Sunday, March 8, 2020

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. . .

The view this morning from the side porch of the cottage we're renting in Chelsea Michigan, 7:15 this morning same skyline as at 6:15 yesterday morning, I wasn't going to post today but everyone still asleep dreaming in standard time

  • Seven stages of grief for the anthropocene
  • I can vouch, adjunctopia is real 
  • No, twitter is not killing the written word even if it has been, is, and will forever kill Blegsylvanian litblogs
  • For this record, I have never thought this shitty blog a litblog and while I rarely think of bleggalcide when I do it's not lack of pings and feedback (which seems to drive most enterprises) (I'm fine, and thank you, as in thank you for pinging, though every time I look I wish I had the faith to kill the statcounter, blind myself to blooger stats) 
  • but when I spinout and want to destroy everything, blog, tablets, job, friends, marriage, life, and need slapping out of sideways, this shitty blog helps


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. Here's the plan. This is all predicated on the likely erroneous idea that Bonobo Biden can actually win the election against Grabber-in-Chief Trump. Fist step, become Biden's running-mate. Then, when Biden mentally disintegrates in about, say, six months or so into his presidency, or has a heart attack (heaven forbid) the vice prez steps in and viola. It's the quickest route to the Whitehouse for these snotty upstarts with dollar signs in their eyeballs. If Biden is elected, and after Trump anything's possible, how long do you think he'll last? The Dirty Big-D Democrats had to pull out every stop just to get Biden toe to toe with Bernie. Heck, it's nine months until the election and Biden may not make it that far before succumbing completely to dementia. But who knows, maybe Bombs-Away Bernie can pull a rabbit out of his hat. What I don't understand is why everyone equates all the minor and sensible safety net improvements offered up by Bernie with taxing the rich. It seems really obvious that all this could be paid for just by ending the overseas piracy and cutting the military spending. Also murdering people isn't nice. And you could tax the rich at the same time.

  2. 0)i think of this blog as an alt-rock blog

    0.7)that's a nice sunrise

    0.8)i saw a similar sunrise yesterday morning at the airport [dca] - 2 of missus charley's sisters, just arrived from peru, were on their way to duluth to visit loved ones

    0.9)duluth, i discovered this morning when looking at a map, is much closer to wisconsin than it is to canada, of which i am potentially a citizen by descent - i await the official ruling in a couple of months

    0.92)i have been in wisconsin, decades ago, but as far as i recall nothing exciting happened

    1)missus charley's sisters are older than she is - not just these 2, all of 6 of them - one of these two is not just older than my beloved spouse, but even older than i am - and frailer than the average person of her age - the two sisters are wearing masks on the airplanes, and one hopes this will be enough

    2)one of my extended family members and members-in-law has recently put on their facebook page the following: pray often and wash your hands frequently - jesus and germs are everywhere

    2.2)certainly we live in a world of radical contingency