Sunday, April 19, 2015

Waxing with Intent



I now own a wax wienermobile, cast for only two dollars and dispensed hot from mold at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn Michigan. The museum houses the original wienermobile. Mocomofos, remember when Glenn Brenner drove the wienermobile up and down Wisconsin Ave NW? Hey! I've successfully driven away more than three-quarters of my readership since abandoning the daily aargh-aggregation and, to a much lesser extent, my daily aargh-barking. I knew that quitting the daily aargh-aggregation would decrease readership (and thank you to those of you still here who dig the mwah-aggregation and music and other people's poems). It's not as if this blog is aargh-free or ever will be should I ever truly desire it (and, more impossibly, am capable of desiring it). Still, since importing my other blogs and reposting some old pieces and poems as well as new pieces and poems, a stunningly dramatic drop in readers. And if I admit on one hand that very few want to read poetry at any time, I must also admit that of those few who do fewer want to read mine. This post is a celebratory dirge - I don't want to pose otherwise - and I am stupid to bemoan a result I precipitated and anticipated. That sentence is the point of this post and needed to by typed and posted to get it out of my system. I like the blog more than I did as an aggregator of aargh, but my duties to self as a craven exhibitionist and bleggalgazer demand I whine I got the very result I expected. I am a success, at last. And yes, when I fed two dollars into the wax-welder and cast my wienermobile Friday morning I laughed, I knew I would use it today, for this post, it made writing this post a happy necessity (and yes, further advances the cause).

Saturday, April 18, 2015

1-2-3-Repeater





Was there (imagine an up-arrow, alt-24 on all keyboards but apparently my laptop).

This is true. Last night at Air's (very successful) art show in Ann Arbor when I was forced into introductions and asked where I'm from I said DC. I've lived within 15 miles of DC for forty years, within three miles of DC the last twenty-two years, and worked in DC the last twenty-five years, but I do not live in DC, I've lived in Maryland. I love Maryland, I'm happy to be from Maryland, but beyond ease - it's easier to say "DC" rather than "Maryland, just outside DC" - when asked, and though I've never lived in DC (beyond month-long shack-ups here and there in my youth), I am from DC. I thought about this driving back to hotel from the art show. This morning, Earthgirl still asleep, while I was putzing on PC, thinking I'm not going to post the slideshow of yesterday's cool visit to Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn Michigan, I discover I missed Ian MacKaye's birthday on the 16th. How many times have I seen Fugazi in Fugazi's hometown? that is my hometown.

Was there (imagine an down-arrow, alt-25 on all keyboards but apparently my laptop).







Was there (imagine an down-arrow, alt-25 on all keyboards but apparently my laptop).






 
Was there (imagine an down-arrow, alt-25 on all keyboards but apparently my laptop).



Friday, April 17, 2015

[My ophthalmologist insists...]

My ophthalmologist insists
my constant cataclysmic visions
are not glitch of glaucoma prescription
but my apocalypse-jones spiking.
Can I get my Timolol refill anyway, I ask.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

What Is the Poet's Job Out of Numbed Slumber?





If you don't own and listen regularly to Wedding Present's George Best, do yourself a kind. Guess what I listened to last night. Hey, twenty-four hours from the time stamp of this post Earthgirl and I will be on an airplane to Detroit. Planet's Air is an Art Major at Michigan, his senior show opening is tomorrow night, we get to see Detroit, Ann Arbor, rural Michigan this weekend. Planet and Air have been together five years, we get to meet Air's parents for the first time. I'm told they are nice, please pray for me anyway. Despite few look at the slideshows I post I will possibly if not probably post at least one since Planet thinks I will find Detroit fascinatingly photographic, and she will be driving so I will have two hands free in a moving car for the first time in, um, ages. I doubt there will be links though that's because Dead Blegsylvania be deader than ever even if I had the time to link-fish which I possibly if not probably and hopefully won't. And what would you have me yodel? Yes, the below is possibly if not probably one of the ten most posted songs of this shitty blog's history.








MAELSTROM: ONE DROP MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD KIN

Anne Waldman

All the world is one, like an angry deity’s essence dropped in the ocean
becoming monstrous: what happens Mumbai happens Paris
What happens Vicenza U.S. Base or Prodi, Kyoto Accord, XL Pipeline
advanced warplanes to Japan—what happens?  Egypt, Yemen, Syria
NASA’s five space probes or Aurora Borealis where we study shimmering light
What happens on the Lunar New Year
I want to know, Professor, are there names for these mercurial moves?
A lexicon & vibration touch the complexity of gestural motion
What happened with Augustine & his mother in Ostia?
I want to know what happens Nicea 325 perhaps God creates the  world!
Let’s go back and check this out: Ex nihilio ardore/splendore
Europe still riding the pull of Zeus a nuclear reactor not dismantled
Heads coming off in cruelest acts, unspeakable
And how that is part of your story too—flooding in Mozambique,
in Morocco, in Indonesia a part of you all suffering a part of you
What happens Rwanda, Darfur, Chad, Ukraine, glaciers shrinking what happens
when carbon-capped bombs fall on Natanz? on Bushehr
What is the poet’s job out of numbed slumber?
Entering post-poet-modernity I gave my larynx a workout
Started chanting for the redemption of Irreparable
Om Ah Hum for the Year of the Shy but Cunning Metal Rabbit,
Inshallah O Peace Brutal Year of the Wooden Horse
The Gentle Sheep Year O Help us Now, Shalom Ah Hum, Shanti



Wednesday, April 15, 2015

A Mirror Grown Dark with Age that Was Given to a Blind Man Who Spend His Nights Looking Into It



  • So, yellow and/or white ink from the printer won't show on the photocopy of Stanley's eye, photo taken last night. So, next two bullets are in fact in yellow ink beneath the silver sharpie in the above.
  • I directly addressed on twooter a twooter/blooger overlord yesterday and was justly ignored despite the quality of the joke, forgive my arrogance, I forgot to maintain an awed and respectful silence before his twooter/bloogerness.
  • I heard from an old boss yesterday, He''ll be in DC in June, we'll go to a Nats game and drink beer. I asked him if he was still a shaker in DNC as he once was, he emailed back, pfff, fuck that.
  • Hey, did some blogroll maintenance, moved some moribund to Moribund so if they unzombie I'll see. I think I only moved folk who aren't digibuds, but if you aren't where you were, you're now down in Moribund. Moribund is now the most populated blogroll on the shitty blog. Fine metaphors abound.
  • Middlebrow March. Plus Jake's place got a nice face lift.
  • To be a pilgrim.
  • Fucking Otter. Made you look.
  • Slim nails it.
  • M-83, the highway, not the band.
  • If you could read my mind.
  • Book X.
  • I can't find a way to link directly to this post, so next time flowerville posts this link will go to main page not current post, but go read the current post.
  • Big Blood is my new obsession, the best since the last until the next, love their covers (Cure, for instance) and their own songs.







LET US CONSIDER

Russell Edson

Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall....

    Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in
vanity....

    Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner,
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....