nablopomo day 13: triumph of the hatrabbit!

Dave got another poem published! Click, click and see.

Juked is the journal.
Good Intentions Snap Like Yesterday's Breadstick is the poem.

Dave fact of the day: He loves the band this dude loves.


Quoth the mutt:
Ace Frehley rulz!

I don't usually provide Dave facts of the day. This is a special offer.

it's vewy possible

A poem for you, by Jim Hall. Dave showed this to me. I can't get enough of it.

Maybe Dats Your Pwoblem Too

All my pwoblems
who knows, maybe evwybody's pwoblems
is due to da fact, due to da awful twuth
dat I am SPIDERMAN.

I know, I know. All da dumb jokes:
No flies on you, ha ha,
and da ones about what do I do wit all
doze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat's funny yeah.
But you twy being
SPIDERMAN for a month of two. Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom da
Gubbener askin you to twap some booglar who's
only twying to wip off color TV sets.
Now, what do I cawre about TV sets?
But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,
wit da sucker cups on da fingers,
and get my wopes and wittle bundle of
equipment and den I go flying like cwazy
acwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.

'Till der he is. Some poor dumb color TV slob
and I fall on him and we westle a widdle
until I get him all woped. So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMAN
der's sometin big going to happen to you.
Well, I tell you what. It don't happen dat way.
Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go.
Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again,
like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twy
sometim excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to make
my heart beat at a difwent wate.
But den you just can't quit being sometin like
SPIDERMAN.
You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can't even
buin my suit. It won't buin. It's fwame wesistent.
So maybe dat's youwr pwoblem too, who knows.
Maybe dat's da whole pwoblem wif evwytin.
Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent.
Who knows?

un, deux, trois

1. Dave is taking a poetry class, and one of his textbooks is Jane Hirshfield's book Nine Gates. One of my favorite poems is in there - a Japanese poem by Izumi Shikibu that Jane Hirshfield translated. It's not her translation that I love, but the raw translation from the Japanese that she includes. First here's her translation:

Why did you vanish
into empty sky?
Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.

And here's the raw translation:

why you empty sky in disappear did (?)
Frail snow even ! when falling falling world in

The poem is about Izumi Shikibu's daughter, and the snow that fell around the time of her death and melted away. The raw translation feels so much more accurate and helpless.

2. I baked this bread here, from a recipe I got from the New York Times. Make it. You can't screw it up. It is invincible. And it is un-be-fu-lie-cking-vably delicious.



3. And this guy. I made this guy. I can give you no recipe. He is unrepeatable. Also, if you see him around, please don't give him yogurt. The results are heartwrenching. We attempted this yesterday for the first time, and later that night he screamed and screamed in my arms. I said to Dave about it today, "My heart was in my chest." Wait............