Blog
This blog is a blend of posts across personal and poetical topics — each of which can also be found on their respective site pages if you prefer to read posts in a single genre. Your participation through comments, questions and shares is welcomed.
Your Name Is Bobby
A found poem compiled from Craigslist Missed Connections posts
Are you alive? Or did you die
in that crash on Martin Luther?
Sundays are quieter now
without all the blues guitar.
I have three cats in my room;
I don’t know any of their names.
I am drinking and can’t remember
the specifics of that last night:
What color were our coats?
What type of shoes did you wear?
Is there possibility in absence?
I miss you, but then I don’t.
Something There Is That Doesn’t Love a Wall
That something is me, evidently, given that I’ve been in this apartment for two-and-a-half years and have almost nothing on my walls. The few things I have managed to tack up have been mostly driven by the impending visits of out-of-town friends or long-distance significant others. I want to be seen as an adult and, well, being an adult is having adequate home decor, right?
Okay, maybe not. Nonetheless, my late hours on Pinterest and the I’m-finally-going-to-do-this conviction of the new year have joined forces to put decorating back on the priority list.
I bought these 11×14 Jeff Mac prints today off of Etsy that I’m really excited about:
I also purchased these little guys from Juan Estrella on the site — perfect for the 3.5×2.5″ frames I have lying around. Juan has an entire series of little animal portraits painted on playing cards. I think they’re absolutely hilarious. I want all of them.
The piles of postcards I accrued when I studied and lived abroad may finally make their way into frames, and I’d also like to print out a bunch of the old-timey photos of my parents/grand-parents/great-grand-parents in Appalachia to hang up.
I’m definitely planning a cluster of Frank O’Hara poetry — I’ll frame some of my favorite poems of his as well as a photo of him. I also think it would be great to create clusters of cooking/food poetry for the dining room, bathroom poems for the bathroom and poems about sleeping/dreaming for the bedroom…but let’s not get too carried away here.
Vampire Weekend Is Contra Closed-Mindedness
A found poem from the November 12, New York Times article “Generation Sell” by William Deresiewicz
Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.
For hippies, the emotion was love.
Beatniks aimed at ecstasy,
punks were all about rage and
slackers, apathy and angst,
but where do we the real bohemians—
the hipsters, in other words,
with our skinny pants, retro hats
and wall-to-wall tattoos — fit in?
We’re vicious, anonymously,
on the comment threads of public websites
but when we speak in our own names,
on Facebook and so forth,
you see the bland, inoffensive,
smile-and-a-shoeshine, stay-positive,
I’ll-be-who-you-want-me-to-be-personality.
We’re all in show biz now.
We make, sell or serve what the bobos buy:
See our food carts, urban farming-supply stores,
boutique pickle companies and techie start-ups?
See our wallets made from recycled plastic bags?
We are a post-emotional generation:
no anger, no edge, no ego.
No, we are little businesses always selling ourselves
and relentlessly tending our customer base.
We are the real. Millennial. affect.
bohemia merging imperceptibly with the bourgeoisie,
with dreams of hip social entrepreneurship,
starting companies to make money and give it all away.
Try to picture Allen Ginsberg having a chat
with Don Draper at the local coffeehouse
about the latest Lady Gaga video,
and you’ll realize how far we’ve come.
Science Is Fun; Work Harder
I want to be an astronaut;
it’s just so darn hard
all the Sputnik-like urgency,
the math-science death march
through a blizzard of calculus,
physics and chemistry,
trying to memorize equations
when it’s all about application.
The big question is how to keep
the momentum from dissipating,
hang on to the oasis of aspirations
in the dry and hard-to-get-through,
harvest the kinetic energy of dreams,
break the complex attrition of hope.
———-
Found poem from the New York Times article, “Why Science Majors Change Their Minds (It’s Just So Darn Hard).”
Yearbook (2002)
In honor of receiving an invitation to my 10-year high school reunion, a found piece from the messages people wrote in my high school year book. Each sentence comes from a different message.
—–
Well, holy crap.
Remember our quartet? Remember freshman basketball? Remember Florida? Remember not to marry your cousin. Remember, I don’t like fast women. Remember, don’t be a whore.
I will never forget the lunch table. I will never forget your willingness to listen to me, even when I just wanted to hit on you. I will miss you so much when you leave. I will try to visit you.
I had lots of fun in Winnipeg. Calculus was fun. It was fun being a nerd with you. It wasn’t so fun freezing to death playing tennis.
My academic hero! Thanks for the English arguments. I have always been jealous of how smart you are and wish I could be that intelligent. I just can’t compete with you. You certainly made me look foolish on many occasions. Next year, try to relax.
I hope life treats you with the goodness that you deserve. I hope you meet a friend that is as sarcastic as I am. I hope we’ll meet again some time. I hope you meet your dirty Frenchman.
You are a good person. You’re such a nice person. You are an awesome person. You’re such a fun and sassy person. You’re a sweet and super smart person. You were always my favorite chemistry person.
Call me for any and all Saved by the Bell-related events. Sorry about the nose.
