My First Flowstate Post, Accidental English Yellow

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Shutting Up: Day Two

Shutting Up: Day Two:
No one noticed I'd shut up.
Bookkeepers archive

emails like crime scene
evidence against future
coups, not what you say.

Emails have tripled
since Bookkeeper's ascension.
I grudge my keystrokes. 

Why?

It seems I need to.

Saturday past found Katie's dog tag - Katie of the Cardboard Box, Best Dog Ever - while searching - bored, pissed at snowed in - for something else. That too.

I've a photo of Katie and two year old Planet on another hard drive. Alsotootooalso. Tomorrow, here, or.

Actually, Planet's one or so give or take a month in the photo. She's home tomorrow.

Shutting Up: Day One

Shutting Up: Day One:
Neighborhood streets still unplowed,
no one was at work

but me. Tomorrow,
needed talk then shutting up.
Departments toggle,

freeze-dry staff lounges,
lunches eaten secretly,
mute's osmosis words

-weather, helmetball
team, how bout that weird weather? -
fuck me. This shut up

before they make me?
Result: Day Two: Shutting Up:
No one will notice.


---

3rd line, 4th stanza = embalm changed to fuck me.
1st line, 3rd stanza =  freeze-dried changed to freeze-dry moved to front of line
2nd line, 2nd stanza = talk as needed then shut up changed to needed talk then shutting up.
Colon added to title.

I Still Like Mannix, Lazlo Schiffrin

Comcast - excuse me, XFINITY -
Cable 261:
Heroes & Icons
300 PM - 5 PM
Sunday January 24 2016
back to back Mannix.
Neither episode
I watched
an August 2 o'clock
eighteen years ago
convincing
myself
the chestthwunk and tingly chin
are not an episode.
I still like Mannix, Lalo Schifrin.

lj;kfj;kladf;klj

8

(When I'm anxious I'm anxious I'm anxious)

When I'm anxious I'm anxious I'm anxious
when I'm not anxious I'm anxious I'm not
I keep my work email open on weekends
I pay wifi fees overseas and keep DC time
It's been five minutes since I checked my statcounter
I'm reading a novel, it's brilliant,
but a main conceit is the 500 page sentence propped by faulty semi-colons:
I'm anxious I'm over-penalizing costume at dialogue's cost

[A Blogfriend Tweetd]

A blogfriend tweetd:
his personal favorite blogpost?
a post minus close-reading sausage.
All he writes is close-reading sausage.
He makes better close-reading sausage than I could if I did.
I haven't made close-reading sausage since proctors demanded.
What I make is disqualified: I don't make close-reading sausage.
I just tweeted: Your Overlords have granted you
exceptional one day savings, you need eat cat food
if you fuck up Giftmas today. No response.
He may be better than me at not-sausage too.

[Caught Myself Writing]

Caught myself writing
clear and concise and schtickless
sentences about work

as a creative
exercise, not, I tell me,
for publication.

Nothing demands pens'
tablets', counting to sevens'
return than writing

voluntarily
and for recreational
purposes re: work.

Clear, concise, schtickless
sentences, I am paid for
clear, concise, schtickless

sentences. I think
I can write better poetry
(excuse me the eight)

transliterating
workese into stanzas? Boss
talk into static?

Maybe. Tale to snail.
Rhyme cannot be far behind,
may never get here.

The Candidate for AUL for RICD

The candidate
for Associate
University
Librarian
for Research,
Instruction, &
Collection
Development,
has such a pig nose,
dramatic
autistic
twitches,
no one listens to
her
insightfully
concise
presentation
on consortia,
the sticky minuses
but ultimate pluses,
their
long-term
positive
budgetary
impacts.
The woman
on my right
sneaks glances
at my tablet
as I write this poem.
She's
wondering
if I'm writing:
the candidate
has a pig nose
& dramatic
autistic
twitches
because the candidate does, look.
The woman on my right
stares
at the candidate's
pig nose
& dramatic
autistic
twitches,
cocks her eyebrow
at the tablet
and smiles at me.
She will advocate
against this
candidate,
making claims
the presentation
she didn't hear
was absolutely
inadequate.

Started November 1, 2014 Through November 4, 2014, an Unabandoned Poem (Though I'll Not Date the Entries)

My tongue never runs out of ink.
My ideas have run out of tablet.

I knock on doors
knowing no one's home
I walk by houses
with porch lights on.

[The Committee]

The Committee
to End
Committees can't

make Saturday's
meeting
with Committee

to End Meetings.
Suggest
rescheduling

keeping in mind
the new
agenda can't

suggest ending
meetings
or committees.

