Tuesday, 01/16/2018

It's the same old theme

Many people die too soon.


January 16, 11:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hello! there’s a pregnant phrase.

It Is Later Than You Think:

Lone amid the café’s cheer, 
Sad of heart am I to-night; 
Dolefully I drink my beer, 
But no single line I write. 
There’s the wretched rent to pay, 
Yet I glower at pen and ink: 
Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray, 
It is later than you think! 

Robert W. Service.


January 16, 11:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't believe in an interventionist God

But I know, darling, that you do.


January 16, 12:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Monday, 01/15/2018

it will be interesting to see what steps the moon will take to be revenged

Staggerlee wonders:

I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists, 
are containing 
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning 
nobly restraining themselves, meanwhile,
from blowing up that earth
which they have already 
blasphemed into dung: 
the gentle, wide-eyed, cheerful
ladies, and their men,
nostalgic for the noble cause of Vietnam,
nostalgic for noble causes,
aching, nobly, to wade through the blood of savages—
Uncas shall never leave the reservation, 
except to purchase whisky at the State Liquor Store.
The Panama Canal shall remain forever locked: 
there is a way around every treaty.
We will turn the tides of the restless
the sun will rise, and set
on our hotel balconies as we see fit.
The natives will have nothing to complain about,
indeed, they will begin to be grateful,
will be better off than ever before. 
They will learn to defer gratification
and save up for things, like we do. 

James Baldwin.


January 15, 11:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Patron-Saint of nothing

And listen to the wind blow...


January 15, 2:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Researching Regressive Tendencies

To Those of You Alive in the Future:

who somehow have found a sip of water,
on this day in the past four syndicated
series involving communication with the dead
were televised and in this way we resembled
our own ghosts in a world made brief with flowers.
To you, our agonies and tizzies
must appear quaint as the stiff shoulders
of someone carrying buckets from a well
or the stung beekeeper gathering honey.
Why did we bother hurrying from A to B
when we’d get no further than D, if that?
On Monday, it sleeted in Pennsylvania
while someone’s mother was scoured further
from her own mind. A son-in-law smoked
in the parking lot, exhaling white curses
torn apart by the large invisible indifference.
The general anesthetic wore off
and someone else opened her eyes to the results.
In this way our world was broken and glued.
But why did we bother shooing away the flies?
Did we think we could work our way
inside a diamond if we ground more pigment
into the paper’s tooth, tried to hold fire
on our tongues, sucked at the sugars of each other?
Many the engagement rings in the pawnshop.
Many the empties piled at the curbs.
A couple paused on a bridge to watch
chunks of ice tugged by bickering currents.
One who slept late reached out
for one who wasn’t there. Breads, heavy
and sweet, were pulled from wide infernos
of stone ovens. My name was Dean Young,
I wrote it on a leaf. Sometimes
I could still manage to get lost,
there was no guidance system wired inside me yet.
Laughter might have come from a window
lit far into the night, others were dark
and always silent.

Dean Young.


January 15, 1:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, It Ain't Exactly "The Drive"

Haven't watched a lot of sports, let alone football, over the last 10 years or so. But with Hulu's beta live TV service, we've had a few games on of late.

No Dawg in the hunt this year, like every other season, but I enjoyed the Aints' 2nd-half comeback.  And I almost missed the big walkoff TD that got those hapless Purple People Eaters into the NFC champeenship, which was pretty fucking amazing.

And it was a joyful thing to watch the hated Stillers lose.  Someday I might enjoy supporting a winning team, but for now I'll settle for some Sunday schadenfreude.


January 15, 12:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sunday, 01/14/2018

Remember, my friend, future events such as these will affect you in the future.

Salon asks: How well do movies predict our tech future?

NTodd answered long ago: not very well.  But I absolutely can NOT wait until we finally land on the moon in the late 21st century...


January 14, 10:48 PM in Mars, Bitches! | Permalink | Comments (0)

I Shot A Man In Reno Just To Watch Him Die

It ain't got nothin to do with believin' in God...


January 14, 2:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lightning flashes across the sky

A Dead City:

Twilight ascends the abandoned ramps of noon
Within an ancient land, whose after-time
Unfathomably shadows its ruined prime.
Like rising mist the night increases soon
Round shattered palaces, ere yet the moon
On mute, unsentried walls and turrets climb,
And touch with pallor of sepulchral rime
The desert where a city's bones are strewn.

Clark Ashton Smith.


January 14, 2:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Saturday, 01/13/2018

Ode To William Herschel

Oberon and Titania watched by a harridan...


January 13, 12:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Thursday, 01/11/2018

And art thou nothing?

Constancy to an Ideal Object:

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain? 
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, 
The faery people of the future day— 
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.


January 11, 10:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When Men Were Men

A Harvey Weinstein production.


January 11, 12:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Wednesday, 01/10/2018

That's highly significant.

Somebody Trying:

‘That creep Tolstoy,’ she sobbed.
‘He. . . He. . . couldn’t even. . .’
Something about his brother dying.
The serfs’ punishments
have not ceased to suppurate on their backs.
Woodlots. People. Someone crying
under the yellow
autumn birchgrove drove him
wild: A new set of resolves:
When gambling, that almost obsolete fever,
or three days with the gypsies
sparked him into pure ego, he could,
just the same, write home, ‘Sell them.’
It’s true. ‘Still,’ (someone who loved her said,
cold and firm while she dissolved,
hypocrite, in self disgust, lectrice)
‘Still, he kept on. He wrote
all that he wrote; and seems to have understood
better than most of us:
to be human isn’t easy. It’s not
easy to be a serf or a master and learn
that art. It takes nerve. Bastard. Fink.
Yet the grief
trudging behind his funeral, he earned.’

Denise Levertov.


January 10, 11:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)