and abandon before reaching the checkout: yard fertilizer, particle board barstools, Frito Lay snack packs, novelty slippers.

Is there any longer a city of the imagination? A human city of incongruities?

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Magnus von Plessen's "Large Rider, 2004"

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

Originally uploaded by .Kerri..

Seldom a Tuesday off, so after a tremendous sleeping in- in lieu of bike ride and yoga- a walk to the grocery and a leisurely breakfast with J and then on foot for the loop. Hit the farmers market at Federal Plaza- passing the Dunkin Donuts across from the Mies van der Rohe complex of federal buildings am reminded of a first argument that so tainted the accessory donut it was given to panhandler just outside the door. Cherries and blueberries aplenty at the f.m. and I left with an armful of eucalyptus bound for the Art Institute on free day. The coatcheckers were only too pleased to admit my greenery- heeding my suggestion to put it next to a stinky backpack or two. J had been telling me to go check out the exhibition in the contempo wing of Magnus Von Plessen..will post an image here in a bit if one is online..but together with Gerhard Richter, Von Plessen's work disproves all those curmudgeons who say that painting is dead (relatives I think of those grunting similarly about poetry). His paintings use a squeegee-looking technique to break their subjects into horizontal and/or vertical planes. The subjects are abstracted, but not entirely broken away from representation. Plus his palette was up my alley- frequent use of a mud-mask shade of green. And the big horse-racing canvas that looks like a rusted futurist jockey riding a horse shape evocative of Troy. Which reminds me my (random) horse pick for the Belmont Stakes, Pinpoint, didn't win either. (Closing Argument, my pick for the Kentucky Derby, was also a loss, but I'm more interested in their names than how fast they can run..)

The reason for Shiva-- One of my favorite spots in the Art Inst. is the "Smith Gallery" an annex, really, between (on the first floor anyway) the Asian galleries and the contemporary wing. It's a 2-story foyer with 2 floor-to-ceiling glass walls and a winding staircase in the middle of the room. The ever-changing installations in this space couldn't be more various or fascinating. Last month it was- I never got the name of the artist- a 30-foot high sculpture of an iceberg made of what looked like the kind of rods one would pitch a tent with..and/or the models of chemical compounds used in science classes. Today on my way to the Von Plessen I passed through this space and was surprised again. The sculptures dotting the space were familiar ones, from the museum's permanent collection of Southeast Asian art from 0 to the 12th century. These pieces have long languished in one of the least impressive sections of the museum- a neglected corner where only wayward bathroom seekers trod. The curatorial equivalent of tacking artwork on a bulletin board, these recesses cram the museum's impressive collection of relief work, sculpture and objects from this region into a dark dusty spot few seemed to purposefully venture into (it's way off course for those looking for Impressionism). I think this area must be under demolition now as the museum just broke ground for a splashy new wing in that, its northeast corner. This new wing looks like it will relocate the gigantic Warhol Mao which would be a separate tragedy I'll get back to in a minute. So the choice picks of the collection were glorious in this light-filled annex, including a large stone seated Buddha behind which a brilliant blue sky dotted with clouds was visible through the sheer white curtain.

The reason for Shiva-- a statue identical to the one pictured here was situated in this space as well and with enough light and space to "breathe"- and with its relationship to other dieties in the room more apparent than in its previous location- it grabbed me like never before. Is there a figure in Western tradition that encompasses all of these ideas at once like Shiva's dance? Here, I've hijacked the text from the highly informative plaque beneath the sculpture:

"Each gesture, part, or attribute of this Chola-period icon of Shiva of the Dance has symbolic meaning. The dance of Shiva is said to take place within the heart of the devotee. By understanding the total image, the devotee is led to salvation. Shiva's dance sets the rhythm of life and death; it pervades the cosmos, symbolized by the ring of fire that is filled with the loose, snakelike locks of Shiva's hair. Opposite arms balance the flame of destruction and the hand-drum that beats the rhythm of life. The raised hand means "fear not", while another points downward toward the raised foot, signifying release from that which hinders the realization of ultimate reality. Shiva's other foot, planted on the back of a demon-dwarf (apasmara), stamps out ignorance."

In this week of another G8 summit this strikes me as particularly resonant.

Of course the curators never place anything in this gallery without thinking of the relationship it will undoubtedly have juxtaposed in front of the commanding Mao by Warhol that looks out from the entrance of the contemporary galleries. And here too- hung on the wall parallel to Mao like a spirit over his shoulder is a 17th century copper Head of Bhairava from Nepal. The plaque offers an additional insight- that this depiction of Bhairava is the wrathful manifestation of Shiva.

After peeking at the architectural models of the new addition to the museum, I popped into the museum store to see if they had an exhibition catalogue for the Von Plessen. They did not- in fact, almost the entire store has been transformed by Toulouse-Lautrec mania. I couldn't leave without 3 Paris-travel-writing type of books, since J promptly stole and is reading and telling me all about "Paris to the Moon" which I salvaged from a donation pile at work a few weeks ago. This will no doubt stoke the expatriatism already much on our minds. The books that got bagged up with my eucalyptus were: "Paris in Mind," a collection of essays edited by Jennifer Lee; "The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris" by Edmund White; and "Paris out of Hand" by Karen Elizabeth Gordon, a fake traveler's guide inspired by Surrealism and book-arty in the "Griffin&Sabine" order. (Speaking of book arts.. the Art Institute has an excellent collection that they keep squirreled away in one of their libraries, but they had a few exquisite things on display by Mary Louise Reynolds up in the room full of Dalis.)

Walking home I see the segway tour warming up in Grant Park..I still can't get used to the look of those can they exist but my hairbrush still lacks jet-propulsion? There's a little patch of concrete where the segway initiates ride around in a perfect circle for a while to get the feel of things. I have to get video of it someday.

And, in my flaneur-ing, on my own block where nothing out of the ordinary ever happens, I saw a woman strolling down the street with a bright green parrot on her finger.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

today you have enough to point to
the news single file around the room
with enough points to add or subtract
yourself from the group

today you have had enough
to know better of the room
signal me to file your nails
for a time you can point to

groups you with insurance
and a finger extended for
filing for wood work points
add you to the room

she adds who calls you
she subtracts who calls you over
for a reward that calls you
the news calling you every hour