2011/05/31

As a Child I Never Understood How an Animal Could Sleep Standing

Planet graduates from high school this afternoon. Planet is celebrating with a fever and aching lungs, me by whacking my back cutting the grass, Earthgirl by still mourning the death of Rudy while poxed by ridiculous family realities and their politics, the weather by scheduling heat index temperatures in the 100s.




As a graduation present I'm giving Planet a world where assholosity isn't an unfortunate necessity but a highly sought after and rewarded attribute. In the greater arc of Capitalism's ruthless and soulless life span I'm sure the significance is minute, but in my blinked lifetime the toggle from pejorative to honorific of the word greed is astonishing.

I am a titanic rube. That admission supports my point.




  • Ignorance is strength.
  • This is not a form of brainwashing.
  • War criminals.
  • Post-legal America.
  • Seeking an expiation of guilt.
  • After the crash: Obviously, both Republicans and Democrats are agreed to do nothing more that quibble over insignificant margins of so huge a deficit. Meanwhile, they perform live political theatre about their "deep concern about deficits and debts" for a bemused, bored and ever-more alienated public. Neither party can shake off its utter dependence now on corporate and rich citizens' monies for all their financial sustenance. Therefore, neither party imagines, let alone explores, alternatives to massive deficits and debts. After all, government deficits and debts mean: first, the government is not taxing corporations and the rich; and second, the government is, instead, borrowing from them and paying them interest. So, the two parties quibble over how much to cut which government jobs and public services.
  • Robert Reich on the American economy.
  • Another category error by Krugman
  • Neo-conservatism's founding asshat
  • I enjoy Larison's Eunomia, but why he would think Walter Russell Mead an honest broker makes me feel not so embarrassed by my motherfucking roobiness. 
  • Asked without a drop of self-awareness or irony.
  • Character assassinating Bradley Manning's mother.
  • Their cave.
  • How we tell each other it's not so bad.  
  • To be fair, I'm also giving Planet four years at a high-priced credentialing factory, one of a liberal bent, where greed isn't taught to be honorable (as at, say, Amherst) but a distasteful if necessary skill.
  • Subjectivity v Objectivity and science: There is so much confusion surrounding the notions of objectivity and subjectivity that I need to say a word to clarify them. In one sense, the objective/subjective distinction is about claims to knowledge. I call this the epistemic sense. A claim is said to be objective if its truth or falsity can be settled as a matter of fact independently of anybody’s attitudes, feelings, or evaluations; it is subjective if it cannot. For example, the claim that Van Gogh died in France is epistemically objective. But the claim that Van Gogh was a better painter than Gauguin is, as they say, a matter of subjective opinion. It is epistemically subjective. In another sense, the objective/subjective distinction is about modes of existence. I call this the ontological sense. An entity has an objective ontology if its existence does not depend on being experienced by a human or animal subject; otherwise it is subjective. For example, mountains, molecules, and tectonic plates are ontologically objective. Their existence does not depend on being experienced by anybody. But pains, tickles, and itches only exist when experienced by a human or animal subject. They are ontologically subjective. I emphasize these two senses of the distinction because a common mistake is to suppose that because science is objective and consciousness is subjective, there cannot be a science of consciousness. Science is indeed epistemically objective, because scientific claims are supposed to be verifiable independently of anybody’s feelings and attitudes. But the ontological subjectivity of the domain of consciousness does not preclude an objective science of that domain. You can have an (epistemically) objective science of an (ontologically) subjective consciousness. Much confusion has been created by the failure to see this point.
  • The end of the subject is not the end of me.
  • Because it's there
  • Climbing the mountain.
  • Walter Johnson sent out a stern note on graduation dos and don'ts, including this line, about a full graduation ceremony including the reading of 650 kids names and march across the stage: The ceremony will be over in two hours. Heh. This is going to suck.








