|god fugitive: a bosom friend outfit. no, not that kind of bosom.|
i'm on the downswing after the debut of god fugitive: a bosom friend.
accomplished nothing yesterday.
today i hope to work on my essay on O, for dialogue's pink issue. i hope it works out.
i also need to work on a stupid little thing called laundry, teach my online class, and get together an email list to invite people to my reading next friday.
spend some quality time with my children, who have been neglected for the past week.
figure out something fun to do for date night.
last night i did readings for a 9/11 memorial recital. i feel weird about 9/11 memorial stuff that happens outside of nyc. the recitalist chose the readings, but asked me to add one to it, so i did. and that was tough, too. i was trying to avoid anything that would have weird connotations in the context of the music and video feed that went with the readings.
turns out everything has weird connotations in that context. but, score one for poetry! the recitalist told me that when she sent in the texts to the people making the programs, the whole office stopped to read this poem.
so haters who hate poetry, take that, and read this.
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.