rough
If any Wfielders want to fulfill their DJ dreams deferred, send me an email or comment or come to the Women's Studies / V-Day meeting tomorrow after school for decorating madness (T. Pignoli's room). We want to play songs between classes on Monday to get people hyped, so volunteer if there is a time when you can stand in the main office and push one lousy button (but it's so powerful!). Besides, it's well-known that Women's Studies on V-Day is just about the funkiest club in the school. Look, you can spread the love with Ani Difranco, Aretha Franklin, Carla Bruni, Le Tigre, Janis Joplin, Blondie, Tori Amos, Fiona Apple and Rilo Kiley NO JOKE COULD MONDAY GET ANY BETTER?? It's the women's rights / Valentine's Day Strut of Champions! Help us out, folks, even if you're not in the club. And oh hell yes, does this mean You.
PSA now over. Turn to recent:
The Gates, Central Park 2005
Central Park February was warm
even before Christo put orange welcome
mats on orange beams and let jazz piano
litter this city like Monk in murky weather.
Still it can’t make me sweat as much
as the school gymnasium,
where badminton nets flow on artificial gusts,
their forms stretched wall to wall
and fastened there with metal rings.
There I heard a boy speak in Spanish
as he waltzed with his floating racket,
and the teacher told him
he was in America
and we speak English here.
They are so concrete,
the paths we pour onto muddy surfaces:
hard lines smothering the earth
along Central Park West.
They make right angles to doors
the wind can’t budge
here in a place of know-how
where we speak White to Africa
where February yawns to girls
open legs but closed mouths,
where acts of exclusion somehow leaked
the red-gold luck of Asia.
Straight and narrow and fenced
must leak, I think, eventually.
Christo built on top of concrete
and so understood impermanence,
the grandness of fluidity,
of airy flux.
Thank you, Christo
for your choice of orange
to line the walks of this grey month.
Like the horse-trot in blinders I need it so.
The brilliance of the saffron fabric
will light-touch on harbor air,
make an arbor without roof or sides.
PSA now over. Turn to recent:
The Gates, Central Park 2005
Central Park February was warm
even before Christo put orange welcome
mats on orange beams and let jazz piano
litter this city like Monk in murky weather.
Still it can’t make me sweat as much
as the school gymnasium,
where badminton nets flow on artificial gusts,
their forms stretched wall to wall
and fastened there with metal rings.
There I heard a boy speak in Spanish
as he waltzed with his floating racket,
and the teacher told him
he was in America
and we speak English here.
They are so concrete,
the paths we pour onto muddy surfaces:
hard lines smothering the earth
along Central Park West.
They make right angles to doors
the wind can’t budge
here in a place of know-how
where we speak White to Africa
where February yawns to girls
open legs but closed mouths,
where acts of exclusion somehow leaked
the red-gold luck of Asia.
Straight and narrow and fenced
must leak, I think, eventually.
Christo built on top of concrete
and so understood impermanence,
the grandness of fluidity,
of airy flux.
Thank you, Christo
for your choice of orange
to line the walks of this grey month.
Like the horse-trot in blinders I need it so.
The brilliance of the saffron fabric
will light-touch on harbor air,
make an arbor without roof or sides.