Belief and Technique for Modern Prose by Jack Kerouac

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house

4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Law, Like Love by WH Auden

Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
To-morrow, yesterday, to-day.

Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.

Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.

Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I've told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.

Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.

Others say, Law is our Fate;
Others say, Law is our State;
Others say, others say
Law is no more,
Law has gone away.

And always the loud angry crowd,
Very angry and very loud,
Law is We,
And always the soft idiot softly Me.

If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the Law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word,
Unlike so many men
I cannot say Law is again,

No more than they can we suppress
The universal wish to guess
Or slip out of our own position
Into an unconcerned condition.
Although I can at least confine
Your vanity and mine
To stating timidly
A timid similarity,
We shall boast anyvay:
Like love I say.

Like love we don't know where or why,
Like love we can't compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.

For the Dead by Adrienne Rich

I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight

Part of Eve's Discussion by Marie Howe

It was like a moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand,
and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still
and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when
a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, 
very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like 
the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say, 
it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only 
all the time.

Locked In By Ingemar Gustafson

All my life I lived in a coconut. 
It was cramped and dark. 
Especially in the morning when I had to shave.
But what pained me most was that I had no way 
to get into touch with the outside world.
If no one out there happened to find the coconut, 
If no one cracked it, then I was doomed 
to live all my life in the nut, and maybe even die there. 
I died in the coconut.
A couple of years later they found the coconut, 
cracked it, and found me shrunk and crumpled inside. 
“What an accident!” 
“If only we had found it earlier...”
“Then maybe we could have saved him.”
“Maybe there are more of them locked in like that.”
“Whom we might be able to save,”
they said, and started knocking to pieces every coconut 
within reach. 
No use! Meaningless! A waste of time! 
A person who chooses to live in a coconut! 
Such a nut is one in a million! 
But I have a brother-in-law who 
lives in an 
acorn.

The Wife of Jesus Speaks by Mary Karr

Ours was the first inch of time.
The word passion hadn't yet been coined,
and I'd not yet watched my beloved

laid out to butchery and worshipped as a virgin, son
of a virgin even. This was before the Roman
bastards hammered his arms wide

as for some permanent embrace,
before the apostles paid me to lie,
he never shuddered to death in my arms, I never

feasted on his flesh that now feeds
any open mouth, and inside me he never released
with a shudder the starry firmaments

and enough unborn creatures to fill an ark
all in salty milk I nursed on.
His God gave us no child

and even the books of salvation have not seen fit
to save me. Not the first woman
a great man denied knowing,

I said no back, for eternity.
With a rope slung over a tree branch,
I put my face inside a zero,

and with a single step clicked off
his beloved world's racket. Now my ghost head bends
sharp to one side, as if in permanent awe.

When he came down to hell and held out
that pale hand for rescue, I turned my back
(the snapped vertebra like a smashed pearl).

So my soul went unharrowed. 
In these rosy caverns, you worship
what you want. I have chosen the time

in time's initial measure, history's 
virgin parchment, when with his hard
stalk of flesh rocking inside me, I was unwrit.

Before me, I hold no other god.

Anyway by Richard Siken

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised

I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always

there—day moon, but it's still there; behind the clouds but

it's still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice

in a highball glass. The moon? It's free, it doesn't

cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention 

to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results.

I'd live on the moon probably except I think I'd miss

the moonlight, landscaping craters with clay roses in earthshine

and a reasonable excuse to avoid visiting hours

at the mental hospital. In space, no one can hear you

lying to your mom: "Can't make it, Mom. It's

a really long schlep." The coffee's weak and the coffee cake's

imaginary. You're not missing anything. Inside: a day room

and a day pass. Outside: a gazebo under a jackfruit tree.

The other inside: a deeper understanding of the burden

and its domestic infrastructure. Make yourself white.

Make yourself snow but the black bears trample

your landscape like little black dots that show up on x-rays.

It is not enough to be a landscape. One must also become

the path through the landscape, which is creepy. Truly.

The sun melts the snow, the bears wander off, the leaves

tremble like all my sad friends. I can still see his hand.

Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead. Buried

underground, its light was too much to bear. How did it

get there? Greed. The brothers who owned it had it

buried with them. Later, St. Peter hung it in a tree.

The dead went back to bed, allegedly. One wonders why

a story like this exists. Who wrote it and to what end?

An ingenious solution: trees. Cashew, avocado, fig,

olive. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb

higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our

overcoats, the snow falling down. Little black dots.

Some dream of tall things—trees, ladders, a rope trick.

My dreams are filled with bricks, or things in the shape

of bricks. Rectangles in the hot sun. A cow, a car,

a carton of cigarettes. Even my imagination sleeps

when I sleep and why not rest? Why crash the party

on the astral plane? You'll just be too tired to go 

to the real party later. Have you ever eaten

Swedish meatballs at a dream party? They taste like

your blanket, because they are your blanket.

My imagination wants breakfast burritos. It refuses

to punch the clock until then. I could eat six but then

I'd need a nap. A breakfast that puts you back to sleep

is useless. Dear bears, we must not hibernate!

The bathroom tile is always wet and slippery and the door

from sleeping to waking always sticks and squeeks

but I have arrived, triumphant, with corporate coffee!

Tawnya has written our names on the paper cups

in her immaculate cursive. Her eyes are dead

and lusterless but her heart is in the right place, I guess.

Somewhere deep in her chest, I guess.

