Wednesday, October 21, 2020

Coming Home After Midnight to My Deserted Block

Normally I'd gleefully rush to post a new Lambchop song, Lambchop in the inner circle of rotating bands and musicians in My Sillyass Deserted Island Game (which Jim serendipitously mentioned on twitter yesterday the same day I discovered a new Lambchop song), but the new Lambchop song released yesterday, meh!, that's now 0 for 2 of new songs from the as yet unreleased new Lambchop album (pre-ordered already at Bandcamp), this happened recently in fiction (the new Vollmann novel just sucks) and poetry (the new Ruefle doesn't suck but doesn't sing), strange days, the fuck is wrong with me, but it hasn't happened with my cats, have last night's Naploaf, this guy more indoor each passing day

 



  • The Gonzo Constitutionalism of the American RightOver the last several years, liberals and Democrats have characterized the power (and the threat) of the GOP in a particular way: Trump and the Republicans are seen as lawless enemies of the Constitution who rely on a combination of rabid rhetoric and mobilized masses to wreak havoc upon established institutions. It’s true that Trump’s tweets are toxic; the thrum of his rallies is ominous; the violence and possibility of more violence are unnerving. But that’s not, in the main, where Trump’s power, or the Republican Party’s, lies. The unsettling fact of the current regime is that it depends, ultimately, not upon these bogeymen of democracy—not on demagoguery, populism, or the masses—but upon the constitutional mainstays we learned about in high-school civics. The most potent source of the GOP’s power is neither fascism nor authoritarianism; it is gonzo constitutionalism.
  • Capitalism versus democracy
  • The Road to Revolution
  • Helmetball is and will forever be the best metaphor for USCollege football is all the ugliest facets of U.S. society: unapologetic racism, violence, raw exploitation, and endless harm all so that powerful people and institutions can make a buck. It’s no wonder that Trump literally shouted out his complicity in restarting the Big Ten season during the Presidential Debate. 







A PERFECT MESS

Mary Karr

I read somewhere
that if pedestrians didn’t break traffic laws to cross
Times Square whenever and by whatever means possible,
      
the whole city
would stop, it would stop.
Cars would back up to Rhode Island,
an epic gridlock not even a cat
could thread through. It’s not law but the sprawl
of our separate wills that keeps us all flowing. Today I loved
the unprecedented gall
of the piano movers, shoving a roped-up baby grand
up Ninth Avenue before a thunderstorm.
They were a grim and hefty pair, cynical
as any day laborers. They knew what was coming,
the instrument white lacquered, the sky bulging black
as a bad water balloon and in one pinprick instant
it burst. A downpour like a fire hose.
For a few heartbeats, the whole city stalled,
paused, a heart thump, then it all went staccato.
And it was my pleasure to witness a not
insignificant miracle: in one instant every black
umbrella in Hell’s Kitchen opened on cue, everyone
still moving. It was a scene from an unwritten opera,
the sails of some vast armada.
And four old ladies interrupted their own slow progress
to accompany the piano movers.
each holding what might have once been
lace parasols over the grunting men. I passed next
the crowd of pastel ballerinas huddled
under the corner awning,
in line for an open call — stork-limbed, ankles
zigzagged with ribbon, a few passing a lit cigarette
around. The city feeds on beauty, starves
for it, breeds it. Coming home after midnight,
to my deserted block with its famously high
subway-rat count, I heard a tenor exhale pure
longing down the brick canyons, the steaming moon
opened its mouth to drink from on high ...

Monday, October 19, 2020

Come October, It's the Lake Not the Border


  • October spectacular, we've stayed close to home to drive less hike more Earthgirl paint longer, October the best month here, nothing second
  • Yesterday Ten Mile Creek Trail (my compulsion to type Will Bayne in his green Dodge Dart runs down a cat)
  • our favorite trail in Moco, would be without my compulsion to type Will Bayne in his green Dodge Dart runs down a cat, just a wonderful windy narrow path through a variety of trees and plants and 1950s junked cars no, we haven't walked up to photo, not next Saturday because:




