Sunday, July 25, 2010

A Poem

I'm taking a break from my normal postmodern posting duties to offer you gentle readers a poem I've written. It's composed entirely of sentences/sentence fragments from the July 26th issue of The New Yorker. Enjoy:

White People
a poem in three parts by Rebekah

"See? No Socialists."

There's a dream architect,
Ariadne (Ellen Page),
who can create convincing interior worlds.
Christopher Nolan is a literal-minded man
-the brioches fly through the air in taunting slow motion.
Maltese hunters are in the weak position of wanting something:
A silhouetted snake intrudes.
My untutored pleasure directs me
To the whipsaws of "View of Notre Dame" (1914).
Spring was always the main hunting season in Malta;
I said, "You crazy. Someday I'll be world champion."
Blagojevich grew up in a white ethnic neighborhood
on Chicago's Northwest Side.

Matisse's Big Adventure.

Las Vegas during fight week provides
a pretty good simulation of an alternate America,
one where boxing is still king.
After meeting with Republican senators,
he made a characteristic move -
images of "extreme" nature
(waterfalls, mountaintops)
play on monitors.
Soon they're hauling around a male stiff
and a female hostage
and plotting to rip off a sexually demented desert miser (Stu Lancaster).
The folk-rock group Swell Season
is devoted to postwar and contemporary prints
It's down in McCain's Arizona.
Bloomberg calls the national immigration policy
"national suicide."

The Dodd-Frank bill is a most useful beginning.

A new generation of journalists
Has taken over the press box.
I know a guy
who knew a guy
who was the senior editor of the Village Voice.
I asked Orsi if he favored hunting
every bird species to the maximum compatible with sustaining existing numbers.
Harvey Pekar.
The blue of the Mediterranean isn't pretty to me anymore.
As city kids send home lanyards from summer camp,
one subset is polishing tap shoes up in the Catskills.
It was Monday afternoon, and Mosley was in his garage,
the only drug around is good old American PCP.
Blagojevich spent an inordinate amount of time being fitted for suits.
Some of the veteran dredgemen grumbled that their outfit lacked a houseboat.
"I'm doing a good job. So fuck all of you."

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