Thursday, February 25, 2021

I've Been Fobbed Off and I've Been Fooled, I've Been Robbed and Ridiculed, in Daycare Centers and Night Schools, Handle Me with Care




That is one of two Beatles songs, the other George's too, I actively seek out to listen again. Also too, a reminder that the best Traveling Wilburys song is a George song



I hadn't forget when reminded by Landru Beloved an hour ago but I do confess I forgot until mid-morning, George, I always loved best, people can vouch, born seventy-eight years ago today
 




That's my favorite George song, and a reminder that *All Things Must Pass* is by far the second most listened to album in my lifetime and it's catching up to number one and will pass it by 2042 at this pace





ALSO TOO! Holyfuck


Wednesday, February 24, 2021

More for the Sake of the Cat, We Said, Than for Ourselves, Who Huddled, Shivering, Against the Stove All Winter Long



Fleabus, best cat ever, now in shrinking, constant cuddling stage
America's hidden gulagAbusive narcissistMurder spikeSilvia Federici onceSilvia Federici twice
Historians traumatized by historyBy "domestic terrorist" they mean YOUThe 'transition' of the ElitesI had to reboot the new modem for the first time and blinking orange light turned Jesus has risen white, but now my laptop is sworn to a fuck named Jeff and can't log on to the wifi at work, wifi's allegiance to Jeff, Jeff Xfinity aka Jeff Comcast real name Jeff FinemetaphorsaboundKILL ME!
Maggie's weekly linksI own property in this goddamn stateand we have an address, it came with our property tax bill, either Lima Township numbers its property numbers in increments of four or we'll have to walk across someone's property to get to the other part of ours9 rules for the woke birdwatcher
My North Face heavy duty right sling, I think of it as left since I only see it from behind the backpack, ripped 4/5ths off, saw it before the 1/5th broke and backpack flung I need a new laptop. Weeded essentials and nice-to-haves from garbage out of broken North Face's guts, transferred organs to grey-red Timbuk2, not a backpack backpack but a laptop backpack that can double as a briefcase, it's great those five unique minutes every four years when I don't want a backpack backpack because my backpack backpack I had to put to sleep. I've beem resorting the same baseball cards fifty-five years
{ feuilleton } 's weekly linksPaul McCarthyAn Other MysteryTraumatized by history
I found my lost collected Weldon Kees searching what organs I'd left last time I abandoned Timbuk2 because while a great laptop backpack it doesn't even pretend to be a backpack backpack, I found my beloved and thought lost (I did look for it, I did!) then tweeted out a photo of the book then tweeted out his short poem *Turtle*Chess pieces in different languagesReading John Gray in warTexas froze by designTop cop confirms they'd have been in riot gear if the protesters were black
ISHIGUROI get the new Ishiguro next week, I guarantee I'll fail it and will be unable to tell with anywhere near certainty how much of it will be my fault and how much the novel's. His last novel, Buried Giant, read when I always had a novel working, mehhed me, I pretend to have a novel always working now but in truth I fail every novel I start. My eyes, my head, my concentration, my damn, I'm old yes but there's more. Calls into question my current wonderfully bountiful poem readings, my eyes, my head, my concentration, my damn, my performance of myself for myself. And now something to look forward to in these days of not looking forward to anything fills me with dread because I don't trust nothing to look forward to that I will sabotage by filled grids like this one.... I want to be slayed right know I'll be slayed wrong
Bleggalgaze: grid forever until not, if I lost the cloud, medumbmotherfucker ...Have some horny meta-popRead Moby Dick with Ed!2021 February 23SPARKS
KEESKEESKEESI am completely stupid for Kees if you'd like a collected and you ask nice and I like you...KEES



THE END OF THE LIBRARY

Weldon Kees

When the coal
Gave out, we began
Burning the books, one by one;
First the set
Of Bulwer-Lytton
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end, in
February, flames
Consumed the Greek
Tragedians and Baudelaire,
Proust, Robert Burton
And the Po-Chu-i. Ice
Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat,
We said, than for ourselves,
Who huddled, shivering,
Against the stove
All winter long.

Sunday, February 21, 2021

But on Earth Indifference Is the Least We Have to Dread from Man or Beast, or: Born One-Hundred Fourteen Years Ago Today




MUSEE DES BEAUX ARTS

W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.






The Traditional High Egoslavian Holy Day Auden's Birthday Post. I always post that photo, then Musee Des Beaux Arts (it still gets better with each rereading) and then some version of these paragraphs:
Some personal history: besides taking classes from Anthony Hecht, I did basic research grunt work for him on his final two books of criticism in exchange for his company, On the Laws of the Poetic Arts and The Hidden Law, a book specifically about Auden's poetry, which Hecht respected deeply. In the process of the research for and conversations with Hecht over years I must have read the majority of Auden's poems at least once, some countless times, some, like the above and below, literally dozens of dozens of times.
I've told some version of this story countless times: I was hired by Georgetown University mid-August, I sought Hecht out immediately and asked to audit his Fall semester grad poetry class, telling him not only was I only a Georgetown staffer but I hadn't an undergraduate degree and asking please let me audit the class. It focused on five main poets - Frost, Eliot, Auden, Bishop, and Wilbur - but we spent more than half the semester on Auden alone. I've probably spent more time with Auden than with any other poet, and if I only read him now on his birthday, I can pull up countless poems in my head whenever I want.






