If I hear one more person compare Bush's lying about Iraq to Clinton's lying about a blowjob I am going to have an aneurism. I will not get into arguments with people who think that military aggresion and adultery are both matters of national security. I will repeat this ten times when I am tempted to get red in the face. That is all.
....


Projection

Laurie Anderson had a bad night.
Her bare arms gave the impression of cul-de-sacs in the dark.
The muscles grieved for total darkness.
Darkness, said Laurie, is the projection of the core
which although invisible is the goal of the electronic erection.
Laurie, I believe you met God face to face.
I met him face to face to face. Nobody knew who was addressing whom.
The people were turning to look at the blond in silk stockings,
the blond was turning to look at the nun with her head down.
Everyone thinks that in border situations like this
God looks at the one in black robes. But you, Laurie, know
that he looks at the one looking at the nun
and it's on her silk stockings that he sticks the "God's child" label...
God knows if he also pinches her as well.
But, that's their business. I look at my hands
attacked by love staphylococci.
I'm freezing in my folk-embroidered blouse
because she too was crazy about Indian blouses.
And he was crazy about Levi's
but may darkness swallow me up if I tell him that.
Sweet prohibition, keep Laurie's hands in good shape!
The contents of the bag are emptied into hot water
boiled for thirteen minutes and served with cream.
Then Laurie's aunt tells her Andersen's fairy tales.
Then Laurie's aunt dies
and the old maid is buried in a wedding gown.
Laurie interrupts the priest and sings to her aunt:
In the world beyond a husband is waiting for you, that's where you'll find your happiness.
You're a bitch, Laurie, and a big one at that!
But I know that you know how your palms itch when you're alone, when
the electricity goes off,
and the silence whirls in your stomach
I know that you know how hard it is
to dress in white after wearing black,
and have your arms not merge into the day
but be signs by the road
and to have nobody, Laurie, nobody travel
down your roads.

-- Lidija Dimkovska
Translated from the Macedonian by Ljubica Arsovska and Peggy Reid

where words ought to be



Old and lo-fi like we used to be:
or
I'm going to miss you more than I realize and I don't know what I've done
love you,
Enjolras

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD



Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing   

Memory and desire, stirring   

Dull roots with spring rain.   

Winter kept us warm, covering  Earth in forgetful snow, feeding   

A little life with dried tubers.   

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.   

Son of man,  

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,   

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),   

                Frisch weht der Wind   

                Der Heimat zu.   

                Mein Irisch Kind,   

                Wo weilest du?   

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither   

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.   

Od' und leer das Meer.   

  

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.   

If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,   

Unreal City,

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,   

'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,   

'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'   

  

Huge sea-wood fed with copper   

'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.   

And other withered stumps of time   

Were told upon the walls; staring forms 

Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.   

'My nerves are bad to-night. Speak.   

'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?   

'I never know what you are thinking. Where the dead men lost their bones.   

  

'What is that noise?'   

                      The wind under the door.   

                          The hot water at ten.   

And if it rains, a closed car at four.   

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.   

  

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME   

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME   

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME  

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME   

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME   

Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight.   

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.   

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.   

  

The wind   

Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.   

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.   

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,   

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.   

White bodies naked on the low damp ground   

And bones cast in a little low dry garret,   

Twit twit twit   

Jug jug jug jug jug jug   

Unreal City   

Under the brown fog of a winter noon   

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,   

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see   

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,   

The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights   

Out of the window perilously spread   

Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.   

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs   

Which still are unreproved, if undesired.   

Exploring hands encounter no defence;  

Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 

      The river sweats   

      With the turning tide   

      Red sails 

      The barges wash   

      Drifting logs   

            Weialala leia   

            Wallala leialala   

  

      Beating oars  

      Red and gold   

      Rippled both shores   

      Southwest wind   

      White towers   

'Trams and dusty trees.   

Under my feet. The broken fingernails of dirty hands.   

      la la   

  

Burning burning burning burning   

O Lord Thou pluckest  

  

burning   

  

IV. DEATH BY WATER





PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,   

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell   

Picked his bones in whispers. AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces   

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains   

Here is no water but only rock   

Rock and no water and the sandy road   

The road winding above among the mountains   

Which are mountains of rock without water   

If there were water we should stop and drink  

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand   

If there were only water amongst the rock   

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit   

                                 If there were water   

  And no rock   

  If there were rock   

  And also water   

  And water   

  A pool among the rock   

  If there were the sound of water only   

  Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop   

What is that sound high in the air   

What is the city over the mountains   

Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air   

Falling towers   

Vienna London  

A woman drew her long black hair out tight   

Dry bones can harm no one.   

