2016 July 13

2016 July 11

2016 June 27

2016 June 22

2016 June 18

2016 June 17

2016 June 11

2016 June 5

2016 June 3

2016 May 31

2016 May 30

2016 May 28

2016 May 25

2016 May 24

[The accuracy to detail]

[Bills come due. Watches]

[New tablets = disaster]

Se(lf)psis

[Knowt]

[Not only a new tablet but a new format]

[Kirk bet the Triskelions]

Kirk bet the Triskelions
his boat of breeding gladiators
v the emancipation of the Triskelions' thralls
!+! living conditions improved
to a standard we in Bethesda
consider sumptuous
for our gardeners in Glenmont.
And Kirk won! The Triskelions
honored terms! Kirk left.
No news of the thralls.

[It wasn't cancer]

[I have learned to nap...]

Shutting Up: [My First Excellent]

My first "excellent"
from Bookkeeper: Student Guards
fucked up. I write

Head of Student Guards:
DANGER: CIVILIZATION'S
ORDER JEOPARDIZED!

stated POLICY!
I used the word adamant.
Bookkeeper approved.

[I have a mole on the top right side...]

I've a mole on the top right back side of my head, I can't see it in the mirror.
I took a photo of it three months ago, it looked an old bald white man's brown skin blotch.
I knew if it got gruesome Earthgirl would let me know.
A dermatologist fingers my scalp next week.
I am never going to die nor suffer more than moderate colds.
Those moments of health crises have been the most peaceful of my life.
Bald middle-aged Balkan-Americans get warts you Mayflower descendants can't imagine.
I could take a photo of the mole now but I never will look at it again.

Shutting Up: [Bookkeeper out sick]

Bookkeeper out sick
Friday felt a festival.
Bookkeeper's patron

particularly
delighted in Bookkeeper's
GONE! I said nothing.

Shutting Up: Day 10

My silence has worked:
I've been pulled from committees,
my obsolescence

times my indifference.
I cannot manipulate
damn in one silo

but not another
in obligatory life:
I am who I play.

Shutting Up: Day Seven

Fuckity, shut up.
My opinions are not sought
beyond evidence

of growing dissent,
Nay! insubordination!
They're counting on me.

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