I saw Sharon Olds and Robert Pinsky read on Thursday night. (With the ever entertaining Kerry! Hey!) They were fantastic. But I worship Sharon as a god, and the ground did not split open with light, she did not levitate, and all times, she remained herself, a pretty older woman with a somewhat nasal speaking voice.

Here's a really bad pic (my camera does not zoom well -- it needs to be adjusted or spanked or something):




In other news, I'm working on a series of experimental poems where I mine old poems of mine (awkward sentence, rewrite?) for lines and collage them together. Take a look-see.

You Might Be Tarzan

in the beginning you can call her Sarah
it helps to draw a dotted line down her middle
your underwear confuses you
you can type on her with your tongue
you pluck the moons from her bowls
enema bulb
chocolate laxative
you hold her liver, small, moist
a starling on the telephone
icy children’s hands on your neck
stand outside, like a payphone
if you have an astronomer,
ask him to hold her hip

on the other side of the world,
people believe everything they read