Thursday, May 19, 2022

I Lost My Ridiculous Access Without Acquiring Another


Jeebus, that's twelve years old, done in the Blog Days of Summer in 2010. Up to you whether this is threat or not, I can tell you that while I fondled my beloved triangular scale architecture ruler last night I did not lay it on paper and drawer a line much less rustle in shoebox of watercolor tubes or wash crusted watercolors off either palette (though decided if and when I'd return to only primary colors) and while this is a typical paragraph (though abbreviated) in a typical bleggalgaze at the start of the Blog Days of Summer I typed it here not inked it in gridded lighthouse first, though I thought about it, up to you whether this a threat or not (ditto embedded haikus in grids). Monkeypox, huh.  This is the Official Theme Song of Blog Days of Summer





Not type night yet time
Philosopher of the apocalypse
running out he taps: *Today's
Global civil war: Capitalism post pandemic
New Word: Monkeypox!*First Monkeypox poem I've seen!
Your tax dollars pay for your surveillanceCollective grieving
fettermanning seventeen
Democrats aren't even pretending anymore
Counting to five focuses
Tell me again to reason with this christer motherfucker
Abacus-
The ghost of Antonin Scalia
Me braising my beads
The animal within the animal
freight trains kettled, blueballed in
Proust: on readingDan reviews three books
horn, abbreviated
Joey is a Jeff too, born 71 years ago todayReturn to Hot Chicken: James McNew interview





37 HAIKU

John Ashbery
Old-fashioned shadows hanging down, that difficulty in love too soon

Some star or other went out, and you, thank you for your book and year
 
Something happened in the garage and I owe it for the blood traffic
 
Too low for nettles but it is exactly the way people think and feel
 
And I think there’s going to be even more but waist-high
 
Night occurs dimmer each time with the pieces of light smaller and squarer
 
You have original artworks hanging on the walls oh I said edit
 
You nearly undermined the brush I now place against the ball field arguing
 
That love was a round place and will still be there two years from now
 
And it is a dream sailing in a dark unprotected cove
 
Pirates imitate the ways of ordinary people myself for instance
 
Planted over and over that land has a bitter aftertaste
 
A blue anchor grains of grit in a tall sky sewing
 
He is a monster like everyone else but what do you do if you’re a monster
 
Like him feeling him come from far away and then go down to his car
 
The wedding was enchanted everyone was glad to be in it
 
What trees, tools, why ponder socks on the premises
 
Come to the edge of the barn the property really begins there
 
In a smaller tower shuttered and put away there
 
You lay aside your hair like a book that is too important to read now
 
Why did witches pursue the beast from the eight sides of the country
 
A pencil on glass—shattered!  The water runs down the drain
 
In winter sometimes you see those things and also in summer
 
A child must go down it must stand and last
 
Too late the last express passes through the dust of gardens
 
A vest—there is so much to tell about even in the side rooms
 
Hesitantly, it built up and passed quickly without unlocking
 
There are some places kept from the others and are separate, they never exist
 
I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another
 
In Buffalo, Buffalo she was praying, the nights stick together like pages in an old book
 
The dreams descend like cranes on gilded, forgetful wings
 
What is the past, what is it all for?  A mental sandwich?
 
Did you say, hearing the schooner overhead, we turned back to the weir?
 
In rags and crystals, sometimes with a shred of sense, an odd dignity
 
The boy must have known the particles fell through the house after him
 
All in all we were taking our time, the sea returned—no more pirates
 
I inch and only sometimes as far as the twisted pole gone in spare colors

Monday, May 16, 2022

And I Won't Tell You Where It Is, So Why Do I Tell You Anything? Because You Still Listen, Because in Times Like These to Have You Listen at All, It's Necessary to Talk About Trees


Motherfucking Democrats embrace of Jesus Cracker (and its consequences)
Commence Blog Days of Summer!
A deeply fucked up thing in America
Lynn's friend's first question:
Union-busting crime wave
So, when are you retiring?
Five things the US knew about the Nakba as it unfolded
She claims she knows me
Pentagon-funded think tank simulates war with China on NBC
Gaithersburg High School
Avedon Carol's occasional links
She knows more about my life
The Great American Covid Capitulation
than I know of hers
Maggie's linksFRESH HELL
Newest theory: I
TrailheadTen dead in BuffaloCrimson
too can break kayfabe, fat chance
Reading in the margins: Joy Williams
it gets broke by me
Miss MacIntosh, My Darling{ feuilleton }'s links
Joy Williams on Miss MacIntosh, My Darling:Miss MacIntosh, My Darling. When I was going off to college, I got two copies of this thing, this impossibly neurotic, very strange book by this woman who’d been working on it her whole life, Marguerite Young. What were they thinking?
Laugh, we talked about the cicadas on yesterday's hike
Today is Fripp's birthday, Saturday was Eno's birthday, today is Adrienne Rich's birthday, I found myself writing in tablet over the weekend when I could have tapped a keyboard, we've decided we will not be moving to Michigan, a dog almost adopted us yesterday, woke up with the above Peter Jefferies song in my head, Commence Blog Days of Summer, start overfucking the fuck it here
Why Burial's *Untrue* still effing brilliant




