Friday, October 7, 2011

We Holler These Trysts to Be Self-Exiled that All Manatees Are Credited Equidistant

I'm still having trouble processing Occupy (it's a blessing, hard processing!) because I'm still terminally, fatalistically cynical, forgive me:
Jack Tapper: Thank you, Mr. President. Just to follow up on Jackie's question -- one of the reasons why so many of the people of the Occupy Wall Street protests are so angry is because, as you say, so many people on Wall Street did not follow the rules, but your administration hasn't really been very aggressive in prosecuting. In fact, I don't think any Wall Street executives have gone to jail despite the rampant corruption and malfeasance that did take place. So I was wondering if you'd comment on that.
Obama: Well, first on the issue of prosecutions on Wall Street, one of the biggest problems about the collapse of Lehmans and the subsequent financial crisis and the whole subprime lending fiasco is that a lot of that stuff wasn't necessarily illegal, it was just immoral or inappropriate or reckless. That's exactly why we needed to pass Dodd-Frank, to prohibit some of these practices.
The financial sector is very creative and they are always looking for ways to make money. That's their job. And if there are loopholes and rules that can be bent and arbitrage to be had, they will take advantage of it. So without commenting on particular prosecutions -- obviously that's not my job; that's the Attorney General's job -- I think part of people's frustrations, part of my frustration, was a lot of practices that should not have been allowed weren't necessarily against the law, but they had a huge destructive impact. And that's why it was important for us to put in place financial rules that protect the American people from reckless decision-making and irresponsible behavior.
Fucker. Here's what maddens me: wink, you motherfucker, wink me you know I know you're a dedicated motherfucking turnkey fucking me over, just inflect one syllable of an ugly verb, raise an eyebrow you motherfucking Triskelion thrall:
Under Obama, the executive branch is setting the penalty for treason. It isn't bothering to convict the accused. And alleged guilt is established through an opaque process that it won't even discuss. There is no indication that witnesses are being called to testify to the same overt act, and the accused are most certainly not confessing in open court. In other words, the actions of the Obama administration are straightforwardly unconstitutional, and those involved in the process are violating the oath that they took to protect and defend our founding document.
How many FBI and other federal agents have been ordered into the swarms of Occupy, taking names, taking pictures, filling databases, infiltrating agents provocateurs? Which is an argument for, not against, playing Occupy. Slowly, I'm getting there. And who the fuck uses Star Trek allusions?


Rosmarie Waldrop

We holler these trysts to be self-exiled that all manatees are credited equi- distant, that they are endured by their Creator with cervical unanswerable rims. that among these are lightning, lice, and the pushcart of harakiri. That to seduce these rims, graces are insulated among manatees, descanting their juvenile pragmatism from the consistency of the graced. That whenever any formula of grace becomes detained of these endives, it is the rim of the peppery to aluminize or to abominate it. and to insulate Newtonian grace. leaching its fountain pen on such printed matter and orienting its pragmatism in such formula, as to them shall seize most lilac to effuse their sage and harakiri.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

In the Middle of the Forest There's an Unexpected Clearing which Can Only Be Found by Those Who Have Gotten Lost

Some Transtromer. Nice I've access to a university library's stacks. Click, yo.

I've read his poems in journals and anthologies, but since I have issues with translations in general and in poetry in particular I'm sure I haven't given him the attention he either deserves or doesn't.

I Wake to Sleep and Take My Waking Slow

Got an email yesterday from typepad telling me they tried to renew my year subscription for their service but the credit card I had been using had expired, give them the new numbers or my right to post will be suspended in a week - they won't delete content, though my ability to add new content is contingent on my renewing.

Meaning it's been almost a year since I migrated here from there. Jesusfuck, look at that gahfulness. Much better here, yes? for the updating blogrolls alone - lordy, not needing to ping you to see if you'd posted must have cost some of you five pings a day. That's it for the bleggalgazing: I enjoy blogging, I've come to peace on why I blog, the good reasons, the selfish reasons, the bozo reasons, come to peace with the how and embraced the what the fuck: you read or you don't, it's all cool. Thanks for the Kind. If you're Kinding me and me not you, please let me know.


Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.   
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?   
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.   
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?   
God bless the Ground!  I shall walk softly there,   
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?   
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;   
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do   
To you and me; so take the lively air,   
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.   
What falls away is always. And is near.   
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   
I learn by going where I have to go.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Were Mankind Less Transfixed by Its Own Importance, It Would Be Harder to Be Happy

Thursday Night Pints were Tuesday Night Pints, moved again at my request - tonight we pick up Planet at National, she's spending KC's post-midterms long-weekend with us, and YAY! - so no D; he plays high stakes bridge every Tuesday, claims he's a grandmaster. We talked - K and L and special guest C, sitting alone as only those who give up teaching for deaning do, invited over. Good guy! - about our kids and college, my kid especially since I'm the only one currently playing, K eight years away, L and C done.

