Tuesday, August 16, 2022

a single dog walking alone on a hot sidewalk of summer appears to have the power of ten thousand gods

BEASTS BOUNDING THROUGH TIME

Charles Bukowski

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward us
impossibly.





Bukowski born 102 years ago today. Was a primary gateway drug four plus decades ago. The traditional BLCKDGRD Bukowski birthday post.





DOG

Charles Bukowski

a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
 
why is this?






a 340 dollar horse and a 100 dollar whore

Charles Bukowski

don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.

that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet

and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.

you? you . . . a poet?

I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.

but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.

    


                               
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Sunday, August 14, 2022

We Mocked Their Greatest Poet and When That Had No Effect We Parodied the Way They Dance Which Did Cause Pain


Full disclosure: these *are* watercolor and ink and pencil on either regular graph paper or regular watercolor paper (Arches, yes, fuck me, the block does keep the paper from warping when drying), but to capture a closer image to what they look like wet (versus what they look like dry) I scan the dried on the office scanner/printer and enhance the colors using souped-up saturation and souped-up vividness and souped-up sharpness and souped-up resolution, I don’t consider this cheating given the limited skills of the artist for anything but lines and color but think I should mention it in case *you* think it’s cheating, fine metaphors abound

In any case, I haven't enjoyed making things as much as I have the past two weeks since the last time I enjoyed making things however long ago that was
The surprising sophisticated mind of an insect
Modern US warmongering worrying Henry Kissinger?
The seductions of declinism
The religious origins of American liberalism
(if paywalled and you want a pdf send me an email)
How Marxism solves today's greatest mystery in the WWE?
For a Marxism w/o guarantees - Stuart Hall
Bleggalgaze (not mine)FRESH HELL
Avedon Carol's occasional links
The stories we tell ourselves about the apocalypse
Revery: transcendenceThe posture of things
Maggie's weekly{ feuilleton }'s weekly
Postmodernism: a very short introduction
Story of the CranesClarice Lispector
Telluria again, mine should get here next week, will start just after I finish - get this, me - Bernhard's *Concrete,* it makes me laugh out loud, laugh
Laugh, me thinking I can read thousand page novels with my eyes, I just ordered Adam Levin's *Mount Chicago*
On Godspeed You Black Emperor's F# A# ∞




Thursday, August 11, 2022

A System of Nitrates and Something Wankers Would Call "a Philosophy"

I remember why I (never settled on a name for what I am doing) quit making things with other things than words, I like making things with other things than words more than making things with words though I still like making things with words but not as much as making things without words and what I make without words will be about what I make with words and visa versa but when I make things I've never settled on a name for what I'm doing it gets closer to what I mean than what I make with words



Flooding in the Sacrifice Zone
Borial forests nearing the tipping point
Climate imperialism in the 21st century
Fining the poor instead of taxing the rich
Hot takes on Dark Brandon phenomenology
Dark Brandon surprised when NPR-historians tell him about American fascists
The ever-changing lexicon of the obscene
How he missed the midnight sun
Incredibly bad news: Number One Sons closing
Reminder: I do think of each post as a poem and make it as such
The story of feminist punk in 33 songs
Deathcamp Meetcute (a very short story)
We hiked w Hamster past Saturday, in his Nats hat he looks like Kurt Wagner
Hey! Have another new Lambchop song






THRASH ME

Sean Bonney

These days everyone is writing their final book. Whatever. I've lost everything as well. My body is made up of three needles, several coins, a system of nitrates and something wankers would call "a philosophy." I see in the dark and like to smash mirrors. For many other people things are far worse. I roam around town reciting an old poem by Anita Berber: CORPSE. KNIFE. CORPSE. KNIFE. LIGHT. There are moments each evening when I think I can see that light. It shines in all the rooms I've lived in, all the rooms and cities that we have always loved always despised. COINS. MIRRORS. LIGHT