HORSE IN A CAGE

Stanley Plumly

Its face, as long as an arm, looks down & down.
Then the iron gate sound of the cage swings shut
above the bed, a bell as big as the room: quarter-
moon of the head, its nose, its whole lean body
pressed against its cell . . .
I watched my father hit a horse in the face once.
It had come down to feed across the fence.
My father, this stranger, wanted to ride.
Perhaps he only wanted to talk. Anyway,
he hit the ground and something broke.
As a child I never understood how an animal
could sleep standing. In my dream the horse
rocks in a cage too small, so the cage swings.
I still wake up dreaming, in front of a long face.
That day I hugged the ground hard.
Who knows if my heartbroken father was meant
to last longer than his last good drunk.
They say it's like being kicked by a horse.
You go down, your knees hug up.
You go suddenly wide awake, and the gate shuts
.


2011/05/30

Portland 2, United 3




Full disclosure: I saw the first forty minutes and the last twelve minutes plus three and a half minutes stoppage because because, and what I saw I got on pirate internet, so fuck Omcastcay, yo, blacking out Direct Kick, fuckers.

I'm not sure how much the league has come back to United and how much United has improved. United wouldn't have won, probably wouldn't have tied a similar game against a similar opponent last season, so I didn't see this coming, especially with the reserve squad line-up. Consider, though, last season's similar game again a similar opponent on Memorial Day weekend, when United lost 4-0 to Kansas City. Here was the starting line-up.

  • D.C. United: Perkins, Talley, Jakovic, Wallace, Najar (Allsopp), Morsink, Quaranta, Simms (James), Castillo (Khumalo), Pontius, Moreno.

versus yesterday:


Hamid's an upgrade over Perkins, White a major upgrade over Talley, Kitchen over Wallace (though I think Wallace can be useful, though not so much after today), Wolff over Allsopp (which speaks more of Allsopp),  Brettschneider over (sorry) Moreno, and Olsen's 4-4-2 over Onalfo's 3-5-2 by a BANG!

St Benny, I'm getting carried away. Have some notes:

  • I don't doubt that if Portland had scored in 13th minute instead of United United would have lost by three.
  • I didn't see live the Cooper PK dramatics, though Kenny Cooper has always been a prick, and it pleases me he's not in the USMNT pool of shitty strikers (which isn't deep, yo).
  • No Nodax, three goals. Just saying.
  • For the first time I really saw what United sees in Kitchen, and the goal was nice but that's not it. He literally ran Portland players, with the ball at their feet and their backs toward Hamid, two-thirds towards Portland's goal. The back line - which is still not better than now and then good - looks to Kitchen as its captain, and Kitchen's transition to true holding mid is only held up by the need for him on the back line.
  • Portland's second goal was soft, but Bill Hamid is a keeper keeper.
  • As long as Woolard is healthy, he should beat out a healthy Burch.
  • Best game out of Simms in a while.
  • I'd love to see Brettschneider up with a healthy Davies.
  • When United is really good again Quaranta will be elsewhere.
  • Pontius. Best player on the field.

Gax next Saturday in LA (when they will wear the third red). Donovan will be with USMNT for lame Gold Cup (and there will be no Gold Cup blogging here beyond an in-post comment and probably not) I didn't think they'd get a point out of this road trip. Motherfuckers, now I want six.

2011/05/29

Baby Food, Tractors, Rat Poisoning

I root for Fucking Madrid to lose to any fucking Italian team to lose to Chelsea to lose to Manchester United to lose to (once upon a time) Liverpool to lose to Bayern Munich to lose to Arsenal to lose to Barca to lose to very soon City to lose to anybody else, and holyfuck, did Manchester United look like old yellow British teeth next to Barcelona's fabulous smile.

Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?




It's true! and they're playing this afternoon at motherfucking five o'clock, though it's not their fault this time since the game is in Portland Oregon.

Hey, advice sought! Three weeks from now I'm flying to England with Earthgirl and Planet and three of Planet's friends. Before you begin wagering on whether this will be the best ten days or worse ten days of my life tell me, what do I need to do to set up rental cell-phoning in England, what's the best, most reliable vis a vis $$$ (reliability trumps) cell phone option. Any suggestions welcome.


