EPITAPH ON A TYRANT

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.







THE FALL OF ROME

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.







THE MORE LOVING ONE

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.



Saturday, February 20, 2021

Where Analgesia May Be Found to Ease the Infinite

I am nobody is my anthem, catechism, most fervent belief. I build domino chains of rationalization explaining why I explain everything rather than write anything. There are nights I should not write and this is one of them or at least not write haiku, which have saved me hundreds of syllables, I measure once cut once not like the guy made of resiliency in the Federal Credit Union radio commerical on WTOP in an ice storm who measures twice. Limbaugh and Larry King - youngsters, my first car had an AM radio an antenna like a cat whisker, if you are like me and like any sound but the sound of a car I NEED SOMETHING COMING OUT OF THE SPEAKERS best shitty better than no shitty. I had jobs with shifts ending ten eleven midnight, I'd drive moco backroads, that's when it started. Larry King radio interviews driving Big Woods Road from 109 to 28, was him or Art Bell, King, then, by a lot, and I yodeled about Limbaugh's cracker-whispering skills twelve years before my first stupidass blog when he went full Fort Marcy, most talented talk radio host I ever heard. I fall asleep trying to remember Frederick County roads like I'm pretty sure I know the way out of my neighborhood now. Then I remember I am nobody and it's my anthem. Lipsyncher me me again then me for umpth time one two three four five, life in the fuck it despondancy ocene, my dead watercolor palette, I swear the Q and A were a happy accident I'm not correcting




How philosophy wrote it's own obit but then bounced backYour coming mutingUniquely American AnimalAuf nicht wiedersehen: on Limturd
Silvia FedericiMotherfucking Democratsg Democrats motherfucker166
Why do we have dogs?Always the same lieEnd Cap i tal ismSeidel
"We’ve got creativity, inspiration and humor on our side, and if we can wake up a critical mass of people to the fact that they live in a profoundly unfree society disguised by propaganda we’ll have the numbers too. We absolutely can win this thing, we just have to push hard enough for it."<< A friend asked, in the context of humans on this Earth, if I thought anything is possible. I said yes, thinking she thought like I did that anything *horrible* is possible, never considering anything *good* possible at all, or at most some small anything good but only after lots of unimaginablly horrible things I think not only possible but inevitable
Texas LessonsIs the gaze white?The town I grew up in, my father still lives in, the 2nd most ethnically diverse city in AmericaRIP Ghédalia Tazartès
Biden failWish you were hereOther minimal demandThe neo-decadents present neo-decadence
I'd never heard of Toyah Wilcox or knew a single personal fact about Robert Fripp's personal life until Hamster sent me the link one or two or three posts ago, Fripp was Kind to me once in a plantation house outside Harpers Ferry when workshopping with crafty guitarists, HE WAS NOT WEARING A SUIT AND TIEToyah on Toyah & Robert
SpoonGuest room bookshelfThe right thing to doThrill Rides



Q & A

Kenneth Fearing

Where analgesia may be found to ease the infinite, minute scars of the day;
What final interlude will result, picked bit by bit from the morning's hurry, the lunch-hour boredom, the fevers of the night;
Why this one is cherished by the gods, and that one not;
How to win, and win again, and again, staking wit alone against a sea of time;
Which man to trust and, once found, how far—

Will not be found in Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John,
Nor Blackstone, nor Gray's, nor Dun & Bradstreet, nor Freud, nor Marx,
Nor the sage of the evening news, nor the corner astrologist, nor in any poet,

Nor what sort of laughter should greet the paid pronouncements of the great,
Nor what pleasure the mulitudes have, brining lunch and the children to watch the condemned to be plunged into death,

Nor why the sun should rise tomorrow,
Nor how the moon still weaves upon the ground, through the leaves, so much silence and so much peace.