Bringing rain   

  

Then spoke the thunder   

My friend, blood shaking my heart   

In our empty rooms   

Turn in the door once and turn once only   

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison   

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus   

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient   

To controlling hands   

  

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down   

  

Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow   

Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie   

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.   

  

            Shantih shantih shantih

T.S. via Word auto-summarize sounds exactly the way it feels reading up late jittery when the house is silent and the record has been playing the label for ten minutes when the skies open up out of nowhere when suddenly there is rain, monsoon rain and thunder rattling wasp's nests under eaves. this morning bleeding heavy a comforting weight I hoped for grey and stepped into sunlight prismed through mist. fluorescent refracted, coffee cup. meniscus.

(archive page for this week up finally merci beaucoup a blogger)

A Letter from George Sand

Nohant, the 12th of October, 1844

My Dear Henri,

Tonight the cold spreads its frosting
over the pastures. Down in the cellar,
the pears are turning
to honey. Maurice entertained us again this evening
with puppets he fashioned himself.
My beloved son has an extraordinary talent
for such creatures! It was a satire of the present
"Citizen-King" and the members of his tattered excuse
for a cabinet. If those men who bear
all the sashes and medals could but glimpse
what sour little puppets they have made of themselves!

Our era seems so dark to me, even
as we begin to make out the jagged range
in the far distance, half visible
by the light of a poppy moon.
What are people thinking
to accomplish by these stacks
and stacks of fear? Sometimes I wonder
if I might have been born in the wrong century,
if my soul was destined for some city
not yet founded, on a newer continent,
for a life two hundred years from now.

Casimir has been after me for gold again.
He sloshes it up as soon as he receives it. I just hope
he doesn't get the new maid pregnant
the way he did the last one. I thank my God that we live
halfway across France from one another.
He always appeared genuinely shocked
if I suggested there was anything beyond
burgundies and galloping after wild boar. So long
as Casimir leaves the children in my custody I will count
my blessings, although if Solange keeps unreeling
such tantrums, he may have her.

Chopin had another attack last Wednesday. Red
handkerchiefs like flags all over his bedroom. It seems to happen
whenever he's having difficulty on a piece,
as if it comes out as blood if it can't be squeezed
into music. He's as strong as a dry
leaf and I dare not add any shocks to those nerves,
made of prime numbers. He's improving now,
poor kitten, but there is no question
of our having any romance again
in the usual sense of the word. Merely to hear him
practice as I sit under the piano each evening
is an orgy! What an ending for me, the scarlet hussy
of the Latin Quarter, to be reduced
to the most matronly of nurses! I missed
my calling by becoming a scribbler,
I should have been an old saw-bones!

In any case, mon cher, you must not forget
to send me more of those ruby candies I adore,
the ones from the little shop across from the Louvre. I'm afraid
it's almost daybreak now and I still haven't finished
today's chapter in the novel I commenced
last week, so I must beg your pardon
for taking leave of you so soon. We are hungry
and thirsty for your visit at New Year's.

From my heart to yours,

George

-- Zack Rogow, 1996

{for some reason archives are not published for this week: click the link for this post to see 7/6 onward.}

educational outreach

lettres d'art

This is what Megan is really doing in Ireland.

Dear Anonymous: send me an email, that I might thank you properly.
You are a twit and I love you for it. Now I want you to put your hands down on the desk and do not move until I come back.

(It's not often a girl gets what she wants within a week.)
...
It's full of pop-ups, but Plagiarist is back up! In its absence I've been spending time at Bob Holeman's poetry section on About.com.
...
Why does the name Stella Harold sound so familiar?
...
In geek news: Nike bought Converse. I wonder if one can now get Chuck Taylors with sweatshop embroidered along the side.

On birthday list:

the American Traveler International Apology Shirt

------
"ma fille est une magicienne. je touche sa peau et, pfooutt!, tout disparaît. conclusion : la vérité n'est pas faite de mots."

What a nice boy.

"En amour et ailleurs,
Je peux mettre un cœur énorme à quelque chose et ne recueillir que de l’indifférence.
Je peux aussi allumer l’émotion par un mot anodin, un rien se transformant en tout.
Je peux courir après des chimères.
Je peux me faire rattraper par le destin.
Je peux ne rien comprendre à cette vie et donc prendre le parti d’en rire."
...