MY GREAT UNCLE ETC, PATRICK HENRY

James Tate

There's a fortune to be made in just about everything 
in this country, somebody's father had to invent
everything--baby food, tractors, rat poisoning.
My family's obviously done nothing since the beginning
of time. They invented poverty and bad taste
and getting by and taking it from the boss.
O my mother goes around chewing her nails and
spitting them in a jar: You shouldn't be ashamed
of yourself she says, think of your family.
My family I say what have they ever done but
paint by numbers the most absurd and disgusting scenes
of plastic squalor and human degradation.
Well then think of your great great etc. Uncle
Patrick Henry
.



2011/05/27

we who are your closest friends feel the time has come to tell you that every Thursday we have been meeting as a group to devise ways to keep you in perpetual uncertainty frustration discontent and torture by neither loving you as much as you want nor cutting you adrift

Was fun if subdued, Thursday Night Pints. Also, Siouxsie Sioux is fifty-four today.









  • I am fifty-one years old. That's at least the tenth time in eight years of blogging I've used that joke. I will use it an eleventh. Blerg!
  • John Barth is eighty-one today. If not one of my desert island five, certainly in my desert island ten, and Sot-Weed Factor is in permanent reading rotation (2012 next).
  • Ashbery.
  • Auden.
  • Name that novel
  • A Vida Avida.
  • Retromania!
  • Siouxie makes me think of HBV. I know one other person who loves this song. Once there, listen to the rest of the album, yes?
  • When I think of HBV I think of The Januaries. I do like this Thievery Corporation remix, though someday I'll learn how to take a CD I own, burn it to a PC, and post a song.
  • Pure
  • Bruce Cockburn is sixty-six today.




WE WHO ARE YOUR CLOSEST FRIENDS

Philip Lopate

we who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting
as a group
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift


your analyst is
in on it
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us


in announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves
but since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make
unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your
disastrous personality


then for the good of the collective


2011/05/26

I Shall See My Daydreams Walking By with Dogs in Blankets

So, a new edition of Jacques Rancière's essays was on the new book truck yesterday. K, the woman D sometimes brings to Thursday Night Pints and who asks me about blogging, asked me last Thursday if I was familiar with his work, so serendipity and all. I was required to read Rancière in two classes and able to read him well enough at a rudimentary level but again, once the subject > object > subjectobject > objectsubject > subjectobjectsubject bullshit starts, I'm out.

Still, serendipity, and it's the Blog Days of Summer, and I'm both lazy and trying to reestablish that I will post whatever the fuck I want, so here, for your Memorial Day weekend consideration and/or disregard, Rancière's Ten Theses on Politics:

Thesis 1:

Politics is not the exercise of power. Politics ought to be defined in its own terms as a specific mode of action that is enacted by a specific subject and that has its own proper rationality. It is the political relationship that makes it possible to conceive of the subject of politics, not the other way around.

Thesis 2:

What is specific to politics is the existence of a subject defined by its participation in contraries. Politics is a paradoxical form of action.

Thesis 3:

Politics is a specific break with the logic of the arkhé. It does no simply presuppose a break with the "normal" distribution of positions that defines who exercises power and who is subject to it. It also requires a break with the idea that there exist dispositions "specific" to these positions.

Thesis 4:

Democracy is not a political regime. As a rupture in the logic of the arkhé, that is, and the anticipation of ruling in its disposition, it is the very regime of politics itself as a form of relationship that defines a specific subject.

Thesis 5:

The people that comprises the subject of democracy, and thus the atomic subject of politics, is neither the collection of members of the community, nor the laboring classes of the population. It is the supplementary part in relation to every count of the parts of the population, making it possible to identify "the count of the uncounted" with the whole of the community.

Thesis 6:

If politics is the tracing of a vanishing difference with respect to the distribution of social parts and shares, it follows that its existence is by no means necessary, but that it occurs as an always provisional accident with the history of forms of domination. It also follows that the essential object of political dispute is the very existence of politics itself.

Thesis 7:

Politics stands in distinct opposition to the police. The police is a distribution of the sensible whose principle is the absence of void and of supplement.

Thesis 8:

The essential work of politics is the configuration of its own space. It is to make the world of its subjects and its operations seen. The essence of politics is the manifestation of dissensus as the presence of two worlds in one.

Thesis 9:

Inasmuch as the province of political philosophy lies in grounding political action in a specific mode of being, it works essentially to efface the litigiousness constitutive of politics. Politics effects this effacement in its very description of the world of politics. Moreover, the effectiveness of the effacement is also perpetuated in non-philosophical or anti-philosophical descriptions of the world.

