Wednesday, April 18, 2018

It's Called the Moon

  • I notice I'm posting fewer posts. 
  • Past Sunday and Monday evening I nursed no working draft, there is always a working draft if only to collect links, songs and poems, I never not nurse a working draft.
  • I remember Egoslavian Holy Days by posting on the person's bday, 
  • looking at today a year ago in archives.
  • I wasn't here two days, who did I miss (nobody), catch in time (nobody), need remember until April 21 a High Egoslavian Holy Day (times two)? I looked last night.
  • Last April 18, the gif above with nothing but the tags below:
  • So fuck me well and true, bless and damn my in(f)ternal weather's devotion to stations.
  • There's a moon in the sky.
  • Spiral.
  • Blog about a disquieting passage from Murnane's short story "Stream System."
  • Lost Pilot.
  • Truth to tell (finx, muck je): I'm reading, fuck my eye's ache, chimes again now and then. Slay me, to be unslumped, Lordy, I ruin everything.
  • Power's resorting to the electric shock death, revival, see ghosts trick bothers me here at first, but The Overstory so far has earned my trying to get past it.
  • Something zup (me), and it's not dark, or not too dark solely.
  • Here, this is beautiful:

Sunday, April 15, 2018

What Does the Rodent Say to the Glass Shard?

  • Bloodroot is blooming.
  • For all the cumulative hours over years I've spent in woods, and all I want to do is hike with Earthgirl, when I see a deer I hear the word deer, when I see this white flower that blooms in Maryland woods in April I chime in recognition rather than hear its name.
  • The life in and beneath the trees, life at my feet, what does each call itself? I never needed to know.
  • I've seen the above flower every year in April on Maryland trails for x many years and never knew until yesterday humans speaking English call it bloodroot.
  • I paid Apple $4 for an app, point and shoot, facial plant recognition, used once, the fuck? 
  • I ruin every fucking thing. 


John Ashbery

Then I reached the field and I thought 
this is not a joke not a book 
but a poem about something—but what? 
Poems are such odd little jiggers. 
This one scratches himself, gets up, then goes off to pee 
in a corner of the room. Later looking quite 
stylish in white jodhpurs against the winter 
snow, and in his reluctance to talk to the utterly 
discursive: “I will belove less than feared ...”
He trotted up, he trotted down, he trotted all around the town. 
Were his relatives jealous of him? 
Still the tock-tock machinery lies half-embedded in sand. 
Someone comes to the window, the wave is a gesture proving nothing, 
and nothing has receded. One gets caught 
in servants like these and must lose the green leaves, 
one by one, as an orchard is pilfered, and then, with luck, 
nuggets do shine, the baited trap slides open. 
We are here with our welfare intact.
Oh but another time, on the resistant edge of night 
one thinks of the pranks things are. 
What led the road that sped underfoot 
to oases of disaster, or at least the unknown? 
We are born, buried for a while, then spring up just as 
everything is closing. Our desires are extremely simple: 
a glass of purple milk, for example, or a dream 
of being in a restaurant. Waiters encourage us, and squirrels. 
There’s no telling how much of us will get used.
My friend devises the cabbage horoscope 
that points daily to sufficiency. He and all those others go home. 
The walls of this room are like Mykonos, and sure enough, 
green plumes toss in the breeze outside 
that underscores the stillness of this place 
we never quite have, or want. Yet it’s wonderful, this 
being; to point to a tree and say don’t I know you from somewhere? 
Sure, now I remember, it was in some landscape somewhere, 
and we can all take off our hats.
At night when it’s too cold 
what does the rodent say to the glass shard? 
What are any of us doing up? Oh but there’s 
a party, but it too was a dream. A group of boys 
was singing my poetry, the music was an anonymous 
fifteenth-century Burgundian anthem, it went something like this:
“This is not what you should hear, 
but we are awake, and days 
with donkey ears and packs negotiate 
the narrow canyon trail that is 
as white and silent as a dream, 
that is, something you dreamed. 
And resources slip away, or are pinned 
under a ladder too heavy to lift. 
Which is why you are here, but the mnemonics 
of the ride are stirring.”
That, at least, is my hope.

Friday, April 13, 2018

The Market Dreams My Carcass onto the Highway

  • Found it! been looking for this! (the same
  • bookshelves as if it will
  • suddenly materialize) my 
  • favorite seething poetry anthology (as I
  • read but seethe be me) @
  • fucking humans, the planet's
  • human blight, and Serendipity always bless
  • ed too frequently cursed 
  • released termination notices this week:
  • Disappeared, two years ago, the
  • (revenge, (red))
  • (madness)
  • (happiest moment!)
  • (Murnane vacation necessary - opened the new Powers (after
  • finding the anthology and reading
  • the news, it
  • opens with the death of chestnuts, Serendipity be blessed
  • and cursed)) fuck? Book
  • buried in plastic casket of tired 
  • tribal t-shirts, why I exhumed
  • casket I could tell you
  • or - I am trying -
  • not
  • Poem below from there. More too soon.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Before the Witness Can Answer I Receive a TRANSMISSION On High