Friday, January 4, 2013
The Grill Is Just Big Enough for Ten Rows of Three
Bernie (the Good) Sumner is fifty-seven today. It's true there's no longer a New Order song always in my head. Until a few years ago, for almost thirty years, there was. The above song is easily one of the five most air-guitared songs of my lifetime. One of three. One of two depending on which version. There was no apostasy - Sumner did something money-shitty recently, that's not it, though the money-shitty tasted shitty. I still like the songs if someone puts one in my head, I just don't want them in my head all the time anymore, and even that wasn't a decision, when they were, now they're not. I heard this song two, three years ago, realized there's no longer a New Order song always in my head, ever since I always wonder why there's no longer a New Order song always in my head. Prospects for 2013 (scroll down for all). The administration of fear. I'm glad to have access to a university library's stacks. Irwin's second mic-break monologue on the fiscal cliff deal - don't talk about it, tweet about it, write on facebook about it, but it's OK to blog about it cause no one reads your sucky blog. Be sure to listen to the song coming out of the mic-break. The unknown is an abstraction. Pollock and abstraction. The geography of the imagination. Facial hair transplant, etc. Ashbery. Nietzsche's favorite poet was Holderlin. Brad's favorite books of 2012 (and bmpthnx). A sequence. Anthony's lit-links. 2012. WFMU DJs 2012 best of lists. Lush Life. One of Mark's favorite pieces of music. Park Mrebelic always played Jarrett. Morton Feldman. Edmond sends Swans covering Joy Division. Wowee, new to me. The New Order song below the poem is via Mr Alarum. Looking for New Order songs I discovered the Bonnie Prince Billy below. There's a BPB cascade in your future. There's always a BPB cascade in your future.
An average joe comes in
and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.
I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He ain't no average joe.
The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop, spit spit. . .
pssss. . .
The counter girls laugh.
It is the crucial point--
they are ready for the cheese:
my fingers shake as I tear off slices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
into paper bags/fried done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve
and smile at the counter girls.
I puff my chest out and bellow:
Thirty cheeseburgers! Thirty fries!
I grab a handful of ice, toss it in my mouth
do a little dance and walk back to the grill.
Pressure, responsibility, success.
Thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries.
Labels: Aargocalyptic, Ashbery, Autoblogography, Birthdays, Books, Cascade, Feldman, Ian Curtis, Music, My Complicity, Poem