Thesis 10:

The "end of politics" and the "return of politics" are two complementary ways of canceling out politics in the simple relationship between a state of the social and a state of the state apparatus. "Concensus" is the common name given to this cancellation.


Gah! Motherfucking arkhé. Un specifica, was künder meat?











MUSIC

Frank O'Hara

        If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian
pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe,
that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf's
and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming.
Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared.
I have in my hands only 35¢, it's so meaningless to eat!
and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves
like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you
to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world,
I must tighten my belt.
It's like a locomotive on the march, the season
of distress and clarity
and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter's
lightly falling snow over the newspapers.
Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet
of early afternoon! in the foggy autumn.
As they're putting, up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue
I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets,
put to some use before all those coloured lights come on!
But no more fountains and no more rain,
and the stores stay open terribly late
.


2011/05/25

Knew No Nonhuman Word for Love



Rudy died Monday night. I liked but didn't love Rudy (for reasons fair and unfair), though Earthgirl did, so send all Kind thoughts towards her not me.

On Sunday night he started breathing hard and didn't want to walk or play, and on Monday morning he took his morning walk lethargically. During the day he peed all over the house so we knew something was wrong, some doggy virus or something, and Earthgirl took him to the vet. He had a 104 fever (101 is normal) and was dehydrated and had an elevated white blood cell count, but the vet couldn't see anything beyond that and said take him home. Earthgirl insisted Rudy stay over night so more tests could be run the next morning. The vet nurses wrote at 730 PM Monday night that Rudy had responded to being hydrated, was standing and wagging his tail in his cage, and then they went home. When the AM nurses arrived at 6:00 Tuesday morning, Rudy was dead in his cage.

The vet called me at 8:00. When I asked what was the cause she said they didn't know. I said when will you know, and she said we won't unless there is an autopsy and they are very expensive. I said, if you want to know why a dog died, and (she told me) it's been years since a dog died overnight under your care, you have my full permission to do an autopsy, but other than that no, would you cremate him and give us the ashes.

The vet called again at 10:00. They had performed a preliminary autopsy. She said they were all distraught at the office and all the doctors wanted to know what happened. Rudy had a aggressive tumor (they're not sure if it was cancer, just rapidly growing, maybe only weeks old) on one of his kidneys and it ruptured the artery that feeds blood into the kidney. He bled to death internally in his sleep. There was nothing we could have done, nothing the vets could have done, we did nothing wrong, we'd gotten him to the vet as soon as we noticed he had a problem. Did I want to send the tumor off for a biopsy? No, it doesn't matter, I said.

And I'm thinking, thank goodness Earthgirl insisted they keep Rudy overnight so she didn't find him dead in the living room in the morning and think we killed him by not closing the door to the garbage snug and he mouthed it open and ate a ball of aluminum foil (one of the reasons I liked but did not love Rudy is because he would when he could and he slunk around looking to) and it clogged him up, or think, I wish we hadn't fenced off the backyard a month ago and let him outside because he must have eaten something he shouldn't. I'm not sure what we would have done with the body; we wouldn't have taken it to the vets for an autopsy, though I suppose we would have paid them for the cremation.

This is how selfish I am: I'm thinking, hearing Earthgirl - the least selfish person in the world, and people can vouch - express relief that she wasn't culpable in her loved dog's death, thinking, thank goodness Rudy died in the hands of the authorities so Rudy's death isn't a burden to her and her burden a burden to me.









ANOTHER DOG'S DEATH

John Updike

For days the good old bitch had been dying, her back
pinched down to the spine and arched to ease the pain,
her kidneys dry, her muzzle white. At last
I took a shovel into the woods and dug her grave

in preparation for the certain. She came along,
which I had not expected. Still, the children gone,
such expeditions were rare, and the dog,
spayed early, knew no nonhuman word for love.

She made her stiff legs trot and let her bent tail wag.
We found a spot we liked, where the pines met the
    field.
The sun warmed her fur as she dozed and I dug;
I carved her a safe place while she protected me.

