Monday, May 22, 2017

And All of Us Who Knew Our Place and Prayers



  • Fleabus, living room window from front yard, Saturday, photo by Planet.
  • For I, William the Blind....
  • From Vollmann's Dying Grass, which is flaying me.
  • There are 1213 pages, one for each mile the Nez Perce traveled with the US Army in pursuit.
  • I am telling you three times: read Vollmann, this one. 
  • All Five of the Dreams: power, as in, capital, it's inexorable progress, those who are run over, those who run over, those run over running over run overs.
  • A Nez Perce, chief or not, killed his own lame horse. 
  • US Army officers detailed privates to kill theirs, by regulation.
  • Guess who won. My flaw, my flay.
  • It's more complicated times infinity than good versus bad. All the Dreams are. 
  • If I like you and you promise to try - I never demand you finish, just try - let me send you a copy.
  • As long as he writes the last two of seven Dreams, I can wait. I want to know what, where, when (as when past, not when future), each, now.
  • Next is Atticus Lish's Preparation for the Next Life, which I'm told will flay me.
  • Sick of myself, or: we are being reprogrammed, yo.
  • Gaslighting is reprogramming's first tool.
  • Helpful hints for skeptics.
  • Maggie's weekly links.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Experimental Fiction Now.
  • I haven't thought about Maryanne Amacher in too long.






THE BURNING TRUCK

Les Murray

It began at dawn with fighter planes:
they came in off the sea and didn’t rise,
they leaped the sandbar one and one and one
coming so fast the crockery they shook down
off my kitchen shelves was spinning in the air
when they were gone.
    
They came in off the sea and drew a wave
of lagging cannon-shells across our roofs.
Windows spat glass, a truck took sudden fire,
out leaped the driver, but the truck ran on,
growing enormous, shambling by our street-doors,
coming and coming …
  
By every right in town, by every average
we knew of in the world, it had to stop,
fetch up against a building, fall to rubble
from pure force of burning, for its whole
body and substance were consumed with heat
but it would not stop.
   
And all of us who knew our place and prayers
clutched our verandah-rails and window-sills,
begging that truck between our teeth to halt,
keep going, vanish, strike … but set us free.
And then we saw the wild boys of the street
go running after it.
   
And as they followed, cheering, on it crept,
windshield melting now, canopy-frame a cage
torn by gorillas of flame, and it kept on
over the tramlines, past the church, on past
the last lit windows, and then out of the world
with its disciples.



Sunday, May 21, 2017

All That's Left of Coherence, or: Born Ninety-One Years Ago Today




SELF-PORTRAIT

Robert Creeley

He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
as dull, as brutal
as the emptiness around him,

He doesn’t want compromise,   
nor to be ever nice
to anyone. Just mean,
and final in his brutal,
his total, rejection of it all.

He tried the sweet,   
the gentle, the “oh,
let’s hold hands together”
and it was awful,
dull, brutally inconsequential.

Now he’ll stand on
his own dwindling legs.   
His arms, his skin,   
shrink daily. And
he loves, but hates equally.

---

High Egoslavian Holy Day, yo. Innermost circle of MSADI5G.
Creeley interviewed.
Selected letters of Creeley.
91 poems here.
Six more poems below the fold:

Saturday, May 20, 2017

All Their Kissy Little Knives



  

  

  
   
