Sunday, May 17, 2015

Sixty-Nine Yesterday; Born Eighty-Six Years Ago Today

My Fripp story, posted every Fripp birthday, yesterday being his 69th: Fripp had a touring workshop called Guitar Craft and a performing ensemble, The League of Crafty Guitarists. A bunch of us (Elric, you were there, yes?) got in Phavid Dillips lime-green VW van and drove to an old yellow mansion in West Virginia, not far, past Harpers Ferry, up near Shepardstown. Phavid, who we thought an excellent guitarist - or at least the best guitarist we smoked dope with regularly - had been invited to sit in a circle of other guitarists with Robert Fripp leading the workshop. Incredibly cool actually. Guests were invited to sit in the circle; guess who refused. Afterward, going out for a smoke, I ran into Fripp on a porch and apologized. He asked me why I didn't sit in the circle. I said I didn't want to. He said, then you've nothing to apologize for, and shook my hand.

Fripp's birthday post preempted yesterday by Planet's college graduation. Did you miss last night's post of the photo of Earthgirl photobombing a photo of Planet and Landru at graduation? Gosh, Wally. We then met Landru in Columbus for dinner before Earthgirl, Planet and me saw Stephin Merritt/Sam Davol at OSU. I've videos of three songs - I knew they were coming, it was the same playlist as the show Earthgirl and I saw in DC two weeks earlier - will post them later, or not.

Today is Adrienne Rich's birthday, she was born eighty-six years ago today


Adrienne Rich

There’s the poverty of the cockroach kingdom and the rusted toilet bowl
The poverty of to steal food for the first time
The poverty of to mouth a penis for a paycheck
The poverty of sweet charity ladling
Soup for the poor who must always be there for that
There’s the poverty of theory poverty of the swollen belly shamed
Poverty of the diploma mill the ballot that goes nowhere
Princes of predation let me tell you
There are poverties and there are poverties
There’s the poverty of cheap luggage bursted open at immigration
The poverty of the turned head, the averted eyes
The poverty of bored sex of tormented sex
The poverty of the bounced check the poverty of the dumpster dive
The poverty of the pawned horn the poverty of the smashed reading glasses
The poverty pushing the sheeted gurney the poverty cleaning up the puke
The poverty of the pavement artist the poverty passed-out on pavement
Princes of finance you who have not lain there
There are poverties and there are poverties
There is the poverty of hand-to-mouth and door-to-door
And the poverty of stories patched-up to sell there
There’s the poverty of the child thumbing the Interstate
And the poverty of the bride enlisting for war
There’s the poverty of prescriptions who can afford
And the poverty of how would you ever end it
There is the poverty of stones fisted in pocket
And the poverty of the village bulldozed to rubble
Princes of weaponry who have not ever tasted war
There are poverties and there are poverties
There’s the poverty of wages wired for the funeral you
Can’t get to the poverty of the salary cut
There’s the poverty of human labor offered silently on the curb
The poverty of the no-contact prison visit
There’s the poverty of yard sale scrapings spread
And rejected the poverty of eviction, wedding bed out on street
Prince let me tell you who will never learn through words
There are poverties and there are poverties
You who travel by private jet like a housefly
Buzzing with the other flies of plundered poverties
Princes and courtiers who will never learn through words
Here’s a mirror you can look into: take it: it’s yours.

1 comment:

  1. the only time robert fripp and i have been in the same room, to the best of my knowledge, was in boston, at the orpheum, on september 23, 1973

    king crimson opened for procol harum

    i was with three others - we had come for procol harum, but after king crimson the headline band seemed very pedestrian, and we left halfway through

    i still listen to procol harum music from time to time, however - more often than king crimson, actually

    turning to another topic, i am nearly finished reading james tate's book of short stories 'dreams of a robot dancing bee' - my reaction fluctuates according to the story and/or my mood

    all in all, i find myself reminded of donald barthelme - whom i read more of than was good for me (i realize in retrospect) while i was in grad school

    with regard to tate, i prefer the poems

    recently i sent tate a copy of my analysis of a few of his poems - 'metanoia accepted and avoided', posted here in pieces, on nov 23, 2014. and march 23, 2015 - mentioning in the cover email my recent speculation, appended below, that the song whistled by the ascending shroud of the gnome was 'wind of change' by the scorpions - so far he has not replied - who knows if it's good or bad?

    i discussed this song in the comments here previously - so often when i look at what i have written, even years earlier, i find myself agreeing with it - not too surprising, i guess


    What is this “little known ballad” the shroud whistles? It if is so little known, we may not know it either, of course—but I imagine it could be “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions, which starts with whistling. The song, the most viewed song by a German group on Youtube, is the opposite of “little known”—but the human brotherhood it speaks of is often yearned for, but seldom found in ordinary life.