I measured her length with the shovel’s long handle;
she perked in amusement, and sniffed the heaped-up
    earth.
Back down at the house, she seemed friskier,
but gagged, eating. We called the vet a few days later.

They were old friends. She held up a paw, and he
injected a violet fluid. She swooned on the lawn;
we watched her breathing quickly slow and cease.
In a wheelbarrow up to the hole, her warm fur shone.


2011/05/24

You're Seventeen and Tunnel-Vision Drunk, Swerving Your Father's Fairlane Wagon Home at 3:00 A.M.




That's new Bonnie Prince Billy.

Holyfuck, I found myself scribbling about the 2012 POTUS season like I was writing about a soccer game in which I don't have a rooting interest, say Chelsea versus Madrid (if forced to pick which I hate more I'd say I hate motherfucking Madrid .06% more than motherfucking Chelsea), writing about tactics and players, Pawlenty versus Romney versus motherfucking Obama, this after spending the last five days off-putting if not alienating all but the loyalest readers (and many of them too) with Fleabus photos and United yodeling and existential angst over Kate Bush's latest album and Planet's exceptional art and especially overbearing bleggalgazing. Why would I start writing about what drives eyes here today except lust for pings?

Kidding. I am that vain to think I make this blog so suck, but I'm not stupid: the Blog Days of Summer start in May in Blegsylvania. Look at those blogrolls. Look at the usually flush comment counters on overlords' blogs. Spring semester is over! Blogging is a winter sport. 2011 is a throwaway year in the Potus League anyway.

Hey! Bonnie Prince Billy is playing Birchmere October 2. I'll be buying tickets this weekend. Who's in? Hamster! I'm looking at you.




  • Apart.
  • The people v Goldman-Sachs.
  • Preach it, Brother Hedges. Another friend commended the Hedges to me, and while I agree with Hedges thoughts on establishment Liberals attacking anyone who questions Liberal orthodoxy, I can concurrently maintain I've thought Cornel West an assclown for at least a decade.
  • I've said all along that Obama's reelection strategy is to let the crackers cracker themselves out. Pint bets still stand.
  • Rogue client state, part 37
  • David Brook's wetdream.
  • On patriotism. (h/t
  • Press release from MINIPEACE.
  • This will be the last shamelessly bleggalgazing post until the next one, but I do want to say while I've no gah for rephrasing myself at the minute, there are things to be read and listened to, so links and reads and poems and songs and Fleabus and United may or not continue while I take a few days off (barring some kaboom) to not worry what I want to do here next.
  • UPDATE!









DEER HIT

Jon Loomis

You're seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk, 
swerving your father's Fairlane wagon home


at 3:00 a.m. Two-lane road, all curves
and dips—dark woods, a stream, a patchy acre


of teazle and grass. You don't see the deer
till they turn their heads—road full of eyeballs
,

small moons glowing. You crank the wheel,
stamp both feet on the brake, skid and jolt


into the ditch. Glitter and crunch of broken glass
in your lap, deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin


and shirt are soaked—one eye half-obscured
by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car


still running, its lights angled up at the trees.
You get out. The deer lies on its side
.

A doe, spinning itself around
in a frantic circle, front legs scrambling
,

back legs paralyzed, dead. Making a sound—
again and again this terrible bleat
.

You watch for a while. It tires, lies still.
And here's what you do: pick the deer up


like a bride. Wrestle it into the back of the car—
the seat folded down. Somehow, you steer


the wagon out of the ditch and head home,
night rushing in through the broken window
,

headlight dangling, side-mirror gone.
Your nose throbs, something stabs


in your side. The deer breathing behind you,
shallow and fast. A stoplight, you're almost hom
e

and the deer scrambles to life, its long head
appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror


and bites you, its teeth clamp down on your shoulder
and maybe you scream, you struggle and flail


till the deer, exhausted, lets go and lies down
.

2
Your father's waiting up, watching tv.
He's had a few drinks and he's angry
.

Christ, he says, when you let yourself in.
It's Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

some of what happened: the dark road,
the deer you couldn't avoid. Outside, he circles


the car. Jesus, he says. A long silence.
Son of a bitch, looking in. He opens the tailgate,

drags the quivering deer out by a leg.
What can you tell him—you weren't thinking
,

you'd injured your head? You wanted to fix
what you'd broken—restore the beautiful body
,

color of wet straw, color of oak leaves in winter?
The deer shudders and bleats in the driveway
.

