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1. <?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0' gd:etag='W/&quot;Ck4GQXY7cCp7ImA9WhRaE0U.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192</id><updated>2012-02-16T03:28:40.808-05:00</updated><title>The Lettershaper</title><subtitle type='html'>I Live, I Will Die, I Will Not Be Remembered.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default?redirect=false&amp;v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>151</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0MCSH0yfCp7ImA9WhRVEEw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8198646398073280175</id><published>2012-01-08T04:37:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2012-01-08T04:37:49.394-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2012-01-08T04:37:49.394-05:00</app:edited><title>It's Simple</title><content type='html'>It's funny how the simplist of things&lt;br /&gt;
2. can turn your world on a cliched dime.<br />
3. <br />
4. I haven't written in months; not one word.<br />
5. <br />
6. I thought I had stopped forever; some great,<br />
7. dark thing had reached out and thumbed a switch-<br />
8. one I couldn't find the care to turn back on.<br />
9. <br />
10. Found that mosquitoe again. Let it right in<br />
11. like I never let it out and shit, Joe...<br />
12. it was good the first day or two, as good as it gets<br />
13. and then it wasn't. Just like that. But the strength<br />
14. to swat was as gone as those elusive words and it <br />
15. goes like it goes and it's all mine, after all.<br />
16. <br />
17. Then the simple thing happened.<br />
18. <br />
19. A pimped-out duece and a quarter flung itself<br />
20. out of a clear blue intersection and before I had time<br />
21. to think "Damn, that's an ugly fuckin' car"<br />
22. it had buried it's big grin of a grill in my lap<br />
23. and somebody told me later that it never hit the brakes.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-8198646398073280175?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8198646398073280175/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=8198646398073280175' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8198646398073280175?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8198646398073280175?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2012/01/its-simple.html' title='It&apos;s Simple'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;Dk4NQn46fip7ImA9WhRVEEw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4038850041689287910</id><published>2012-01-08T04:29:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2012-01-08T04:29:53.016-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2012-01-08T04:29:53.016-05:00</app:edited><title>Jump</title><content type='html'>I press between&lt;br /&gt;
24. the weight of day and push of night;<br />
25. a quilt of skin sewn sinew to bone.<br />
26. <br />
27. Scars trace my surface,<br />
28. map the past in keloid and curve;<br />
29. I rub but cannot scatter the years.<br />
30. <br />
31. A girl once drew her palm<br />
32. down my laddered back, not asking<br />
33. what raised the rungs beneath her touch;<br />
34. lucky, she said, to know where the ledge stops-<br />
35. <br />
36. the falling off is to know where it begins.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-4038850041689287910?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4038850041689287910/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=4038850041689287910' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4038850041689287910?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4038850041689287910?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2012/01/jump.html' title='Jump'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;AkQDRHc6eip7ImA9WhRRFkU.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-2028025788554824892</id><published>2011-11-30T16:26:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2011-11-30T16:26:15.912-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-11-30T16:26:15.912-05:00</app:edited><title>The O'Hara Christmas</title><content type='html'>I was 11 the Christmas&lt;br /&gt;
37. my father sat in a cracked wingback<br />
38. reading John O'Hara under Bourboned breath, <br />
39. straining the words through his teeth,<br />
40. stowing their hard stone centers<br />
41. like ball-shot in his reddened cheeks<br />
42. <br />
43. while my mother listened <br />
44. to Ramsey Lewis sing about the sounds<br />
45. of the season as she downed nog<br />
46. after nog minus the egg and cream, <br />
47. heavy on the Wild Turkey and shelled pecans<br />
48. for winter pies into a bowl<br />
49. decorated with festive silver bells.<br />
50. <br />
51. Every now and then <br />
52. she flicked a nut-meat at father,<br />
53. bounced it off his head just like Gordie Howe<br />
54. bounced pucks off the net and she'd sing <br />
55. "Goddamn ye mirthless gemmamin"<br />
56. and laugh and flick and flick and laugh<br />
57. until he smiled at her over his page,<br />
58. rolling the stones <br />
59. in his cheek with his tongue,<br />
60. so careful not to let them fly<br />
61. <br />
62. and my brother, who was 9 that year,<br />
63. without my 2 extra terms of smart,<br />
64. looked up from his Etch-A-Sketch<br />
65. long enough to ask what was so funny about<br />
66. getting pelted with pecans and being<br />
67. forced to listen to the Ramsey Lewis Trio <br />
68. when we should be tapping our feet<br />
69. to the holiday stylings <br />
70. of Dave Seville and his Chipmunks <br />
71. <br />
72. but my father just kept his smile and said<br />
73. "it’s for ourselves to know, son,<br />
74. it’s for ourselves to know-"<br />
75. <br />
76. 10 Christmases and an American Lit course later,<br />
77. I realized why he was so good at tonguing  stones.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-2028025788554824892?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/2028025788554824892/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=2028025788554824892' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2028025788554824892?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2028025788554824892?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/11/ohara-christmas.html' title='The O&apos;Hara Christmas'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CEYERng_eCp7ImA9WhRREE4.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-5988963318950881100</id><published>2011-11-23T02:08:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2011-11-23T02:08:27.640-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-11-23T02:08:27.640-05:00</app:edited><title>Ode</title><content type='html'>I remember what they said&lt;br /&gt;
78. when we were not drunk,<br />
79. or propping stools against<br />
80. the same bar or even packing<br />
81. our blunts in the same state<br />
82. and speaking of states; in which<br />
83. do their respective minds reside?<br />
84. Pot-bellied pretender, moonstruck magpie;<br />
85. throwing tilts in elliptical orbits,<br />
86. barking edicts in stilted rants,<br />
87. they long to eat the world and can’t-<br />
88. <br />
89. only lettershapers, after all;<br />
90. pointless pitons planted in argot,<br />
91. they fall backwards off their own shoulders,<br />
92. spilling vowels and consonants from<br />
93. stuffed shirts and padded push-ups;<br />
94. words without sentences hunt the air<br />
95. between them at a loss for thought and<br />
96. conversation brings us to this wasted place,<br />
97. everything else being extinct<br />
98. when we were not drunk,<br />
99. propped against different bars,<br />
100. stoned in other time-zones.<br />
