Sunday, January 29, 2023

looking out through the eyes of a t.v. programme of a monk sealed into a coffin

Rest in Peace, Tom Verlaine

Deleted monologue on how youtubes of Verlaine songs I posted last night that twitter didn't disappear altogether now don't work and fine metaphors abounding
Deleted monologue on how by page 100 of Cormac McCarthy's *Suttree* I surrendered to overwhelming truth that I *don't* need to read a violent novel about crackers in 1951 Knoxville Tennessee
Deleted monologue on deleted monologues
Abolition, hegemony, the state
Badiou: 13 theses and some comments on politics today
On Liberal dreams of a more imperfect union⬇️
"But the liberal idolatry of process is more than simply a short-sighted political tactic in a populist age; it’s also an all-purpose rationale (and an excuse) for a state of abiding powerlessness. The process by which things get compromised, not that by which they are realized, is idealized as the real work, and clichés about hashing things out and working them out honorably become euphemisms for really not giving a shit. It’s a bloodless outlook that has made an art form of giving no one what they really want or need."
Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat
Know thine enemiesEliminationism?
American exceptionalism in one heartbreaking tweet
Police urge calm in light of unspeakable evil they committed
All igspay are bastards, every one of them
Shitlord plans for police state continue apace
Shitlord plans for police state continue apace
FRESH HELLAvedon Carol's links
Elephant poop, Tasmanian snails...
Maggie's weekly{ feuilleton }'s weekly
On McElroy's *Women and Men*
AUTECHRE!Begging for it, don't do itFUCKED UP!
Beloved Mr Alarum Sasha V Alexa Vallejo new poems
Seek some witnessJames McNew interview
Bobby's *Ace* is fifty years old!
2023 January I was about to post this when I read Tom Verlaine died


Tom Raworth

a line of faces borders the strangler’s work
heavy european women
mist blows over dusty tropical plants
lit from beneath the leaves by a spotlight
mist in my mind a riffled deck
of cards or eccentrics
was i
a waterton animal my head
is not my own
poetry is neither swan nor owl
but worker, miner
digging each generation deeper
through the shit of its eaters
to the root – then up to the giant tomato
someone else’s song is always behind us
as we wake from a dream trying to remember
step onto a thumbtack
two worlds – we write the skin
the surface tension that holds
what we write is ever the past
curtain pulled back
a portrait behind it
is a room suddenly lit
looking out through the eyes
at a t.v. programme
of a monk sealed into a coffin
we close their eyes and ours
and still here the tune
moves on

Tuesday, January 24, 2023

Darkness Starts Inside of Things, Keeps on Going When the Things Are Gone

Every Sunday morning at 9:28 my iPhone texts me data on the past week's screen time, this past Sunday Apple told me my usage last week down 49% from the previous week. It occurs to me as I type this that I haven't checked my stats at this shitty blog or the other shitty blog (where there's no point checking the stats, though that never stopped me before). I think I've tweeted less. I'm not writing, not painting. Not not writing, not not painting, just not writing or painting. Finished reading but not processing McCarthy's *Passenger," will start its coda today or tomorrow, both the best worse book and worse best book I've read since the last. Read Larry Levis' *Elegy,* Levis a poet many of the poets I do read always recommend that I hadn't read, get why they do even if I, entirely predictably, don't ping. Just looked at my digital tablet, no entires in a month, no poetry in analog tablet in a month, nothing in analog tablet but three short entries noting that I'm not writing or painting. Cannot imagine, after reading the McCarthy, restarting the Fosse, I'll take McCarthy's God over Fosse's Jesus one hundred and one times out of a hundred. I apprehend and process my daily reprogamming in square blocks of duh hovering transparently behind my eyes, they turn yellow when I put in my glaucoma drops. Life in the Duhocene. Have I told you three times we are being reprogrammed? I know, I can't imagine reading Vollmann now either. I never would have guessed how anticlimatic and dull and horrifying the deliberate and permanent breaking of kayfabe would be. Zoomed last week with three friends once miles and years away, now galaxies and eons and lifetimes away. I blame me for all of it. Links collected from the last week below before they're stale

