I Like Ping-Gong and Bobcats, Shatterproof Drinking Glasses, the Smell of Kerosene, the Crunch of Carrots

First thought on Donovan's (not ↑ Donovan) exclusion from USMNT WC14 team? That song, which begins playing anytime I think Landon Donovan, won't be in my head all June.

Second thought? Klinsmann building towards 2016 Copa America, better chance go deep there than in WC14 Group of Death. Donovan would not have been on USMNT in 2016, he's 87 in soccer years.

Third thought, and I'd bet the right thought: Donovan is an asshole, Klinsmann is an asshole, Klinsmann has the hammer.

Fourth thought, I am very curious for WC14 for reasons more than just soccer - as in, the potential clusterfuck - but I'm also curious to see where my soccer damn is, cause when it comes to DC United it pretty much has disappeared.

Fifth thought, I always like Steve Hillage's cover better than the original:

• The journalistic styling of Glenn Greenwald referenced to Starland Vocal Bands' Afternoon Delight.
• But then Greenwald is savaged by the despicable turd called Kinsley. Ranking turds for turdiness has lost the allure it once had for me.
• Leaking leaks and the leakers that leak them.
• Portraits in Courage by Democratic senators: Notably missing among the 50 Democrats in the U.S. Senate who urged the NFL to reconsider the Redskins name this week this week: Tim Kaine and Mark Warner. Those two Senators, of course, represent Virginia, where the Redskins are based, and where the team practices and holds its training camp. Easy, cheap shot here, I know, but fine metaphors abound. And the Racist Slurs' name controversy WILL NEVER BE OVER.
• Not all men.
• Debating the death of Twitter: On one side are those nodding their heads in agreement with the recent eulogy for Twitter in The Atlantic. On the other are those claiming that for countless communities, it’s a bustling town square and home for like minds—a platform that excels in giving voice to those who previously didn’t have one.
• The midfield engine that could.
• Gaithersburg, the town I grew up in, is the 8th fastest growing city in America.
• When my parents moved us to Gaithersburg in 1965 the population was 3500.
• Memorial Day Weekend - it starts today - is the slowest four days of the year in Blegsylvania except for only Thanksgiving. We're hiking Saturday, we're hiking Sunday, we're hiking Monday. There may be blogging here, but barring kaboom it will be lazyass and futile. Well, it would be futile even with kaboom.
• How to Head in a Jar Prank.
• Walter Benjamin, for those of you who do.
• Thomas Bernhard, for those of you who do.
• Deleuze, for those of you who do.
• Foucault, for those of you who do.
• Mary Ruefle interview!
• And thinking of Hillage makes me think of Gong. These are complete albums of the trilogy, skip ahead to your favorite songs of each of you haven't three hours of so.

THE MOTORCYCLISTS

James Tate

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,

did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica

of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.

I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.

Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,

but fireworks any time? There are people

like that, you know. They’re like people who like

orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.

Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.

Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-gong and bobcats,

shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,

the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and

whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first

one at the scene of a bad accident.

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?

I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,

did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine

is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind

of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.

Do you know that I have never understood what they meant

by “grassy knoll.” It sounds so idyllic, a place to go

to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They

should have called it something like “the grudging notch.”

But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?

“It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.”

You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven

I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant

right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first

woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.

Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom

at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me

if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?

I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.

The Local Minister Is Thinking of Moving to Holland, Exchanging His Old Ballads for Some Lingerie

Yes, updated from last night with added buttons and some links. There is a Student Employee Appreciation party today, colleagues have borrowed a button machine from Headquarters to use at the event. Guess what I made. Other than Planet and me I can't think of anyone who'd want a Siegfried, but let me know if you do, and soon, say noon Eastern Daylight Time Thursday, my access to Headquarters button machine is short!

If you'd rather have a Fleabus Dandelion or Planet Hand, that can be arranged too. They look better than these photos suggest.

UPDATE 10:15 AM: Fleabus 12, Siegfried 0. A predictable rout.

UPDATE 3:00 PM: Final score: Fleabus 16, Siegfried 2. Will borrow machine next week.

• May Day.
• May Day.
• David Harvey on May Day.
• What about communism?
• Be they race-bait gaming labor?
• Today in motherfucking cops.
• Please consider throwing Arthur the coins in your pocket.
• 258 Fake.
• Moving House.
• Josipovici and Handke, for those of you who do one or the other or both.
• Beckett, for those of you who do.

A VAGABOND

James Tate

A vagabond is a newcomer

in a heap of trouble.

He’s an eyeball at a peephole

that should be electrocuted.

He’s a leper in a textile mill

and likely to be beheaded, I mean,

given a liverwurst sandwich

on the break by the brook

where the loaves are sliced.

But he oughtn’t meddle

with the powder puffs on the golf links—

they have their own goats to tame,

dirigibles to situate.

He can act like an imbecile

if the climate is propitious,

a magnate of kidnap

paradising around the oily depot,

or a speck from a distant nebula

wishing to purchase a certain skyscraper ....

Well, if it’s permitted, then

let’s regulate him, let’s testify

against his thimble, and moderate his gloves

before they sew an apron.

