Go to the 32:50 mark of the below for what is still, though I haven't been able to post it recently because Worldwide Pants blocked it for copyright, the fuckers, one of the most posted videos in this shitty blog's history, and which, on Chris Elliott's 64th birthday, remains the official BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing Day Theme Song One (Two and Three below as well as.....)
I'll spare me bleggalgazing more and you reading it beyond I still feel compelled to BLCKDGRD, fuck me. Also Two:
Also Three:
Also too, this shitty blog's Theme Song One since day one, a few of yinz can vouch
Showing posts with label Sparks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sparks. Show all posts
Friday, May 31, 2024
It's So F*ck Self-Indulgent to Think You Like This Song
Tuesday, May 31, 2022
Monumental Isn't the Word, But I Put a Lot of Thought Into It
Chris Elliott 62 today, the above,* along with the Sparks and Roky Erickson below, bleggalgazing anthems, this blog's bleggalgazing day* *most often posted video here by factor of dozens *...
Strangest year yet: while just as compelled to spout as always I don't compulsively spout by clock like once (yesterday's post proving me a liar, but....)
If I've not allowed unmoored I've aloud more, happiest bleggalgaze yet, this blog's Theme Song One
Tuesday, February 1, 2022
Overtime, more overtime I’m conscientious by design To reach the heights of academe To be the captain of the team To CEO a thousand who Will do the things I say to do And I will make a lot of bread And you will find me good in bed
Bleggalgaze Anthem One, of course, today Blogroll Amnesty Day, thank you Jon Swift who did me many Acts of Kind, some of you still here found me by Jon fifteen years or more ago, I know I've let traditions and gags lag of late (it occurs I probably didn't note last December's Zappadan (assuming Zappadan still exists)), if you are Kinding me but me not you please let me know, if you know of something you'd think I'd dig please let me know, this is wear (sic) I burn my jeffpeat, thank you, Bleggalgaze Anthem Two:
Tuesday, November 23, 2021
The Radio Operator's Name Is Sparks
Slowest week of the Blegsylvanian year I type this week every year but wasn't going to this year though it's also the bleggalgaziest because it's the slowest, but then I just watched The Sparks Brothers which spent five minutes celebrating one of this shitty blog's two Bleggalgazing Anthems
People can vouch. If you like Sparks you'll love them after seeing the documentary, if you love Sparks like me you'll adore Sparks after seeing the documentary.
O, hey! I have two tickets to see Sparks at Lincoln Theater on U Street on March 23, 2022 on the condition the world not destroyed by then! 2nd ticket gleefully claimed, happy laugh
I'm stupid for Sparks. Remember the guy who youtubed himself reading his poems that I posted here? Ran into him on campus and he turned and ran away, I had sent him Joyelle McSweeney's Toxicon & Arachne which he said he admired (I sent him some of my poems at his request which he praised then hinted to help me get published in small mags but I said no), and then I sent him Johannes Göransson's (McSweeney's husband) The Sugar Book, he emailed me as soon as he received it, called it an example of the disgusting disturbing trend in modern poetry (without elaborating further) and cut off all communication with me, not responding to my O, say more email, not sending another youtube of his poetry, now running from me when he saw me on campus, today in bleggalgazing (and fine metaphors abounding)
Haven't link mined since the last post and no grid today though do see this and this and this. The compulsion to post remains but the compulsion to post at regular intervals now feels like a job and fuck that. The recurrent complaint regarding the increasing duhiness of reiterating the accelerating pace towards and sheer volume of our impending death by duh depresses yes but doesn't shut me up mostly, this the slowest week of the Blegsylvanian year notwithstanding
I'm sideways too, reading Murnane again reminds me how his fascination with personal lodestar events and images is my fascination with personal lodestar events and images, when I knew I would write about the Sparks documentary past weekend I remembered the Silliman poem below so I'd have the title of the post but also remembered the last line of the poem which triggers my worse constant nightmare, the Humane Society tv ad I saw fifty years ago where a guy in a pick-up drives to a dead end, gets out of the truck with his dog, throws a tennis ball into the woods and when the dog races after it the guy gets in his truck and drives off, the dog comes back to where the truck was parked, the dog drops the ball, his tail stops wagging, there is not a single day I don't think of this and not a single dog I meet that I don't think of this and every time I think of this I'm thrown completely sideways, all my dark started then
YOU, PART 1
Ron Silliman
Hard dreams. The moment at which you recognize that your own death lies
in wait somewhere within your body. A lone ship defines the horizon. The
rain is not safe to drink.
