For You
I once read a poem that compared

a pomegranate to a heart. And there

sparrows darting in and out

of the lines, violets throwing off

moonlight like old coats, and

a student raising her hand to say

I don't get it. Someone loved Someone
Else, though Someone Else didn't love

Someone back, or Someone Else did

but there was an obstacle, maybe

the sparrows darted dangerously

near the pomegranate and pierced it

or the violets stole Someone's letters,

kept them folded in their small blossoms

because they believed they deserved them

more than Someone Else. This poem

is based on that one. And also on

the time we took a scenic route through

aspens and you told me how they always

spread after a fire season because

when the pines burn down they leave

enough space for new trees to grow.

The poem was entitled, "For You."

And we kept driving and driving until

winter came, smoothing the roads white

with tiny combs of ice — your fingers

ready to sculpt my shape out of snow

so that you could ease into the hollow

chest and leave a pomegranate safe

from sparrows — the violets suddenly

confessing everything to the student

whose face opens like sunrise when

she says I understand now — I understand —

--Danielle Cadena Deulen

Veace & Me

have been working on some stuff together. This makes me feel like writing here as scratch pad, to say things like:

I could wait all day for the call right back, but I won't. What I wait for is more and less tangible than the trilling to touch of telephones. What I wait for goes like this: the cat's doughnuted herself beneath the desk. She has slept against your chest. She has a thing for intermittency, cold chicken, and the kind of skin that smells like olives and a kind of pine-chill aftershave. Even the bedding remembers.

"If I Could Fold Myself Away Like a Card Table

a concertina or a Murphy Bed, I would. But I wasn't made that way."

No one tells me that Ryan A. is not a poet. And what Ryan Adams doesn't get about artists or chronic sadness or the halloween heads we sometimes battle, doesn't need to be understood anyway.

So there.

But today is pretty, Lots of walking and my neighborhood all giddy with its summeryness. People out. Families, kids, dogs, sidewalk artists, lots of Graeter's ice cream is being consumed. What summer Saturdays were made for.

Farewell thee Well, Fair Spike

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising
I heard a maid sing in the valley below
"Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me,
How could you use, a poor maiden so?"

Because indeed I am the last living soul to make my way through the series, which was completed last night. Between this, the end of Rome, and of course, The Sopranos...thank God we've adopted our own crazy Dru. Sigh... On to Angel.

Listening to Amy Millan's Honey from the Tombs and you should too.
"You've got lips that I could spend the day with."

June 26th is the place to be

when Ryan Adams' latest cd appears and though your funds be summered and few, you will rush to the music store and you will bring that boy on home. (The way he ought to be.)

Platinemu

Drusilla leaves a mangled fish at various key points in the apartment intended to entice one emuist or another. If I had a groovy pink & yellow shimmery stuffed fish, I'd chuck it all the way to Chicago.

And it seems that R.M.R. was thinking of Ms. Dru, Gladiola & (yes, Liz & Chicky, also Bitsy and Harriet, too).

Black Cat
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Ee-mmmmm-You

When I'm crying.
Thank you for that. And
For the ineffable sense
Of continuance. You were. You are
The brightest thing in the shop window
And the most beautiful seldom I ever saw.

Mary Jo Bang

Stars in Her Eyes

Friday night I walked into Sippy Cups to check email and someone called out
"When you said periwinkle, it threw me, but then I remembered that my favorite care bear was periwinkle. Happy Birthday."

The bear was beautiful, a vintage tie wrapped around her neck, her plush fur still glisteny and the color was indeed, all-dusk.
"She's called Daydream Bear. I like her best because she has stars in her eyes," he said.

Between that, the parade where a beautifully twilight-shirted someone (starsintheeyesinducing) and the fact that the Era of Great Disappointment has absconded itself to elsewhere, things are very not bad here. (To borrow the words of Eliot Wilson.)

I am reminded that I always wanted to thank the people that stayed and the people that have left my life, each for making it better by their actions.

