Sand and Snow-Capped Waves

Indulge the aargh and motherfucking vile mood by deploying this in multiple guises or lazyass blogging with lazyass snow theme. Best lazyass blogging and lazyass snow theme. Aargh and motherfucking vile mood later, or not, and probably not here but there. No, the poem will not be Stevens' Snowman, I know you think you know how I think, this sentence proves you're only part right. Click tags Beefheart, Kees, Galaxie 500 for more of each.

Also too, activating the Momcat Alert System. We haven't seen her since the storm.

UPDATE! Drove Earthgirl's car to shop for service, restocked at Safeway, just got home, deactivating the Momcat Alert System, it's uncanny and spooky how it works, it's a good thing.

UPDATE! That reduces some of the aargh, as does getting the car to shop, but can't concentrate to read either Deronda or Miss MacIntosh or more Kees, so have last night's and now's linkages:

• Computer-based sound poetry.
• That helped the aargh. A lot. 
• Against likeability. Some of the day's aargh is related.
• Last RIP call for Stuart Hall.  
• It's not our fault if it's a perfect storm. 
• We are trained to be in constant fear. 
• Neoliberalism's war on higher education. Some of the day's aargh is related - a bunch, actually - but must not write about employer, Complicit Bastard's Rule Number One.
• Josipovici and Delany, for those of you who do one or the other or both.
• Someone else read Maqroll this year. I've one extra copy left.
• Prunella's latest playlist.

LAND'S END

Weldon Kees

A day all blue and white, and we

Came out of woods to sand

And snow-capped waves. The sea

Rose with us as we walked, the land

Built dunes, a lighthouse, and a sky of gulls.

Here where I built my life ten years ago,

The day breaks gray and cold;

And brown surf, muddying the shore,

Deposits fish-heads, sewage, rusted tin.

Children and men break bottles on the stones.

Beyond the lighthouse, black against the sky,

Two gulls are circling where the woods begin.

Note the Terms: Obscurantism, Factorize, Fagaceous, Endocarp

Why didn't you tell me there's a new Kitchens of Distinction album? Thanks to all who sent good wishes. In at nine, three shots of local anesthesia immediately given, given twenty minutes to kick in, then forty-five seconds of yanking and wisdom tooth out. Clamped down on gauze for an hour, that's now out. RX for codeine if I need but gonna try Advil alone first (dentist said ALWAYS use Advil/ibuprofen for dental pain, by the way, it blocks pain in a certain way that makes it best for teeth hurt). So yes, I'm taunting Baal when I say I could not have imagined this not sucking this much. Have songs and a poem. I found my copy of Stoner I bought when everyone was talking about it last year which I promptly and accidentally kicked under my bed when it arrived which I found last night, reading it today is today's plan. Regular programming returns tomorrow, or not. Yes, just below is an old Kitchens of Distinction song, probably one of the ten songs posted most often here.







STATEMENT WITH RHYMES

Weldon Kees

Plurality is all. I walk among the restaurants,   

the theatres, the grocery stores; I ride the cars

and hear of Mrs. Bedford’s teeth and Albuquerque,   

strikes unsettled, someone’s simply marvelous date,   

news of the German Jews, the baseball scores,   

storetalk and whoretalk, talk of wars. I turn   

the pages of a thousand books to read

the names of Buddha, Malthus, Walker Evans, Stendhal, André Gide,

Ouspenski; note the terms: obscurantism,   

factorize, fagaceous, endocarp; descend   

the nervous stairs to hear the broken ends   

of songs that float through city air.

In Osnabrück and Ogden, on the Passamaquoddy Bay,   

in Ahmednagar, Waco (Neb.), in Santa Fé,

propelled by zeros, zinc, and zephyrs, always I’m pursued

by thoughts of what I am, authority, remembrance, food,

the letter on the mezzanine, the unemployed, dogs’ lonely faces, pianos and decay.

Plurality is all. I sympathize, but cannot grieve

too long for those who wear their dialectics on their sleeves.   

The pattern’s one I sometimes rather like; there’s really nothing wrong

with it for some. But I should add: It doesn’t wear for long,   

before I push the elevator bell and quickly leave.

At the End of August, When All the Letters of the Alphabet Are Waiting

Periodic posting of the Blegxistential Anthem, summoned to spare me (and you) writing about it, plus three more songs for long quiet solo drives over beautiful mountains and a playlist from Prunella and a playlist from :-p and two poems, it's all I've got, it's the middle of fucking Blogust.







THE BEACH IN AUGUST

Weldon Kees

The day the fat woman

In the bright blue bathing suit

Walked into the water and died,

I thought about the human

Condition. Pieces of old fruit

Came in and were left by the tide.

