Slogans
(thanks to Shanna)


Lucky Error Stays Sharp 'til The Bottom of the Glass.

A Lucky Error is Forever.

The Curiously Strong Lucky Error.

Why Can't Everything Orange Be Lucky Error?

Whenever There's a Snack Gap, Lucky Error Fits.

I Liked the Lucky Error So Much, I Bought the Company!

Does You Does, or Does You Don't Take Lucky Error?

Strong and Beautiful, Just Like Lucky Error.

Yes, That Yellow Bird is Supposed to be a Canary

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Sonnet: PSA


Oh boy I’m falling & it’s not a public service
announcement of a pitch-shifting conundrum,
or a bastard chanting “war” in cheery tones—

We’ve given over our cherry sodas to St. Louis,
city of snow & the highest monument, The Hill,
& Thom Fletcher, who longs to appear in a poem.

I like my coffee sweet & scented with the extract
of a certain nut. The planes swoop so close you can
almost read the call signs: “Woody,” “Brick,” “Killer.”

My Ave Maria has flown the coop, along with “best
friends forever,” along with erotic emails, along
with Christ, Jesus, & “illuminating presences.”

I give you this present for your choice of holiday.
Now get out of my line; I can’t see the highway for the trucks.

We regret to inform you...


That you did not win The Ohio State University Press/The Journal Award in Poetry. That's okay--I didn't want it anyway!

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Recently read: Maureen Thorson, "Mayport." The best Navy Base poems ever. Thanks, 'reen, for sending it along.

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Reb is plundering my words over on her blog. Check it out.


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Jonathan Mayhew has a point about "the poet voice." My ex-gf had the poet voice. This is why we no longer date. Just kidding. We broke up for other, less interesting reasons.

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Jeff Bahr sent me some saffron a while back. I've been putting it in my basmati rice pilafs. Had some last night with Chicken Korma, stir-fried asparagus and green beans, split pea salad, and lemon rasam. The last two dishes were courtesy of Suvir.

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Lately I've noticed (with the help of a friend) that Indian food tends to inflame the passions. I've been cooking a lot of Indian food lately. As the passions inflame, however, my propensity for poeming seems to have declined. Poems only come when I'm bored/depressed and/or celibate. Has anyone else ever made this discovery?

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Shout outs: Erica Bernheim, my Mom, Andy Carter, Nick T. (in NZ), Robyn S., Julie Dill, Aaron Belz, Andy M., Shanna C., Reb L., Sara McC, you.

Rock and Roll Has Got To Go!

A very fine young San Franciscan poet is writing a brilliant long poem about rock and roll and suicide, which may seem like a hackneyed idea, but is not. It's a very good idea when done well. Unlike Jeff Clark, said poet will not appear on the cover of his book with his shirt open and hairy chest exposed. He will not wear gold disco chains.

*

The music only plays to highlight the yellow silence of the room. The city streets only glisten with motor oil and come, asphalt flowers. The tow-headed boy only listens to the song as nonsense, the syllables deaf, the monkey-sound he hears comes from a pocket anthology. A gift of saffron arrives in a plastic bag like the ones they use for sandwiches and potent chronic.

*

Whatever song we should be hearing is the song our neighbor hasn’t played. Upstairs, someone plays “Take Me To The River” nearly every day. The song I need begins on David Bowie and ends on Stevie Wonder. The upstairs neighbor makes me think of child molesters. The next door neighbor is crazy, but I dispense fashion advice when she asks. The other next door neighbor is young and pretty and never home.

*

When Robyn reads, she reads quickly. Her poems evaporate, leaving intelligent glittery poem dust everywhere. She is known to sometimes fold little notes into pretty little fans. Crepe paper boxes, and coffee cups that match my sweater. Nick’s poems are read conversationally, with feeling. But the feelings are disturbing. Julie reads her poems and everyone guffaws. In a good way. An empty Bud bottle. A crash. A conundrum.

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David Bowie wrote Rock and Roll Suicide, which is not only a fact, but a line from a song by the New Bad Things, a long-defunct PDX band. My friend Andy is writing a poem about rock and roll suicides. The little shit. David Bowie wrote a song called “Queen Bitch,” which is also the title of a poem I haven’t yet written, but mean to.

