the ’74 blues

Old Resentment Roe

Venn diagrammer,
Pusher of flea-bitten particulars,
Play me the warped Uzbek blues.

Trip pacifier,
Draw me a Cossack
Hat I can burn embers in
Out on the steppe.

Bring me the blues
On a white table cloth,
Pass me a caviar spoonful
Of that old resentment roe.

Hammer and plumb,
Sing the ‘74 blues,
Bring a Peckinpah frame
And bring me, please,
Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia.

That movie don’t play
Until ten after four.

“It is said that some artists abuse their need for coffee, alcohol, or opium. I do not really believe that, and if it sometimes amuses them to create under the influence of substances other than their own intoxicating thoughts, I doubt they kept up such lubrications or showed them off. The work of the imagination is exciting enough…”

— George Sand / Story of My Life: The Autobiography of George Sand

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hmpf!

“An Era of Emergencies is bearing down on us. We must now consider, for example, how to organize the last industrial extractions of oil, fresh water, natural gas, timber, metallic ores, and fish in order to ensure our own survival; and we must consider, of course, what comes after that. We must reckon with the Sixth Extinction, which will remove, for example, many of our pollinators and one day, probably, many of us. We must invent overnight, figuratively speaking, another kind of civilization, one more cognizant of limits, less greedy, more compassionate, less bigoted, more inclusive, less exploitive.”

— Barry Lopez / American Geography, Introduction

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yes (redux)

Yes…

You are alive.

That’s something.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver / “A Summer Day”

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doomscroll done take

Doomscroll Blues

Doomscroll done take my baby away

Gotta check the cnn
Gotta check the nbc
Gotta check the nyt
Gotta check the washpost
Gotta check the bosglobe
Gotta check the miaherald
Gotta check the npr
Gotta check the abc
Gotta check the cbs
Gotta check the msnbc
Gotta check the dailybeast
Gotta check the politico
Gotta check the huffpost
Gotta check the axios
Gotta check the vox
Gotta check the cbc
Gotta check the bbc
Gotta check the guardian
Gotta check the reuters
Gotta check the motherjones
Gotta check the vice
Gotta check the intercept
Gotta check the propublica
Gotta check the democracynow

Doomscroll done take my baby away

Gotta check the other side

Gotta check the fox
Gotta check the nyp
Gotta check the dailymail
Gotta check the newsmax
Gotta check the oann
Gotta check the breitbart

Doomscroll done take my baby away

Gotta check my head now
Gotta get a grip on my head

Gotta check on my baby
(My baby done left me, my baby done left me)

Doomscroll done take my baby away
Doomscroll done take my baby away
Doomscroll done take my baby away

“You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you up with ourselves.”

—George Orwell / 1984

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rankled raffish pincers

Three Dreams on a Somnolent Afternoon

I.

I went under last summer. I was tedious. I was trite. Summer raged. I withstood, until I couldn’t anymore. Lids often closed as I approached. Blinders blinked. It was forever the moment after the storm. Summer claimed closure. I sang bereft of benevolence. I stood alone. Summer anchored itself in wafts of my being. I sang contrite. I whispered sinecures to hourly priests. I rankled raffish pincers downtown. Summer melted with ease. I bobbled adrift. I fished for fifteen words. I wasted my time. Then six words found me, and I stopped fishing. Summer was no more.

II.

The last wastrel in an open sky. The voices echo down from above — well, if they’re echoing down isn’t the “from above” assumed? Ok, but the editor is supposed to stay out of the way for a while. I dreamt that I was in Gala’s kitchen asking her about the water for the rice. She was making rice and beans, but just as easy as it was Gala it was Olga too. “How does this top come off?” I said. “It’s an incredibly elaborate way of camouflaging a pot — the water goes where? How do I take this apart?” The rice had been soaking for hours. I put it back in the pot but it felt soft, and it was broken open like the rice in chicken and rice soup, and so I put the rice back in the pot, which I managed to open — “god damn over-elaborate thing.” And I wondered what I was doing there dreaming of Gala, which could be Olga.

III.

There’s hemming and hawing and there’s scritching and scratching, and that’s what’s happening upstairs at this moment. The scritching and scratching of renovations being done so the folks upstairs can move out. Their place has gone without renovations for forty years (“I don’t need no mule, Jack!”) So on and on it goes with the scritching and scratching, the sawing and drilling, the hammering and jammering… and at some point the water in this stack is going to be turned off when renovating time comes for the ancient bathroom — above where I sit at this moment — it’ll need to be replumbed and reapportioned. Oh, baby, take me to the bayou and drop me on thee anthill heap. Take out your washboard and tambourines. Start with that polyrhythmic scitchety-scratch cause that’s the only type I enjoy. Take me away, spirit!

“BONO: Some people build fences to keep people out … and some other people build fences to keep people in…”

— August Wilson / Fences

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on a floe

last winter haiku

god left us alone
bodies sharp as icicles
adrift on a floe

“Knowledge is impossible. We are precisely nowhere, sinking on an entirely imaginary ice floe, into entirely imaginary seas themselves adrift. Then we reel out love’s long line alone toward a God less lovable than a grasshead, who treats us less well than we treat our lawns.”

