luminous work

Image-maker. In poetry, sound art, theater, collage.

i make things from words.  things that intend towards light.  here is that round box from the attic.  inside, letters, photographs, unlabeled cassette tapes.  some embossed invitations to my imaginative parties, which are select and increasingly irregular.  like you, i grow old.  i keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.  if it would be better to hold something in your hands other than a machine send me a message and i will send you something real.

Strand's the end

the weight of the past leans

cosmic dream radio, Episode 6

Not everyone knows what he shall sing at the end.  I turn Mark Strand's poem, "The End" into a house/trance tune.  But I read it to you first.  And play my neat-o intro again.


The Continuous Life by Mark Strand

Strand's New and Selected Poems (includes this poem)

My reading of Strand's "The End"(download for free)

Dance to "The End": Club/house/trance version (download for free)

what on earth was i thinking?

I remember going to clubs.  Is it still the same?  I recall wide, blank eyes.  The pound of shoes, bass, bellies, bones.  ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN.  Now.  Right then.  SOMETHING ANYTHING PLEASE HAPPEN SOMETHING CHANGE MY LIFE.

Maybe something would have happened if we listened to songs that were like Mark Strand poems. 

Anyone want some ectasy?


In the podcast I promise a bit more info about what attracts me to this poem.  Wish I hadn't done that.  I'm finding it hard to talk about. It was indeed something about the rhythmn.  I said something about shifting blank verse. Not exactly.  It's heavy on anapests "as the SHIP sails aWAY"...much of the first stanza really, rolling on the sea like a ship.

Can we pause to honor this line?

Indeed, the line leans heavy on the word "leans":

when the WEIGHT /of the PAST||LEANS||
and the SKY

The line drops off into empty paper-space like the mind fading from the present back into the past...

Stanza 3 comes-to: the sky "is no more than remembered light...". 

I could have done a better job staggering this drop-off but it requires some hard-core metronome-ing.  I ran out of patience and my mouth hurts.  I had a root canal this past week.

That's a note for the text-savvy dj who remixes this baby. 


sing, woman, sing. deer crash through windows. hell hounds want to play. this crappy bar? you've been here before. nothing's changed.  let's turn this basement into a club. everyone's looking for someplace to go.