Your father walks to the toolshed,
comes back lugging a concrete block
.

Some things stay with you. Dumping the body
deep in the woods, like a gangster. The dent


in your nose. All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.


2011/05/23

Once, a Fear Pierced Him, in that He Mistook the Shadow of his Equipage for Blackbirds

Cats in America kill 500 million to one billion birds each year? Can that be right? There are 525,600 minutes in a year; divided into 1,000,000,000 birds that's 1903 birds killed every minute, 32 birds killed every second in America by cats.




United lost to Dutch champions Ajax 1-2 at RFK yesterday at FIVE FUCKING IN THE AFTERNOON! I didn't go - I feel no moral obligation to go to friendlies - but if this had been at 730 Friday night or 730 Saturday night or 730 last night instead of FIVE FUCKING IN THE AFTERNOON! I would have gone.

Goff's pregame post said United weren't wearing their FUCKING UGLY RED KITS! and there's this line from the re-cap at United's homepage at 7:30PM last night: Fred then had a glorious chance to equalize in the 52nd minute, played in on goal by Chris Pontius, but the Brazilian sprayed his shot wide of the frame. I can see Fred rubbing his ouchy hamstring with one hand while abashedly thumbs-upping Pontius in my head as if I was there.




  • Correct but moribund.
  • Says it all.
  • Obama and AIPAC.
  • 1967.
  • Jennifer Rubin is clearly maneuvering to be top of the list for World's Shittiest Human when the World's Shittiest Human resigns or dies.
  • The President as first person shooter.
  • He believes his own bullshit: Nonviolent protest and peaceful reform, President Obama seemed to say, are the only means he can support, and constitutional democracy is the only political end he can approve of. That is setting the standard high. Yet he illustrated his position on March 19 by three American examples: the rebellion against the British Empire, the Civil War to abolish slavery, and the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s. Two of these three movements to widen American democracy were violent. The point is worth making only because the contradiction—-which seems to have passed into his thinking undetected—will have been instantly obvious to his Arab listeners. As much as any American leader, Obama is held captive by a picture of America and America’s history as the touchstone of generous and fair-minded international conduct
  • I'm told by many that comparing a christer's faith in Jeebus to a pwoggle's faith in Democrats and Obama is completely wrong, proving my point. 







THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

Wallace Stevens

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.


2011/05/22

No Stupid Bird Threatens to Dissolve Me If I Forget My Species in the Official Questionnaire

Imagine you're a thirteen year old kid and your zealot progressive parents have been telling you that the Democrats and President Obama will abandon their good faith attempts at bipartisanship and render the force of their true progressive will on America at 6:00 PM EDT May 21, 2011 and sweep away (peacefully, without enforced famines, gulags, and killing fields) recalcitrant pigs and sway the minds of crackers, ushering in a .06% more blissful world where we're not reminded so much daily of the bloody mechanics of empire.






What, no? Think how we judge each other here in Stringtown Blegsylvania, by the level of superstitious and disqualifying taint we fart, who we deem worthy or unworthy, who deems us worthy or unworthy, dependent on our dogma(-n)s.

What's worse if you're a fucked-up thirteen year old kid with parents fucked-up for Cracker Jesus, that you didn't die and go to heaven or that God just told you you don't deserve heaven - I can type sentences like that all fucking day. Sheeyit, my faith was shaken by the latest Kate Bush release, who the fuck am I to talk.











WEAVING

Paul Otremba

I don't think they'll find the new weaving
anywhere finer than truth
.


—Osip Mandelstam


I've tried to sift a truth finer than salt
from my mouth. It matters: I get up


or I do not. The books can wait, leaves
burn themselves these days, and the day


begins or it does not. Now wingless,
a wasp masquerading as the sun crawls


a harmless razor—across the backlit
curtain. No city trembles on the verge


of the sea. No stupid bird threatens
to dissolve me if I forget my species


in the official questionnaire. I could
put my ten bureaucrats to their task
.

