Friday, September 21, 2018

poem called a gnarl

  • Say to yourself, Hallelujah, your not gonna hear my most viscerally despised song here today.
  • Brother SeatSix sent me link to article saying Evernote is gonna die die die.
  • I finally start typing instead of scrawling, finally get organized, finally fucking edit, I kill Evernote.
  • Frances has a new article in American Theater!
  • On mistakes.
  • Alone with Elizabeth Bishop.
  • Three mile afternoon walk yesterday to and from Bridge Street Books and discovered there a new book of poems by Clark Coolidge, a regular here.
  • I want to read this, any of you in the UK have it yet?
  • A philosophical lesson in comparative reading and writing.
  • I surprise myself nightly how much more I write typing than I ever wrote scribbling.
  • Every second or fifth night I start to write about the day's shitstorm, after two sentences I'm fuck am I doing.
  • I hand-wrote a note yesterday, my scrawl in just the one month I've typed atrophying, s'funny
  • and frightening.
  • I scribbled more clusterfuckstorm coverage in two days than I type in two weeks.
  • Yes, slight format changes here since the scribbling stopped and the typing began, though I didn't make that connection - I know I've been writing here differently since the scribbling stopped and the typing began, sssh, I like it - the typing and the format changes.
  • Instead of music (or photo) blurt music blurt music poem music it's mostly now blurt music (or photo) blurt music poem
  • (though today it's blurt music poem), 
  • with the poem itself in larger text size, I like it. 
  • The printed word in peril.
  • I'd *like* to increase the font on the text here but if I change font size it affects ALL previously sized posts, I worry this shit, if someone knows some CSS magic or something...
  • UPDATE! OK, I just increased the font size, what do you think?
  • NEW NECKS!
  • When I think about Scribbling Me and Typing Me I see two spy prisoners exchanged between hostile nations not nodding at the other as they pass on a bridge over a border river returning damaged to the home country, then say fuck me, dramafuck.
  • I'll look at Scrivener again since I bought it, I will scribble again.
  • Leonard Cohen, born 84 years ago today, the only person who both is in the permanent rotation for the two not permanently assigned seats in My Sillyass Desert Island Five Game and wrote my most viscerally despised song ever, nothing is even close.






[The sun came on on the rubbish dump poem]

Clark Coolidge

The sun came on on the rubbish dump poem
passed on the poems classified as insects
seen a carbon wool poem in many different countries?
poem's title wore off before anyone came to claim it
poems that could be consumed by the police
what to do about those poems      nothing
the discovery of a poem with startling implications
poem termed a pace machine    poem called a gnarl
poem still not available      the poem withheld
the poem cut off till further notice
poem that couldn't endure any reaction
you really believe that poem is possible?
a poem of great alarm and seasonal theory
the poem to produce the exact reaction it has

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Now That I Have Cooled to You, or: Born 135 Years Ago Yesterday




THE GREAT FIGURE

William Carlos Williams

Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.






Painting by Charles Demuth. As inside baseball as this blog gets.

2018 UPDATE!

I didn't forget, and I saw this Demuth at the Whitney this past Sunday:




Seven more below the fold.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Skyline Climbers



  • The dogs of Manhattan seem miserable, caged even leashed outside, piss-smells on nothing but hydrant and concrete, flinch too many humans flinch honking cars flinch fucking sirens.
  • Walked from Penn Station to Whitney Museum then weaved through Greenwich Village (got to Houston, didn't go to Soho) then 5th up from 10th to Broadway and Broadway through Times Square up to Museum of Art and Design where Broadway meets 8th and 60th but ran out of time, walked south on 8th to 31st and Penn Station and Earthgirl and bus home.
  • Had two slices, one for breakfast, one before bus ride home, I cannot get pizza like this in Moco or DC, the fuck is wrong with people around here.
  • I am not the dog-whisperer the cat-whisperer I am, but I can talk to dogs and not a single dog of the dozens of dozens I saw but the three pit-bulls who each adopted a homeless guy I gave food too smiled at me.
  • I would love a four day weekend in NYC once a year, that's enough.
  • Astonishing David Wojnarowicz exhibit at Whitney (photo above taken from a Whitney outdoor terrace looking east, below, Wojnarowicz).










ONE POSSIBLE MEANING

Charlie Smith

This afternoon the park is filled with brides.
Among varieties of persuasion the big trees turn back toward the forest.
Adventurers gather in side streets.
The police are looking hard at the sky.
Down at the bay, boys trapped in solitude fish.
Girls hike their pants and stare at the wave line,
remembering secrets they once held dear.
The day offers a ridiculous variation as
an excuse for not coming in on time.
Wild imaginings take the place of religion.
Someone who can't swim offers to cook.
We've devised a means for the obstinate children
to be fed, she says, but no one understands this.
We crave affection, but give only advice.
There are walls topped with broken bicycles.
Someone makes an obscene offer and this
is the best we get all day. Oh don't give in
so easily she says, handing over the keys.
We climb the blue fire escape.
We would like to keep going,
skyline climbers, old men remembering their childhood
who devise a few illegal experiences no one wants to try.
It gets to be more than the officers can take.
The park is dusty, dark, yet the children,
ignored all day, play on, convinced their dedication
releases a magic that changes everything.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Flag Stunt Rock Stone Dole Axe Crash Dive




Colin Newman, 65 today, the above Theme Song of a Month and one of the three songs posted most here.

What was here yesterday was first and is still at the other place.

Email address has changed - blckdgrd (at) protonmail.com please (though old one will still be checked, it's hip-attached to work email, more the reason for this, a taint-free space, than any delusions I can quit google, see (a) bullet below, (b) this shitty blog).

  • I get on a bus with Lynn at 730 soon and go to Manhattan. 
  • Dropped off at Penn Station, I plan to walk blocks north to MOMA then blocks south after, with wander.
  • I just created a protonmail account for no reason sillier than impulse, I read headline and first two paragraphs on newly revealed google evil, I....
  • Ingored but current moleskin and Sarasa pen in backpack for tomorrow, both are thrilled,
  • I haven't told them it's not surveillance but convenience, fuck me.
  • If I write something I like I'll scan it into incrimination and post here.