WHAT KIND OF DAYS ARE THESE

Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

Friday, May 13, 2022

Mother Beat You Daily Into Speechless Deafness


I daydreamed that when I pick up Ruan Thai takeaway tonight my congressman Raime Jaskin picking up takeaway too, we're both in masks but make eye-contact, he knows I know who he is as gives me a please-don't-approach-more look and I, sideways in anger at everyfuckingthing shitlordocene but especially at me for having once moronically rooted for that fucker's team of motherfuckers not only didn't pick up the shit metal ladle to the Tom Yum soup tureen and smack him in his ears with it, I averted my eyes and didn't approach him because while he deserves it I'm the one who'd go to jail, gonna try to not get fired at work today, I shouldn't interact with any but loved ones when I'm sideways dark and furious sideways and don't want to infect loved ones with dark furious sideways, everyday going forward like today going forward though will try through at least Saturday to avert eyes from motherfucking news from the shitlordocene
Readthisthisthisthisthisthisthis
thisthisthisthisthisthisthisthis
Had my first routine maintenance check at clock doctor since plague yesterday, clock doc said no more RX refills until I passed an echo, I never worried I wouldn't but still looked forward to confirmation's simple happy relief I needn't worry (especially ahead of our coming summer's planned hiking rigors), but no, I'm darker and angrier and sidewaysier in shitlordocene than happiness can exist, I will be killed by my generation of shitlords if not first by my 90 year old dad's generation long before my clock stops on its own, enjoy the fifteen shots of angry above, gonna not run into that mirror ever again or at least through Saturday or at least will try. Why isn't there a Collected Franz Wright, dammit






