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Everything Must Go
Posted 8:22 AM, Mar 22, 2006 |
The time has come for me to abandon the snowy upper Midwest and move to California. My plan is to become an actor.
Not really. At least about the actor part. But I am moving to California, and to save on moving costs, headaches, etc., everything must go! The pieces below are all for sale. They run the gamut from being suitable for Josh Hartnett’s house on the lake to your first college apartment.
Unfortunately, I can’t move any of the items for you — you’ll have to pick everything up.
Also, some items are not for immediate sale; I’m not moving until mid-May, so selling, say, my bed now wouldn’t be the best option. Every item has a date listed with it of approximately when I’m willing to part with the item. Feel free to look at everything now, though.
Unless noted, everything is in excellent condition (no rips, burns, stains, etc.)
Without further ado, then.
For rental:
- One 1-bedroom apartment, large, quiet neighborhood, near 169 and Cedar Lake Road. Available May 10th or so, through the end of September, or longer. $641/month. With underground parking. No complaints in 1.5 years (by me about the apartment, and by my neighbors about me).
For sale:
- Vaccum - available May 8 - works great, like new - $30
- Television antenna - retails for $30 - available now - $10
- Cheap wine rack - black - available now - $5
- Working ADC LT60 linear tracking automatic turntable. - needs new needle - available now - $20
- Entertainment Center - available now - 49”W x 52”H - accomodates 27” television - $50
- Narrow black mirror - available now - $15
- Wooden Shelving Unit - available now - $10
- 2 end tables - available now - 17.5” square - $10 total
- Bookcase/nightstand - available now - dimensions on request - one adjustable shelf - $10
- Small bookshelf - available now - has minor damage to the top facing - 22”W x 35”H - $10
If you’re interested in any of the items, please email me.
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Recitation
Posted 11:10 AM, Mar 10, 2006 |
you seem to think
you can always say the right thing
in the moments after you’ve made
me cry. my father
writes alimony checks
without looking away from
sitcoms. my uncle does community
service as if it were his real
job, a smile marked on his face
like ghost images on a television,
residue of static imprints.
when you think
you are saying the right thing,
i can see in your eyes that you
are imagining a spelling bee,
a trivia contest,
the rote recitation of well-written lines.
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Over My Shoulder
Posted 10:28 AM, Mar 10, 2006 |
you are reading over my shoulder,
watching this poem develop.
the pen quivers as if i
am developing a polaroid,
urging it to a crisp finish.
your eyes follow my hand
as the pen moves faster, as
the polaroid develops
into a series of photographs,
leaving gaps for you. you read
as if filming a street scene.
in the breaking light, a shiny
taxi speeds past a woman
who is exiting a shoe store,
a red scarf wrapped loosely
around her neck. the scarf reminds her
of an inelastic sock, drooping
into a ragged ellipse, a pool of fabric
around her ankle like moonlight
collecting in standing water.
a man leans against the wall,
his hat upturned in his hand. as
he coughs, the woman
drops change
into his hat. he finishes
coughing and puts his hat on.
you, reader, director,
can see that he didn’t know
there was silver and copper in his hat,
and you zoom in, framing the scene
of the man taking off his hat again. his face:
he eyes the change, smiles, and tucks
the coins into his pocket,
and makes his way down
the sidewalk. his face is the joy
of a quiet man
being approached
on the street to co-star
in a motion picture
of a young woman reading
a poem over my shoulder.
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