Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Invincible Is My Myopia, Great Is My Waist, Choral Are My Ideas, Wingéd Are My Eyebrows, Deep Is My Obscurity












PONDERABLE

Lyn Hejinian

The pine branches reach—the rain! the sun! the edge of the moving air!
       three goats!
Girls on razor scooters turn the corner and scoot
Autonomy actually shows, it shines amidst the stars of decision
I sacrifice hearing to writing, I return to the back of the train
Surrounded by nothing but tattered island nasturtia, the shoveler is
       prepared to exclaim, “Grief exterior, grief prison”
Beastly pine cones are falling from the sky
Down in the middle, and a soft wall, the midnight breeze billows
Check the role, the rock, the rule!
From cardboard pressed to ginger, water spilled on a list, salt sprinkled
        over…
Why so many references to dogs, purple, and bananas?
Then the carnival—it came up afterwards like a vermillion buttress to
        say of itself “it appears”
Wren in a ragged bee line, flora sleeping live
Yuki, Felicia, and Maxwell have between them $13.75, and they are
             hungry as they enter the small café, where they see a display of
             pies and decide to spend all their money on pie there and then—
             how much pie will each get to eat if each pie costs $5.25?
Invincible is my myopia, great is my waist, choral are my ideas, wingéd
             are my eyebrows, deep is my obscurity—who am I?




Monday, March 30, 2015

My Poem on Free Speech After My Censor's Edits



Click, yo.

RIP John Renbourn





I had not heard of John Renbourn's death until listening to Mandl's show last night. To be honest, I know Pentangle far more than Renbourn's solo or collaborative work (especially with Bert Jansch), and if his music never made a circle of My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game (a) that's on me and (b) I can still fix this and (c) his life and music needs celebrating. Four more songs below the fold.

UPDATE! John sent me a tweet to his beautiful post on Renbourn.




Sunday, March 29, 2015

It's the Horse Butt That's Properly Lit





Thanks for the Kind words re: this. That's how I did things once. I stopped. I've started again. I've theories why both the stop and restart. If I write about them I'll write about them that way and if I do write about them that way I'll post them here, not there. That? A whole separate though related set of theories. Second use, this post, new tag Mememe.















POLITICAL THEORY

Jessica Fjeld

In a famous painting of a founding father
and the back end of a horse

it’s the horse butt that’s properly lit
groomed out        smooth       an immortal peach

Who can say what it means about revolution
that the horse’s tail emerges as though it had no bones in it

no chunky mechanics of the living
And the horse is not well muscled

but has been living in the rich grass
swollen like a birthday balloon



Saturday, March 28, 2015

Born Eighty-Five Years Ago Today





Click tag for lots more. Yes, I did the first anniversary of his death earlier this month, I'll only do his birthday from now on per my sillyass bleggal rules, (which I will spare you this post).