Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer. Nothing in that drawer.
Krasznahorkai says Baron Wenckheim's Homecoming (wow so far) the fourth of a tetralogy (Satantango, Melancholy of Resistance, War and War), I'll reread the first three before I reread Baron Wenckheim's Homecoming (though the first act of BW'sH, the professor in the hut, eerily reminiscent of the first act of the cottage in Satantango, the train in Melancholy of Resistance, the bridge in War and War)
Woke up with Dog Faced Hermans in my head
A TWILIGHT OF MINOR POETS
Anne Boyer
1.
I once thought we were beautiful because we were beasts I once found some pigs, so rumpy and pink!
Inconsequential! Sublimely compelled! Dork pigs, quasi-canonically bent w/ grunt syllable.
2.
I once thought we were beautiful because we meant nothing
3.
I once thought we were beautiful because we were slant or standing on our heels, staring out windows, thinking some thing or other about light.
Or thinking on "some" - we were hesitant, humming, stretched out - preludic - then
Return we to Don Juan. He begun/To hear new words, and to repeat them
4.
I once thought we were beautiful because of "maraud" "naught' "fuck" "fire" "morning" "fake" "dismember" "decalogue" "cow" "Ars" "Stars" "Hound" "How"
5.
I once thought we were beautiful because we couldn't make songs. "Oh air, pride, plume, here - buckle!"
We hikedyesterday w M, those of you at Planet's wedding remember M, she and I are friends-in-law, I like her
We agree on human pathologies though her Democratic Party apostasies only now overheating in a disenchanted junior Party apparatchik's rusty radiator of patience
In car she asks, so, impeachment? and we proceed to yap next ten minutes me making same points I make here - why now, I asked - who would the GOP run, she asked, only second I've heard ask
She says, I hate Biden, Sanders too old now crippled, I love Warren but she's a liar, she'd be shredded in a general election, so it's
not just you and me, fellowdogs, my friend-in-law said uh-huh when I said Fuck our sociopath overlords
Theodicy. Link below, Fyodor. A word operational as its soldier's intent, obsolete, never deadlier
вдруг: for those of you who do and/or did and/or might again Dostoyevsky
My university is dying (actually, *my* university is rebuilding its motherfucking helmetball stadium after building a new athletic facility after canceling schedule maintenance of dorms and classroom buildings and yes the library I work in)
Anne Carson (I love Anne Carson) is odd's on favorite to win Nobel? (I've
posted her poem below before, so?)
BY CHANCE THE CYCLADIC PEOPLE
Anne Carson 9.4. They put stones in their eye sockets. Upper-class people put precious stones. 16.2. Prior to the movement and following the movement, stillness. 8.0. Not sleeping made the Cycladic people gradually more and more brittle. Their legs broke off. 1.0. The Cycladic was a neolithic culture based on emmer wheat, wild barley, sheep, pigs and tuna speared from small boats. 11.4. Left hand on Tuesdays, right hand on Wednesdays. 10.1. She plied the ferryboat back and forth, island to island, navigating by means of her inner eye. 9.0. When their faces wore smooth they painted them back on with azurite and iron ore. 12.1. All this expertise just disappears when a people die out. 2.0. They wore their faces smooth with trying to sleep, they ground their lips and nipples off in the distress of pillows. 4.4. How you spear it, how you sheer it, how you flense it, how you grind it, how you get it to look so strangely relaxed. 4.0. Mirrors led the Cycladic people to think about the soul and to wish to quiet it. 1.1. The boats had up to fifty oars and small attachments at the bow for lamps. Tuna was fished at night. 16.0.
As far as the experience of stirring is concerned, small stillness
produces small stirring and great stillness great stirring. 3.3. A final theory is that you could fill the pan with water and use it as a mirror. 2.1. It was no use. They’d lost the knack. Sleep was a stranger. 14.1. There it was plunging up and down in its shallow holes. 6.1. The handbag, that artefact which freed human beings from having to eat food wherever they found it. 3.0. While staying up at night the Cycladic people invented the frying pan. 11.0. Three times a day she put the boat on autopilot and went down below to the cool silent pantry. 7.1. Abstention from grain is helpful. 9.3. Their eyes fell out. 11.3. The food was tastier that way. 11.5. This may sound to you like a mere boyish stunt. 11.1. The pantry, what a relief after the splash and glare of the helm. 4.1. To uncontrive. 6.0. To the Cycladic people is ascribed the invention of the handbag, 3.1.