The local minister is thinking

of moving to Holland, exchanging

his old ballads for some lingerie.

“Zatso!” says the vagabond.

Homeless, like wheat that tattletales

on the sermon, like wages swigged.

“Zatso, zatso, zatso!” cries the vagabond.

The minister reels under the weight

of his thumbs, the vagabond seems to have

jutted into his kernel, disturbed

his terminal core. Slowly, and with

trifling dignity, the minister removes

from his lapel his last campaign button:

Don’t Mess with Raymond, New Hampshire.


    

Of Course You Lack Maps of the Underworld, There Are No Maps of the Underworld

Maps fascinate me, always have, the above one of the many maps SeatSix gave me this past Giftmas, a 1951, pre-interstate Maryland/Virginia/West Virginia/Delaware gas station road map. I did not know the current Maryland 45 north from Baltimore towards York PA was once signed US 111. Also note that what is now US 40 between Frederick and Hagerstown was Alt US 40 in 1951, what is now ALT US 40 then US 40. The Giftmas before the most recent SeatSix gave me a giant map on MOCO circa 1830, it's gorgeous, as soon as I figure out how to get it home I'll get it out of our parents' basement. Anyway, there seem to me a recent spate of articles about mapping, here's another. I gladly admit I look for map-shit, I admit it might be my imagination, this recent spate, but I'm curious as to why (I suspect it's new mapping technology in conjunction with the expanding police state, yo) in all the places I normally look there's more on map-yap than usual.

• Who are the deserving rich? Rentiers, apparently.
• I am fully aware that as a homeowner in MOCO this is in my self-interest: Montgomery County Executive Isiah Leggett (D) joined Gov. Martin O’Malley (D) and Sen. Barbara Mikulski (D) of Baltimore to sign an agreement that will help solidify the county’s plans to build the National Cybersecurity Center of Excellence in Rockville. “We want Maryland to be the epicenter for cybersecurity in the United States,” Mikulski told Capital News Service. As is the new policy, I note the irony vis a vis my yodeling hypocrisy but spare everyone, and by everyone I mean me, the gratuitous aargh, and it's such a great sentence from the Patron Saint of Fort Meade.
• Yes, I know cybersecurity is more than my being surveilled, though neither are exclusive from the other ever.
• Police state.
• The long slow surrender of American Liberals. Subscription required, I'm afraid, but I recommend subscribing to Harpers, and it's cheap!
• I certainly don't want to imply that I am not one of the surrenderers. This blog exists to pick my scabs.
• Three of you plus me say FLEABUS! so I'll work on creating more headers.

• On the Winter Olympics. I've acquaintances apparently invested in the Men's Ice-Soccer tournament, but in more important and happy soccer news, both Man City and Arsenal are down each by two away goals to Barca and Bayern Munich respectively. Lordy, let Arsenal crash, let Chelsea win the tournament and The Premier League by one point, may Arsene Wenger be caught live on camera when his head explodes from the mocking of the crowing Special One.
• Why the German away kit is green.
• I've been asked by a loved one and a few friends recently to consider reactivating a Facebook account for ease of communications, and no, not passing a moral judgment, it's just not for me for all the same reasons that 90% of the people I know (and knew - the ghosts that would appear asking me to be their friend was creepy) don't know about this shitty blog. I could pretend it's Facebook's business ethics or something for the reason I'm not on Facebook, but for you to read that sentence I'd have to type it into the dashboard of a Google product.
• Murakami's latest out in English in August.
• At the laundromat. Tom's latest.
• Catapult.
• Aphex Twin. It's been a few months, I'll get myself another cascade soon.
• Not quite sure how I missed the lastest The Fall release, but better late than....

THE WORKFORCE

James Tate

Do you have adequate oxen for the job?

No, my oxen are inadequate.

Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job?

I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately.

I'll see if I can get them for you.

I'd be obliged if you could do that for me.

Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men?

We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient.

I'll have them delivered on the morrow.

Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld?

We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld.

Of course you lack maps of the underworld,

there are no maps of the underworld.

And, besides, you don't want to go there, it's stuffy.

I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter.

It's just that you asked me if I needed maps. . . .

Yes, yes, it's my fault, I got carried away.

What do you need, then, you tell me?

We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens,

pigs, cows, buckets and women.

Women?

We have no women.

You're a sorry lot, then.

We are a sorry lot, sir.

Well, I can't get you women.

I assumed as much, sir.

What are you going to do without women, then?

We will suffer, sir. And then we'll die out one by one.

Can any of you sing?

Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us.

Order them to begin singing immediately.

Either women will find you this way or you will die

comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves

with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves.

Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.

Which Do You Think the Fixtures Are in the Bathroom at the White House, Gold or Brass?

