Friday, May 15, 2020

Quickened Pulse & Blood-Glittered Coughs

Eno's birthday, seventy-two today. Fripp tomorrow. Second half of May fat with birthdays. The last five pages of just finished tablet and first five pages of new tablet scribbled with the causes and implications and ramifications of my skipping the annual Stanley Elkin birthday post four days ago, said scribble may or not appear here or elsewhere but I've negotiated a rationale for posting birthdays going forward: if I listened, read, or saw in person a work of art between the previous year's birthday and the current I will post the birthday this year. Maybe. Self-negotiation in time of plague and apocalypse

  • Also being negotiated, abandoning both *Egoslavian* and *My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game* branding, abandoning the ritual of my own self-defining calendar, I can't imagine it happening but once I could never imagine even considering abandoning either since that a necessary first step to abandoning more



torrin greathouse

Antonym for me a medical
book. Replace all the punctuation—
commas, periods, semicolons—with question marks.
Diagnosis is just apotheosis with sharper
edges. New name for a myth already lived in.
For the sake of thoroughness, I have
given until my veins cratered. Tests administered for:
HIV, cirrhosis, glucose, cancer, creatine, albumin, iron, platelets.
I’ve slept for days, wired to machines. Had my piss filtered for stray proteins
just to be safe. Still, inside my body—
kingdom with poisoned wells. I want anything but an elegy
lining my bones. I just want to be a question this body can answer.
My new doctor writes one referral, then another, still
no guesses. A man in a scowl & lab coat
offers yoga, more painkillers. Suggests
PTSD could be the cause—of chronic pain, my limp, of migraines,
quickened pulse & blood-glittered coughs, of seizures
rattling me inside my skin—O,
syndrome of my perfect & unbroken
transgender arm. They checked my hormones too. Yes.
Unfathomable—a suffering I did not choose. Must be gender, this
vacancy my body makes of its own flesh. How I vanish from myself.
We search for a beginning to this story & find only a history of breakage
X-rays cannot explain. Some girls are not made, but spring from the dirt:
yearling tree already scarred from its branch’s severance.
Zygote of red clay that rain washes into a river of blood.


  1. Remember hearing this Eno for the first time; first Eno of any kind. Just sublime. Opened up a door to alternative music I didn't even know was there (Schoenberg aside; Eno is a whole other order).

  2. The concept of your knowledge of your own demise being an ally is an interesting one. I first came across it reading a series of books by Carlos Castaneda back in the seventies (fun read by the way). I've come across it several times since then so I don't really know where this concept originated. Young people are immortal and seldom think of such things. But as we age and reach that one foot in the grave point in our lives that feeling of immortality is long gone. The weird thing is I have no desire to be young again. Why would I want to give up an awareness that a lifetime of mistakes, fuck-ups, some more costly than others, has given me? Being young was great but I'm enjoying my old age despite all the aches and pains of a body that's slowly winding down. I don't worry about my place in society, I don't have the need to prove something, to be the center of attention, or the need for atta boys. The world is changing so quickly now that I feel like a stranger in my own land. I've eschewed the use of cell phones because I hate the damn things or any of its close relatives, Ipads and such or whatever you call the fucking things. I don't text either. No cell phone! Ha ha. I'd rather be out in my garden feeling the sun on back, the wind on my skin, the smell of damp earth, which as far as I'm concerned is what life is really about if its about anything at all.

    It seems very strange to me that I found this article I linked to about an antibody that allegedly defeated Covid-19, and that it could be ready for use much sooner than a vaccine, that there's very little news about it that I could find since then. I would have thought that this would be a big deal.

    Country Joe and the Fish:

    Give me an "f".


    Give me an "I".


    Give me an "S".


    Give me an "h".


    What's that spell?


    What's that smell?