Trains, planes, parasitism, and decay
Victimhood and vengeance: on white American christers
Five creepiest moments at the Shitlord Convention
I guarantee peasant-control discussed in closed meetings of the Shitlord Convention
The Business of Strategic Sabotage
Designer economy?PROPAGANDA!
Is easy money an engine of inequality?
Have you tried being less poor?
Today in rhetorical questions!
All igspays are bastards, every single one
The algorithmic gamblification of work
All igspays are bastards, every single one
Today in rhetorical questions!
Generous, excellent, and smart review of Goransson's *Summer, * which I vouch for completely
{ feuilleton }'s weeklyWren on Calvary
Classical music's problem nailed in one sentence
In good news, someone put Delgados in my head


Christian Wiman

A shadow in the shape of a house
slides out of a house
and loses its shape on the lawn.

Trees seek each other
as the wind within them dies.

Darkness starts inside of things
but keeps on going when the things are gone.

Barefoot careless in the farthest parts of the yard
children become their cries.

Tuesday, January 17, 2023

Look Up with the Rapt and Stupid Look of Saints in Paintings

To stop myself thinking about it I bought an Arches 12 x 12 hot-press watercolor block which, if I'd thought about it instead of thinking I needed to buy it, is too big for the bed of the scanner I use so I can post the squares here and there and too big for the laminator I use so that the squares can be handled without fountain pen ink staining fingers, the below is the 12 x 12 cropped to 11 x 11, fine metaphors abound

I've stopped exactly halfway through Fosse's *Septology.* I forced myself to pick it up once, not twice, I sin for not reading it end to end like I once told myself I sinned if I didn't but promise to read after I finish, laugh, McCarthy's *The Passenger,* let me say this about that, I've ordered *Stella Maris* which I'll read after I finish the second half of Fosse's *Septology.* Fosse's Asle has a dog, McCarthy's Bobby has a cat, John Cale has a new song:

Many echoes between the two novels, many probably just me reaching, shared themes, standard novel info-striptease. *The Passenger* is often funny and on two occasions so far laugh out loud funny. I'm open to it and I don't know if I hope I'm wrong or not but lay heavy odds that not *once* will I laugh out loud reading *Septology,* which I will finish though now I like the guy whose move is short verb-less sentences versus this 824 page one sentence novel, another fucking one sentence novel, now, more often than not squeezed into a single paragraph sausage if you're lucky, a too common and now irritating gimmick, it's old, motherfuckers. Old, though below is a new Yo La Tengo song

Owned! I've been owned! I had no idea!
Mike Davis's Ten Immodest Commandments
Third World WarKEVORKO 3000
White people whitewashing MLK
Imperial dominance disguised as Democratic deterrence
NATO and the long war on the 3rd World
We must separate from the burning house
White people whitewashing MLK
Jon Fosse and the art of tedium
A syntax of cadaverous dignity
Maggie's weekly linksJOHN CALE!
Why I divorced the Orioles 25 years ago
Virology as ideologyFRESH HELL
Second to last paragraph: "(PJ) Harvey will release a new studio album—her first in seven years—in 2023" so wOOt!
{ feuilleton }'s weeklyLuddite library
New Sleaford Mods song is lol good


Howard Nemerov

The people in the elevator all
Face front, they all keep still, they all
Look up with the rapt and stupid look of saints
In paintings at the numbers that light up
By turn and turn to tell them where they are.
They are doing the dance, they are playing the game.

To get here they have gone by avenue
And street, by ordinate and abscissa, and now
By this new coordinate, up. They are three-
dimensional characters, taken from real life;
They have their fates, whether to rise or fall,
And when their numbers come up they get out.

