Poetry Scrap

When you were a knee-high socks and skirts little girl
Did an open front door open to an unbounded world?
Rooms are rooms through tangible boundaries
Space is space and singular because of none –
I like to think of you, skin n bones, brace-face giggles
Waving bye-bye and then running
Running barefoot over the threshold, onto walkway,
Running over the lawn (plucking little weed flowers)
Running down the hot sidewalk
Running and roaming miles into the world.

Poetry Scrap

you too will reach a certain age / and it’ll be much younger than you think / when if you’re walking down the cold sidewalk of a street / and you come to a corner where the sun is shining / and little birds are twitter poking in the gutter / you will fervently hope that the light doesn’t turn / that it never turns / but then it does, green-go / and reluctantly you’re be compelled to cross the street.

Poetry Scrap

Ghettobird

while fat moms in the suburbs
watch cop shows on television, big Blue police
arresting sweating negros wearing stained wife beaters,
all those horrid nigger connotations still alive in post-millenial America –
in my North Park the ghetto bird makes another pass,
languid circles in the night,
the chop chop piercing everything, espying –
bringing Viet-terror home to my forty-years later
Buddha peaceful weedladen, dirtclod American streets.

Poetry Scrap

A morning scraplette written while flinging northbound on the 5 towards work, also at the office over dark coffee, the Dharma Bums (in which I’m to the sad going-away party for Japhy and also for the book) fresh in my head –

where is the line dividing
fruit from fruit of the sea,
fish flesh from beef meat,
pig chop, chicken loin, turkey teat,
all the gnashing in carrot field dreams
is the noise of carniverous munchers, chewers
and chompers, biting, masticulating away
life, feeding on what was a who was, former
lives in the samsarist tradition, future yous –
a carbon-based planetary buffet,
our lot.

Wanting of course to hang this flinglette on a nail in my wooden shack like an ant in Japhy’s (Gary’s) rucksack army but instead I’m here in my naughties office, whiteboard and Leadership Eagle prints (which in their own ways are legacies of the West Coast beat Dharma Bum influence…

Ruby on Rails

I began my exploration of RubyonRails last night by building a draft of my wineblog. I’ve been keeping an excel spreadsheet of the wines that I’ve drank this year as a halfhearted attempt at putting together a blog of some sort – I knew I’d get around to it eventually and figured that I might as well learn how to write about wine and the structure of the database by throwing it into Excel as I went along. I’m actually rather enamoured by the technique. It’s easy to throw together a spreadsheet, and easy to add fields, and easy to get rid of uneeded fields, and easy as well to kick the data into access in case you want to subdivide some fields, for example at one point in the process a single Region field became MicroRegion and MacroRegion which eventually became Appellation and Region. Anyway, I’d definitely lean towards laying down a blueprint in excel the next time I have to start an evolving, minimal data table from scratch. But about RoR –

From two hours of work, the lesson that I got was to believe the hype – Ruby on Rails removes most of the tedium from forms with its scaffolding concept. The lingual link – name the page person, the table people, and it ‘knows’ what t do – is fucking genius, and exactly the carrot that scatterbrains like me need to convince us to follow conventions.

Either tonight or tomorrow I’m going to fill out the database… once I do that I’m going to figure out if Rails makes creating a blog easier than .Net. My guess and my hope is Yes, but I’m already very enthused by the ability to create entry forms in snap-time.

Slow Living + Ideas = Future

In Urbino and Bra and several other northern Itallian cities they’re legislating Slow Living; in Paris they’re trying to slow traffic down; in London they want you to pay to drive into London proper.

We’ve spent these first five years developing the means to catalog everything; I imagine that it won’t be long before there’s a method for recording, indexing, tagging, relating every single thought a man has. I do it already on weekends, journaling, blogging, posting, commenting.

Has a decent poem been written yet this century? I think we’re too young to write poetry. Like Rilke said, it takes an entire lifetime to write a single poem.

This is our adolescence, our early morning time when with a rush of caff we divide and/or swarm, to build, to work. Give us time, let us construct the Rails and Pythons and Ruby Tuesday latticeworks, gridlike, linear, and then when the sun is long and the day turns a piedmont Orange, when wine and play take priority, then you will know us by the beauty of our excited, drunken explosions of logic…

Generations

Elizabeth Albrycht has a post on Corante’s Future Tense summing up her feelings on becoming a thirtysomething – it seems to follow thematically from this microfesto which she also commented on. While I find that microfesto to be ridiculously juvenile (ah, nobody told you that college was a waste of time? Poor wittle you…), I also applaud its bombast. And of course I’m also finding that I’m beginning to formulate worries, and from those worries ideas, on the matter of turning thirty.

My stock looks something like this – I’m happy professionally and physically, I have a great apartment, a loving woman, lots of money. Far from exhausted, most days I feel an uncontrollable zeal that only magnified by caffeination, not created by it. The other day I was doing some napkin math and figured out that I’m amongst the 20,000 luckiest people alive. No, seriously, I did. Based on the above criteria and more, much more, from my race and place to my intellectual and artistic interest.

And yes of course there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head saying Hah! You feel that way at 28… give yourself another year, when you’re staring down the beast, when something goes wrong physically, when workplace burn-out hits you, when your inspiration dries up. But I can live with a muffled voice of dissent, or at least I can for now, and nowity is paramount, as ever. That’s one of my favorite lessons from my 20s, and one that hopefully most thirtysomethings have gotten.