101. I remember what they said.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-5988963318950881100?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/5988963318950881100/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=5988963318950881100' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5988963318950881100?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5988963318950881100?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/11/ode.html' title='Ode'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0AESXY7eCp7ImA9WhRSE0w.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3160558021032123130</id><published>2011-11-14T19:08:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2011-11-14T19:08:28.800-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-11-14T19:08:28.800-05:00</app:edited><title>The Semite-Anti (Rewrite)</title><content type='html'>I knew a Semite, once-&lt;br /&gt;
102. who was anti-anything that wasn’t<br />
103. his own concept, or concepted to his own<br />
104. intimate reality and you would think that a Jew<br />
105. would know a thing or two about tolerance;<br />
106. about the consequences for the lack of it<br />
107. or at least realize the danger of narrow roads<br />
108. <br />
109. yet he rides a bicycle around<br />
110. his university town, because the chance<br />
111. tuning of a classical station once led to Domingo<br />
112. singing to angels, eating bread where the road<br />
113. got narrower still; the pleasant shock turned car<br />
114. into flaming tree along the land-scape littered<br />
115. <br />
116. highway to Barnes and Noble,<br />
117. where he goes to find his roots, goes to cry<br />
118. over CD’s sang in the mother tongue; the notes<br />
119. dripping like the snapped strings of guitars-<br />
120. sometimes as he leaves, he feels he can walk straight<br />
121. through the brick walls like gamma rays but<br />
122. <br />
123. he pedals instead, home for dinner;<br />
124. a fish sup of mackerel displayed on his counter<br />
125. like the art of poetry lays upon the page and he hones<br />
126. his knife on the sharpening wheel; slits the white belly,<br />
127. removes bright innards, washes the gutted carcass<br />
128. beneath tap water as cold as the Aegean sea-<br />
129. as it boils within the gray water of domesticity<br />
130. he knows that later he will write of it, for writing<br />
131. is a noble task and he is nothing if not noble<br />
132. <br />
133. and after, he sleeps; and as he sleeps<br />
134. he dreams of apples; falling apples, forbidden apples,<br />
135. the apples of paradise that an old woman bids him<br />
136. not to eat and then his mind shifts and he is standing<br />
137. among the broken pieces of Palestine and Greek sculpture<br />
138. that lie in silent discord at his feet, the feet of the elite<br />
139. athlete who in his youth slapped decathlon ass<br />
140. while shit smeared his hands and he thanks God,<br />
141. thanks Jehovah for the privilege and then he wakes-<br />
142. <br />
143. just another forgotten old man<br />
144. with dried spittle in his eyes and on his lips,<br />
145. the cupboard stitches in his scalp tingle, mingle<br />
146. with the fluttering remnants of fucking the Venus De Milo<br />
147. while dream-Nazis cheered him on, their dream-faces<br />
148. set in sybaritic leers so he draws a bath to cleanse<br />
149. the night sweats; dives beneath its warm surface<br />
150. like a submarine -hard, true- and emerges flaccid,<br />
151. limp as the pink mackerel dinner and somewhere<br />
152. in the back of his mind he wonders who will grieve;<br />
153. who will sing the liturgical dirges for him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-3160558021032123130?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3160558021032123130/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=3160558021032123130' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3160558021032123130?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3160558021032123130?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/11/semite-anti-rewrite.html' title='The Semite-Anti (Rewrite)'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUAER345fyp7ImA9WhdaGE8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-5069217623514947813</id><published>2011-10-28T14:48:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-28T14:48:26.027-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-28T14:48:26.027-04:00</app:edited><title>When It Rained</title><content type='html'>I was fourteen, she was twenty something.&lt;br /&gt;
154. She called herself Zsa Zsa most nights,<br />
155. a big blonde with Vargas tits <br />
156. and a bad complexion that began at the bone.<br />
157. <br />
158. She had a one room walk-up off Sunset strip,<br />
159. the only window looked out at a billboard<br />
160. for Evian water. She said it was as close to<br />
161. the Hollywood sign as she would ever get.<br />
162. <br />
163. Her hair was dyed the color of champagne clouds,<br />
164. and she wore a tight black tee that read<br />
165. “You must have been a beautiful baby”<br />
166. in warped block letters across her chest.<br />
167. <br />
168. She would snort giggles and say all the swingers<br />
169. were just dads in plaid suits, looking for lost<br />
170. years under strange petticoats, warming<br />
171. cold regret with Mastercard and Jack.<br />
172. <br />
173. She knew things that were cool, like Saki<br />
174. was born in Burma, if you could make a saxophone<br />
175. cry you would never be alone, and you can<br />
176. roll a decent joint in Tampax sleeves.<br />
177. <br />
178. And on rainy nights when business was bad,<br />
179. she would invite me home like company, <br />
180. give me whiskey and head while Gillespie<br />
181. played his trumpet in perfect sync.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-5069217623514947813?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/5069217623514947813/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=5069217623514947813' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5069217623514947813?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5069217623514947813?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/when-it-rained.html' title='When It Rained'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;A0QHRXoyfSp7ImA9WhdaEUk.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8074333966673323303</id><published>2011-10-20T18:22:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-20T18:22:14.495-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-20T18:22:14.495-04:00</app:edited><title>Surrender</title><content type='html'>I remember smoking joints with you,  &lt;br /&gt;
182. stained fingers twisting our hair<br />
183. in tangled knots, eyes closed,<br />
184. Hendrix hanging somewhere above<br />
185. low-slung clouds circling our skulls.<br />
186. Your body pressed against the wall<br />
187. nearer the window than mine, <br />
188. you pull your lips and fire erupts-<br />
189. your chest struggles, deflates,<br />
190. surrenders God from your lungs in drifts<br />
191. that scatter the clouds to ribbon.<br />
192. <br />
193. I’ve been cold before, <br />
194. I know my gooseflesh well. <br />
195. Trading breaths with you <br />
196. beneath a cracked window,<br />
197. its panes jitter like loose teeth<br />
198. everytime Jimmy walks his watchtower.<br />
199. I will sleep in shifts and tonight<br />
200. I’ll sleep without touching you-<br />
201. already miles between us, a pushing distance<br />
202. that marks itself in hardwood beneath<br />
203. a braided rug that smells of ruin.<br />
204. <br />
205. I watch you, asleep on your back,<br />
206. knees bent up and ankles in; pigeon-toed.<br />
207. Your breath volcanoes up, visible in the chill,<br />
