Had dinner this past Wednesday night with Bil and Sil. (Bil and Sil are fine. We wouldn't be friends in real life not because they are awful but because their interests are vastly and comprehensively different than mine: we'd be courteous and friendly coworkers if we had the same job which in fact, as this dinner illustrated, we do. My right eye:
Talk of course turned to the clusterfuck. I did not, and was not going to bring it up, I promised myself (and L). When Sil brought it up (she's a pro-union labor lawyer and a devout obamabot and, defending Democrats, pins everything on Dump and magastanis and nothing regarding Democratic Party complicity or the shitlords using Dump and complicit Democrats to enact their accelerationist agenda) I kept my darker, more dire analysis and prognosis to myself and mostly succeeded. One can't reason with a maga any more than can with an anti-maga shitlib. America: if one's not in either tribe that person is considered the whackjob. My left eye:
I'm currently both macro-dark and growingly more micro-dark daily. When Sil asked why the ruling class is silently allowing a sociopath like Dump to deliberately fuck everything up I did not say (a) they are not silently allowing, they are brazenly cheerleading Dump on because (b) our ruling class wants to fuck everything up so they can fuck everything up more while immiserating us for profit I was reminded of the uselessness of words to me now to describe and assign meanings to the infinite examples of our decline. Only two people see my art in real life and time and dimensions, the scans posted here and there aren't half what it looks like held in your hand. I enforce my fine metaphors abounding about me. Bryan Ferry was born 80 years ago today, I've always loved Roxy Music, people can vouch, this is my very favorite of dozens of very favorite songs, the chord coming out of the bridge, lordy
FOLKLORE
Dean Young
1/feeling the fear of missing out, i inquired about a couple of lines which seemed obscure to me from the posted poem by dean young, and received this response, which seemed plausible
ReplyDeleteThe passage “A motorboat is wasted on me...not in it twice” from Dean Young’s *Folklore* reflects the speaker’s inaction and missed opportunities. The motorboat and pool symbolize leisure or vitality, yet the speaker avoids engagement, staying out of the pool all summer. The phrase “not in it, not in it / twice” likely alludes to Heraclitus’ “You cannot step into the same river twice,” suggesting an aversion to life’s flow or change. The playful repetition underscores this hesitation with humor, fitting the poem’s mix of whimsy and existential reflection on mortality and missed moments.
2/speaking of missing out, while typing this I just got a notice that a group of tv stations that had stuck with blocking Jimmy Kimmel has relented
with regard to "hammered steel" in young's poem:
ReplyDeleteThis striking image carries multiple layers of meaning, blending the poem’s playful tone with its deeper reflections on resilience, mortality, and transformation.
“Hammered steel” evokes strength, durability, and something forged through intense pressure. The speaker may be expressing a longing to be unbreakable, especially in the context of the poem’s references to fragility (e.g., heart attacks, contusions, ICU). It could allude to a desire to withstand life’s physical or emotional blows, contrasting the human body’s vulnerability with the unyielding nature of steel.
The image might draw on mythological or literary figures, like the Greek god Hephaestus or the forging of heroes’ armor (e.g., Achilles’ shield in the Iliad), symbolizing a crafted, idealized self. Alternatively, it could nod to industrial imagery, evoking a modern, mechanical resilience—perhaps a wish to be more machine than mortal, free from human frailties.
“Hammered steel” suggests something meticulously crafted, aligning with the poem’s references to art (e.g., Tang poets, Western art, soup cans). It might allude to the poet’s desire to create something enduring through art, transforming the self into a lasting, unyielding form, unlike the ephemeral “moon’s puddle” or the body’s fragility.
In this poem Young juxtaposes vulnerability (e.g., heart attacks, crying on the floor) with moments of whimsy and strength. The “hammered steel” line follows references to ICU and miracle products, suggesting a yearning for invincibility amid life’s chaos. It’s both a humorous exaggeration and a poignant wish to transcend human limitations.
The phrase likely alludes to a desire for resilience or immortality, possibly drawing on mythic or industrial imagery of forged strength. It reflects the speaker’s wish to be unbreakably crafted, contrasting the poem’s themes of mortality and fragility. If you’d like further analysis or other lines explored, let me know!
what if one imagined a rewrite by the electronic ghost of James Tate?
ReplyDeleteFolklore, in the Voice of James Tate
Listen, nobody has a heart attack at 23,
unless they’re chasing a runaway shopping cart
down a hill, thinking it’s full of gold.
47’s the ticket—your heart just sighs,
says, I’m taking a coffee break, pal.
