The Fives: Quarterbacks

Since I moved most of my short form blogging to tumblr., this site has slowed to a crawl.  Just to kind of keep things moving, I will post a list of five things every so often.  This recurring nightmare will be called "The Fives".

1. Tom Brady
2. Peyton Manning
3. Drew Brees
4. Aaron Rodgers
5. Andrew Luck

Stanley Wright's Lousy Attention Span

. . . has created another blog. We may never see the end of "The Weed Fairy of Greater Metro Louisville", but there's this. If you are interested in what goes on here, Diary of a Bad Capitalist is worth a follow.

TONY WOOLLARD BAT SIGNAL!

Tony: when you see this message, please comment on the post with a number I can reach you at and a time I can call.  I won't publish the comment, so no one will see it.  If I need an alternate time, I will comment on the post for you, and we can make other arrangements.

Talk to you soon.

Eileen Myles (REVISED)

There might be one or two of you out there who give a shit about how I edit.  "Eileen Myles" was originally written in a notebook, then shaped from the notes into the poem that I posted.  After letting it rest for a day or two, I decided it wasn't too bad, but needed just a little help.  The form/style of the poem is pretty loose, so I didn't get as obsessive about editing as usual.  Here is the poem, and I imagine that it will remain in this form, with maybe very minor changes, since this pretty much gets to the core of the idea.  There's nothing here that would lead me to the obsessive fussing I used to do over some poems.

for DWP

Turns out they were wrong, all those years ago.
It's space I need, not a voice. Eileen Myles
hacking through underbrush, and how does one
wield a machete at once casually and with
resolution?

Wait. I, in fact, have been granted space, as has 
Eileen Myles. It is the space itself that is the problem, 
in both our cases. Seems I'm king of the whole 
goddamn world, thank you very much, 
while Eileen is . . . something else. At least, 
they all told her that, and she sez we're
all, Kennedys, we're all normal, I'm the most
beautiful poet in the universe, I'm the only
one in the room with bleeding gums tonight,
I'm the only homosexual in the room tonight,
I'm really stepping off the flag now. Eileen Myles
Betsy Rossed the whole fucking thing. The flag is
hers now. The space is hers now.

I am no more interested in literary tourism now
than when I had Bukowski foisted upon me. Even
more, I have no fucks to give for New York, and
one fuck less to give for Boston. I'm drinking cheap
scotch, and it's a piss poor replacement for decent
bourbon. This Ravel is on my last nerve. I'm
jumping around - Wagner, Prokofiev, Mussorgsky,
Shostakovich, even Tim Hecker - and nothing
can quiet the vibrations in my head. Nothing
can quiet the stabbing displacement behind my
eyes. Nothing can still the disgust that convulses
my hand. This private fiasco is looking for a center,
looking for a steadying hand, looking for a glass of
good bourbon.

In the meantime, Eileen Myles has given up
writing a great poem, given up birthing an art
bigger than everybody else's, an art that makes
everybody feel alone. I, on the other hand, am
a fucking idiot. I will try to destroy humanity,
I will try to write a great poem. Resting safe
in the knowledge, imparted to me by Eileen Myles,
that I never will. To be left with one final task,
to draw nobility onto failure. To take failure back,
to make it something else, to send it along 
another path.

* * * * *

There is defiance in the machete work. That is easy
to latch onto. THIS IS THE GROUND UPON WHICH
WE MEET. The ground is hers, the battles are won
and lost, it's the fight that counts.

Eileen Myles has her shit to deal with. I have mine.
She's a lesbian and her teeth are falling out. I have
cheap shitty scotch, and Ravel is pissing me off.
"It's all in the struggle" they say, and it is, but
what the fuck does that mean anyway?

Eileen Myles finds love. I find soda water for the scotch.
Eileen Myles sees a dentist, Debussy follows Ravel.
Love is immanent. Cheap scotch with soda still makes
a decent drink.

Eileen Myles never wrote a poem so big
that everyone felt alone. She's tried, but she failed.
I've tried, but I've failed. Time to celebrate.

Eileen Myles

          for DWP

Turns out they were wrong, all those years ago.

It's space I need, not a voice. Eileen Myles

hacking through underbrush, and how does one

wield a machete at once casually and with

resolution?

Wait. Back up just a minute. I, in fact, have been

granted space, as has Eileen Myles. It is the space

itself that is the problem, in both our cases. Seems

I'm king of the whole goddamn world, thank you

very much, while Eileen is . . . something else.