  • On a Saturday of two peak weeks for foliage in piedmont Maryland, Montgomery Parks plans to close a trail popular with mountain bikers and hikers, closing to mountain bikers and hikers so deer can be killed by fucks who enjoy killing animals
  • Set aside the fucks who enjoy killing animals, someone at Montgomery Parks *OKed* deer-hunting on a Saturday of two peak weeks for foliage in piedmont Maryland, one if good weather would be one of four busiest days in Moco woods in any calendar year, on a popular trail with steep ravines and blind curves, so fucks who enjoy killing animals can shoot at anything that moves in the woods
  • Risk Management OKed this?
  • Fuck the fucks who enjoy killing animals, I'll read how this is actual kindness to deer who suffer in large populations as natural habitat turns into motherfucking Outlet Clarksburg and how extra venison will be given to food banks, and fuck that, and fuck the fucks who enjoy killing deer, get off most if killed deer has antlers, happy enough to kill does and fawns
  • We hiked Rachel Carson on Saturday, it's six miles east of Ten Mile Creek Trail via Zion to Sundown to Brink to 355 to Old West Baltimore to Clarksburg Road, five to seven years between two to four of my plot lines
  • It had deer kill yellow signs up also too 
  • I didn't read them for all I know Montgomery Parks will endanger hikers also too there on a Saturday of either two peak weekends for foliage in piedmont Maryland
  • the neon plastic grid assignments to fucks who like to kill animals wrapped on trees and park stiles and sharpee labeled boundaries of the grids each fuck who enjoys killing deer is assigned, fine metaphors abound



 







[Come October, it's the lake not the border]

Lyn Hejinian

Come October, it’s the lake not the border
that has been redrawn. Thinking
about the event afterwards, I realize how remarkably well-prepared   
the girls are. There don’t seem to be any slouches
among them. Please tell them I say hello and that we’ll need 14   
for the green salad and 14 for the apple tarts between
with some rapid washing in clear water I remember as play
and planning in childhood, preparing until the very last moment   
for a gripping narrative that was itself perpetually given over
to improvisations and asymmetrical collaborations that could run
for days. That makes another 14. It was ”the word“ or “the world” in 1981   
when we undertook to talk about the phrase
“once in a while” once in a while
noting the vagueness then named “a while” and how “once” the phrase   
recurs and therefore means more than once
the “while” is defined. We too are in “a while”   
and when “once” next occurs, if the basic design suits
you, we will need a bit of modestly biographical contextualization   
for November. I’m going to put some thought to something
implausibly contemporary which perhaps isn’t wise
since between then and now no new coincidences have been noted   
just one large color photograph of bespangled cowgirls
herding heavy bulls up the avenue that opens this week carefully   
wearing baby blue boots to take out the garbage
but it never rained. At the end of the month, Halloween should be clear.

Saturday, October 17, 2020

Between Bakersfield and Hell Waiting for Santa Claus

  • What if Ginsberg hadn't died and shitlords hadn't cemented at least two decades of pig-guaranteed Supreme Court corporate protection?
  • Today is October 17, 2020, the election eighteen days away, it's a foregone conclusion Trump will lose at the timestamp I post this
  • What would October 17, 2020 be if RBG alive, our shitlords' at least two decades of Supreme Court protection *not* guaranteed?
  • Would you trade Ginsberg's life for Trump's defeat?
  • No, I don't think our shitlords poisoned Ginsberg, I do think her death removed Trump's only remaining value to our shitlords and changed our shitlords' plans for October 
  • Dems delivered, as reward for service and with trust Dems will grift within acceptable boundaries let Dems suck the faucet first in full first for two years, half-jones next two years while shitlords consolidate gains ahead of 2024's cracker restoration
  • If you'd bet me digital pints October 2020 would be the most boring of this potuscycle I'd owe you digital pints
  • Two Bob's birthday yesterday, Weir's 73rd, Mould's 60th



 





PSYCHOANALYSIS: AN ELEGY

Jack Spicer

What are you thinking about?

I am thinking of an early summer.
I am thinking of wet hills in the rain
Pouring water. Shedding it
Down empty acres of oak and manzanita
Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun,
Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard.
Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana
Driving the hills crazy,
A fast wind with a bit of dust in it
Bruising everything and making the seed sweet.
Or down in the city where the peach trees
Are awkward as young horses,
And there are kites caught on the wires
Up above the street lamps,
And the storm drains are all choked with dead branches.

What are you thinking?

I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.

What are you thinking now?

I’m thinking that she is very much like California.
When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways
Traveling up and down her skin
Long empty highways
With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them
On hot summer nights.
I am thinking that her body could be California
And I a rich Eastern tourist
Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas
Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California
That I have never seen.
Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady,
Send them.
One of each breast photographed looking
Like curious national monuments,
One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway
Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging
In the world’s oldest hotel.

What are you thinking?

I am thinking of how many times this poem
Will be repeated. How many summers
Will torture California
Until the damned maps burn
Until the mad cartographer
Falls to the ground and possesses
The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding.

What are you thinking now?

I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.

Thursday, October 15, 2020

More Than the Ear Can Hold

 Want to DJ one hour on WFMU?

What kinds of show ideas are we interested in?
-Underrepresented music on WFMU: new and old artists that haven't received the proper kind of attention on our airwaves yet
-Uncategorizable strangeness
-Spoken word collages
-Spontaneous radio improvisation
-Labored sound art pieces made just for your radio show
-Interviews with scientists, obscure radio personalities, your parents ...
-Comedy
-Found sound, field recordings, etc.

