Monday, January 26, 2015

The Wayward Mind Basks in Some Yucatan of Its Own Making





Snow songs, jeebus, but they are stuck in my head and will not leave until I plunge this post. Breaking kayfabe - one crucial motivation for this shitty blog is my need to rid myself of one new iteration of standard obsessions for the next, and while I love that Dead song (and how did I not have a Grateful Dead tag until this post?) I need it gone. Also, I've friends and readers in the direct path of the worst blizzard ever since the last and until the next, neener, it missed me, consider this taunting. Hope your fun-pantry is full!













SESTINA D'INVERNO

Anthony Hecht

Here in this bleak city of Rochester,
Where there are twenty-seven words for "snow,"
Not all of them polite, the wayward mind
Basks in some Yucatan of its own making,
Some coppery, sleek lagoon, or cinnamon island
Alive with lemon tints and burnished natives,

And O that we were there. But here the natives
Of this grey, sunless city of Rochester
Have sown whole mines of salt about their land
(Bare ruined Carthage that it is) while snow
Comes down as if The Flood were in the making.
Yet on that ocean Marvell called the mind

An ark sets forth which is itself the mind,
Bound for some pungent green, some shore whose natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in making
Roasts that would gladden the Earl of Rochester
With sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.
It might be well to remember that an island

Was a blessed haven once, more than an island,
The grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.
In that kind climate the mere thought of snow
Was but a wedding cake; the youthful natives,
Unable to conceive of Rochester,
Made love, and were acrobatic in the making.

Dream as we may, there is far more to making
Do than some wistful reverie of an island,
Especially now when hope lies with the Rochester
Gas and Electric Co., which doesn't mind
Such profitable weather, while the natives
Sink, like Pompeians, under a world of snow.

The one thing indisputable here is snow,
The single verity of heaven's making,
Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the natives,
And the torn hoarding-posters of some island.
Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth: it is grey, and called Rochester.

No island fantasy survives Rochester,
Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making.



Sunday, January 25, 2015

Then I Realized the Very Futility Was Salvation











ROMANTICISM 101

Dean Young

Then I realized I hadn’t secured the boat.
Then I realized my friend had lied to me.
Then I realized my dog was gone
no matter how much I called in the rain.
All was change.
Then I realized I was surrounded by aliens
disguised as orthodontists having a convention
at the hotel breakfast bar.
Then I could see into the life of things,
that systems seek only to reproduce
the conditions of their own reproduction.
If I had to pick between shadows
and essences, I’d pick shadows.
They’re better dancers.
They always sing their telegrams.
Their old gods do not die.
Then I realized the very futility was salvation
in this greeny entanglement of  breaths.
Yeah, as if.
Then I realized even when you catch the mechanism,
the trick still works.
Then I came to in Texas
and realized rockabilly would never go away.
Then I realized I’d been drugged.
We were all chasing nothing
which left no choice but to intensify the chase.
I came to handcuffed and gagged.
I came to intubated and packed in some kind of foam.
This too is how ash moves through water.
And all this time the side doors unlocked.
Then I realized repetition could be an ending.
Then I realized repetition could be an ending.



Saturday, January 24, 2015

These Guys Try to Make Us Match Moods to Products









THE THINNING

Rae Armantrout

1

These guys try to make us
match moods to products

the way once,
under love’s spell,

we attached meaning
to sound,

attached sounds to objects.

The old magic won’t work now,

but it’s nice
to be reminded of it.

2

She’s a tease,
tears her skirts off

one by one.
Really?

Drops her petals
as if she could always
make more.

It’s tiresome.

We know
what she looks like
naked.

On a cold night,
we can see forever.



Friday, January 23, 2015

What to Do with a 102 Degree Fever




Lordy, I love fever dreams, closest I get to old trips these days. It's been a while, since September 2013 -  you can find the Official Egoslavian Fever Poem there. Also too, per Egoslavian tradition, the Official Egoslavian 102 Degree Fever Anthem:







UPDATED! Found it! in my head at five this morning!