what I think I want to do
and what I actually want to do

what I’m scheduled to do
and what I’m actually going to do

what I’m uncomfortable doing
and what I’m supposed to be doing

what I like to do
and what I want to do

at the end of the day
nothing to say
at the end of the day
nothing to say
at the end of the day
nothing to say

Take a look at this – failure? refusal? incapacity?

Atrophy of the imagination
or willful neglect of objects waiting to be generated

Sitting in heaven
on their lily pads (as we used to say)
waiting to be born

I have some vague compassion for them –
their transparent, mottled skin
and clouds of tangled hair –

but their essential passivity —
no teeth, no thumbs —
makes me hate them
after all

notebookery, by Andrew T. McCarter

(via www.impassio.com)

He began by dating the entries in his journal, then numbering them consecutively, then simply calling them “sun” or “moon.”

Blogging software would not support without customization.

Year, month, day, hour, minute. . . . Those journal writers who record all such nonsense only wish to show us what restless, insomniacal souls they are, and how they conquer time by breaking free from diurnal existence.

I had to remove my sidebar calendar because I had no desire to show how diligent or lackadaisical a blog writer I am. Did I conquer time?

My journal (a notebook, really), exists, at least superficially, outside of time. Rather than chronologize, I insert entries between previous entries, as one inserts pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

Sometimes I want to go back and put an entry in between existing entries, using a fake date.

Just as writers of free verse viewed writing sonnets, villanelles, and iambic epics as artificial and restrictive, so he, keeper of a notebook, writer of notes only, views writing poems, stories, and novels; to him they are just another set of formalists.

I’m really feeling a tyranny of “form” lately. I find myself comparing formalists to conservatives.

How many of these entries parody.

I don’t know if people realize that my journal entries parody emotions.

Forget the melting of genres, even the concept of “book” is becoming passe. Thankfully, a move from the static to the dynamic. The website, available to all, everywhere, and which can be forever revised by its writer. Writing freed from the physical page.

Working in that dynamism, I also find I’m wanting to learn more about letterpress printing.

… and more but … time’s tyranny …

resting in a slice of time
a small slice
loaded with sticky fruit and
oozing juice

She is appalling
and
appalled

Many many mercuries ago
heaven could not bear to
      explain
now she is examined minutely
day after day
through star pinholes

There is nothing I need
No way to meet you
No way to receive you
      revive you
      retrieve you

Cast off in the desert
Heartily ashamed
Unable to quell
the results of completion

Hello beetle
I am going home now
Unless I greet you daily
I am just being foolish

a huge amount of imaginative power

has gone into building software applications

and designing the structures of data

*

saving a “sneeze” to the database

*

there are no dharma talks in civic life

transmission now so damn haphazard

monologue homily column blog

gravestone poetry

a little bit of fallow

a little bit of surfing

dbqp: visualizing poetics

are individuals worthwhile, or only subjects in a dictatorship of relativism

some things are awfully hard to read

and then there’s the surfeit factor

feeling like everything has been already been written

or else there’s no connection

no conclusion

it takes an atheist to tell me to have faith

every syllable
blown away like kites
in enthusiastic wind