Sunday, January 22, 2017

More The Fuck I Forgot Feldman's Birthday

I forgot Morton Feldman's birthday. It's January 12th, that's Earthgirl's birthday, I've used Earthgirl's birthday to remind it's Feldman's birthday since the first time I knew it was Earthgirl's birthday. The fuck I missed Feldman's birthday.


Alejandra Pizarnik
Translated from the Spanish by Susan Pensak

I can’t speak with my voice only with my voices
His eyes were the entrance to the temple for me, who am a sinner, who loves and dies. And I would have sung until I was made one with the night, until I was unmade naked on the entrance to time.
A song that I cross like a tunnel.
Uneasy presences,
gestures of figures that appear vivid through the work
of an active language that alludes to them,
signs that insinuate insoluble terrors.
A vibration of the groundworks, a trembling of the
foundations, drills and blasts,
and I knew where that one lodges so other who is I, who waits for me to shut up to take possession of me and drill and blast the groundworks, the foundations,
that one who is opposed within me, conspires, takes possession of my waste soil,

I have to do something,

I don’t have to do anything,

something in me doesn’t give in to the cascade of ashes that ravages inside me with her who is I, with myself who am her and who am I, unspeakably distinct from her.
In the selfsame silence (not in the same silence) to devour the night, an immense night immersed in the secret of the lost steps.
I can’t speak out of nothing to say. That is why we lose ourselves, the poem and I, in the useless attempt to transcribe ardent relations.
Where does this writing lead? To the black, the sterile, the fragmented.
The dolls gutted by my ancient doll hands, the disillusion at finding pure stuffing ( your memory pure steppe): the father, who had to be Tiresias, floats in the river. But you, why did you resign yourself to be murdered listening to tales of snow- tipped poplars?
I wanted my doll fingers to penetrate the keys. I didn’t want to graze the keyboard like a spider. I wanted to sink myself, nail myself, attach myself, petrify myself. I wanted to enter the keyboard to enter inside the music to have a native land. But the music continued, accelerated. Only when a re - frain reiterated did there breathe in me the hope that something resembling a train station might be established, I mean: a fixed and secure point of departure; a place from which to depart, from the place, to the place, in union and fusion with the place. But the refrain was too brief, so that I couldn’t erect a station as I could count only on one train somewhat derailed from tracks that contorted and distorted. Then I abandoned music and its deceits because music was either higher or lower, but not in the center, in the place of fusion and encounter. (You who were my only native land, where to look for you? Maybe in this poem I keep on writing.)
One night at the circus I recovered a lost language the moment the riders carrying torches galloped in a fierce round on black stallions. Not even in my happiest dreams will a choir of angels exist that could provide anything for my heart resembling the hot sounds of hooves against the rings.
(And he told me: Write; because these words are faithful and true.) 
(A man or a stone or a tree is going to begin the song . . .) 
And it was a gently tremulous agitation (I say that to instruct the one who mislaid her musicality in me and trembles with more dissonance than a horse goaded by a torch in the rings of a foreign country).
I was hugging the ground, saying a name. I thought I had died and that death was to say a name without ceasing.
Maybe this is not what I want to say. This saying and saying oneself isn’t pleasant. I can’t speak with my voice only with my voices. It’s also possible that this poem was a trap, nothing but a stage.
When the ship alternated its rhythm and vacillated on the violent water, I sat up straight like the amazon who controls her rearing horse with only her blue eyes (or was it with her blue eyes?). The green water on my face, I have to drink you until the night is opened. No one can save me since I am invisible even for me whom I call with your voice. Where am I? I’m in a garden.
There is a garden.


  1. A) Bobby Baby: #4: Ha ha ha ha. #6: It wod True Love fur Bernie be, were it not more a giving voice to That which eats at the very Soules of Men. And Women.

    B) There is that argument: to allow the inevitable -- Trump Epic Fail -- then liberals will be ae to appear the rational alternative. With the proper images and rethoric, people will be told This will save you! Vote Democratic! And the Shadow Puppet play will continue. Our Great Nation will be saved, again -- for the sake of its banks, Our Treasured Betters, their offshore accounts and warm soft lives.

    This presumes whatever Il Duce does will leave the U.S. in any condition to have two political parties. Or have anything.

    C) The Bio That Keeps On Giving: That we all be sacrificed for the whims of this strutting child-man? Feels like we're in a Banana Republik. Don't mean the store.

    D) Six Feces for Donald Trump: Let's make it a mail-in campaign.

  2. Thought, 'I've yum yucked' twice recently; realized it'd be a double entendre & I was doing a different yum yucking. And thank you, kind sir.