208. then disappears as if it never was at all.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-8074333966673323303?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8074333966673323303/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=8074333966673323303' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8074333966673323303?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8074333966673323303?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/surrender.html' title='Surrender'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;A0ECQnk9eCp7ImA9WhdbF0Q.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4026306272732447155</id><published>2011-10-16T17:14:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-16T17:14:23.760-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-16T17:14:23.760-04:00</app:edited><title>Dig</title><content type='html'>I entertain the demons that follow me from room to room. Vague shifts of space direct me here to here; they follow on the cat’s feet of some other time poet my fogged mind cannot name. We have surely danced, them and I; they have led me, I have led them…we have chased each the other across spans of lost years. Now I pirouette alone, spin without brakes into varying shades of black; they seem content to watch. Sometimes, I notice the tightness in the air as they clap.&lt;br /&gt;
209. <br />
210. I find myself at my kitchen table, elbows set on an oilcloth that I must have purchased; I struggle to catch the memory of when. My oilcloth is singular in its ugliness, blocks of blue and white connected by tiny sunflowers that resemble flies cocooned in perfect symmetry within a square web. Burn marks track the path of the spider. I light a cigarette with my Zippo, its pewter body as battered as my own. The thumb wheel is loose; three strikes to fire and I wonder if the snipers are watching alongside my snickering demons. The itch between my shoulders has grown numb, a disabled target. I smell the bite of ozone, and beneath that, copper; always the copper, heavy and sweet.<br />
211. <br />
212. The floor under my feet peels and fades; its pattern lost to countless steps. Once blue or rose or green, it now lays gray and dead across boards gone soft with rot. There’s a hole to the left of my right foot, neither small or large and shaped like a grin, it yawns a welcome; the demons at my back nudge against my ear. I inch my toes through the smile, feel the air of the cellar below, cold, damp. I wonder if any corpses before me have found this hole, slid though it to rest at last nestled in rat shit and dirt. I try to force my foot past the limits of the hole; the edges give without complaint. I take a long drag and wait for the dark below to yank me in; the air clutches my ovation.<br />
213. <br />
214. Dusk drawing from the blinds finds me on my knees with butter knife and bleeding fingers; splinters pile up on either side like dead soldiers. I think of foxholes and fire pits and the blackened maws of buried screams that have found breath beneath the give of my floorboards. The smile has widened into a laugh; its cool trill dries my efforts to salt. Behind me, whispers of applause pull past my shoulders and fall between my hands; I can hear it echo somewhere in the black.<br />
215. <br />
216. Demons sleep by daylight. I wake with cheek pressed against a table leg, fingers sore and curled under my chin. For a moment, I can’t remember; my eyes, sideways at floor level, pick out shards of wood, a settled haze of smoke, spatters of tacky blood. I smell dirt and damp and the sour odor of spoil; again I think of foxholes, I wonder where the sniper is perched. A ringing phone startles me to my feet, the steady thump thump of the Evacs melt into morning traffic that hums from the streets below my window. Shadows of sun shaft through my cracked blinds; the hole reveals itself…only a hole. Jagged at its edges, bigger, empty. I dump the ashtray over its lip; scatter my night cremations and watch as ash sifts into nothing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-4026306272732447155?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4026306272732447155/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=4026306272732447155' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4026306272732447155?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4026306272732447155?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/dig.html' title='Dig'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUYERH4yfCp7ImA9WhdbFk8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3685367729941050616</id><published>2011-10-14T17:18:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-14T17:18:25.094-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-14T17:18:25.094-04:00</app:edited><title>Just Another Jane</title><content type='html'>She racks nine-ball&lt;br /&gt;
217. mornings at Bobby’s Blue Tip;<br />
218. just another strip bar,<br />
219. just another street…<br />
220. current pit in a series of stops<br />
221. and she’s got a loft,<br />
222. top of the stairs,<br />
223. over the stage<br />
224. where she shakes tit<br />
225. nights on the ten to four;<br />
226. shimmies for the jimmies<br />
227. in business suits,<br />
228. they buy rounds in applause,<br />
229. light cigarettes and check<br />
230. their reflections on the backs of Zippos<br />
231. always the same faces,<br />
232. always the same song…<br />
233. and in the morning<br />
234. she’ll rack balls,<br />
235. while the old men match each other<br />
236. drink for shot;<br />
237. they move lips that never speak,<br />
238. their silence reminds her of home.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-3685367729941050616?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3685367729941050616/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=3685367729941050616' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3685367729941050616?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3685367729941050616?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/just-another-jane.html' title='Just Another Jane'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CE8ERnk4fCp7ImA9WhdbFU4.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1429317311092746904</id><published>2011-10-13T15:06:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-13T15:06:47.734-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-13T15:06:47.734-04:00</app:edited><title>Where The Songs Are sad</title><content type='html'>The ghost of a savage&lt;br /&gt;
239. is born full-blown in a dim study<br />
240. redolent of oiled leather and smoke;<br />
241. where Spanish sonatas play on an old victrola<br />
242. and Contino goes down straight from the bottle.<br />
243. <br />
244. Dali fades into the walls,<br />
245. faint behind glass clouded like tintypes.<br />
246. Larrea and Lorca sit on chairs, lie well-thumbed<br />
247. and opened across bed and sheet;<br />
248. lost voices rise from their pages to drift<br />
249. and scuttle in the comfortable dark.<br />
250. <br />
251. Like the shoemaker, the savage<br />
252. has a wife; angry on the other side of a door,<br />
253. loud knocks from another world where supper cools<br />
254. and ice melts in tall glasses like clocks<br />
255. against a Catalan landscape.<br />
256. <br />
257. In a dim study, a man digs his grave<br />
258. where crickets sing in shadows without light<br />
259. to give them birth and all the songs are sad.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-1429317311092746904?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1429317311092746904/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=1429317311092746904' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1429317311092746904?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1429317311092746904?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/where-songs-are-sad.html' title='Where The Songs Are sad'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUcMSHg-fip7ImA9WhdbFE4.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6588741699170753207</id><published>2011-10-12T12:31:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-12T12:31:29.656-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-12T12:31:29.656-04:00</app:edited><title>As I Read Ed Dorn (Purpose, Part Deux)</title><content type='html'>I wonder why I've never read him before, find myself glad that the friend I do not know sent me on the search for this work. But then, I don’t read much poetry; the ‘classical’ poets seem full of cliche, so overrun with old-world sentimentality that to read them is like wading through vats of stale and sticky syrup. I do read some; I enjoy Williams and Thomas, and feel a strange kinship with Plath…though I find Sexton menopausal and sexually restrained; a lonely masturbator in search of why. I think the carbon monoxide might have been ultimately orgasmic in that lull before the dark.&lt;br /&gt;
