Wednesday, March 9, 2016

The Cherished Worms of My Dispassion

  • Cale is 74 today. The song above and Eno/Cale song at bottom always included in Egoslavian birthday post. More songs here.
  • The spectacle of disintegration.
  • What Sanders Michigan win means.
  • It means: Now the knives come out. 
  • Posted already, but the Washington Post's assault on Bernie Sanders needs re-remarking. Watch what happens now.
  • REMINDER: Sanders' appeal for me is SOLELY his ability to piss off the motherfucking Clinton Democrats.
  • Fracking Clinton.
  • Hillary throws unpledged super-delegate in trunk of car.
  • Hillaryite colleagues: I'm not goading them for giggles NOR telling them to calm the fuck down, she's going to be the nominee.
  • Millions support Trump. Here's why.
  • $1M per inch. Snow removal, not Trump's....
  • Seven things to know about the Purple Line.
  • Denise Levertov should be more famous.
  • Cale has new music. I'd comment on whether I like the new music or not but last time I did David Bowie died.


Denise Levertov

Genial poets, pink-faced   
earnest wits—
you have given the world   
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.   
Goodbye, goodbye,
                            I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,   
neutral fellows, seers of every side.   
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.

And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,   
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped   
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never   
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.

It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
because you choose to believe it is not your business.

Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,   
your loaves grow moldy,   
a gulf has split
                     the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving   
behind you the cherished   
worms of your dispassion,   
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,   
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle   
for joy ...