The Nightjar

While visiting Mark Young’s blog, Gamma Ways, I noticed a link to my old poetry blog, The Nightjar, produced from 2003 to 2006. I haven’t looked at this for years. Reading it now is kind of like sifting through an archaeological dig. Some poems I remember, others I don’t recognize as something I had written — I could be reading the work of a completely different person. I’m jealous of a few of the poems; they seem to have been written under some kind of scorching pressure — out of necessity. Just as strange is going through the links in the sidebar, most (though not all) seem defunct; the bloggers have moved on to something else, and if the link isn’t just gone, then it leads to a blog that’s in suspended animation — deserted at some point, but still containing all its furniture, the last domestic utterances hanging in the still air. Looking at them, though, I get all nostalgic. Glad to see Shanna Compton still around, and quirky Topher’s Tunes Times. Somehow I knew that Cassandra Pages would still be steadily posting. Actually a number of people in the sidebar are still blogging, but on newer sites.

In any case, I’m thankful the Nightjar still exists (thanks, Mark, for letting it sit in your sidebar). I’m going to download the poems to a file before internet rot dissolves them.


Well I want to write something, but not much to say. Didn’t get much sleep last night, and now I’m perversely staying up late even though tired.

The whole day has been like this. Just sort of doggedly going through the motions. Then watching the film, John Wick, which was — well it was what it was. Sort of a Russian Scarface of the 21st century, and even the director didn’t take that seriously. Gotta say, Michael Nyqvist (Girl w/the Dragon Tattoo) makes a fantastic, complex, and funny villain. Keanu Reeves’ bland acting but well-choreographed violent revenge killing throughout; though there was one moment when he broke through his mask and made me really believe he was pissed.

But, enough, enough. And so to bed…

Maybe a project…

One of the poetry mss. projects I’m just thinking about is a book possibly titled Nature/Not Nature. Or maybe just Nature. Speaking of which, as someone who leaves (lives! But thinking of leaving) in the country around a lot of animals, I find this video from Boston Dynamics very disturbing and creepy, not the least because, despite myself, I feel some sympathy for the damned things:

Call for Submissions

The Face_photo by JVengua

Nearing the end of the call for submissions period on Deadline for “Killing Ground” is February 15; that’s right, the day AFTER the day of love. Would like to see more experimental art, vispo, and also non-fiction–experimental or otherwise, and could also include book or art reviews. Could that mean you? Guidelines are HERE. And for those of you who just can’t get around that “Killing Ground” theme, the issue after that will be open-themed, i.e. anything goes.

Still sending out Corporeal and Diaryo in search of publishers. Have decided not to write poems for online public consumption (well, maybe on rare occasion), so am doing all my writing now on a private blog, which functions nicely as my file cabinet. Working on a book project and a chapbook. I have a blog on Local Nomad, which mostly pertains to Local-Nomadish mag concerns. Here, I’m just writing about stuff. Like, say, playing my uke, or moving out of my house. I’ve been looking for a new place in Monterey. Oh, Monterey — conservative, snooty, food-obsessed, wonky, and beautiful Monterey.

I’m in a dangerous “redecorating” (online) mode. I’m also very irritated with both the old and new #Wordpress editing templates.


It’s not after all that “history” is some kind of mission
but that it scatters sensual objects on the pages of

nostalgia, a flare of spores around the negative of a tiny
black hole. Hearst’s wife had an affair with Chaplin. She/

he had different ideas from his host. His shoes were too
large for his small feet. He could not tread lightly. Or

like Melville, he was too focused on capital, caught up,
delivered like dental floss through a cog and force-fed:

“bring me the fat in California.”* It was a funny scene
then, but not so funny now. I call it news but others call it

“reportage,” a phosphorescent language spoken by a type of
shelf fungi. A story about fish and weather is deposited

on the shore among small sinkers, hooks, and graying corals.

*Killer Shrews. Enemy Records
EMY 141-1, 1993


December 16, 1933, Charlie Chaplin goes to work at Keystone
studios,* becomes a tramp we see on film, this modern life

a turkey vulture circles overhead, lands atop a telephone pole
weather turns dark; phospor green font, heavy clouds, rain

Blewits. A series of photographs held in FB storage, be a
star every 15 minutes. We discussed paragraph structure

cookie-cutter effect. Paragraphs are stanzas are stops that
need transitions between weather. Full stop, an archaism for

the end of communique. What was past is past, is edited
clipped. Glows through skin, one can see right through


* From This Week in California History