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My ex-girlfriend has begun employing me as a poem consultant and Iron Chef commentator. This is all right by me. One of my biggest fears as a human being is that people will think I'm a jerk. When folks who I've been a jerk to in the past initiate what seems like almost friendship, I feel that I'm not a total asshole. I like to feel useful, if only in a limited fashion.

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Paul Simon said: "She looked me over and I guess she thought I was all right. All right in a sort of limited way for an off night." History of my love life.

The Chicago Reading

I have been remiss. I didn't post a thing about the St. Louis reading. I know it says "Chicago Reading" up there, but that's only to confuse y'all.

Five hour drive from Chicago to STL, almost stopped by a snowstorm. Twemlow played Pet Sounds on the stereo (when it wasn't tuned to horrible nu-metal and lo-grade hip-hop stations). I slept a lot. We played some poet games. Robyn Schiff declined to play the poet games. I think I beat Twemlow at Twenty Poet Questions, though the answer that stumped him was Julie Andrews, who isn't a poet, as far as I know.

Aaron Belz welcomed us into his huge freakin' house. Six bedrooms, more storeys than my house. He gave us marzipan (which he warned us, beforehand, was not very good). It was fine. I think it may be the Belz sense of humor; last December (the one before this last one, so last-last-Dec.) he greeted me at the airport with, "Hi. I'm Aaron. I'm really drunk." He wasn't. Or at least he didn't drive like he was. Before the reading, he poured us glasses of a Belgian ale.

At the reading, Julie Dill hugged me suprise-style from behind. Stefene Russell and Thom Fletcher were there. Stefene gave me a three-limbed Jeb Bush effigy doll that is/was quite disturbing but rather adorable. Jonathan Mayhew introduced himself, and I think the first (stupid) thing I said was: "You don't look like Jonathan Mayhew." He was much skinnier than I imagined. We talked about fighting prowess for a moment and both concluded that we could each easily take Kirby Olson if fisticuffs ensued.

The reading itself was superb. Robyn read new poems, including the fabulous "Operation Paperclip," recently netted for the new Canary. Nick read new poems, a few of which were positively brilliant. I don't know why that guy's not a superstar yet. Seriously. Julie Dill read last, and her poems were great. Laugh out loud funny, yet not silly or frivolous. She's really swell. Her partner Laine is very sweet as well. St. Louis may not be my favorite town, but every St. Louis person I know is wonderful. Good people.

Oh, I should mention, if only to embarrass, that a certain KU professor knocked over a beer bottle during the reading. It was very loud.

The trip back to Chicago was fairly uneventful. Bright and clear. Good driving weather. Twemlow left his wedding ring in a third-floor bedroom of Maison Belz, so he had to break in, Principal Rooney-style to house, avoiding a not-very-vicious dog, to retrieve it before we left for Chi-town.

An Observation

You know, people often say that Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On" is one of the seminal albums of the rock era, etc. etc., but actually it's about four good songs and a lot of longwinded, formless Jesus-lovin' hippie sermons. That's what I say.

Welcome to the Blog Roll:

Wil Lobko's Disruptive Juxtaposition

My girlfriend has a crush on Wil Lobko. He's rather handsome.

Posted Without the Permission of Andrew Mister,

This poem, which he wrote for me.


Poem for Tony Robinson

You write poems about things
that I think about when I masturbate.
What does that say about me, about you?
I bite my lip in San Francisco.
In San Francisco if you aren't part
of a scene, you're not part of anyone.
In Eugene you raise a can of old gold
to your lips. I like saying "old gold."
There, I said it twice. Nowadays,
the scenery has become pixilated,
a reflection of ourselves, a reenactment
of that scene in "Deliverance"
by a high school drama club.
The night I met you, I hit on
a girl named Eugenia. She'd written
a book. She had a boyfriend. I called her.
She never called me back. The novel
"Deliverance" was written by a poet.
I've only read one of his poems;
it was about a boy fucking a sheep,
not something I think about
when I masturbate. He also wrote
the slogan: "Coke: it's the real thing"
which we all know is a lie but believe
anyway, like everything I've ever
wanted to say to a beautiful woman
across a field of ashen flowers.
Some nights the stars are only there
to burn you. Any tranny walking
down Polk Street will tell you so.

No thanks, none for me.