Me, no. Two, three, four, five years back I briefly talked with someone at WOWD in Takoma Park about possibly DJing a show, I don't want to DJ a show beyond the one at this shitty blog, but you? some of you?

This all started after reading Ira's interview on tone view (in which he discusses, among many things, his WFMU weekly show), which means today's playlist is songs by one of the bands on the innermost circle of rotating bands/musicians for the three not permanent chairs in My Stupidass Deserted Island Five Game

 


 

  • These efforts: These fuckers really not understand that Democrats are their allies, that Democrats are the Washington Generals?
  • Reminder: The wife of a Supreme Court justice "is one of the most powerful and fierce women in Washington," and "is really the tip of the spear in these efforts."
  • Reminder: Democrats suppressed the vote in Wisconsin to hurt Sanders
  • Reminder: a nominee to the Supreme Court's father was a top lawyer for an oil company whose case will be heard at the Supreme Court (and the Washington Generals did not ask her about it much less ask her if she will recuse herself)
  • Perry Anderson on Britain's, and ours, clusterfuck
  • Update: I made this tonight 
  • Deserted islands and radical needs
  • My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, the two permanent seats remain permanent though I don't want to listen to either until the requisite birthday posts feel horribly obligatory, the fuck is wrong with me

 


 


Frank O'Hara

Tuesday, October 13, 2020

Of Course It Was a Disaster

  • I increased the font size on my laptop* (and dimmed the lights) because side effect number two of working from home, my eyes
  • I have not changed the seethings on this bleg though it occurs to me I change sentences to fit the square of blaager's current seethings which I now can't if I don't turn the current seethings into obsolete seethings and no, me dumb setting motherfucker, I call this clusterfuck not fake but the best fake farted, yes? anything that happens now nuke Tehran or lay siege to Grand Rapids I have been always was will always be not a wrong barometer
  • (*that won't turn off until it shuts itself off when I don't want it to then won't turn back on when I want it to)
  • Working, the bigger font, the dimmer light





GOING THERE

Jack Gilbert

Of course it was a disaster.
That unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Jonesing That Comes at the End of Desire?

Weird lull, yes? no something so o my fucking god you'll forget day after tomorrow for the next o my fucking god in what, 48 hours? jonesing

I had cause to think of one of my all-time favorite albums and this, one of my favorite songs ever, maybe my favorite tripping my brains out song ever (I'm game, yo, turn me on, dead man)

 







BETWEEN HERE & THERE

Dana Ward

I.
 
Let me speak with expressive
 
hesitation & a feeling for
 
interment why even
 
lineate what isn’t broken by
 
music let me speak with
 
inextricable reluctance.
 
I want to tear the heart
 
from refused convalescence
 
& feed it those long fronds
 
of river bed grass. I want to
 
tear the heart out of style
 
& put it between
 
utter thrall & the infancy
 
of all things impure.
 
Torn out, a flame thickens
 
between us as if
 
not right now we’ll be
 
ripped from this life
 
or each other a white
 
lie not a little more tender
 
than quick. Inextricable
 
reluctance to die or even
 
leave youth culture ever.
 
What a stupid feeling.
 
Do you think it isn’t
 
true? The very existence
 
of flame throwers proves
 
that sometime, somewhere,
 
someone said to themselves
 
‘You know I want to
 
set those people over there
 
on fire but I’m just not
 
close enough to get the
 
job done.’ Someone
 
puts their arms around you
 
in the cold. There’s an al-
 
most disquieting closeness
 
as gossamer clots &
 
becomes an impasto derivative
 
of some newly visible
 
interdependence. Flame
 
throwers then are just
 
a description of prevailing
 
ideology, relics, the life
 
of the party, a soul
 
flirts by burning
 
that name for itself
 
up in jonesing that comes
 
at the end of desire?
 
Well I wouldn’t know
 
about that. A little
 
goat. Why would it
 
nuzzle dreamily up
 
the way I nuzzle dreamily
 
up to my knees. In the
 
‘fatal position’ as my
 
nephew used to call it
 
estranged from play
 
waiting on the fox hunt.
 
Oh baby
 
it beats up my lips
 
the somatic effects
 
of contriving a psychic
 
blockade against death
 
with the contours of your
 
face & healing
 
in constant eclipse
 
where all things
 
inextricably broken by
 
music make the basic
 
rhythmic unit go
 
something like this — I
 
don’t want to loose you. I
 
don’t want to be
 
empty, clever hold &
 
keep you. I was lost
 
to you to start with still
 
I keep on coming back.
 
Do you think you’ll
 
keep on coming back to me
 
forever? That’s the meaning
 
of our life together
 
baby.