Friday, February 5, 2016

We Welcomed One Poor Hackneyed Christ, Sad Bastard, Croaking of Pestilence. The Basement Holds Him Now

  • I was down in the rec room last night looking for a book. We redid the rec room after we moved in 1992 (Earthgirl pregnant with Planet). We re-tiled the floor, re-drywalled, re-painted, re-spackled the ceiling, moved chairs and sofa and TV down. First social event of new rec room - we hosted dinner then watched the 1992 Election Day results. Landru and Hamster were there, I think, and Effjay Ichaelsmay... we all cheered Bill's election as the end of the Reagan/Bush era of rightwing fuckery. So there's that regarding my inability to let the current motherfucking POTUS cycle go.
  • Not that I knew there was a debate last night, or would have watched had I known.
  • Call me when Hillary Clinton releases the full - and fully verified complete - texts of her promises to the Lloyd Blankfeins - and while I may not like what she says I'll at least credit her for, in this one, and probably only, case, for honest transparency.
  • Here, in one sentence, my problem with Hillary Clinton: When Cooper asked how she thought the speeches would appear during a presidential campaign, Clinton suggested she hadn't thought about such implications because she wasn't sure whether she would run for president.
  • Goldman Sacks Rome.
  • Because it was offered.
  • Inevitability.
  • Your Democratic Attorney General of Maryland.
  • Who is the real stasisist?
  • The NFL experience - all the great ideologies packed into thirty seconds.
  • White America's "broken heart."
  • The new American dream (not reanimated corpse of Dusty Rhodes).
  • >>>>> Blegsylvanian fine metaphors abounding....
  • Globus Hystericus.
  • I am a fool for pop songs. I am a FOOL for pop songs with a female vocalist.


Weldon Kees

         Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns,   
         But that was quite some time ago.
         Now one is accosted by asthmatic bulldogs,   
         Sluggish in the hedges, ruminant.

         Moving through ivy in the park
         Near drying waterfalls, we open every gate;   
         But that grave, shell-white unicorn is gone.   
         The path is strewn with papers to the street.

         Numbers that once were various
         Regarded us, were thought significant, significant   
         Enough to bring reporters to the scene.
         But now the bell strikes one, strikes one,

         Strikes one—monotonous and tired.

         Or clicks like a sad valise.

    2. Note to Be Left on the Table
    This ghost of yours, padding about the upper halls,   
    Given to fright-wigs Burbage might have worn,   
    Moaning in doorways, jumping out at maids,   
    Has not convinced me even yet. Can this be you?   
    Your life was frightening enough, but this   
    Poor pallid counterpart who fuddles in its role   
    Is inexcusable. Go haunt the houses of the girls   
    You once infected, or the men who bore   
    Your company far oftener than I; annoy the others   
    For a change. Is this, my house, the medieval hell
    You took to at the grave’s edge, years ago,
    After a dozen other hells had burned themselves away,   
    Or are we purgatory here? If not,
    You make it one. I give you until noon.

Ruined travelers in sad trousseaux
Roost on my doorstep, indolent and worn.   
Not one of them fulfills despised Rousseau’s   
Predictions. Perhaps they are waiting to be born.   
If so, the spot’s been badly chosen.
This is a site for posthumous investigations,   
Pillows stuffed with nettles, charnal notions:   
Apoplectic executioners, bungled incisions.   
Indeed, our solitary midwife fondles the hemlock.

We welcomed one poor hackneyed Christ,
Sad bastard, croaking of pestilence. The basement
Holds him now. He has not as yet arisen.
The tickets are ready; the line forms on the right.
Justice and virtue, you will find, have been amazingly preserved.

         As water from a dwindling reservoir
         Uncovers mossy stones, new banks of silt,
         So every minute that I spend with you reveals   
         New flaws, new features, new intangibles.   
         We have been sitting here for hours—
         “I spent that summer in Madrid,
         The winter on the coast of France—
         The Millotsons were there, and Farnsworth.
         My work has perished with the rest
         Of Europe, gone, all gone. We will not see the end.”

         You said goodbye, and your perfume   
         Lingered for hours. At first it seemed
         Like summer dying there, then rank and sharp.

         And yet I did not air the room.