Hello Sky!

Me&You&aCatNamedDru

Go-Go Guenette!!!

Dream Horse Press has announced that our own Matthew Guenette's manuscript, Sudden Anthem, has won the 2007 American Poetry Journal Book Prize. The award carries a
$1000 prize and book publication, with the book slated for a
Winter/Spring 2008 release. The book will be available via Amazon,
Barnes & Noble, and other bookstores that see fit to order it.

This is a long, long, long, awaited and deeply overdue recognition. Google him (if you don't know his work already)& see why. Pre-order the book. Plus balloons. Plus confetti. Never enough confetti for a Guenette poem.

Congratulations Dora Osherow Korewa!

Sometimes I Love Being Wrong

Because I wanted not at all to see Knocked Up and I did and it was good.
Before it was a perfect Park City day: complete with Alpine Slide and an exhilerating dash down the mountain on a coaster thingy. After which was home and soup-making for my sick daddy and then a grocery store where the first bridal magazine was purchased and pondered pre-movie and then the phonecall from Person Very Much Fonded and word from a certain songbird-murderess, fish-mangling girl-gorgeous. And then there were fresh peaches and strawberries at Chez George & Kathy and it was lovely and tonight I sleep soundly and go bird-watching in my dreams.

Happy Birthday M.C & Congratulations Christina & Joe

My baby sister is engaged. In a Salt Lake canyon with a waterfall in tow, she got a beautiful square-shaped sparkley.

Today we Park City and wander. The weather is gorgeous and so is my hometown.

Certain birds are indeed missable.

Poem to Kill or Die For

This is the poem that blows the top of my head clear off and leaves me scalped and begging for more.

Poem to Keep What I Love

soon we shall know
if we have learned to accept that the stars
do not go out when we die
-- Abba Kovner
I.

Even at dawn while my mother turns
in white quilted sheets for the last peel
of sleep while the dog waits pure of heart
for her door to open, my father
already gone, circling the same blocks
of empty buildings to check wet floors
or new locks, even on Sunday, even
at dawn--the birdsong's all reckless clatter,
stacked against air like metal while cats
hide under ferns and the petal-drunk
cherry trees burn their new beauty to bits.
Spring slides down leaves. Lilacs refuse
every warning. An old man in his good hat
waves without joy and the women follow.
Something falls inside, someone waking,
a new day setting its small systems straight.
Birds insist on themselves. Again again
we learn forgetting, practice our goodbyes.

II.

In the five minutes between here and there,
Bradford Pears blooming round as balloons
on the clipped blocks of dress shops, framed
chattering white now by trees fat with air.
Poem to keep the Bradford Pears.
Poem to keep sleep, dreams that burrow
under the skin with their knots of questions,
dreams evacuating through the alarm's
blind end. Poem to keep the crowd of light
by the open closet seen only as light
upon waking and sourceless. Source
yields ending. Poem to keep five
minutes the sloped fields intact, the cows
unhesitating the blooms fastened to branches
completely. Poem to keep patience
protected. Afloat. Without pull. To keep stars
we can't see from their myth-born explosions
their traveling downward their endless arrival.

III.

Against the black spine of fear that travels
through countries, poem, keep what I love.
Against the dreams, which kidnap me.
Against the silk hip of elsewhere, cities of still
swans on black rivers, the lonely nights
mapped neat by the windows of restaurants,
poem, keep what I love. Against days
wound like toys then let loose, painted cars
crashing hard what I love though unharmed
into memory. Against freedom's hummed
lilt, tremulous, trapped in the cloaked
sweetness of magnolias at the end of the street,
the front door opening and closing,
its greeting blind keep the thumped pulse
of the dog's tail meaning yes, meaning
here and so why won't the green
shutters rack the glass with recognition, why
won't the street turn to water and fall?

IV.