Tuesday, August 9, 2022

The Great Complacency of Summer Pressing Down

  1. As I type this sentence on Monday August 8, 2022 at 7:10pm EDT my twitter feed is lit with news that Trump just announced the FBI is raiding Trump's palace in Florida
  2. My beautiful home, Mar-A-Lago in Palm Beach Florida, is currently under siege, raided, and occupied by a large group of FBI agents, he fumed in an official statement, followed exactly by the version of history and his persecution that he absolutely believes to be true that you would expect, plus with some wonderful one-liners such as, They Even Broke Into My Safe!
  3. The magameltdown will be epic, but if you think Liberal hippie punching was bad before....
  4. I wonder if Roe stood Trump's warrant would be served, culture wars are good for rent extractions but corporate underestimated corporate's control over its rabid dog Crackers? (or is this a biscuit for it's rabid dog Crackers) (death to the either/or)
  5. Earlier yesterday before the FBI broke into Trump's safe the Post broke a story that Trump wanted his generals to be as loyal as Hitlers and one of Trump's generals told Trump Hitler's generals tried to kill Hitler three times
  6. Do I keep jeffhead or switch to jeffflag, latest below (I will keep jeffhead and separate tag flag and regret I did not think of jeffflag first, I would have once but I'm old, at least nobody with a warrant broke into the safe I do not own)
  7. Meanwhile, round and round, up and down, in the streets of my town: Regretfully, I email today to make the community aware of hateful and dangerous flyers that were posted in St. Paul Park overnight: Two fliers, with a hateful, racist message, were found in St. Paul Park, one affixed to the communications box near Oberon Street and one affixed to the front of the fire truck apparatus in the playground. Both were found this morning around 7:30am and removed. However, this brings another note of awful caution. Both of these fliers were affixed with razor blades attached to the corners, under the flyer, in an attempt to harm whomever may go to remove them. Fortunately, there were no injuries to the community members who removed the fliers.
  8. My chromebook updated and now twitter and evernote and gmail toggle to black screen white type at 8PM EDT, in other tech news I now have free access to acrobat and its many menus but to use as I'd want I'd need a real PC with more oomph and then I'd have to teach myself how to use programs I'll never use, I can toggle myself between black and white on this chromebook to do what I what the fuck I fuck the what
  9. Fuck it, jeffflags it is on *this* shitsite



When domestic unity is built on foreign enemies
Neofeudalism, Batman, White Saviourism
The apocalyptic fearThe internet is not what you think it is
The controversial plan to unleash the Mississippi
The river below Cairo Illinois should be called the Ohio, yo, it's the bigger river when it's tributary, the Mississippi, merges with it
Earth is spinning faster than 50 years ago
The consciousness of bees
FRESH HELLscroll through for the last three weekly links I didn't post cause vacation
Maggie's weekly linksscroll through for the last three weekly links I didn't post cause vacation
scroll through for the last three weekly links I didn't post cause vacation{ feuilleton }'s weekly links
Call Your Mother is OK, Zingerman's overrated
The fairy tales school of English-language poetry
On Renee Gladman's *Plans for Sentences,* my copy in backpack, just starting so can't vouch yet but will be surprised if I don't (I do vouch for her *Ravicka* novella trilogy)
Will Oldham interviewKate Bush confronting nuclear war
Blog dayziest blog days of summer ever, at this not-pace I'll need open a new moribund mortuary by the end of August (this supposes a damn to weed and transplant I do not at the moment have)



MIDWOOD 8

Jana Prikryl

Out of the sheath dress
gently hopping, sparrow in the lot below
in the great complacency of summer
pressing down, waves of it
what can the plants do but endure this closeness
the trees, their varieties, and ivy, nameless shrubs
and hedges, no one speaks their names
only flowers get that nod and certain grasses
so that when a day of cooler breath in July
airs out the neighborhood you feel
for a moment the rustling in lindens, oaks, sycamores
as they sense what's been withheld
for months, that's when the mature ones
rustle it off, slip almost
sexily out of that dress, unbearable
to feel such potential against one's skin

Friday, August 5, 2022

The Flag Snaps in the Glare and Silence of the Unbroken Ice

Latest flag, I got Doctor Servin ears, people vouch
I want to talk baseball I want to paint I want to write in tablet, what year is this?


