HTML giant has a great post on contemporary "moves" in poetry -- which could also be called tics, cliches, or styles. I'm going to try them all out! I'm doing the negative one (not and not and not) right now!

Here's the draft:

Not the Blue One


Not the horse entire, not the gripped
withers. Not the ring of shod hooves down
the driveway. Not the girth loosening, not
the bit hanging to one side. Not the old-man-
colored jodpurs stretched so tight we worried

our whole cunt would leak through, not
the grapefruit-smelling leather boots that numbed
our toes. Not the toothbrush on the harness,
the stirrups. Not twisting the mane in our fist
as we hurl over the second hurdle. Not the dash
of a hoof in the water trap, not the stumbling

to knees in the water. Not the swerving from
traffic cones in the middle of a decaying field,
not the trip/somersault, the tail flying up and over
like a fan dance, not the falls-over, the flips-
through, making the whole fair "ooh" like a low
prayer and then silence. Not the dust tracks
on the black velvet cap.

This missing whip. This tip
of a broken tooth. This red ribbon
clipped next to his eye, until
he shies up onto the stands.
This you, dragging your ragged
bridle afterwards.

Alex Prager is my new BFF.



Also, I have a new domain and webpage, finally: christinehamm.com.

Got some new links, down at the bottom. Check 'em.

In the Endless Backyard, Part 5

A goat race. Your brother hanging onto
the pocket of your pink shorts. World's
Largest Horse. Endless shrieking, coming

near but never arriving. World's smallest
dog. Smeared glass boxes, cracked, with
bones inside. The hat worn by Jesse James.

Shake the hand of the man made of rubber.
Two liter cup of orange soda and all
the popcorn you can eat. A midget who

won't look at you sitting at a target.
A horse fly shining in your brother's hair.
A truckfull of fathers smoking. A man

swearing as he tears off the head
of a stuffed zebra. Your heel in a puddle
of beer and piss in the elephant tent. A tiny

elephant with a half-closed eye. The tickle
of a trunk, slow on your palm. Bet on number
9, the loudspeaker says, lucky number 9.

Teen Angel



That year, everyone had your same name,
but spelled it with an "S". Black beauties

in baggies at the bottom of your purse.
A 28-year-old boyfriend. Your whispers

that my bangs made me look retarded.
I watched you break the mirror in your

locker with your hands, then stare at
the tiny blood like it was something

new. Drunk in the backseat of my car
on the way to a party. A handful of aspirin.

Some kind of song, that summer, with your
name over and over. I never knew how to

look at you, quite, one eye fixed just
a finger's breadth to the left of the other.

I've been thinking it's Monday all day today. My head is in a fine muddle of Modernism. Till I have a poem again, some things to keep you company.

1) Fantastic and friendly artist who should probably charge more. Some lovely prints from her just arrived today -- now where to put them!

2) Sick little video fits my sick head (warning -- rabbits and idols):

pictures and words