Monday, May 21, 2018

The Skull That Keeps Its Secrets Saith, or: Born 92 Years Ago Today


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:

Sunday, May 20, 2018

The Green Rooms of the Abandonarium

  • Fifth draft, last draft, I promise myself. Bigger here.
  • A friend gave me a copy of Sergio de la Pava's new novel Lost Empress, I've been waiting impatiently, I'd heard good things, and admired if not exactly liked de la Pava's Naked Singularity, and I obviously agree with anyone who thinks motherfucking helmetball a Prime metaphor for the - this is the last time I do this until the next - American clusterfuckocene.
  • I'm 0 for 3 ABs v Lost Empress all on called strikes.
  • It's sloppy, self-indulgent, loud, disorganized, impressed with display over content, the fucker.
  • I cut the above page out of Tablet - I promised myself no more tablet talk here - and I cut it out without thinking about it - I thought, this is too close to the page gap, I'll never scan that right - but I just up and cut tablet, I am telling you three times....
  • Fourth at bat I broke my bat and squiggled a shitty infield hit, but it will still be a hit in the box score. 


Lucie Brock-Broido

On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.
                                                                              The hydrangea
Of   her crushed each year a little more into the attar of   herself.
Pallid. Injured, wildly capable.
A throat to come home to, tupelo.
                                                Lemurs in parlors, inconsolable.
Parlors of burgundy and sleigh. Unseverable fear.
Wistful, woke most every afternoon
                                In the green rooms of the Abandonarium.
                                                Beautiful cage, asylum in.
Reckless urges to climb celestial trellises that may or may not
                                 Have been there.
So few wild raspberries, they were countable,
                                 Triaged out by hand.
Ten-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Intimacy with others,
                                 Sateen. Extreme hyacinth as evidence.
Her single subject the idea that every single thing she loves
                                 Will (perhaps tomorrow) die.
High editorial illusion of   “Control.” Early childhood: measles,
                                                                              Scarlet fevers;
Cleopatra for most masquerades, gold sandals, broken home.
Convinced Gould’s late last recording of the Goldberg Variations
Was put down just for her. Unusual coalition of early deaths.
Early middle deaths as well. Believed, despite all evidence,
In afterlife, looked hopelessly for corroborating evidence of   such.
                                                                                          Wisteria, extreme.
There was always the murmur, you remember, about going home.

Thursday, May 17, 2018


  • Third draft.
  • Twelve hours of Glenn Branca.
  • Now that Blog Days of Summer have arrived, play along, I need five more ocenes, as in Life in the.
  • Participation no guarantee your suggestion will be stenciled. Life in the Fuckjeffocene.
  • Whatareyougonnadoaboutitocene.
  • Yes, neoliberalism is a thing.
  • When one Palestinian baby dies.
  • The predictable dysphoria flare-up.
  • Fuck it, it's NOT Rockville, it's Borth Nethesda.
  • Frances' first article for Vice (on the Inauguration Day protesters' legal peril still).
  • I've three basic reactions to the start of the Blog Days of Summer: (1) sulk; (2) spurt; (3) sulk and spurt.
  • Gonna skip the sulk this year.
  • I do need to stop spurting at professional motherfucking Democrats on twitter that they can call me when they quit the motherfucking Democratic Party, for while I. Hate. Motherfucking. Democrats. they are not gonna quit and run as independents.
  • We need a revolution.
  • Futilespurtocene, as in Life in the.


Tom Clark

The sun rose.          The child wept.
The window opened.   Bill opened the window.
School begins at nine.       He began his lecture at ten.
She lived a happy life. They died a dreadful death. 
He slept a peaceful sleep. I dreamed a happy dream. He sighed a deep sigh. 
The sun shone.      The dog bit.      The man knocked.
My father came...               Yesterday was...
The soldier seemed dead.                    His face became white.
        He smelt the flowers.    The flowers smelt sweet.
        The boy looked eagerly.     The boy looked eager.
Ted looked better than his friend.
Tom Brown was my teacher there.
He seems the most important man here. 
The ladies were given the flowers.
The dog was given the food.
the boy was given the dog.
The mother is given a son.
The son is given a mother. 
The son is given a mother.