Wednesday, February 19, 2020

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

Post to praise Serendipity's synchronicity and bump it gone so not taunt it and post for the Low song and Cummings poem and post to praise Fleabus, photo from last night, best cat ever, her death will crush me, the future of me and cats in question if we do spend half the year in Michigan with cat-allergic daughter and cat-allergic son-in-law and presumably cat-allergic grandchildren










[anyone lived in a pretty how town]

E.E. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
   
Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
   
children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
   
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
   
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
   
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
   
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
   
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
   
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

of disappearing disease in the way of our kind

  • Long time no word tablet
  • not because long weekend 
  • I write in word tablet at home 
  • Not because Planet home for short weekend 
  • I write in word tablet when Planet's home 
  • Not because I write clusterbarkduh there 
  • 2nd clusterbarkduh there transfer here
  • I delete 9/10ths clusterbarkduh here
  • lost palimpsests worriless
  • no palimpsests of clusterbarkduh in word tablet
  • I'm not writing in word tablet now because I'm sideways, more fun than not
  • I'm not writing in word tablet now because I can draw better how I feel with clusterbarkduh's reprogramming nyrtzing my private sideways 
  • bwrtzing working for rich fucks but NOT FOR ME or rather Planet and any children she has, I'm set, so complicit, than I can or want to write now
  • astonishing since I think I can write and know I can't draw


  • I do got Dr Sevrin ears, see bullet below, in above I cut them off (bigger, better @ PoJ)
  • Did you notice I changed some images in the blogrolls, I especially like the new Mocomofo
  • Old tricks are for me but thank you if you like
  • I'm murnaning again, I by no mean think he'd fart in my direction but bullets here started in significant part because I want to write Murnane sentences and almost can
  • Shitlords and festerers and jesters oh my instead of sociopath overlords, motherfucking professional Democrats, and jesters, oK?
  • I said to Planet during giftmas visit I want a month totally cut off, eating good hiking lots sure, but cut off, zip digital
  • she's yup
  • Neither of us mentioned it this visit home





PERIL SONNET

David Baker

Where do you suppose
they’ve gone the bees now

that you don’t see them
anymore four-winged

among flowers     low
sparks in the clover

even at nightfall
are they fanning have

they gone another
place blued with pollen

stuck to their bristles
waiting beyond us

spring dwindle is what
we call it collapsing

neonicotinoids
“high levels in pneu-

matic corn exhaust”
loss of habitat

or disappearing
disease in the way

of our kind      so to speak
what do you think

they would call it
language older than

our ears were they
saying it all along

even at daybreak —

Saturday, February 15, 2020

C Is the Call That Wakes All the Beasts in Your Barn

Pink pen, my favorite of eight, filled with brown ink, my favorite of eight, wounded, probably permanently, nib's ajar, attempted to write in tablet last night and splurt, fine metaphors abound, I ordered a replacement now that I am sideways and failing word tablet and seem only to sideways half-well (ymmv) without words








    
ALPHABET

Robert Kelly

A is the arrow that reaches the end
 
Z is the girdle that tautens your soul

 
B is the cabin you built in the woods

  
Y is the yew tree that stands by the door slim and tall

 
C is the call that wakes all the beasts in your barn

  
X is the crossroads where you wait day and night for a friend you call Love

  
D is a door you welcome them through

  
W is the wine you beg them to share, but true Love is abstemious and temperate

  
E is the little sign pinned to the door meaning come in come in if you are who you think you are

 
V is the dull knife you cut the cake with, makes plenty of crumbs you feed to the birds

   
F is the flag that flutters on your roof or the light that flickers from your eyes—you decide

   
U ah, U is the mystery, the bend in the river, the voice from the ground

   
G is the gold in the eyes of a panther or the coins on a plate, you stick them in meters or give them at church

  
T is Christ’s cross, Woden’s hammer, the double ax of Crete, the end of the road

  
H is woman who tells you to build,
and also the house you obey her and make, and then your joyous breath, almost exhausted, welcomes her in

  
S is the sound all things make as they pass—listen hard and listen soft and cherish the differences

 
I is the girder holds up the roof you think but the house still stands when you snatch it away--so what can it be?

 
R is that very roof over your head and the other outer, the big blue one over your head where it all begins

 
J is the enlightened saint you will become, some of you are him or her already--listen!

  
Q is always a mystery, isn’t it, quail in the thicket, queen on her throne, the day the fates appointed for your going, or coming at last

  
K is the candle you need in the daytime, the taste of food, the bird song that wakes you then you go back to sleep

 
P is the traveler you spot on the hillside, the hitchhiker on the highway you can’t decide to pick up and you’ve passed, but P is also the hand he waves to you, the hand you dream about, your hand on someone’s shoulder or knee

  
L is an outing on the meadow, loll on the lawns and look at heaven, heaven lets you see it clearly them, you lie on your side and look at a friend

 
O is the well your mother showed you once, told you of the Milk Lake where you were born, O is the organ they play in the church
but you don’t go anymore, you have a well of your own

 
N is the fish that swims through you when you’re afraid, dark sea, o voyager, even on the brightest day

 
M is the middle, mama, Athene’s owl gazing both ways at once, M is meaning and M is the mountain you climb to call yourself by your secret name, out loud, and the eagles will hear it forever.

Thursday, February 13, 2020

one savage peek then the utter shredding of the poem's costume



Wanna be above, always am below




  • Changed watercolor palette to red red blue blue yellow yellow only, buoy
  • I'm sideways right now but know now how to brown and grey
  • I'm sideways right now keep meaning to green more but brown more and orange always
  • green whisked hard into smear canvasses red or my eyes
  • The dude on the left is my boss' boss' boss' boss' boss' boss' boss
  • I'm sideways right now paint in tablets writing online, pens' nibs crustifying
  • Blue greys and browns the red red red yellow yellow red yellow yellow
  • I'm sideways right now read nothing but poetry never same poet more than one poem per day
  • Me? Sideways, fyckyd trayned to gyve a shyt or thynk miself shyt

  • the Natyonal League ynevytable desygnated hytter, billbarr's *on* yt
  • Arkbay! sayd fyne metaphor aboundyng 
  • I got Dr Sevrin ears
  • Sideways me browning grey



[The book of poems called Who Am]

Clark Coolidge

The book of poems called Who Am
called Stoop Jar     Ask North
going home with you no matter
you're from Halliburton?     on the fly?
read it in one savage peek then the utter
shredding of the poem's costume     who wrote?
a poem won a prize     lost its name
nothing but cakes and rice in there
nothing to the poem but a frosting sound
the land ahead the land behind a poet's find
hello     what's it you ya?     really something
there's a glass on these waters missing in the poem
headed for Ashtabula     headed to the sonic center
the poet floats past the edge of the main system

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

Its Sense of Loitering Lights on My Shoulder



  • Our sociopath overlords understand their jackals jesters and cops
  • Our sociopath overlords - with the occasional photo-op of old white male billionaire crying he's misunderstood because propaganda - don't bother ignoring me because my invective worth shit
  • Our sociopath overlords' jackals jesters and cops, oh my, call them jackals jesters and cops do our sociopath overlords' job
  • It is always decorum, never policy, for jackals jesters and cops
  • What barking fuck on MSNBC doesn't believe every woof he/she/they barks because I admit I have the chance to run them down on Nebraska or Mass and ruefully imagine what I'd do if I could get away with it?







KEEPING IT SIMPLE

Mary Ruefle

I take the bird on the woodpile,
separate it from its function, feather
by feather. I blow up its scale.
I make a whole life out of it:
everywhere I am, its sense of loitering
lights on my shoulder.

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Natality's Ornate Quiescence Tied to Fear's Superb Circumference

  • Unapologetically substantive
  • Offered up a haiku Buttigieg challenge on twaater
  • syllables six through fifteen obvious
  • I called last two can't be *ratfuck* because
  • No one but me:
  • Self-homunculus 
  • unapologetically 
  • substantive hollow




 

[go Venus go vernal go turning go]

Lisa Robertson

go Venus go vernal go turning go
darling by folding sky by buoyant kiss

by plenty (I lie in bed and read Marx)
by secret breezes twisting, contriving

by boulevards by cattle by springle
a springald a springet rise agile from

water, go down modern to the natal
turn by rapacious meetings by luminous

flowers – take with you the eagerness of
my submission to the proliferate

material discipline also
called speech as the political feeling

lusts for public light by engorged
rivers by populated foliage

by veering campus the cry of desire
a morning blackbird in the city entirely

secular and generative and I
can’t curtail my life.

           

Cognition in the room
felt like sensuous human activity
real sensuous activity as such
and natality’s ornate
quiescence tied to fear’s
superb circumference at
home in the dominant expressive
housekeeping of the street
a composition is set in motion.
Unmotivated by any bodily movement
Marx finds in Lucretius the defiant probability.


The I-speaker
on her silken rupture
spills into history.

 
 
Here is Marx’s big dilemma, the reason he goes to Lucretius:
practice arises from conditions
yet these are the conditions we must change.
With a cloth on her upraised right hand
Venus stands on a shell, hair windblown, torso twisted to dance
posture, more fluttering cloth draped over her arm.
As Lucretius writes, Rome is torn by civil strife.
Something of the murky tumult of his times shadows his verses.
In his boyhood began the civil wars.
The Goddess is stepping out of a shell in the midst of the sea.
The stress and turmoil of his times stand in the background.
Lucretius is a man of peace.
He keeps much aloof.
On the left are two winds flying across the waves and propelling
the Goddess towards land. Life-sized.
The text may have become politically disreputable.

 
 
Slow factory
bad pride
Aphrodite had tired
I lie in bed and read Marx
because an obscure object lives in me
so here I renounce my obedience.

       
This year I am sick of language
cut radiant gentle and frank
little angle of dissolved rhyme
who sires the flagrant exemplum
what if language is the suppression
of vitalist vocal co-movement
by the military-industrial complex?
What if language is the market?

         
           
Now their body gestures
now their body conducts
which isn’t changing the body itself
it’s only changing the activity of their body
but it’s also changing the body
like a sensitive shrub with eyes and blood
its act is precious form
otherwise known as rhyme
and it is no good and I continue leaning on trees for rest.

   
I call this the immaterial material.
Its cosmological fluttering, its infrared infinitude
refuses dumbed-down instrumentality.
Its scale is a world.

         
Fear – it’s because there are consequences.