Mahler's 8th

Veni! it begins. Veni, Creator
Spiritus! Because it always seems to do
The job, I'm stingy with my talisman.
Romeo and Juliet will jump-start me
Most days. Mahler's 8th is for emergencies,
When nothing less than heaven's massed chorus
Will serve the purpose.

He went each summer
To the mountains, high as he could get, and wrote
A symphony. So I recall having read
And do believe. High altitudes have that effect.
Even the Poconos, so much lower than
The Alps, exert an influence, and I am
Feeling it. Again.

And again the wood thrush
That haunts my rented glade insists I am,
As he, the Spirit's willing slave. He sings,
Exactly as the Field Guide says, Ee-o-lay
(With occasional, distinctive, guttural notes)
And so much else besides, flutelike and
Rounder than other thrushes, and I awake
At four A.M. and can't go back to sleep
For the glory of it.

Why does the wood thrush
Sing such songs, while other birds still sleep?-
Unless it is he sings because there's music
In him. Not some territorial claim,
Not some dumb desire, but an instinct co-equal
With ours, and no less unaccountable,
To achieve beauty and inhabit it.

What that music may mean he knows no more
Than I or John Keats or John Keats' nightingale
Or Mahler on his mountaintop. We all
Are equal in our innocence. The dawn
Glimmers and we respond in kind.

It's six
P.M., and that amazing bird is still at it.


-- Thomas M. Disch

Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile — the Winds —
To a Heart in port —
Done with the Compass —
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden —
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor — Tonight —
In Thee!

-- Emily! goodness. The gods gave her five exclamation points and this was important.

Last night:
New brakes and the joy of having him hand ME the wrenches thankyouverymuch, it's only guidepins and a piston... Wandering while waiting for Thai food led to Bookstore (closed?) to windowshop but then a face at the door - Bill with cheap wine and cigarettes and classical music loud on the radio, my favourite surfer Marxist. Phil nicetomeetyou young and earnestly quiet convert. dad Relates; he & Bill go a-zeitgeisting and my two cents hit the bar. Joni & EH bought, addresses left, home with Thai food yesyes and curry to take home but only after we talk and talk with cats on the table. Dad and I on the couch reading Moveable Feast outloud - what do you mean you've never read this you love the man - best out loud. I lose my voice and he talks about Huxley and the LSD experience and generations and Home and women and men. Off to my own small-H home for long on phone, scary and mean but held and safe, Home.

It's a slow day at work and I'm craving Thai food. (or is that fast food?)