Odontoid Process & Future Dominator: Chicago, IL

Poets in Snow: St. Louis, MO

Friday's Tasks

1. Blogged a bit.
2. Did some dissertation reading.
3. Perused new Indian cookbook.
4. Watched educational program on A&E about a South African murderer.
5. Finished dishes.
6. Folded clothes.
7. Bought and consumed Evil Corporate Coffee
8. Politely explained to the English Dept. Office Manager that I am not teaching this term and that's why I haven't given you my office hours.
9. Opened kitchen windows to "bask" in the January sun.
10. Pondered stuff.

The Art Institute of Chicago


Me and a new friend.

The Art Insitute was cool, though I didn't get to spend enough time there. I did see some pretty neat pole-arms though. (Josh Corey and Aaron Tieger, are you listening?)

Long & Lost

That's me. I haven't been posting this week due to illness. Food poisoning, I think.

Do not eat at C---- B--- if you happen to be in Eugene.

Chicago was fun. I didn't get a chance to eat a) a hot dog, b) Chicago pizza, or c) at Frontera Grill/Topolobampo, so my culinary goals went sadly unachieved. However, I'll try to take on all three next time.

St. Louis was fun, if busy. We didn't spend much time there, but I got to see Robyn, Nick, and Julie Dill read their brilliant poems. Aaron Belz was a gentleman, as always, and I finally got to meet his wife and children. And see his huge freakin' house.

I also met Jonathan Mayhew of Bemsha Swing fame. He seemed like a nice fellow, but didn't stick around long due to car problems.

I might be moving into the Twemlow-Schiff apartment for a summer sublet, which means I'll be blogging from Chicago in the summer months. What fun.

Okay--all this blogging has made me dizzy. It's time to recline on a couch somewhere.

Going to the Windy City

Off to Chicago this afternoon. Perhaps I'll blog from Twemlow's computer. If not, look for me next Monday or so.

In the meantime, keep those cards and letters coming.

And, if you're reading this, Hi Mom.

Correction

The burdens of the world
on my back
lighten the world
not a whit while
removing them greatly
decreases my specific
gravity

--A.R. Ammons

Guess What I Got For Christmas?

Brendon Small: "Coach, do you think I'm stupid?"

Coach McGuirk: "Of course you're stupid Brendon; all kids are stupid."

Which Extremity of the World Are You?
From the towering colossi at Rum and Monkey.

A Poetics

I have this routine I follow on days I can’t—or won’t—write or read. I venture outside, across the street, past the vile-smelling fish and chips joint, past the new office building, past the high-rent luxury apartments, past the old newspaper office, past the retirement home and the old Baptist church, to the Imperialist Coffee Purveyors. I quit drinking coffee a few months ago, and then began drinking it again last month, albeit less regularly. I order a triple Americano, sometimes flavored, sometimes not.

The ICP is comforting to me for a number of reasons. Back in 1993 or so, before they had taken over the world with their uniformly decent coffee, I almost bought a bit of stock in the company. They had just issued an IPO, and stock was eight bucks a share. I was prepared to soak three thousand dollars into this still-smallish (or it seemed smallish, anyway) coffee company that shipped me a pound of coffee every week to the tiny desert town of Lemoore, California. I ended up gambling the money away in a series of weekend junkets to Reno. I spent the change in San Francisco on Ethiopian food, music, drugs, beer, and assorted trinkets. Of course, I don’t have to tell you what happened to the ICP stock. I’d be practically retired by now. So all this should upset me, but it doesn’t. I like ICP also because of the employees. They’re generally very good employees. Everyone looks normal (unlike those fuckers over at Dutch Bros. who only employ drop-dead gorgeous people—to make up for their generally bad coffee, I suppose). In fact, everyone at my corner store looks like someone I used to know, or might have known when I was younger, thinner, more carefree. Of course I don’t know any of these people. After months of coming in, they still don’t even know what I drink, which is very odd. I forgive them, though. They make good coffee and are generally cheerful.

After coffee (in a to-go cup with a little sleeve), I usually cross the street and stand at the entrance to Café Zenon, reading the daily menu. I rarely eat at Zenon these days; their food hasn’t been good since about 1999, but their menu is always interesting reading. I then walk past the House of Noodle, up the alley to the square where Saturday Market is held, and into downtown. Sometimes I walk past the Ken Kesey statue, sometimes the Enormous Pit in the Middle of Town that is surrounded by high Cyclone fences and barbed wire, but mostly I stick to the alleys. Over the past few months I’ve begun taking photographs of my walks, and this is, I suppose, an important part of why I walk. I want to document what’s there, what’s good about this town that I so frequently slander. For years I’ve talked about getting out of Eugene, about moving to a real city, going somewhere that’s not 96% white, that’s not fake-hippie-faux-liberal-redneck, but as of this writing I’m still here. I feel better about my decision (or non-decision) when I take pictures.