's 471 (11347.2) 1573 (4146.14) 2529 (1602.59) 16.939
jobs 151 (3637.85) 289 (761.751) 439 (278.188) 14.242
why 85 (2047.8) 75 (197.686) 222 (140.678) 13.623
businesses 70 (1686.42) 75 (197.686) 140 (88.7161) 12.093
that 912 (21971.7) 4629 (12201.2) 19589 (12413.3) 11.936
get 98 (2360.99) 171 (450.725) 300 (190.106) 11.873
i'm 61 (1469.6) 79 (208.23) 136 (86.1813) 10.653
don't 56 (1349.14) 82 (216.137) 137 (86.815) 9.752
can't 44 (1060.04) 54 (142.334) 102 (64.636) 9.161
like 83 (1999.61) 199 (524.528) 572 (362.469) 8.541
we'll 42 (1011.85) 61 (160.785) 98 (62.1013) 8.498
innovation 24 (578.202) 13 (34.2656) 40 (25.3475) 7.982
republicans 27 (650.477) 24 (63.2596) 49 (31.0506) 7.862
kids 28 (674.569) 29 (76.4387) 50 (31.6843) 7.761
college 41 (987.761) 70 (184.507) 128 (81.1118) 7.730
because 114 (2746.46) 399 (1051.69) 870 (551.307) 7.634
what 128 (3083.74) 462 (1217.75) 1282 (812.386) 7.547
companies 33 (795.027) 37 (97.5252) 167 (105.826) 7.471
we've 64 (1541.87) 175 (461.268) 251 (159.055) 7.438
democrats 25 (602.294) 24 (63.2596) 47 (29.7833) 7.434

the 1840 (44328.8) 23017 (60668.6) 133003 (84282.2) -8.955
of 1022 (24621.8) 13939 (36740.7) 86737 (54964) -8.133
must 53 (1276.86) 1583 (4172.5) 2843 (1801.57) -7.308
in 651 (15683.7) 8433 (22227.8) 33474 (21212) -6.237
peace 8 (192.734) 670 (1766) 1736 (1100.08) -5.699
program 16 (385.468) 618 (1628.93) 730 (462.591) -5.244
federal 22 (530.018) 737 (1942.6) 1315 (833.297) -5.216
freedom 8 (192.734) 472 (1244.11) 691 (437.877) -4.922
which 18 (433.651) 1072 (2825.6) 11029 (6988.93) -4.732
economic 21 (505.927) 614 (1618.39) 852 (539.901) -4.655
billion 9 (216.826) 425 (1120.22) 462 (292.763) -4.603
nations 16 (385.468) 601 (1584.13) 1651 (1046.22) -4.560
world 82 (1975.52) 1369 (3608.43) 2239 (1418.82) -4.508
free 17 (409.56) 554 (1460.24) 1166 (738.878) -4.366
national 17 (409.56) 566 (1491.87) 1837 (1164.08) -4.104
programs 16 (385.468) 440 (1159.76) 470 (297.833) -3.937
hope 7 (168.642) 324 (854.005) 769 (487.305) -3.638
be 175 (4216.05) 2499 (6586.91) 16149 (10233.4) -3.585
war 29 (698.66) 652 (1718.55) 2567 (1626.67) -3.449
provide 8 (192.734) 295 (777.566) 641 (406.193) -3.308
policy 8 (192.734) 333 (877.727) 1199 (759.79) -3.305

Explanation of the two text boxes here: I took X as Barack Obama's five SOTU addresses so far (41,508 "words", as per my tokenization), Y as the SOTU addresses of all other presidents since WWII (Truman through George W. Bush), and Z as the all SOTU addresses since 1790.  I then fed in all the words in SOTU addresses since Truman, Obama included, and sorted the results according to the weighted log-odds ratio. Here's the positive end of the list (i.e. tokens favored by Obama). Each line presents WORD XCount (XPerMillion) YCount (YPerMillion) ZCount (ZPerMillion) SCORE

So, I promised both Arvo Pärt and Swans cascades, here, perhaps for the first time in recorded human history, alternating Pärt and Swans pieces! Instead of watching SOTU, I was here:

• Among the crowd at Carrow Road: Being season-ticket holders and having been to most home games we went to Carrow Road last night to watch Norwich play Newcastle. It was our first evening game of the season and we were looking forward to it. Everything feels different under floodlights: the ground is more theatre than pitch, it's colder, noises arise out of the dark of the terraces, the far end of the pitch looks further away. The rain, which was heavy at times, and the swirling wind were effects we saw illuminated, the dimpling of small pools, the rain swept in this or that direction. The stand is a mixture of rough and delicate music.
• Food links.
• I ordered Miss McIntosh, My Dear from Dalkey last week, received an email from them yesterday, they are out of Volume 2 and there are no plans to publish more, did I want a refund or another book of the same value. I asked for a copy of Elkin's Franchiser, it yours to the first taker.
• A clarification on the typograph from Shohir's Stalin Is Dead posted yesterday. The typographs aren't Shohir's, they are the translator's, Ornan Rotem, as is the note on the typograph.
• Surzhyk.
• In defense of regionalism: Yet there are many ways to succeed as a poet. The California-born Jack Spicer never felt a need to prove himself on the East Coast. In college he encountered kindred spirits Robert Duncan and Robin Blaser, forming the Berkeley Renaissance. Spicer went on to cofound San Francisco’s Six Gallery, where Allen Ginsberg would later present an early draft of “Howl,” and in addition to teaching he informally mentored writers through his Circle sessions in North Beach. Spicer’s West Coast setting is usually obscured by allusion in his work. But his openness to poetry as dictation, as discourse with unruly spirits, reflects a specific cultural landscape. When water is the key motif, the Bay’s ecology surfaces; in “Any fool can get into an ocean…,” Spicer invites us to “Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly / Out in the middle of the poem.”
• Robert Creeley, for those of you who do.
• Re: top Arvo Pärt piece and the poet below the next Arvo Pärt piece - there are many happy accidents here, but sometimes things are done on purpose.
• Have I ever mentioned how much I love Jack Spicer's poetry? Fell asleep reading James Tate, woke up with the Tate poem below in my head, so more Spicer poems tomorrow, days to come.

