Wednesday, February 9, 2011

like today so the way people are proud of their flag can enter the pipes of a 4. Blithe astonishment

Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?

It's true! and I cannot wait for March 19. Can. Not. Wait.

No one who STANDS! in 232 wants to hear this but I have a feeling this year isn't going to suck as much as last year. I mean the weather this February is nothing like the weather last February.....

UPDATE! I still got the touch.

United's trying. I'm still rube enough to think United is trying. Dying, but trying.

Say United's season is spectacular, not only wins but elegant play and beautiful goals, the bottom bowl is full and a decent percentage of the upper-bowl gets sold, does that get United a new stadium in DC?

Bless Lord Etcheverry, United's trying. I've rube's faith in a better season than last in spite of my faith in Kasper Payne's ineptitude. Lord Etcheverry knows I need a good primal scream. As I type this there are 37 days, 9 hours, 5 minutes, and 34 seconds before the home-opener. I. Can. Not. Wait.


Brenda Hillman

There are so many types of
“personal” in poetry. The “I” is a needle some find useful, though
the thread, of course, is shadow.
In writing of experience or beauty, a cloth emerges as if made
from a twin existence. It's July
4: air is full of mistaken stars & the wiggly half-zeroes stripes
make when folded into fabric meant
never to touch ground ever again— the curved cloth of Sleeping Beauty
around 1310, decades after the spinning
wheel gathered stray fibers in a whir of spindles before the swath
of the industrial revolution, & by
1769 a thread stiff enough for the warp of cotton fabric from
the spinning frame, the spinning jenny,
the spinning "mule" or muslin wheel, which wasn't patented. By its, I
mean our, for we would become
what we made. String theory posits no events when it isn't a
metaphor; donuts twists in matter—10
to the minus 33 cm—its inverted fragments like Bay Area poetry— 
numbers start the world for grown-ups
& wobbly fibers, coaxed from eternity, are stuffed into stems of dates
like today so the way people
are proud of their flag can enter the pipes of a 4.
Blithe astonishment in the holiday music
over the picnickers: a man waves from his spandex biking outfit, cloth
that both has & hasn't lost
its nature. Unexpected folds are part of form where our park is
kissed by cucalyptus insect noises ^^z-
z~ ~> crr, making that for you Flag cloth has this singing quality.
Airline pilots wear wool blend flag
ties from Target to protect their hearts. Women, making weavings of
unicorns in castles, hummed as they sewed
spiral horns with thread so real it floated; such artists were visited
by figures in beyond-type garments so
they could ask how to live. It’s all a kind of seam.
Flying shuttles, 1733, made weaving like
experience, full of terrible accidents & progress. Flags for the present war
were made in countries we bombed
in the last war. By we you mean they. By you it
means the poem. By it I
mean meanings which hang tatters of dawn’s early light in wrinkled sections of
the druid oak with skinny linguistic
branches, Indo-European roots & the weird particle earth spirits. A voice
came to me in a dream
beyond time: love, we are your shadow thread ~ ~ A little owl
with stereo eyes spoke over my
head. I am a seamstress for the missing queen. The unicorn can’t
hear. It puts its head on
our laps. Fibers, beauty at a low level, fabric styles, the cottage
industry of thought. Threads inspired this
textile picnic: the satin ponytail holder, the gauze pads inside Band-Aids,
saris, threads of the basketball jersey,
turbans, leis over pink shorts, sports bras: A young doctor told us
—he’s like Chekhov, an atheist believer
in what’s here —that sometimes, sitting with his dying patients, he says,
“God bless you.” It seems to
help somewhat. They don’t know what causes delays between strings—by they,
I mean the internet. Turns out
all forces are similar to gravity. We searched for meaning ceaselessly. By
we I mean we. Sewed it
us-wards, with flaws between strings. It seems there is no revolution
in the Planck scale. My sisters
& I worked for the missing queen: she said: be what you
aren’t. A paradox. There are some
revolutions: rips in matter, the bent nots inside our fabric whirred &
barely mattered anymore. Our art
could help take vividness to people but only if they had food.
No revolution helped the workers, ever,
very long. We worked on this or that flag after sewing this
or that unicorn. They called Trotsky
back from Canada. Tribes were looser than nations, nations did some good
but not so very always, &
the types of personal in art turned & turned. Nylon parachutes in
1937. Lachesis. We shall not flag
nor fail, wrote Churchill. O knight, tie our scarf on your neck.
There are more than two ways
to make beauty so movements end like sutras or horizons, somewhat frayed.
Je est un autre wrote Rimbaud
the gun-runner. Over & inner & code. The unicorn, c’est moi. The
rips by which the threads are
tethered to their opposites like concepts of an art which each example
will undo. We spoke of meanings.
I, it, we, you, he, they am, is, are sick about America.
Colors forgive flags—red as the
fireskirt of the goddess Asherah, white
as the gravity behind her eye,
blue for the horizon unbuttoned so the next world can get through.
The “thin thread of calculable continuity”
Santayana refers to —it’s not a choice between art & life, we
know this now, but still: How
shall we live? O shadow thread. After the cotton workers’ lockout 1922
owners cut back sweatshop hours to
44 per week. In string theory the slippage between string & theory
makes air seem an invented thing
& perhaps it is, skepticism mixed with fear that since nothing has
singular purpose, we should not act.
To make reality more bearable for some besides ourselves? There’s a moment
in Southey’s journal when the tomb
is opened & the glow-beast exits— right when the flying shuttle has
revolutionized their work—by their I
mean our —& cut costs by half. So lines are cut to
continue them & if you do
help the others, don’t tell. String theory posits symmetry or weight. My country
’tis of installing provisional governments.
Why was love the meaning thread. Textiles give off tiny singing no
matter what: washable rayon, airport
carpets, checked flannel smocks of nurses, caps, pillowcases, prom sashes, & barbecue
aprons with insignias or socks people
wear before/during sexual thrills after dark subtitled Berkeley movies next to
t-shirts worn by crowds in raincoats.
Human fabric is dragged out, being is sewn with terror or awe
which is also joy. Einstein called mystery
of existence “the fundamental emotion.” Remember? You unraveled in childhood till
you were everything. By everything I mean
everything . The unicorn puts its head on your lap; from there it
sees the blurry edge. How am
I so unreal & yet my thread is real it asks sleepily~~