The dusting and polishing. There's a point,
a mirror for me to enumerate my teeth
.

Beyond these walls, there's only the snowed-in
field, an egg just opened but empty
.


2011/05/21

Find My Navel So That It Will Exist

More Planet pieces and then I will stop. She had prom last night, graduates a week from Tuesday, so won't have access to a kiln until August at K, so no more until December and what she brings home. Sorry for the shittier quality of the photos - I can't find the portfolio these are in on the pc, so I took photos just now. 




Once I start a bleggalgaze I need finish it. K asks me, you have how many active blogs? and I say it depends what you mean by active but I say three, the one you know, the one I do drafts on so if I fuck up and hit publish instead of saved the fuck-up doesn't speed-feed, a third I originally set up to write about blogging (it does fascinate me) but I've ended up in a doublefucking bleggalgazing loop, not a bad thing, just not what I had intended.




I listened again last night to Kate Bush's latest where she reworks songs already hard-wired in my brain, and, while it disturbs me down to the marrow level I can't help hehhing at how great a Lord irony is, me a blegger who earns his pings singing the same song differently today than yesterday complaining about reworking.









OF BEING NUMEROUS, 15

George Oppen

Chorus (androgynous): 'Find me
So that I will exist, find my navel
So that it will exist, find my nipples
So that they will exist, find every hair
Of my belly, I am good (or I am bad),
Find me.'


2011/05/20

By Way of Demonstration, He Moves Mechanically Side to Side While Making a Clicking Noise

D brought along his friend K, the one who likes to ask me about blegging, to Thursday Night Pints right when I've a bad case of bleggal frakes.* Serendipity likes to fuck with me and when it fucks with me it fucks with you.

Why do you think, what did you call it, "Blegsylvania" is dying, she asked. It's that fucking new Kate Bush release, I said, I can't get past how spiritually crushing it is, it's what I would feel like if someone newly colorized the first year of Emma Peel Avengers only worse because Kate Bush did it to herself. What the fuck are you talking about, she said, winning last night's round of ridiculously priced scotch.

Well, we just wrote tomorrow's post, I said, and I'm forbidden to bleggalgaze beyond this line, but Blegsylvania isn't dying, it's just a Wednesday afternoon more often than a Saturday morning just like everything else we supposedly do for fun.











  • The way up is the way down.
  • *If any of the three of you who got the Harington care to explain what the frakes are in comments, I'd be obliged. No? That's cool too.
  • I have spent many a content hour with Frank Kermode: The manifest sense is the literal one we all grasp; the latent sense is the spiritual meaning, the secret that must be revealed by interpretation. This is true on the simplest level; there is naturally no point to an interpretation that tells us only what we all know already, what inescapably and instantly strikes the eye. An interpretation must either uncover or create a secret. For Kermode, the very existence of a text inspires interpretation, and therefore engenders secrecy.
  • Silliman's always generous litlinks.
  • More on Roth's Booker: "He goes on and on and on about the same subject in almost every single book. It's as though he's sitting on your face and you can't breathe".
  • Fools want noise.
  • Any list that makes Magnetic Fields number 97 and motherfucking Nirvana (the Raymond Carver of bands) number one is bullshit.
  • Black country.
  • Subways.





YOU KNOW

Mary Joe Bang

You know, don't you, what we're doing here?
The evening laid out like a beach ball gone airless
.

We're watching the spectators in the bleachers.
The one in the blue shirt says, "I knew
,

even as a child, that my mind was adding color
to the moment
."

The one in red says, "In the dream, there was a child
batting a ball back and forth. He was chanting

that awful rhyme about time that eventually ends
with the body making a metronome motion
."

By way of demonstration, he moves mechanically
side to side while making a clicking noise
.

His friends look away. They all know
how a metronome goes. You and I continue to watch


because we have nothing better to do.
We wait for the inevitable next: we know the crowd


will rise to its feet when prompted and count—
one-one-hundred, two-one-hundred
,

three-one-hundred—as if history were a sound
that could pry apart an ever-widening abyss


with a sea on the bottom. And it will go on like this.
The crowd will quiet when the sea reaches us
.