Robert Pollard is fifty-seven today and today is a High Egoslavian Holy Day. Lots of songs here. Yes, these three songs, along with this shitty blog's Theme Song Three are my four most air-guitared Pollard songs. Also too, we're going hiking, today, tomorrow, Sunday. Just this: had a coffee with a friend yesterday who brought along a friend who's still a devout Lesshittiest, he's hyperventilating the mid-term, what if the Senate goes Republican? I said, doesn't it seem strange to you that Obama sanctioned the Fuck Israel in General and Bibi in Particular just a week before the mid-term and seems to be trying to sabotage any Democratic hopes of maintaining the Senate on purpose? Jeff, said Laura, stop. Who benefits, I said, nodding at Hillary Inevitability on a wide-screen feed of the speech she was giving that very moment at Illhoptay as we were having coffee. She wants to run against a dysfunctional House and Senate run by the very Rightwing demagogues that will drive Democratic voters in buckets in 2016. Jeff, laughed Laura, stop. Does he believe this, Laura's friend asked Laura. I said, you don't think parties concede upcoming minor elections to set up better terms for winning the next major election? I said, out loud, Jeff, stop. It's an old routine, I said. When I point to a landmark for the more frequent Dark, yes, I can truthfully point to the motherfucking poachers, but yesterday, conversing with a stranger while Hillary Inevitability yapped in closed caption on a wide-screen above the stranger's head, the full force of how much I miss D, miss L, I miss K, miss Thursday Night Pints walloped me. I miss free-form yapping with people who yap my yap. I miss writing Thursday Night Pints posts. I never realized how much, all of it. I said, Robert Pollard's birthday is tomorrow. Laura's friend looked at me. Guided by Voices, I said. Stared at me. Lynn and I are going hiking tomorrow, I said.
I AM BUT A TRAVELER IN THIS LAND & KNOW LITTLE OF ITS WAYS
Is everything a field of energy caused
by human projection? From the crib bars
hang the teething tools. Above the finger-drummed
desk, a bit lip. The cyclone fence of buts
surrounds the soccer field of what if.
Sometimes it seems like a world where no one
knows what he or she is doing, eight lanes
both directions. How about a polymer
that contracts in response to electrical
charge? A swimming pool on the 18th floor?
King Lear done by sock puppets? Anyone
who has traveled here knows the discrepancies
between idea and fact. The idea is the worm
in the tequila and the next day is the fact.
In between may be the sacred—real blood
from the wooden virgin’s eyes, and the hoax—
landing sites in cornfields. Maybe ideas
are best sprung from actions like the children
of Zeus. One gives us elastic and the omelette,
another nightmares and SUVs. There’s considerable
wobble in the system, and the fan belt screams,
waking the baby. Swaying in the darkened
nursery, kissing the baby-smelling head:
good idea! But also sadness looking at the sea.
The stranded whale, guided out of the cove
by tugboats, turns and swims back in.
The violinist will not let go her violin
which is 200 years old and still on the train
thus she is dragged down the track. By what
manner is the soul joined to the body?
Answer: an arm connecting a violin
to a violinist. According to Freud,
there are no accidents. Astrologists
and Presbyterians agree for different reasons.
You fall down the stairs with a birthday cake.
You try to fit a blunderbuss into a laptop.
Human consciousness: is it the projector
or the screen? They come in orange jumpsuits
and spray the grass so everything dies
but the grass. It is too late to ask Kafka
what he thinks. Sometimes they give you
a box of ash, a handshake, and the rest
is your problem. In one version,
the beggar turns out to be a king and grants
the poor couple a castle and a moat and two
silver horses said to be sired by the wind.
That was before dentistry, which might have been
a better gift. You did not want to get sick
in the 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th or 18th centuries.
So too the 19th and 20th were to be avoided
but the doctor coming to bleed you is the master
of the short story. After the kiss from whom
he will never know, the lieutenant, going home,
touches a bush in which birds are singing.