Friday, 07/21/2017

Horatio Hatchblower

Gus really wasn't squirmy, but the long-term ironies of his 1st spaceflight did "in the final analysis" prevent him from evaluating "the moon in terms understandable to other men" like Neil did.


July 21, 11:59 PM in Mars, Bitches! | Permalink | Comments (0)

wrecks passed without sound of bells

At Melville’s Tomb:

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive 
No farther tides ... High in the azure steeps 
Monody shall not wake the mariner. 
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

Hart Crane.


July 21, 11:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Wednesday, 07/19/2017

No Man Is An Island In The Stream

Right, Dolly?


July 19, 1:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I swear, for the poet, the cost of these words runs into money

A Talk with a Tax Collector:

Citizen tax collector!
                                        Excuse me for disturbing you.
Thank you...
                        don't bother...
                                                    I'll stand...
I have here
                    a business
                                        of a delicate nature:
about the place
                            of the poet
                                                in the workers society...

Vladimir Mayakovsky.


July 19, 12:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Tuesday, 07/18/2017

Don't Know What Date It Is, And I Feel Fine

Godspeed and happy birthday, John Glenn, whatever day it is.  Bloody time zones...


July 18, 1:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Give no flowers to a state that outlaws truth

Flowers & Bullets:

When, thin and open as the pulse
    of conscience,
you put a flower in a rifle's mouth
    and said,
"Flowers are better than bullets,"
was pure hope speaking.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko.


July 18, 12:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Monday, 07/17/2017

And I Still Call Her 'Buzz' In My Mind

How do I know it's almost Sadie's birfday?  Today was 11's launch.  (CBS fascists have disabled embedding, so NASA's HD is on tap, but click the link for Cronkite and crew.)


July 17, 2:11 AM in Mars, Bitches! | Permalink | Comments (0)

So, About Those Sammiches

Another Insane Devotion:

This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich                   
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped 
on my arm and half hung on to the food and half 
hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart 
and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him 
down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat 
with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted 
his bony head and felt him shiver. I have 
told this story over and over; some things 
root in the mind; his boldness, of course, was frightening 
and unexpected—his stubbornness—though hunger 
drove him mad. It was the breaking of boundaries, 
the sudden invasion, but not only that it was 
the sharing of food and the sharing of space; he didn't 
run into an alley or into a cellar, 
he sat beside me, eating, and I didn't run 
into a trattoria, say, shaking, 
with food on my lips and blood on my cheek, sobbing...

Gerald Stern.


July 17, 1:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Earl Of Shit Sandwiches

While I've not blogged it, I am certainly amused by David Brook's love of fancy sandwiches at Applebee's.  Which brings me to this bowl from the poetic salad bar:

It’s November 1969 and Ms. Smith is trying to buy a cheese sandwich at the Horn & Hardart Automat on West 23rd Street in Manhattan. When she finds herself a dime short, Ginsberg approaches her and asks if he can help. He offers her the extra 10 cents and also treats her to a cup of coffee. The two are talking about Walt Whitman when Ginsberg suddenly leans forward and asks if she’s a girl.

“Is that a problem?” she asks.

He laughs and says: “I’m sorry. I took you for a very pretty boy.”

“Well, does this mean I return the sandwich?”

“No, enjoy it. It was my mistake.”

Late nite poetry blogging shortly...


July 17, 12:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Saturday, 07/15/2017




July 15, 1:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Extraction of the Stone of Madness

Rock, Scissors, Paper:

Three seasons of drought,
and the county’s for sale.
Loudspeakers coyote—yodel loss.
Numbers echo in the auctioneer’s gobble,
doppler off barns until the property is numbers,
numbers, numbers. Each farm fills
with the dollars it takes.

And the sky, overreaching, is a turquoise blue
that hums like a Tibetan prayer bowl.
The sky yawns and yawns and yawns.
Heat lightning drills a darkening horizon,
three fingers opening the sky
like a trepanned skull.

Skyler Lovelace.


July 15, 12:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)