After they've left for some other shore where the air
gives off scent like a heat, sweet on the skin and blessed

dumb to the one empty house on its street
in its town where its picture rich rooms have begun

to collapse. Walls are lungs, losing breath.
Walls are ribcages, necks. Out of duty to grief
the dog's starving to death. And outside--

the world gives itself up like a sham. Departure
hangs loose, quivers bone white in place of the dogwoods.

I am trying to take stock, walk through doorways
before they dissemble. I'm collecting
the colors of windowsills, shutters.

This is the green of new mint. This gold
is the dark gold of nightlights.

Poem bring my love back. Trace the shape
of their absence to being. Polish loss to its starless
immutable sheen. Demand freedom's retreat

from the air inside bones, inside fire, from the air.

V.

It isn't unhappiness, this feeling like rain in the bones.

What I love lost to the last farms
at the outer edge of the last towns.
What I love sleeping unawares
while I call to it: fern, jawbone, husk
of the laugh.
Warm fur in the sun, I am calling you.
But what does the dream mean,
the one where everything important is in danger
and my voice gurgles to whispers that no one
but danger can hear--
I want to tell you: this isn't unhappiness.
It's summer.
It's the last good light of the permanent afternoon.
The bay window watching the lake.
It is longing, and longing makes room. And room
makes the breath longer, the love patient and larger.

I want to tell you. Where are you?

VI.

When their absence hardens to air.
When their absence is the absence my body leaves.
When I will it gone.

Gone the last day moonlight waiting in milk pods
and gone the ringed oaks dropping dusk onto lawns. Gone
the light piled on doubtful black rooftops, the blithe
blink of lamps spreading outward like palms. And Nocturnes,
or opera, blue candle wax sliding, glass table's goodbye dinner
set for the deck. The goodbyes caught

to collarbones. The last day lost to sleep. Lost as miracles must be
to what we refuse to remember. Only in grief will love speak

through memory: ribbon-thin language of nomads and thieves.
Only in fear will it shapeshift, trade inherence for accident, the unforeseen.

Come back. We're the bird song.
Come back. We're the hum of the house at night.
Come back. We're rain, lifting.
Come back. We're the whole of the neighborhood, just loosening.
Just gathering dark.

VII.

Surf hum of an air conditioner cools the dark house.
All along the block, honeysuckle drops
scent, and the block takes it. I accept love.

Not its infinity, but its front porch.
All along the block: women at windows
in white nightgowns. Vines climb
a new trellis for air.

The kitchen's dimmed track lights unspool
on the counter, thread magazines loose
till they slip from their stacks.

Water glows from the bottoms of glasses.

And upstairs on a curtain: the yarn hair of lions.
A dragon's green scales are sequins we saved.

Look, it's late.
My mother's still reading on blue
patterned pillows. My father is dreaming of awe.
His head back and mouth tilted upward

and open, as if in his sleep he were trying to catch snow.

VIII.

Let me tell you about the honeysuckle
Dense heavy like water soon it will be gone

Let me tell you about my mother
Standing in the kitchen

The world dissembles the window slides
Nothing can harm me

Let me tell you about the peonies
White apologies at the edge of yards

Let me tell you how goodbyes arrive
Gray ships on gray water, enormous

Let me tell you about the peonies
How the bloom wants everything

Let me tell you about my mother
Her skin is peonies, honeysuckle, early summer light
one glass of water one kiss goodnight

The air collides

(and where are the stars
long lost to the impossible)

IX.

yes and the evenings
my mother says
the moon!

once it decides
to get full it gets
full so quickly

yes love
keep you yes
how the sleep

grows sweet
how the last
days come

undone without
regret, this scent
of honeysuckle

too ripe for regret
though we dedicate it
earnestly

-- Published in Poetry, April 2004

Fix

There is no caring less
for you. I fix on music in the weeds,
count cricket beats to tell the temp, count
my breaths from here to Zen.
September does its best.
The Alaskan pipeline lacks integrity,
mineral fibers are making people dizzy,
we're waiting for a major quake. Ultra-
violet intensity is gaining,
the ozone's full of holes and