[I Think I Will Be]

I think I will be
fired tomorrow. Wire's
Agfers of Kodeck.

My daughter and I
agreed on humanity's
clusterfuckedness

over fresh walleye
in Delaware Ohio
to Earthgirl's horror,

clusterfuckedness,
not fresh walleye. XTC's
One of the Millions.

I won't be fired
tomorrow. My boss insists
she will nominate

my competent ass
for staff recognition
despite my protests.

My daughter and I
agreed on humanity's
clusterfuckedness

to Earthgirl's horror
in Delaware Ohio
over fresh deep-fried

walleye, and my world
chimed in time like a hand-pulled
church's bell at three

in the morning, like
a last song in a sequence,
like The Morning Fog.

[I Thought a Poem Title: The Nowherer]

I thought a poem title: The Nowherer
Who Was Everywhere but Not Anywhere,
The Everywherer Who was Anywhere but Not Nowhere, 
The Nowherer Who Was Anywhere but Not Everywhere,
The Everywherer Who Was Nowhere but Never Anywhere, 
The Anywherer  Who Was Everywhere and Nowhere without Me
but Can Never Be Anywhere, Everywhere, Even Nowhere with Me,
then didn't need write the poem.

What I Am Thinking While Being Berated By a Grad Student Outraged There Is a Block on His Record for Willfully Not Returning a Recalled Book, and All Analogous Situations

Kill me. Sharpen
plastic Diet
Pepsi bottle
caps, octopus
sucker to hands
and fingers, slap
me - face, arms, throat -
cumulative
death by trickles,
minutes, hours,
semesters, years.

How We Picnicked in Pine Forests, in Coves with the Water Always Seeping Up, and Left Our Trash, Sperm, and Excrement Everywhere, Smeared on the Landscape, to Make of Us What We Could

• I am the bullets: On Gaza.
• And then the Alien turned towards Zanna: On Gaza.
• Am I going to die tonight, Daddy?
• Dehumanization? Here's today's monologue: of course dehumanization is the project, but the project isn't the dehumanization of the other. That shit's already been done. 
• And it's working. The hate seething through me now scares the fuck out of me. My lizard brain is far too easily stimulated. 
• Ladies and Gentleman, the wit and wisdom of Fuckface Hiatt, who I daydream of braining with a shovel over and over and over and...
• The rule of lizards.
• The grey light of morning: As real as the political subtext was, it’s a mistake to see the myth of progress purely as a matter of propaganda. During the heyday of industrialism, that myth was devoutly believed by a great many people, at all points along the social spectrum, many of whom saw it as the best chance they had for positive change. Faith in progress was a social fact of vast importance, one that shaped the lives of individuals, communities, and nations. The hope of upward mobility that inspired the poor to tolerate the often grueling conditions of their lives, the dream of better living through technology that kept the middle classes laboring at the treadmill, the visions of human destiny that channeled creative minds into the service of  existing institutions—these were real and powerful forces in their day, and drew on high hopes and noble ideals as well as less exalted motives.
• America.
• the wearing-out of language.
• Motherfucking gunfucks fuck with Sugarloaf.
• Food links.
• Vollmann in his studio.
• Drummage.
• Bosh reminded me of Leatherface last night.

STREET MUSICIANS

John Ashbery

One died, and the soul was wrenched out   

Of the other in life, who, walking the streets   

Wrapped in an identity like a coat, sees on and on   

The same corners, volumetrics, shadows   

Under trees. Farther than anyone was ever   

Called, through increasingly suburban airs   

And ways, with autumn falling over everything:   

The plush leaves the chattels in barrels   

Of an obscure family being evicted

Into the way it was, and is. The other beached   

Glimpses of what the other was up to:

Revelations at last. So they grew to hate and forget each other.

So I cradle this average violin that knows   

Only forgotten showtunes, but argues

The possibility of free declamation anchored

To a dull refrain, the year turning over on itself   

In November, with the spaces among the days   

More literal, the meat more visible on the bone.   

Our question of a place of origin hangs

Like smoke: how we picnicked in pine forests,

In coves with the water always seeping up, and left   

Our trash, sperm and excrement everywhere, smeared   

On the landscape, to make of us what we could.

surpassing things we've known before passing on its effect

       There had been other troubles, with a chief called Big Head wounded while on a friendly visit to Fort Kearny. The Cheyenne felt especial put upon, for by their lights they had always been amiable to white men. Even after all these bad things, they sent a delegation to see the Government Indian agent and apologized. They also returned a woman they had captured. but you see the complication was this: Indians wasn't ever organized. Them that come in to apologize wasn't the same as what killed the whites. And them that the soldiers usually punished was never the ones who had committed the outrages. The white people on who the Indians took revenge had no connection with the soldiers.
     It was pretty early on that I come to realize that most serious situations in life, or my life anyway, were like that time I rubbed out the Crow: he spared me because I was white, and I killed him because I was Cheyenne. There wasn't nothing else either of us could have done, and it would have been ridiculous except it was mortal.

