Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Emoshon (Comment on Obsession)

  • I've collected links for a post but have nothing to say beyond the links, a song, a poem.
  • I am not going to engage in debating motherfucking Democrats with friends energized by the midterm elections and justifiably furious at Republicans for voter fraud in Georgia and Florida.
  • Last night looking at last year on blog to see if I'm missing any birthdays I thought, I don't want to do this any longer, or at least as often, as much, as clockwork.
  • Part of this no doubt the diminishing stats not just at me but everywhere as Blegsylvania continues to atrophy, I could also claim apathy but was taught apathy is a disease.
  • I have extra fucks to give now that I stopped spending all of them on flags and replica uniforms, my fucks bark let loose and bark in kennel, barkfuck fuckbark.
  • It occurs to me often that quiet might be the proper resistance to the noise, if not for anyone's sake but my own.


Tom Raworth

emoshon                 (comment on obsession)
patterns                  patterns turning in
his tonsure painted red
we think
we know
what we'll do tomorrow

Sunday, November 11, 2018

All the Birds Call Your Name As They Land on My Kitchen Roof

  • Andy Partridge, born sixty-five years ago today, XTC (& Dukes ) in innermost rotation of My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game,
  • also notable: my collection was played at Earthgirl's request every Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to and from Bamgier to visit Planet at college, and (thank Baal for shuffle) each time through better than the last.
  • An email sent yesterday about yesterday: Adding, like advil, Timicin.
  • Also too: Who leaked the galley of my Knausgaardian autonovel to you?
  • I bought White Music at Sights and Sounds in Gaithersburg, opposite Grace United Methodist Church at Walker and Frederick, 1977.

  • I can still replay in my head all 385 miles of Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier, I love much of the 385 miles of Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier, I never need to drive the 385 miles of Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Bamgier again.
  • Click for more XTC.
  • TODAY'S SHITSTORM! (Psst. Trump was sulking plus afraid his hair would get wet on live TV so stayed in hotel room, watched Fox, tweeted, called in sick on big deal re: using dead soldiers as props for Capitalist glories, 
  • and while it's true if a Democratic POTUS did this every fuck defending Trump would call for the Democratic POTUS to die slowly, cut out his heart and let him watch it stop beating, please shut the front door, they all have their scripts and a job to keep,
  • and I want my American POTUS to skip all commercials using dead soldiers as props for Capitalist glories, don't you?)
  • I never designated an Egoslavian Theme Song Nine, it's been years since I designated Theme Song Eight, would probably need do research to remember designated Egoslavian Theme Songs Three thru Eight, but ta-da, Egoslavian Theme Song Nine!


Alicia Ostriker

If time is an arrow, what is its target
If a Flexible Flyer is the sled I had as a child, when may I become a child again
Do you need help digging the potatoes out of your garden of insults
Do you plan to vote in the next election
Is our country headed in the right direction or the wrong direction
             and what did the bulldozer tell the yellow helmet’s ear
Which part of your body is like biting into a ripe peach
             which part shames you like a rotten banana
Would you like to find out how to lower your interest rate
When you go to heaven how old will you choose to be
             will you have cocktails on the well-watered lawn
                         where Bach conducts Bach
Will you still chase after the Grateful Dead
Is your life like air leaking out of a balloon, or like rain falling on a pond
            dot dot dot      dear pocks     pocking the surface     dot dot dot
Can it be like snow falling on the ocean
Can desire drown you like syrup over pancakes
When an ambulance siren wakes you at 3 a.m. do you feel relieved
            not to be strapped to that stretcher
                         speeding toward the grim unknown
                                       do you then snuggle next to someone
Are you satisfied with your detergent
Can you name a more perfect irony than the new world trade center, sacred icon of
            capitalism, revered lingam of profit, soaring above the 
memorial pools
                                        of people killed when the first towers fell
Can you describe the scent of dried blood
What about the smell of iron chains in your cell
             can you sing the threnody of the maggots
When I removed my mask did I frighten you
             like a drone crossing your sky
Are you satisfied with your auto insurance
When ecstasy approaches why do you resist
             What are you afraid of
                          Can you please unbutton your shirt now