THE MOTORCYCLISTS

James Tate

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,

did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica

of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.

I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.

Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,

but fireworks any time? There are people

like that, you know. They’re like people who like

orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.

Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.

Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-gong and bobcats,

shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,

the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and

whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first

one at the scene of a bad accident.

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?

I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,

did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine

is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind

of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.

Do you know that I have never understood what they meant

by “grassy knoll.” It sounds so idyllic, a place to go

to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They

should have called it something like “the grudging notch.”

But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?

“It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.”

You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven

I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant

right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first

woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.

Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom

at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me

if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?

I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.

Also We Have Television, or: Sixty-Four Today

Past years I'd post Television mostly, solo stuff today. I saw Television live twice, Verlaine solo many many times, you've heard lots of Television (and Television is great!), you know how to find Television should you want, so solo Verlaine today for his 64th birthday.

Tooth update? Progressing from cold soft food to hot soft food. This has been too easy. Waiting for the trap door to spring.

• Well fuck, just now (8:30 AM EST, 12/13/13) I see news of the death of Zbigniew Karkowski. Pieces tomorrow.
• RIP Mac McGarry, a DC icon. Once I daydreamed of making Gaithersburg High School's It's Academic team, then I discovered girls and became a stoner.
• Georgetown! (the neighborhood). Shooting down an urban myth: Metro did not put a stop in Georgetown because of neighborhood fears of who would take the train to Georgetown to rob them, Metro did not put a stop in Georgetown because of geography.
• It is a sign of how shitty my soccer team is that signing two washed-up defenders no longer wanted by their previous employer legitimately constitutes a major upgrade.
• A Wedding.
• The Negative.
• Above two a result of finishing half of John William's Stoner yesterday. Second half today. Holyfuck, it's brilliantly crafted, brilliantly devastating. I recognize the fact that I've spend more than half my working life on a college campus makes the novel more personal for me, but kapow.
• Serendipitously posted, the second from bottom bullet here is the phenomenon that both stimulates and paralyzes Stoner.
• An academic bleggalgaze.
• Keep babbling.
• Beckett, for those of you who do.
• Mary Szybist poem. 
• Yes, I've posted the James Tate poem below before, more than once probably. (A) I like it, (B) I needed a line from it for this post's title.
• Lyn Hejinian essay.
• The church says the world is flat.
• Piano as drummage, with sound.

THE COWBOY

James Tate

Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was

in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who

it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the

worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so

I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my

house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds

and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of

questions. “What does he look like?" “What do you feed him?” “How

did you capture him?” And I simply denied the presence of an

extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them

all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around

my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and

parked up and down the street. Roger was really working overtime

on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement.

I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02

last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up

in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them

said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it

myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove

off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now.

I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an

hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen

I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent

fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why

did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You

speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very

hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels.

I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,”

he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me

to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I

don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But

people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following

us everywhere. It would be the story of the century,” I said.

“I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said.

“I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but

they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause

you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said.

I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried

not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I

treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?”

he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,”

I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps

out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came

back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but

very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just

received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous

occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The

Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my

hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must

you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably

my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But

I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s

pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.

If I Could Cajole You to Come Back for an Evening, Down from Your Compulsive Orbiting, I Would Touch You

• That's on my current drive home from work air guitar playlist. It's my favorite Furs song ever, nothing else comes close. I had a Britten piece in mind, but I didn't want to make it two days in a row in advance of his centenary so I've started another gag based on compulsion. Lurched from compulsion to compulsion. Please use last sentence as my epitaph.
• Usually used for the Sillyass Star Trek allusion gag, the below is also related to the above, free digital pint if you get it:

• Yes, all this for that.
• Meanwhile, in a blue county in a blue state....
• Corporate pillage, part one.
• Zizek once again says what I've been saying in every fucking blog post 4ever. When I call him the greatest academic fraud of his generation it's more than a gag, it's envy.
• On shouting at Ray Kelly and polite liberal behavior.
• Studying war.
• A profile of William T Vollmann in Newsweek. I bought Book of Dolores (pun intended, yo, I bet), it arrived last Saturday, I haven't had time to but glance, it's a beautiful object to hold, hope to read this weekend). I bought a used copy of Argall at the Montgomery County Library bookstore in the weird shopping center in the weird country of Boiling Brook, and I still have an extra copy of Fathers and Crows, so if you're a bud and want one let me know.
• Starling murmurations.
• I found out about the Vollmann article because the author tweeted it and it ended up somehow in my timeline. I tweeted him, hey, do you get the pun in the title? and he tweeted back huffily, it's an allusion, and I tweeted back, sure, but it's also a pun on dolorous, get it? No response.
• Hey! Edmond posted! He's alive.
• In Evidence: 16.
• What you can buy me for Giftmas.
• There's an Elizabeth Bishop biopic?
• Musique Concrète Soundtracks To Experimental Short Films (1956-1978).
• So, two more drive home from work air guitar playlist songs. Looking for the below reminded me to listen to Broken Social Scene even a quarter as much as I used to. The one between the poems possibly the song posted most often here, certainly in the top ten. The bottom song is actually the only one of this shitty blog's Theme Songs that is on the drive home from work air guitar playlist.

