Tuesday, February 28, 2012

without you.

without you.

While fucking on the chaise
covered in a purple French toile
sans the lace of Baudelaire's & Jeanne's
I ask about the end of the world

to which you reply "his coat has gone black
drained of all the blues & greens."

I understand but consider speaking directly
to the silver satellite circling
your head and interfering
with the normal static of your amber eyes

which seem gone because you have exploded
into a cloud of drunken stars.   I'm rowing the dinghy
through the crumbling gate
into the moat
past the teal dragon in order to save

the princess who doesn't even exist.
And you, of course, understand
because of your lineage
and form yourself into a sphere
and suggest
I shorten the lines so as not to pull up all the stuff stuck in Alice's hole.  Drink me, Eat Me, Queen of Hearts
etc and so on.  "Who wants a tea party when you can drink whiskey?"

you ask though you don't
even like oysters.

I'm covered in glitter.  The stereo is stuck.
The same song plays for endless, imaginary, violet-colored hours.
You return to form and I stroke your hair.
Jesus wasn't God's son.
I don't want to die

Monday, February 27, 2012

did you see the moon last night?

just this today.  close your eyes --- let's make love.

I need you closer ....

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Because of Lawrence Durrell

Because of Lawrence Durrell

I cannot waste any more time.
No more magazines about food, wine, home decorating.
When I walk the dogs and stop to let them pee and see a small,
bare tree dressed in dewdrops
masquerading as fine rhinestones, I should, at once, be more serious or

perhaps, less. I confess,  I've become unsure and suspicious of everything
beautiful.  Yesterday, a gooses head, ripped from its rest
by a winter starved mammal.  Coyote or fox?  It doesn't matter,
in their sea-wet fur, an agitated hunger grabs hold of one's breathing. Did I
kill the thing in a fit of Venus and moonlight? Black feathers stuck to my lips, running
through the marsh, meaty body in maw. You see?
No longer can I discern wind in the trees from cars heading in my direction.

Oh Alexandria, your fiery sieges and bitter ashes,
all that has been extinguished still flutters in a madman's dream --
like lightning,  his eyes snap open
and close.  Open and close.  Open
and close.    

i don't know why the line breaks look like this.  :(  

Friday, February 24, 2012

snow & flowers

i sent my poem in for the exhibition.  of course the curator had to beg me for it.  she even had to use her father's illness and his impending recovery at her home to induce me to submit something.  i didn't even write anything new -- that is the sad part.  the painting i was assigned was interesting but i just don't seem to have it in me right now.  i wish i did.  it feels odd.  6 years of intense writing and now -- zippo.  ah well.

we had an odd snow this morning-- only the second or third of the winter.  the snowflakes were the size of  pancakes.  seriously they were huge.  i've written many poems about this time of year -- the almost spring.  the snow drops are blooming in the shade gardens right now.  there is something about snow and flowers together that strikes me as sublime.  This is a poem by a fellow named Mushika.  I adore him.

The Passion of Flies

The hips of a dead Iphigenia 
Hide my eyes while I collapse.

A fatigued wind slurs her body,
Lashes ruby after ruby of rain
Strung upon her seized veins. 

Behind our naked, coiled limbs 
The porcelain sky and the Aegean 
Lie outstretched like sexless lovers.

Each beckons in strained silence,
Like two parallel transparent wings.

Monday, February 13, 2012


I received a lovely email from a poet yesterday -- he was telling of his book coming out.  I interacted with him on a poetry forum -- he is one of my most favorite poets writing now.  I'm looking forward to his book.  I have always loved being responsible for poem.  It is a selfish thing to want to be a muse I'm sure  but I relish it.  I admit it.  Anyway, he's sending me a signed copy of the book for free but I will purchase a few to give as gifts anyway.


Since I hardly stop in any more, I want to only announce it to "fans"--and you were very instrumental in inspiring/critting a lot of my work posted at the Gaz.

E.g., the new book has three "Box poems" in it which were largely inspired by your comparison of a lot of my stuff to cornell's boxes.

Anyway, the book is out for pre-order (its official release date in March 20):


Best (hope you're still here!),

R L Swihart

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

cutting edge

When I was in high school through my very early 20's I was in love with someone who had been at various times the boyfriend of one of my best friends and later engaged to his college sweetheart.  We slept together more than just a few times.  We went to bars to NYC to concerts etc.  I thought he would eventually come to his senses and realize how much I loved him and how very compatible we were -- but alas.