I fed a stray shadow once, gave it half my sandwich.
Now my porch is a convention of shadows,
all muttering about my bad posture.
Starve a fever, sure, but don’t trust thirst—
it’ll have you eating a whole cake at midnight.
I had a motorboat once, shiny as a new dime,
but the pool just sat there, winking at me all summer.
I never dipped a toe in, not once, not twice.
Like my uncle who bought a unicycle and left it
in the garage next to his dreams of being a clown.
A dollhouse isn’t wasted on a mouse, though—
they move right in, hang tiny curtains,
whistle tunes about cheese.
Get lost, I tell myself, take the scenic route.
50 cows might buy you a bride,
but try shouting love across the Grand Canyon—
it just echoes back, Nice try, buddy.
The Tang poets knew this, sipping their watery wine,
scratching poems on napkins they couldn’t afford.
Go ahead, fall into the moon’s puddle,
let it soak your socks. Bruises are standard issue,
and the ICU’s got TVs selling knives
that’ll cut through your regrets like butter.
Imagine being made of hammered steel,
clanking through life, no dents, no rust.
I told my neighbour that, and he laughed,
said he’d rather be a rubber ball, bouncing forever.
Nobody knows why Lee marched to Gettysburg,
but my turning point was crying on the kitchen floor,
a spilled bowl of cereal my personal Waterloo.
Get up, I whispered, and I did, at 33,
feeling like Jesus but with worse carpentry skills.
The modern art wing’s got soup cans,
bent fenders framed like they’re holy.
Relief washes over me like warm dishwater.
Down in the deep, fish glow like living lanterns,
but up here, we stitch our own darkness,
fumbling with thread. And yet,
last night I tripped over my own shoes,
sprawled in the yard under a sky fat with stars.
My knees ached, my heart’s a clumsy tenant,
but those stars—they winked like they knew me,
like they’d been waiting all along to say,
Look at you, still here, still tripping, still marvelous.
what would happen if one LLM recast Young's poem in the style of T.S. Eliot, and then another strove to put the result into "Dean Young's" voice again?
ReplyDeleteHeart Ticks and Other Exploding Gizmos
Listen, the heart’s not some polite guest,
it’s a drunk uncle at the wedding,
spilling merlot on the white rug of your 20s,
then winking, like, whoops, my bad.
By 47, it’s got a better story,
a ledger of dents and smudges,
that last beat a hiccup, a slammed door
in the middle of a quiet Tuesday.
Don’t feed the shadows—they’re greedy,
they’ll eat your shoelaces, your Wi-Fi signal,
leave you with a fridge full of expired yogurt.
Starve them. Let the self, that glass house,
shatter into a thousand disco balls.
Each shard winks: you’re still here, buddy.
The throat’s dry, sure, but don’t call it hunger.
That’s like mistaking a lawnmower for a lover.
Guzzle the lukewarm tap water,
watch it dribble down your chin like regret.
Out on the lake, the motorboat’s screaming,
but you’re just floating,
toes too shy for the green murk.
Three times you meant to dive.
Three times you ordered pizza instead.
Still, there’s a dollhouse in your chest,
a tiny tenant scuttling through,
nibbling the wallpaper of your aorta.
It’s not a waste—it’s a sitcom,
a rodent rom-com with no laugh track.
Lose the script. Get lost on purpose.
Be the guy who wanders into a bodega
and comes out with a pet goldfish named Steve.
Fifty cows, a dowry for nobody’s daughter,
but you’re shouting into the canyon anyway,
voice bouncing like a bad check.
The wind’s got nothing to say back.
It’s just wind, not a poet.
Unlike those Tang guys, sipping thin wine
from cracked cups, their ink running low,
their moons always puddles, never oceans.
They knew how to starve pretty.
You? You’re drowning in a teaspoon.
The ICU’s a neon cathedral,
fluorescent hum like a choir of bored angels.
Knives on TV promise to slice through tin cans,
but your heart’s no can—it’s a peach,
bruised and leaking.
You wanted to be steel, didn’t you?
A tank, a vault, a Transformer.
Too bad. You’re just you,
sobbing on the linoleum,
Lee at Gettysburg, picking the wrong hill.
Remember being eight, buried in sand?
A game, not a prophecy.
At 33, you jumped like you could outrun gravity,
like resurrection was just cardio.
Now you’re eyeing soup cans in the museum,
crumpled fenders framed like saints.
Thank God, you whisper.
No more climbing toward Big Meaning.
Just this: a bent spoon, a parking ticket.
