It's true! and they now have a kickass Olsen's Army truck! As I type this opening kickoff is eighteen days, four hours, three minutes, and ten seconds away! And HEY! We get a USOC game v Phunion in Germantown in early April! !wOOt!
I've seen questions at a few blegs since I saw this article on BLAWG! decline. I ask, when did blegs succeed and what did they succeed at, then note that this post deploys the very three elements that most drives readers away, DC United/soccer, poetry, and bleggalgazing. It's intentional of course, though it's not my fault three poets I like and admire were all born on March 1, nor is it my fault that I first saw the youtube of the Benny Truck yesterday and I am required, by all Codes of Protesting I Only Bleg for Me and Mine, to write about the Benny Truck in the first post subsequent to the Benny Truck's sighting. As for bleggalgazing, that's entirely my fault, but might as well do here since many stopped reading at the tired United gag.
OK, that covers it. United, check; poetry, check; bleggalgazing, check. Wait, what about the half-dozen Guided by Voices songs?...
- The state of emergency in which we live.
- The immorality of empire.
- Empire of lies.
- Revival of imperialist ideology.
- Lesson of the drones.
- Of course it is.
- Of course they are.
- Fat fucking oink does victory dance in YFWP.
- Only one revolution per customer. (h/t)
- A joke.
- The State.
- Oh fuck, here come the humanitarians.
- It has nothing to do with oil.
- No other way out.
- BLCKDGRD Theme Song 3:
- Josipovici, for those of you who do.
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- Child's play (w/cameos by Josipovici and Beckett).
- Pulped fiction.
- Auto da Fe, part one.
- Hey, it's drive-time at WFMU. Do good.
- Then go here and click pop-out player for latest show. Mmwah.
- February listening hours, w/sound.
- Echos Myron.
- I'm Cold.
- Hardcore UFOs.
- 14 Cheerleader Comfort.
- Big day for birthdays!
Howard Nemerov (born 2/29/20)
Are generally over or around Erogenous zones, they seem to dive In the direction of those Dark places, and indeed It is their nature to be dark Themselves, keeping a kind Of thieves' kitchen for the things Sequestered from the world For long or little while, The keys, the handkerchiefs, The sad and vagrant little coins That are really only passing through. For all they locate close to lust, No pocket ever sees another; There is in fact a certain sadness To pockets, going in their lonesome ways And snuffling up their sifting storms Of dust, tobacco bits and lint. A pocket with a hole in it Drops out; from shame, is that, or pride? What is a pocket but a hole?
THE DRUNKEN FISHERMAN
Robert Lowell (3/1/17)
Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye (Truly Jehovah's bow suspends No pots of gold to weight its ends); Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout Rose to my bait. They flopped about My canvas creel until the moth Corrupted its unstable cloth. A calendar to tell the day; A handkerchief to wave away The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm Pouching a bottle in one arm; A whiskey bottle full of worms; And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms To mete the worm whose molten rage Boils in the belly of old age? Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot, Let suns stay in or suns step out: Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout-- The fisher's fluent and obscene Catches kept his conscience clean. Children, the raging memory drools Over the glory of past pools. Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls Its bloody waters into holes; A grain of sand inside my shoe Mimics the moon that might undo Man and Creation too; remorse, Stinking, has puddled up its source; Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage. This is the pot-hole of old age. Is there no way to cast my hook Out of this dynamited brook? The Fisher's sons must cast about When shallow waters peter out. I will catch Christ with a greased worm, And when the Prince of Darkness stalks My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . On water the Man-Fisher walks.
STILL, CITIZEN SPARROW
Richard Wilbur (3/1/21)
Still, citizen sparrow, this vulture which you call
Unnatural, let him but lumber again to air
Over the rotten office, let him bear
The carrion ballast up, and at the tall
Tip of the sky lie cruising. Then you’ll see
That no more beautiful bird is in heaven’s height,
No wider more placid wings, no watchfuller flight;
He shoulders nature there, the frightfully free,
The naked-headed one. Pardon him, you
Who dart in the orchard aisles, for it is he
Devours death, mocks mutability,
Has heart to make an end, keeps nature new.
Thinking of Noah, childheart, try to forget
How for so many bedlam hours his saw
Soured the song of birds with its wheezy gnaw,
And the slam of his hammer all the day beset
The people’s ears. Forget that he could bear
To see the towns like coral under the keel,
And the fields so dismal deep. Try rather to feel
How high and weary it was, on the waters where
He rocked his only world, and everyone’s.
Forgive the hero, you who would have died
Gladly with all you knew; he rode that tide
To Ararat; all men are Noah’s sons.