— Annie Dillard / Holy the Firm

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his destiny manifest

Short Entitled Fuse

… and in another precinct someone latches on to the idea of redemption — but in this rainy neighborhood, and specifically in this newly repointed brick building, a man (we’ll never learn his name) has confessed to his wife that he was seeing her estranged sister. It was he (nameless, but archetypal) who was most responsible for the estrangement — via streams of innuendo, and then the punctiliousness of his criticism.

It doesn’t matter that it’ll stop raining soon or that the savory smell of pot roast wafts up from the apartment below — no. Peace will be broken at 9:37 tonight, when they revisit the same recriminations for the third time. Her name we know. Rachel.

His short entitled fuse results in two shots to her head; and after ten minutes of considering his impulsiveness, he’ll call Rachel’s sister and blame her for what has befallen them.

As the rain tapers off and the L rumbles out of Wrigleyville station, precisely at 10 p.m., he’ll mutter, “there, there’s your white male privilege,” while squeezing his crotch, certain that his god given inalienable right is intact.

He plans his road trip west, well-armed, in the glow of his destiny manifest.

“One of the indigestible facts of this country is that most of its terrorism and nearly all its mass shootings are committed by mostly conservative-leaning white men, conservative here meaning those most earnestly committed to their white supremacist-misogynist identity politics, from the unending terrorism of the Klan and other racist groups and the anti-abortion murders of the 1990s to the present-day mayhem. Indigestible because those in power cannot quite bring themselves to call this problem what it is and treat it as it deserves.”

— Rebecca Solnit / “When the President of Mediocrity Incites an Insurrection White Identity Politics is Out of Control”

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pyramid of being (redux)

Parenthetically

A god lost in her bathroom finds a door…
(to the outside? No)
She finds the door to the next life.
She burns: “get back, get back to that nebula!”

 

Not The Steerage Type

Steerage is so queer.  The smells of others assault my tender sensibilities.  Why can’t they recognize the class of person that I am?  My hope is to make them all see how I belong at the top of the pyramid of being.  This may be steerage, but really I am not the least bit the steerage type.  Oh, you may spot me in the Stieglitz picture in the future and say to yourself — well, surely that’s the captain or some other important crew member out of uniform who happened to walk into the frame, but no, rest assured it is me — my qualities obvious to the naked eye.  See me and know you are not looking at a steerage personage it is me transubstantiated through time showing you the qualities of a truly refined man…

“Blogging is very satisfying to me — even more satisfying, in many ways, than having a book in a bookstore or a page in a newspaper. If I have an idea or an image I want to riff on, I sit down for half an hour or an hour, and then I publish it where anyone can see it. Instant self-publishing. Instant gratification.”

— Austin Kleon / AustinKleon.com

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got pumpkin voodoo

the heebie jeebies

this is about a poet who writes bird poems —
without birds appearing in the poems

mouth breathers and thirteen year old prostitutes often appear crying

artillery shots echo in the blue distance

the poet is a sketch artist of sorts
defining a lust for love in a criminal world

the spindle kids appear
congratulations — you made it past the needles and pokes

you’re in the fabric of gutter poets
enmeshed for eternity

she’s got pumpkin voodoo on the kitchen cabinets

the word piles are dense and are never really in focus

actually this poem is about a baksheesh for a back rub… huh?

see i’ve got this knot on my latissimus dorsi — the heebie jeebies, know what i mean?

and she’s says:

So I’m going to get Tropicana juice with my father last night at 2 am at some all night grocery store on Biscayne and 79th street, and I’m thinking back about the Hustler magazine I riffled through earlier yesterday morning. I found it between the mattress and box spring, you know? And I see this photo spread and think why do people send in photographs of their turds? The magazine has a contest to find the largest turd in America and people from all over the country send in pictures of super long spiraling turds in their toilets. And I think about the technicians at Walgreen’s — what are they thinking when gathering the photos into the sleeves when a half dozen turd shots are at the end of the stack. Do they show other people at the store? What kind of person mails this to a magazine? What kind of magazine wants this?

i mumble-mouth my way out
i got nothing to say

“I don’t know how to write. I know how I write. And then the next day, I don’t know again. The not knowing is what makes writing interesting and enjoyable to me.”

— Ottessa Moshfegh / “How to Shit”

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jack-faced and jocular

Pill-age

Jack-faced and jocular you meant to rob your parents because you needed a shot in the arm.

You’d already ransacked your grandmother’s apartment for her pain meds — her doctor wondering how one person could tolerate so many pills: “you’re taking them too fast, these should last you for three months — it’s been a month and a half! Do you have a grandson?”

He knew, but she dismissed it and you took advantage and pilfered her “pill-age,” and now you’re out.

You’re stealing from your mother and you’re enroute with her $40 in your pocket, and her heirloom engagement ring wrapped inside the wad of two $10 bills and four $5’s — and the pawn shop beckons you — strangely numinous like a shot of gold at the end of the block.

“There’s something wonderful about the spontaneity of social media, but I think at this point it’s becoming 100% toxic for people to be firing off the top of their brains… the deeper parts of our brain are actually more empathic. If you revise something 20 times, for a mysterious reason, it becomes more social, empathic and compassionate.”

— George Saunders / The Guardian, 2 January 2021

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