THE LOST PILOT

James Tate

Your face did not rot

like the others—the co-pilot,   

for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-

mush: his wife and daughter,   

the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.

He was more wronged than Job.   

But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,

and hard like ebony;

the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole

you to come back for an evening,   

down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,   

read your face as Dallas,   

your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads   

his braille editions. I would

touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.   

However frightening, I would   

discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make   

you face your wife, or Dallas,   

or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy   

orbiting, and I would not try   

to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know   

is this: when I see you,   

as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,   

spin across the wilds of the sky   

like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were   

the residue of a stranger’s life,   

that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,   

I cannot get off the ground,   

and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling   

to tell me that you are doing   

well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,

and me in this; or that misfortune   

placed these worlds in us.

ADDICTION

A.F. Moritz

I wish we could control this revolting

want of control: these people

with their spongy eyes, their mouths

of trembling shoehorns, billhooks for penises

and bear traps for vulvas.

One taste of sunlight and at once

they can’t do without it. Water,

the same, and food, and air,

and a dozen other squalid habits.

Some—like their copulation,

a rusting carnation in a cut-glass neck—

are not physically compulsive but

the partners can’t stop wanting them to be:

so we desire to be raped

by love, who would fill us, they say,

with an oil from the lit braziers of stars.

What if, doing it every day,

we resemble pistons, and the slow poison

cuts our lives off at 70:

it’s the grim determination

of our passion. And beyond this, even I—

defended in childhood by my strong father

the piano and my mother the virtuoso

from knuckles among warehouses—even I

am addicted to the mild light of words.

But He Oughtn't Meddle with the Powder Puffs on the Golf Links - They Have Their Own Goats to Tame, Dirigibles to Situate

Holyfuck, Lonnie Holley, what a voice. ALSO! Deactivating the Napoleon Alert System. Freaking uncanny. Earthgirl can vouch. God Cat demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post, new here, not the tribute to God Cat, the unabashed Woot.

Also, Seneca today:

1:9 = 433343333
10:18 = 343334333
19:27 = 353343333

Mind, every basket in 1:18 was in A, but since Seneca went from 18 to 27 baskets I have never broke 90. Missed one putt all day. I should not play for weeks at a time more often. Having never broke 90 at Seneca before I never thought to offer wootribute to God Disc, but for those putts that clanged down and not out? I don't know if demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post but it's getting one now and from now on.







A VAGABOND

Jame Tate

A vagabond is a newcomer

in a heap of trouble.

He’s an eyeball at a peephole

that should be electrocuted.

He’s a leper in a textile mill

and likely to be beheaded, I mean,

given a liverwurst sandwich

on the break by the brook

where the loaves are sliced.

But he oughtn’t meddle

with the powder puffs on the golf links—

they have their own goats to tame,

dirigibles to situate.

He can act like an imbecile

if the climate is propitious,

a magnate of kidnap

paradising around the oily depot,

or a speck from a distant nebula

wishing to purchase a certain skyscraper ....

Well, if it’s permitted, then

let’s regulate him, let’s testify

against his thimble, and moderate his gloves

before they sew an apron.

The local minister is thinking

of moving to Holland, exchanging

his old ballads for some lingerie.

“Zatso!” says the vagabond.

Homeless, like wheat that tattletales

on the sermon, like wages swigged.

“Zatso, zatso, zatso!” cries the vagabond.

The minister reels under the weight

of his thumbs, the vagabond seems to have

jutted into his kernel, disturbed

his terminal core. Slowly, and with

trifling dignity, the minister removes

from his lapel his last campaign button:

Don’t Mess with Raymond, New Hampshire.

A Man Appeared Out of an Alley and Stopped Me and Said, "Did You See That Man Made Out of Leaves Go By?"

So, um, about three and a half hours from the time I type this sentence and a hundred yards from the cube in which I'm sitting the President is giving a speech. Security is swarming campus, no one can cross campus, I can only imagine the activity on the roof of the building I work in. Good news though: a friend of mine emails to say she may be sitting at that table if any of those assigned need a break, and as such reminds me of a Pere Ubu song, one I've played already this Month of David Thomas Songs but which I now play again.







