Writing here is like shouting into the dark to hear your own voice echo, and I kind of like that. No comments except for the spammers telling me "Great Blog! You should hear what everyone's talking about with SuperDiscountHappyMortgage!"

I am in the process of working out a visual piece for an exhibit that begins in less than a month. I will be installing the show in two weeks, in fact and nothing is done. It's all still in process. All three pieces.

The first piece that I am determined to finish first before moving on to the next one is a journal. I rewrote excerpts of ten years worth of journal entries and last night I started typing journalled dream fragments over the pages to add another layer. Now I have no idea how I will bind this for display. I did a little brainstorming in my current journal and came up with some ideas, and today I'll start to try to work some of them out. Until then, bleah. I feel a little overwhelmed by this exhibit, which has crept up on me. I did the usual procrastination that I am famous for - it's not as if I didn't have fair warning. I've known for about nine months.

My mother tells God to clean up his science project,
wash his hands and come downstairs right away.
He worries about whether his creatures will live
with the Tupperware lid shut and just enough water
to keep the moss damp. “All of your little plants
and sea monkeys can wait. Dinner is ready.”

Wednesday night has crept up on us, no one is ready
for meatloaf and canned peas. “Stop making a project
out of your mashed potatoes!” Mom yells. God plants
a ring of peas around the mountain. Gravy flows away
like the Hudson. Dad reads the papers and swigs water
from a tumbler with Underdog on it. We live

in a rowhome in the Bronx. All of God’s live
experiments have won him certificates, each ready
for their place on the fridge. There was only one with water
that spilled on the way to P.S. 4. My project
was the standard paper mache volcano, a way
to show how much I didn’t give a shit about plants

or how they react to music. All of the plants
in the garden outside the school are alive
because of Mrs. Nelson, but while she was away
God spread manure and the crop doubled. Ready
for his praise, Mrs. Nelson began to project
a lashing at God that only dogs could hear. The water

fountains raised question marks. We drank the water
and grew in spite of everything. God’s plants
wilted until Mrs. Nelson caved. Her project
became how to exalt God and advance him to 4th grade, to live
out her days in Room 409 in verdant bliss. I’m ready
to be someone else’s sister, or at least run away

and hide. Maybe a Fresh Air Fund summer – a way
to get close to nature without the parted water
of my brother. It’s not just me who’s ready.
A few of us have formed a club where each plants
a doubt under the soil, watches hours of live
CNN footage. It’s empty, but it’s my little project.

I will find a way for all those exotic plants
to soak up the water and not be a miracle that’s alive
in our attic. God readies for his close-up, tests his project.

- JHK 6/05

For the Kids in Halstead

I’m gonna give it to you straight –
I don’t know what a Speidie is
but the word recalls the beach –
middle aged men in swimwear
intended for youth. It’s chicken?
Go figure.

Whatever. I always misread
the signs – divorce in the cardiac
surgeon’s slogan, Capital One
wants to see my baby’s photos.

I don’t think I’m average
and I don’t think you are either
so I guess that means that we’ll all
go to Tahiti someday –
let our pale skin freckle and burn,
let the tropics weep sweetness
into our blood. They’re sure
to recognize us, how you say hurr
and thurr, how I say moodle.
Bring your Speidies.
I’ll bring the bangers and mash.
It’ll be like the first Thanksgiving –
We’ll have it our way.

- JHK 11/3/04

Porn Editor

A summer college job
I was closest to legal age
to be handed the key
and the black Marvy marker.
Each morning I blacked out
breasts and penises
on the backs of new titles
like “Coming in America,”
and “When Harry Met Harry.”
Each bit and part excised
blackbox style, like a “don’t”
in a fashion magazine. The room
was in the back of the store,
a cliché of itself – walls
painted pink, austere white
carpet. A valentine or cervix
I emerged from daily, wiser.

- JHK 11/2/04

Euphoria

Let's bash out praise –
pass the pots and pans,
that empty coffee can.
Let's shimmy in the rain
until the marrow is drenched.
Your first smile, word,
each marked with a sticker
on a cheery calendar I shelved
after your first year. Let’s light
a hundred candles, sing along
to concertos for those days
that don’t have stickers –
the first shadow you noticed
eleven years ago, the one
you puppet on the wall,
who knows you best.

- JHK 11/1/04

Sunday, October 31, 2004

Thirty Fifth Halloween

Hooley gooley
thunder thigh,
eating Snickers -
moon is high.
We’ll have ‘weeners
by and by –
pass out sweets
they multiply.
Shut the lights out,
edify!
Wrappers fall,
I’m satisfied.
Hooley gooley
thunder thigh.

- JHK 10/31/04

Stunner

The cardinal is back, but there is no seed
in the feeder. He sits on the patio furniture
that wilts in the damp of October.
His red coat with tails makes the whole
backyard scene improper – an Englishman
at cowpie bingo.

- JHK 10/30/04