Quite a number of frying pans have been found by archaeologists. The
frying pans are small. No one was very hungry at night. 9.1. Did I mention the marble pillows, I think I did. 2.3. This became a Cycladic proverb. 5.2. Proust liked a good jolt. 7.2. Abstention from grain is the same for men and women. You put your lungs in an extraordinary state of clear coolness. 13.0. One night there was a snowfall, solitary, absurd. 6.3. And after dinner, harps. 1.2. The Cycladic was an entirely insomniac culture. 2.2. Well, they said, these are the pies we have. It was a proverb. 4.2.
My point of view is admittedly faulty. My nose is always breathing. I
am worn out with breathing. I suspect you have days when you choose not
to breathe at all. 14.0. That was the night she looked to her soul. 3.2. Or they may have been prestige frying pans. 9.2. They painted wonderful widow’s peaks on themselves or extra breasts. 5.1.
Possibly because of his blanket refusal to listen to another person’s
dreams at the breakfast table, for Proust dismissed this type of
recollection as ‘mere anamnesia’. 16.1. There it lay, the foredeck in the moonlight, more silver than the sea. 9.5. Perhaps now they were glad after all that they did not sleep. 5.3. That moment when everyone sees exactly what is on the end of their fork, as William S. Burroughs said of celebrity. 15.1. See me leaving you better hang your head and cry, she liked songs like that. Honkytonk influence. 16.3. All of her leapt before her eyes. 8.1. They worried about this and kept their arms close to the body, clasping the torso right arm below left, like a cummerbund. 11.6. She thought it a good idea to silence mental conversation. 12.0. Clouds every one of them smell different, so do ocean currents. So do rocky reefs. 10.2. Her inner eye grew sharp enough to slaughter goats. 15.0. She’d been a pretty good harpist before the die-off. 6.2. So began the dinner parties. 10.0. Eventually the Cycladic people died out all except one, a ferryboat captain. 8.2. Left arm below right was considered uncouth. 7.0. To play a stringless harp requires only the thumbs. 5.0. The Cycladic people were very fond of Proust. 4.3. Is it because you don’t want the impact. 11.2. In the pantry she sat at the counter and ate with her hands. 16.0.
As far as the experience of stirring is concerned, small stillness
produces small stirring and great stillness great stirring.
Trump leaving in a coffin if he agrees to leave *then*
that fat Diet Coked-up fuck a walking heart attack/stroke
I *am* enjoying this more and again I ask why now?
this shit, roach motel ratcheted to Raid
I don't beyond where I do and where you aim me please
but I have not seen anywhere any journalist
pundit, Twaater Overlord, shitty blogger
suggest Trump leaves the White House
unless in a Hearse
I think exfil trial balloon eyes to permanent infil what do I know
had Bernie told us about his ticker we'd had held this fart for later
Hey, Rest in Peace Kim Shattuck I find metaphors
abound Serendipitiously, best dire pop song
LARKS
Anne Boyer
Fourteen stanzas through the brush please mention I dig this slumping anti-sentence: punctuation a meter: yards up. Tight and unapologetic promoters of the agenda - my ratty-down people - tell me again how you grooved across my brother's face. My concern is that you may flee rumbling en masse, burning ship songs, the landing party on fire, stumbling drunk, tongues flapping like surrender, hair in Albion curls.
Brave little sots, dandy in your bones (they fold like architecture), do not hope for a minute I would not turret, moat, and knight for you. I would Harvester and John Deere and Pioneer for you. I would (if a creek) tadpole all the names I cunning for you: preordain, prehensile, prepay, prescient, predate. I cunning for you: mistake, misery, misalign. My people (larks) I would catfish. I would bass boat. I would cast a fly.
