The poll was badly constructed on my part - I asked if I should see three different shows without directly asking if I can only see one of these which should I see but competitive bastards you are you knew what I meant and seven of you said you'd see Swervedriver and four of you said you'd see Vasolines and one of me said I'd see His Name Is Alive so His Name Is Alive wins. My friend Mr Alarum, who I might go see His Name Is Alive with! if he let's me buy him a ticket for Giftmas, sent along this request:
- Any of you Mocomofos and/or Bawlmer hons who want a His Name Is Alive ticket for Giftmas, let me know. My treat.
- How the fuck had I let His Name Is Alive fall out of the regular rotation? I hadn't burned my CDs to the iPod, fixing that over the next couple of days.
- A poetics of radical evil: That is to say, there must be an excavation, necessarily wrenching, in addition to a radical archiving, necessarily annoying. In other words, it is not enough to walk down the Department hall, or cross a theoretical divide that is not a divide, at least not in practice. There is no art without theory, no theory without art, there is the art of theory, and it is just as impure as any theory of art. It is time to rescind all licenses and make things truly free. Which, though it sounds like a sweet liberatory call, something that ought to be issued by one with some modicum of utopianism, or at least the itch for something better than this, is more a statement of fact, designed to prod us along into the future anterior, that conditional to-be. In other words, a violent and manacled responsibility, even duty. To what? To insist that poetry is what poetry isn’t.
- A List with No Name #48.
- Blessed Serendipity, last night as I was pumping gas the gas station muzak was playing Horse with No Name, I tweeted about it.
- An act of war.
- Private NSA reading room?
- Frances and friend make a video!
- the conceptual limits of the latter....
- There will never be a new soccer stadium in DC.
- Yes, it's a cycle. I open a new joint because of what I don't post here for reasons I post there in effort to post them here. I give VNTY'SGRVYRD approx three weeks to accomplish that task. I will then post here what I am posting there until I don't - about a year - when I will need start the cycle again. A sentence very much like this one will be written at that time.
TO THOSE OF YOU ALIVE IN THE FUTURE
Dean Young
who somehow have found a sip of water,
on this day in the past four syndicated
series involving communication with the dead
were televised and in this way we resembled
our own ghosts in a world made brief with flowers.
To you, our agonies and tizzies
must appear quaint as the stiff shoulders
of someone carrying buckets from a well
or the stung beekeeper gathering honey.
Why did we bother hurrying from A to B
when we’d get no further than D, if that?
On Monday, it sleeted in Pennsylvania
while someone’s mother was scoured further
from her own mind. A son-in-law smoked
in the parking lot, exhaling white curses
torn apart by the large invisible indifference.
The general anesthetic wore off
and someone else opened her eyes to the results.
In this way our world was broken and glued.
But why did we bother shooing away the flies?
Did we think we could work our way
inside a diamond if we ground more pigment
into the paper’s tooth, tried to hold fire
on our tongues, sucked at the sugars of each other?
Many the engagement rings in the pawnshop.
Many the empties piled at the curbs.
A couple paused on a bridge to watch
chunks of ice tugged by bickering currents.
One who slept late reached out
for one who wasn’t there. Breads, heavy
and sweet, were pulled from wide infernos
of stone ovens. My name was Dean Young,
I wrote it on a leaf. Sometimes
I could still manage to get lost,
there was no guidance system wired inside me yet.
Laughter might have come from a window
lit far into the night, others were dark
and always silent.
