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

• The view from Detroit yesterday, in which again not a single political sign seen even as we walked across the campus of Wayne State 
• Kamala Harris announces she's running for Vice President
• Maggie's weekly links
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links
• So anyway, a not deleted >>deleted bleggalgaze<< 
• Saving your life by destroying your story and writing a new one
• Someone else besides me didn't like this Stoner
• Painting the ineffable
• I tried Ducks, Newburyport and through no fault of the novel I failed the book, a cinderblock in backpack, and my eyes and books, I will try on my Amazon Complicity White, but, having never tried an audio-book, as in ever, why not? and if I listen is it not a novel but a poem?
• RIP McCoy Tyner
• On Alice Notley
• January, Alice Notley poem
• On Alice Notley (who's something new! bought!)
• Heard on the way back from Detroit yesterday off my bluetoothing phone, one of my five favorite songs ever

  
CONGRATULATING WEDGE

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