Don Draper reads Frank O'Hara's 'Meditations in an Emergency' (AMC gave a free episode to Hulu.com from season 2 of Madmen) http://www.hulu.com/watch/28909/mad-men-for-those-who-think-young#s-p1-so-i0

"...

 Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
 (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
 list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with
 which to venture forth.
"...
                                                         -I can't
 even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there's a subway
 handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
 totally _regret_ life.  It is more important to affirm the
 least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
 even they continue to pass.

"...
       My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
 they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
 disloyal, so that no one trusts me.  I am always looking away.
 Or again at something after it has given me up.  It makes me
 restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
 still.  If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
 would stay at home and do something.

                                                                 ..."

There is something naked that I like. What's the emergency, Frank?

mixtape website

http://www.cassettefrommyex.com This website is collecting mixtapes from loves and ex-loves. If you know, you know.

Errors

Selected Recent and New Errors

by Dean Young

My books are full of mistakes

but not the ones Tony's always pointing out

as if correct spelling is what could stop the conveyor belt

the new kid caught his arm in.

Three weeks on the job and he's already six hundred

legal pages, lawyers haggling in an office

with an ignored view of the river

pretending to be asleep, pretending

to have insight into its muddy self.

You think that's a fucked-up, drawn-out metaphor,

try this: if you feel you're writhing like a worm

in a bottle of tequila, you don't know

it's the quickness of its death that reveals

the quality of the product, its proof.

I don't know what I'm talking about either.

Do you think the dictionary ever says to itself

I've got these words that mean completely

different things inside myself

and it's tearing me apart?

My errors are even bigger than that.

You start taking down the walls of your house,

sooner or later it'll collapse

but not before you can walk around

with your eyes closed, rolled backwards

and staring straight into the amygdala's meatlocker

and your own damn self hanging there.

Do that for awhile and it's easier to delight

in snow that lasts about twenty minutes

longer than a life held together

by the twisted silver baling wire

of deception and stealth.

But I ain't confessing nothing.

On mornings when I hope you forget my name,

I walk through the high wet weeds

that don't have names either.

I do not remember the word dew.

I do not remember what I told you

with your ear in my teeth.

Further and further into the weeds.

We have absolutely no proof

god isn't an insect

rubbing her hind legs together to sing.

Or boring into us like a yellow jacket

into a fallen, overripe pear.

Or an assassin bug squatting over us,

shoving a proboscis right through

our breast plate then sipping.

How wonderful our poisons don't kill her.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2008).

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=181719

Having Been Blogged

This guy put our poem on his blog. His blog is beautiful.

http://luna.typepad.com/weblog/2008/05/why-im-the-olde.html.