Monday, January 29, 2007

Cate Blanchett is the most talented actress in existence (besides Meryl Streep). It doesn't hurt that she's so incredibly beautiful.

Jodie Foster is up there too. Diane Keaton is third or fourth and Scarlett Johansson would make the list. Angela Bassett would be on the list. Hmmm...can't think of anyone else right now. I've been thinking about all this because the Oscars are coming up.

Aren't very many male actors that are any good ... the best have left us. Brando, Robert Mitchum, Jack Nicholson is Mr. Hollywood but he's been laying low I guess. What has he done since "About Schmidt" ... I know he's in "The Departed," still haven't seen it. Benicio Del Toro is uberrr cool. John Malkovich (Malkovich Malkovich) ... the effervescent Mr. Depp.

Exit Thief

“Like a thief in the night, Truffaut watched ‘his first two hundred films on the sly’ by slipping into the theatre without paying through the washroom window or the emergency exit.”


become a detective in
your own life
digest the sky

into darkness
and silence the world
waits for us

the curtains part
to reveal the most horrific
object: ourselves

we’ve never met
do I know you, I see, uh huh
well then, ok thanks

an only mystic sunset
orphan of speech,
boy on a beach

cinema is a dwarf
smoking a huge cigar who

lends just enough
knife-edge ambiguity,
who needs realism

thief of exits, my
tears are all yours
said the waves

inhale night
exhale light
supple as a lung

carpet has a sound
we approach the
screen of dreams

the animal flickers and
awakens, do we watch
it or vice versa.


There was a sun that was not a sun and inbetween there was a sun that resembled not a sun but an infinity of other suns of infinite light and the light cast from the infinite light of that sun that was not a sun cast a light of infinite brightness that seemed an incomparable darkness because the light from this particular sun resembled no sun ever before seen. It was orange and red and sometimes purple this sun that was not really a sun and inbetween that sun the infinity of infinite suns of infinite light cast a light of infinite brightness that seemed so blinding that the people looked up at the sun that was not a sun and in the blinding light of that briliance everyone burned with a bright understanding that was not like any understanding ever before experienced because it was not even an understanding but a feeling and a warmth.

But Still We Have to Pay Taxes

In the Old Norse
tale about the candle wax
and fragrent eyes
you may have
noticed that lemurs
stacked whales in
the cold shout of
Swedenic winters
and frozen sighs
limned the dingle starry
as if you were
paper and upon your
face a poem writ
such that goblets
filled with celestial
spit descended
angelically from
gypsy skies.

Of Foreign Coins

Twice in the final hour a French
horn will crow. Examine the bark
of trees. At a ceremony to celebrate
oblivion, a peal of thunder
was birthed into meaning.

Two eagles descended, lapping
the horse that won the race of existence.

A loud voice: On the final day
of snow, flutes and whistles slowly
circle weeping caballeros.

To sublet summer
there are twelve silences
and two lambs.

A hand claps the thirteenth
silence, as if a shell upon a liquescent beach.

Planted in a field against a shadow,
a priest spun webbed echoes the size of
Easter. A new constellation, itself backward,
now drips upon the pavement
electronic obsidian.