A Continual Division of Halves

• Fleabus, full-size.
• My apologies, the West Virginia teachers strike is not over, reports two nights ago notwithstanding.
• Striking teachers in West Virginia made sure their students had food.
• Did you know there is a teacher strike in WV? I heard and saw twaated that MSNBC's prime time hosts have made no mention, is this true? Not only would that be research, I would watch a motherfucking NBA game before I'd watch MSNBC.
• Still not on the front of Washington Post or New York Times webpages as of post timestamp.
• #777 is my lucky number.
• When Corporations became people.
• Desperate cornered animal.
• Modern violence, resistance, and the calculus of revolution.
• The critical zone of science and politics.
• Wait! New Richard Youngs!

• Innermost circle of rotation MSADI5G.
• DC United's season starts tomorrow. Remember when? Here are the probable starters: GK David Ousted; Ds Nick DeLeon, Steve Birnbaum, Frederic Brillant, Oniel Fisher; MFs Junior Moreno, Paul Arriola, Ulises Segura, Zoltan Stieber, Yamil Asad; F Darren Mattocks. I've heard of one of them.
• UPDATE! Fuck MLS, fuck United.
• Poetry and the Experience of Contact.
• >> Deleted bleggalgaze <<
• Poets' strike.
• New Yo La Tengo! (and old Yo La Tengo below the poem).
• Innermost circle of rotation MSADI5G.

IMAGE-NATION 9 (HALF AND HALF

Robin Blaser

there are shining masters

when I tell you what they

look like    some of it is

nearly false   their blue hair

but they are not ourselves   they

are equivalents   of action    they

compose forms,    which we hear

sound within a context

as if that action we are

images of    used us

the body becomes an instrument

sometimes the harp pierces the body

and a man only hangs on the strings

I hear the airborne-fire, the dead rebels’

second speech, which follows their live words,

and the rice, and the motorcycles

but public life has fallen asleep

like a secret name    the wrong-reader

will say he has pity for others

where the thought is born in hatred

of pity, which is only feeling    the action

we are only images of    hates pity

and its reduction of horror to sentiment

wordlessness   no thing is so simply

personal    I put my hand out to catch

beauty in the act of    I know no beauty

which is not permanent    not invoked

in splendour     the words are meaningless

until they emerge in the action     they are

images of

I was once a youth,   and I was

a maiden,     a bush, a bird, a fish

with scales that gleam in the ocean

they come from the dark    under

many names    the blue    wind

they are not ourselves,    not even

the moon drawn down     into our

breasts    that we may strike others

with eros                                      the

body gleamed so                           wind

master                a bone, a ball, a top

an apple, a mirror, a skein of wool

wind   —   words      wind   —  hair    we

have dismembered the earth    and

are born lifeless on the moon     mouths

to the wind

unthought the many mountains, the many

cities,   the many houses

I was once    another man’s heart

an eagle, a wolf    cloud, smoke,

splash

           psychron    (cold, refreshing

anapsychsai   (to be refreshed from evil

we have eaten ourselves   luxurious and

careless    I must bathe at the

gates of the city    I must tell you

they have been blue in the heart,

in the wind

                          I have opened my mouth

they have come from the black-fire

                                                   we have stiffened

the terror of earth,     as if terror were the only unearthly

thing in our hearts

                          we have given her rivers

of our own salt    earth then remains uncanny,

sublime    water is fear’s movement    grief cries

in the air like birds    fire is hidden in the imageless

self

            the blue hair    the face of gold    the clothes

like snow    the blood

                                       is light

                                                           zero

enacts it

            Jack Clarke’s ‘we are under image’

rythmos    (form’s movement)   to walk into    ‘the

primordial always exists’    face to face    always outside

ourselves    the astonishment is

                                     that it is kosmos

playing out with one man   entheos

                                                 they are

the flowing boundary    taking birth    taking leave

at the point of the heart              a continual

division of halves