Friday, November 9, 2018

I Look in That One Kind of Dwindled

  • I'm not a Bernie guy, my fascination pivots on professional Democrats versus Bernie.
  • I know stopping leftist populism is Job One! for professional Democrats,
  • but read Sanders' diagnosis of midterms and prescription for going forward 
  • and how much professional Democrats hate him for saying this shit
  • not because it's true but because none of it will ever happen
  • even if professional Democrats wanted it to, which
  • Bernie certainly knows
  • (which explains why it's personal, the seething Bernie hate, to professional Democrats, who
  • can't? won't? triangulate why people like me seethe at them).


Clark Coolidge

I look in that one kind of dwindled. And in this,
look up, a truncheon in my fist, tin pot
on my head, the war. My father, I’m looking at, is my
age then and thin, his pants streak to the ground,
shadows of rosevines . . . His father sits beneath
a cat. Here the shadow has more flavor than my
trains, elbows on livingroom floor, bangs that
curl, opera broadcast, The Surreptitious Adventures of
Nightstick. I lie in the wind of the sun and hear
toots and smell aluminium smoke. The tiny oval
of my mother’s youth in back and the rest is dark.
Sundays, the floor was black. At the beach, here
I’m a nest of seaweed, an earlier portrait of
surrealists I saw later, a stem of grey what
rises from my scalp. My hair is peaked in brine.
And this here hat, dark green fedora over same green
corduroy suit for a trip to the nation’s capitol,
how far askance I’ve been since and never another
hat. Cromium rods, the hand in the guide’s pocket
seems far removed. Blurry shoes on sandstone steps,
double and over exposed. Then in this one the SECRET
points to my head, shaved, and emblem, OPEN, striped
in “pirate” T-shirt and HERE IT IS. My elbow bent,
upright this time, behind a pole. I had yet to
enter at this snap the cavern beneath my sneakers.
To the right my soles protrude from beneath a boulder,
for I had trapped my mother and she asked Why.
Taken. Given. Flashlight brighter than my face,
another grotto, where the ball of twine, indirection,
gave out but we never got very far in, Connecticut.
I swim out of another cave in a further frame, cramped
gaze of sunlit days, apparel forgot. Later I reel
in a yell as my cousin takes a bite from my shank
beneath ranchhouse breezy curtains of Marion. On a trudge up
from the gasoline rockpit in the gaze of Judy Lamb,
she carries my pack, my jeans rolled as I step on
a pipe. Estwing in hand and svelte as only youthful can.
Most of those rocks remain and she married a so-so
clarinetist. My greygreen zipper jacket leans against
a concrete teepee, my father looking bullchested stands
before. Perhaps we had just argued. Central Park cement
steps of pigeons, the snow removed. Overexposed
whiteshirt at the drums, stick fingers ride cymbal
at the camera raised, livingroom Brenton with orange
& black “sea” wallpaper and orange&black tubs. I wore
a wristwatch then and never again, drumtime hitching
me past it. I graduate from highschool in white dinner
jacket and diploma and frown, too many hot shadows
back of the garage. Must roll up the bedroll with
skinny arms and lam for the caves. Dave & A. Bell by
the Ford Company Squire first time allowed alone to tool
Bleak grass scapes of Knox farm. Rope down a crack,
mosquitoes and Koolade, sun dapple leaf moss sandwiches, ache.
Then in this group more drums on the roof, the gravel
and the flat, a cover attempt for no album even thought.
I tap and step in the dim known street. Lean on a
chimney to inhabit the sky, deep with drops. Here
I’m pressed on a wall of Tennessee limes, stones-throw
from mouth of the underground we camped in. Too many
thoughts, elide. Then lie on a beach in a doughnut
pattern shirt with a stick, a pipe?, in my mouth as my
cousin grins shiny beyond. Truro, also waiting for the
caves. With the poets then I’m fat and the driveway is
dark, the clapboards all white in a day of all talk.
This then all ends in color, my red bandana and shirt out
on Devil’s Pulpit, open hand addressed to the grey
where Hawthorne and Melville now view of a highschool.
While the water still spills, and the cat squints at leaves
blown, my father wears Brahms, families lean in on one
for a group shot, and the rock remains shattered in a star.

