Friday, August 17, 2012

Lurid Conditions Are Facts




Colin Moulding is 57 today. I may have mentioned it already. I generally dig Partridge's songs much more, but still, Egoslavian Holy Day. Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team? It's true! (and they made a trade yesterday), and I looked at the schedule yesterday and I've a moral quandary. There was no Thursday Night Pints last night because there's a Sunday Night Barbeque at L's house for her birthday and SHAZAM! motherfucking MLS scheduled a soccer game for motherfucking five o'clock on a motherfucking Sunday, the motherfuckers. L wins unless a possible clusterfuck in her life materializes, won't know until Sunday morning. >>Deleted bleggalgazing<< Hey, be Kind, check out some new bips on the blegrells.














[UNTITLED]

Lisa Robertson

It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions—
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,


2 comments:

  1. THERE! ARE! FIFTY-SIX LIGHTS!

    Heh to the oh yeah, all the profs are short termers. The Duchess was telling me that a teacher she knows at another university sometimes doesn't hear if he'll be hired until a week before the semester. A foolish uncertainty is the flesh-eating hobgoblin of bigwigs, or something.

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