Friday, July 19, 2019

If a Star at Any Time May Tell Us: *Now*

  • My domain name successfully renewed so there's that

  • Wheairrddest days of my what-doesn't-matter life
  • Shtarradnegset days of my what-does


Howard Nemerov
Late in November, on a single night
Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees
That stand along the walk drop all their leaves
In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind
But as though to time alone: the golden and green
Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday
Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.
What signal from the stars? What senses took it in?
What in those wooden motives so decided
To strike their leaves, to down their leaves,
Rebellion or surrender? and if this
Can happen thus, what race shall be exempt?
What use to learn the lessons taught by time.
If a star at any time may tell us: Now.

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

Hear the Hoofs Over the Seethe of the Sea

[Seething needing...]

Pjoepf of Vriecyh

Seething needing target requires objects I can’t damage
forgive me, I Chick fil-a the clusterfuck *every* Sunday
I’m skittle, fucking destroy everything I can’t destroy, save what I can


Muriel Rukeyser

The night is covered with signs. The body and face of man,
with signs, and his journeys.     Where the rock is split
and speaks to the water;     the flame speaks to the cloud;
the red splatter, abstraction, on the door
speaks to the angel and the constellations.
The grains of sand on the sea-floor speak at last to the noon.
And the loud hammering of the land behind
speaks ringing up the bones of our thighs, the hoofs,
we hear the hoofs over the seethe of the sea.
All night down the centuries, have heard, music of passage.
Music of one child carried into the desert;
firstborn forbidden by law of the pyramid.
Drawn through the water with the water-drawn people
led by the water-drawn man to the smoke mountain.
The voice of the world speaking, the world covered by signs,
the burning, the loving, the speaking, the opening.
Strong throat of sound from the smoking mountain.
Still flame, the spoken singing of a young child.
The meaning beginning to move, which is the song.
Music of those who have walked out of slavery.
Into that journey where all things speak to all things
refusing to accept the curse, and taking
for signs the signs of all things, the world, the body
which is part of the soul, and speaks to the world,
all creation being created in one image, creation.
This is not the past walking into the future,
the walk is painful, into the present, the dance
not visible as dance until much later.
These dancers are discoverers of God.
We knew we had all crossed over when we heard the song.
Out of a life of building lack on lack:
the slaves refusing slavery, escaping into faith:
an army who came to the ocean: the walkers
who walked through the opposites, from I to opened Thou,
city and cleave of the sea. Those at flaming Nauvoo,
the ice on the great river: the escaping Negroes,
swamp and wild city: the shivering children of Paris
and the glass black hearses; those on the Long March:
all those who together are the frontier, forehead of man.
Where the wilderness enters, the world, the song of the world.
Akiba rescued, secretly, in the clothes of death
by his disciples carried from Jerusalem
in blackness journeying to find his journey
to whatever he was loving with his life.
The wilderness journey through which we move
under the whirlwind truth into the new,
the only accurate. A cluster of lights at night:
faces before the pillar of fire. A child watching
while the sea breaks open. This night. The way in.
Barbarian music, a new song.
Acknowledging opened water, possibility:
open like a woman to this meaning.
In a time of building statues of the stars,
valuing certain partial ferocious skills
while past us the chill and immense wilderness
spreads its one-color wings until we know
rock, water, flame, cloud, or the floor of the sea,
the world is a sign, a way of speaking. To find.
What shall we find? Energies, rhythms, journey.
Ways to discover. The song of the way in.

Monday, July 15, 2019

Vibrations of Division

  • I wrote on Saturday night:
  • It's not a coincidence the dueling weekend firestorms
  • Democratic Civil War versus 
  • Pence Prison Tour versus 
  • Child Sex Ring Master with blackmail on everyone who matters and.....
  • it's Democratic Civil War for the win
  • it's Sunday night as I type this, above old news (except Democratic Civil War, ordered for all screens)
  • Some of you have seen this recent Planet photo of Olive

  • There it is again
  • I am telling you three times: a Confederate flag draped Mike Pence could machine gun 50 Honduran children in a Texas cage but *one* masked skateboarder throw a milk shake on Rod Dreher...
  • The problem with neoliberal triumphalism
  • United States of Fascism Hysteria
  • Saturday with Earthgirl for her good friend's mother's memorial
  • I promise you trees talk to each other and I insist rocks are alive
  • you Christians, even good ones, you all are batshit crazy as me