In Grozny, in Bihac, the idea of history shudders with each new explosion.
The rose lies unattended, wild thorns at the edge of a mass grave. Between
classes, over strong coffee, young men argue the value of a pronoun.
When this you see, remember. Note in a bottle bobs in a cartoon sea. The
radio operator’s name is Sparks.
Hand outlined in paint on a brick wall. Storm turns playground into a
swamp. Finally we spot the wood duck on the middle lake.
The dashboard of my car like the keyboard of a piano. Toy animals anywhere.
Sun swells in the morning sky.
Man with three pens clipped to the neck of his sweatshirt shuffles from one
table to the next, seeking distance from the cold January air out the coffee
house door, tall Styrofoam cup in one hand, Of Grammatology in the other.
Outside, a dog is tied to any empty bench, bike chained to the No Parking
sign.
Friday, June 25, 2021
Sparks: Beware Your Hair Is Locked!
- We started, segment by segment, the Waterloo-Pinckney Trail. Yesterday we found ourselves on Sackrider Hill before I knew it the highest point on the 36 mile trail.
- Only one car we can only out and back, we've hiked twenty miles so far covering the first ten miles of the trail but since we'd never done it either way it's twenty miles of new hike. Narrow and windy and up and down by bogs and ponds and through constant loud birdsong, sweet so far.
THE WHEELCHAIR BUTTERFLY
James Tate
O sleepy city of reeling wheelchairs
where a mouse can commit suicide if he can
concentrate long enough
on the history book of rodents
in this underground town
of electrical wheelchairs!
The girl who is always pregnant and bruised
like a pear
rides her many-stickered bicycle
backward up the staircase
of the abandoned trolleybarn.
Yesterday was warm. Today a butterfly froze
in midair; and was plucked like a grape
by a child who swore he could take care
of it. O confident city where
the seeds of poppies pass for carfare,
where the ordinary hornets in a human’s heart
may slumber and snore, where bifocals bulge
in an orange garage of daydreams,
we wait in our loose attics for a new season
as if for an ice-cream truck.
An Indian pony crosses the plains
whispering Sanskrit prayers to a crater of fleas.
Honeysuckle says: I thought I could swim.
The Mayor is urinating on the wrong side
of the street! A dandelion sends off sparks:
beware your hair is locked!
Beware the trumpet wants a glass of water!
Beware a velvet tabernacle!
Beware the Warden of Light has married
an old piece of string!
Tuesday, June 1, 2021
Wednesday, February 24, 2021
More for the Sake of the Cat, We Said, Than for Ourselves, Who Huddled, Shivering, Against the Stove All Winter Long
THE END OF THE LIBRARY
Weldon Kees
When the coal
Gave out, we began
Burning the books, one by one;
First the set
Of Bulwer-Lytton
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end, in
February, flames
Consumed the Greek
Tragedians and Baudelaire,
Proust, Robert Burton
And the Po-Chu-i. Ice
Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat,
We said, than for ourselves,
Who huddled, shivering,
Against the stove
All winter long.
Tuesday, February 2, 2021
What Bone Looms They Sewed Themselves Into
SILENCE RAVING
Clayton Eshleman
Patters, paters, Apollo globes, sound
breaking up with silence, coals
I can still hear, entanglement of sense pools,
the way a cave might leak perfume--
in the Cro-Magnons went, along its wet hide walls,
as if a flower in, way in, drew their leggy
panspermatic bodies, spidering over
bottomless hunches, groping toward Persephone's fate:
to be quicksanded by the fungus pulp of Hades' purple hair
exploding in their brains.
They poured their foreheads into the coals and corrals
zigzagged about in the night air--
the animals led in crossed
a massive vulva incised before the gate,
the power that came up from it was paradise, the power
the Cro-Magnons bequeathed to us:
to make an altar of our throats.
The first words were mixed with animal fat,
wounded men tried to say who did it.
The group was the rim of a to-be-invented wheel,
their speech was spokes, looping over,
around, the hub of the fire, its silk of us,
its burn of them, bop we dip, you dip,
we dip to you, you will dip to us, Dionysus
the plopping, pooling words, stirred
by the lyre gaps between the peaks of flame,
water to fire, us to them.
Foal-eyes, rubbery, they looped
back into those caves whose walls could be strung
between their teeth, the sticky soul material pulled to
The sides by their hands, ooh
what bone looms they sewed themselves into, ah
what tiny male spiders they were
on the enormous capable of devouring them
female rock elastic word!
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