Untitled (Tools), Jim Dine, lithograph, 2008.
Dear Opposable Thumbs,
Dear Inchoate,
Sharp definition shadows, above the valley's bowl of fog. I catch my breath each time, then descend into the shadowless mist, the damp, under the quiet wholeness.
Dear Everyone Occupying Space at This Moment,
Are objects made of poetry? Without doubt. What else is inside a thing? What other potentiality could there be? What would there be that will not rust, combust, or decompose? If you counter they are made of atoms, I say; there is your proof! Little things we cannot see, tiny theoretical impulses are poetry itself!
Here is a poem on some small, un-identified cut brass chips that came to me.
Dear Curious Oysters,
Have you wondered, long, hard, and deep into the night just how the Dodo is made? Where do these notions come from, and how are these serendipitous snippets assembled?
Well, I'll tell you: one thing leads to another.
Here is what an early draft or rather, sketch, of a Dodo post looks like:
Dear Poet,
I thought I'd write you a poem about the land tide. It'd go a little something like this:
How would it feel, to go so slow,
snail slow, superslow enough
to feel the land tide? To feel the few inches
that the earth lunges towards, leans towards, the moon.
Leaning and lunging with the land tide,
you'd feel your own blood rising up
with it, tingling the top of your head,
you might jump up, at the peak of the land tide, and you'd go a little higher,
leaping imperceptibly further.
Dear Weekend,
I've been reading all about reading poetry all aloud, and I am all for it. Try this great, and hitherto unknown to me, poem by Anne Waldman, Uh-Oh Plutonium.
Tomorrow, another fine poem! Stay tuned!
Dear Writers,
I was sorting through some papers, and found "I Was." It's a little poem, and I am putting it here, for you, if you want it.
Dear Ones,
Here is a picture of my mind at this moment:
Swirling, like smoke or music, is this refrain:
the silver apples of the moon,
the golden apples of the sun
the silver apples of the moon,
the golden apples of the sun.
Also, in a corner, is M F K Fisher, and she is saying:
"milk toast" and "love apples."
Then also there is very heavy pale green drapery, and a smell of dried roses. There is also a chattery group of mice, that are saying things in very high, very squeaky voices; saying things like this:
Don't forget! Don't forget! Make cookies! Make cookies! Call your Mom, call your Mom! And, get those little scraps of poetry gathered up!
All of this, just to ask you if you think we ought to try, after hearing it used as a derogation* for 50 years, to actually make Milk Toast? I think I will try it, but first I will have to get some milk, because there isn't any, so that means it will be huevos rancheros for dinner instead, but my day of Milk Toast for supper will come. And, I think I will get the cookies made, too.
Huevos Rancheros
It's a no-recipe recipe, which as you know, is very now, very of the moment. Pour a little oil in a sauce pan with a lid. Heat it to low. Pour about 1/2 inch or so of red (or green!) salsa, or enchilada sauce into the pan, crack eggs into it, spacing them a few inches apart. Cover the eggs with some cheese- jack is nice, so is fontina. Something mild and melty. Put the lid on the pan and let the eggs poach in the salsa. When the eggs are opaque, it is done, and you may serve it with tortillas or refried beans or both. Sour cream is nice, too, if you have it on hand.
Letterpress print by artist Sam Winston.
Dear Letters,
Are you busy forming words today? Making concrete poetry, I hope? Here is your song for today, and please also enjoy this example of concrete poetry, titled, Fingers Remember, by poet Marilyn Nelson.
Dear Reader,
Several months ago, there was this post, and a response to that writing came a few weeks later; a poem by K. C. Trommer, titled The Couple. Now, after a long time, I send it to you, too. It's a fine poem, and I hope you enjoy it. Long may we continue our conversations about love & care!
Dear Telephoned,
I have been thinking of you, and station wagons, Mr. Pibb soda, drive through hamburger joints, and the radio. I wonder what these images and memories mean? They might mean I am old, and they might mean I am nostalgic. They might also mean that time telescopes in and out every minute of every day.
Here is a poem:
And here is a song that goes with it.
And here is another.
That's all!
Dear Delight-Seekers,
Today I have a delight for all my fellow sound art enthusiasts and pipe organ fans! It should also appeal to candle lovers and John Cage groupies. Which actually makes me think of something I might want to make: a fan club t-shirt for John Cage. To make it right, to make it authentic, we must subject it to an action and a period of time. By it, I mean the shirt. Here are three sample actions a t-shirt could endure:
car drives over
tossed out window
mop up pale blue paint spilt by a kick at 8:15 pm
If you have just no idea who the hell this guy is anyway, you must, you must investigate John Cage. He is a person who will fill you with pride in that you share a place as a human with such a mind as his.
Try a poem.
Try a print.
Try a piece.
Bonus Track: Water Walk again. Watching Katelyn King perform it is a double delight, because we can compare all the delicious details. Also, if you want to hear more Cage, try this place.
Woodcut print by Bryan Nash Gill.
Dear Ones,
I bought a case, to put my odd objects into, because I felt sad that they were in boxes, and if I am not making these things for me, then who? As an audience of one, I wanted these things presented in a vitrine, and so they are going into a cabinet. However, some things are not going to be kept any longer.
A shoebox of leaf skeletons, although it might be the best thing I own, will be documented and then, tossed onto the wind. Photographing these things will have to suffice.
Also, a chocolate box filled with fabric snips. A box of rocks. Many boxes of shells, coral. A stack of stamps cut from the RSVP's of my wedding invitations. A box of conkers. Seeds and pods. Winged leaves. Stems of dried bulbs.
These are the collections that are going, many more are staying: the birds' nests, more boxes of rocks. Cut scraps of yarn.
All of this saving seems to be what gives me meaning, and that brings me to poem, which I think you should save, in a box, in a collection of poems that bring you meaning.