Tom Raworth

joined harmonising the best
so it needn’t wait
phrase: the question are you sure?
hanging three feet off the ground
silent, absolutely quiet
headquarters – we travelled north
clawing back small shelter
hung with screaming
on the same rig
blended in enthusiasm
as the race approached
through cracks in snow
free-falling into mind
alive with brightness shivering
instantly into sleep
changed, re-formed
they run, they run
with madness into chutes
of changed values
all of them conventional
vibrations of division
dare to refuse the glass
lazily through long green
discrete landing sites
to a transmitting unit
over the protective line
wave patterns in space
form black against
sifted patches of moonlight
birds move in the dark
their faint contours
singing small notes
to the rhythm of a train
so empty at this hour
silence in between
contains the words
things whiz past
once more
the sound of calculation
by indirect means
receives its full due
along the wet pavement
human flesh
fallen in all directions
to fresh eyes
something to do with the sky
senselessly dishevelled
resolves and fixes
the foundation
desirable to guard against
relative soundness of approach
including human shapes
used by the dealer
connecting them
to a sense of common
unforeseeable properties of relics
considered in place
so deceptive
their firesides play
optimism for its object
without arousing
constitutional tradition
beyond the rules of the game
hailstones imagine
moist sea air
disordered beyond it rise
drearier philosophies
to resist retrogression
faster than anything
directly stimulating receptors
attention moves
many possible representations
inside the heart
decayed into blackness
fine details of the scene
creep along for years
hard to become
immune to a predator
silhouettes of participants
dangle in their own data
faint green clouds
in almost pure alcohol
calibrate the equipment
to assume a more personal form
susceptible to psychic influences
does not contempt breed
often in disguise?
slipping past a window
on communal stairs
into faded yellow
flashed with orange
slanting through smoke
swished into a perfect dome
dissatisfied when calm returns
centered around a food animal
mastery of areas
managed to neutralise
subjects into waves
to destroy communication
more easily on scanty pasture 

Saturday, July 13, 2019

These Are the Words the Voice Was Repeating

This year's edition of the traditional post, odometer honest:

Fifty-nine today, this guy. When we met in 5th grade fifty years ago neither of us predicted the weirdest year of our lives would be 2019.

Always this: twenty-six years ago Landru was the first human not Earthgirl or me or a doctor/nurse to hold Planet.



And especially

Friday, July 12, 2019


Yes, gone, last night's, per tradition, maybe you saw it


Thomas Lux

the word for the inability to find the right word,
leads me to self-diagnose: onomatomaniac. It's not
the 20 volume OED I need
not Dr. Roget's book, which offers
equals only, never discovery.
I accept the fallibility of language,
its spastic elasticity,Onomatimani
its jake-leg, as well as prima ballerina, dances.
I accept that language
can be manipulated towards deceit
(ex.: The Mahatmapropaganda, i.e., Goebbels);
I accept, and mourn, though not a lot,
he loss of the dash/semi-colon pair.
It's the sound of a pause unlike no other pause.
And when the words are tedious
and tedious also their order - sew me up
in a rug and toss me in the sea!
Language is dying, the novel is dying, poetry
is a corpse colder than the Ice man,
they've all been dying for thousands of years,
yet people still write, people still read,
and everyone knows that nothing is really real
until it is written.
Until it is written!
Even those who cannot read
know that.

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Other Too-Long Postponed Departures

  1. The first new Pere Ubu song on what Thomas says is last Pere Ubu album
  2. UPDATE before the post is posted but after I tweeted out the new song last night! 
  3. says Ubuprojex twitter in response to my tweet: 
  4. Not necessarily the last. Big misconception we’re trying to clarify - this album is the end of what Pere Ubu have been doing for 40+years... DT did not believe he would be around to make another so he purposefully set out to make this one the answer, the summation...

  1. Last night I tweeted I love this iteration of Pere Ubu as much as the others 
  2. but listening again since, no, I blame me, listening again yes maybe I need silo again
  3. Could be none or one or many more iterations of Pere Ubu yet* (Michael Gira's bot sent me an email asking me to donate to a new Swans and I gave him $50, I should be in the liner notes as cheapest ass level to have name in liner notes haven't heard back) and *all* Thomas projects archived as only one of two in my waning MSADI5G (and I haven't listened to the other in months either)
  4. *I wrote this sentence before getting the tweets from ubuprojex
  5. The usb port in my car died haven't bothered to fix for two months....
  6. I've new CDs from donating to WFMU marathon, wonderful new to me listens!
  7. poetry new to me working!
  8. please name me new to me a novel not a dead author please not an author I've already read
  9. (Proust *is* working but I need another to sherbet Proust and so Proust can sherbet it)
  10. My favorite iteration of Pere Ubu, and easily one of a dozen most posted videos here, I was there:


Mary Barnard

Rotting in the wet gray air
the railroad depot stands deserted under
still green trees. In the fields
cold begins an end.

There were other too-long-postponed departures.
They left, finally, because of well water
gone rank, the smell of fungus, the chill
of rain in chimneys.

The spot is abandoned even in memory.
They knew, locking doors upon empty houses,
to leave without regret is to lose
title to one home forever.