  • This is how small I am: after the post about Landru's phone call with a DC United ticket agent and the death of LOUD SIDE! I emailed United. I emailed United from a different email than they had on file, on purpose. I never revealed my name - if you want to know it's at the bottom of this shitty blog. I pretended interest in joining Screaming Eagles.
  • Landru, in comments, said that when he asked the ticket agent who had called where Supporters Clubs would go in the new stadium the ticket agent tried to sell the wonders of end-zone seating but would not definitively confirm the death of LOUD SIDE! 
  • Here's what the ticket agent emailed back: I wanted to follow up on the email you sent us regarding memberships with the Screaming Eagles. I'm happy to help you out in any way possible. To answer your question, our Suppoter Section will be located directly behind the net in Audi Field.
  • Audi bought naming and branding rights to new stadium.
  • Of course I forwarded the email to Landru and he can vouch I typed exactly what ticket agent typed me.
  • When new stadium ground was broke at Buzzard Point video was shot of Screaming Eagle leaders doing ritual spitting against Metros. 
  • For all I know most in the Supporters Clubs are realistic, pragmatic, fine and down with it. 
  • One thing great about long-timing in a section: every year is different same.
  • I never joined a Supporters Club - I don't join any clubs but our secret one here - I wanted interactive tribalism without tainting my independence by club dues and tailgating.
  • Why would you go to your club's game and not stand?
  • I bet there are some in Barra who were disgusted on Day One of United they weren't in an end-zone curve as all great Supporters Clubs are.
  • I'm glad DC United stays in DC for United fans' sake.
  • Landru has promised to consider an effort - hey, you too, SeatSix - to go to one more Saturday night game at RFK. I'm curious who's still there in 232, on up and down ramps between circles, in line for a pint.
  • United could not survive at RFK, may thrive in new stadium.
  • They play in a league with 73 teams, 59 get into the playoffs. 
  • There's quitting, quitting quitting, quitting quitting quitting infinity.
  • Not anger, at last. I was am and will be a fool.

   
 


SLANDER

Franz Wright

I can just hear them
on the telephone and keening
all their kissy little knives
 
or voraciously taking turns
nursing a lie
still in its early white whisperhood
 
and I could do something
bad back to them
someday, I guess—
 
but why
 
Exclusion doesn’t hurt
that much, in fact
 
I’ve visited the stars on foot
 
Come disdain of the dreamhand for grammar
and fame, this Boston’s
gothic chilly April
night (new leaves the color
of her eyes) beloved
booknight real
real world, oh
prasini arachnid
s'agapo
 
Light green eyes dusk distant
tolling now fading
to heartscar
which says
 
I was loved, always
loved
 
And then they wounded me
so usefully—

  

Thursday, May 18, 2017

When the Stroke Came, Every Bottle Winked at Its Neighbor




  • These three songs been sitting in draft for a week. I just listened to them again, here.
  • Forgive me, I enjoy the latest trumpster-fire episodes.
  • What do you do with Trump when his usefulness ends and they tell him get out? He serves at Triskelion pleasure. He can't be let loose to talk into microphones, give speeches, form a party.
  • Trump's usefulness has many days ahead. 
  • Kayfabe is still Kayfabe even broken, soon enough. Those flashes get appropriated almost instantaneously, almost, but were yours once, are still, are stale to all but you.
  • When over, poof, stroke - he is a stroke walking. Our nation mourns.
  • (Even if they don't off him, I am telling you three times: he is a stroke walking.)
  • When he does have a stroke and is disappeared, no one will believe it's a stroke.
  • As my avatar's nemesis 86 says: The old bring in the old white square-headed jowly Corporate grandpa as Neutral Observer Trick. Fell for it twice this week.
  • Kayfabe WILL be reestablished, session by session.







BOTTLES IN THE BOMBED CITY

Les Murray

They gave the city a stroke. Its memories
are cordoned off. They could collapse on you.

Water leaks into bricks of the Workers’ century   
and every meaning is blurred. No word in Roget

now squares with another. If the word is Manchester
it may be Australia, where that means sheets and towels.

To give the city a stroke, they mixed a lorryload
of henbane and meadowsweet oil and countrified her.

Now Engels supports Max, and the British Union   
of beautiful ceramics is being shovelled up,

blue-green tiles of the Corn Exchange,
umber gloss bricks of the Royal Midlands Hotel.

Unmelting ice everywhere, and loosened molecules.
When the stroke came, every bottle winked at its neighbour.