Poetry

 May 30, 2026

Re-watched Once Upon a Time in Hollywood last night, then in a dream Brad Pitt was my father (wearing the same yellow Hawaiian shirt) and we were selecting a vacation camping cabin, and as soon as we were set up he was going to show me how to butcher a cow in time for that night’s barbecue. 

Got spiffed up to attend a concert at Trinity downtown, which actually happens on another night. Had a cocktail at Times. 

SM turns out to be quite serious about poetry, and sends draft after draft. His latest drafts are actually readable. He’s an outstanding musician, so why not poetry? He is infected with the notion– which must come from bad teachers–that poetry enlarges emotion by expressing it in the most difficult and obscure way possible. The harder it is to figure out, the smarter the poet, the deeper the emotion. So many new writers are metaphysicians, thinking it’s needful for us to ransack history and psychology and etymology to help us unravel why that word in that place. Every statement is a knot to untie. For some that may be natural, but not for many. Anyway, he plunges forward, and I try to remain positive in my critiques. Aside from that, he is so beautiful. He sent me a voice recording of one of the poems, and though the poem is incomprehensible, I play it again and again. 

Quincy

 May 29, 2026

Fierce glut of dead-heading among the roses. Weeding, chopping of bamboo. My arms streamed blood from the thorns. 

There’s a hole in the porch big enough for a cat to squirm through. A tiny cat. 

B and her family have moved to Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. From there you can spit into Canada. It’s clearly the remotest, most inconvenient place she could find without expatriation. 

Talked with the man who’s co-directing my little play at the Ruth Gordan Amphitheater in Quincy, MA. His co-director wanted to divide up five characters meant to be played by one person among five different actors, and he counted on me to put the kibosh on that, which I did. 

Voices from Ireland

 May 28, 2026

Back in touch with SM  Joy. He’s moved from Dublin to Ennis to help take care of an ailing father, “Because in Ireland the gay son is the same as the unwed daughter.” He sent me gawdawful poems that I had to think of something kindly to say about. 

Came home to a large ring snake lying on the side porch, looking as much like a stick as he was able.

 May 27, 2026

Alternation of shimmering hot sunlight and thunderstorm, like a tropical forest. 

Drove to Waynesville to renew my acquaintance with the Dimensions bookstore. Had cappuccino next door, bought two books I didn’t need. Immersed myself in the apparently boundless enthusiasm of its owner D (who didn’t remember me at first.). Those environs would depress me in half an hour (as in fact they did) He bubbles and effuses. The strip of street is like a little village, everyone coming to check in on one another. 

Memorial

 May 25, 2026

Memorial Day. The TV plays wonderful old war moves, where we win without being sons-of-bitches 

Sang for K’s memorial service at Warren Wilson. Naomi Nontombi Tutu was the surprise presence. She gave a lazy eulogy based on the ancient, divisive quarrel that arose at her leaving All Souls and lingered far too long. I wish I knew K in her prime. Everybody said she was “ a force of nature.” I remember mostly a COVID mask and her being mad at me for being on the wrong side of the Naomi controversy. 

Retired

 May 24, 2026

Pentecost. Pickerel weed and black calla bloom in containers on the porch. Inches of water on the tops of containers that don’t drain well.

The retired faculty meeting plays in my head. Such a deal of Machievelli-ism to such insignificant ends. W is the particular case. After we were friends, he re-invented me as a bitter enemy, though I was never any such thing. There wasn’t enough substance to him either to fear or dislike very much. Yet of all people in my life (to my knowledge) he spent the most energy vilifying and slandering me. I think he thinks he got away with it that I don’t know, he greets me with such cordiality when we, accidentally, meet. His efforts from time to time crossed over from nuisance into actual evil. I wonder if he faces this truth? It was perplexing, and more flattering than he anticipated, that one would go to such lengths on my behalf, whatever the intention. I survived– it’s possible that everyone is as wise to him as I became and paid no attention. But there he is, a worm squirming into any hole that will hold him, playing for minuscule bits of influence. He has influence of a sort, in the form of concessions made to shut him up. He is also held in amused contempt by almost everyone I know. His friends protect him from knowledge of himself. Now that I’ve written that, I imagine that mine do the same for me. 

“Sunday Baroque” on the radio

Gigantic prose revisions all yesterday, probably continuing today.

 May 23, 2026

Had to get a winter coat to cover me last night, clutching a sweater to my body just now. Playing a new CD of Gregorian chant. Ave Maria. . . .Last night full of dreams and an incredible volume of urine. I don’t remember drinking nearly that much. In one of the dreams I was in some quaint Old World village which had been Yeats’ childhood home. The store selling his memorabilia was closed, so I broke in to have a look, finding incredible treasures in te basement, which seemed to disintegrate as my hand touched them. I was crying out for the shopkeeper to help me as the dream ended. 

Decided to put together another book of poetry. I have enough poems for four solid books, with no presently perceivable principle of selection. A despair of riches.