      Among Victorian beadwork and the smell of plush,   
      The owls, stuffed and marvelously sinister,
      Glare from dark corners, waiting for the night.   
      High up, the moose’s passive eyes explore
      Candles, unlit, within cut-glass. A door
      Is opened, and you enter with a look
      You might have saved for Pliny or the Pope.

      The furniture has shrunk now thirty years
      Have passed (with talent thinning out, and words   
      Gone dead), and mouths of friends in photographs   
      Display their hopeful and outmoded smiles.   
      You counted on at least a sputter of nostalgia,   
      However fretful. That was a mistake. Even the moose   
      Regards you with a tired, uncomprehending stare.

         Signboards commemorate their resting place.   
         The graveless of another century
         Came and were conquered; now their bones   
         Are dust where idiot highways run.
         Land in their eyes, unquiet ancestors
         (On fences yellow signs clang in the wind)
         Unstirred by suns drying the brown weeds   
         Above them now in parched and caking land.

         But when they speak of you, they feel the need   
         Of voices polished and revised by history,   
         The martial note, words framed in capitals.

         It is good to be deaf in a deafening time   
         With the sky gone colorless, while the dead   
         Thunder breaks, a cracked dish, out of the mind.

      The eye no longer single: where the bowl,
      Dead in the thickened darkness, swelled with light,   
      Transformed the images and moved the artist’s hand,   
      Becomes a framework for our mania.

      And haunts the stairway. Friends depart,   
      Taking their last look from the roof,   
      Saying goodnight and carrying their view   
      Of grapes the model ate in Paris years ago.

      Blue in the morning, green some afternoons;   
      The night, ambiguous, forgets the signature.

      The dust in attics settled and his stove
      Grew cold. About the model nothing much is known.

      It ends the wall and complements the view   
      Of chimneys. And it hides a stain.

         And when your beauty, washed away   
         In impure streams with my desire,
         Is only topic for ill-mannered minds,
         Gifted and glassy with exact recall,
         Gossip and rancid footnotes, or remote despair,   
         Let ruined weather perish in the streets   
         And let the world’s black lying flag come down.

         Only in calendars that mark no Spring
         Can there be weather in the mind
         That moves to you again as you are now:
         Tired after love and silent in this house,
         Your back turned to me, quite alone,
         Standing with one hand raised to smooth your hair,   
         At a small window, green with rain.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Feel Like a Boat Under the Trees

  • New Bonnie Prince Billy, out for a couple of weeks, WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?
  • Give us one day to say our peace. Rebump.
  • Recently discovered locus of intelligent life.
  • I daydream of Warren supporting Sanders just to imagine Clinton's (and her apparatchiks') head exploding, cause fuck the Clinton Democrats.
  • "That's what they offered."
  • Arthur needs your help. He also writes: I can't resist saying that, in addition to my wanting to offer some thoughts about the Trump candidacy, I also want to spend some time considering Ted Cruz. He is one of the creepiest public figures I've seen in my life, which is not short at this point. He's also very, very scary. I'm astounded that people don't recoil from him in terror. But a lot of people don't, which is very interesting and worrying in itself. Never fear: this idiotic presidential election is not one of the major subjects I want to write about, although some of my themes intersect with issues related to Trump, Cruz and the rest of this group of mass murderers, mass murderer wannabes, liars and criminals. They are all deeply disturbed individuals; no one who wants to be president is remotely close to what I consider normal and healthy. And many people also fail to understand that, which is similarly interesting. And extremely worrying.
  • Failure is the precondition of fascism.
  • It is much better.
  • Dan reviews Dan.
  • New P.J. Harvey - I knew this was coming.


C.D. Wright

If this is Wednesday, write Lazartigues, return library books, pick up passport form, cancel the paper.

       If this is Wednesday, mail B her flyers and K her shirts. Last thing I asked as I walked K to her car, “You sure you have everything?” “Oh yes,” she smiled, as she squalled off. Whole wardrobe in front closet.

       Go to Morrison’s for paint samples, that’s where housepainter has account (near Pier One), swing by Gano St. for another bunch of hydroponic lettuce. Stop at cleaners if there’s parking.

       Pap smear at 4. After last month with B’s ear infections, can’t bear sitting in damn doctor’s office. Never a magazine or picture on the wall worth looking at. Pack a book.

       Ever since B born, nothing comes clear. My mind like a mirror that’s been in a fire. Does this happen to the others.

