Sunday, March 24, 2019

...beside poetry he flops over us (poetry nak) w/my eye my little dam fuck...

THE INCREDIBLE CANTERBURY POEM/Jeff Hilson



  • I love you but I'm not typing that out
  • Two weeks ago I saw somewhere a sentence about a book of poetry called Latanoprost Variations, a recent collection by a British poet I'd never heard named Jeff Hilson
  • I am going blind, one of the medicines I'm prescribed to delay the blind is Latanoprost, eyedoc can vouch, between that and sentence recommending the book I impulse bought it
  • I own or have listened to every act in the poem but john butt
  • Friday night on twitter I discovered there's a new American Football album, I excitedly tweeted out not only two new songs





  • but two older songs to your complete and justified indifference, you could vouch if you'd even noticed
  • I even tweeted, pompous ass, American Football the love child of Uncle Tupelo and Sea and Cake, fatuous fuck
  • I then wrote in Blue Tablet: 




  • Latanoprost Variations arrived at he house yesterday around 4pm, Earthgirl and Planet - yay! Planet's home for a week - can vouch
  • Slays me
  • The first poem in Latanoprost Variations is The Incredible Canterbury Poem
  • Serendipity Saves Me Again










STRETCHERS

Jeff Hilson

… something beginning w/
(down bert) the cheaper
the sofa the (down bert)
her hands on a dish her
right hand a final so cold
in the frigidaire (33 is
pretty
but her stances thin
& pretty as a found bell
as a small click (easy chair)
& the yellow sidewalks
goofassing in the wee hours
constantly killed granite
a way-turned light marked
“lockers” file rapists rising
a cop coming “combination
sweaters” the latticini in c
(reaching de witt he turned
off the gas (down bert) is it
a nose or a hose what ship
are you on (landing those
hands & our bringing girls
of knotty pine (thats good
because you are a dull
mugger now in a slow arc
(seriously I really am
mugging again up to the
curb ing ting cinct wildly
now (if I was a badly
framed mugger thats all)
and then he said nylons
gone forever ping-cats what
cats ping-cats ever cracked
you must be bert she said...

   
… besides poetry he flops
over on us (poetry nak) w/
my eye my little dam fuck
protest ok rexroth many
many thanks I just left so
much for li’l’ ol’ bones
no one prints ’em
slacknesses fit that single
gross poster (also that I
am very attracted to the
maintains which is fucking
dull it says nothing about
isabelle et marie as gin
relations says ann to him
(you spot carbona that
allusion to stout wires in
piles just so so taken is ply
ie me ie poor e ie fuck ’em
through these poems (this
is just to say I rented it
off dec sliding south-east
(how the docks like bon
voyage like in little dam
boats to london makes the
gig hideous just sliding into
such strips as flatness
bareness dam married chair
kicking is the bug (fuck that
phrase honest content
o to o to be o to be old
mans organs in aluminum
lakes of d & c …

Friday, March 22, 2019

Why Is It So Surprising That the Little Man in the White Coat Who Drives the Small Motorized Cart Across the Manicured Putting Green That Grows Like Crushed Money Between the Bungalows of the Biltmore Doesn't Appear to Enjoy the Acquaintance of the Thin Old Man in the Italian Sweater Who Emerges From One of the Bungalows Tugged Along by a Tiny Expensive Dog?

  • Four new Armantrout poems
  • Armantrout hasn't make the deserted island or even the inner circle of almosts but it's almost love
  • They don't work - these four new ones - I think they suck, actually, unless it's self-parody, I blame me
  • I am telling you three times, Life in the Self-Parody Is Dead Ocene
  • I am telling you three times our flee-or-fight hunter-gatherer jones, deliberately stimulated daily (two long-time digital buds have up and disappeared, lucky fucks), stimulation designed to make me hate more, I'm small, it's universal, most everything tainted as favorite dishes left too long in sun
  • but not everything:










THE CLASS DOESN'T STRUGGLE ANYMORE

Tom Clark

Why is it so surprising that
the little man in the white coat
who drives the small motorized cart
across the manicured putting green
that grows like crushed money
between the bungalows of the Biltmore
doesn't appear to enjoy the acquaintance
of the thin old man in the Italian sweater
who emerges from one of the bungalows
tugged along by a tiny expensive dog?

Thursday, March 21, 2019

26




Highest Egoslavian Holy Day! Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

Also too, this year's birthday card from the first human not Earthgirl or me or a nurse or a doctor to hold Planet.







THE WRITER

Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.



Wednesday, March 20, 2019

I Don't Have Any Sentiments Would Somebodything Thirst My Quench

Complete Ferengi Rules of Acquisition.
The Post published a Beto hit-piece by Ferengi Thiessen
I know about Beto what I read on twitter
- bots tell me I think Beto's job is to dilute Sanders in generations younger than mine
will be rewarded as Clinton's running-mate -
which makes me wonder why Thiessen would be commissioned to write this now
since Villager wisdom says Sanders can't possibly win, socialist socialist socialist
that's right Villagers want Clinton-Trump the Round Two
their corpses Round Three 2024!
Trump, the next Grover Cleveland
pursuit of normalcy.
Fine metaphor abounding.
The fall of ACORN, or motherfucking Democrats.
Other people's blood.
On the shoulders of settler-colonists.
I can't read like once Reason One my eyes, yes
reason two I can't stop looking and I don't even watch screens but this one
us fuckers
best novel I've read (I can't even say since the last
until the next any
more)  and - get this - I'm *in* it, and though I can't change the novel's ending I can chart my character's plot (if not my character's character necessary to change my character's plot)
The Story of Lambchop in seven albums.






