November 20, 2010, 1:30 am
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November 12, 2010, 6:15 pm
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matthew zapruder

I like the word pocket. It sounds a little safely
dangerous. Like knowing you once
bought a headlamp in case the lights go out
in a catastrophe. You will put it on your head
and your hands will still be free. Or
standing in a forest and staring at a picture
in a plant book while eating scary looking wild flowers.
Saying pocket makes me feel potentially
but not yet busy. I am getting ready to have
important thoughts. I am thinking about my pocket.
Which has its own particular geology.
Maybe you know what I mean. I mean
I basically know what’s in there and can even
list the items but also there are other bits
and pieces made of stuff that might not
even have a name. Only a scientist could figure
it out. And why would a scientist do that?
He or she should be curing brain diseases
or making sure that asteroid doesn’t hit us.
Look out scientists! Today the unemployment rate
is 9.4%. I have no idea what that means. I tried
to think about it harder for a while. Then
tried standing in an actual stance of mystery
and not knowing towards the world.
Which is my job. As is staring at the back yard
and for one second believing I am actually
rising away from myself. Which is maybe
what I have in common right now with you.
And now I am placing my hand on this
very dusty table. And brushing away
the dust. And now I am looking away
and thinking for the last time about my pocket.
But this time I am thinking about its darkness.
Like the bottom of the sea. But without
the blind florescent creatures floating
in a circle around the black box which along
with tremendous thunder and huge shards
of metal from the airplane sank down and settled
here where it rests, cheerfully beeping.

November 12, 2010, 6:13 pm
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Matthew Zapruder

Remember her strapped to the air,
her grey dress flapping a little?

The field mice ran beneath her feet
learning new technologies.

I don’t scare anybody, she complained,
smiling, a nest on her head.

Which was how much I loved her,
all through the harvest
and dismantling.

I am the morning dove
who nests in the gutter.

I am singing sadly to the barn.

November 12, 2010, 12:43 am
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I worry about the woman in the Phoenix airport,
the look in her eyes as a man shouts at her, kicks her
red suitcase, swears. All around them, travelers
keep to their schedules with just quick
glances over their shoulders.

And the woman at Kill Devil Hills, who walks on the beach
with a man who lets go of her hand, backs away.
She runs into the ocean, shoulders through waves;
he walks on. When she comes back to shore,
jeans and shirt dripping, she searches to see
where he’s gone, hurries to catch him.

And the woman in the Boston bar—
she and the man both wobbly with beer,
his voice getting louder, hers softer. As he leaves,
he topples his chair. She stares into her purse
for money to pay the tab.

And the woman pushed from a car
outside a Chicago hotel. She brushes grit
from her fur coat, plucks at the knee
of her stocking, then straightens and walks
through the door without looking at anyone.
As if that will make her invisible.

November 6, 2010, 2:34 pm
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DH Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till i see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And Hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.