Monday, August 25, 2014

The lexicon expands

In which we play with our new words


Run and hide. Our new frig magnet poem kit came and it's nature words -- which means we can now compose more poetry about the weather. I like the basic idea of this one but longed for some punctuation.

Cold Shade

A summer between clouds --
Could winter fly so soon
beneath a sky's dark blue?

Because I hate cool summers and the last week's humid hottiness has been my heart's desire.

This band must be named after Fort Wayne's summer season and if it doesn't stay warm I'm going to start sticking pins in a Mother Nature


I can feel you watching even when you're nowhere to be seen, / I can feel you touching even when you're far away from me.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

City in a circle

In which we get a little mathy about Fort Wayne


A pretty girl with a painted face folding herself in half inside a red circle, a circle suspended from a tree in Freimann Square. A funky guy with a bongo drum keeps a beat, minimalist music. We stand and watch her spheric dance. Circles are strange, aren’t they? Superficially, they seem to enclose their area, just as their perimeter seems a closed loop. Yet they hold infinity around and inside them, the formulas for radius and area determined by the infinite patience of pi. Inside the hoop, the girl twirls and twists and bends and stretches, filling the empty circle with her imagination. Around her, artists and artisans do the same, sounds and art and dance and food brought together in a place that holds the potential inside for just this day. Like the girl, we dance inside a temporary container, stretching into the space of possibilities in the time beyond, waiting to break outside the formulas. Maybe even have a little pi.

Let's go retro.


Did you find the directing sign / On the straight and narrow highway / Would you mind a reflecting sign / Just let it shine within your mind / And show you the colors that are real

Saturday, August 23, 2014

James Joyce comes to Columbia City

In which we overthink an ordinary football game


C'mon, you know I'm kidding. He's only in my head. And not Portrait or Ulysses, just a over-worn narration of a high school football game, sitting here wondering if it can be wrested into this space with any grace, an evening served up like a clumsy altar boy, or tackled like a lumbering linebacker. Here we are gathered once again for  the introit anthem, the school kyrie, the penitential 10-yard penalty. A choir of heavenly cheerleaders. Bleachers full of Friday service worshippers. THE VOICE OF GOD from the speakers. The delivery, pregame, of an injured player now back from (almost) dead, a hospital helicopter depositing him mid-field to the cheers of the congregation. The performance at half-time of a choir of pink-shirted little cheer-girls; so the children shall lead them, indeed. We share popcorn and sodas, and find ourselves sitting and standing a dozen times as we let people in and out of our row. Funny, it’s hot and sultry tonight, this first football game of the year, after a cool and calm summer; later, long after the lights have been turned off and everyone unvested, it will storm. But that’s hours away, and right now I’m thinking about the words I might write about this night, and just why I want to. Christ, have mercy.

Geez, what did you think you were going to get?


In little towns like mine that's all they got / Newspaper clippings fill the coffeeshops / The old men will always think they know it all / Young girls will dream about the boys of fall

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Light in August

In which we explore and exploit


You take a walk through an addition in Aboite and it's just a white-bread suburban wasteland. Because the thunderstorm has passed and the air smells like electricity and clarity. The sky's a little messy, not the aquamarine that surprised us last night, but still, back to blue scattered with the ragged ends of storm clouds. And the way the last raindrops balance on the tips of the evergreen by the sidewalk, the light catching them as if Christmas had come in summer. And that light -- my God, the long slanty light of an August evening, a fulsome, rich yellow we'll only dream about in December. The clearing is so new, me and Molly have the place to ourselves, the sidewalks dappled in shade, empty of other dog-walkers and power runners. We do a big block circle around and head back home. Now that I think about it, I hate stereotypes.

Wrote this for The American Scholar haiku contest and it lost so you might as well, too. 

Lorca’s August

Green, trees love you, green;
Still, chlorophyll will fail you --
Summer’s bloody fall.

I just want to be able to tell my grandchildren I once wrote a blog post that exploited Garcia Lorca, William Faulkner, and Florida Georgia Line.


We were livin' every minute of the night / Like there might never be another / We were runnin' all the caution lights / We were learnin' to fly with a little tail gunner

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Eat pray love refrigerator

In which we settle for the sake of the day of the week


As frig poems go, this one sucks, but it accomplishes two objectives: 1) Uses some different magnet kit words, and 2) Is a little cheerier -- it being Sunday and all. The last line makes me a little gaggy, though. That said, I'm glad Sunday's over and I can go back to using words like 'vast' and 'sacred' and being vaguely being apocalyptic. I need a new kit.

For the makers of lists among us who also might like apps, try this one: Trello. Love the way there are three columns -- To Do, Doing, and Done -- and the dragging of tasks. 

Of course the reading is good over at McSweeney's and you might enjoy this: Midwestament

And what did we watch (and yes, we'll admit it, read) this weekend? Outlander on Starz. Our takeaway: It's muddy in Scotland.

And after that Bukowski reference on Friday, that seems enough. Can't believe I used the word 'yummy.'


And I've pinned some hope to the summit of some day, / Someone somewhere may do something with this light, / But smokers lungs don't blow balloons, / Except for once in a blue Moon, / And I've looked but the Moon is still white.