260. <br />
261. So I find Dorn and I read; and in that consumption I began to think that the critical eye is a marvelous thing, a holy thing that bares the bones of the low and the high; that nothing is without its skeletal core. I read that Dorn said “I puke on greatness”…and in this I agree; for isn’t greatness just an enlargement of some tiny core, a miniscule beginning common to all? Nothing is so great that it can’t be drug down, nothing so small that it can’t catch some bottom rung and climb. I have felt that urge to vomit, void hot chunks of disillusionment and despair squarely on the shoulders of those who flaunt their largesse for the masses to stroke….that’s really the rub of it; most want to stroke the robe, kiss the ring, lick the cliched boots…and for what? A crumb of recognition? A crust of lauded pie thick with bullshit and back pats?<br />
262. <br />
263. So I found this, and as I read it I realized that I am not alone, not the only someone to feel the tightening of an unseen rope:<br />
264. <br />
265. House Arrest<br />
266. By Ed Dorn<br />
267. From now on,<br />
268. I’m under House Arrest–<br />
269. I only get out for the job:<br />
270. Then, Death–the ultimate<br />
271. House Arrest, the ultimate duree–<br />
272. But it was worth it.<br />
273. <br />
274. Original version–<br />
275. <br />
276. From now on,<br />
277. I’m under house arrest–<br />
278. I only get out for the job;<br />
279. Then Death–the ultimate<br />
280. House Arrest.<br />
281. <br />
282. And there it is, that thing that I do…I only get out for the job. Were it not for a forced need of income, I would sit forever, not in the comfort, but the consolation of my house…arrested there, suspended in the web of ago like some ancient, arthritic spider feeding on the raveling cocoons of dead things; all the while spinning my own tightly-wound shroud with acidic strands of myself. I am left to wonder, is this all I am meant to do? Wait to die, become a dead thing in someone’s web, a face bobbing to the surface of anothers' memory pool? So I write this:<br />
283. <br />
284. In the tick-down of days,<br />
285. in barely an open and close of years,<br />
286. I choose not to die, but to cheat death;<br />
287. <br />
288. slow the wind of anatomy<br />
289. that is no more than body,<br />
290. take back from the gods what was never theirs.<br />
291. <br />
292. To remain here forever,<br />
293. a single voice in the silence of time,<br />
294. a shadow above the soil of the dead.<br />
295. <br />
296. I will not die denied,<br />
297. next to an unknown madness,<br />
298. but wait the birth of each mute hour,<br />
299. <br />
300. and know the past was never better<br />
301. than in small seconds.<br />
302. <br />
303. I turn it over and over in my mind, all this that has come from the reading of a poet at the behast of a masked mind…spinning and spinning those bitter threads about the great and vomitous non-purpose; and finally comes a cocoon of reason, a small insect of comprehension that my stagnant, narc-calmed id wraps around as if the bug is a bit of manna cast down from pissed and dubious gods:<br />
304. I think, perhaps memory is not purpose, but the remembering is…the log of ends to stories without the necessary voice, without the hand needed to record the what-could-have-beens attached to every bobbing face; each pulsed rhythm that ceased in gutters, in alleys, in back rooms…without a voice to mourn their end, without an eye to remember.<br />
305. <br />
306. So with purpose, I write this:<br />
307. <br />
308. This mind turns on its axis.<br />
309. Continuous thought uninterrupted<br />
310. by the vicious sleep of reason,<br />
311. breeding Goya’s monsters in ground<br />
312. fertile with preconceived knowledge.<br />
313. <br />
314. The grease of time speeds the spin.<br />
315. disoriented, weak against the chain.<br />
316. links held true by solid welds fused from<br />
317. assimilated concepts, layered like brick.<br />
318. <br />
319. The wild whirl of intellect births ideas.<br />
320. Intrinsic contemplations on a mental screen,<br />
321. infallible doctrines flung into speculation<br />
322. on suspicions whispered to living rock.<br />
323. <br />
324. This mind trips on unearthed reality.<br />
325. Forgotten voices speak for themselves,<br />
326. startled hands bring pen to paper, validation<br />
327. stains the page with creation’s mistakes.<br />
328. And I hear the scream as I write the words.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-6588741699170753207?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6588741699170753207/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=6588741699170753207' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6588741699170753207?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6588741699170753207?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/as-i-read-ed-dorn-purpose-part-deux.html' title='As I Read Ed Dorn (Purpose, Part Deux)'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CkIHQXgzcSp7ImA9WhdbE0s.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-5718672853426311741</id><published>2011-10-11T15:15:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-11T15:15:30.689-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-11T15:15:30.689-04:00</app:edited><title>Purpose</title><content type='html'>A lot of my time is spent contemplating purpose, how it does or doesn’t apply to my life. I never thought I had one, not really…for so many years now, the only issue has been survival; learning to wake successfully to another sorry dawn seemed purpose enough. Three tours worth of years before that were spent the same way; in that endless quest for survival. The only difference was the dawn…to wake to it then was a rush I have yet to equal; the particular and peculiar thrill of realizing that yes, you breathe on for a while longer…no one is sweeping you into an anonymous rubber bag as the sun rises over mountains at once beautiful and deadly; their backs packed with their own purpose.&lt;br /&gt;
329. <br />
330. My days come and go like gray shifts of inconsequence, spills of time that run unnoticed into more of the same. Days spent as a mannequin of the self I once was; the shell is there but the turtle moved out long before Saigon fell…now the face that looks into mine from the peeled-back silver of passing mirrors is unfamiliar; and it is only recently that I find myself wondering where I went, what happened to that fearless girl who pretended not to care and did…when did the pretense become the fact?<br />
331. <br />
332. I could blame it all on Nam, I suppose, as so many do…pile the great non-purpose on the dead heads of all those soldier-boys that poured their lives across the toes of my boots, spilled their thoughts into my waiting hands and lost any memory of those ladies who were lovely once. But to lay it on that lap would be a lie, because it was just a place, a span of miles I ran through when I was young, chased by tigers let loose from someone else’ nightmare. Nam didn’t mold me; I molded it…shaped it into a bullet that I would never chamber, never fire. That gun doesn’t belong to me, the tigers that creep down it’s barrel were never mine. Instead, I pulled from it a profession; skills I learned then I use now, the waiting hands are now replicants that act as if they give a damn when all they really give is time.<br />
333. <br />