We take our hats off and get down

to business. "You got plans tonight, Dick?"

"Eight dollar spaghetti dinner and all you can sing

karaoke at the Best Western. Gonna school

Pace and Killian in the finer points of falsetto.
"
Not even one hour later: smoke break

in the breezeway by the handicapped bathroom.

Why is it we believe we only have one soul?

Because it's easier to set the table for one. And you can

sing your dinner tune to yourself while you eat over the sink.

The throat of the sink: silent. The throat of the argument:

more silverware, a tablecloth, gratitude, more souls.

A kid under a tablecloth isnists he's a ghost. A table

underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us,

only pretending to be invisible. Or worse:

dressed for work and not in the mood for, you know,

how it all plays out, always the same ways, boring times infinity.

"When I grow up I'm going to be a truck,"

says the kid underneath the tablecloth, and that's one way

to deflect the weight of the inevitable, to insist on possibility

in the face of grownups and the pumace of their compromises.

The trees die standing. My Spanish teacher told me this.

I had conjugated the verbs beforehand and taped them

to the bottom of my sneaker. Cheater, yes. Also uninvested

in the outcome. She could tell. Nothing to be done about it.

Verbs of being and verbs of action. We, neither

of us, were doing much anyway at the time and the room was

too hot. I think she meant unroot, which is a good thing to mean

but a difficult thing to hear when you're living under someone

else's roof. I climbed trees then, too. Then climbed back down.

How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped

in the past? I suppose that's a bigger question than I expected.

"Hey Dick, tell ‘em about that one time when we made out.

That was a good time." Yes, it was. And yet

should we really spend our velocities on backwards motion?

Yes. Any motion, every motion. It's spring, green, take off

your coat, pull down your cap, roll up your sleeves, we're

hunting, we're arrows, we're stag in a meadow, in a frenzy.

"Like I said, Dick. That was a good time."

Soul 1: Was it a good time?

Soul 2: I had fun. You seemed to like it.

Soul 3: He's no Neil Armstrong.

Soul 2: Few are.

Neil Armstrong: Hush.

"He was such a colicky baby. Always fussing and crying.

As if he didn't want to be here at all. Right, Dicky?
"
No, mom. I don't remember. And you're not supposed to be

in this part of the poem. You come back later, near the end,

with the ghost and the hand and the moon, after dark, after

the gimlets. "Sweetie, you asked for prompts and it's getting dark

on the East Coast. Tick tock. And don't type drunk.
"
Dear East Coast, I'm sorry it's getting dark. It must be problematic,

living in the future, always a few steps ahead, knowing

things you shouldn't say, since they haven't happened

to the rest of us yet. And Poland? I don't dare wonder

what you know about tomorrow. "Your grandma was from Poland.
"
I know, mom. And grandpa was handsome and you

were the smart one and the pretty one. "Still am. Poor Barbara.

You know, Dicky, I've been out of the hospital for a while now.

Remember how you promised you wouldn't write about me

while I was alive, Dicky? Remember? So if you're

writing about me that must mean something, yes?"

You're not sticking around for the end, then. "No, you're

doing fine, Squish. And yes, I miss you, too."

We cannot tarry here. We must march, we must bear the brunt.

Smoke break: in the alley by the oleanders, the pink ones.

Dear East Coast, it is getting dark here too now. Suddenly.

"It's getting late, Little Moon. Sing them the song."

It's not that late, Mr. Kitten.

"You are my moon, Little Moon. And it's late enough.

So climb down out of the tree."

Is it safe? "Safe enough." Are you dead as well?

Soul 1: Sing.

Soul 2: Sing.

Soul 3: Sing.

Stag In The Meadow: Sing.

The Black Bears: Sing.

Kid Under The Tablecloth: Sing.

I've been singing all day.

"Yes, you've been singing all day. And no, I'm not dead, not

everyone is dead, Little Moon. But the big moon needs the tree."

There is a ghost at the end of the song.

"Yes, there is. And you see his hand, and then you see the moon."

Am I the ghost at the end of the song?

"No, you are the way we bounce the light to see the ghost."

He was looking at the moon by I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised I saw

his hand at all. Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead.

One wonders why a story like this exists. Who wrote it

and to what end? Sure, everyone wants the same things—

to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help?

Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once,

in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing.

I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.

The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself.

Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher.

We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats,

the snow falling down.

Voter Purging

Many Texans Bereaved Over 'Dead' Voter Purge
Now this was a pretty funny way of looking at what is a very frightening prospect- our ability to vote for our candidate of choice, our right as American citizens, is being threatened in an Orwellian fashion. Although, I am not in a racial minority and  that, unfortunately, seems to be the focus of these bills (as evidenced by this article). It's scary that one side has found away to take away votes from the other side- I'm reminded of that season of American Idol (the only one I watched) where Ruben Studdard fans spammed the phone lines so that Clay Aiken votes couldn't get in. Well, in the end the loser ended up in Spamalot and...does anyone know where Ruben Studdard is?
-Robin

Interesting perspective from NPR

Presidential Debates Can Be Great Theater, But How Much Do They Matter?
I agree that debates tend to not make that great a difference on people's perspectives of the candidates. Generally by the time the big debate comes around, voters have already decided whom they are voting for and it would take a giant scandal or something comparable to change their minds. That doesn't mean people won't watch- they're still fascinating spectacles and, when done right, can be very enlightening.

-Robin