Saturday, August 18, 2018

wake from a dream trying to remember step onto a thumbtack



  • Colin Moulding 63 yesterday. Above from earlier this year.
  • The dance of conquest will have to wait.
  • "The Policeman's Ball."
  • I zoomterviewed a potential student worker Friday who asked if he could do audio only as his wisdom teeth were yanked Wednesday and though he could talk clearly his face was still a rainbow balloon, and of course I accommodated.
  • I only needed one wisdom tooth extracted and that fifteen years ago, it took two needles to the gum and ten seconds of wrenching, reminded by the student I remember it now like it hasn't happened yet.
  • "The Elephant Eye."
  • The disappearance of circadian news cycles fucksfun my infernal clocks, the disappearance of circadian news cycles, second's ago aieee! (reminds
  • me Maine sunrises/sets and my body clocks in Maine awry just last week fifteen years ago).
  • Listening for silence with the headphones off.
  • I remember seeing color TV the first time, I was five or six, it was 1965 or 6, it was certainly The Flintstones, it just happened again, my only valid timestamp kerchunk.
  • I bought Collected Raworth at Bridge Street on Pennsylvania yesterday, I have the receipt 
  • wait 
  • threw it away, I want the book, pretty positive it was yesterday, expect a bunch...
  • Moored, dock-slapping, barnacled - ocene.






GASLIGHT

Tom Raworth

a line of faces borders the strangler’s work
heavy european women
mist blows over dusty tropical plants
lit from beneath the leaves by a spotlight
mist in my mind a riffled deck
     
of cards or eccentrics
was i
a waterton animal my head
is not my own
       
poetry is neither swan nor owl
but worker, miner
digging each generation deeper
through the shit of its eaters
to the root – then up to the giant tomato
                
someone else’s song is always behind us
as we wake from a dream trying to remember
step onto a thumbtack
                
two worlds – we write the skin
the surface tension that holds
                                       you
                                       in
what we write is ever the past
          
curtain pulled back
a portrait behind it
is a room suddenly lit
                
looking out through the eyes
at a t.v. programme
of a monk sealed into a coffin
         
we close their eyes and ours
and still here the tune
     
moves on
      

Thursday, August 16, 2018

and every Saturday of their lives they took up all the rugs in their house waxed the hardwood floors and covered them with rugs again, or: Born 98 Years Ago Today

DOG

Charles Bukowski

a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
 
why is this?






Bukowski born 98 years ago today. The traditional Egoslavian Bukowski birthday post.






*






a 340 dollar horse and a 100 dollar whore

Charles Bukowski

don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.

that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet

and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.

you? you . . . a poet?

I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.

but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.

    


                               
*
 

                             
*

 
*

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

I Figure He Can Always Come Over with His Violin and More Sad Music



  • Above better at other place (or click the hoisted Olive to the left just up).
  • I love vacation with Earthgirl, we talk the next while hiking the current.
  • I vacation suck, can't read sleep write eat.
  • Home, vacation digested, more fun at the time than I thought!
  • Photo above, last from last week's Acadia, thirty-seven years ago past Friday.










ABOUT MY VERY TORTURED FRIEND, PETER

Charles Bukowski

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”
                                          
“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”
                                 
“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”
                          
“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”
                                        
“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”
                      
he walks away
thinking about
it.
                    
I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.



Sunday, August 12, 2018

How We Misspeak and Mishear



All glory to the Napoleon Emergency Alert System, now deactivated.

I did one loop of the elementary school parking lot before pulling up to the house, he ran to meet us, screaming hello and where the fuck were you. Lifetime cat.

UPDATE 12:45 PM EDT 8/12/18

MomCat is here!




