The Poet Is a Radio. The Poet Is a Liar. The Poet Is a Counterpunching Liar
I waited a day to post this monologue and the grid below (I've stopped trying to stop), both fat with contempt for and loathing at motherfucking Democrats' contempt of and loathing and FEAR! of the ascent of Zohran Mamdani (and those who defiantly and fuckyouingly, against company orders, voted for Mamdani), especially it's leadership, specifically the senator from New York who said he didn't endorse Mamdani for mayor (and said he voted and strongly implied he voted for Cuomo) because his self-legacy is first and foremost his loyalty to Zionist Israel, so we could enjoy the total magafreakout at Mamdani's win for a day. Hey, my Brian Jonestown Massacre binge continues. Yes I know Anton is a whack asshole. FMA.
Then there's the ex-CIA-operative Democrat that won the Virginia gubernatorial election whose margin of victory was twice that predicted because of the Mamdani-bounce who stink-eyed Mamdani in her post-victory comments. Yes, Trump will savagely invade NYC with the worst of his goons the day after Mamdani's sworn in, that's nothing compared to what mountains Democrats will move to ensure Mamdani fails and his winning strategy discredited. Economic populism, fuck that. Tuesday's successful election results the worse possible news for professional Democrats. This is at least the third time I've posted this song in 2025
Holyfuck, I love that song. I've received texts from the bots of Bernie Sanders, Gavin Newson, Nancy Pelosi, Bill Clinton, Hakeem Jeffries, the senator from Israel, both my Maryland senators, my congressman, many more, in the glow of Mamdani's victory asking me for money to maintain and increase the anti-Trump anti-maga momentum while no doubt simultaneously in urgently scheduled zoom meetings top Democrats and their Shitlord donors debated strategies on thwarting the anti-Trump anti-maga glee and momentum from the base before said Shitlord donors turn off their $hit $pigot
I'm glad you and I had a lovely yesterday break from our never-ending ever-darkening hopeless powerless enfeeblement and despair before Our Shitlords' Deliberate Clusterfuckication of what to them is eradicating your roach-existence, but I need to remind you and me today that regardless the infinitely slim chance that Mamdani's victory gains another inch of momentum it will be in spite of not because of motherfucking professional Democrats, all of whom see more danger to themselves from Mamdani than they ever will Trump. Their jobs depend on it
I like hearing a Dandy Warhols song when one comes on the radio and they will never get a binge, but no, I had no dog in the infamous BJM - DW wars. Yes, I was born without the Lou Reed gene and yes, I hear Lou Reed in many Anton songs, sometimes weird is wonderful
"The country’s highest profile Democratic politicians spent the day valorizing Dick Cheney while Democratic voters were busy electing Zohran Mamdani"
"@Barack Obama is a blood-soaked war criminal, a psychopathic servant of billionaires who has remained silent throughout two years of Zionist holocaust in Gaza. Nothing good can come from him"
"It’s a disgrace that the leader of the senate Democrats refuses to endorse his own party’s nominee, and we should remember it next time we are asked to endorse whatever shitty centrist nominee they want us to support in futuret’s a disgrace that the leader of the senate Democrats refuses to endorse his own party’s nominee, and we should remember it next time we are asked to endorse whatever shitty centrist nominee they want us to support in future"
"Every single Democrat in the Senate - plus Bernie Sanders - voted to confirm Marco Rubio as Secretary of State. The Democrats are not an opposition to the illegal war-loving GOP, they are its enablers
"Remember when this guy had the opportunity to put every banker in jail for 2008, and instead gave them a bailout while he was busy being the architect of mass deportations? Fuck off"
"Remember, when Obama left office, rather than becoming a grassroots promoter of populist anti-billionaire politics, he went and hung out with billionaires and got millions of dollars from wall street"
I'm in, at least for now, though I realize one of my problems with *Shadow Ticket* is the same as one of my problems with *Inherent Vice* and *Bleeding Edge:* I don't like detective novels! and never have
"This demographic already has been / is already being replaced by young American millennial readers fixated on Bolaño, Cărtărescu, Sorokin, Knausgaard, Lentz, Moresco, Krasznahorkai, Tokarczuk, Fosse, Ernaux… We just need more bold anglophone writers in the mix…"
The trouble with comparing a poet with a radio is that radios don’t
develop scar-tissue. The tubes burn out, or with a transistor, which
most souls are, the battery or diagram burns out replaceable or not
replaceable, but not like that punchdrunk fighter in the bar. The poet
Takes too many messages. The right to the ear that floored him in New
Jersey. The right to say that he stood six rounds with a champion.
