Falling Man (A Pogh-Hymn)

“Falling Man”

My confession: When you fell forward
and didn’t put your hands out to catch yourself-
fell forward into the black wet shine of the street-
my first thought was this-
hopelessly selfish:

I would never have the chance to tell you
that you were right- you had called it-
I was turning soft, that just this morning
I let someone drink in my car, and he wasn’t even
a diabetic gulping apple juice, anything to raise
his blood sugar after an insulin overdose-
no, he wasn’t diabetic, and there was no medical reason for it-
he was just thirsty, and I let him drink, in my car-
not even something clear: Chai tea, or something-
hopelessly hip, sweet, expensive- I let him drink it-
there might even have been milk in it-
I can’t remember- I finished it, but by then
it was cold, tasteless.

After, I cried because I’d never tell you this-
and you-
you truly listen, while I-
I only wait to speak.

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I ran across a website which contains some very good photographs, photographs that don't lean on anything.

http://www.evandroteixeira.net/

I think the site is in Portuguese.

Eleven Sixty-Seven, Parts IV and V

Eleven Sixty-Seven, Part IV

Today the street is closed
for Russian-American Appreciation Day or Something
and I almost called you to ask
you to come here for
Russian-American Appreciation Day or Something
until I remembered
you are Ukrainian, not Russian.

I’ve called you Russian enough times. Is that
bad? Do the Ukrainians
have beef with the Russians? Really, who doesn’t.
Really- the Russians are nearly as bad as we are,
as I am,
Really.

Russia. Snow, the Cold War, Ballet-
Did I tell you I finally saw Black Swan? It was
not too good- not as good as seeing a ballet-
but much cheaper. I didn’t like it-
now I am afraid
to go to the ballet. The time-lapse
photography in Black Swan- that was well-done.
Else,
rare-
at least it ought to be.

But you aren’t Russian, and we remind
each the other of each the other so much we make each the other
sick-
you especially intimidate me-
you are
a few years older, tall, handsome, your blond hair and beard, strong-
the Russian in those art deco propaganda posters, truly-
you make real money, and in a few years perhaps
I’ll make real money, but I’ll never be tall, handsome, strong,
as you are- but I will always
be Russian.

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Eleven Sixty-Seven, Part V

NO PARKING
24 HRS 7 DAYS

VEHICLES WILL BE
TICKETED, TOWED,
OR STOLEN
AT OWNER’S EXPENSE

SUPERFOG ROLLS IN

SUPERFOG ROLLS IN

can i get it in the mornin

like times when i get to

work and think about what

im gonna do later but there

is nothing else. just

white space.

looking out across the

hudson river is a mirage

of america. its not america,

its a river next to a

financial center.

and for some reason i can

only think about what it

would be like to take lives

for a living, through it seems

like not a good job. there

is some romance in killing

people yourself.

in a silent fog next to

a great river i emerge

as from the fires of a

quiet comfortable hell.

i glide like a boat or a

dream with a firearm

attached to me. and

finally i slip into a dark

compound and end

whatever thing living

there might have

been making me

feel unhappy, cutting

the world again, making

smaller pieces for

us to try and see.

Another Glass Of Water

These here are funny things from the internets. Does hitting the Print Screen key count as brotography?


Click to View Larger:
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Boss

Note: These photographs are not mine. I've never shot underwater; I've heard it's difficult, especially as far as lighting is concerned.
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1.

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2.

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3.

Skool

found

Eleven-Sixty-Seven Continued

These are continuations of a poghem whose first portion appears here:

http://mentholuniversitypress.blogspot.com/2011/03/eleven-sixty-seven-poghem.html

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“Eleven-Sixty-Seven, Part II”

I don’t think I told you I was thirsty-
I think you asked, and I’m sure I said I was-
but, in any case, you said:
“well, let’s see what there is,”
walked across the hardwood to your refrigerator,
opened it.

I stood slackjawed- I’d never imagined
that anyone could have a refrigerator so full-
or containing so many different items-
as to be unsure of what was,
so
to
speak,
in stock.

Slackjawed- so that even
after you said:
“water, coke, wine, lemonade, orange juice- orange juice, or, I think, grapefruit juice, or something…”
it took me seconds
to ask for
a glass of water
with ice.

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“Eleven-Sixty-Seven, Part III”

When you wouldn’t walk with me- too cold, too far, you said, though it wasn’t either- we went home. You told me you were sorry for being such a pussy- you used that word- and I shrugged.
I told you to practice walking in the cold, further and further- half a block, a full block, and so on- not that it’s every really cold in San Francisco (I didn’t say that).

“Growing up, you know, I never liked tomatoes. Not at all. I liked ketchup, of course.”

“Well, everyone does. I mean, I don’t think that’s too rare. Too uncommon. I like tomatoes, though. And that reminds me, you have to help me move my tomatoes outside when they get too big for their pots- dig the holes in the back yard for moving them outside.”

“Mmm. Yeah, I will. They get big. I remember they got big when my parents grew them, and that was near Seattle. Do they get bigger in California?”

“Probably, I guess. Everything grows so well here. I mean, did you see my daddy's place? All the lettuce? And it would be even bigger if the bugs weren't eating it.”

“Well, growing up, I hated tomatoes. I’d never eat them, I’d pick them off burgers, out of salads. But I practiced. Gradually, you know. I forced myself to eat them, starting- probably two, three years ago. In college. I’d cut them up into tiny pieces, swallow them whole to keep from tasting them. Usually with some lemonade or cranberry juice or something. Not milk, obviously. And in a few months, I was able to take the flavor more. I started chewing them, started eating bigger pieces. Quarter slices, half slices, full circle slices, and now- I don’t love tomatoes, but I can eat them just like anyone else. Normally. I wouldn’t just bite into a tomato.”

“Oh, I would.”

“I could, though. If I had to. It’s about being polite. You go to someone’s place, you eat what they serve you. You could do the same with being cold.”

“I just- I’ve never done anything like that. I’ve never felt motivated to do anything like that.”

That’s why I can’t love you. I can’t force myself to, I can’t learn to. It isn’t like tomatoes. I’m not that strong.

Does it matter? We can still have dinner- I want to, still. I enjoyed dinner, enjoyed my chicken salad, even though there were tomatoes in it. Three circles of tomato, if I remember. They were thin. But that doesn’t matter.

I wish I loved you, I wish I could. Of course. But, gimme what you got. Isn’t that what’s written on the Statue of Liberty?

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Peas out y’all.

A few nights ago, I went to a party and ran into this guy who is just as into Bruce Springsteen as I am. I told him “Dude, this guy I went to high school with is dating Bruce Springsteen’s daughter.” He said “Woah, that’s awesome. I bet his daughter is hot, because he [Bruce] probably has a hot wife. And, I mean, he’s not a bad looking guy himself, if you know what I mean.” We then talked about Bruce Springsteen for 20 to 40 minutes.

Also, apparently Dustin Ha. is in cooking school.

V4L,

-A2