Tuesday, April 25, 2017

And If You Could Have Any Object You Desired You'd Be Tired



I have started writing again, in a tablet, with a pencil.

You're a vindictive person, a Hillaryite Colleague said to me yesterday. Vindictive? Other than baiting people who enjoy baiting me back (as once me and this HC did), what harm have I wished upon the Clintons other than they go the fuck away?

I'm a vindictive person, I said to M, and told M the story. M said, you're not outraged enough - M pounded M's chest - morally repelled enough at Trump to embrace the Perez. We reached out and tugged on the other's left earlobe with our right hand, wringing taffy. Your Perez is not strong, I said. Nor yours, said M.

There's new Guided by Voices!


Sunday, April 23, 2017

Mutt Runs Along the Fence Yapping








DOGWOOD

William Johnson

Dog days doggone dog-tired dogwork of summer,
mowing the grass we're all coming to

the dog tags of you, me, I, we, stashed in a box,
doghouse throwaways. Even the namesake

tree whose blossoms some call Jesus-flowers
for the rust-grooved tips of the petals

as if nails now removed had indented
the shape of a cross, betrays my mood

how all those springs ago
seeing our tree nailed with bloody after bloody

crucifix I said this beauty's no foo-foo
and sure enough my dog-weary dearie

mowing today, the spring long gone,
I brush a limb on whose tired leaves mites amble

the edible thoroughfares and as if to confirm it,
our neighbor's mutt runs along the fence yapping

dogwood dogwood dogwood as the mower chugs on,
our train leaving for the city beneath the grass.



Friday, April 21, 2017

Eat Some Every Day




  • Iggy is 70 today.
  • Anger is hostile to understanding.
  • The thrall of battle as Hillary: Crucified Martyr or Craven Moron? is fucking fought again.
  • Death to the Either/Or. Though more Or than Either.
  • See? Was that necessary?
  • Robert Smith is 58 today.











THE LOST PILOT

James Tate

Your face did not rot
like the others—the co-pilot,   
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,   
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.   
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,   
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,   
read your face as Dallas,   
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads   
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.   
However frightening, I would   
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make   
you face your wife, or Dallas,   
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy   
orbiting, and I would not try   
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know   
is this: when I see you,   
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,   
spin across the wilds of the sky   
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were   
the residue of a stranger’s life,   
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,   
I cannot get off the ground,   
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling   
to tell me that you are doing   
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune   
placed these worlds in us.