Thursday, September 25, 2014

He Is Learning, Well Behind His Desperate Eyes, the Epistemology of Loss

  • Shostakovich was born 108 years ago today. MSADI5G, High Egoslavian Holy Day.
  • Think of others.
  • The War Machine. Had Bush the audacity Obama has for Executive Power we would have howled. Oh, wait, we did howl. But... But... Isis! Xena the Warrior Princess' hot girlfriend.
  • The NFL is the bell cow of empire.
  • Though I'd never heard of Bill Simmons until this.
  • Speaking of fine metaphors abounding, it was driving me fucking nuts, where I had seen the actress who plays Ezri Dax in Deep Space Nine's final season, she was Laura in the KITH skit I use for fine metaphors abounding. Um, fine metaphors abound.
  • Sloan. Luther Sloan.
  • It is an interesting development, this new POTUS has no power so therefore POTUS has all power.
  • Reminder: motherfucking Democrats.
  • Mediation: anarchism.

  • While I'm scratching apostasy's scabs, let me thank DC United, who wanted to charge me $20 + $10 parking + $10 for crappy beer to see a Wednesday night game v some scrub team from Panama? where? Fuck you. This should be Special Game B out of three in a season ticket package. What? There's no Game A?
  • Whew. That was close, that nostalgia-stroke of two days ago. I may not go to another game this year. I owe some faiths nothing.
  • Bad love is easy to do


John Berryman

What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.


  1. Poem to Some of My Recent Poems

    By James Tate

    My beloved little billiard balls,
    my polite mongrels, edible patriotic plums,
    you owe your beauty to your mother, who
    resembled a cyclindrical corned beef
    with all the trimmings, may God rest
    her forsaken soul, for it is all of us
    she forsook; and I shall never forget
    her sputtering embers, and then the little mound.
    Yes, my little rum runners, she had defective
    tear ducts and could weep only iced tea.
    She had petticoats beneath her eyelids.
    And in her last years she found ball bearings
    in her beehive puddings, she swore allegiance
    to Abyssinia. What should I have done?
    I played the piano and scrambled eggs.
    I had to navigate carefully around her brain’s
    avalanche lest even a decent finale be forfeited.
    And her beauty still evermore. You see,
    as she was dying, I led each of you to her side,
    one by one she scorched you with her radiance.
    And she is ever with us in our acetylene leisure.
    But you are beautiful, and I, a slave to a heap of cinders.

  2. This is true: I really do think, when I post a Peter Jefferies post, that people know who Peter Jefferies is

    some do - there's a wikipedia article on him, and google gets 15 times more hits on "peter jefferies" than on "[myfirstname] [mylastname]" - and it turns out there's a guy tweeting using his/my/our name, i just found out - he has a cat, as i do, and a beard, as i do not

    and speaking of people with the same name, here's an autumn poem by james tate - but obviously not THE james tate

    Autumn Daunting Goes

    Who waves the flaming brand? I really think I know.
    Arrayed with fiery arms, He puts on quite a show.
    The artist of autumn, in a dazzling display
    Of sweet gums, and red maples—takes our breath away.

    Summer fades to fall, trees give up their green,
    Transformed by master design, red, yellow, serene.
    Peacocks fluff their feathers; mocking birds busily sing,
    Formidable autumn is a daunting thing.

    Chlorophyll gives way to radient carotene hues,
    Bright with fall wardrobe, wearing color clues.
    Clap your hands O beauty, sing into the wind.
    Share boundless blessings, blushed in scarlet blend.

    Heaven shouts approval; people show amaze,
    At your brilliant garments, displaying coats ablaze.
    Leaves parade golden in fall’s nippy breeze.
    We are highly joyful—God does things like these!

    1. The Jefferies comment is a slap at me and my tendency to think everyone must know and like what I know and like and my tendency to think everyone gets my weird-ass free associations and allusions and my silly and stupid subsequent pissed mood when they don't.

      It was an easy bluff to make. I knew nobody, even if they knew of and like Peter Jefferies' music, was going to trek to Philly on a weeknight for a concert.

  3. Pelosi should stick to fixing the problems she made by making Steve Israel chair of the DCCC (motto: "we support corporate whores, only").

  4. Did not know PJ. Thanks for the intro!