Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Computer Poem for Mary Ruefle

Picture Mary Ruefle in a forest, alone, her hair nestily
arranged by the birds. Wearing what? A gold wood 
grain and a few green leaves. "I have been in the forest 
for forty years, it is time to send a message to the out-
side world." She takes her knife and carves a computer 
completely out of wood. She raises her hands to type 
a poem. When the poem is finished she "prints it out" 
on a piece of paper still inside a tree. "Now I need 
an email address," she thinks. "It is after all the Modern
Day." Many places in the forest want to be her email
...............address but after much thought she chooses
She sends the tree with the poem inside it to The faraway
New Yorker. "I'ma gonna pooblish this," says Paul Muldoon, 
running a hand thru his bangs! "I'ma gonna set this poem 
to music," he says, and starts strumming a guitar that is 
still inside a tree. Inside the tree feels like it's ROCKING 
OUT and it trembles like a thing in leaf. Sasha Frere-Jones 
reviews the song, he loves it so much and he says it sounds 
"like worms being dropped in the mouth of a sparrow, except 
this is a metaphor, so the worms are notes and the open mouth 
is the public's hunger for excellent music!" Mary Ruefle receives 
news of this in her email inbox. "Thank God for the internet," 
she laughs, and by internet she means a living tree 
...........sucking silver water up itself from the rained-on ground.


sandrasimonds said...


Patricia Lockwood said...


Ivy said...

Awesome and lovely all at once.

Whimsy said...

Ivy's right. And I heart Mary Ruefle.

Patricia Lockwood said...

Awwww thank you my bros


Radish King said...

You, are the best.
This is a crappy post and I mean every word of it even though I am hating you for your brilliance right now this minute I mean. It will pass and I will be in love with again as soon as the pain meds kick in.

beth coyote said...

Wow. I just fell into an alternate reality and now I can't find my way out. Shit. I have to go to work tomorrow. THE BABIES ARE COUNTING ON ME.

Patricia Lockwood said...

My Rebecca you know I would rather have your hatred than the respect of GEORGE WASHINGTON HIMSELF, it is purer and more fine