Saturday, August 29, 2015

Born Eighty-Six Years Ago Today


Thom Gunn

Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?

Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
Or cringing dribbling dog, man’s servile friend,

Or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
Tortures it hours, then does not care to eat:

Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me.

    These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.

Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked. I am gross—grey, gross, flap-eared.

The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear. I am the snouted creature

That bites through anything, root, wire, or can.
If I was not afraid I’d eat a man.

Oh a man’s flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk. Buried in swine.

    I root and root, you think that it is greed,
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.

Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:

Cool flesh of magic in each leaf and shoot,
From milky flower to the black forked root.

From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.

I push my big grey wet snout through the green,
Dreaming the flower I have never seen.

Seven more below fold.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Theme Songs August 28, 2015

Wasn't going to say anything, but holyfuck, Beloved Landru gave me 56 songs for my birthday!

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

[Concision is hard...]

Concision is hard.
Fruit and refrigerators
taken, pink blossoms
on Metro station
platforms already painted,
the orange shadow
my hand and pen cast
over tablet disappears
when I stop writing.

Concision is hard. I used
a Williams and Pound allusion
to prove I'm not an imagist.
I know you don't want me to explain.
Let me explain: if I thought
my not explaining my
unexplained was crystalline
I wouldn't explain what
I'm not explaining.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

I Want to Be Entered and Picked Clean

Do not eat at Jimmy Johns - the owner kills elephants and rhinos for fun. Nothing - nothing - Darkens me with Dark more than these fuckers. I daydream of hunting them down, shooting them in the kneecaps and, as they writhe in pain, beg for their lives, I smash their cheeks with an aluminum baseball bat before plunging their heads into a turned-to-the-highest temperature deep-fryer. Dark? I hate these fuckers, yes, mostly for who they are, but I hate these fuckers for what they reveal to me about me, both what I'm capable of daydreaming and my cowardice I will never live it out. I printed out that photo from the tweet and taped it this morning at 630 to the front door of the Jimmy Johns in Glover Park on Wisconsin. Brave me. These fuckers are the distillation of all that is shitty about humans. I am the distillation of all that is shitty about humans.

  • Whatever happened to the motherfucking dentist? Funny how that story evaporated like it never was.
  • I had never eaten at Jimmy Johns, now will never eat at Jimmy Johns (not that I was likely to).
  • Today in motherfucking cops.
  • Biden's only positive is he isn't Hillary. Plus it's a work.
  • The Fearful and FrustratedIn New Hampshire, where voters pride themselves on being unimpressed, Fred Rice, a Republican state representative, arrived at a Trump rally in the beach town of Hampton on an August evening, and found people waiting patiently in a two-hour line that stretched a quarter of a mile down the street. “Never seen that at a political event before,” he said. Other Republicans offer “canned bullshit,” Rice went on. “People have got so terribly annoyed and disenchanted and disenfranchised, really, by candidates who get up there, and all their stump speeches promise everything to everyone.” By the night’s end, Rice was sold. “I heard echoes of Ronald Reagan,” he told me, adding, “If I had to vote today, I would vote for Trump.
  • Random early morning barking.
  • Danger along the border.
  • There goes the neighborhood.
  • Tiptree, for those of you who do (and those like me who should).
  • More SciFi, for those of you who do (not those like me who can't).
  • Yo La Tengo is playing live this morning on NPR's Morning Edition, and this changes for the worse my feelings for Yo La Tengo. Not fair, I know, but.
  • Here's that live at WFMU Mekons set.
  • Charles Wright is eighty today.


Charles Wright

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.   
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.   
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.