DEAR MR PRESIDENT

James Tate

Dear Mr. President,

      I saw someone coming in the distance, but couldn't make out who it was. The closer they got the more blurred the face became. Until finally I saw it was just a whirlwind of leaves. It was only me on a football field walking toward the street with my handbag thrown over my shoulder with this big funnel of leaves coming toward me like a man. Then it passed me and went up the street. And then it disappeared. I walked on, toward the bank where I had some business to do. A man appeared out of an alley and stopped me and said, "Did you see that man made out of leaves go by?" "I did, could have fooled me," I said. "Hey, do you suppose you could lend me a dollar for a cup of coffee?" "No, I can't. I'm on my way to the bank," I said. I left him there and went on my way. Pretty soon a little boy crossed my path. He stopped me in my path and said, "I know who you are. You're the Man-of-Leaves. You just took your coat off. You can't fool me." "You're a pretty smart fellow, but you're wrong this time," I said, and went on my way. When I got to the bank I went in and waited to see an officer. When I saw one was free I went in. In the chair behind the desk sat a pile of leaves. It said, "Can I help you?" I stumbled at first, but managed to say, "I'm looking for a small loan, a thousand dollars for, say, twelve months." "Of course. Would you like a 4 1/2% or a 5 1/2% loan?" it said. "I'd like the 4 1/2% if you don't mind," I said. "Very good choice," it said. It made out the paper and handed them to me. "Have a nice day," it said. "It's windy out there," I said. "You're telling me," it said, smoothing himself with satisfaction.

 Have a great four years.

                         Yours sincerely,

                         James Tate

The Me Who So Loves to Garden Because It Prevents the Heaving of the Ground and the Untimely Death of Porch Formula

Terry Riley (here's the MP3 library at Ubuweb) was born 78 years ago today. Here's an all Riley show from Bryce in 2012. The recently released Don Cherry - Terry Riley 1975 live concert from Koln is another best release of 2013, it's today's cascade. It's only on vinyl that I can find, fucking iTunes is useless as usual, HEY! someone with a turn-table, if I buy this and send it to you will you please burn me a CD? Archive that direct appeal for a partner in copyright theft, Copper!

• The elite are not primarily concerned about terrorism.
• Unearthing chthonic conspiracies.
• The Ten Commandments of Neoliberalism.
• The Thirteen Commandments of Neoliberalism.
• How to protect - to a point - yourself.
• I actually did phone canvassing for hours in the weeks leading up to the 2004 election and physically canvassed voters in Harrisburg on election day in 2004 for this motherfucker, gave his campaign hundreds of dollars, the current SoS. He lost the election in significant part due to a campaign labeling him a traitor for speaking out against the atrocities in Vietnam. Irony's a bitch.
• Michael Hastings and the war on journalism.
• Obama is making a speech on campus tomorrow, in the extraordinary security precautions going into effect the building in which I was to attend a meeting I dread will be closed so the meeting needs rescheduling, so thanks, Obama.
• Bleggalgazing, of a sort, and more.
• I have read at least six variations of the joke on the irony that Snowden might go to Cuba to avoid US courts where did he get that idea. 
• I am also reminded that during breaking news people report to their digital overlords for info and instruction.
• The Napoleon and Momcat Emergency Alert tagline remains until....
• Map of MOCO tweets.
• Ten Mile Creek!
• New Inquiry's Sunday links.
• World Cup of Short Form of Cricket.
• Anthony's links of the week.
• To a mouse.
• Ashbery and the pragmatist sublime.
• Twee started earlier than you think it did. Remember arguing, Belle and Sebastian, twee or fey?

   
THE DEFINITION OF GARDENING

James Tate

Jim just loves to garden, yes he does.

He likes nothing better than to put on

his little overalls and his straw hat.

He says, "Let's go get those tools, Jim."

But then doubt begins to set in.

He says, "What is a garden, anyway?"

And thoughts about a "modernistic" garden

begin to trouble him, eat away at his resolve.

He stands in the driveway a long time.

"Horticulture is a groping in the dark

into the obscure and unfamiliar,

kneeling before a disinterested secret,

slapping it, punching it like a Chinese puzzle,

birdbrained, babbling gibberish, dig and

destroy, pull out and apply salt,

hoe and spray, before it spreads, burn roots,

where not desired, with gloved hands, poisonous,

the self-sacrifice of it, the self-love,

into the interior, thunderclap, excruciating,

through the nose, the earsplitting necrology

of it, the withering, shriveling,

the handy hose holder and Persian insect powder

and smut fungi, the enemies of the iris,

wireworms are worse than their parents,

there is no way out, flowers as big as heads,

pock-marked, disfigured, blinking insolently

at me, the me who so loves to garden

because it prevents the heaving of the ground

and the untimely death of porch furniture,

and dark, murky days in a large city

and the dream home under a permanent storm

is also a factor to keep in mind."

My Theory Is Simple-Minded to Be Sure: That Beneath His Public Head There Was Another Head and It Was a Pyramid or Something

Three more David Thomas songs, I promised myself I'd post at least one each day of June. I promise not to do this to you with Kate Bush in July though an October of Robert Pollard songs is very possible if not inevitable. I've also sent my self on a James Tate fix, have another poem, and yes, the one of you, keep your eye on your mailbox. Also, new stuff at the other place. Regular links and shit return here tomorrow or Monday or Tuesday....