334. So I sit and I wonder, why do it? What purpose do I serve spending hour after hour trying to fix people who care even less than I? Most of them addicts, criminals, would-be suicides, drunks…very few runs turn out to be actual accidents or of a natural cause. And then I remember…who am I to judge, an addict myself? Dependent on Heroin as I ran those long ago miles; my own dragon set to fend off tigers. Then later, morphine; another dragon for another generation of nightmares…only this time, the guns are mine; their barrels sleek, disposable stainless steel. I seek the same calm they all do, it’s just that my search is private, not left lying in the street or in some seedy by-the-hour room…the difference is really only one of logistics. It doesn’t make me better, just better-off…I think my actual purpose all along has been to bury the details, throw everyone’s dirt on my truth.<br />
335. <br />
336. I try to remember why it was once worthwhile…why the effort mattered; why it might matter still. I recall faces, write down names, sort it out on paper as if the words are purpose enough. I think of an old man, dead ten years or more; but it’s his wife that I still see, pacing the floors of my memory…countless shots of mescal and morphine won’t wash away her face; so I write this:<br />
337. They lived in a perpetual past,<br />
338. three dim and heat-heavy rooms<br />
339. encased them in the crumbling husk<br />
340. of a brownstone on a forgotten side<br />
341. of the city.<br />
342. <br />
343. We ran suicide shifts down dead streets,<br />
344. and some midnights found our pulsing<br />
345. red and white outside their stoop,<br />
346. spinning strobes slapping brick with<br />
347. bright kisses.<br />
348. <br />
349. He was the Phantom of the Opera,<br />
350. she was his Christine. She would rush us in,<br />
351. blue eyes wide in a thin plane.<br />
352. Her scent reminded me of tabbouleh,<br />
353. scallion sweet.<br />
354. <br />
355. He was ancient, breath like smegma,<br />
356. face like a leather mask. Cirrhosis ate<br />
357. his body, drank his mind; accompanied by<br />
358. strains of Wagner in unrelenting drones.<br />
359. <br />
360. While we worked, she hovered-<br />
361. frail wasp patting his brow, humming.<br />
362. I saw her hug herself, fingers<br />
363. dripping panic down her back<br />
364. like slow sweat.<br />
365. <br />
366. He was a wicked Raoul, hateful in his extremis.<br />
367. He struck at her, called her a brainless zygote,<br />
368. rotten whore. She gave him the radius<br />
369. of her smile and crooned “Papa, papa,”<br />
370. in dulcet tones.<br />
371. <br />
372. We lifted him to the stretcher-<br />
373. she cried when we strapped the belts<br />
374. and clutched our sleeves in nervous desperation.<br />
375. She made quiet, pleading noises<br />
376. in a strange tongue.<br />
377. <br />
378. They had been someone once;<br />
379. he a producer of this, she an actress in that.<br />
380. She had worn diaphanous gowns that clung<br />
381. to her mons veneris, danced in hot abandon<br />
382. for his pleasure.<br />
383. <br />
384. We left her standing in the doorway on that<br />
385. last night of our aquaintance, calling papa<br />
386. in a pitiful litany that was at once beautiful<br />
387. and sad.<br />
388. <br />
389. Once out, put down on my blank sheets like the scattered rows in an untended cemetery, I find the ghosts remain. Face upon face, they bob the surface of my mind and break the black water pooled there with an uncomfortable ease. I think of dragons, of tigers chasing miles into decades; their purpose leaps from my pen, ink like blood across the page.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-5718672853426311741?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/5718672853426311741/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=5718672853426311741' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5718672853426311741?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5718672853426311741?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/purpose.html' title='Purpose'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;Dk4NQ3w6cCp7ImA9WhdbEEw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-7388384704441307525</id><published>2011-10-07T15:16:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-07T15:16:32.218-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-07T15:16:32.218-04:00</app:edited><title>Bait</title><content type='html'>Baby rolls rock-me hips&lt;br /&gt;
390. through the undertow, twelve<br />
391. moves like twenty down<br />
392. Oceanside, mama's little<br />
393. lure trolls for fish driving<br />
394. money cars waxed to oily<br />
395. glisters; the metal skins reflect<br />
396. <br />
397. bad boys watching from<br />
398. tattoo fronts with hard eyes,<br />
399. hooked fingers scratching <br />
400. thoughts bulged at their crotches, <br />
401. they spit laughter at sharks looming up<br />
402. behind tinted glass and<br />
403. <br />
404. baby strokes this school,<br />
405. cherry red bait in a feeding pool,<br />
406. looks like daddy's got an angler;<br />
407. she snaps her ass at beasts<br />
408. cruising by like sleek nightmares,<br />
409. the painted scales of bad boys<br />
410. rippling on the edge of their wake.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-7388384704441307525?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/7388384704441307525/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=7388384704441307525' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/7388384704441307525?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/7388384704441307525?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/bait.html' title='Bait'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0AGQXo4fSp7ImA9WhdUFk8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-6104428858206667142</id><published>2011-10-03T03:08:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-10-03T03:08:40.435-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-10-03T03:08:40.435-04:00</app:edited><title>I Am Not</title><content type='html'>I am not an artist because&lt;br /&gt;
411. Julie smokes Marlboros.<br />
412. She wears a cherry jumper and cherry shoes,<br />
413. a ghost sweater and ghost stockings<br />
414. and carries the box of Marlboros.<br />
415. Julie,lying on my bed,<br />
416. spills blood and snow on my<br />
417. raspberry and coconut spread,<br />
418. smoking.<br />
419. So I paint the picture.<br />
420. And the critics say “whatsa matter kid,<br />
421. you don’t got no other crayon<br />
422. but red?”<br />
423. <br />
424. I am not an artist because<br />
425. the strange boy has a fat neck.<br />
426. He wears the same shirt everyday on the bus.<br />
427. From the collar grows a neck<br />
428. wider than his head.<br />
429. So I split the neck and head on paper<br />
430. and the experts say “there ain’t no one<br />
431. looks like that why<br />
432. dont’cha draw flowers?”<br />
433. <br />
434. If Julie smoked Salems the portrait<br />
435. would have been balanced.<br />
436. The heavy red and white would have been<br />
437. blown apart by a mentholated breath<br />
438. of color.<br />
439. The critics would have said<br />
440. “This carnival of rainbows combines the<br />
441. double enjoyment of a striking portrait<br />
442. and today’s pop art.”<br />
443. <br />
444. If the boy,instead of a fat neck,<br />
445. had been given big,round eyes,<br />
446. the portrait would be seen as a<br />
447. charming face.<br />
448. The experts would have said<br />
449. “This visage expresses the whimsical fantasy<br />
450. of a child found in an adult’s face.<br />
451. His warm eyes thrill us with a<br />
452. ‘je ne sais quoi’ sensation.”<br />
453. <br />
454. I am not an artist because<br />
455. the critics and the experts do not understand<br />
456. That truth is beauty<br />
457. and beauty is truth<br />
458. That is all there is on earth<br />
459. That is all there is to know.<br />
460. <br />