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

I Won't Tell You Where It Is, So Why Do I Tell You Anything?

  • Fleabus two nights ago, above life-sized at other place.
  • Theory: Now Trump has an actual foil instead of making foils up, we only think we've seen shitty Trump, and it'll work.
  • UPDATE! Today's Trump takeover of Justice, for instance.
  • Grim irony: This midterm result was the worst possible one for the Democrats, and thus for the United States.  They did just enough to be able to continue to claim that the Clintonista methodology - the 'donor' model - is a successful, winning one, and so they won't have to change it.  They won't be able to gum up Trump's agenda completely - enough of them are really covert Republicans and will vote for many of his policies - and they will make fools of themselves with Russiagate and similar guaranteed losing attacks on Trump personally, which will ensure Trump's reelection.  Still, as usual the voters did their job as best they could, with the wonderful first-past-the-post voting system allowing their collective wisdom exactly the choice they wanted, the best choice available to them when one of the parties has thrown in the towel, reining in Trump while not emasculating him.
  • A short take on last night.
  • The elite have decided you cost too much to maintain, yo, your return-on-investment not worth it.
  • American Fundamentalists and Trump, a excellent concise primer from an ex-insider.
  • Driving home from Catoctin past Sunday, car radio tuned to WTOP for 270 traffic on the eights, I heard top of the hours ABC News, sound clips, Trump bullhorning hate, Joe Biden whispering a sermon on motherfucking civility.
  • Elrich beat Floreen, by a lot, three times the votes, so mine wasn't important,
  • I can summon one fuck more than no fuck on the above.
  • Now for the Clinton v Biden 2020 duel for the soul of the Democratic Party.


Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Faith Fool

Yesterday was Peter Hammill's 70th birthday, I forgot, was about to update the annual post monologue with songs and links to lots of songs because I talked with Bavid D by phone this past summer, I typed the gone first version of this sentence, which mentioned Bavid D and the phone call into this blooooooooooooooger post, and (this is true and this post is about faith) three minutes later my phone vibrates and:

I am telling you three times, faith if not fucked wouldn't be faith.

Monday, November 5, 2018

A Poem from the Bomb Squad

  • Hiked Catoctin, the Camp David loop, Earthgirl fell, bruised her knee, not nearly as bad as once, and that wasn't on Catoctin, 
  • she's ok.
  • This hike is the one I broke my face,
  • and one I didn't write about a freak thunderstorm hit while miles from car, was actually hair-raising, the lightning.
  • We have hiked it without harm or fright dozens of times and will again, though perhaps go for remoter on the first weekend of November when many people - I say this without snark - spend one of their few days in the woods a year because of the leaves.
  • Leaves down, turned brown, fell, bad leaf season, all the rain, I heard a park ranger say.

  • Fine metaphors abound.
  • When Wednesday gets here and everyone who lost says the other candidate cheated remember which party stocked, is stocking, will continue to stock judicial seats and which party did, is doing, and will continue to let that party do so with barely a whisper, and then ask why.
  • Winter woods are prettiest but shouldn't be winter woods the first weekend of November.
  • I guess less ochre this winter.
  • Today's blaze:

[A poem from the Bomb Squat     poem from]

Clark Coolidge

A poem from the Bomb Squad     poem from
just a little girl     a never-written poem about
a lost poem     a final poem about the last poem
no two people agree on the same poem the same
green     the same poke     a true sock
whatever the subject you leave a hole for the poem
you'll be back later for the only poem that remains
what the poem says is not what it's talking about
a fatal fall from the bridge of the poem
only the poem people are looking for
the price?     one spend poem     a single
ball of meat     complex twist of a cracker
I once saw a poem alone in the sun
never had much fun after