Change you can believe in

We count change and make piles of it.

Hundreds of dollars in quarters. Maybe a hundred and a half in dimes. Less than fifty in nickels, and who cares how many pennies. Random coins appear as well. Silver dollars and fifty cent pieces, Susan B. Anthony’s and the Queen of England’s. A pin found its way in, as did a roach and a piece of candy or two. There was also a fake diamond ring, and a few other random non-treasures. We discard most of these in our counting, and Alex’s observance of the strange quarters from Guam is more a distraction than a noteworthy moment.

He soldiered on, trying to keep the mood high despite the heavy undertone. We don’t trust the machine to count our currency, or we won’t incur the cost of doing so. Instead we dirty our fingertips and make tiny stacks on the floor, several dollars here or there otherwise arranged. One pile might be slightly higher, no matter, they’ll all make it into the roll eventually. All this weight, material, some of it having enough value to be counted some of it seemingly just an obstacle to counting.

Marlboro College

Marlboro College is my alma mater. That said, they tend to portray the school in advertisements in a somewhat lame fashion. So we've created a companion website:
marlboro-college.com

It isn't up and running yet, the link right now takes you to a facebook group debating the school's marketing strategy. We don't think we know how to market the school better than the folks at the school. We know we know better. Putting a sanitized, white-bread, humorless portrait of what is a vibrant, hyperactive, intelligent, youthful, fun place is not the way to get kids interested.

I'll let you know when the project begins to take more shape. Basically, it's guerrilla marketing done as a response to bad marketing.

Last Observations in Santa Fe

I've seen many birds.

The tiniest of them was a hummingbird. Five of them crowded around a feeder outside the General Store up in Pecos. Horses hung out nearby, and water for your R.V. was available for a nominal price.

Surprising to see were pigeons: I thought I'd escaped them when I left Chicago. Yet there they were, buzzing past my head in Santa Fe's plaza. Someday I will uncover the secret to these fat, low-flying birds' ubiquity and longevity. I suspect it has a bit to do with humans' dual traits of sloppiness and pacificity, at least as regards pigeon life.

I expected an eagle to appear in flight at some point, that American icon glorified in the art of the west. Instead I was greeted by the laughter of crows and the circling, ominous flights of hawks overhead, their continuous circles cut through by jet's smoke-white contrails across the a true cerulean backdrop.

Yesterday, storms formed the sky's border in 3 directions. Only the north appeared safe. As the clouds began to collide, the wind rifled through the streets, creating a machine-like sound from the still-opened sun umbrellas of the nearby restaurant. We beat a fast path back to the apartment, growler of Kolsch in tow.

Once inside, I watched as an old, tall elm swayed left and left more in every gust. A large bird, maybe a falcon but probably a pigeon, squatted on a power line some indistinguishable distance outside the window. And when you finally had a clear view of it, it was gone.

-8/6/2010
Santa Fe, NM
Collected Works Bookstore
3:58pm

A Late Night's Meditation in Santa Fe

Itch and Etching
Volumes at fingertip's length
Mask an empty evening's mind
The fluid-enforced balance,
reflective just this once
rehearing the song as many times
as drinking the night in might require

The cover will be pulled back
every word resonating like church bells
His teacher's voice rising up thru dark bled
pupils, each itch and etching an easy echo--
those memories already know and push
as fast as they allow, though you're not there

Anywhere, anymore we're alone, so
the we, well, the he, becomes one
speaking as me, saying he once was
now only she knows, she knows that is clear
as for me, I'm no longer here. Ask her.

6/8/10
3:30 am
Santa Fe, NM

Links and Lynch likes

Yeah so just added a new feature here on the page: links to other blogs, on the right side there. I realize that my ramblings may not be your cup of acid-infused lemonade, so feel free to click over for thoughts on the following:

-bee procreation
-wine tasting
-video games and literary theory
-doom pop
-painting and prose
-sports, Notre Dame, and life
-hip hop remixes
-the lonely life of a dirty-minded high school teacher
-sex advice for the 20-something set

Surely, that should hold you over for now. Stay tuned for more, and thanks for visiting!

A more recent one

Train poem #211

Snow shoots up trackside
Doves on chunks of ice
drift down off dead tree branches
Whistles warn, we're jostled
The daily paper gripped tighter
with two hands, half-
heads peeking above seats,
the frozen views from the windows
melt into other, sparse
scenes: Indiana, wintertime,
legs crossed--
I recline.

Many such stuck names

Many such stuck names

Some random Ross gave me his name
years ago, it stuck to the back of a book,
Neruda, underneath the excerpts on the back
cover. Inside are a picture of my sister’s
kids, smiling from out of the Spanish
civil war [sic] A business card
inside the front cover, a woman with
a name that sounds like a snack,
her symbol an exclamation point.

I don’t know why I have to try so hard
to push this pen. Maybe out of
practice- then again- maybe it’s just
not a good pen.

The Ross it could be is not a lost Ross,
that Ross isn’t this Ross, I’m afraid

The children are smiling. The oldest can
already say circle in Spanish, and square.
It’s only a matter of time.

And as for her ? ! She may still be
there, waiting to meet me at lunchtime.
I could ask Pablo, as he’d know, (though he isn’t here)
“Faces randomly met disappear by daytime.”


6-1-09