THE SCAR'S BIRTHDAY PARTY

Franz Wright

Dim sun-checkered path through the forest, the perishing limbs loose their leaves; were they mine I would gladly let go all my gold leaves tocarpet the ground her feet walk on, though she merely frown, forget I lived, and hurry on, for she must not be late; for reasons not at present time if ever known she can’t be late. She hurries on. She only knows that they are waiting. They are waiting. They are longing for her at this very moment. All year long they have been pining for her, waiting and listening, listening through sleep for the steps they know, the little knock, the child she was they most intently listen for and wait. The child she never was but will be now, if somewhat tall, the instant the front door starts opening as though by itself and the option to enter is offered, apparently. They rejoice, at mere sound of her steps were already rejoicing, though no one will say so; no one knows how that is done, how to make the appropriate face even. They wish in their way to delight at the sight of her, even if it is all they can do to grunt something in greeting, so great is their happiness that she has come, is standing there in person. But for her they have little to live for. It’s dying they live for in fact, and tv. Somebody hands the remote to her, this honor is done her, and gestures sit down. Want a coke, want a cookie, they mutter, it sounds like that, eyes still intent on the set with the sound off, familiar room otherwise dark, curtains drawn. There in its light they all sit: Father Blind, Mother Monster, now her, the faculty of speech regressed already to that of a nine-year-old irreparably shy with terror, sick with hope. She can’t say she is comfortable yet with being seated in this vast armchair, her feet barely touching the floor; or with the prospect of having to sleep in a bed half her length, in her old room, or with lying there in utter darkness frozen, unable to move when they enter, tongue drawn back into her throat. But then she will be dreaming won’t she? The visit itself may be some kind of dream, that is still vaguely possible, a hope entertained, resorted to when necessary, when painful and unheard-of things were occurring to her body, for example, no cessation of them yet in sight, in previous years, those unending years of actually living there, possessing in fact no memory whatsoever of ever having woken up anywhere else. For the time being though she is still sitting here, right next to Mother the fixed smiling glare and her husband the mumbled joke nobody gets, they appear to be sleeping, reclined in their chairs, all year long they’ve been sleeping, sleeping as snow fell, blowing all around the house, spring branches tapping at windows, each alone in their rooms, summer fields white for harvest, then leaves, golden leaves falling, leaves of my dying, dying to see his eyes, hear his voice saying my name, once again he has come here to save me, to buy me things, teach me how monsters have monsters, that’s right, the tormented torment, the abandoned abandon, charismatically numb, cold, surviving, the last ones left standing, and how shall they warm someone else so very much themselves in need of one to come and save them from that arctic horror they have been crossing on foot all their lives, the last companion eaten, the graves of my footprints erased long ago, dying of loneliness there in my cubicle, waiting for someone to rescue me, someone to rescue, it comes to the same thing. Save me . . . I miss you . . . All the while they were sleeping, they slept as the seasons were changing around them, waiting for this day, Mother Beat You Daily Into Speechless Deafness, Father Blind To It All, I’m sorry dear we just don’t have the money for a hearing aid right now, blue soundless tv, and look: there’s Brother Rapist, unnoted, unmentioned, the originless weeping ignored, ignored knock at the back door, the knocking that goes on and on, forwarding address unknown; and Sister Silent is sitting here too in the bad light, the perpetually downcast gaze, the amputated tongue, forever nodding yes yes yes as she’s mouthing the words of the miniature Bible she carries at all times, never getting beyond the first page, from under her pillow it slowly recites itself, such a kind voice saying everything’s fine, everything is going to be all right abruptly followed by a stream of loudly whispered accusations, each one true! But he didn’t really mean it, my peace, my beloved, while we’re waiting for her to turn up, it seems like all we ever do, poor little elder sister still so far and maybe lost awhile but on the straight road once again, surely, and she shall wear gold, golden leaves to adorn her, to guide her here, nodding, now and then slapping herself in the face, hard, trying to shake off the dream she keeps falling into, earth opening under her, the dream of walking someplace else, anywhere, I must wake up now she’s saying, yes, she is so close, I can already hear her, but here in Kindertotenwald the way is long, the roads unnamed, etiquette strange, changing from day to day, minute to minute, for example: is it correct to comment admiringly on a family friend’s shiny new fang dentures? There I can’t help you. The house must be close by now. So what does one say this time, what does one do, when the sardonic greetings cease? You’re asking me? Cringing hugs, possibly. Shake a chill and weightless hand. Kiss a cheek smelling faintly of stale lilac and rotting meat. Take an axe to them all, shrieking, exalted, hunting them from room to room, screaming the scream that will never be over? Beats me. And how did they manage it do you imagine all those years keeping their true lives concealed from the neighbors and look at them now in their ultimate cunning somehow they have totally changed their appearance I mean past recognition you feel who are these shrunken frail elderly people who’ve taken the place of our parents and where did they bury them old people no one would ever suspect victims now think of that and abandoned nobody to care for them here in their long dusty nap with the grass growing up to the windows the household falling down around them all on account of this one thankless child Miss big city fake blonde and self-centered daughter. Who cannot be bothered. Yet here she is again. And why? Why? Why do we still go on phoning them visiting feted and fed by our torturerers why did we not at eighteen leave and never look back and completely forget them, I know, the need from time to time the need to prove they’re really there you can see them have ing still at a listed address and not just in your head and besides. Where else did you ever fit in, tell the truth, and where else is a monster to turn, so close now, what else can you do turn around and go home, and what home would that be? Turn around and go back to that arduously perfected impersonation of one of the normal, fuck the normal, where were they when we needed them, and how could they know, how comprehend this poor sorrow, the guilt, the humiliating and undisobeyable hunger to somewhere belong, just to rest for a day, and be for once this crippled child and how much she has loved.

Wednesday, May 11, 2022

It Was Fairly Ironic, If You Consider That It Is I Who Initiated the Petitions to Have Myself Captured and Put Down Without Delay, an Unfortunate but Necessary Measure in Light of a Clear Threat to Public Safety

Why isn't there a collected Franz Wright, dammit. Library dean relented, agreed to offer the janitor position to the horribly unambitious woefully over-qualified professional librarian but only at the very minimum salary permitted by Hilltop for this janitor grade which of course the candidate turned down as the insult was intended to provoke. I stepped into the staff elevator ten minutes ago, voila, the dean, I said nothing, me and my fucking complicity and fine metaphors abounding. I liked *Harrow* then loved *Harrow* then hated *Harrow* the first time through, I loved *Harrow* then loved *Harrow* then didn't hate but didn't like *Harrow* the second time through, I'll decide years from now if I have years from now whether there will be a third time through, every Joy Williams novel does this to me. I'm sideways angry I'm sideways angry I'm sideways angry. Wait, Yo La Tengo *OPENS?* for Death Cab for Shitty? Low *OPENS?* for Death Cab for Shitty? Where did I gain the faith that if I'm not angry I've surrendered? I thoroughly enjoyed tweeting out Death Cab for Shitty, was typed and sent without a second thought, it's love (as was my purchase on Bandcamp of the just discovered new Big Blood album an hour ago, it's love). Crackers and christers would not be winning if the ruling elite did not want them to win, I said yesterday to a bidenite colleague distraught that crackers and christers are winning but did not mention that crackers and christers are winning with the full complicity of motherfucking Democrats not to spare the feelings of my bidenite colleague but because the duh becoming a dull anger. We are being reprogrammed, I'm telling you three times, I said to the bidenite, effectively enacting a guarantee the bidenite will never attempt bidenizing me again. It felt like the sting of my glaucoma drops that slow my blindness but won't cure it. This green will be gone by weekend's end, summer's darker replacing