Then they sell beer or go on sporting commissions, or, if the scar
tissue is too heavy, demonstrate in a bar where the invisible champions
might not have hit him. Too many of them.
The poet is a radio. The poet is a liar. The poet is a counterpunching radio.
And those messages (God would not damn them) do not even know they are champions.
Oh, the woes and the whys and the what-if-we-sues! Of comparing a poet to things like radiooos!
A radio's tin-can, a box made of buzz, It can't get a boo-boo or a wham or a wuz! Its tubes may get tired, its wires may get crossed, But scar-tissue? Never! No lessons are lost!
Like a transistor tiny, a soul it may seem, Its battery dies in a non-poet dream. It burns out, it breaks, it's replaced with a plink! But it never gets bruises, no time left to think!
But the Poet! Oh, the Poet! That punch-drunk old chum! He's not just a speaker where messages come! He takes too many messages, smack in the ear, Like a boxer who's battered with nothing but fear!
He'll boast of the time he stood six rounds or more, With a champ who could floor him right out the back door! In New Jersey, they say, he took one on the chin, And that's why his radio-soul looks all thin!
Then they sell the cold beer, or judge sports in the sun, Or they'll sit in a bar when their boxing is done! And their scar-tissue's heavy, they mumble and glare, At invisible boxers who weren't even there!
The Poet's a radio, yes, it is true! But a radio lying! A counterpunching too! And those messages sent (God won't damn them, oh no!) They don't even know they're the champs of the show! They just zing! And they zoom! With a fizzle and pop! While the poor little Poet just can't make them stop!
1/just a note - it was the chatbot, not myself, that emphasized a particular line here in this remarkably effective recasting of one of james tate's most anagogic poems - if this bot does not understand english, it is doing a really good job of faking it
2/to be clear - i do not claim that most, or even many, of tate's poems are anagogic - but i do read some in that way - more of them are about the class struggle, in my opinion - one of my favorites, "the promotion", is about both
My Opa, emigrating to the U.S. from Germany in 1920, was a Socialist there and remained a Socialist here. He would have been happy to see Mamdani's election, and the heartfelt joy it's brought to so many.
gemini tuning into the dr seuss station gets:
ReplyDeleteOh, the woes and the whys and the what-if-we-sues! Of comparing a poet to things like radiooos!
A radio's tin-can, a box made of buzz, It can't get a boo-boo or a wham or a wuz! Its tubes may get tired, its wires may get crossed, But scar-tissue? Never! No lessons are lost!
Like a transistor tiny, a soul it may seem, Its battery dies in a non-poet dream. It burns out, it breaks, it's replaced with a plink! But it never gets bruises, no time left to think!
But the Poet! Oh, the Poet! That punch-drunk old chum! He's not just a speaker where messages come! He takes too many messages, smack in the ear, Like a boxer who's battered with nothing but fear!
He'll boast of the time he stood six rounds or more, With a champ who could floor him right out the back door! In New Jersey, they say, he took one on the chin, And that's why his radio-soul looks all thin!
Then they sell the cold beer, or judge sports in the sun, Or they'll sit in a bar when their boxing is done! And their scar-tissue's heavy, they mumble and glare, At invisible boxers who weren't even there!
The Poet's a radio, yes, it is true! But a radio lying! A counterpunching too! And those messages sent (God won't damn them, oh no!) They don't even know they're the champs of the show! They just zing! And they zoom! With a fizzle and pop! While the poor little Poet just can't make them stop!
at my request, google's chatbot made the following, from james tate's nova scotia based poem about what a relief it is to leave the past behind
ReplyDeleteTatamagouche Couch: Haiku Sequence
Thirst
The sun beat so hot,
Lemonade calls my name,
Doorway blocks my way.
The Obstacle
Big green sofa sits,
It cannot squeeze past the frame.
Pushing is no use.
Night Falls
Kind people go home,
I sleep on my couch outside,
Beneath starry peace.
Anna Swan
A giantess kneels,
Anna Swan's soft touch so warm,
Like a mother's hand.
Release
Morning light arrives,
The green couch is left behind,
Freedom now begins.
1/just a note - it was the chatbot, not myself, that emphasized a particular line here in this remarkably effective recasting of one of james tate's most anagogic poems - if this bot does not understand english, it is doing a really good job of faking it
Delete2/to be clear - i do not claim that most, or even many, of tate's poems are anagogic - but i do read some in that way - more of them are about the class struggle, in my opinion - one of my favorites, "the promotion", is about both
My Opa, emigrating to the U.S. from Germany in 1920, was a Socialist there and remained a Socialist here. He would have been happy to see Mamdani's election, and the heartfelt joy it's brought to so many.
ReplyDelete