  1. Thanks bump. Thanks "Peej." Delightful.

  2. Polly polly polly, I have a cracker, I am a cracker, a whip-cracker, I'm whip-smarter than Liz Phair said she was and I'm a guy -- unlike her, so please let me crack my whip Polly! You can be my 50-foot Queenie!

  3. Hell man, 6-20-4, nowhere to go but up, though if things start extra slow, I say they take a page out of the Cavs' book and go for a MLS all time consecutive loss record.

  4. Jeebus, man, you're a tragedy. Get hold of yourself.

  5. Don't worry - I won't do it everyday (DCU wouldn't have any healthy players if I did).

    I am pleased to see they are sinking money into a marketing campaign, small as it is. I'm pleased to see they are genuinely trying to improve the product.

    I really *could* use one of those LOUD SIDE! primal MWARG! at a beautiful goal. Really use it a lot.

  6. I concur, it's vastly preferable to them sinking money into a pair of outside defenders. Or turning Josh Gros into Groscutus.*

    Yes, of course you're right at a high level, and I know that having plunked down the money, you want the product now now now, and it would be terribly unkind to actually begrudge you. But at a fundamental connectivity level, you're getting a chubby over Tino, and I seriously can't be having with that.

    *The royalties are mine.

    PS: Yes, I checked which elementary, and briefly forgot that Earthgirl moved cross-county before I realized that I was anyhow confusing elementary schools scattered across my old temporary turf from my Japanese horror movie days.