Trump breaking kayfabe, by shitlord design or not, the greatest gift shitlords ever received, or: one way or the other it's called disaster capitalism for a reason
The Rise of the New Normal Reich
The Rats in our WallsRadioactive us
Capitalism and the Covid-19 Disaster
Pelosi means Control Your Motherfucking Crackers like we control our motherfucking commies
Another day in Crackerstan
The empire's new clothes
Never believe a cracker who cries about babies
Losing Roe and the new Dred Scott
Overworked and underpaid
Yinz don't like it when I give you proper shit for your helmetball consumption
Pig tells fags to be nicer to crackers
Life in the Shitlordocene
Hurtling,me.Outrage
outpacedbyduh,paraphrase
daily.Spurtlingme
Disassembling Empire: on the MFA industry
The Unraveling of SST Records, or: Why We Lack a Meaningful Counter-Culture Today





SOME RECENT CRITICISM

Franz Wright

I'd been lying in bed reading forever in my starry yoke. I kept coming across references to my death, but I felt fine. Better than ever. It was fairly ironic, if you consider that it is I who initiated the petitions to have myself captured and put down without delay, an unfortunate but necessary measure in light of a clear threat to public safety. Do you know not a single individual was willing to sign, not even in my own neighborhood, having completely lost touch, apparently, with even the memory of having been loved.

Monday, May 9, 2022

And What of the Stanzas We Never Sing, the Third That Mentions "No Refuge Could Save the Hireling and the Slave"

I submitted a hiring committee recommendation for a candidate who will be my direct report for an entry level paraprofessional position to the Dean of the Library who rejected it because the candidate "should want a better job than this one." The candidate has a Masters in Library Science, his applying for a janitor job in a major university library, to the Dean, disqualifying, a certain sign of the candidate's shiftlessness, lack of ambition, overall janitorialness. I said to Dean, I am the single least ambitious human in terms of satisfaction through career advancement as in where I am versus where I could have been I know, why do you think I happily stalled at Advanced Janitor for the past thirty years, my life is elsewhere. The candidate, I continued, as if anticipating this concern, mentioned his outside interests in volunteer work running a DC theater company while pursuing an amateur acting and directing (perhaps leading to professional gigs) in various theater companies in the DC area as well as expressing a passion for kayaking and whitewater rafting, he wants a forty hour week a job that pays the rent, he went to library school, wants to work in a library, does not want to be a librarian. Dean said, he should be ashamed to apply for this job and embarrassed to want to work for you, a staffer. She turned her back on me and walked out of my office. Cheapeasy shot but true: Dean's cars Biden/Harris, pink cat-earred hat, Ukrainian flag bumperstickered





Since I do need a church: Bryce, whose Friday noon Eastern show on WFMU I listen to and adore (except for the every six weeks or so raga show which I don't adore but like), bashed his uninsured head in a motorcycle accident and Station Manager Ken set up a gofund me page to help pay to fix Bryce's uninsured face, please help, I fully confess, I jones for a church of faith and song, I tithe WFMU and I tithed Bryce's bashed head, there's just a week or two left or first Spring green, yesterday at Hidden Pond, Rachel Carson


Your steerage Saturday update for third class passengers
Critique of the techno-feudal reason
Same as it always was: neofeudalism
New breakthrough in my self-surveillance!
The comfort of the Metropole
Seventy-five years of unaccountable failure
Goading nuclear war to win the mid-terms
Russia is too slow, and other canards
The anarchist and the egoist in love
This is why our revolution can't have nice things
Motherfucking Democrats are the enemy
FRESH HELLObamamotherfucker
You are endangered as a citizen
{ feuilleton }'s weekend linksMaggie's
2022 May 9Suburban Lawns





A NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM

Ada Limón

The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National
Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good
song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets
red glare” and then there are the bombs.
(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)
Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
even the tenacious high school band off key.
But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge
could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,
the truth is, every song of this country
has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do
like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,
brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,
when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can
love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,
the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,
that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,
that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving
into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit
in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
and isn’t that enough?