Thursday, October 8, 2015

O You Dead Pirates


Maxine Kumin

The water closing   
over us and the   
going down is all.   
Gills are given.   
We convert in a   
town of broken hulls
and green doubloons.
O you dead pirates   
hear us! There is   
no salvage. All
you know is the color
of warm caramel. All
is salt. See how
our eyes have migrated
to the uphill side?   
Now we are new round   
mouths and no spines   
letting the water cover.
It happens over   
and over, me in   
your body and you   
in mine.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

The Next WFMU Pet Mascot!

Probably not, but pledge made, Fleabus entered! Go look! and if you flickr please favorite!

Reminder! These photos by Planet!

Yes, The Hamper won the voting (sincere thanks to everyone who played), but that's what I entered last year, though here it is again:

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

A Silent Plow on a Destroyed Farm

I forgot to buy catfood on Sunday, we'd finished the last bag Sunday morning. They were without food for almost 36 hours. The howling in anguish. I did not put my book down early yesterday morning to run to the 24 hour grocery to pick up a rescue bag of Purina Crap Food before work, so fuck me. When I went to PetDumb after work yesterday they were out of Science Diet Fatty-Cat Blend, I bought the next level of calories up (Adult Indoor) meaning a higher level of flavor. Threw out a handful as soon as I got it home, these motherfucking hoovers hoovered as if starving. The howling in pleasure.

Front-to-backed Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans in past 24 hours rather than sleep or buy my starving cats catfood. Howl. I'm better now. I've two extra paperbacks. You know the drill.


Joseph Ceravolo

Everything is out of me,
a sonnet, a ballad
like a silent plow
on a destroyed farm,
while poets sing dooms of element bombs
and man's slow destruction of fluid earth,
I can only focus on an ant, a bud
a look in someone's eye
while the external order of things
declines... The snows fall
by some instantaneous structure,
but God, where is your blood
so that centuries from now
our lips, our tongues might still
sing the flames of the past
and among metals
and electronics dissolving in water,
we might still be stubborn enough,
fuse with the flesh, burn with the soul
and rise in vaporous light.

Monday, October 5, 2015

Theme Song Monday October 5 2015

But perhaps some of this sort has been on the cards for some time. For the truth is, over this past year, I have become increasingly preoccupied with my memories, a preoccupation encouraged by the discovery that these memories - of my childhood, of my parents - have lately begun to blur. A number of times recently I have found myself struggling to recall something that only two or three years ago I believed was ingrained in my mind for ever. I have been obliged to accept, in other words, that with each passing year, my life in Shanghai will grow less distinct, until one day all that will remain will be a few muddled images. Even tonight, when I sat down here and tried to gather in some sort of order these things I still remember, I have been struck anew by how hazy so much has grown. To take, for instance, this episode I have just recounted concerning my mother and the health inspector: while I am fairly sure I have remembered its essence accurately enough, turning it over in my mind again, I find myself less certain about some of the details. For one thing, I am no longer sure that she actually put to the inspector the words: 'How is your conscience able to rest while you owe your existence to such ungodly wealth?' It now seems to me that even in her impassioned state, she would have been aware of the awkwardness of these words, of the fact that they left her quite open to ridicule. I do not believe my mother would ever have lost control of the situation to such a degree. On the other hand, it is possible I attributed these words to her precisely because such a question was one she must have put to herself constantly during our life in Shanghai. The fact that we 'owed our existence' to a company whose activities she had identified as an evil to be scourged must have been a source of true torment to her.

- Ishiguro - When We Were Orphans

That mood when it feels as if only Ishiguro can save me.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

The Air's Glass Jar Seals Each Thing In Its Entity

  • Lindsay Buckingham is 66 today. Forgive me, I love some of Buckingham's Mac songs and most of Buckingham's solo songs.
  • Civilizations.
  • We were in Politics and Prose last night. As I walked in I recognized the voice on the PA system - Robert Reich was promoting his new book, Saving Capitalism. He finished his presentation (he believes in America, believes Americans will rise to the occasion to defeat big money's political dominance because "it's what Americans do, what they've done before") and then solicited questions. The first: "If asked, will you serve in a Sander's cabinet?" Reich danced around the answer of course. We were there for maybe half an hour. Reich bemoaned Citizens United and praised Bernie Sanders for making his one litmus test for SCOTUS nominees that candidates support for overturning Citizens United. He was asked about Tea Partiers (despite their inclination to populist fascism they share some of the anti-big money sentiment of more enlightened progressives) and about engaging a new generation or progressives (something about his sons), but in the entire half an hour there, he never mentioned Inevitability nor was asked about Inevitability.
  • Inevitability defends big banks for 2008 crisis.
  • Dark laughter.
  • Das Buddelschiffgesprach.
  • Three C.K. Williams poems (plus more).
  • Road-tripping with Denise McCluggage.
  • The Confession of St Jim-Ralph.


A.R. Ammons

I don’t know somehow it seems sufficient
to see and hear whatever coming and going is,
losing the self to the victory
   of stones and trees,
of bending sandpit lakes, crescent
round groves of dwarf pine:

for it is not so much to know the self   
as to know it as it is known
   by galaxy and cedar cone,
as if birth had never found it
and death could never end it:

the swamp’s slow water comes   
down Gravelly Run fanning the long   
   stone-held algal
hair and narrowing roils between   
the shoulders of the highway bridge:

holly grows on the banks in the woods there,   
and the cedars’ gothic-clustered
   spires could make
green religion in winter bones:

so I look and reflect, but the air’s glass   
jail seals each thing in its entity:

no use to make any philosophies here:
   I see no
god in the holly, hear no song from
the snowbroken weeds: Hegel is not the winter   
yellow in the pines: the sunlight has never   
heard of trees: surrendered self among
   unwelcoming forms: stranger,
hoist your burdens, get on down the road.