CLINICAL THERMOMETER SET WITH MOONSTONES

Alice Notley

I don’t have any sentiments
would somebodything thirst my quench
how about
about my mediocrity of character? I dance
with the dead divinely
                                 in my dreams
I’m stricken deaf when I mention it my babies
cry they want everything quick! here. un-
mentioned   
                  as character should be
      like the purpurine it needs must be carved in,
                        please

Have you heard of the roguess elephant with the
brilliant diamond eyes? She is the puppet
of the dictionary
                           where is her beautiful orange
juice?   
            puppy foot!   
                                 When your father dies
he doesn’t let you swoon   
                                       into aventurine or spray
of lily (pearls) of the valley
you do not bifurcate
                               you may
supplicate      
                   play yourself to your camp heroine
self—play it Lady play
It      
       but delete no matter
       thank you for breakfast
       today we will visit with the ear syringe
       be the current density   
                                           honey flower
                                           ice egg
I love you as a fan loves air. oops it’s I
                vice-versa I
                                  told you about that
       character      
                           She is a bezel
                           awaiting the plop of a
                           ruby she must grow
                           chronically

and I can’t end and I can’t lie
here         
               He held him in his own heart then
               may I in my eye now me

Monday, March 18, 2019

Crowned with Loneliness and Suffered for Friendship

  • My mother-in-law had a dear friend in Florida
  • she (the dear friend) and her husband now house adjacent to Friendship Airport
  • both are younger than us by short of a decade
  • we drove through Potomac on River to get to Potomac on River
  • he doesn't hike, he dines with us (I like him
  • we dined the night before Mexican place in Glen
  • Burnie) I thought (I wish I was eating something else)
  • hike to the cliffs one I've hiking monthly since I could drive
  • we drove past the Versailles on River between Beltway and Potomac
  • the palace has been on sale sold on sale sold on sale sold it's a laundromat
  • I said when they asked, it's even built for the guillotine
  • then remembered today's the day I stop said she I said in real life too









READ THESE

Mary Karr

The King saith, and his arm swept the landscape’s foliage into bloom
where he hath inscribed the secret mysteries of his love
before at last taking himself away. His head away. His
recording hand. So his worshipful subjects must imagine
themselves in his loving fulfillment, who were no more
than instruments of his creation. Pawns.
Apparati. Away, he took himself and left us
studying the smudged sky. Soft pencil lead.
   
Once he was not a king, only a pale boy staring down
from the high dive. The contest was seriousness
he decided, who shaped himself for genus genius
and nothing less. Among genii, whoever dies first wins.
Or so he thought. He wanted the web browsers to ping
his name in literary mention everywhere on the world wide web.
   
He wanted relief from his head, which acted as spider
and inner web weaver. The boy was a live thing tumbled in its thread
and tapped and fed off, siphoned from. His head kecked back
and howling from inside the bone castle from whence he came
to hate the court he held.
  
He was crowned with loneliness
and suffered for friendship, for fealty
of the noblest sort. The invisible crown
rounded his temples tighter than any turban,
more binding than a wedding band,
and he sat in his round tower
on the rounding earth.
                                                     Read these,
saith the King, and put down his pen, hearing
himself inwardly holding forth on the dullest
aspects of the human heart
with the sharpest possible wit. Unreadable
as Pound on usury or Aquinas on sex.
   
I know the noose made an oval portrait frame for his face.
And duct tape around the base of the Ziploc
bag was an air-tight chamber
for the regal head—most serious relic,
breathlessly lecturing in the hall of silence.

Saturday, March 16, 2019

Bats After Dark and the Silence on Its Road



Rest in Peace, W.S. Merwin.
Merwin: whole earth troubadour.
Merwin: on reading what you want.
Merwin: now all my teachers are dead but silence.
Merwin: for the anniversary of my death.
Merwin: Sheep Passing.
Merwin: twelve poems.


THE SPEED OF LIGHT

So gradual in those summers was the going
          of the age it seemed that the long days setting out
when the stars faded over the mountains were not
          leaving us even as the birds woke in full song and the dew
glittered in the webs it appeared then that the clear morning
          opening into the sky was something of ours
to have and keep and that the brightness we could not touch
          and the air we could not hold had come to be there all the time
for us and would never be gone and that the axle
          we did not hear was not turning when the ancient car
coughed in the roofer's barn and rolled out echoing
          first thing into the lane and the only tractor
in the village rumbled and went into its rusty
          mutterings before heading out of its lean-to
into the cow pats and the shadow of the lime tree
          we did not see that the swallows flashing and the sparks
of their cries were fast in the spokes of the hollow
          wheel that was turning and turning us taking us
all away as one with the tires of the baker's van
          where the wheels of bread were stacked like days in calendars
coming and going all at once we did not hear
          the rim of the hour in whatever we were saying
or touching all day we thought it was there and would stay
          it was only as the afternoon lengthened on its
dial and the shadows reached out farther and farther
          from everything that we began to listen for what
might be escaping us and we heard high voices ringing
          the village at sundown calling their animals home
and then the bats after dark and the silence on its road