In any case, one of the things we used to do was fuck and then watch David Letterman.  This was when Letterman was on at 12.  This was a very long time ago. 

But David hasn't lost his edge I swear.  Just when I think "shit we're ancient" -- he goes and pull something like this out of his ass.

I think I will write my old best friend with benefits to see if he caught the show too.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Pile of feathers

Something killed a bird out behind the shed. This morning while out with the dogs I noticed a pile of white feathers in the brush. The lap dog could care less the part rat terrier was going crazy. I have always had a wild imagination. As a kid I used to let my mind wander and try to imagine all sorts of scenerios like "I wonder what it looked like when the Indians walked through this land.". And then I would drift into imagining I was an Indian squaw out picking berries. It has never taken much for my mind to spiral down the rabbit hole. Alice was muse to me for a long time. As was the fox that lived somewhere close and made himself known and shown to me often. Maybe the fox has returned and that was who killed the bird. Maybe there is a den of newborns sommewhere close. I might catch a glimpse of them come April like I often have. Those red fuzzy tumbly creatures. I have heard the owls and the coyotes it might have been them. Regardless I am always struck by the hints of the unseen nighttime world that happens right outside my door. I once wrote a poem about the connection and disconnection of man from nature. Well actually I think most every poem I've ever written is about that that and of course love. This is going nowhere. But writing is good for me I think. I need to write more. When I was intensely studying poetry I read and wrote every day for hours and hours. Since the two new businesses I spend less time almost no time really doing those two things. I understand there are phases in our lives but I really want to find my way back to more time for art. The dogs are sleeping again. I will wake them and get them out to the woods for a long interlude with nature. I will go see a movie without words in the middle of the day. I will not listen to talk or sports radio. I will read poems

Monday, February 6, 2012

The Descendants

Most people don't know this about me, I'm a football addict.  I mean -- I have New England Patriots licence plates and car mats.  I know more about football stats, players, records etc. then most males in any room during football season.  The addiction was born and fed by growing up in a family of all boys and my father taking us to  many many Giants games.  During high school I often was on the field as a statistician -- and responsible for calling in the numbers to the local paper.  My family hates to have me in the room when the game is on.  It is not good.

When I moved to New England, Bill Parcells came to town and it was a rather easy switch to the Pats from the Giants.  He is after all a football genius.  When the Pats lost "The Game that shall not be mentioned" I went into a depression that lasted for months.  I told off my sister in law when she called me to gloat -- using profanities.  I swore off football but alas, it didn't work.

Last night, instead of watching the Super Bowl, in which my beloved Patriots were participating, I went to the movies.  Hannah looked at me like I had finally REALLY lost my mind.  "You are the biggest Patriot fan in the world, Mom, what are you talking about going to the movies???"

Off I went, by myself to the movies.  It might not have helped too much.  I went to see the Descendants.  I was surprised there were 3 other people in the theater here in Patriot Nation.  The movie is what the reviewers say about it -- tragic comedy.  Some of the "funny" parts are also excruciatingly painful.  If you haven't seen it, you should.  It is a movie about all of us.  And it accomplished that feat with the story line of a family that owns 25,000 acres of pristine land on the island of Kauai.  And that seems odd and brilliant to me.

This week I will also go see The Artist and Hugo.  Alfred Nobel is playing at the arty cinema so I'll add that to the list as well.  I have yet to see the Help but I suppose I should to complete the Oscar nominated list.

I don't feel too depressed about the loss this morning.  I think missing the game and removing myself from the hoopla was a healthy exercise for me..  It's a game.  Sounds cliche but just making it there is a big accomplishment.  I still love my Pats and our gladiator game but that emotion is more tempered than it was in the two weeks leading up to the BIG game.  I'm a mental case.  There is so much more tell.

At the sale this weekend, a reiki practitioner, who was told by my business partner I was suffering from a tooth ache, put her hands on my head and my shoulders and told me I take on too much -- that I try to make everyone happy, that I needed to take care of myself.  She also told me there was a male spirit guide surrounding me.  I guess it is my Pop.  I dunno, I should consult the crystals.