Blog
so, i’m slowly redoing, as you can see.
with the move, the new job, the next new job (i miss you bovis but i love arch), the t.l.s., things have just been sort of out of the webtext.
as such, pardon the service disruption and continue forward.
corndogg brought up this:
Poem:"Because You Left Me A Handful of Daffodils" by Max Garland from The Postal Confessions. © University of Massachusetts Press. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Because You Left Me A Handful of Daffodils
I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen
of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.
A very thin, shy girl, almost
as tall as Audrey Hepburn,
but blond.
She wore a dress based upon the principle
of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,
inflated bodice, profusion
of frills along the shoulder blades
and hemline.
A dress based upon the principle of girl
as flower; everything unfolding, spilling
outward and downward: ribbon, stole,
corsage, sash.
It was the only thing I was ever
Elected. A very short king.
I wore a bow tie, and felt
Like a third-grader.
Even the scent of daffodils you left
reminds me. It was a spring night.
And escorting her down the runway
was a losing battle, trying to march
down among the full, thick folds
of crinoline, into the barrage of her
father's flashbulbs, wading
the backwash of her mother's
perfume: scared, smiling,
tiny, down at the end
of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,
where I was king.
Because You Left Me A Handful of Daffodils
I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen
of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.
A very thin, shy girl, almost
as tall as Audrey Hepburn,
but blond.
She wore a dress based upon the principle
of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,
inflated bodice, profusion
of frills along the shoulder blades
and hemline.
A dress based upon the principle of girl
as flower; everything unfolding, spilling
outward and downward: ribbon, stole,
corsage, sash.
It was the only thing I was ever
Elected. A very short king.
I wore a bow tie, and felt
Like a third-grader.
Even the scent of daffodils you left
reminds me. It was a spring night.
And escorting her down the runway
was a losing battle, trying to march
down among the full, thick folds
of crinoline, into the barrage of her
father's flashbulbs, wading
the backwash of her mother's
perfume: scared, smiling,
tiny, down at the end
of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,
where I was king.
quite perfect, really.
the swing is up. check for apt pics in the photo section.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
on the theory of catch and release
