_Cartographer_ edit #1

While my mom watches the MSNBC tribute to Michael Jackson in the background, I'm going to update a bit bout my progress on Cartographer.



I had two epigraphs. I cut one. I believe this one standing alone will mean more. I then proceeded to read each poem out loud in the coffeeshop, listening for wording and phrasing. Trying to capture line-breaks in the right places as well as punctuation.



Here's the breakdown of the manuscript so far. There are four sections in the 4 cardinal directions. One section is a long poem (hence the big difference between page count and number count):



Page count: 51 pages.

# of poems: 31.



I didn't take any poems out this round (that happenened in the previously mentioned post about manuscripting). I have one poem that I re-made drastically, I believe in an attempt to salvage it...to keep from cutting it.

Here's a look at an evolution. I'm still undecided if it's going to keep its place in the manuscript, however, I'm enjoying taking the stretch...recycling, if you will

draft (a)

A quarter's worth
"Let me say this to you before my quarter runs out" - man in nyc

It is dusk when I pace Broadway -
Spanish a backdrop of syncopated noise.

I curse myself for having no desire
to learn, yet yours is the first distinguishable

voice, inflected English a torch
against midnight. I see you, duffle bag

slouched over your shoulder, back arched
into the cubby-hold of the telephone booth.

Such urgency in your ocmmand. I pause
to let you speak - I want to know what

you can say here and now. What do you have
to say from a payphone where passersby

can eavesdrop, stop and listen? You slam
the phone down, let curses slip from your mouth.

I try to imagine myself in your place, try
to think how much time, how many words

can a quarter buy you after all?
------------------------------------------------
draft (b)

Analog

Your cell phone is lost and you dare search your purse for a quarter. Spanish a backdrop of syncopated noise, his inflected English your only torch against the night. Despite his huddle, you hear threats from the body of the blackened phone booth that holds the man like a hug. He screams into the receiver for his quarter's worth of time. You wonder how many words the silver coin can purchase. Evolution: You divvy up your allotted minutes among your dearly beloved; text messages taught you economy of language: fifteen taps to get the point. And the mouth never utters a word.