Sunday, February 20, 2022

the bids are out to attract a nuclear dump

I last saw it last October, my most precious object, knit at least a dozen years ago by L, I felt worse losing it than I did my previous two wedding rings including the one that was L's grandfather's passed down and engraved with our initials and wedding date, I found it yesterday in a fanny pack in a box in the trunk of my car, a fanny pack I haven't used in years since I switched to a sling pack for day hikes, I must have stuck it in the fanny pack when I hastily packed up my dead subaru to move to my new subaru, my joy at it's rediscovery less than I would have thought, everything sideways, more than I deserve

  • So no one read it but one, as is just and proper which is not why I find myself daydreaming of my power of life and death over other humans
  • I want to read Mama's Last Hug but know it will destroy me, I already daydream of hunting hunters, killing shitlords who own slaughterhouses, all meat-eaters
  • The sole path to a quieter head is to quit obsessing over monstrosities I cannot change but have been programmed to see as failure any abandoning of my failing to change it
  • Strange, those morning hours of late when I think I'm feeling genuine despair, most times, like today, they fade as the day goes on but are replaced by a just as troubling fuck it to produce something I spend personal investment in creating that I will post on a holiday weekend to little readership and littler feedback.... I... the hat the restored, at least this morning, the fuck it

  • How easily and our shitlords shut down covid as *the* existential threat why our shitlords disappointed their warnings of existential extermination of all us of if Russia invades Ukraine failing, they threaten to kill us to make it true
  • I started Wings of the Dove and if enjoy will try to enjoy the next two in his loose trilogy, James my current whale, everybody needs a whale, and after a disturbing 36 hours when I first opened my collected Tom Raworth and discovered the fuck was I reading and in the next 36 hours pulled dozens of poets off the shelves in my house and in my office and everything farted....
  • James partly because two old friends insisted once I got it I'd be an addict, a third because she insists few novelists understand shitlords more than James and no novelist understands the first tier of shitlord subordinate more than James, partly because Marcel is currently happy attending a second tier of shitlord subordinate salon and fuck that, partly because I've accepted my rereadings of big fat novels is involuntarily suspended if not admittedly abandoned, I expect to be done with this xteenth attempt at James soon, I'd owe one last try hopefully years from now
  • XXXX and X have an xxxxxxxxx, on xxxxxxxxxx I xxxx I'm xxxx by xxx, we xxxxxx Friday and xxxxxx w my xxxxxx another xxxxx, what an xxxx I am, I deserve what whatever comeuppances I might xxxxxxx my xxxx in the next xxxx without destroying xxxxxxxx that would xxxxxxx my xxxxxx, the fuck am I typing
  • My finishing James loose trilogy and my confessing to everything are not legally connected, C.D Wright set me right poetry-wise, best cat ever still tries but can't climb my closet for me any longer

Just another day in the life of a public school teacher
The Big White House Russian Invasion Scam!
Also too: the News from Natoland
In good news, killing poachers!
FRESH HELLI drive by the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin at top of Glover Park on way to work, there is a public space across from the gates, in all Russia scares before there were protesters from Georgia, Ossetia, Ukraine, etc, today, nobody
How everything became trauma
Quintessential underpinning of propaganda
What we owe our fellow animals
Maggie's weekly links{ feuilleton }'s weekly links
Punctuated EquilibriaConsolations of Sociobiology
Dan reviews the latest Dennis Cooper novel
On Pynchon's VinelandKnott as a stranger


C.D. Wright

     The food is cheap; the squirrels are black; the box factories have all moved offshore; the light reproaches us, and our coffee is watered down, but we have an offer from the Feds to make nerve gas; the tribe is lobbying hard for another casino; the bids are out to attract a nuclear dump; and there's talk of a supermax-

In the descending order of your feelings
                                                                                               Please identify your concerns

P.S.: Remember Susanville, where Restore the Night Sky has become the town cry


  1. Last link the same as second to last.
    My undying thanks precedes the previous.

  2. 1/a beautiful knit cap - in my paternal homeland such a garment is commonly called by a french word meaning 'hat' - in one possible future i may wear one there and call it by its local name -

    2/a photo of a good looking cat, even if past the midpoint of her life - back in the 20th century, when i took epi 1, i learned the 4 categories for adult age groups 1/young adult 2/still young 3/not so young 4/you look wonderful

    3/i learned from the link to the best american poetry blog that bill knott and james tate had collaboratively written a charming and sometimes hilarious book of poems, -- the blog advised that if you can find a copy, buy it - i find several copies - of the 700 that were printed - offered for sale at $65 and up - i have not bought one, however

    4/also offered for sale, at a fraction of that price, a novel with the same co-authors, Lucky Darryl

    it seems to be 52 pages long, published in 1977 - a review published in 2016 said

    Lucky Darryl, a collaborative "novel" by poets James Tate (The Lost Pilot, Oblivion Ha-Ha) and Bill Knott (The Naomi Poems, Nights of Naomi) is not properly a novel at all. It's too short, for one thing. It lacks an identifiable protagonist for another. (Darryl, we're told would go door to door, through entire neighborhoods, and also stop people on the street and in supermarkets, and show a photo of himself to them. 'Do you recognize this man? They would all say no.) It has a storyline rather than a plot—Darryl searches for Veronica, catching up with her finally in Brasilia. And there's a situation where one might reasonably expect a setting: One day a city newer than Brasilia would be built. Then Veronica with her entourage of globetrotters would leave Brasilia for that city. But for now, they and she were trapped here. They had long ago exhausted all the cities of the world, and when Brasilia had been erected, they had no choice but to come . . . For them this was the last city on earth. I don't know what Lucky Darryl is. It's too prosaic to be a poem. Too much a poem to be prose. And too much of either to be both. But whatever it is, it's a joy to read. Knott's sense of loss and Tate's of reclamation often come together here in just the right proportion. I can't remember when I have seen two talents blend so nicely. Lucky Darryl is just, well, a special little book. JAY M. BOYER

    5/i am reminded of a nasrudin story told by idries shah

    Nasrudin went into a bank with a cheque to cash.
    'Can you identify yourself?' asked the clerk.
    Nasrudin took out a mirror and peered into it.
    'Yes, that's me all right,' he said.