Thursday, January 12, 2023

Look For a Black Dog Who Answers to My Whistle

Morton Feldman, born 97 years ago today, still and always one of my deities. One of my proofs of some animating spirit piloting the world: the impossibility of listening to Feldman when driving, so quiet his loud the road and car noise drowns it out, driving my favorite venue for music

L born X years ago today! send her a wish

Hyperconnected culture and its discontents
The mother of all limited hangouts
I'm old and conspiracy-driven so it's certainly only a coincidence news of Biden trumping documents and Marxist Democrats banning gas stoves breaks the same week after the cracker shitshow in the House
NATO and the long war on the Third World
The West is weak where it matters
The ethics of watching helmetball
Helmetball is a metaphor for America?
Avedon Carol's occasional links
Relentlessness: a syllabus
Vodalazkin?{ feuilleton }'s weekly
What literature do we study from the 1990s?
Rest in Peace, Charles Simic
Laugh, when I think of Feldman I think of Stanley Elkin whose Bad Man was Feldman and whose novels I was reading when listening to lots of Morton


Charles Simic

On the first page of my dreambook
It’s always evening
In an occupied country.
Hour before the curfew.
A small provincial city.
The houses all dark.
The storefronts gutted.

I am on a street corner
Where I shouldn’t be.
Alone and coatless
I have gone out to look
For a black dog who answers to my whistle.
I have a kind of Halloween mask
Which I am afraid to put on.

Sunday, January 8, 2023

It Came Like an Ice Cream Truck with Its Weird Tinkling Music

I *am* writing, it just reads like this at this moment

New never before place, my head, at least for now, for reasons I could but do not want to explain to myself in typed and/or scribbled English, it makes me happy and scares the fuck out of me, on breaks I paint while last three days listening to Big Blood's holyfuck new EP:

Do you have bandcamp? Let me buy it for you. My never before head? (Yes, they are all self-portraits, headshots.) Reading Fosse's *Septology* a major factor, first first-read novel since Murnane's *Million Windows* to crack my self-absorption and slice me open like a melon with a novel that teaches me more about me than I'd ever be willing to teach myself even *if* I knew it. The previous sentence is not Fosse-like, I'm not worried about catching a Fosse-tic, but the first clause of this sentence and this last clause of the sentence *is* Murnane and me. My breaks: read, paint, read, paint, read

Music must be on when paint, wet a canvas, pour more wetness, pore over it, watch it drying, I pore over it and watch the washes drying, thinking about *Septology* (and, still, Diane Seuss' *Frank*) and when still canvas is still wet, not even tamped to damp, and I know I should wait and I promise myself I'll wait, I pour more wetness over it. Also too

I'm fine, thanks for asking, the five of you. Whatever besides Fosse and Seuss and the jeffhead I'm making I'm thinking about when listening to good music and watching gouache dry isn't daily dumbfuckery, hot out of the shitlords' dumbfuckery factory, and I'd have volunteered for this if I'd seen it coming, all to say, I'm not dark, am happy, cat-alert, laughing, no agenda to do X, no agenda to not do Y beyond no grid of dumbfuckery (and yumduckery) today and none planned soon and none not planned soon


Diane Seuss

Intimacy unhinged, unpaddocked me. I didn’t want it.
Believe me, I didn’t want it anymore. Who in their
right mind? And then it came like an ice cream truck
with its weird tinkling music, its sweet frost. I fled
to the shore and saw how death-strewn, all the body
parts washed up and sucked clean like that floor mosaic
by Sosus of Pergamon, Unswept House. Seabirds
flocked and dematerialized like they do. Bees raged
at their own dethroning. Love came close anyway,
found me out, its warped music all the rage. It had
a way, just by being in proximity, of opening
the shells of the bivalves. Disclosing their secret
meat. One doesn’t really suck on frozen sugar water.
One allows it to melt in the oven of the mouth.