The “ugly” things in town, the back alleys, the dumpsters, the paint-peeling walls, take on a certain beauty when captured on a little digital card, printed out on my super-cheap HP printer, and taped to the walls of my apartment (which is also run-down, beaten, like the town). Photographs lie, distort, remake the truth. For proof of this, turn to pop music. Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome,” fIREHOSE’s “In My Mind,” Jay Bennett and Edward Burch’s “Like a Photograph.” This is, I suppose, why we write, too. Or why I write, even when I’m not writing what I’m supposed to write. Aaron Belz, in introducing me at a reading last December in St. Louis, the gloomiest of towns, borrowed someone else’s words (I forget whose) in describing me (and Shane Seely and Arielle Greenberg) as part of the “beaten generation.” This seemed entirely appropriate. I write because I hope to create something better than reality. Taking pictures is much easier, though. The gratification is instant. If you don’t want to look you can simply turn them over. For over a year I kept a picture of Beatrice on my desk. It was black and white and of the side of her face and shoulders. We hadn’t been friends for awhile, but just knowing that I could keep intact a little piece of what we had (or what I thought we had) was comforting. I eventually took the picture out of the frame and put it in a shoebox. Now it’s a photo of me (full beard, long hair) with my brother and my father a couple Christmases ago. Dad looks healthy, even though he’s not. He is, in that picture, less than two months away from another bypass surgery. Now, months later, he’s much thinner than he’s ever been—probably 130 pounds. His hair is grayer than before, his face gaunt. I’ve never seen him visibly disturbed or depressed. Even when he spent nearly two weeks in the hospital last February, he was always in good spirits, even when in pain. I’ve often wondered if my father isn’t hiding something, if, like me, he is gravely unhappy.

I was born—to be “poetic” about it—with a melancholic temperament. I resigned myself many years ago to the fact that I probably wouldn’t ever be really happy. Oh, sure, I have happy moments, but I attribute most of them to chemicals—naturally occurring, and otherwise. I’m frequently happy when I take my walks, ingesting caffeine along the way. When I get home and settle in, though, the dread takes over. I’ve never really discussed this with anyone. That’s a lie. I saw a counselor a few years ago but I quit going after I decided that she wasn’t helping me. People tell me it takes more than a few sessions. That seems pointless to me. Coffee, booze, even fucking cold medicine works more quickly.

My biggest fear isn’t dying alone, which I imagine must be a big fear for someone somewhere. I don’t mind the thought of dying alone. My biggest fear is disappointing others, or having others think I’m a bad guy, that I’m incapable, that I’m untrustworthy, that I’m selfish, that I don’t know how to love or how to be a friend. I’m afraid that my father will die without ever knowing me as a friend, that my family doesn’t really care much for me, that my friends will keep moving away. For a supposedly “smart” person, I have a lot of seemingly irrational worries. Brian Wilson wrote “they say I got brains but they ain’t doin’ me no good.” I don’t think staying in bed for a year is an option for me, though I’ve been sleeping as late as possible during this new year. I think I’ve got a book in me. And pictures to take.

I've Been Menendezed!!!


Portrait.

Drugs Are Bad


I was just kidding about the LSD stuff below. I've never touched the stuff. I've also never ridden a bike and never seen a Meg Ryan movie.

Just say NO!

Hippie Hop

I have no program for
saving this world or scuttling
the next: I know no political,
sexual, racial cures: I make
analogies, my bucketful of
flowers: I give flowers to people
of all policies, sexes, and races
including the vicious, the
uncertain, and the white.

--A.R. Ammons

This Is How I Feel Right Now

A Thought I Had While I Was Busy Not Writing a Dissertation

Albert Hoffman, the father of LSD, makes me think of Meg Ryan because he took some LSD and went on a bike ride. Similarly, in a horrible movie in which Nic Cage plays an Angel, Meg Ryan has sex with the angel then gets on her bike and is taken out by a big semi truck. So they are related by a bike ride. I've taken lots of LSD and ridden my bike a lot, but I've never been hit by a truck. Meg Ryan is cute but, in that movie, dead. The Cute and the Dead. I should write a poem about Meg Ryan and Albert Hoffman and call it The Cute and the Dead. And, Oh, I've never had sex with an angel, but I've wanted to really bad.

