Why didn't you tell me there's a new Kitchens of Distinction album? Thanks to all who sent good wishes. In at nine, three shots of local anesthesia immediately given, given twenty minutes to kick in, then forty-five seconds of yanking and wisdom tooth out. Clamped down on gauze for an hour, that's now out. RX for codeine if I need but gonna try Advil alone first (dentist said ALWAYS use Advil/ibuprofen for dental pain, by the way, it blocks pain in a certain way that makes it best for teeth hurt). So yes, I'm taunting Baal when I say I could not have imagined this not sucking this much. Have songs and a poem. I found my copy of Stoner I bought when everyone was talking about it last year which I promptly and accidentally kicked under my bed when it arrived which I found last night, reading it today is today's plan. Regular programming returns tomorrow, or not. Yes, just below is an old Kitchens of Distinction song, probably one of the ten songs posted most often here.
STATEMENT WITH RHYMES
Plurality is all. I walk among the restaurants,
the theatres, the grocery stores; I ride the cars
and hear of Mrs. Bedford’s teeth and Albuquerque,
strikes unsettled, someone’s simply marvelous date,
news of the German Jews, the baseball scores,
storetalk and whoretalk, talk of wars. I turn
the pages of a thousand books to read
the names of Buddha, Malthus, Walker Evans, Stendhal, André Gide,
Ouspenski; note the terms: obscurantism,
factorize, fagaceous, endocarp; descend
the nervous stairs to hear the broken ends
of songs that float through city air.
In Osnabrück and Ogden, on the Passamaquoddy Bay,
in Ahmednagar, Waco (Neb.), in Santa Fé,
propelled by zeros, zinc, and zephyrs, always I’m pursued
by thoughts of what I am, authority, remembrance, food,
the letter on the mezzanine, the unemployed, dogs’ lonely faces, pianos and decay.
Plurality is all. I sympathize, but cannot grieve
too long for those who wear their dialectics on their sleeves.
The pattern’s one I sometimes rather like; there’s really nothing wrong
with it for some. But I should add: It doesn’t wear for long,
before I push the elevator bell and quickly leave.
i read the poem by weldon kees - i wanted to know more about himReplyDelete
Harry Weldon Kees (February 24, 1914 – July 18, 1955) was an American poet, painter, literary critic, novelist, playwright, jazz pianist, short story writer, and filmmaker.
and i found
A Critic at Large
The Disappearing Poet
What ever happened to Weldon Kees?
by Anthony Lane July 4, 2005