  • Someone yesterday, when I was sitting in Portland airport, tweeted the word Gaithersburg, the town I grew up in, regarding its Democratic mayor supporting the current GOP governor vs a relatively progressive (emphasis on relatively) Democratic gubernatorial candidate in November election (I meant to tag the tweet but didn't, I'm not going to try and find it), but an article on Maryland Democrats, relatively progressive vs motherfuckers.
  • To be fair, here, from an email from Marc Elrich, Democratic (Ho Chi Minh division) candidate for County Executive of Montgomery County Maryland (hello fellow mocomofos), who is running against eternal moco gadfart Fobin Ricker (GOP candidate) and fucking Flancy Noreen, former Democrat, now developer cowplop: Marc has now been endorsed by Senators Ben Cardin and Chris Van Hollen; Congressmen Anthony Brown, Jamie Raskin, and John Sarbanes; congressional nominee David Trone; chair of the state Democratic Party Kathleen Matthews; County Executive Ike Leggett; and Democratic nominees for Governor and Lieutenant Governor Ben Jealous and Susan Turnbull. He also has the support of the Women’s Democratic Club; the Association of Black Democrats; the Young Democrats; the Green Democrats and former primary opponents Roger Berliner, David Blair, Bill Frick, and George Leventhal.
  • So, credit due, credit given. 
  • On the other hand:






THE POEM OF THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE CORNER OF MISAPPREHENSION AND MARVEL

Albert Goldbarth

During Napoleon iii’s coup d’état one of  his officers, Count de Saint-Arnaud, on being informed that a mob was approaching the Imperial Guard, coughed and exclaimed, with his hand across his throat, “Ma sacrée toux! (my damned cough).” But his lieutenant, understanding him to say “Massacrez tous! (massacre them all),” gave the order to fire, killing thousands—needlessly.
                   —Guy Murchie
 
“He was mortared to death.”
A pity, how we misspeak and mishear.
    
—Or “martyred”? Not that/coin-flip/either
makes a difference to the increasingly cooler
    
downtick of a corpse’s cells. “We heard the crazy mating joy
of the loon across the water.” Yes, but what
    
do we know, amateurs that we are? Loon, shmoon.
It might have been dying, announcing
    
its pain in those trilling pennants. It might
have been the girl who was lost in these woods last week
    
and never found by the volunteer searchers,
it might have been her ghost
    
with an admonishment. The truth is,
even among ourselves we often can’t distinguish pain
   
from pleasure, not in our beds, our hearts, the tone
of a poem on the final exam (a coin-toss). A pity, because
    
we know the urgency of some utterance;
and the intended goodwill of our listening; and
    
the marvelous basic mechanics of speech,
of lung: 300 million alveoli that, “if spread out flat,”
    
as my eighth-grade science teacher preened, “would come to
750 square feet, the entire floor space of an average house,”
    
and she added that tired magic about how atoms
of Julius Caesar and Napoleon and Beethoven did
    
their fleet anachronistic dance in every inhalation
of ours, although at thirteen I preferred to think
    
that the atoms of Cleopatra’s body—my Cleopatra,
inflating her see-through empresswear
    
with husky breaths—commingled with my blood, and also
realized in my own dim way it wasn’t only Einstein,
    
Shakespeare, Madame Curie populating my oxygen,
but also the smelly and scabby old man
   
from across the street who’d died last year
when the late-shift ward nurse heard (as she said in her testimony)
    
“med injection” instead of (as the outgoing
ward nurse told her) “bed inspection”—altogether
    
an unfortunate example of my theme . . . although
exempla abound, misapprehension
    
also dancing inside us at the atomic level.
Someone thought the gate was locked, she always locked
    
the gate in the late afternoon when the haze set down
and the sun for a moment seemed to carmelize the lake top,
    
so the gate was locked; except that it wasn’t,
and seven days into it nobody’s found the girl
    
or a scraggle of hair or a single ribbon. I tell you
we’re amateurs, we’re sometimes bungling amateurs,
    
of the minutiae of our own lives. When I heard the sounds
that gurgled from my chest as my wife was leaving
    
into the dense, conspiratorial Austin, Texas night,
I couldn’t have said if it was defeat
   
or relief. She couldn’t have said which one
she’d have been happiest to cause. We only knew
    
that I’d been wrong at times, and she’d been wrong at times,
and that our total errors, if spread out flat,
    
become the house we live in. They’re another system
inside us, along with the cardiac and the pulmonary,
    
they’re moving us toward the horizon line. And when
enough errors accumulate there, that’s what
    
we call the future. Even now, as you read this,
someone in that unknowable distance
    
is breathing you in.