The Loneliest Job in the World

As soon as you begin to ask the question, Who loves me?,
you are completely screwed, because
the next question is How Much?,

and then it is hundreds of hours later,
and you are still hunched over
your flowcharts and abacus,

trying to decide if you have gotten enough.
This is the loneliest job in the world:
to be an accountant of the heart.

It is late at night. You are by yourself,
and all around you, you can hear
the sounds of people moving

in and out of love,
pushing the turnstiles, putting
their coins in the slots,

paying the price which is asked,
which constantly changes.
No one knows why.

-Tony Hoagland

Poem for People That Are Understandably Too Busy to Read Poetry

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.

-Stephen Dunn

the truth

all bullshit

i'm still in bed

here's a mix of songs i've been listening to or thinking about lately on this path into fall. fall, when all listening sounds new despite the old and decaying scenery:

1. citizen cope - back together
2. white rabbits - percussion gun
3. animal collective - bluish
4. solomon burke - none of us are free
5. sly & the family stone - just like a baby
6. sam cooke - a change is gonna come
7. belle & sebastian - if you're feeling sinister
8. allen ginsburg - a supermarket in california (as i found myself in key foods at midnight on thursday)
9. brightblack morning light - everybody daylight
10. talk talk - the rainbow
11. slint - breadcrumb trail
12. portishead- roads
13. interpol - untitled

http://tinyurl.com/yer8q9r

shit

i'm embarrassed i like this song/video as much as i do, so obviously i have to assuage that here.



the background choreography for this video is so over-sexed, and what's with the guy doing flips off of everything? but whatever, it's still no single ladies.

Sudden nostalgia for 2005 after re-discovering my livejournal. Years and years of triteness and sarcastic melodrama. Even the user name, a dagger to my already bleeding heart (_goodbyelove). Hilarious and so glad it's there for me. Was that before blogging was cool? In effect, was I cooler as my high school self?

Let me take this opportunity to say

that the tightening in my chest only reminds me of those autumn months. The ones coming, the ones you don't quite know in New York. I remember coming home from college for the first time two autumns ago. Caroline and I sat smoking cigarettes on the beach, my orange moccasins, and what we felt was something short of invincible. But maybe this is the way I chose to remember it.

For the first time this week I read an essay of Joan Didion's: "On Keeping a Notebook" in which she admits to the same theory of fallacy to which I have been subscribing for years. I write about the lake house in its oneiric capacities--the sweet wild spearmint, washing in the lake--yet fail to mention that I have been there but twice, that by night I am afraid of the overwhelming hush.

But let Didion say it. It only appears long and reads like your thoughts.

http://www.ranablog.com/pdfs/didion.pdf