Monday, May 7, 2012

Hide My Shield Throw Away My Lance

That's a Beefheart cover, yo. Hamster generously provided his Brahm's birthday playlist, and I added a couple, including a Cello and Piano Sonata, and the post is ready to go, but

my Dog-Face Hermans re-addiction wins the afternoon. Brahms tomorrow, or not.

You Know What I Was, You See What I Am: Change Me

Brahms was born 179 years ago today.  I've asked Hamster to dj today but haven't yet got his playlist, I'll post it when it appears (UPDATE! got it! thanks! it'll be a stand-alone later this afternoon), but here, have a piano sonata. Also too, the general election is six months - that's half a year - from tomorrow, the longest fucking six months of your life since the last until the next. Also too, first call for Blog Days of Summer! I mean, I know this blog sucks, but hasn't started sucking as precipitously as the drop in action here and around Blegsylvania the past week. With the Blog Days of Summer comes bleggalgazing, spared you only so far as this post's sentences - yes, that's a threat - but, as I wrote elsewhere, why write elsewhere what I don't write here or won't write here?


Randall Jarrell

The saris go by me from the embassies.

Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.
They look back at the leopard like the leopard.

And I. . . .
this print of mine, that has kept its color
Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null
Navy I wear to work, and wear from work, and so
To my bed, so to my grave, with no
Complaints, no comment: neither from my chief,
The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief--
Only I complain. . . . this serviceable
Body that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffuses
But, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,
Wavy beneath fountains--small, far-off, shining
In the eyes of animals, these beings trapped
As I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,
Aging, but without knowledge of their age,
Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death--
Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!

The world goes by my cage and never sees me.
And there come not to me, as come to these,
The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain,
Pigeons settling on the bears' bread, buzzards
Tearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . .
When you come for the white rat that the foxes left,
Take off the red helmet of your head, the black
Wings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man:
The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,
To whose hand of power the great lioness
Stalks, purring. . . .
You know what I was,
You see what I am: change me, change me!

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Born Ninety-Eight Years Ago Today


Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.


Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All,
I take a box
And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens.
The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical
Food-gathering flocks
Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,

Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise
If that is wisdom.
Yet somehow, as I buy All from these shelves
And the boy takes it to my station wagon,
What I’ve become
Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.

When I was young and miserable and pretty
And poor, I’d wish
What all girls wish: to have a husband,
A house and children. Now that I’m old, my wish
Is womanish:
That the boy putting groceries in my car

See me. It bewilders me he doesn’t see me.
For so many years
I was good enough to eat: the world looked at me
And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me,
The eyes of strangers!
And, holding their flesh within my flesh, their vile

Imaginings within my imagining,
I too have taken
The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog
And we start home. Now I am good.
The last mistaken,
Ecstatic, accidental bliss, the blind

Happiness that, bursting, leaves upon the palm
Some soap and water—
It was so long ago, back in some Gay
Twenties, Nineties, I don’t know . . . Today I miss
My lovely daughter
Away at school, my sons away at school,

My husband away at work—I wish for them.
The dog, the maid,
And I go through the sure unvarying days
At home in them. As I look at my life,
I am afraid
Only that it will change, as I am changing:

I am afraid, this morning, of my face.
It looks at me
From the rear-view mirror, with the eyes I hate,
The smile I hate. Its plain, lined look
Of gray discovery
Repeats to me: “You’re old.” That’s all, I’m old.

And yet I’m afraid, as I was at the funeral
I went to yesterday.
My friend’s cold made-up face, granite among its flowers,
Her undressed, operated-on, dressed body
Were my face and body.
As I think of her and I hear her telling me

How young I seem; I am exceptional;
I think of all I have.
But really no one is exceptional,
No one has anything, I’m anybody,
I stand beside my grave
Confused with my life, that is commonplace and solitary.

Toronto 0, United 2

Toronto sucks, easily the worse team in MLS, they are as bad as 2010 United, but, disclaimers presented, I'm over-enthusiastically impressed with the win. Toronto sucks but a United back line of Najar, McDonald, Woolard, Korb pitching a shut-out? Najar saved a goal in the first half on a brilliant nod-away header? Boskovic entering after half-time (DeRossario moved forward, Pontius to wing) and United dominates possession, scores twice, the emergence of the Salihi we were advertised? Yes, it was Toronto, but it was also United's sixth game in three weeks, their legs were shot, their central defenders all injured, their all-star rookie was hammied, and to trot out a hoary sports cliche, good teams win the games they should no matter what. An impressive and satisfying and encouraging win.