Eventually Occupy comes up. C asks me, does this help or hurt your man Obama, and I said, it has been a couple of years since we talked. He thinks, K said to C, nodding at me, Obama's worse than any Republican can be because he can do what Republicans can't. Well, sure, said C, that's why he'll be reelected. Did you hear, I asked, that Glenn Beck told his listeners to withdraw all their money from banks, that the violent American Left will attack Wall Street next week, that we - you and me - want to guillotine the rich. What's the what in your Stringtown, Blegsylvania, K asks me. Bemusement, I said. Wist. Wry smiles that involuntarily deepen to muscles that haven't smiled that deeply in decades when remembering the last time we daydreamed ourselves as revolutionaries. You're talking about you as the galaxy again, L said. As I got up to get L a ridiculously priced scotch, C said, this is about nothing more than protecting your stake. Everything is negotiation, I said. Galaxies.

UPDATE! Just heard - RIP Bert Jansch:


Marvin Bell

Live as if you were already dead.
                          Zen admonition
1. About the Dead Man and Food

The dead man likes chocolate, dark chocolate.
The dead man remembers custard as it was, spumoni as it was, shave
          ice as it was.
The dead man talks food with an active tongue, licks his fingers, takes
          seconds, but has moved on to salads.
It's the cheese, it's the crunch of the crunchy, it's the vinegar in the oil
          that makes a salad more than grass.
The dead man has a grassy disposition but no cow stomach for flappy
          leaves and diced croutons.
The dead man remembers oysterettes as they were.
He recalls good water and metal-free fish.
Headlights from the dock drew in blue claw crabs by the bucketful.
A flashlight showed them where the net lay.
If they looked bigger in the water than in the pail, they grew back on the
It was like that, before salads.
The dead man, at the age he is, has redefined mealtime.
It being the quantum fact that the dead man does not believe in time, but
          in mealtime.

2. More About the Dead Man and Food

The dead man's happiness may seem unseemly.
By land or by sea, aloft or alit, happiness befalls us.
Were mankind less transfixed by its own importance, it would be harder
          to be happy.
Were the poets less obsessed with the illusion of the self, it would be
          more difficult to sing.
It would be crisscross, it would be askew, it would be zigzag, it would be
          awry, it would be cockeyed in any context of thought.
The dead man has felt the sensation of living.
He has felt the orgasmic, the restful, the ambiguous, the nearly-falling-over,
           the equilibrium, the lightning-in-the-bottle and the bottle in shards.
You cannot make the dead man write what you want.
The dead man offers quick approval but seeks none in return.
Chocolate is the more existential, it has the requisite absurdity, it loosens
          the gland.
The dead man must choose what he ingests, it cannot be anything goes
          in the world the world made.
So we come back to chocolate, which frees the dead man's tongue.
The dead man is every emotion at once, every heartbreak, every falling-
          down laugh riot, every fishhook that caught a finger.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

It Is Necessary to Write About the Same Old Things in the Same Way, Repeating the Same Things Over and Over for Love to Continue and be Gradually Different

Peter Gabriel has an album coming out of his orchestral reworkings of his own music. Here, read this, read the track listings, listen to the three sucks provided. Kate Bush did this shit earlier this year. Also this, fuck POTUS 12, also this, motherfucking crackers, also this, motherfucking pwoggles, but also this post and my last post and my next post and your last, now, next posts too. How soon until Google implements a plan to most profitably monetize OWS using heavily leveraged financing, oops, what?.. Here, listen again, the best topical song you'll hear today:


John Ashbery

Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.

Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally
And the color of the day put in
Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter
For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic
Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting.

Only then can the chronic inattention
Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory
And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows
That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge
Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Weather Ain't Judgment & Money Ain't Love


Saw Bonnie Prince Billy last night at Birchmere in Alexandria with Earthgirl and Hamster, a two-hour generous show, made up mostly of the new album, wolfroy goes to town (this post's title taken from this song off wolfroy):

We also got an ethereal Beast for Thee, a sublime I See a Darkness, and for an encore, a joyous version of the below. Holyfuck....

That's it. Wonderful evening. Regular programming resumes tomorrow, or not.

Columbus 2, United 1

What to say? A team starting Daniel Woolard in central defense, Chris Korb at right back, Marc Burch at left back, Clyde Baal Bless Him for His Service Simms in holding mid, Santino Quaranta on midfield wing, and Joseph Ngwenya and Charlie Davies as strikers (with Josh Wolff as replacement), won't win many games. How many players who started for United yesterday make Gax's or Seattle's game-day roster? Two?