A Blurb For An Unpublished Book

He utterly rejects the easy irony and flattening of affect so endemic to the contemporary poetry scene, a scene increasingly peopled by young, earnest poets who are way hipper than you.

Back-cover blurb for Lucky Error, courtesy of A. Mister


"Picking up the pen from Kenneth Koch's cold dead hand, Tony Robinson
reminds us what it's like to be alive, to be in love, to be afraid of
being love in their weird millennial America. While all those other
po-bitches are trying to give Orpheus a handjob or convince you how
cool they are, Robinson is down in the muck of daily life trying to
remind us that it takes guts to gentle and kind. Everyone should take
this three hour tour."

Secular Love Poem (reprise)

Someone turns to face you.
It is dark and our ideas—love, grace, fashion—
Will not endure.

Our addictions—sex, lamb, blue refrigerator magnets—
Will continue unabated. The rain is colder today.

I burned a stick of incense, shook your thought
From my head, strangled your photograph
In the most gentle way. I shivered, naked.

Sinecure. Sanitary. Sundress. Sacred.
You’re funny with numbers.

When you’re wet, you make singing noises
From every place on your salmon-colored body.
It could be whale-call. Could be fire.

Fifty more days of this. Rain. Catcalls. Sounds
Like lust, like cream. Like that man over there.

Smoking your cigarettes. Wearing your best summer
Skirts. I have tried to call. I swear I’m sweltering.

Fancy. I think you’re fancy. We don’t have names
For what you really are. What we really think.
The lights go out at ten pm. I hope you’re home.

For Yet Another Wedding

Before we turned left onto the one-way runway, before we fell
apart, before everything we owned was due in six hours

or so—they say (and who are they but our
former and future selves in funnier hats)—they say we once

were happy there in the blue-green country where we
each stood separately, apart from the worries of the other,

that named twin who for each of us took on private
resonance, luminescence. Since Memorial Day

has come and gone, and since your hair has weathered
the dry prairie wind, gone brittle and limp,

since men have catcalled and pratfalled and fallen
all over, landing everywhere but atop

you (well there was that one, and then that other fellow—
but he doesn’t count), since back before the dream

of returned-for-too-little-postage, since the night
I didn’t kiss you in the falling dark and drunk,

but shrunk back, afraid of my own second story
apartment. Until the grey secedes in sheets of yellow,

washing over all, and the bottle of gin requires no
reminder from the vermouth, until the memorization

of the metric-English conversion charts, until all
of Auden makes sense, and rules for engagement are no

different than the conditions for a successful summer
fling, until my holy Cuban ancestors ride by in a procession

of bright bicycles. After this, after all, after the final
phone call I won’t be home to answer, after the missed

wedding and the naughty bridal shower, after the honey
moon and the clover honey and the slow dying summer,

after I remember what brought us here, what kept us
invisible but audible to the other, what rent us, lovingly, apart.

Top Eleven Things I Did On New Year’s Day, 2005

1. Threw out all my wire hangers.

2. Did two loads of laundry.

3. Attempted, with little success, to scrub bathroom tile grout.

4. Swept kitchen and living room floors.

5. Purchased coffee from Evil Coffee Imperialists.

6. Rediscovered the Talking Heads’ “Speaking in Tongues.”

7. Changed flat tire on my raggedy ol’ bicycle.

8. Cleaned out fridge.

9. Bought groceries.

10. Cooked some sole in a makeshift mojo sauce.

11. Revised Lucky Error again.

Some Politically Correct Photographs for My Good Pal Tom Markham


That thing about the biggest burrito in town is a lie. This joint used to be the bomb when it was a money-laundering front. Once they went legit, the food got crappy.


Burrito Boy isn't great, but it does the trick. Funny thing is, this is only Burrito Boy Truck Parking. There isn't a Burrito Boy for at least a mile and half.


The proprietor of this shop came out and got very angry at me for taking its picture.


Carniceria, Panaderia, and more!


These small tacos (tacos chicos) are delicious. And only a buck each. They were purchased at Plaza Latina, a Latin-Middle Eastern market on 7th Ave. I don't know why they're Latin & Middle Eastern. They just are. After this taco appetizer I polished off the tastiest Torta Milanesa I've ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth.