Sunday, November 30, 2008

I used to set aside time for reading.  Now it's something I do in spare moments.  The non-spare moments are filled with watching TV and fucking around on the internet.  I don't even have a real job to use as an excuse for not reading.
The window was somewhat fogged, so it stood to reason that banks would be open, at least for some time.  Then we could go to town, discover our true natures, things like that.  But then it grew dark and sped up until all was worn down to a nub, a rather gratuitous one I might add, if I thought it would help.  Lofty goals approached and saddled the loose morals of our mortal foes.  To spend any amount of time in Dayton is asking for it.  Like when you said everything would be alright in Georgia, even when it wasn't.  The rain was helping to upend the worst luck imaginable.  We were worried the car wouldn't start.  Several of us became agitated to the point of extinction.  Grand gestures were the norm then, and portals opened without coaxing, wrinkles appeared under certain elders' eyes.  To cream when creaming was unfashionable, I say it got out of hand, the mistress said so.  It was she who told the rest of us where to stand.  I couldn't stand it any other way, any longer and we'd have been toads.  It was coming to that when bacon arrived.  The postal service limped into limbo not knowing where to kowtow.  I'd seek them where they last were known to lie: under the hedge across from the park, in the other park.  That's where you'll make your mark.  Those trees will never see it coming, and then you'll be free of attacking back without provocation, as no judge will concede to you the just officiousness with which terrible acting combined with supernatural breeding takes place.  I can only hope you have some kind of insurance.  It won't cover this, but at least you'll have been prepared to the best of your ability.  It was in this spirit that immortalization of human body parts would require too much to be found on any ship, let alone the one now making stops along the hostile shore.  Great, I'll take two crates.  And she'll have two as well, make up for the discrepancy between your cash and her wallet, all of this occurring despite reassurances to the contrary that nothing would happen, it's okay, it's totally safe.  That one I'd like to hear again, with feeling, or without feeling, hunting.  Bunting is okay, but you all are great lobster-eating at the real dive, and it couldn't have happened without you, the lot of you gets a check signed to the amount in question, that is namely, 119 thousand dollars.  Mostly, I let people shake hands with my fat lady song as the wind dies down, morning somewhere, I guess, and what can be made of it.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

I'm happy to announce that there now is fucking water in my fucking apartment.  A big thanks to all of you who sent e-mails, telegrams, singing telegrams, and flower bouquets with little notes attached, expressing your concern and sympathy.

Friday, November 28, 2008

I just urinated into an empty La Choy® Chow Mein noodles can

because there is NO FUCKING WATER IN MY FUCKING APARTMENT.
A line I remember: it's helpless to remember trying, useless etc.  I have no more to try today, looking always, looking fast for poles in the ground, placed there by geometry, polished wool.  Say to me about polished wool what lying down you could never admit, that there were times during the day when wading became obtuse, nervous folks left to their own devices, Samsung I think they were used to.  Because I fly to Greenland, I swim to RadioShack, it's where I got my harm on.  It's a way of positioning oneself to receive the business end of a well-placed try.  And sequestered I ran into the forest, I think, there it was all ready and waiting for me, tonight I lie in bed and split into two or more gnomes pushing tikes on trikes.  Clueless, topless, it's the way to be.  Do you know where to pray?  It's down here in the beltway, over the star sign I gave you a good idea of, until the bed weighed heavily, down the stairs and out into the blood-drained doings of the us I've been speaking of, the well-washed parts of the play and parceled-out packages he sends.  I've had it up to here with a splash, and then we waited for the semi-pro.  

Sunday, November 23, 2008

We will wade in the shine of the ever






















Saw this documentary about the Pixies, loudQUIETloud, the other day.  The more I learn, the more I love.

I own only two Pixies albums.  I've only read maybe 60% of the collected works of Kenneth Koch, my favorite poet.  I'm still not finished with Ariana Reines's Coeur de Lion, one of the best books I've read all year, and which I started in, like, March.

Do you see what's going on here?  Delayed gratification.  But not intentional!  It just works out this way.  I don't want good things to end.  I always want there to be more.  I don't want there to be a point where I've read every Kenneth Koch poem there is to read.  I don't want to "wear out" the Pixies the way I wore out the Beatles.

The only downside to drawing things out like this is the fear that I'll get run over by a bus tomorrow without having completed the things I really do, after all, want to complete.

One Pixies song, though not a Pixies song exactly—it comes from the David Lynch movie Eraserhead and has been covered by numerous artists—that I've only recently become acquainted with is "In Heaven".  Even though it's a cover, it definitely suits them.  The most haunting and bittersweet thing I've heard in quite some time.  Worth the wait.  Have you "lived" until you've heard Black Francis scream "In heaven, everything is fine" in a shriek so bloodcurdling as to send you in search of a clean pair of underwear?  Perhaps, perhaps not.

But back to that documentary.  Proof beyond all doubt that the Pixies are the least pretentious rock band of all time.  The sheer ordinariness of these people is astounding, considering the (black) magic they conjure onstage.  

The movie is about the 2004 reunion tour.  At the first rehearsal, they have to listen to their own albums on an iPod to remember how their songs go.  They look as if they're listening to someone else's music.  As if they themselves are a Pixies cover band trying to learn the songs.  They seem oddly detached from their music throughout the movie.

Except when performing, when everything clicks into place.  It's so funny to see them all nervous before the first show of the tour, wondering if people still like them, wondering if they're going to screw up.  

And then blowing the fucking roof off the fucking dump.

Someone forgot to tell them that they're gods.  They never got that memo.

Irritation station

I don't know why I keep reading the Harriet blog.  Must be because I'm all out of sharp objects to poke my eyes with.  Here's a little nugget of irritation from their latest post, by Cathy Park Hong:
Lavinia [Greenlaw] asked if the election will inspire more political poetry. I hope so. But I would think that the war, deregulation of corporations, Katrina, the pillaging of the environment, Abu Ghraib, and other corrosive abuses of power within the last eight years would be plenty reason to spur political poetry but has it? At the top of my head, I can think of a few poets whose latest collections have held a tuning fork to the world: Juliana Spahr, Ed Roberson, Claudia Rankine, Rodrigo Toscano, Barbara Jane Reyes, Dennis Nurkse, Matthea Harvey, and Aracelis Girmay. I’m sure there are many others who I’m forgetting…
Guilt-trip much?  Nothing against the poets she mentions, but if writing topical poetry is the only way to "hold a tuning fork to the world", I think I'll find a new hobby.

I think that Keith Olbermann, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are about eight million times more useful as political tuning forks than any poetry you can possibly think of.

Bigger than Jeebus

Even in forgiving him, they still get it wrong:
"The remark by John Lennon, which triggered deep indignation mainly in the United States, after many years sounds only like a 'boast' by a young working-class Englishman faced with unexpected success, after growing up in the legend of Elvis and rock and roll," Vatican daily Osservatore Romano said.
It wasn't a boast.  John was lamenting his fans' mixed-up priorities.  He didn't want to be more popular than Jesus.

Found

on subway platform, 110th uptown 1 station:

One (1) LifeStyles brand ultra sensitive lubricated latex condom.  Gray package, near mint condition.  Lot #0801041322.  Expiration 12/2012.  If it belongs to you, email me with your address and I'll send it right along.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Alger Hiss, your grandma, and Bank of America...a common link?

Okay, that title was just to get your attention if you clicked here from a blogroll or reader or something.  What this post is really about is a list of books I've started reading recently.  Pretty boring, right?  Hence the bait.

These are eight of my most recent pickups, descending chronologically (most recent first is what I mean by that).

1) Rise Up — Matthew Rohrer.  I've read the first few poems.

2) Indiana, Indiana — Laird Hunt.  Beautiful, beautiful.  I'm on page 49.

3) The Case — Laura Moriarty.  I wish it were more arty.  That was mean.  Sorry.  I'm giving it the benefit of the (proof beyond a reasonable) doubt, believe me.  The very substantial doubt.  I'm more than halfway through.

4) What I Know So Far — Gordon Lish.  One of those guys I've heard about but never read.  I've read the first few stories and don't feel like giving it up yet, at least.

5) The Transformation — Juliana Spahr.  Whoa boy.  (You wonder, don't you: is that a positive or negative "whoa boy"?  Hmm...)

6) A Thousand Devils — K. Silem Mohammad.  Fun to read.  Kind of funny.  I plan to finish it.

7) The Hotel New Hampshire — John Irving.  I'm like 5% into it.  I can tell I'm going to like it probably.  Very portable.

8) Zazie in the Metro — Raymond Queneau.  Makes me want to write fiction.


Only three of those are poetry books.  Three are novels.  One is short stories.  One is "other".

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Thursday, November 20, 2008

Issue 2

is HERE.

Featuring my narcissistic ass.

No matter how much I try to relax and be a

receptive reader, I can't seem to over-
come my aversion to poems that
become skinny and
end with one
word.

Seriously. I know it's my problem, but there it is. Some of my favorite poets do it. Everyone does it every once in a while. I've been able to shake a lot of my poetry hangups over the few years I've been reading it, but that's just one I can't seem to let go of. What do I do about it?

Someone complaining

about narcissism in poetry said this: "I especially like being excoriated because I know that I have hit a nerve which means people are thinking."

Doesn't that sound like something a narcissist would say?

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

I hate

it when something turns out to be exactly what you thought it was. I was seeing these ads on TV for Equus, a play starring Harry Potter. I'd heard of it before, but I didn't know what it was about. The ads, of course, in that predictably annoying style of ads for Broadway plays, don't say anything about what it's about. Judging from the ominous tone of the ad, and from the title, I formed an idea in my mind of what the play was about, an idea which if I had put into words might have gone something like "Equus is a play about a young man who has a pathological religious/sexual fascination with horses." So imagine my disappointment when I looked it up on Wikipedia and found that Equus is a play about "a young man who has a pathological religious/sexual fascination with horses."

In closing, anyone wanna see Harry Potter's johnson with me? Too bad, cuz I've got better things to waste my money on than a probably-overrated-certainly-overpriced Broadway show. (What other kind of Broadway show is there? you ask. You have a point, I reply.)

Monday, November 17, 2008

This morning I waking-dreamt that a bill becomes law when two army generals take a shower together.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

A round of applesauce. Really fandom-related, they. Did never become look out when I wasn't? Spelling is of course a hard-line position, whatever. You say I'm a bastard full of lecherous impulses, but what am I to bring to the potluck if not charming Q&A airs? Let me be the first to admit that what you're accusing me of is blatant geography. Am the second time around, I? Like no, but better because yes. Did something neutral or an expression of doubt pulled taut like whoa. Couldn't keep a secret, could you get that for me, could you place another brain upon the rung? Talking is like forming likes and dislikes without pausing to consult the experts, whoever they are or seem to be. Uh, yeah. And then some. Yeah, what do you want, cheese? That can be arranged actually; I know a guy.

Just because it's the high school gym doesn't mean it's also a helping of loaf. Rest comes as leftover pie over lies. Over and yes could have been true, lately sedimentary, loping along, your brat. Too late, but that's not neat, has a lot to agree on before taking care or holding down a j-o-b for more than a week. Leaflets arrive, announcements on them, also God is a tractor. All tractors belong to freebie sterling, hordes of them arguing all night about legs and locks. I always keep the box. That way I can premeditate to my heart's content, form, and meter. It's like I never even have to get up in the morning, it's all there, laid out for me in the dew-dappled drainpipe. Bubbles surmise me, trucks go by. And that, mirror breaks me, the tub fronts. Visually, years portend. Tricky maneuvering allows dust under the belts blowing up dirt bombs, scattershot vocation.
In the end, driving was really the only thing keeping us awake, not only because it relaxed us but then you can't tell what was going on.  Morbidity spiked that first week, I only held seven in my hand.  Straps will bring four lives into focus as onlookers become stripped of zones, pebbles of lifting shreds turned upright, sort of anyway.  Please be ready to accept what some see as an inevitability, close to death, daydreams, that sort of luck and bold crows.  I bit down on the flu.  Nothing ever came close to prescribing.  From what we'll poke to froth doomed apart to all, said goal reached and paid.  Create another like it, forge your own signature before the crooked pedestrians come to take the reins, come to say nothing more than fish or mortar, less like ponds.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Practically everything we know about the South comes from firsthand accounts brought to us by locals.  The right time for following people around is past, but not only do you get a free pass, the free pass gets a free pass, which may be sent along to the police unless intercepted by a third party.  Told you it wasn't going to be easy.  But, as always, you didn't listen.  Looks like we'll have to fend for ourselves out among the aging groupies assembled before the lodge.  As always, I liked what I say.  It came to me that way, as out of a dream I heard about from some guy I knew and always liked.  Yeah, that guy (forget his name) was instrumental.  I was just mental.  It was all mental, not dental.  But some of it was dental.  And some of it was parental.  There they were, the prince and the duke lying in the mud with strawberries stuffed in their mouths.  Stayed that way for, I don't know, a million years, like.  The last place you'd want to be found, Nashville was nothing more than a pipe dream.  A better memory might have served me well, oh well.  Yes, I can never seem to grasp the enormity of whatever's happening right in front of me, the players all seem dead out there.  Who can blame them?  Does anyone care?  It looks like the better part of a season is in the books.  Like the time I washed up for no reason, although it was never determined why that was.  Probably it would take another few years before we would get back to normal, but until then it would only be a few hours until the deadline we'd set for ourselves, notwithstanding greater expectations from the outside world.  Farmers, for example, were up in arms.  None of them wanted to record with me, so I had to fire them, and they revolted.  Serves me right.  Nowadays I cower unapologetically behind a large boulder I had installed on my front lawn.  I mean, sometimes you can see inside it, all the way down to the subbasement level, so that a passerby may be confused by the sight, losing himself before he has a chance to recover any damages that might have occurred due to negligence, theft, or other practically legal means.  And, honestly, I can't stress to you enough the importance of shaving all the way down to the skin, but if you don't want to listen, don't feel obligated.  Nevertheless, all are welcome.  Wipe your feet.  Did you say hello to the hair stylist or did that not supersede more pressing concerns.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

You do feel reckless undergoing these transcriptions.  Don't you.  They're nothing to worry about.  Every word is pronounced phonetically, like this, ahh.  Now you're getting it.  Time?  Yes, let's.  On to the lesser arachnids, their young and old.  Some animals.  I mean, SOME animals.  Society of Moray Eels.  I'm told we're not aloud, nor are we allowed.  But hey, that isn't my concern.  Who'd like to join me in fulgurating?  The glaring oversights soon to be committed by our loved ones are almost an excuse for worshipping at the altar of interstate commerce.  I know you've heard it before, but that doesn't stop you from balking at the notion that everything you've ever learned about animal husbandry was handed down by people who really shouldn't have been entrusted with your education to begin with.  One of them is named Rob, and another is calm to the point of absurdity.  One is too cool for words, another is a wed mother, an innkeeper, a bat breeder and a wig maker.

Do DJ's know how to speak English?

"Hope your morning is well."

Monday, November 10, 2008

Plow through

"I'm like, OK, God, if there is an open door for me somewhere, this is what I always pray, I'm like, don't let me miss the open door," Palin said in an interview with Fox News on Monday. "And if there is an open door in '12 or four years later, and if it is something that is going to be good for my family, for my state, for my nation, an opportunity for me, then I'll plow through that door."

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Something my roommates like to do is urinate all over the toilet seat.  I really really really really don't enjoy living with males.
When I hear people say "hegemony", I want to say "Gesundheit!"

Thursday, November 6, 2008

From the best political blog I know of, Glenn Greenwald's:

With their newly minted control over the White House and Congress, Democrats can easily provide a vital (if not complete) antidote to Proposition 8: repeal of the so-called "Defense of Marriage Act".

Barack Obama has, on numerous occasions, emphatically expressed his support for repealing DOMA. When he ran for the U.S. Senate in 2004, he wrote a letter to Chicago's Windy City Times, calling DOMA "abhorrent" and its repeal "essential," and vowing: "I opposed DOMA in 1996. It should be repealed and I will vote for its repeal on the Senate floor." But he went on to cite what he called the "the realities of modern politics" in order to proclaim (accurately) that DOMA's repeal at that time -- 2004 -- was "unlikely with Mr. Bush in the White House and Republicans in control of both chambers of Congress." After Tuesday, that excuse is no longer availing.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Life's too short for blogs of snobs. (Another one bites the dust.)
I would do grad school if there were any way I could do it that doesn't involve work, responsibility, grades, or any form of accountability.  If anyone knows of a way I might be able to do that, let me know.

On a related note, does anyone know how much trouble a person can get into by sneaking into a college lecture for which they are not enrolled?  Can they send you to jail?

While I'm at it (asking questions), what does it mean when you use your ATM card to buy something and the machine or cashier asks if you want "cash back"?  I always say/click no, just cuz I don't want to embarrass myself by asking the clerk what it is.  It seems to be one of those things everyone is supposed to know, but no one ever told me.  There are a lot of these.  Most involve money.  I still don't know what a mortgage is either.  Something to do with houses, but beyond that, I don't have a clue.  O people of the regular world, who told you about all this stuff, and why didn't they or you tell me?  Well, now's your chance.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

People say

"I don't like either of my two choices."

Um, maybe if you weren't expecting absolute perfection, you wouldn't have that problem, mkay?























I turned Inland Empire into a two-hour movie tonight.  Started at 12:10, ended at 2:10.