Beating the Boskovic drum: I tweeted Goff during the first half after hearing that DeLeon didn't start and gave Louis Neal, not Boskovic, the start, asking Goff for his opinion on Olsen's choice, and he responded that Boskovic is both too slow and a liability defensively on the wing. I asked back, the defense, is it can't or won't but got no response. Fullback, in his post-game, writes:

Branko’s bag of subtle touches in tight spaces and languid playing style are at jarring contrast with the way the rest of the team wants to play. They’re racing about at 100 mph while he’s turning pirouettes in slow motion. He’s a lumbering post-up guy on a team built for the fast break.

And yet (and my advocacy may be a Fellowvich thing, knowing me and tribalism), Boskovic on corners and free kicks is the most exciting option United's had since Gomez was in his prime, and his vision on some of his passes is incredibly imaginative: he plays balls into space that take the runner into immediately dangerous positions. I'm not advocating United keep Boskovic come July with a new contract along the same terms as the one he's finishing; if he can't play flanks, if he can't or won't play defense, there are not enough minutes for him if DeLeon, Pontius, DeRossario, Salihi/Santos are on the field. I'm not sure what I am advocating other than I'd like to see more. (Actually, what I'd like to see is Pontius and DeLeon on the wings, Cruz on the bench, Boskovic at ten, DeRossario and Salihi/Santos up top, which will never happen until Cruz is crippled, so much does St. Benny love Cruz. And yes, I know I'm being stupid about Cruz' contributions, the dirty punkasshat.)

I am very curious to see this Saturday's away game versus Houston. I don't hold out much hope, which is more hope than I had before. Here's UnitedMania, here's Shatzer, more later if I see any, have highlights:

Saturday, May 5, 2012

A Peasant Is a Fire That Burns

Dennis the Peasant is sixty-nine today. This guy bought me lunch yesterday. Thanks! for the book and tunes and bleggalgazing! Drones. Yogurt gives mice big balls. Police state. Sympathy for Obama. He, um, posted a link to that on twitter, he's gonna get mauled. Call me when Feingold runs in primary v Obama. Dissident defined. Motherfucking Obama. American exceptionalism. Topics in the bleggalgazing included reminiscing over long-dead blogs, dour predictions for Blegsylvania's present and future. The long and short of capitalism's demise. Zombie politics. Beholden. You calling me a maggot? Speaking of bleggalgazing. Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?

It's true, and they play this afternoon in Toronto against a winless team. O fuck. O fuck-me-jig. The Milky Way as a subway map. History as apocalyptic dream. Hamster sent me the first review of the new Mantel I've seen. I've been debating whether to reread Wolf Hall for the third time before reading the new one, but fuck that. Need finish what I'm in first, then Mantel. Margaret Atwood reviews the new Mantel. Anti-epiphany bookmarks project. Peace to people mourning Adam Yauch: I didn't get, smart people I know did. Twilight Singers cover My Bloody Valentine.


Donald Revell

It doesn’t matter
A damn what’s playing—
In the dead of winter
You go, days of 1978—
79, and we went
Because the soldiers were beautiful
And doomed as Asian jungles
Kept afire Christ-like
In the hopeless war
I did not go to in the end
Because it ended.

The 20th century?
It was a war
Between peasants on the one side,
Hallucinations on the other.
A peasant is a fire that burns
But is not consumed.
His movie never ends.
It will be beautiful
Every winter of our lives, my love,
As Christ crushes fire into his wounds
And the wounds are a jungle.
Equally, no matter when their movies end,
Hallucinations destroy the destroyers.
That’s all.
There has never been a President of the United States.

And the 21st century?
Hallucination vs. hallucination
In cold battle, in dubious battle,
No battle at all because the peasants
Have gone away far
Into the lost traveler’s dream,
Into a passage from Homer,
A woodcutter’s hillside
Peacetime superstition movie.

On a cold night, Hector.
On a cold night, Achilles.
Around the savage and the maniac
The woodcutter draws a ring of fire.
It burns all winter long.
He never tires of it
And for good reason:
Every face of the flames is doomed and beautiful;
Every spark that shoots out into the freezing air
Is God’s truth
Given us all over again
In the bitter weather of men’s
Hallucinations. There has never been
A President of the United States.
There has never been a just war.
There has never been any life
Beyond this circle of firelight
Until now if now is no dream but an Asia.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Theme Song May 2012

Suddenly in my head, will be there for a week. Certainly the second, probably the third time TSOM, maybe the fourth.