461. Acknowledgement to “Ode to a Grecian Urn”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-6104428858206667142?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/6104428858206667142/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=6104428858206667142' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6104428858206667142?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/6104428858206667142?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/10/i-am-not.html' title='I Am Not'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEUMRH48eip7ImA9WhdWGUg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1365319006523037149</id><published>2011-09-13T19:24:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-13T19:24:45.072-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-09-13T19:24:45.072-04:00</app:edited><title>Walk Away</title><content type='html'>The carpets are skin-thin,&lt;br /&gt;
462. threads lace the holes like stitches.<br />
463. The sun recedes behind the wrong window,<br />
464. and scars mar sinks in nicotined inches.<br />
465. <br />
466. The rooms want to collapse<br />
467. on the phantom inspirations of ladies<br />
468. whose magnolia talc still hangs<br />
469. in the brocade drapes and peeling silk.<br />
470. <br />
471. I think about the coloreds here before us-<br />
472. how one winter the foreman came,<br />
473. whipped that buck Sampson until blood muddied clay<br />
474. and how he was a tribal prince.<br />
475. <br />
476. I can see this war, every war-<br />
477. deconstruction and reconstruction blend<br />
478. like the burning, the building of continents<br />
479. <br />
480. and I watch people drift in boats, starve in holds,<br />
481. continue from cells without bars, without keys-<br />
482. their ashes silt rivers, their bones lay paths<br />
483. for those who stumble after.<br />
484. <br />
485. The earth tilts its head<br />
486. and I am watching through the walls<br />
487. as people roam the yard, on into the streets,<br />
488. the cities, the world-<br />
489. <br />
490. some are planting rows, blisters on their palms,<br />
491. or stirring pots with peeled sticks or drinking<br />
492. shine from brown jugs while they lean back to back<br />
493. under elm, under oak, under pine-<br />
494. <br />
495. I watch mothers who beat their children<br />
496. and fathers who turn away; the brims of their hats<br />
497. broken above their brows.<br />
498. <br />
499. I hear lovers whispering and old men rocking<br />
500. in cane-backed chairs that creak regret,<br />
501. old women shelling peas, stripping corn,<br />
502. pouring tomorrows into jars gone as cloudy as their eyes.<br />
503. <br />
504. Young girls in pleated skirts cha cha to 45′s,<br />
505. and a cowboy rolls his own by an embered circle.<br />
506. Boys in sailor suits wave from distant bows<br />
507. while others kiss strangers beneath confetti storms-<br />
508. victories caught on paper, on film, in concrete and stone.<br />
509. <br />
510. If I had me some sugar,<br />
511. I could make us a fair cake,<br />
512. says the woman in the empty kitchen.<br />
513. The faded sheers stir as if by breath.<br />
514. <br />
515. Beyond the rooms, through the walls<br />
516. and frame and rotting insulation-<br />
517. past the yard and streets and cities<br />
518. and fields and valleys and seas<br />
519. <br />
520. are days that come and go without delineation;<br />
521. shifts of gray to black marked only<br />
522. by the ones who walk away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-1365319006523037149?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1365319006523037149/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=1365319006523037149' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1365319006523037149?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1365319006523037149?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/09/walk-away.html' title='Walk Away'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DU4FQHs9cCp7ImA9WhdWF0g.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1268580522330970707</id><published>2011-09-11T12:18:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-11T12:18:31.568-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-09-11T12:18:31.568-04:00</app:edited><title>Stand</title><content type='html'>Enter the unhallowed age.&lt;br /&gt;
523. Life's hands mold humanity<br />
524. but the strokes are no longer gentle-<br />
525. <br />
526. Shoulder shruggers blind eye<br />
527. viral advocates of like disguise,<br />
528. a little dead in their concern.<br />
529. Abhorrent creatures play <br />
530. within skins of normalcy;<br />
531. they share the secrets of madness.<br />
532. <br />
533. Deus ex flying machinas <br />
534. caught the corner of a collective eye,<br />
535. ripped it down in flaps of disbelief. <br />
536. Countless selves form single a sensation,<br />
537. bat frantic wings against a broken globe.<br />
538. <br />
539. Sacrifice shapes continuance.<br />
540. Blood-stained breasts succor the unsurrendered.<br />
541. Strength spills down spines bent, but unbowed-<br />
542. They stand, and raise flags towards the storm.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-1268580522330970707?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1268580522330970707/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=1268580522330970707' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1268580522330970707?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1268580522330970707?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/09/stand.html' title='Stand'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0MFR3k8eyp7ImA9WhdWFk8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-8663656690273761599</id><published>2011-09-09T23:30:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-09T23:30:16.773-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-09-09T23:30:16.773-04:00</app:edited><title>Notes To Rachel</title><content type='html'>1&lt;br /&gt;
543. You gave me bunny slippers<br />
544. for Easter, and a copy of Watership Down;<br />
545. it earned you the benefit of a doubt.<br />
546. I wonder how long before you are gone,<br />
547. after you have vanished.<br />
548. <br />
549. 2<br />
550. This morning the refrigerator<br />
551. dumped cold on my bare feet;<br />
552. I thought about the way<br />
553. your back arched around my toes.<br />
554. <br />
555. 3<br />
556. Estelle came today<br />
557. with a shoebox of photographs<br />
558. you had taken on our trip to Vermont;<br />
559. you scribbled notes on the back<br />
560. of every one.<br />
561. <br />
562. 4<br />
563. When she was gone,<br />
564. I read the words on each photo<br />
565. over and over.<br />
566. <br />
567. 5<br />
568. I walked to the mailbox<br />
569. four times ahead of the mailman.<br />
570. Mrs. Campos next door<br />
571. thinks I’m going insane.<br />
572. Maybe she’s right.<br />
573. <br />
574. 6<br />
575. This afternoon<br />
576. I sat and watched the wallpaper peel<br />
577. from the corner where the glue<br />
578. never took; after a while<br />
579. it looked like a time-lapse film<br />
580. of rotting fruit.<br />
581. I decided to get the TV fixed.<br />
582. <br />
583. 7<br />
584. Estelle came by again-<br />
585. this time with a girl<br />
586. who looked a lot like you used to,<br />
587. before those I-want lines<br />
588. furrowed your forehead.<br />
589. You named them all after me.<br />
590. <br />
591. 8<br />
592. Estelle left and she stayed;<br />
593. we drank Dewar's with no ice<br />
594. until you disappeared.<br />
595. Afterwards, she slept naked<br />
596. on the blue couch downstairs.<br />
597. <br />
598. 9<br />
599. She was gone this morning,<br />
600. left a note under your smiley magnet.<br />
601. I didn’t read it.<br />
602. It wasn’t from you.<br />
603. <br />
604. 10<br />
605. I went to Delmar’s for breakfast,<br />
606. but negatives of you live there,<br />
607. the leatherette booths mocked me.<br />
608. I slipped out before my order was up;<br />
609. I can’t go back.<br />
610. <br />
611. 11<br />
612. Going home,<br />
613. I thought I saw your head<br />
614. above a clutch of backpacks on sixth street;<br />
615. but it turned out to be<br />
616. just another blurred ghost.<br />
617. <br />
618. 12<br />
619. Mrs. Campos watches me<br />