THE LIST OF FAMOUS HATS

James Tate

Napoleon's hat is an obvious choice I guess to list as a famous hat, but that's not the hat I have in mind. That was his hat for show. I am thinking of his private bathing cap, which in all honesty wasn't much different than the one any jerk might buy at a corner drugstore now, except for two minor eccentricities. The first one isn't even funny: Simply it was a white rubber bathing cap, but too small. Napoleon led such a hectic life ever since his childhood, even farther back than that, that he never had a chance to buy a new bathing cap and still as a grown-up--well, he didn't really grow that much, but his head did: He was a pinhead at birth, and he used, until his death really, the same little tiny bathing cap that he was born in, and this meant that later it was very painful to him and gave him many headaches, as if he needed more. So, he had to vaseline his skull like crazy to even get the thing on. The second eccentricity was that it was a tricorn bathing cap. Scholars like to make a lot out of this, and it would be easy to do. My theory is simple-minded to be sure: that beneath his public head there was another head and it was a pyramid or something.

I Got a Call from the White House, from the President Himself, Asking Me if I Would Do Him a Personal Favor. I Like the President, so I Said, “Sure, Mr. President, Anything You Like.” He said, “Just Act Like Nothing’s Going On. Act Normal. That Would Mean the World to Me. Can You Do That, Leon?" "Why Sure, Mr. President, You've Got It. Normal, That's How I'm Going to Act. I Won't Let On, Even if I'm Tortured," I Said, Immediately Regretting That "Tortured" Bit.

What, you didn't listen to the Pere Ubu songs in the previous post celebrating today's High Egoslavian Holy Day, David Thomas's 60th birthday or read the James Tate in the post? Have three more songs you won't listen to and another James Tate poem you won't read! Don't listen to them LOUD! Don't read the poem OUT LOUD!







BOUNDEN DUTY

James Tate

I got a call from the White House, from the
president himself, asking me if I would do him a personal
favor. I like the president, so I said, “Sure, Mr.
President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act
like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would
mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?" "Why
sure, Mr. President, you've got it. Normal, that's
how I'm going to act. I won't let on, even if I'm
tortured," I said, immediately regretting that "tortured"
bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was
dying to tell someone that the president himself called
me, but I knew I couldn't. The sudden pressure to
act normal was killing me. And what was going on
anyway. I didn't know anything was going on. I
saw the president on TV yesterday. He was shaking
hands with a farmer. What if it wasn't really a
farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly
I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on.
I looked "normal" to me, but maybe I looked more
like I was trying to be normal. That's pretty
suspicious. I opened the door and looked around.
What was going on? There was a car parked in front
of my car that I had never seen before, a car that
was trying to look normal, but I wasn't fooled.
If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise
people will think something's going on. I got into
my car and sped down the road. I could feel
those little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush,
but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop
me. I ran into Kirsten at the store. "Hey, what's
going on, Leon?" she said. She had a very nice smile.
I hated to lie to her. "Nothing's going on. Just
getting milk for my cat," I said. "I didn't know
you had a cat," she said. "I meant to say coffee.
You're right. I don't have a cat. Sometimes I
refer to my coffee as my cat. It's just a private
joke. Sorry," I said. "Are you all right?" she
asked. "Nothing's going on, Kirsten. I promise
you. Everything is normal. The president shook
hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such
a big deal?" I said. "I saw that," she said, "and
that man was definitely not a farmer." "Yeah, I
know," I said, feeling better.

You Look Like a God Sitting There. Why Don't You Try Writing Something?

   
The youtube seems to be working this time. That's the drive to and then the four mile hike yesterday in Mohican State Park, photography, as always, by Earthgirl, I'm the lard in the United hat. I've no doubt operator error causes 51% or more of my grief with Google products, but the Youtube that came up as private yesterday is properly coded for public even though it doesn't work, and as I type this post Blooger backside won't open in Firefox but will in Chrome. (Today being Good Friday, the beginning of a three-day weekend in which readership will drop precipitously from almost nobody to hardly anyone, I indulge the bleggalgaze). I've been screaming all week about the inability to cut-and-paste into Blooger template, long poems - I've neither the time or desire to type long poems. I can no longer change anything in this blog's template because the Apply to Template button is dead, not margins or color or font or, most frustratingly, the size of the blog title, it's driving me fucking nuts, and I am not alone: hundreds, if not more, have complained of the same problem, Blooger Help Forum is full of inquiries and complaints, not a single one addressed by a Google employee. I suspect it would take a Google engineer upwards of two minutes to fix the problem. I'm genuinely curious whether Google doesn't give enough of a fuck to know about the problem or Google knows about the problem and doesn't give a fuck. Google is killing Google Reader, which many use and like, because Google doesn't give a fuck, so I suspect Google knows about the dead Apply to Template button and doesn't give a fuck. I started with blooger in 2003, moved to typepad because blooger pissed me off, moved back to blooger (here) for no greater reason than access to a larger audience and the self-updating blogrolls. I created a site in wordpress but won't ask anyone to move because I want the largest audience for this shitty vanity project I can garner plus I'm lazy, I love the self-updating blogrolls, I use them as bookmarks, it's how I know when you've updated your shitty vanity blog too. I expect Google to disable them at some near point in the future, in which case I will still not leave blooger because regardless blooger brings the most eyes to this shitty blog. Fine metaphors abound. I am the lard in the Google trap.

