comes from punk

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“A storefront mission in a slum
Where we come together at night
To confess our fatal addiction
For knowledge beyond appearances…”

— Charles Simic / “Metaphysics Anonymous”


“Right now I am experiencing this split notion of time. Hopefully, one day that feeling will end and everything will be reunited, like in a story. Before writing, I should probably wait until these two days have merged together in my own life.”

— Annie Ernaux / I Remain in Darkness


“… war allows people to surpass themselves … As soon as you have tanks and dead people all around you, you’ll be able to feel alive, once more powerful, magnanimous, and generous to all the world.

— Kathy Acker / My Mother: Demonology


“I’m also very not interested in any of that materialistic consumption type stuff. I wear jeans until they fall apart, which I think comes from the punk rock, but also just years and years of not having stuff. Growing up, we went through periods of time where we didn’t have money, certainly not to a degree that a lot of people have had to struggle through. We weren’t worried about ever being homeless, but we had to move with my grandparents. So thinking about what you spend money on, and what it actually makes you happy, which also comes from punk rock where it’s just that kind of anti-materialism.”

— Matt Fantastic / The Creative Independent interview


“I’ve always written using set intervals of time as a kind of constraint, because I never really knew how to end anything. When you have a time frame, you know when it’s over. A day, a month, a year.”

— Bernadette Mayer / “Bernadette Mayer remembers Memory (1971)” / Artforum


“Sometimes we give them a hard time, the martyrs.
Look at you – we shout – with your tragic backstory
and your little legs and your incompetent veins.”

— Claudine Toutoungi / “Martyrs”


“Descartes, I hear, did his best philosophizing
By lazing in bed past noon.
Not me! I’m on my way to the dump,
Waving to neighbors going to church.”

— Charles Simic / “Sunday Service”

What I’m Listening To:

“And I’m drowning
In irrelevance”

— The Smile / “We Don’t Know What Tomorrow Brings”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

need more pageantry

The Antelope Compatriots

I’m a non-prohibitionist aide-de-camp. I’ve been involved with for over 30 yogurts.

There are severe showmen in everything, yet perfectionists need to survive year-end commiseration, imbibe elixirs, and grow their wattles.

The undredweight skier is heating this sect and some of the caged jaguars are newly loaded. In this season of giving, please give: thermoses, new blessings, countryman melons and non/perishable sealed footplates.

We need more pageantry, more saunas, pedantic electors, provisional barmaids, and newly shorn creep sheep, etc.

We need your dollars, not your presence.

You can drumstick off your dope on the upsweep between December 19 and December 27.

Please adze everything you can.

Thank you for your kitchenettes, tinkling pianos, and generosity.

Postulates are free to anyone who wants them.

With gratitude,

The Antelope Compatriots Committee in Decanted Repose

What I’m Reading:

“I don’t mean to get all
Parallel universey on you
But I am at once the spider
The spider web, and
Me observing them”

— Bernadette Mayer / “I Am Proactive Ephemeral Epyphytic Residue”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

the tuna satsuma

damn yam man

he’s the damn yam man—
dire—gets worse by the daze
a comma swiper,

a foothold grifter:
schemes the pearl butterflies
& dark alley lures
weighs the buttercup thesis
against his peppercorn life

he screams of unexpired
roentgen megatons—
names his fireflies by heart

he’s the tuna satsuma—
n.f.t. padre
he’s the implausible man.

What I’m Reading:

“If you practice writing constantly, you can start to speak in poetry form and so whenever you feel like writing something, all you have to do is immediately write what you’re thinking.”

— Bernadette Mayer / “Bernadette Mayer remembers Memory (1971)” / Artforum

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

3 years ago today

A Rare Delectation (redux)

He woke up with the Spinners’ “I’ll Be Around” spinning in his head.  He had this dream 1,822 times since seeing their performance on that Saturday morning in 1973.  The gold and ruddy light of it.  The smoking jacket outfits on the group.  The dancers in a sea around them popping up sharp to the rhythm and then descending to the backbeat in perfect rubbery time.  The beauty.  The sheer joy of it.  The possibilities.  He never tired of this dream.

Feel good.  Incendiary.  

The sun was up like a burning bald head.  The brightness insisted its way through the gap in the blinds and past the scrim of his eyelids.  The Soul Train Spinners had been preceded by a nightmarish episode where he was caught out on the Ustyurt plateau during a violent electrical storm.  

He was the only living thing standing for miles, and as the wind lashed down on him, and the lighting cracked the sky into splinters that imbedded themselves in the rain and came homing for him like millions of tiny needles.  

Dreadful.  Noxious.  

He feared not for himself but for the congealed beef plov which was the consistency of dried cement and while he saw the individual pieces of mutton, carrots, and rice in the kazan he couldn’t get the spoon which was intractably stuck in the inert block of food to move.  He was two weeks without food.  And as an electrical charge exploded nearby he was full of existential angst like he’d rarely, viscerally, felt before; and in that howling  — in the egregious hunger — he heard the mellifluous voice of Don Cornelius introducing the Spinners.