Thursday, February 18, 2021

through the nose, the earsplitting necrology

You just keep on trying until you run out of cake"So why are we convinced, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that sabotage is an unacceptable and ineffective tactic? One answer is that it threatens the very notion of private property—the bedrock of all of our social relationships. To commit an act of sabotage is to announce that you do not recognize the legitimacy of property rights; to expose the relationship between politics, morality, and the economic order; and to abandon the liberal illusion that discourse undermines (property-based) power relations" >>Sabotage
Social media is a scam<< "We’re in this very funny paradoxical moment in history, which is full of moments of dynamic hysteria, yet everything always remains the same. We get this wave of hysteria – angry people click more! – and those clicks feed the systems and nothing changes. It’s a rational machine model."US focus on narratives will let it collide with reality
Reflections on teaching when your classroom is thirty degrees"To understand is not to condone. But if the ruling elites, and their courtiers masquerading as journalists, continue to gleefully erase these people from the media landscape, to attack them as less than human, or as Hillary Clinton called them “deplorables,” while at the same time refusing to address the grotesque social inequality that has left them vulnerable and afraid, it will fuel ever greater levels of extremism and ever greater levels of state repression and censorship." >>Cancel culture is aimed at YOU, yo
Virtual reality is a scam<< "The future of virtual reality is far more than just video games. Silicon Valley sees the creation of virtual worlds as the ultimate free-market solution to a political problem. In a world of increasing wealth inequality, environmental disaster, and political instability, why not sell everyone a device that whisks them away to a virtual world free of pain and suffering?"Double haiku on cracker-whiperer's death - I'm not grave-dancing I don't begrudge grave-dancers. Crackers denouncing grave-dancers can gouge their eyes out with rusty shitsmeared grapefruit spoons
The abuses of Popper"The U.S. ruling class deploys the military for three main reasons: (1) to forcibly open up countries to foreign investment, (2) to ensure the free flow of natural resources from the global south into the hands of multinational corporations, and (3) because war is profitable. The third of these reasons, the profitability of war, is often lacking detail in analyses of U.S. imperialism: The financial industry, including investment banks and private equity firms, is an insatiable force seeking profit via military activity." >>>The neverchanging duh
Mapping the corporate takeover of global governance<<< "And so that’s really a trend that we see increasingly is that our response to climate adaptation by the richest countries is really to militarize our response to it. And that’s a real, as that quote you just read, that’s a real concern because it’s a kind of politics of the armed lifeboat. Where basically you rescue a few and then you have a gun trained on the rest."Metamodernism
"The result is a left-wing discourse that is increasingly anti-intellectual. It has to be anti-intellectual, because its members live in mutual fear. The set of views which might be the basis for cancellation are ever-evolving, in part because of the wide discretion this gives wealthy elites in their deployment of cancellation to eliminate voices they don’t like. In such a climate, the voices that can survive are the obsequious types with no real positions of their own. These people can adapt to ever-shifting discursive rules because they are more interested in having a career than in saying anything substantive. People with principled positions–even people who go to great lengths to avoid cancellation–are likely to run afoul of nebulous rules sooner or later. We end up with a “left” discourse populated mainly by people who are comfortable appeasing oligarchs while trafficking in left-wing aesthetics and tropes." >>>Cancel culture versus ideological hegemony?
Krasnahorkai<< I wrote about suddenly discovering myself physically old >><<<<< It was Krasznahorkai's *Baron Wenckheim'sHomecoming,* a novel I'd waited for with great anticipation, finally got the English translation last January 2020, my eyes do not have the stamina or my concentration the muscle both once did, between the tiny font and the Krasznahorkai triple freight train sentences, first no doubt bell of old
A break-up letter to my writing career<<< "Every reader is a reader of crime novels. They want the criminal to succeed because they want to escape, and they want the police to catch the criminal because they want to restore order. The reader has the same attitude toward writing in general. She wants it to be free, and then she also wants to say that the third act was all wrong, or that the story didn’t deliver, or that this time around its heart wasn’t in the right place. But whenever a story seems off, that’s when you know that the author was truly free. A story isn’t a fucking chair. This isn’t Bauhaus."50 classic novels under 200 pages
^^^ vv Today's vvvdeleted then highcued bleggalgazegag 575 daily
I tend to explain



what I just wrote why I turned



to haiku's tasers







zwertzing extra breaths



before I forget what breaths



I forgot to breathe







thrilled by my zwertzing



insight lost in my zwertzing



zwerted nonetheless







into my breathstream



I have to count to seven



(to pick a number)







somewhere (here is where



I explain why I explain



why I explain why)





 

THE DEFINITION OF GARDENING

James Tate

Jim just loves to garden, yes he does.
He likes nothing better than to put on
his little overalls and his straw hat.
He says, "Let's go get those tools, Jim."
But then doubt begins to set in.
He says, "What is a garden, anyway?"
And thoughts about a "modernistic" garden
begin to trouble him, eat away at his resolve.
He stands in the driveway a long time.
"Horticulture is a groping in the dark
into the obscure and unfamiliar,
kneeling before a disinterested secret,
slapping it, punching it like a Chinese puzzle,
birdbrained, babbling gibberish, dig and
destroy, pull out and apply salt,
hoe and spray, before it spreads, burn roots,
where not desired, with gloved hands, poisonous,
the self-sacrifice of it, the self-love,
into the interior, thunderclap, excruciating,
through the nose, the earsplitting necrology
of it, the withering, shriveling,
the handy hose holder and Persian insect powder
and smut fungi, the enemies of the iris,
wireworms are worse than their parents,
there is no way out, flowers as big as heads,
pock-marked, disfigured, blinking insolently
at me, the me who so loves to garden
because it prevents the heaving of the ground
and the untimely death of porch furniture,
and dark, murky days in a large city
and the dream home under a permanent storm
is also a factor to keep in mind."