At least, they all told her that, and she sez we're

all, Kennedys, we're all normal, I'm the most

beautiful poet in the universe, I'm the only

one in the room with bleeding gums tonight,

I'm the only homosexual in the room tonight,

I'm really stepping off the flag now. Eileen Myles

Betsy Rossed the whole fucking thing. The flag is

hers now. The space is hers now. She fought

for it, she won it.

    *the space, btw, is not political . . .

     the action - the attainment of the space,

     what happens within the space, the

     continuing saga of the space (its

     definition, its day-to-day life) is

     the political . . .

I am no more interested in literary tourism now

than when I had Bukowski foisted upon me. Even

more, I have no fucks to give for New York, and

one fuck less to give for Boston. I'm drinking cheap

scotch, and it's a piss poor replacement for decent

bourbon. This Ravel is on my last nerve. I'm

jumping around - Wagner, Prokofiev, Mussorgsky,

Shostakovich, even Tim Hecker - and nothing

can quiet the vibrations in my head. Nothing

can quiet the stabbing displacement behind my

eyes. Nothing can still the disgust that convulses

my hand. This private fiasco is looking for a center,

looking for a steadying hand, looking for a glass of

good bourbon.

In the meantime, Eileen Myles has given up

writing a great poem, given up birthing an art

bigger than everybody else's, an art that makes

everybody feel alone. I, on the other hand, am

a fucking idiot. I will try to destroy humanity,

I will try to write a great poem. Resting safe

in the knowledge, imparted to me by Eileen Myles,

that I never will. To be left with one final task,

to draw nobility onto failure. To take failure back,

to make it something else, to send it along another

path.

* * * * *

I love Eileen Myles, even if not in the specific.

I love Eileen Myles, without qualification, without

reservation. Not that she needs it, but she's

got it.

There is defiance in the machete work. That is easy

to latch onto. THIS IS THE GROUND UPON WHICH

WE MEET. The ground is hers, the battles are won

and lost, it's the fight that counts.

    *and it is the struggle that is political

     (obviously), the public struggle for public

     space . . . well, that's the political matter,

     what? haven't you been paying attention . . .

Eileen Myles has her shit to deal with. I have mine.

She's a lesbian and her teeth are falling out. I have

cheap shitty scotch, and Ravel is pissing me off.

"It's all in the struggle" they say, and it is, but they

wouldn't fucking know. Sometimes I don't fucking

know.

Eileen Myles finds love. I find soda water for the scotch.

Eileen Myles sees a dentist, Debussy follows Ravel.

Love is immanent. Cheap scotch with soda still makes

a decent drink.

Eileen Myles never wrote a poem so big

that everyone felt alone. She's tried, but she failed.

I've tried, but I've failed. Time to celebrate
that failure.

Lake Leelanau 8/20/2013

The King of Fashion

Against judgement

he proposed electricity

lightning

cruelty

brutal insomnia

and combat.

Against the judges

he proposed judgement –

   That he judged himself          

   was his zenith.

The pale criminal

equal to the thing

once done

shrinks in horror

from the image of the thing . . .

always running,

one step ahead,

chasing ghosts

He is given a name, and that name is judgement

“It is you who say I am . . .”

(flash and madness

dreams ricochet through darkness)

I AM THE WIND THAT BLOWS ILL

I AM EVOLUTION ACCELERATED

I AM REVOLUTION

I AM THE KING OF FASHION

(the king pronounces:)

“You dreamers, you jailers,

you cartographers, you debtors . . .

I owe you less than nothing.

Your maps mean nothing to me.

Your truth

means nothing to me.

If there are truths, they are negotiated.

If there are truths, they are earned.

Can you face

the falsity of your dreams

in the darkness of your night?

Can you be done with unicorns & Jung

& fascist bastards

who slice your body

into meek organs of reprisal

and dancing gods of debt?

Can you face me,

the surface of your nightmares,

knowing that your resolve is meaningless

because, tomorrow,

I become other?

Because yesterday,

today,

tomorrow,

I will always be other?

Can you live with me

knowing that

as surely as I can destroy myself

You can never harm me?

Can you understand

that you will never hold me?

Schizophrenia

you are building your own cosmology

out of broken tinker toys

assassinated meanings and logics

shells assembled from broken words

meaning for you is private

and that is a problem

you are a self disappearing

            behind a kabuki mask of anguish

defiant in your personal finitude

waiting

there is the gravel shore of a grey lake

with no horizon

the water blends to the sky

and you’re out there in a rowboat

screaming

but there is no sound

no movement

and we’re waiting here for you

to come back in