Friday, October 24, 2014


Brandon Ethridge's hands:

Katrin Koenning

Here is a great photographer nuancing disappearance.

I love all her series.

The photograph that ends the Dear Chris series, with the snapshots all turned, so we only see their backs (part of an epistolary memorial to a lost, loved one and family member who committed suicide) is such plangent concinnity. How not to see in this the perfect, tragic reification of a soul who turned his back on life and memories. Or, one wonders, is the turning of the images and memories something others have done, something we must do, to find the way beyond the burn of grief to the char?

And from another series: that Vanitas of the dark, dark birthday cake with the candles seemingly being sucked into the void of darkness at the center of the cake: an implosion of life. How not to read this as also a cosmic image, the Big Bang in reverse (which may eventually happen).

This artist has crafted so many images which are indelible once seen.

The site is worth more than one visit.


wonders of Steelton:

When I Am Done

When I am done writing a poem, I don't wonder so much about who is reading the poem, but while I am writing the poem, and this usually in the privacy of my bathtub, I do wonder quite a bit who is reading the poem.

Please Use "Now Probably Never" in a Sentence

My greatest personal tragedy
is that I will now probably never
give birth
to a Japanese earthquake.

Hooked on Classics

"I'm so over de Chirico,"
quotha an ornate mirror
in the Salvation Army window display
as it reflected
a somewhat elevated train
chuffing out of a dark city
of Robert Venturi
shadow shapes,
as an egg-headed woman
stood behind it,
darkly watching,
holding a pineapple
to her breast
like a baby.


Here is a poem for you.
I wrote it in my basement.