I can find no shade.
There is no caring less.
Without the moon the earth
would whirl us three times faster, gale-force
winds would push us down. Say
earth lost mass, a neighbor
star exploded—it's if

and and and
but. The cosmos owns our luck.
Say under right and rare conditions,
space and time could oscillate.
I know what conditions
those would be for me.
I'd like to keep my distance,
my others, keep my rights
reserved.
Yet look at you, intreasured,

where resolutions end.
No matter how we breathe
or count our breaths,
there is no caring less
for you for me. I have to stop myself

from writing "sovereign," praising
with the glory words I know.
Glaciologists say changes
in the mantle, the planet's vast
cold sheets could melt. Catastrophe
is everywhere, my presence
here is extra—yet—
there is no caring less.

Alice Fulton
Felt

IUIB Welcomes Drusilla

So this was the perfect birthday for so many reasons, at least two of which begin with the letter C. Upon arriving back at Chez Pooh Corner, a small, black cat waited on the front steps looking rather put-out by the delay in our return. This cat so resembled my own beloved Gladys that I had to run home and check to be sure a get-away had not occured.

She is a licorice gumdrop and adored. At the moment, she is a foster kitty and may be seeking out a home. If you or anyone you know is in need of (another) cat, contact Emu Headquarters.

Shrek the Third was good, not One or Two good, but worth-it. Hello Kitty Pez dispensers are a cure for depression. As are shiny silver and black I-Pods sportscar-sleek. Reading short stories by the river. Eating breakfast with a newly-returned Someone. Then sushi and olives and cherries and hot tea and kitty and me and thee....

Every birthday should be so gorgeous.

Some Birds

though flightless, will fly all night just to be home for your birthday. No bird could mean more, in spite of his breezy self.

594 days ago, you were favorited. 594 years from now will bring more of the same. Someone is waiting by the door for you. Maybe one someone, maybe two, some green, some blue. The someone who puts the mustard away weirdly hardly at all misses you.

Larry Levis AND David St. John

David St. John spoke about Larry Levis last night in the Elliston Room. Hearing the old stories and the trajectory of life, poems, career reminded me that a thing like Larry can happen in the world and sadly too, can stop. It made me want to go home and let everything I love know so. I also felt private and went late-night grocery shopping just to be alone and not talk to anyone. Those two feelings, all at once, are a Larry Levis poem. After I got home the sky just opened up and there was thunder and lightening and a voice on the phone making sure that I noticed. All in all, a bittersweet Tuesday.

DSJ ended with a quote from a note by an old friend of Larry's that went something like: He drops by sometimes. He likes being dead, it suits him. It just doesn't suit us.
If you knew Larry--even a little--you felt that one in your gut.

I'm posting one poem here, though you should read all of them, anywhere you can find them.

In a Country

My love and I are inventing a country, which we
can already see taking shape, as if wheels were
passing through yellow mud. But there is a prob-
lem: if we put a river in the country, it will thaw
and begin flooding. If we put the river on the bor-
der, there will be trouble. If we forget about the
river, there will be no way out. There is already a
sky over that country, waiting for clouds or smoke.
Birds have flown into it, too. Each evening more
trees fill with their eyes, and what they see we can
never erase.

One day it was snowing heavily, and again we were
lying in bed, watching our country: we could
make out the wide river for the first time, blue and
moving. We seemed to be getting closer; we saw
our wheel tracks leading into it and curving out
of sight behind us. It looked like the land we had
left, some smoke in the distance, but I wasn't sure.
There were birds calling. The creaking of our
wheels. And as we entered that country, it felt as if
someone was touching our bare shoulders, lightly,
for the last time.

Larry Levis

Never Again Will Birdsong Be the Same

http://hotemuluv.com

Extra:Rochester holds rare birds hostage. It's an outrage.

If I could shuffle
the alphabet, I'd stick I
right next to E-mu.

Even Better Live

David St. John is in town!