Down in the deep, fish glow like tiny gods,
making their own light, no strings attached.
Up here, we’re stitching shadows,
sewing our own blackout curtains.
The heart? It’s a glitchy clock,
ticking like a bomb in a cartoon.
Boom, it says, or maybe just whoosh.
Either way, it’s yours.
Keep it. It’s the only one you’ve got.
the following is satire - n..... stands for the soft-r n word
ReplyDeleteDave Chappelle-Style Stage Monologue: Heart Attacks and Other Bullshit
(Lights up. Dave, in a black hoodie and jeans, paces the stage, mic in hand, smirking at the crowd. He takes a drag from an imaginary cigarette, exhales, and leans in.)
Yo, yo, yo, hold up. Lemme tell y’all about this heart shit, man. Not, like, love and roses heart, nah—the ticker. This n…. right here? (slaps chest) This thing’s a damn drama queen. In your 20s, it’s wildin’ out, like that n…. at the club who spills Hennessy on your kicks and goes, “My bad, fam!” Like, nah, bruh, you fucked up my Jordans! That’s your heart at 25, just reckless, tryna breakdance in your chest.
But 47? Oh, 47’s the real shit. That’s when your heart’s like, “Aight, I’m done playin’. Time to balance the books.” And then—boom!—one day it just stops, like, “Fuck it, I’m clockin’ out.” One last beat, like a shitty DJ droppin’ the needle wrong. (mimics record scratch) Errrrk. Done.
Now, listen, you can’t be out here feedin’ shadows, man. You know what I mean? Shadows are them thoughts—I ain’t enough, I fucked up, why didn’t I call my mama back? That shit’s greedy, n…. It’ll eat your whole vibe, leave you with nothin’ but a Netflix queue full of documentaries you ain’t never gonna watch. Starve that shit. Let your soul—your little glass house—bust open like a piñata at a kid’s party. Every piece sparklin’, like, “Yo, I’m still here, bitches!”
But check this—there’s a little dollhouse in your chest, right? Got a tiny-ass tenant in there, like a rat with a lease. He’s chewin’ on your heartstrings, settin’ up a whole rat Airbnb. And that’s cool, man. That’s not wasted. That’s your heart sayin’, “I got stories, n….” Let it do its thing. Get lost on purpose. Be that dude who walks into a bodega for milk and comes out with a goldfish named Tyrone. (shrugs) Tyrone’s cool, though.
(leans forward, serious now) You ever try to holler at the universe? Like, you’re out there, yellin’ into a canyon, “Yo, what’s good?!” And the universe just… nothin’. Just wind, like, whoosh. That silence is loud, n…. It’s like the universe ghosted you on Tinder. You gotta get used to that quiet. Them old Chinese poets, man—the Tang dynasty cats—they got it. Sippin’ cheap wine from cracked cups, writin’ poems with, like, two drops of ink. That’s discipline. Me? I’m out here drownin’ in a kiddie pool, tryna find the moon in a puddle.
(paces, lights dim slightly) ICU’s wild, yo. It’s like a sci-fi movie, but the budget’s trash. Fluorescent lights hummin’ like they’re prayin’ for you. TV’s sellin’ knives that cut through hubcaps, like, “Buy this, n…, it’ll save your life!” My life’s already a peach, man—bruised, leaky, pit’s all fucked up. I wanted to be steel, you know? Like a damn Terminator. But nah, I’m just Dave, cryin’ on the kitchen floor, Lee at Gettysburg, pickin’ the wrong damn hill. (crowd chuckles, he smirks)
Yo, when I was eight, I let my cousins bury me in sand. Thought I was a pirate or some shit. At 33, I was jumpin’ around, like, “I’m back, n…., resurrection time!” But that’s just a remix of some old Western movie, right? Now I’m in the museum, starin’ at soup cans and busted fenders like they’re the Mona Lisa. And you know what? That’s freedom, man. Fuck the big, holy meaning. Give me a bent spoon and a parking ticket any day.
(slows down, voice softens) Down in the ocean, them fish glow, man. They got their own little suns, no plug, no extension cord. Up here? We’re makin’ our own dark, stitchin’ shadows like we’re tryna win a gloom contest. And my heart? It’s a busted clock, tickin’ like it’s auditionin’ for a cartoon bomb. Tick, tick, whoosh. Maybe it’s a whisper. Maybe it’s a stain. But it’s mine, n…. And I’ma keep it, ‘cause it’s the only one I got.
(drops mic, winks at the crowd, struts offstage)