Wednesday, March 21, 2018


Highest Egoslavian Holy Day! Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

Also too, an (especially long and lovely this year) birthday card from the first human not Earthgirl or me or a nurse or a doctor to hold Planet.


Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

See, Leech, the Light!

My friend P died of massive stroke this past Tuesday. None of you knew her. She was 54. She smoked two packs of Marlboro Lights a day for forty years, drank a dozen diet cokes a day, drank tequila everyday for six months, not for six months, everyday for six months, not for six months....

Doing monthly blogroll maintenance - the fuck does blogroll maintenance even among the fuck who keeps a blog? - I clicked on Red, a poet I digitally met via T, a poet I knew of before we met digitally, and Red's blog's dead. Red too, I asked T, who replied, Wait ten/fifteen years and you'll understand. You'll be cowboy Red. W/o the 10 gallon stetson. Stuff happens, That's the Murica part of murica. Get away from that Grey Ocean sometime, you'll know what I mean.

I just finished my first re-read of Crime and Punishment in at least thirty years. I loved it, loved it while all the while wanting to brain Raskolnikov with an, um, ax, the vacillating fuck, so yes, I think I might know what Tom means, but not all of it.

  • Olive got a box yesterday.
  • UPDATE! Red's OK, I think. As for his blog, see update below.
  • The crisis of modern masculinity
  • LO, the mighty bulwarks of ephemera v the graffiti of the commentary despoiling its pristine surfaces.
  • Running to a sunken place.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • (no subject), or: you are world/
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Something odd going on in Digitalstan, I am telling you three times. 
  • UPDATE! O, the bacefook thing.
  • UPDATE! Still, Red's blog, for instance. The feed had stopped, he'd dropped to bottom of a blogroll, and when I clicked on the link I was asked by some company if I wanted to buy the domain name. In email from T today he sent a link to Red's latest. I removed the dead link from the blogroll, installed the new.....
  • October.
  • Below stolen from a Sunday morning tweet by David Hayden @seventydys

Jack Spicer


Saturday, March 17, 2018

The Humans Colonized By E.Coli Were Here


Daniel Borzutzky