620. walk up the drive;<br />
621. I grin and wave like a lunatic-<br />
622. as if I never saw the falling,<br />
623. as if I don’t know it will be years<br />
624. before I feel the crash.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-8663656690273761599?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/8663656690273761599/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=8663656690273761599' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8663656690273761599?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/8663656690273761599?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/09/notes-to-rachel.html' title='Notes To Rachel'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEQFQ3s8fCp7ImA9WhdWGEg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-3105248668678216782</id><published>2011-09-03T02:13:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2011-09-12T15:38:32.574-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-09-12T15:38:32.574-04:00</app:edited><title>The Bullshit Chrobicles, Chapter 1</title><content type='html'>Still-black dawn cracks&lt;br /&gt;
625. over dove country-<br />
626. <br />
627. staccato shots rip me from sleep<br />
628. as they rip breath from flight;<br />
629. rude alarms without faces.<br />
630. <br />
631. Light brings the neighbors’ girl<br />
632. to roost in a fall field-<br />
633. arms full of the plastic lives<br />
634. of several dolls with neoprene skin.<br />
635. <br />
636. Her tinny voice trills across<br />
637. my coffee, the forgotten words<br />
638. of some long ago song-<br />
639. <br />
640. “On the wings of a snow white dove-”<br />
641. <br />
642. It shudders behind my eyes,<br />
643. the goose-fleshed imprints linger all day.<br />
644. <br />
645. End of day finds her<br />
646. at the edge of my yard;<br />
647. scuffed hands cupped around a dead bird.<br />
648. <br />
649. She offers it like truth-<br />
650. quick, free of fanfare.<br />
651. <br />
652. “Bullshit,” she says, nodding her head<br />
653. to some secret agreement.<br />
654. “The wings are just grey, after all.”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-3105248668678216782?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/3105248668678216782/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=3105248668678216782' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3105248668678216782?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/3105248668678216782?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/09/thee-bullshit-chrobicles-chapter-1.html' title='The Bullshit Chrobicles, Chapter 1'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CEABRnc6cSp7ImA9WhdRFUs.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-5916962750364438508</id><published>2011-08-05T12:45:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-08-05T12:45:57.919-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-08-05T12:45:57.919-04:00</app:edited><title>Nothing Political</title><content type='html'>Fuck your pretense,&lt;br /&gt;
655. call a spade a spade-<br />
656. just don't name it nigger<br />
657. or cracker or honky or tom no matter<br />
658. how colored the ignorance and<br />
659. <br />
660. shake the sugar from your coat,<br />
661. call that cunt a cunt-<br />
662. but not if it shops uptown or<br />
663. sticks itself to a Sunday pew<br />
664. or gives the best blow-jobs around<br />
665. <br />
666. don't pull the punch,<br />
667. call a prick a prick-<br />
668. just not if it signs your paycheck or<br />
669. is a good provider or preaches<br />
670. community unity at the VFW and<br />
671. <br />
672. suck that decorum,<br />
673. call the victim a victim-<br />
674. but only if it fought back, left marks,<br />
675. dressed appropriately, lived to tell about it<br />
676. on the channel 2 news and not<br />
677. <br />
678. if it rides poles to pay rent or <br />
679. trades pussy for crack on Southside,<br />
680. works the zombie shift at Porno-Emporium<br />
681. or lives in a row house with dingy windows<br />
682. <br />
683. so spill it on the chalk line,<br />
684. strip it to the bone and spit-<br />
685. lick it till it bleeds <br />
686. the same scarlet as mine.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-5916962750364438508?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/5916962750364438508/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=5916962750364438508' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5916962750364438508?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/5916962750364438508?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/08/nothing-political.html' title='Nothing Political'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CkABQnw9fCp7ImA9WhdSFUo.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4874101713491504611</id><published>2011-07-25T01:12:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-07-25T01:12:33.264-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-07-25T01:12:33.264-04:00</app:edited><title>Saints</title><content type='html'>When air hangs in august trees&lt;br /&gt;
687. like phlegm to dying lungs,<br />
688. sticky skins thread sullen streets<br />
689. sweating Red Dog Rye;<br />
690. old men, young sons piss out their purpose<br />
691. in vespine knots, mouths full of shit and speculations:<br />
692. their spittle leaves pocks in the dirt.<br />
693. <br />
694. Venerable interceders for God<br />
695. passing bottles and judgments<br />
696. behind taprooms festooned with pellitory-<br />
697. Sunday tongues hum around residual teeth,<br />
698. hackles rise above the somebody’s fault line and<br />
699. the saints lay down their good books;<br />
700. gather up tindered principles, traditions like light-wood:<br />
701. <br />
702. They bank them at the feet of crosses<br />
703. set to burn in their neighbor’s yards.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-4874101713491504611?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4874101713491504611/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=4874101713491504611' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4874101713491504611?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4874101713491504611?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/07/saints.html' title='Saints'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0ENQXk8fCp7ImA9WhZbFk8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-9102437996946350202</id><published>2011-06-20T23:08:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-20T23:08:10.774-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-06-20T23:08:10.774-04:00</app:edited><title>Talking To Jack</title><content type='html'>I can’t call it chat;&lt;br /&gt;
704. seems to light, too free-<br />
705. and it wasn’t but<br />
706. <br />
707. it was good<br />
708. in a self-searching way<br />
709. that I wasn’t prepared for<br />
710. or aware of until<br />
711. skin was already peeling<br />
712. away in painful strips,<br />
713. bloodless yet weeping-<br />
714. <br />
715. I felt them fall,<br />
716. drifting in dry and dusty piles<br />
717. beneath my anonymous desk<br />
718. somewhere in river town<br />
719. and I wanted to<br />
720. gather them up-<br />
721. <br />
722. stick them back<br />
723. to my naked self, shivering<br />
724. and unprotected,<br />
725. weak and wanting.<br />
726. <br />
727. idle words bared me<br />
728. like a lover couldn’t<br />
729. like a confessor might<br />
730. like a surgeon skilled at the craft-<br />
731. <br />
732. and voices screamed<br />
733. from the opened wounds<br />
734. voices with names that can’t<br />
735. be counted, faces that won’t be gone.<br />
736. Their tongues scrape my edges,<br />
737. dig furrows through the bone yards<br />
738. that carry my weight-<br />
739. <br />
740. and I stumble,<br />
741. I tire, I wonder<br />
