I get weak
I get weary
I miss sleep
I get moody


Rennie Ellis, Night People, 1975

My Cheap Lifestyle
-- by Eileen Myles

After a bourbon
I came in and turned on the tube
lit a joint and watched Monterey Pop
nearly wept when Janis came on
Janis' legs kicking on stage is a memorable site
Janis does her sweet little Texas girl smile as
her act finishes. she kicks her heals
and otis redding is so sexy
millions of young americans experience religion for the first time
in their lives
or so the cameras would inform us
I'm concerned about manipulation in this media
how one gains such wonderful power
but of course I'm too tired
thrilled by the process of bringing down a familar blanket
upon my bed
it's nearly fall
nearly winter
I expect the stars will be bright
the woods full of bears


We Evolve
-- By Charles Bukowski

at first it seems like fucking is the big thing,
then after that -- social consciousness,
then intellectual accomplishment,
and then after that
some fall into religion
others into the arts.
after that begins the gathering of money
and after the gathering of money
the stage where we pretend that
money doesn't matter.
then it's health and hobbies,
travel, and finally just sitting around
thinking vaguely of vague things,
rooting in gardens
hating flies, noise, bad weather, snails,
rudeness, the unexpected, new neighbors,
old friends, drunks, smoking, fucking,
singing, dancing, upstarts,
the postman and weeds.
it gives one the fidgets: waiting on
death.


Duende
-- by Jack Gilbert

I can't remember her name.
It's not as though I've been in bed
with that many women.
The truth is I can't even remember
her face. I kind of know how strong
her thighs were, and her beauty.
But what I won't forget
is the way she tore open
the barbecued chicken with her hands,
and wiped the grease on her breasts.



--- Silver Jews' People a quintessential example of america. Do the old directions still direct???

Welcome back to solid ground my friend
I heard all your controls were jammed
Well it's just nice to have you back again


Stephanie Brooks, Politeness Strategy #5

* On pitchers and catchers: the most important relationship in baseball. excerpt:

The call was for a fastball away. Bob Tewksbury shook it off. He looked in at the new catcher, who had recently signed with the Cardinals, and waited for the new sign. The call came for a fastball in. Tewksbury shook. For a curveball. He shook. For a slider. He shook. For a changeup. He shook. For a fastball in, again. He shook.

“So,’’ as Tewksbury said, “he put down his middle finger.’’

The starter stepped off the mound, laughing. The spring training crowd hadn’t seen the gesture, and didn’t care. All they saw was the result — the fastball away that Tewksbury wanted Rich Gedman to call again.
...
If they had the option, which they rarely do, most pitchers would select a particular catcher. Tewksbury can list the ones he’s worked with, whether he liked them, whether they clicked.

Todd Zeile, with whom he had a 2.86 ERA in 26 games, clicked. Ivan Rodriguez, with whom he had a 4.99 ERA in 18 games, didn’t.

“Pudge would throw everybody out and he certainly was a good hitter, but I didn’t like throwing to him because we were never on the same page and he had no interest in going over scouting reports,’’ Tewksbury said. “I really felt like it was kind of lip service for him at a pregame meeting to go over things, and I put a lot of stock into that.’’

Tewksbury was so frustrated with Rodriguez that he began wiping his glove on his thigh or chest to change pitches so he could stay on rhythm. He made the adjustment, compensated for the parts of their relationship that didn’t work.

Still, there wasn’t comfort, or trust. And that is the ultimate goal.

* Porn as non-narrative performance art. "Dirty Diaries: 12 Shorts of Swedish Feminist Porn"

* In DC? Vote for your favorites in Hot 99.5s Hotties.

* "I never fall apart, because I never fall together." -- Andy Warhol

shine out in the wild kindness


Lucas Samaras, untitled work for Allan Kaprow, 2006

Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey
-- by Hayden Carruth

Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren't we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don't say a word,
don't tell a soul, they wouldn't
understand, they couldn't, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.


