memory cards [the happiness project] is a sequence of prose poems that meditate on what the Australian poet, Pam Brown, has called "the epistemology of everyday life" (email to author). The publisher is twisted spoon press in Prague, Czech Republic and x-poezie in New York City.
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We can't have senators with pigtails; they're communists. I realize how much history is mysterious, but I'd like to know what I can. A prime factor is maternal age. You're the youngest old lady I know, but the mechanism tells no lies. Lies are what her ex told the court that took her son away. It comes in waves. It is in the nature of waves to fold. They may be seed, or they may be rust. We hope the MRI reveals a septum; that can be fixed. Oh, the words are all wrong. He asked a Scottish woman if her dog was male or female; neither one, she answered, it's been improved! If they ask you if you want a fix, say no, my mother said. If you're in a fix, now that's a metaphor that's hard to parse. Parsimony. Persimmon. An alphabet is a neighborhood, a lexical suburb; there are no natural relations (realtors) here, just the artifice of letters. Some wrote Dear John. Baudelaire advertising for the SNCF, correspondances a Toulouse. The old woman knew I'd get off at Hiroshima. I looked on the A-bomb dome as a businessman watched me, not unkind. Across the street, I bought a ticket to see the Carp play the Nomiuri Giants. The field was littered with balloons at the top of the 7th.
August 18, 1999
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