Thomas Berger, Little Big Man

Yesterday two blogfriends discussed Berger on Twooter, I didn't stop to think why, adding to the conversation that when I read Little Big Man when I was nineteen it was KABOOM! Today I discovered why he might have been being discussed: he died this past July 13th.

It has been years since I read Berger. I liked the Reinhart Tetrology, especially when read against Updike's Rabbit Tetrology for comparison and contrast in style, tone, themes, I liked his second historical novel, Arthur Rex, I liked some of his genre-examining novels like Who Is Teddy Villanova and Nowhere, but all failed when measured against Little Big Man. I didn't know it when I read it, but it engaged many of the concerns I encountered in Theory in grad school, especially but not limited to its examination of passing: see the excerpt above. I am about to find out if it's KABOOM! still.

• If you want one and I like you I can send you a copy.
• A friend of mine recommended Silver Apples to me. I vaguely remember the name, it sounds familiar (I think it was on the soundtrack for the Needwood Summer ePod 1979 - ask Elric), but I'd never have been able to put the sound to the name.
• Have mercy, do you have a heart?
• Osama bin Laden in the Wall Street Journal.
• The Terror War's disastrous course.
• I heard from Arthur Silber yesterday, he can really use your help, please consider throwing him the coins in your pocket.
• The true cost of a burger.
• I daydream I am.
• Thirty "essential" Emo songs? Jawbox was emo?

[constant change figures]

Lyn Hejinian

constant change figures

the time we sense

passing on its effect

surpassing things we've known before

since memory

of many things is called

experience

but what of what

we call nature's picture

surpassing things we call

since memory

we call nature's picture

surpassing things we've known before

constant change figures

experience

passing on its effect

but what of what

constant change figures

since memory

of many things is called

the time we sense

called nature's picture

but what of what

in the time we sense

surpassing things we've known before

passing on its effect

is experience

[I Daydream I Am]

I daydream I am
who I didn't when I could.

Backpacker,
digital mute,

knows different thistles
medicinal properties,

tells time
by fists and sun.

Finishes novels.
Dinners with family.

Unpublished
self-published

poet, not too
high a credit

score
not me.

and every finger is a toe

That's my left big toe - it looks worse than it feels unless I kick a wall with it. Was crossing a creek on Saturday's hike, slipped on a wet rock, jammed the toe against a second. I'd rather take off my shoe and kick a wall with that toe than clusterfuck today. Friday my swag package for donating to WFMU last Winter arrived, I asked for nothing but music, thirteen discs in all. Each is prepared by one of the DJs just to be Marathon swag (and many DJ discs - from both current and former DJs - are still available, it's fun to pick). I'll post a song from each, most below the fold, and in no particular order other than how they were shuffled when I took them out of the mailing package. This is from Jeffrey Davidson's CD, Small Wonder:

• Alright, one clusterfuck link. Kicks wall with shoeless toe.
• Everyone has the issue that jabs him or her to blind rage at his or her powerlessness before the motherfuckers of the world, mine is....
• Killing us while we're sleeping. Kicks wall with shoeless toe.
• Repetition and death in the colony. Kicks wall with shoeless toe.
• Copyrighting cartography with fictional places.
• Sweet Dreams Maisy versus Global Warning's Terrifying New Math.
• Chel$ki and Special One to reunite with Drogba. Lordy, I hope Chel$ki smoke Premiership, clinch by March. Yes, me.
• Malevich.
• Silliman's always generous litlinks.
• New Lisa Robertson book of poetry this September!
• Throwaway almost genius bullshit!
• Tuxedomoon.
• The song below the poem is from Dan Bodah's Head Cleaner for Supportive Listeners, this song immediately below from Irwin's 2014 disc.

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

E.E. Cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood

or truth can live with right and wrong

or molehills are from mountains made

—long enough and just so long

will being pay the rent of seem

and genius please the talentgang

and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow

or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair

and every finger is a toe

and any courage is a fear

—long enough and just so long

will the impure think all things pure

and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind

and robins never welcome spring

nor flatfolk prove their world is round

nor dingsters die at break of dong

and common’s rare and millstones float

—long enough and just so long

tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice

down shall go which and up come who

breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

—time is a tree(this life one leaf)

but love is the sky and i am for you

just so long and long enough

• This from Evan Funk Davies' Starting with the 70s vol.3:

• Bryce, whose Friday show is my favorite three hours of radio each week (have I mentioned this?) hasn't done a disc since 2009, I picked it up. It is of course sleeveless and of course the tracks can't be identified by the CD reader, so I've gone back to his 2009 playlists and picked something I especially like.