The animal worlds that lie beyond our perceptions
They take the cracker in Cracker Barrel literally as a promise (and considering Cracker Barrel's cracker history, a broken promise)
No one, of course, will pass a law requiring crackers to stop eating dead animals and eat Beyond Meat, the issue is that *you* can eat Beyond Meat, this is the cracker moral algorithm
Climate change muting nature's symphony
The boss will see you now: surveilling workers
Surveilling home: Amazon and igspay
How capitalism destroyed the internet
I stopped painting on gridded notebook paper and started painting on watercolor paper and gridding it of sorts myself, and I have officially benched fountain pens and inks, both until I remember everything I forgot about watercolor and wash and color, I wrote first in tablet when I could have typed it here first, both were open
A united labor movement can stop the Far Right?
The Democratic Party exists to stop a united labor movement, yo
The US Military Was Just Used To Help A Dementia Patient Try To Start WW3
The provoking and the provokedCrabby pedants
Both can be true: I've witnessed what ruthless assholes the Lerners are, Mocos, tell them about White Flint if they need a vouch, and no doubt 9/10ths of the $443M in the "contract offer" due in 2045 dollars AND the Lerners could have offered Juan Soto $443M in TODAY'S dollars in all good faith and Juan Soto was never going to sign a long-term contract
Red posted for the first time since 2019, this is why I keep cemetery blogrolls!
UnknowableWhy we need to study nothing
I do not understand mixing blue and never have, gotta fix, my theory I see more blues than all other colors combined and if I had a kit it'd be indigo shirt, palest blue shots, indigo socks, AND I'D NEVER MIX THE ONE I WANT (L says I can't in watercolor, stop trying) I'm useless with blue, gonna work on that, something in Soto's trade and Vin Scully dying (Jon Miller doing Vin Scully on hometown Os radio) and remembering years I spent nights in Memorial Stadium's upper right deck knocked some Baltimore baseball memories loose, I wrote this table and typed and edited here and it didn't kill me, Jeff
Poets complaining about writing poetry
Elizabeth Hardwich in (Machias) Maine
Brief literary conversation with two dead friends
Rukeyser: raging for the world that is
New EnoSemiotics of DogsSorokin's Telluria






90 NORTH

Randall Jarrell

At home, in my flannel gown, like a bear to its floe,
I clambered to bed; up the globe's impossible sides
I sailed all night—till at last, with my black beard,
My furs and my dogs, I stood at the northern pole.

There in the childish night my companions lay frozen,
The stiff furs knocked at my starveling throat,
And I gave my great sigh: the flakes came huddling,
Were they really my end? In the darkness I turned to my rest.

—Here, the flag snaps in the glare and silence
Of the unbroken ice. I stand here,
The dogs bark, my beard is black, and I stare
At the North Pole . . .
                                        And now what? Why, go back.

Turn as I please, my step is to the south.
The world—my world spins on this final point
Of cold and wretchedness: all lines, all winds
End in this whirlpool I at last discover.

And it is meaningless. In the child's bed
After the night's voyage, in that warm world
Where people work and suffer for the end
That crowns the pain—in that Cloud-Cuckoo-Land

I reached my North and it had meaning.
Here at the actual pole of my existence,
Where all that I have done is meaningless,
Where I die or live by accident alone—

Where, living or dying, I am still alone;
Here where North, the night, the berg of death
Crowd me out of the ignorant darkness,
I see at last that all the knowledge
 
I wrung from the darkness—that the darkness flung me—
Is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness 
And we call it wisdom. It is pain.