The always-entertaining Matthew Baldwin was generous enough to plug this little blog on his own very popular one, which represents probably the only significant networking I'll ever inadvertently do in the (gah) blogosphere (/gah). And what do I have to show for it? Not hardly nothin'.

Was a time, back in the day (2005), I was chock full o' pithy observations that had nothing to do with my daughter or my job, and I made 'em at least a couple of times a week. Now my golden opportunity for fame and...well, fame, of a minor sort, is here, and I can't think of anything funny. Except my salamander joke, but everyone's heard that.

Um: Bush sucks. You heard it here first.

Yeah, okay. So thanks, Matthew; sorry for showing you up by violating (probably) every single one of Mighty Girl's recommendations for how to avoid a boring website. Here's a strange little poem I wrote about 10 years ago when I was living in Connecticut. I've never met anyone who gets it, but I've always liked it. And I'm the little Napoleon of this allegedly fizzy fiefdom, so here 'tis, in yr eye. Deconstruction welcome.



I won’t let go of January

even in morning through the wind-

shield of my car awake on the seat
I let recline a frozen night ago to sleep

here in the field

off the highway tires breaking path
over frostwhite weeds & speechless
earth a thumbprint track laid down
in faint ink and at whorl’s end I
cut the engine shut eyes

and slept
with frost in my beard.

even in morning through the wind-

shield of my car and lifting my head
to flowers on tall green stems thrusting
up through the hole of brown rust
in the floor by my woolly legs

and grasses high over the hood
beck and rustle to a blue shout
of here here through the dust
of the glass webcracked & screaming
here here come find out

but there are some things like a stubborn tooth
won’t and will not come popping out for a nickel
hole of soft gum & blood or whatever sunshine
blue and good news I’m offered here. I won’t
go looking through the daylight eye for you.

under stars that glitter stalactites a circlet
across my brow and sleeping in the space
of this car I will breathe slowly

under a thin sheath of ice.