banality v.2.0

LAYER ONE:
-- Name: Rachel
-- Nickname/stagename: I don't want to be/Gypsy Rose Lee
-- Birth date: August 23rd, nineteen-hrmmphrmmph
-- Birthplace: Rochester, NY
-- Current Location: Tampa, FL
-- Eye Color: North Atlantic
-- Hair Color: Brown
-- Height: 5'1"
-- Righty or Lefty: Righty
LAYER TWO:
-- Your heritage: Swedish Lutherans, Irish Catholics, and Polish Jews
-- The shoes you wore today: Old comfy ones.
-- Your weakness: Religiopolitical discussions. Red curry & mango.
-- Your fears: Failure. Conflict. Southern Baptists. Incompetence.
-- Your perfect pizza: No pineapples! Pineapple belongs in curry.
-- Goal you'd like to achieve: Plan cohesion for the next six months.
LAYER THREE:
-- Your most overused phrase on AIM: ^ ^
-- Your thoughts first waking up: Sunlight?
-- Your bedtime: 12 a.m.-ish
-- Your most missed memory: Nauset on a cloudy afternoon
LAYER FOUR:
-- Pepsi or Coke: Jolt
-- McDonald's or Burger King: Eew
-- Single or group dates: Single or solo
-- Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Chai
-- Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate
-- Cappuccino or coffee: Coffeecoffeecoffee
LAYER FIVE:
-- Smoke: Sometimes
-- Cuss: Often
-- Sing: Alone
-- Take a shower every day: Gimme two
-- Have a crush: Ow, my toes!
-- Do you think you've been in love: Yes.
-- Want to go to college: Want as in how?
-- Like(d) high school: Couldn't pay me enough to do it again, but.. yeah.
-- Want to get married: Sure, let's go.
-- Believe in yourself: ::disappears in a puff of logic::
-- Get motion sickness: Nope
-- Think you're attractive: Of course.
-- Think you're a health freak: Rarely
-- Get along with your parent(s): Much better than I used to/getting there/yes, always
-- Like thunderstorms: As long as I don't have to sleep outside in them.
-- Play an instrument: Clarinet, kitchen-cabinet percussion, kazoo
LAYER SIX:
In the past month...
-- Drank alcohol: Yes
-- Smoked: No
-- Done a drug: Coffee?
-- Had Sex: Yes
-- Made Out: Sure
-- Gone on a date: Who wrote this thing?
-- Gone to the mall?: Had to - glasses place is there. Oof.
-- Eaten an entire box of Oreos: Eeeew.
-- Eaten sushi: No
-- Been on stage: Only for a second (Orpheum)
-- Been dumped: Nyet
-- Gone skating: Rollerblades are in car. must. go. soon.
-- Made homemade cookies: Should!
-- Gone skinnydipping: No
-- Dyed your hair: No
-- Stolen anything: Temporarily.
LAYER SEVEN:
Ever...
-- Played a game that required removal of clothing: Yes
-- If so, was it mixed company: Yes
-- Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Yes
-- Been caught "doing something": Yes
-- Been called a tease: Recently
-- Gotten beaten up: Depends on definition & can I have liked it?
[Peter: Did I hurt you?
Lee: (dejected) No.]
-- Shoplifted: No
-- Changed who you were to fit in: Er, don't we always?
LAYER EIGHT:
-- Age you hope to be married: 85. He will be 21 and marry me for my money.
-- Numbers and Names of Children: Hush.
-- Describe your Dream Wedding: Five minutes with a JP in St. Augustine. No-one else present.
-- How do you want to die: Asleep and quite old.
-- Where you want to go to college: Whenever I get back, I'd love to go to Emerson.
-- What do you want to be when you grow up: Happy. An editor. Writing. Close to people I love.
-- What country would you most like to visit: Japan. All of Europe. The rest of the US.
LAYER NINE:
In a guy/girl... [These are silly and I don't care.]
-- Best eye color? ...
-- Best hair color? ...
-- Short or long hair: ...
-- Height: ...
-- Best weight: ...
-- Best articles of clothing: ...
-- Best first date location: ...
-- Best first kiss location: ...
LAYER TEN:
-- # of drugs taken illegally: Many
-- # of people I could trust with my life: Five or six
-- # of CDs that I own: Not as many as I'd like
-- # of piercings: 3
-- # of tattoos: 0
-- # of scars on my body: Many
-- # of things in my past that I regret: Heavier than I am but less than the Feather - so far.

Everything was being mixed up, and all was falling. I knew my affair with Lucille wouldn't last much longer. She wanted me to be her way. She was married to a longshoreman who treated her badly. I was willing to marry her and take her baby daughter and all if she divorced her husband; but there wasn't even enough money to get a divorce and the whole thing was hopeless, besides which Lucille would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

-- Jack, from OTR

heavy in love

the blind space of low clouds
the breeze that moves them
over my forehead/third eye
the moon that hangs
half and orange

your letter sits on my bed
rode all the way
tide-twisted from china
heavy in love

your words spring toward
my dreaming dreary brain
i suspend your picture
hand's length from my heart
remind me to recycle
change my underwear
and take in my bicycle
for all of its energies
life's lazy in love

the in and out is active
your letter sticks
to never be resurrected
my hands are glue
the sink is the fan
my hands are glue
lazy in love

-- bitch & animal

Song lyrics. My oh my, aren't we full of surprises? Content, content. Where to lean heavy on that accent. Where you from? J'étais vraiment un prince! J'étais le roi de la nuit! Vraiment.

Poured a cup of coffee so I could ignore it; paper and ink amid spreadsheets and month-end reports (late). I'm still in bed with the curtains drawn shut.


To the Tide

Say that the lull is just that
and nothing more, that we need
not be fearful, that the sand
will still keep our footprints.

Say that all laws insist
on regeneration, an ebbing
following engulfment,
a symbiotic sort of destruction.

Say that nature is a fiend
in its harsh mimicry
of man, in its contentment,
its green, overripe satiety.

Say that the sky knows no end.

Say that it is boundless as
a child imagines its tiny life to be.

Say that Galileo was right.

Say that the trees only appear
to be blocking the way.

-- kris t. kahn

Re-reading. I told you as much while you slept, light seeping in through early morning. I love you.