Thursday, February 2, 2017

Dream Replicas of Ourselves

  • Once was on a group blog w Montag. AGITPROP. Agi and El Serracho (then known as Culture Ghost) were there too. Spanky, were you?
  • UPDATE! Fred from Auburn too.
  • I emailed Fellowjeff - who lives in Maine - before we went to Acadia last August. He and his are fine, but we couldn't arrange a beer.
  • Blogroll Amnesty Day shout out to the late great Jon Swift, a generous man, Kind to this shitty blog.
  • Thanks for reading. If you are Kinding me but me not you PLEASE let me know.
  • If there's someone you think I should be reading PLEASE let me know.
  • On life without Facebook.
  • Dan's short stories.
  • This is true: I was born without the short story gene. I have theories; I'll spare you.


Anne Waldman

  sound de-territorializes
and my love clings to you
sings to you
in the “new weathers”
within a tragedy
of the Anthropocene
held hostage
by the hand
of Man
can we resist?
will we fail?
to save our world?
we dream replicas of ourselves
fragile, broken
robotic thought-bubbles
inside the shadow
a looming possibility
this new year
to wake up
could it be?
an anthropoid scared
from the forest
slow in development
now infantilized
much like us
stressed yet
ready to resist
this scenario?
the forest made the monkey
& the cave & steppe: the human
and now
what makes us suppler
more human?
climate grief?
a fierce tenderness toward
the destruction of our world?
or actions?

[my love for you
sings for you, world
I’ve got those Anthropocene….


  1. Thanking 4 Linky Love. If I was a smarter and more energetic Dog, I'd write my own analysis of These Times but just can't Pull It Together, Sport, to do that, so I am pass-through. Thinking about a graphic novel.

  2. the title of this post reminds me of a procol harum song - "the dead man's dream" - trigger warning - as one might imagine from the title, the song and the associated video are on the morbid side - keywords: graves, coffins, corpses, rotten, maggots

    Words by Keith Reid

    As I lay down dying, a floor for my bed
    And a bundle of newspaper under my head
    I dreamed a dream, as strange as could be
    Concerning myself, and somebody like me

    We were in some city, the stranger and me
    The houses were open, and the streets empty
    The windows were bare, and the pavements dirty
    I asked where I was; my companion ignored me

    We entered a graveyard and searched for a tombstone
    The graves were disturbed, and the coffins wide open
    And the corpses were rotten, yet each one was living
    Their eyes were alive with maggots crawling

    I cried out in fear, but my voice had left me
    My legs were deformed, yet I moved quite freely
    My head was on fire, yet my hands were icy
    And everywhere light, yet darkness engulfed me

    I managed to scream and woke from my slumber
    I thought of my dream and lay there and wondered
    Where had I been? What could it mean?
    It was dark in the deathroom as I slithered under

    i am also reminded of james tate's last poem, found in his typewriter, which ends:

    a policeman stopped me on the street and said he was sorry. He was looking for someomeone who looked just like me and had the same name. What are the chances?