• So much for detoxing.
• Eating last night in a restaurant overlooking the Mt Vernon Wal-Mart and Mt Vernon JC Penneys, I said, I don't know how these places stay in business, the JC Penney parking lot is empty, the Wal-Mart parking lot 3/4ths as empty as I remember, and serendipitously this morning I find this and this on Wal-Mart.
• Fracking, he says, minutes after turning up the gas heat in the B&B room.
• On being a problem.
• Left Side of the Aisle.
• I've never said I was a libertarian.
• Exceptions R Us.
• Normal.
• I missed news of this fire, though I've hiked through there and wondered what happened.
• Glenmont!
• Please forgive me if I lack outrage at Amazon buying Goodreads. I understand those that are outraged, but I've only so many hours, so many windmills, so much outrage.
• New Doctorow novel in 2014. I've read most of Doctorow, or at least those written before the turn of the century and one or two since, struggle to recall a single thing about one of them. Liked them; nothing stuck.
• Age.
• Coetzee, for those of you who do.

TEACHING THE APE TO WRITE POEMS

James Tate

They didn't have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him to into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
The Dr Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
"You look like a god sitting there.
Why don't you try writing something?"

Most Popes Are Called "Babe" Because Growing Up to Be Pope Is a Lot of Fun

 

HOW THE POPE IS CHOSEN

James Tate

Any poodle under ten inches high is a toy.
Almost always a toy is an imitation
of something grown-ups use.
Popes with unclipped hair are called “corded popes.”
If a Pope’s hair is allowed to grow unchecked,
it becomes extremely long and twists
into long strands that look like ropes.
When it is shorter it is tightly curled.
Popes are very intelligent.
There are three different sizes.
The largest are called standard Popes.
The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes.
I could go on like this, I could say:
“He is a squarely built Pope, neat,
well-proportioned, with an alert stance
and an expression of bright curiosity,”
but I won’t. After a poodle dies
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and then he’s the new Pope.
He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone,
day and night in all kinds of weather.
The new Pope chooses the name he will use as Pope,
like “Wild Bill” or “Buffalo Bill.”
He wears red shoes with a cross embroidered on the front.
Most Popes are called “Babe” because
growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.
All the time their bodies are becoming bigger and stranger,
but sometimes things happen to make them unhappy.
They have to go to the bathroom by themselves,
and they spend almost all of their time sleeping.
Parents seem incapable of helping their little popes grow up.
Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean out of windows,
but the sky is full of them.
It looks as if they are just taking it easy,
but they are learning something else.
What, we don’t know, because we are not like them.
We can’t even dress like them.
We are like red bugs or mites compared to them.
We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the paper,
but really we are eating crumbs out of their hands.
We are tiny germs that cannot be seen under microscopes.
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
in search of a sheep.

• What the hell is wrong with me, why did it take me until 5:56 this morning to remember Tate's pope-poem? My apologies. 
• My apologies, I need point out again that when Obama is confronted (their word) w/questions about drones, especially by Democrats, weigh what's worse, they know it's kabuki, they think it's not kabuki?
• Trick question: insert whatever question behind that freaky backward E-thing of power and under that skeevy square root thing of greed and fuck me, your motives can be - probably are - purer than mine and thus more concussive than a depth charge dropped from PT-73.
• My apologies, after Get Smart and F Troop allusions yesterday, I thought a McCale's Navy allusion was necessary today, Old Leadbottoms.
• My apologies, this was going to be an aarghfree post.
• the moon gazed  my midnight labors...
• Taco Cat is a palindrome.
• Hey, look what was waiting for me when I got home last night:

• Arsenal line-up for tonight: Fabianski, Jenks, a mop, dust, Gibbs, dark matter, no tomato, inanimate carbon rod, Bergerac, Akers, a merkin.
• Devotion of rubes.
• Hey, if you listen to WFMU and/or appreciate what they do for music, they are way behind on their goals for the annual Marathon, throw them even a Snacks Sticker Sheet's worth of $$$ please. Look how much Arvo Pärt they play!
• Will there be a WFMU in 2046, when Planet is my age today, when I'm 85, when this fucking blog is 42, imagine how old the gags you hate now will be then.
• The ten least hipster cities.
• Baltasound.
• Bailter Space.
• A guide to Arvo Pärt's music.
• bX-62m038 - that's what motherfucking blooger told me after it ate this post last night - the part written before I remembered the Tate poem this morning - keeps telling me up to three minutes ago. What is an idiot blogwhore and attention slut to do?
• I had two interesting conversations blog-sparked yesterday, sincere thanks to you both, one - hehful - by phone, say no more say no more, the second by email, asking me to clarify one of my habitual spasms, not the following one, but related to Have I ever mentioned I love in this case Arvo Pärt's music? Because I do love Arvo Pärt's music, I mention it, play it all the time. Usually in this situation I would use the italicized question above as a brick in a gag lamely rhetorical to you perhaps but sophisticated as an anchor link to echoes to me, but not this time, just like this time.