Sunday, October 2, 2011

I Stood There with the Maps in My Hand

Watching United v Columbus at 400 at my house, if you know how to get there you are very welcome to join us, leaving immediately afterward to see Bonny Prince Billy at Birchmere with Earthgirl and Hamster, can you guess tomorrow's content?

Also. I'm inhaling the poetry I'm reading, am clogged on any fiction I'm reading, I like but only you can judge how I'm writing, and Holyfuck, my listening to music has never been this voraciously satisfying and fluent. Strange days. Speaking of which, I didn't notice until this morning that yesterday's youtube of this piano sonata didn't identify the composer as Galina Ustvolskaya, and Holyfuck, have more:


James Tate

Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was
in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who
it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the
worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so
I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my
house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds
and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of
questions. “What does he look like?" “What do you feed him?” “How
did you capture him?” And I simply denied the presence of an
extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them
all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around
my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and
parked up and down the street. Roger was really working overtime
on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement.
I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02
last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up
in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them
said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it
myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove
off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now.
I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an
hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen
I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent
fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why
did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You
speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very
hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels.
I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,”
he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me
to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I
don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But
people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following
us everywhere. It would be the story of the century,” I said.
“I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said.
“I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but
they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause
you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said.
I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried
not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I
treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?”
he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,”
I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps
out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came
back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but
very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just
received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous
occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The
Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my
hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must
you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably
my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But
I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s
pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

"Don't Mind Me," I said, "I'm Just a Hungry Little Gnostic in Need of a Sandwich." (This Old Line of Mine had Met with Great Success on Any Number of Previous Occasions.) I Thought, a Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Nurse, Sounds Ideal!

Copied in it's entirety:

If the encampment in downtown NYC is a church, then the sprouting of more of these around the country is something of an religious awakening. And the reaction of the other religious faction is pretty telling.

This is a note sent out to people in the Boston Fed building recently upon news of #OccupyBoston.
Good afternoon.
You may notice various demonstrations in the financial district this afternoon. Most notably, beginning this evening and extending indefinitely, the “Occupy Wall Street / Occupy Boston” movement plans a peaceful demonstration and encampment on Dewey Square. You may have seen media reports about this, and as you may know, a few other cities are seeing similar demonstrations in their financial districts.

Our Law Enforcement Unit is attuned to the situation and as always is in close contact with city and law enforcement officials. We will closely monitor the evolving situation throughout the weekend and beyond.

For your safety, we suggest you exercise caution, and avoid engaging with any demonstrators. Use of the Summer Street entrance and South Station tunnel may be helpful in limiting any inconvenience to you.
Apparently, the encampment is peaceful, but it’s best to avoid engaging with the demonstrators. Better safe than sorry.

(Meanwhile, the Feds loudly bust some dipshit they lead and funded to be busted for scheming to fly a model-airplane bomb into a Federal building and then three days later they proudly yodel they'd flown an model-airplane bomb into an American citizen. Funny timing, that [You're right, I'm nuts, such symmetry is beyond both Corporate's coordination and sense of humor.].)

Self-plagiarizing myself, the lazy fuck: Self-accusatory only. And the first George Mills let his horse lead him to the salt mine. Cynically, it's a nice surprise to have my complicity challenged. More cynically, new material. You see my sweet bind.


James Tate

And what amazes me is that none of our modern inventions
surprise or interest him, even a little. I tell him
it is time he got his booster shots, but then
I realize I have no power over him whatsoever.
He becomes increasingly light-footed until I lose sight
of him downtown between the federal building and
the post office. A registered nurse is taking her
coffee break. I myself needed a break, so I sat down
next to her at the counter. "Don't mind me," I said,
"I'm just a hungry little Gnostic in need of a sandwich."
(This old line of mine had met with great success
on any number of previous occasions.) I thought,
a deaf, dumb, and blind nurse, sounds ideal!
But then I remembered that some of the earliest
Paleolithic office workers also feigned blindness
when approached by nonoffice workers, so I paid my bill
and disappeared down an alley where I composed myself.
Amidst the piles of outcast citizenry and burning barrels
of waste and rot, the plump rats darting freely,
the havoc of blown newspapers, lay the little shroud
of my lost friend: small and gray and threadbare,
windworn by the ages of scurrying hither and thither,
battered by the avalanches and private tornadoes
of just being a gnome, but surely there were good times, too.
And now, rejuvenated by the wind, the shroud moves forward,
hesitates, dances sideways, brushes my foot as if for a kiss,
and flies upward, whistling a little-known ballad
about the pitiful, raw etiquette of the underworld.