What I thought about the human

Condition was this: old fruit

Comes in and is left, and dries

In the sun. Another fat woman

In a dull green bathing suit

Dives into the water and dies.

The pulmotors glisten. It is noon.

We dry and die in the sun

While the seascape arranges old fruit,

Coming in and the tide, glistening

At noon. A woman, moderately stout,

In a nondescript bathing suit,

Swims to a pier. A tall woman

Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human

Condition. The tide goes in and goes out.

MIST VALLEY

James Longenbach

At the end of August, when all
The letters of the alphabet are waiting,
You drop a teabag in a cup.
The same few letters making many different words,
The same words meaning different things.

Often you've rearranged them on the surface of the fridge.
Without the surface
They're repulsed by one another.

Here are the letters.
The tea is in your cup.

At the end of August, the mind
Is neither the pokeweed piercing the grass
Nor the grass itself.
As Tony Cook says in
The Biology of Terrestrial Mollusks

The right thing to do is nothing, the place
A place of concealment,
And the time as often as possible.

Observant Scholar, Traveller, Or Uncouth Bearded Figure Squatting in a Cave

• Above Theme Song Friday 7/5/13 3:15 PM EDT which appeared in my head after conversation with acquaintance - no one who reads this blog, though of course your opinion is your own - in which I was told I'm fucking nuts.
• Two arrghless days. Made it two days. One more than the record.
• American piracy.
• Not sure how Snowden gets to Nicaragua or Venezuela. 
• The servility of the satellites.
• Villager Court Jester mocks Obama for becoming a Villager.
• Motherfucking Villagers. Forgive me, I've had multiple chances to run many of these fuckers down on Mass and Nebraska and Wisconsin Avenues and chose the unincarcerated life instead, selfish, hypocritical, and non-revolutionary bastard that I am.
• Fuckface Hiatt.
• A revealing episode in DC groupthink.
• The trials of Hannah Arendt.
• Joyce Carol Oates twoots a cowpie.
• How to destroy a community.
• On motherfucking blooger.
• City of garbage.
• The Confession of St Jim-Ralph.
• Cocteau, for those of you who do.
• Francis Bacon, for those of you who do.
• I've again turned to Ishiguro to save me. Pushed rereading of Never Let Me Go ahead by two years. Expect excerpts.
• It's been eight years since Never Let Me Go released. Anyone heard anything about Ishiguro in any newsworthy context, much less a new novel?
• Frank O'Hara.
• Excellent new ear candy below the poem, but first, I'm an

ROBINSON AT HOME

Weldon Kees

Curtains drawn back, the door ajar.

All winter long, it seemed, a darkening

Began. But now the moonlight and the odors of the street   

Conspire and combine toward one community.

These are the rooms of Robinson.

Bleached, wan, and colorless this light, as though   

All the blurred daybreaks of the spring

Found an asylum here, perhaps for Robinson alone,

Who sleeps. Were there more music sifted through the floors   

And moonlight of a different kind,

He might awake to hear the news at ten,

Which will be shocking, moderately.

This sleep is from exhaustion, but his old desire   

To die like this has known a lessening.

Now there is only this coldness that he has to wear.   

But not in sleep.—Observant scholar, traveller,

Or uncouth bearded figure squatting in a cave,   

A keen-eyed sniper on the barricades,

A heretic in catacombs, a famed roué,

A beggar on the streets, the confidant of Popes—

All these are Robinson in sleep, who mumbles as he turns,   

“There is something in this madhouse that I symbolize—

This city—nightmare—black—”            

                                                   He wakes in sweat   

To the terrible moonlight and what might be

Silence. It drones like wires far beyond the roofs,   

And the long curtains blow into the room.

Cleanse Whatever It Is That a Wound Remembers After It Heals

How we made killing easy. Motherfucking Obama, this surprises anyone? Proportional credit where due. This is not the memo you're looking for. Proportional credit where due. I don't yodel this as often as I used to - and I don't yodel about why I don't yodel as often as I used to as often as I used to - but everything being done is in preparation for doing it to you. Banality defined. Your Fucking Washington Post. Enhanced versus elongated. Global geographies of torture. >>Yes, there was, now not, I forgot to be Kind<<  bin Laden tax. Photographing God. Double negative. Bleggalgazing. Anyone know a MOCO public school teacher? Deleuze, for those of you who do. I was never a MBV acolyte though I liked them well enough, so one mention of the new one. OK, two. Marxist propaganda. New Ken Stringfellow. Classical music's glass, half empty v half full: hear Gerhard's 2nd String Quartet below poem. Eels cascade.




                         
SMALL PRAYER

Weldon Kees

Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day

May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes.

Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,

That time may find its sound again, and cleanse

Whatever it is that a wound remembers

After the healing ends.