       If this is Wednesday, meet Moss at the house at noon. Pick B up first, call sitter about Friday evening. If she prefers, can bring B to her (hope she keeps the apartment warmer this year).

       Need coat hooks and picture hangers for office. Should take car in for air filter, oil change. F said one of back tires low. Don’t forget car payment, late last two months in a row.

       If this is Wednesday, there’s a demo on the green at 11. Took B to his first down at Quonset Point in August. Blue skies.   Boston collective provided good grub for all. Long column of denims and flannel shirts. Smell of patchouli made me so wistful, wanted to buy a woodstove, prop my feet up, share a J and a pot of Constant Comment with a friend. Maybe some zucchini bread.

       Meet with honors students from 1 to 4. At the community college I tried to incite them to poetry. Convince them this line of work, beat the bejesus out of a gig as gizzard splitter at the processing plant or cleaning up after a leak at the germ warfare center. Be all you can be, wrap rubber band around your trigger finger until it drops off.
       Swim at 10:00 before picking up B, before demo on the green, and before meeting moss, if it isn’t too crowded. Only three old women talking about their daughters-in-law last Wednesday at 10:00.

       Phone hardware to see if radon test arrived.

       Keep an eye out for a new yellow blanket. Left B’s on the plane, though he seems over it already. Left most recent issue of Z in the seat. That will make a few businessmen boil. I liked the man who sat next to me, he was sweet to B. Hated flying, said he never let all of his weight down.

       Need to get books in the mail today. Make time pass in line at the P.O. imagining man in front of me butt naked. Fellow in the good-preacher-blue-suit, probably has a cold, hard bottom.

       Call N for green tomato recipe. Have to get used to the Yankee growing season. If this is Wednesday, N goes in hospital today. Find out how long after marrow transplant before can visit.

       Mother said she read in paper that Pete was granted a divorce. His third. My highschool boyfriend. Meanest thing I could have done, I did to him, returning a long-saved-for engagement ring in a Band-Aid box, while he was stationed in Da Nang.

       Meant to tell F this morning about dream of eating grasshoppers, fried but happy. Our love a difficult instrument we are learning to play. Practice, practice.

       No matter where I call home anymore, feel like a boat under the trees. Living is strange.

       This week only; bargain on laid paper at East Side Copy Shop.

       Woman picking her nose at the stoplight. Shouldn’t look, only privacy we have anymore in the car. Isn’t that the woman from the colloquium last fall, who told me she was a stand-up environmentalist. What a wonderful trade, I said, because the evidence of planetary wrongdoing is overwhelming. Because because because of the horrible things we do.

       If this is Wednesday, meet F at Health Department at 10:45 for AIDS test.

       If this is Wednesday, it’s trash night.


Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Mechanical Hyperbole Government

  • Give us one day to say our peace.
  • Second eye whiteness.
  • No one gets out alive.
  • Fair and square.
  • Shutting Up: Day Seven.
  • About Hollowtide: now that I've tuned it - please, look at the Fleabus photo (I am now Fleabus' official photographer) on header now there (though there will be a new header - or at least a different header - each new post, it's one of Hollowtide's attractions for me. But now the downhill - in blogging, as in hiking, I'd rather go uphill than down, knees-wise. But true: this may surprise you, but I'm remarkably unorganized and confuse tablets and otherwise poorly archive myself. I don't timestamp tablets, and I want a timestamp sometimes.Whether I'll ever need one and/or use one.... So it's more than the bibloggal mania.
  • Speaking of that Fleabus photo - the camera on my iPhone is vastly superior to the the Canon I've used past couple of years, but I am unable to download content to my laptop because I haven't updated iTunes in at least three years. The last time I did it fucked up everything. Now, I know all my music is in the cloud, so I'm going to upgrade tonight - if you have any advice (including DON'T DO IT) please send along.
  • Assuming the upgrades go smooth, I will order THIS to celebrate.
  • >>  BRT!    <<
  • The errant eye: on Pollock and fake Pollocks and how to tell the difference. After my relatives mock Rothko at a holiday table someone brings up Pollock, some dinners visa versa.
  • Carnival theory.
  • Lyrical knowledge.
  • And I will consider the yellow dog.
  • On C.D. Wright.
  • This Heat interview. Songs:


Amanda Calderon

It was a party
Built for the minuscule elite
Lost amid acres of scuffed marble, wanderers
Newspapers & schoolwork
People knew
To speak in surreal, mechanical hyperbole
Government, of course
Monuments, behemoths
Of relative luxury
I know what you want to ask
I want you to take the truth to the world
Down in the city, loudspeakers
Disappearing into a hidden gulag
Centuries ago
The monks appeared
Every morning in the lobbies of our hotels
A minder was beside them
The monks followed us out into the parking lot

Monday, February 1, 2016

Or Maybe You Just Don't Choose to See

It's Blogroll Amnesty Day in Blegsylvania. Some of you who read me found me via the Kindness of Al Weisel. It is because of Al that I adopted my blogroll policy (and, to a large extent, my linking policy, besides giving you stuff I think you might find of interest) - if you Kind me, I'll Kind you, which reminds me - if you are Kinding me but me not you, please let me know. Most importantly, be Kind, motherfuckers.

The Three Holy YouTubes of Egoslavian Blogsluttery:

  • So, if you want to send me a favorite post of yours and/or want to send a link to someone who you think I and others would dig, send me and I'll add to post.
  • Charlie from 2007.
  • UPDATE! Mongo sends this Mongo post.
  • UPDATE! Charlie recommends this 2010 Mongo post.
  • I doubt I'll need two of three of those bullets, will add more, surprise me.
  • The irony being, this is one of my favorite posts of the year and BECAUSE it's one of MY favorites I think, people will read it, though in fact it will be one of the least pinged posts of the year. Fine metaphors abound = fuck me.
  • implying one's own unheardness.
  • I tweeted out what the perfect post title for a Schubert/John Lydon birthday post yesterday - This Sonata Love Song - but (a) no one got it or (b) people got it and didn't think it as funny as I do and (c) I changed the post title and one person let me know he got it. Hi, Paleo 101!
  • Clarification - my hatred of the Clinton's is pure. It doesn't matter whether I like, respect, despise, ignore, mock, or give a flying fuck about who is running against them.
  • That fucking month without a primary - I think the next was Pennsylvania, but I could be wrong - when Obama and Clinton were practically dead even? Jeebus fricking crisp.
  • Too poor to retire, too young to die.
  • History or technological determinism?
  • Kitsch, dirt, mud, chaos.
  • Richard, writing on Maggie Nelson's The Argonauts, of course put this in my head.
  • I heart your dog's head.
  • This being, of course, this shitty blogs Official Theme Song:


Mark Ford

Accordingly, I lay with my wife for three
Successive nights. During this exact period of time
The Mets beat the Cubs and it rained continuously.

October 8th. Fearful itching all over.
After much prodding and goading from H,
I agree to see a skin specialist.

The park by starlight. The margins
Fill will doodles. This space, these
Pages, shelve ever more steeply into darkness.

Sunday, January 31, 2016

This Sonata Love Song

So I bought Flowstate like I knew I would because the tens of thousands of times I have picked up the pen to review a line I just wrote and let go the line I should have been writing and too late it's gone. This is related to the haiku's. Nature/nurture debate me, I can not write free without rules.

Here, the first Flowstate post! I used Flowstate on my iphone. I set the timer for five minutes then just kept drumming the keyboard for six minutes according to the clock on the laptop I'm typing this. It saved! Excellent! and let me email to myself. I.... need to find a way to a keyboard, tapping on iGlass ain't gonna work. Tried bluetoothing my ancient Dell and new iPhone, they see each other but don't talk. I would love a new macbook, a big one, I'm driving this Dell 2001 Matrix into the ground. My iPad is a 1978 square Datsun, red, driving into the ground. Suggestions?


Clark Coolidge

He crackles the air in big fist
because it is turning, the night’s spine
and the fast floor of last year is now the wall of this
Those cracks should be flowers but there is no light
nor lights in the windless binnacle strewn
a slow rate of thought in the broad attention
What is shorn to say and then to leave
awake in the sleep, the pen without its cap
the numbers that will harm if not arrayed
The windows are not blank, the dark not empty
but solid as the mask held loose before
the eyeless active ridden hive
The sounds of the mind entire are
the wind below at the valley floor then a thumping above
as of rocks at work painting the wall
Turn out the lights and think invisibly
stain the turn of time
and hear the year before it’s there