On Gifts For Grace
-- by Bernadette Mayer

I saw a great teapot
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem—
Its being is the same as the meaning of your name


Unusual Figures
-- by Barbara Guest

A person stands in the doorway. Someone
else goes to greet him.
They establish a calendar of meetings,
apricot color.
Once they arrived together
in a cab
of electricity,
cool heat, desert air.
The author attaches herself
to those figures
peculiar to her asking.
They are needed by the pageant of creativity!
The usual height and
dots of activeness.
Is it from the basket shrub?
Lightness of feet,
circle of grey, of green overlap.
What language
do they speak?

s there justice?
Is there something which resembles pleasure?


Guy Denning, Petite Morte # 7, 2007

* From a December 11, 1970 letter from Hunter S. Thompson to Rolling Stone editor John Lombardi:

..."But by 'music' I don't mean the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. If the Grateful Dead came to town, I'd beat my way in with a fucking tire iron, if necessary. I think Workingman's Dead is the heaviest thing since Highway 61 and 'Mr. Tambourine Man' (with the possible exception of the Stones' last two albums...and the definite exception of Herbie Mann's Memphis Underground, which may be the best album ever cut by anybody). And that might make a good feature: some kind of poll on the Best albums of the '60s... or 'Where it was at in the Rock Age.' Because the '60s are going to go down like a repeat, somehow, of the 1920s; the parallels are too gross for even historians to ignore.

"So, for whatever it's worth -- to either one of us, for that matter -- here's the list from Raoul Duke:

1. Herbie Mann's Memphis Underground
2. Bob Dylan's Bringing It All Back Home
3. Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited
4. Grateful Dead's Workingman's Dead
5. Rolling Stone's Let it Bleed
6. Buffalo Springfield's Buffalo Springfield
7. Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow
8. Jazz innovator Roland Kirk's albums in general
9. Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain
10. Sandy Bull's Inventions

"Jesus, what a hassle to even think quickly about a list like that. Even now I can think of 10 more I might have added... but what the fuck, its only a rude idea. But a good one, I think, and particularly for RS. The implications of the final list would vibrate far beyond the actual music... it would be a very heavy fucking document. You may want to give it some thought."

* Long (of course) David Foster Wallace article on David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress.

* "The most radical revolutionary will become a conservative the day after the revolution." - Hannah Arendt

my love is bigger than your love
sing it!


Orly Cogan, Tire

What We Miss
-- by Sarah Manguso

Who says it's so easy to save a life? In the middle of an interview for
the job you might get you see the cat from the window of the seven-
teenth floor just as he's crossing the street against traffic, just as
you're answering a question about your worst character flaw and lying
that you are too careful. What if you keep seeing the cat at every
moment you are unable to save him? Failure is more like this than like
duels and marathons. Everything can be saved, and bad timing pre-
vents it. Every minute, you are answering the question and looking
out the window of the church to see your one great love blinded by
the glare, crossing the street, alone.


Circle of Lorca
-- by Frank Stanford

When you take the lost road
You come to the snow
And when you find the snow
You get down on your hands and knees
Like a sick dog
That’s been eating the grasses of graveyards
For twenty centuries.

When you take the lost road
You find woman
Who has no fear of light
Who can kill two cocks at once
Light which has no fear of cocks
And cocks who can’t call in the snow.

You find lovers who’ve been listening
For the same roosters to sing
For twenty centuries
Roosters that have swallowed stones
Out of each other’s tracks
But have never met
Anywhere on the road.

When you take the lost road
You find the bright feathers of morning
Laid out in proportion to snow and light
And when the snow gets lost on the road
Then the hot wind might blow from the south
And there is sadness in bed for twenty centuries
And everyone is chewing the grass on the graves again.

When you get lost
You come to the moon in the field
The light all lovers soil
The sheet no one leaves clean
The light cocks are afraid to cross
The same moon woman danced under
For twenty centuries
With blood on her face.

When you get lost on the road
You run into the dead
Who have broken down stones
In their throats for twenty centuries
I saw two little crazy boys crying
Because it was morning
And when morning comes it comes
In the morning and never at night.

