Boys on Bikes

In my sullen compact, I drive the few miles linking
the adult world of work and the adult world of home,
bouncing between the cushions of both -
feeling the walls behind thin insulation.
The breath of summer sweeps down from the clouds.
It's going to rain. Probably within the hour.
The windows in the bedroom are open.

Alongside me speeds in single file
three boys on bicycles, racing
alongside time. The clouds are nonexistent.
They are no victims if the rain drops
down. They don't mind. They fly

around the traffic of sturdy drivers
listening to NPR and the weather reports,
windows rolled up to hold in arctic air.

Building around the Foundation

In my continual search for my muse and that ever elusive fluidity of thought, my path brings me upon Websites that are great illustrations of why I'm on here in the first place. One site is from The Poetry Foundation. There is a lot of good information here and interviews, poems, comments, ideas from published writers, media personalities, critics and so on.

I like this site for it's legitimacy, among other things. As poetry is still not one of those things on the top of everyone's "must have" lists, the sites out there range from rudementary (albeit, valuable) manuals for school kids/lesson plans for teachers on poetry appreciation to second rate personal blogs about poetry and such, most of which can not be validated (and this blog may fall into that category, no?), and poetry scams. Truly, I do not trust poetry.com and their contests. Others may disagree; the organization will defend. Still, that's my position.

So, The Poetry Foundation brings to life the poetry movement that needs to happen on a larger scale. The pessimist that I am says that will not happen - not with our attention spans shorter than ever and usurped by the likes of Britney's big comeback and a media-conjured rumor of a pregnancy pact between high school girls. But it's a start.

A Journey...

...not a destination,
still, we're searching for the exit signs
that inform us where to be...

Blockhead

Arrgh! That darn writer's block. It has struck once again. All the ideas are swirling about, but it's like a big mess when I try to verbalize them - a big...gooey...mess. I've read a few things on writer's block, and basically the conclusion was made that it's not so much a function of not being able to write, but not wanting to write out of fear it will be terrible.

I wouldn't categorize my condition as not wanting to write - in fact, it's quite the opposite- but there is probably a slight taste of fear in my mouth with these words. I know I'm always comparing myself to other writers, new and old, and I feel like I can never quite break the barrier to say what I want to say, the way I want to say it, and have it still be meaningful to the reader. I guess maybe it's not so much a writer's block as it is a mental block.

Today, I'm giving my mind a break, for just a little bit anyway. So, in the meantime, enjoy some baby animals:

Island In The Sun - Weezer

Fun at Work

Ok - it's Wednesday, hump day. I don't mind Wednesdays, except that they're not Fridays, and Friday's aren't Saturdays...but I'm not complaining. Really!

Wednesday is as good of an excuse as any to release a deep, relaxing sigh, to kick back and let down your hair. Ahhh! Ok, that's enough relaxing - there are meetings to be had and numbers to crunch and interviews to give. Work always awaits.

On that note, I stumbled across a site from Robert Petta, Office Poetry, which is basically an extension of his same-titled book of poems with correlating illustrations and live performances. His material takes the mundane, insane and overall fruitful experience of work and puts a humorous slant on it. Now, I wouldn't say his work ranks as high poetry, but it's funny and light, and we can all relate to one degree or another. The site itself doesn't have much of his work, but I recommend the poem of the day and free samples. For the rest - buy the book or go see it live.

I love the irreverence in humor because - as you can see from previous postings - I tend to stay on the darker/heavier side of things when I write. If you knew me in person, I'm as goofy as anything and love to joke around and laugh. So - I look to Robert Petta as one of my inspirations to lighten up a bit. I'm working on that for you, I promise! Until then - enjoy some of his Office Poetry.

BJ Ward

A few years ago, I became a fan of BJ Ward, a college professor and writer from my local area who has published three books of poetry. What made me a fan was his work in Gravedigger's Birthday, which is reflective of his blue-collar upbringing in New Jersey. A person (especially in this area) can truly relate to his words for all their grit and sincere depiction of what his life is really like; there is no confectionery dusting to it.

I admire his work because in my own, I have trouble breaking through the barriers - saying in plain language what I need to say and describing the circumstances in jagged tones instead of glossing over. Not to say life's all doom and gloom; it's just not all pink and bubbly either.

If you're in the area, he'll be reading at The Pavillion at Nassau Square Park in West Winsor, NJ on Sunday, June 22, 2008 at 4:30 PM.

From Gravedigger's Birthday by BJ Ward:
The Star-Ledger

287 was the long road to the newspaper plant
my black-handed father would ride beneath
the weight of a night sky.
A father who works the night shift
knows that weight, how it accumulates from within
when his mistakes and debt
begin to press on his children and wife.
And so went his life-
If the stars spelled something real,
they might spell the equation
that my father never mastered--
the news just ran through his hands
and what slid there left the black residue
of the world's doings, pressed knowledge
that read like misaligned tea leaves in his hardening palms,
and in his life line and heart line and other lines
that would normally speak a fortune,
the night just accumulated itself-
a little sky he would spread over us
when the world redelivered him in the morning.

Desert Floor

Overtly kitschy backseat-shower rain down upon the madman like glitter
of the gold rush poured from dirty bottles but how it shines
in the pass-thru shotgun wedding by the pelvis shaking sideways sideburns ignite
the desert floor like the cigarette hole punched through to the center
of the worn leather couch in the penthouse basement rise from this oasis
dustpan hands drip of dried earth clouds mirage of the last drop of water
for many miles around this valley of the dolls that peak at midnight exploding red
hot and blue stars like fireballs or damp sparklers on Mars
and the strutting sleekness of the ostrich as pale as Satan’s pretty smile and the talons he projects to grasp the pencil necks of snakes
and turn them into belts or boots to stomp upon the low-life jabberwocky sidekick
mavericks with engraved holsters tied to the side drop down deep into the pocket the plinking sound of change slot machine stroke for luck a kiss to every cowboy
wrangler and carpenter with hammers overriding the flap of angry vultures
swooping overhead the dead that walk around town side to side left to right
in the heat of the atrium light that seems as artificial as the background set
movies show like Flamingo open wide in bloom for the shielded sight of the hit-man
with his mistress and I misread the instructions come back at four or maybe later for the henchmen when the laughter isn’t laughter but a switchblade click knocking over
flutes of champagne and stiletto heels and the girls that want to waitress
instead of wait this time around for a chance to go somewhere
along a stretch of open highway straight as a page ripped from stained novellas
in brown paper sacks brushed by plush entrance ways
to all the flashing noise all around here is enough to entice
the epileptic disco like a strobe song twist the dance floor and plastic carousels round and round the crooning magpies for the wide eyes around slant angles
in shadowed corners dug deep and far enough away
from the whitewashed breed of proper subtleties
instead of flipping on electric night like daytime when day crawls
like impassable snakes along dried riverbeds in this desert forked between mountains
forsaken beauty that serves as distant canvass or fenced gateway
to overtly kitschy madman clichés like the pass-thru glitter Vegas baby song
that shakes cracks of dry earth
from this desert floor