We Holler These Trysts to Be Self-Exiled

Cocksucker, I said to L at the bar, motherfucker, said L to me, and we bought each other a pint and drinks for the other two who bet wisely last week. Aargh-Free Day, D asked me, referring to my silly bleggal declaration of earlier that day, take aargh-free decades. I said, I was writing a reminder note to myself on the iPad, pay Verizon their tribute or some such, and in my iPad's spelling self-correcting notebook I accidentally typed venison instead of Verizon and I was shocked when I looked up and saw venison hadn't been corrected to Verizon. Aargh-Free Decade, L laughed, and viciously delicious Hilltop political gossip may or not have ensued; not only can I not reveal what was said, I cannot say whether the conversation did or did not take place. I don't know how to quit, I said, returning to the topic of aargh-freedom. I'm programmed to root for something as stake for my civic assignation. I was taught indifference is chicken-shit surrender and abdication of agency. You've been trained to lead, or at least manage, said K. Yes, and be lead and managed too, that's my complicity, I said. L said, fine metaphors abound, cocksucker. Heh, I said, yes, all the traditional and reflexive tropes will be honored.


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, May 3, 2012

Each Having Seized What Seemed to Be Its Only Chance

Earthgirl emails this morning; someone at her school mentioned that Bryan Ferry will be playing two shows in Reykjavik the end of this month, Monday and Tuesday the 28th and 29th. Can we go? Let me investigate for fun, I write back. Round-trip for two on IcelandAir for two = $2668, not including taxes and fees. Three nights in decent hotel for two = $450. Tickets for one show for two = $112 (or 6990 krona each), so before calculating food, incidentals, other fun we'd schedule, including renting a car to go explore, that starting figure is $3288. I figure $4K is a minimum estimate. So no, we're not going. Also too, have three songs that have nothing to do with Bryan Ferry plus another new Hejinian poem, plus no links (except for this to an Alejandro Escovedo interview via Hamster): it's true I was up late last night and busy today, but it's more true I'm giving my aargh the day off.


Lyn Hejinian

The dog joined in and tore off the man's face while the man,
his arms clasping it, broke every bone in the dog's body, and there the
pair of them lay, near death, each having seized what seemed to be its
only chance.

San Jose 5, United 3

Fracking school night West Coast games. I'm on Motherfucking Grumpy Alert: I'm sure to get asshole customers today as tradition demands that assholes come to the desk to complain about $1 fines from 2009 the morning after I've stayed up until one to watch United lose a fracking school night West Coast game, I don't need the grief for giving grief to an asshole complaining about a $1 fine from 2009.

The game? Oh well. San Jose is good, United's backline is a shambles without Dudar and White and even Jakovic. United was the better team for the first ten minutes - DeRossario, who is finally finding form, hit a beautiful goal in the ninth minute - and San Jose for the remaining eighty. Danny Cruz sucks. Sucks sucks sucks. Sucks. And is a filthy punkass asshat too. Good to see Salihi score. Joe Willis, enjoy the bench until Hamid injures himself. Oh, and fuck Jon Busch and infinite and eternal torment by fire ants to Bozo Lenhart.

Links later if anyone bothers, or not. Highlights:

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Nothing More to Be Learned Since One Can't Be Governed by Superstitions and Omens Are Too Incompletely Informative

After reading about another motherfucking FBI sting of "anarchist" imbeciles set up, funded, encouraged, and supplied with fake weaponry by the FBI; after reading about and watching the mass arrests and orgiastic police brutality against May Day participants; after reading about motherfucking Obama making a surprise campaign stop in Afghanistan to celebrate the one year anniversary of his snuffing of bin Laden; after reading that motherfucking Obama declared yesterday, by presidential decree, Loyalty Day, 2012, I then saw this motherfucking TBogg tweet gleefully retweeted throughout motherfucking Pwoggleville:

Kind of hoping Obama will make a mention of not only killing Osama bin Laden but also Andrew Breitbart just to mess with the wingnuts heads

Hahahahaha, he's so motherfucking funny. That used to be me - please understand my spitting is aimed at me. Hey! Happy Birthday, Hamster!


Lyn Hejinian

I'd attributed entirety to the cattle - self-sufficient
solar calm from which nothing more was to be learned
in a bright place bellied by shade, one hemisphere
with the other implied where they might be twins
so gentle together, nothing more to be learned
since one can't be governed by superstitions
and omens are too incompletely informative

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

на Красной площади - песня "Путин зассал"

What? I've no idea, felt need to post when first heard.

Since 1971 or Before, I Have Hunted a Bench Where I Could Eat My Pimento Cheese in Peace

Motherfucking Obama. Yes or no, did you yes or no?*


C.D. Wright

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth
are small and even. I don't get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench
where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas,
I'd meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could
have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me. I'm still trying to find a job
for which a simple machine isn't better suited.
I've seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish
like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact:
if we were going the speed of light, this dome
would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn't the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I'm not one
among millions who saw Monroe's face
in the moon. I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I'd live in hotels. I won awards
in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago.
Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him
Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.