I saw two security police taking out a man’s balls
And I saw two little crazy boys
Crying by the road who wouldn’t go away
But two has never been a number
Because it’s only legal to pass one at a time
It’s only a drum you can carry but you can’t beat
It’s the evidence they need to make you disappear.

you may be sweet and nice
but that won't keep you warm at night


Chris Martin, Here Comes the Sun, 2007

* From Harper's July 2011:

-- Number of public statues of individuals in the United States: 5,193

-- Number that depict women: 394

-- Minimum percentage of U.S. electricity that is consumed by marijuana growers: 1

-- Value of currency eaten by termites at a bank in Uttar Pradesh, India, in April: $221,900

-- Amount spent on lobbying (in the U.S.) in 200O: $1,600,000,000

-- In 2010: $3,500,000,000

* Check out the most beautiful libraries in the United States.

* Photographs of famous people and their records.

* "Every man dies. Not every man really lives." -- William Wallace

Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away


Dan Tague, The Kids Are Alright, 2011

The American Dream
-- by Robert Creeley

Edges and disjuncts, shattered, bitter planes,
a wedge of disconsolate memories to echo fame,
fear of the past, a future still to blame--
Multiple heavens, hells, nothing is straight.
You earn your money, then you wait
for so-called life to see that you get paid.

Tilt! Again it's all gone wrong.
This is a heartless, hopeless song.
This is an empty, useless song.


The Face of Love
-- by Frank Stanford

he has one of them
like a very famous
nobody
her mother was good looking
and drove a convertible
her father a drunk
they invited me to their home
several times
they went over my shoes
looked at my pistols
they had lovely affairs there
the grandmother
was hard of hearing
and wore a disfigured cameo
she told of days gone
when she rode an Arabian to the Landing
to meet the boat
there would he books and cologne from Paris
material and perhaps a piano
and no counts from New Orleans
as the story goes she married one
it turned out this way
and the legend continues
blood and starlight in the river
African violets and capes
Chopin and back roads
and her granddaughter was just like him
silent and cruel
always taking her beauty rest
and her best friend's
friends


Spirit
-- by Gregory Corso

Spirit
is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
endlessly
like a river
unafraid
of becoming
the sea

be quiet
the weather's on the night news


Carol Lee Chase, Luster, 2001

* Does new ownership make PBR a less desirable beer? excerpt:

When companies change ownership or direction resulting in the departure of executives, it's not uncommon for there to be some raw emotion or hard feelings. But lashing out publicly against a former employer is rare.

"They know that negative comments will harm them as much as the company,'' said Richard Coughlan, senior associate dean for graduate business programs and professor of management at University of Richmond's Robins School of Business.

Coughlan said it's even more unusual to see more than two dozen executives abandon a company about the same time. But former employees at Pabst say this isn't just about beer. They saw themselves as the protectors of the people who loved their brands, even though 99 percent of Pabst's brands are brewed by Miller Brewing Co. They fear the spirit of the brands will be destroyed under its new owners.

"My job was to protect consumers from the stupid crap that old guys with gray hair come up with," said Clarke. "The brand is the people who drink it. And we treated it well. We were the stewards of it. We did a good job. We tried to keep from selling it out."

In effect, the Metropoulos family proposes a major shift in marketing. The family, whose $250 million bid for the company topped more than a dozen contenders, including a group headed by Kotecki, announced in May that they're moving Pabst's headquarters to Los Angeles. They said they plan to bring glamour and celebrity sponsorships to such Pabst brands as Old Milwaukee, Schlitz and Lone Star.

* Awesome People Hanging Out Together

* The Fugs Couldn't Get High dedicated to the lesbian dwarfs of San Francisco and their tomato orgies.

* "If a voice is just too nice, without an edge, it kinda all flows by. You forget it. You don't listen to the lyrics." -- Stephen Malkmus

Do You Curse Where You Come From


David Salle

For Joe Pernice
-- by William Corbett

The sky behind
grape jelly clouds
shows through in white
cuts and rips.
It's cold enough
to be under the electric
blanket with a book
and not yet 9 p.m.
watching the jelly clouds
come to a rolling boil
and for a flicker
think nothing.
The book falls
from my hands
and I catch myself.
Frost's wand might
zap the baby tomato
and pepper plants black.
Let it come.
Is there a farewell
poem the equal
of Raymond Carver's
"No Need"?
Reach out the light
cold too beyond
the clouds where
stars swarm.
So much to take in,
so hard to hold,
so little we can say.


Sex Without Love
-- by Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.


History
-- by Robert Lowell

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.

we are unhappy
because we were unplanned