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A biographical look at the sometimes
brutal seediness of D.C.; The bums by the river, under
the bridge & waning. Streetlights & fog. Its murderers &
lovers, nights & dreams. The river and of course (the
bridge.
Descriptively divine, Rumble
shows us everything.. as in “15.may.2000” where he is
“fucking a woman the color of strawberries in ice/in an
empty lot at the west end of Georgetown” ~ “Awake & it’s
5 a.m. & .. We watch the city breath in/the yellow
shining fog.”
There is a love for this city, a kinky, undiluted and
undaunted love for its every nuance & nuisance. A visual
appreciation for its blighted and bloated offerings.
“16.may.2000/ (aerial view” he shares that “a river
winds/through a pancake middle/state like audio tape/off
the reel” and you can see it, dark and murky. A tossed
tire on its bank, condoms & beer bottles, maybe a
corpse.
Then, with a slight departure, he gives us gentle
humor in the following poem;
15.january.2001
somewhere
She stepped in the crook of
her mother’s knee
the hip, the shoulder, then flew
(I’m not explaining this right
Listen,
this is beautiful:
the body is a too;,
a wedge, scythe, ladder, brick, chair,
rope, shed, book, wheel, lathe, pen
--crook? the thief of her knee?
the cutpurse, skulldugger
or petty larcenist of her knee?
Minimus: two I’s, no pee
(hard life
A peek into his past is offered
with “1.april.2001” as a young boy, he is watching night
TV. Old enough to be left alone, yet young enough to be
carried off to bed when his parents come home. A tasting
of angst against them that falls wayside carried off “in
the midst of their scents their wool/& velvet lost/in
their there-” and two more favorites, in entirety;
7.november.2002
You are here
is always true
except in love.
It’s an almost common thread, Jenny.. The love lost.
The love remained. Exemplified in the perfectly concise;
17.june.2000
write what’s gone
These poems evoke an appreciation for the city
lives. They see so much more, they feel so much harder,
they live so damned poetically.
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