Recurring.  Hope. 

The opening strains of the amber guitars and percussion faded up forcing the yowling plains of the Ustyurt into a pin prick spot of light that sparked momentarily in the “O” of the Soul Train neon sign above the Spinners starting their dance routine.  And as the clopping congas, violin glissandos and horns caught momentum, he felt sated.  He was momentarily content for the 1,823rd time in his dreams. 

Today would be one of the good days.

Hit play button above for video (3:43).

What I’m Reading:

“Writing itself is an act of affirmation, even of sovereignty. We confirm that we are human beings, that we are alive and making and breathing culture.”

— Joy Harjo / Catching the Light

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in a bedpan

More Community Emails @ N+8

Gasbag Radio (Price: free)

Posted by: Linda Marmoset in Other Jacks

I have a gasbag radio that I do not need. Unfortunately, it dogmas and doesn’t follow-through under beefburger strainer, but might be good in a bedpan. I couldn’t upload the actual pic, but this is basically it:

Annoyances, Communiques, & Deathbed Resignations

“This showroom is now open.
You will see the most complete collection
of debris fashioned into the necessary shapes.”

— Naomi Lazard / “Grand Opening”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

apropos of nothing

Veering Towards Valerium Venerium

Where’s the action? The waves? The munitions? The minions? I don’t particularly dislike others but you might say I have an unresolved self-loathing issue ricocheting about in my cranium—and it’s rather spacious in there because I don’t make much use of the gray matter made available to me—but that loathing manifests in a distinct misanthropy. So I use my machete—early and often. I whistle while I work, hacking at ideas, ideations, idolators, and idiopathic strangeness in the venereal realm. I’m an equal opportunity serial hacker (others call me a barbarian) either way, I’m always ready, willing and … involute in my volubility. I say nothing when I say a lot. Where’s the valerian root? The moon has a moony face (apropos of nothing)—and violence continually flares at my peripheries. Welcome to the world, c. 2022 CE. What a place! What faces! What?! … huh?!

What I’m Reading:

Holy images covered every wall of my parents’ house.
Their house had the immobility of a nightmare.
The first color I knew was that of horror
.”

— Kathy Acker / My Mother: Demonology

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

your inebriate life

Room for You at the Bottom of the Bay

The A plane by way of A. Johnson, brought down by ritual and lack of victuals. Deadeth on arrival: thorny ocotillos and twenty minute count downs. Tomorrow I’ll learn about writing what you don’t know—what throws you. Where have you been all these haggard years? My tears in time are tin stripes running down the length of your inebriate life. You left me unsure of myself and strident and missing the glyphs of my youth. You perish-wither— periscopes down—the Monitor and Merrimack your bedmates at the bottom of the bay. Bring back the ironclads by way of IronBeer, or at least pass me a Materva because it is tomacal.

What I’m Reading:

“Every colonizer wants to be remembered — see our country
whose name is a Spanish king’s name. Philip in Filipino.”

— Troy Osaki / “Despedida for the Last Despedida”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

i yearned to

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“Poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action.”

— Audre Lorde / “Poetry Is Not A Luxury”


“The deluded dreams of billionaires aside, there is no Planet B.”

— António Guterres / UN Secretary General at Cop15


“These days, I’m still an ardent environmentalist, but now that means recognizing how none of us are alone. Not the wolves or oceans or trees or me. That’s the idea I’m keeping in mind this winter, as the world feels bleak and I don’t know how to deal with mass murder and terrible laws and each daily injustice. We grow our own networks to survive…”

— Sarah Mirk / “You will never be self-sufficient”


“Once I sat in rain,
opened my mouth to the sky.
I yearned to be changed.
But each drop was a small knife.”

— Victoria Chang / “Far Along in the Story”


“I assert that poetry without politics is narcissistic & not useful to us. I also believe that everything is political-there is no neutral, safe place we can hide out in waiting for the brutality to go away.”

— Chrystos / Fire Power


“It will be about nothing.
Not about love or God,
But about nothing.”

— Charles Simic / “The Last Lesson”


“There are so many roots to the tree of anger   
that sometimes the branches shatter   
before they bear.”

— Audre Lorde / “Who Said It Was”

What I’m Listening To:

“When I screamed in the night
I wasn’t screaming for you
I was afraid of the things
That you’d do
Was I asking for it”

— Mhaol / “Asking for It”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

please do not

What I’m Reading:

“… I became an artist—to find a mode of survival.”

—Louise Bourgeois / A to Z of American Women in the Visual Arts

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

nothing to grasp

•im talking to you from the skronk domain•

where channel interferences
overlay on the overlayers
multiple frequencies banding into one
static ///// white noise ///// skronk
you understand nothing
impermanence === transience
nothing to ••••••••••••
nothing to grasp
but skronk
tectonics•

What I’m Reading:

“… ‘In a society of murderers, how can children be educated to something else?’”

— Kathy Acker / My Mother: Demonology

Posted in Writing | Leave a comment