• More from Bodah, whose Airborne Event Monday evening is what my Tuesday morning sounds like, this from his 2011 The Hissing of Chrome Snakes disc:

 



 

• From Faye's What's the Point of Being Good? disc:

  



 

• From Mary Wing's The Ladies of the Year disc

 

• From Thomas Storck's Love Is a Launderette, taken from UK cassettes 1979 - 1985. It's not the Dogma Cats' song he picked, but it's the one I found and what suffices for my religion requires I post it:

 

• From Stan's Destination Saturn:

• From Fabio's Enlightenment Through Failure:

 

• From Bethany Ryker's Locomotion:

• From Dave Mandl's Hippies:

• Oh, new Wire Tapper came in mail same day, because I love you, even those of you who didn't click below the fold, but especially for the three of you who did, thanks. Wait, I couldn't find anything on youtube, these are all too new. Have an older Hiorthey:

Ink-Black, but Moving Independently Across the Black and White Parquet of Print, the Ant Cancels the Author Out

High Holy Day in Egoslavia. Diana Rigg, first, still best crush ever, is 76 today. The Avengers, the Honor Blackman/Katherine Gale years in b/w, the Diana Rigg/Emma Peel years, but especially the first Emma year, in b/w, first, best crush ever. Two years ago I was able to post some episodes, last year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked them. Last year I was able to post the black & white opening theme song, this year some motherfuckers claimed rights and blocked that, here, have the vastly inferior color opening to the second Emma Peel season (which, fine metaphors abounding, was vastly inferior - though still better than almost everything else then, since, forever - to the first season in black and white):







That doesn't give me the toe-curling waves of nostalgic pleasure like the black & white opening still does. I haven't mentioned this here in a while: I remember seeing the Flintstones in color, the first time I'd see a color TV, I was five? six? I don't remember whose house, a relative's presumably, I know it was in western Pennsylvania, but I am convinced that seminal event, followed by a decade of TV repeats after school, home when sick or faking sick, color then B/W then B/W then color then less and less B/W as the old shows fell out of syndication, and especially the shows in syndication like Avengers and Get Smart and Bewitched whose first years were in B/W then toggled to color, influence, for good and bad, how I apprehend and interpret the world still.

Yes, I post a version of that paragraph every year on July 20. Here's the only black & white scene I can find:







Hey, then there's this email:

Hello,
Congratulations!
Your Google Apps domain name, blckdgrd.com, was successfully renewed with enom for one year. You can now continue using Google Apps through July 18, 2015 and your account will soon be charged for the purchase.
Please do not reply to this email; replies are not monitored.

Sincerely, The Google Apps Team

I'll believe it if this shitty blog is still here the morning of the 26th.

• Marmoud Darwish: Under Siege.
• Quotable: On Resistance.
• The bitter fruits of bellicose policy.
• Money as class dictatorship.
• Thomas Frank finally has his obamapostasy. Well, not really, but he tries.
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Knausgaard, for those of you who do: on critical hype and book sales. For the record, I gave Book One a hundred pages and it didn't work for me. I'll take 9/10ths blame and reserve 1/10th for Knausgaard: the piece linked to does reveal that James Wood likes Knausgaard, so there's a chance it's not me.
• Thought Experiment: Mary in the Black and White Room.
• Oh, yesterday's hike? Not nearly as scenic as the guidebook suggested, I enjoyed myself for the workout, the other three? Not so much.
• All praise to Seattle Sounders.
• Summer hiatus: posted not only because it's a bleggalgaze but because of the photo: last night, on way home from my parents, we stopped at the Food Lion in Walnut Hill to buy half-and-half for the coffee I'm currently drinking, said Food Lion once and originally a Grand Union. People can vouch for the stop, Landru (yes, I put his name in a sentence next to a Kate Bush song) can vouch in was a Grand Union.

FABLE OF THE ANT AND THE WORD

Mary Barnard

Ink-black, but moving independently   

across the black and white parquet of print,   

the ant cancels the author out. The page,   

translated to itself, bears hair-like legs   

disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber.

These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning,   

destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence   

laying waste all languages, until, thinly,   

the fictional dialogue begins again:   

the page goes on telling another story.