742. will it always be the same.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-9102437996946350202?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/9102437996946350202/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=9102437996946350202' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/9102437996946350202?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/9102437996946350202?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/06/talking-to-jack.html' title='Talking To Jack'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DE8FQXg6fyp7ImA9WhZbFEg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4222241539338993618</id><published>2011-06-19T00:13:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-19T00:13:30.617-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-06-19T00:13:30.617-04:00</app:edited><title>Bored With Pink</title><content type='html'>She wears black everyday,&lt;br /&gt;
743. widows herself<br />
744. from the Ivory girls,<br />
745. scrubs the scalloped parts<br />
746. until they’ve lost their seashell hue-<br />
747. <br />
748. At night she sheds,<br />
749. sits cross-legged in blue shag<br />
750. and draws scarlet bracelets<br />
751. from her wrists, Exacto circlets<br />
752. around her throat in crimson beads.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-4222241539338993618?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4222241539338993618/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=4222241539338993618' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4222241539338993618?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4222241539338993618?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/06/bored-with-pink.html' title='Bored With Pink'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEAGQ3Y6cSp7ImA9WhZbFEg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-2301738535174051815</id><published>2011-06-19T00:12:00.000-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-19T00:12:02.819-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-06-19T00:12:02.819-04:00</app:edited><title>Blue On Blue</title><content type='html'>3:16 AM, emergency entrance, county general-&lt;br /&gt;
753. I was propped against the rear doors of a rig<br />
754. parked in Bay 5, close to where the docs smoke<br />
755. with cigarettes tucked behind their palms,<br />
756. furtive anarchists flicking ash at the don’t-do-that sign<br />
757. while people shift back and forth around them<br />
758. and I was thinking about this tweaker kid<br />
759. we brought in on a dead run; skull a cracked vault,<br />
760. his secrets betrayed on the floor beneath my boots<br />
761. <br />
762. I was thinking about how he wouldn’t<br />
763. stop breathing; how the noise of anatomy<br />
764. dogged collapsed lines in fibrillating waves<br />
765. <br />
766. I was thinking about a girl in a dirty blue skirt<br />
767. sitting on a curb with his blood on her knees,<br />
768. how her face pulled away in the rear-view like a scream<br />
769. <br />
770. I was thinking about how an intern<br />
771. with two silver loops in his ear hummed ‘Blue on Blue’<br />
772. under his breath as we gave our report to a nurse<br />
773. <br />
774. I thought about these things<br />
775. I watched the guards watch me<br />
776. I didn’t clean any secrets from the rig<br />
777. I did sit down on the step plate<br />
778. I picked at the wick of my Zippo<br />
779. I whistled the intern’s song<br />
780. <br />
781. somewhere behind me<br />
782. a girl with bloody knees sits on a curb<br />
783. pulling threads from the hem of a cheap skirt.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-2301738535174051815?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/2301738535174051815/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=2301738535174051815' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2301738535174051815?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/2301738535174051815?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/06/blue-on-blue.html' title='Blue On Blue'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CUMDRnYyfip7ImA9WhZbEk0.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-4607933666633326136</id><published>2011-06-16T01:51:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-16T01:51:17.896-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-06-16T01:51:17.896-04:00</app:edited><title>Hunger</title><content type='html'>She takes the six-forty&lt;br /&gt;
784. everyday, a real zaftig mama<br />
785. running register at the Slavic Grill;<br />
786. slack tits and hair and broad, flat teeth<br />
787. stick perpetually to cracked lips<br />
788. like the biting aroma of onions and cabbages<br />
789. sticks forever to her skin and<br />
790. <br />
791. it floods the bus in sudden clarity,<br />
792. passengers think of home, of sweet sausage<br />
793. for supper and tired wives with tight asses,<br />
794. angry husbands with hard hands and<br />
795. nobody knows her name is Zinnia;<br />
796. sour old maid but somebody’s flower<br />
797. <br />
798. and no one will guess<br />
799. she takes the six-forty everyday<br />
800. on a three-stop ride to see her daddy-man,<br />
801. fat black butcher who strokes her heavy head,<br />
802. kisses dry lips slick as they slap needy meat<br />
803. together until their pores spit vinegar,<br />
804. until the starving empty tastes onions, cabbages.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-4607933666633326136?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/4607933666633326136/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=4607933666633326136' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4607933666633326136?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/4607933666633326136?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/06/hunger.html' title='Hunger'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CEQBQ347fCp7ImA9WhZUGUw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6545273283839018192.post-1823603607969224899</id><published>2011-06-12T16:59:00.001-04:00</published><updated>2011-06-12T16:59:12.004-04:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-06-12T16:59:12.004-04:00</app:edited><title>Dance</title><content type='html'>Loretta wears an Angela Davis sphere&lt;br /&gt;
805. picked to perfection atop a broad skull,<br />
806. colored insolence-orange to compliment<br />
807. her red-bone tone and the white boys love it-<br />
808. or so they say when they say something at all<br />
809. to a picayune yeller waiting table for tips<br />
810. <br />
811. she saves for three months strong to buy<br />
812. suede kitten heels and a rayon fluted skirt-<br />
813. fine as anything the white gals sport<br />
814. down at the legionnaire's hall on Saturday nights,<br />
815. kicking ankles and hems to black-balled beats;<br />
816. but she can't go where she can't go so<br />
817. <br />
818. she dances to echos in the outside lot while<br />
819. old men pass bottles on benches nailed to brick-<br />
820. they blink like Lazarus as she bumps and grinds,<br />
821. their laughter cracks across the gravel like<br />
822. cartridges jacked into waiting breeches,<br />
823. as cold as a cocking trigger.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6545273283839018192-1823603607969224899?l=thelettershaper.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/feeds/1823603607969224899/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6545273283839018192&amp;postID=1823603607969224899' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1823603607969224899?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6545273283839018192/posts/default/1823603607969224899?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://thelettershaper.blogspot.com/2011/06/dance.html' title='Dance'/><author><name>The Lettershaper</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14432569188617864419</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='24' height='32' src='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Kid5ZAkE2rI/SCkdJSUOlNI/AAAAAAAAAMU/JpVngKRO-aw/S220/!!85.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>

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