Saturday, June 7, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Shanghai Bridge incident
Old news, but posted for a friend: The Shanghai Bridge incident from 2007.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sports fans, fornicators, and pot smokers...
Someone has made of list of people who are going to hell. I only assume it is not all-inclusive.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Kos reconsiders caucuses
One thing I like about Kos is that he's willing to reconsider his biases when his biases conflict with hard reality. Case in point.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dispatch
I often think of troubadours (cf.
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
Thursday, May 15, 2008
North Florida, 1998
When I return
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Bestiality
“Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
aroundabout
It was not a poem,
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
Monday, May 5, 2008
“Naked,”
Naked,
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
Fear of nihilism
Another data point: fear of nihilism is a potent motivator of conservative religious and political beliefs.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Stop telling me where to live!
Atrios:
For some reason I'll never stop being surprised by the number of people who read a post which says something like "maybe it'd be a bit better if suburban developments didn't have a single access point" or "maybe it'd be a bit better if people could actually walk to the shopping center which is half a mile away but on the other side of the highway" and interpret it as "ATRIOS IS TELLING ME I HAVE TO LIVE IN MANHATTAN!!!/snark
Thursday, May 1, 2008
“At some point,”
At some point,
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
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