Sunday, May 1, 2016

Or Is This Something Curs with Lathered Mouths Invent?

Part of me wants Leicester City to finish the job today in Manchester, part of me wants Leicester City to clinch at home next weekend in front of the fans, lifting the trophy post-game. I tweeted a question two months ago - Leicester? A Labour or Tory town, and was told all three Leicester MPs are Labour: I want to be happy for Leicester fans, but not if they are majority Tory. It's all about me. Vicarious tribalism is still tribalism, and my tribalism wants Leicester to win the title this year and to need fight to avoid relegation next season. Fine metaphors abound.

  • RIP Daniel Berrigan.
  • yesterday tornadoes came: a >not mine< bleggalgaze of sorts.
  • nobody's place in line.
  • Distraction watch.
  • Desk chair on the Titanic: part a >not mine< bleggalgaze of sorts, part on tribalism, most on clusterfuck.
  • Pay in cash: how the restaurant industry proves there is no Left.
  • The rational irrationality of Capitalism.
  • The predicament of immanence.
  • { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
  • Bleggalgaze >mine<: >>Deleted<< other then say, weekend mornings are when I like doing this most, at the dining room table with music and coffee, even though it means relegation from the third tier of the Blegsylvania Blogging League to the fourth.
  • Also too, today? Tomorrow is a High Egoslavian Holy Day, so get your links today.
  • Elkin's Franchiser. More on May 11 for Elkin's birthday.
  • Ransom, who I have not thought about in a long time.
  • Barwick's music is background to video of my Overnight Planet posts, so there's that, though not here, now, but all her music works on me in ways I love to submit to, almost - almost - don't resist. Fine metaphors abound.
  • New Juliana Barwick, out May 6 ▲ two songs new, she's playing 6th & I Synagogue June 15, Earthgirl, Planet, and me going, join us.


Weldon Kees

"The night is monstrous winter when the rats
Swarm in great packs along the waterfront,
When midnight closes in and takes away your name.
And is was Rover, Ginger, Laddie, Prince;
My pleasure hambones. Donned a collar once
With golden spikes, the darling of a cultured home
Somewhere between the harbor and the heights, uptown.
Or is this something curs with lathered mouths invent?
They had a little boy I would have bitten, had I dared.
They threw great bones out on the balcony.
But where? I pant at every door tonight.

I knew this city once the way I know those lights
Blinking in chains along the other side,
These streets that hold the odor of my kind.
But now, my bark a ghost in this strange scentless air,
I am no growling cicerone or cerberus
But wreakage for the pound, snuffling in shame
All cold-nosed toward identity. - Rex? Ginger? No.
Wild for my shadow in this vacantness,
I can at least run howling toward the bankrupt lights
Into the traffic where bones, cats, and masters swarm.
And where my name must be."


  1. "Out of the mouths of city dogs
    have come some useful truths.
    Barks and whines - noise to some -
    are fraught with ancient wisdom.

    A dog, to share his basic instinct,
    will warn, say, of the landlord
    at the door to spoil your day.
    "Don't open," he barks. In vain.

    When the van is loaded: laptop, mattresses, and microwave,
    a wise dog rides in stoic silence
    to the new (smaller) apartment

    where joyously he soon resumes
    his job of watching over rooms."
    - Wisdom Tinged With Joy, Dorothea Tanning, 2006

  2. The Motorcyclists


    My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,
    did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica
    of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.
    I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.
    Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,
    but fireworks any time? There are people
    like that, you know. They’re like people who like
    orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.
    Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.
    Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-gong and bobcats,
    shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,
    the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and
    whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first
    one at the scene of a bad accident.

    Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?
    I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,
    did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine
    is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind
    of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.
    Do you know that I have never understood what they meant
    by “grassy knoll.” It sounds so idyllic, a place to go
    to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They
    should have called it something like “the grudging notch.”
    But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?
    “It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.”
    You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven
    I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant
    right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

    but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first
    woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.
    Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom
    at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me
    if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?
    I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.

    James Tate, “The Motorcyclists” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1991 by James Tate. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press