Thursday, April 6, 2017

And If to Withstand This Nocturnal Pollution of the Tiny Wanton Stars with Bent Hook Clauses of Misprision I’m Supposed to Sing the Melody of an Unexpecting Part

My new Burnt Orange Wedge! (Click, yo)

I bought three Missing Low Is Lame stickers too.

Missing low is lame. I haven't officially removed Pink Aviar from bag: will I jinx all chance gorgeous Burnt Orange Wedge can save me, will I guarantee if it does save me I'll lose Burnt Orange and my salvation, yanking an ambitious shot I've the imagination to shape but not the skills to execute, Disc Baal disappearing Burnt Orange into thorniest real and metaphorical briars as proper comeuppance for pride in faith if I anoint Burnt Orange's bottom now with a sacred Missing Low Is Lame sticker before I officially excommunicate Pink Aviar? Why do I enjoy forcing myself into these thoroughly unnecessary and unnecessarily unnecessary decisions?


Alice Notley

All things belie me, I think, but I
look at them though. Well boys, at
least you’re not dead, right? What’s
the date today? Until something. What?
Of the lady of the whitening blow.
I’m ashamed to keep on babbling
as if I’ve always been oneself,
diamond flow through. Humble
flannel skeleton. Grin, laugh unbecoming
Living at the bottom of the water may
have been obvious all the time. But
I forget. What’s my plot? Hand
of a child, paw of an animal. Paint
it red & make a pawprint in the psalter.
Protect her & give her back her hat
Entangle her dreams in demotic and
Warm her feet; cheat the judge
& protect the tree from which he was carved.


And now that I’ve explained the situation
Jesus my frame hurts, you say.
Fucking pain. Hey come & empty my ashtray
once more & don’t get so excited. A
gentle heart was broken. Whose? No one’s
It’s a figure like a frame among
medlars & briars. Hand me that piece of
that, just that, yeah. I don’t mean it,
I’ve never meant anything because that’s
not what I do, in the mountains I call home
How can I tell you of my wound? it’s
round & silver & headstrong, it’s
nothing more than temperament born
of a custom involving a circuitous journey
This is all wrong. It rains today, my
son’s singing love songs of this
country, already being ten.


And if to withstand this nocturnal pollution of the tiny
wanton stars with bent hook clauses of misprision
I’m supposed to sing the melody of an unexpecting part. . .
Hey a pretty honey come a listen to me
while I evening, darling, your messages,
what would you think then? But I
wouldn’t do that. Light surrounded oranges
towels clouds. You don’t think you’re my you.
Not here not you. You still think you’re he. she.
Because I wouldn’t “you” you, would I? I only
“you” some other he. she. I
who write poems. When she writes them,
it’s different. . .A world of words, right?
It’s only my version of The Entertainer
Nothing truly personal, I’m way above that.
I’ve learned about it for a lot of days. I’ve
been to see the doctor & you have to have shots
for it. 17 balls of yarn & a sewing machine.


No I wouldn’t know why anyone would
want to write like that. I should never
have had to do it. We were used to this
other thing we always know like when we’re
here. And you have this clear head & you’re
seeing things & there they are. You don’t
notice they’re spelled. That’s how you
know you’re alive. I never saw you


  1. from "the music of poetry"

    Below the surface-stream, shallow and light,
    Of what we say we feel — below the stream,
    As light, of what we think we feel — there flows
    With noiseless current strong, obscure and deep,
    The central stream of what we feel indeed.

    Here, Matthew Arnold wants us to feel that, among the five stressed syllables in the line “As light, of what we think we feel — there flows,” the greatest emphasis falls on think, making it the tonic syllable: “As light, of what we think we feel — there flows.” Arnold’s use of italics threatens to seem like compensation for an inability to control the intonation of his lines by poetic means, as if the strategic variation of the syntax within an ongoing metrical pattern were not enough.

  2. The link to tPiR reminded me that I'll never achieve my dream of becoming teevee's drummer.

  3. Jim Cooke's illustration accompanying Long Right-Wing Grift is terrific. The mirth produced by that almost -- but not quite -- deadens the nausea I've felt upon hearing advertisements for some Giant Hardware Chain on Soundcloud, and suddenly realizing it was Peter Coyote's voice I was hearing.

  4. Ha! Deep inside the baseball indeed.

  5. I get up this morning, Oh-dark-thirty, as usual. News: Missles. Don't know why I should be surprised -- the President of China is at More-Lego, after all. And I practically couldn't move around in my kitchen for all the Replicators in there. Don't they have homes? Jobs?

    Friday morning in Trump's Amernesia, and we're just getting started. The experience of it is, on one level, like getting stuck in the Bardo, for god's sake;, and reminded me of this: