June 1, 2014

Edgar Alan Poe’s Descent into the Maelstrom as told by Marshall McLuhan’s son

January 22, 2014
"The Street" - Philip Guston (1970)

"The Street" - Philip Guston (1970)

(Source: tate.org.uk)

May 1, 2013
lizpelly:

this is a new projectFaye Orlove & I have been working on it for the past month or soit launches tonight around midnightwe are very excited if you want to know why it’s called “The Media” i will talk your ear off about it sometime how about @ our launch party? it’s this Friday @ Lorem Ipsum Books in Cambridge

lizpelly:

this is a new project

Faye Orlove & I have been working on it for the past month or so

it launches tonight around midnight

we are very excited 

if you want to know why it’s called “The Media” i will talk your ear off about it sometime 

how about @ our launch party? it’s this Friday @ Lorem Ipsum Books in Cambridge

August 27, 2012

Directive by Hayden Carruth


Let no imponderable lie
Transfix the sweetness of the eye,
Nor any waywardness command
A murder in the tranquil hand.
Only a careful gentleness
Of body binds the mind’s distress.

NW 

July 29, 2012

Traveller, There Is No Path by Antonio Machado

Everything passes on and everything remains,
But our lot is to pass on,
To go on making paths,
Paths across the sea.

I never sought glory,
Nor to leave my song
In the memory of man;
I love those subtle worlds,
Weightless and graceful,
As bubbles of soap.

I like to watch as they paint themselves
In sunlight and scarlet, floating
Beneath the blue sky, trembling
Suddenly then popping…

I never sought glory.

Traveller, your footprints
Are the path and nothing more;
Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.

By walking the path is made
And when you look back
You’ll see a road
Never to be trodden again.

Traveller, there is no path,
Only trails across the sea…

Some time past in that place
Where today the forests are dressed in barbs
A poet was heard to cry
"Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…”

Beat by beat, verse by verse…

The poet died far from home.
He lies beneath the dust of a neighbouring land.
As he walked away he was seen to weep.
"Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…”

Beat by beat, verse by verse…

When the goldfinch cannot sing,
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When prayer will do us no good.
"Traveller, there is no path,
The path is made by walking…”

Beat by beat, verse by verse.


NW

July 28, 2012

The Burning of Paper Instead of Children by Adrienne Rich

I was in danger of verbalizing my
moral impulses out of existence.
— Daniel Berrigan, on trial in Baltimore
 

1. My neighbor, a scientist and art-collector, telephones me in a state of violent emotion. He tells me that my son and his, aged eleven and twelve, have on the last day of school burned a mathematics textbook in the backyard. He has forbidden my son to come to his house for a week, and has forbidden his own son to leave the house during that time. “The burning of a book,” he says, “arouses terrible sensations in me, memories of Hitler; there are few things that upset me so much as the idea of burning a book.”

Back there: the library, walled

with green Britannicas

Looking again

in Durer’s Complete Works

for MELANCOLIA, the baffled woman

the crocodiles in Herodotus

the Book of the Dead

the Trial of Jeanne d’Arc, so blue

I think, It is her color

and they take the book away

because I dream of her too often

love and fear in a house

knowledge of the oppressor

I know it hurts to burn

2. To imagine a time of silence

or few words

a time of chemistry and music

the hollows above your buttocks

traced by my hand

or, hair is like flesh, you said

an age of long silence

relief

from this tongue this slab of limestone

or reinforced concrete

fanatics and traders

dumped on this coast wildgreen clayred

that breathed once

in signals of smoke

sweep of the wind

knowledge of the oppressor

this is the oppressor’s language

yet I need it to talk to you


3. People suffer highly in poverty and it takes dignity and intelligence to overcome this suffering. Some of the suffering are: a child did not had dinner last night: a child steal because he did not have money to buy it: to hear a mother say she do not have money to buy food for her children and to see a child without cloth it will make tears in your eyes.

(the fracture of order

the repair of speech

to overcome this suffering)

4. We lie under the sheet

after making love, speaking

of loneliness

relieved in a book

relived in a book

so on that page

the clot and fissure

of it appears

words of a man

in pain

a naked word

entering the clot

a hand grasping

through bars:

deliverance

What happens between us

has happened for centuries

we know it from literature

still it happens

sexual jealousy

outflung hand

beating bed

dryness of mouth

after panting

there are books that describe all this

and they are useless

You walk into the woods behind a house

there in that country

you find a temple

built eighteen hundred years ago

you enter without knowing

what it is you enter

so it is with us

no one knows what may happen

though the books tell everything

burn the texts said Artaud

5. I am composing on the typewriter late at night, thinking of today. How well we all spoke. A language is a map of our failures. Frederick Douglass wrote an English purer than Milton’s. People suffer highly in poverty. There are methods but we do not use them. Joan, who could not read, spoke some peasant form of French. Some of the suffering are: it is hard to tell the truth; this is America; I cannot touch you now. In America we have only the present tense. I am in danger. You are in danger. The burning of a book arouses no sensation in me. I know it hurts to burn. There are flames of napalm in Catonsville, Maryland. I know it hurts to burn. The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning. I cannot touch you and this is the oppressor’s language.


NW

February 9, 2012

Charles Olson Reads “Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27” (1966)

January 15, 2012

I’m Hot by Nick Demske


“Fire is inspirational.”

              —Richard Pryor

For Jenetta

After Mims, ODB, Jeff Bezos & Danny Khalastchi

Because I’m on fire. Because I’m a church. Because I’m Richard Pryor. Because I’m Google search.

Because O snap, Branch Davidian Gideon, a real burner, cinder incinerate drunk tank caloric intake shake. And bake. And I helped.

I perpetuated the mythology. I forwarded the message. I researched the glottochronology, desperate for a great grandparent to blame. Awe shit!—I wrote a poem about “picnics” etymology, the practice of picking a nigger for lynching. The practice of coloring cluster munitions the same shade as aerial food drops.

Because I am stuck in the lotus position. Because I nuked the leftovers, back to the Stone Age. Because—opah, etc.—Lake Erie exploded. Because Michael Jackson and Pepsi and toasters and bathtubs. I’m hot. Because I’m fly, a fly, a 747 fly into a twin, I’m 808, I’m 212, I’m a kindle that spreads jungle fire like Amazon, consummates the info ecology. This is why comparisons are odious. This is why all explanations fail. Because it is real. Because it is real. Because coincidence is mythical as God. A tree falls in the forest and no one’s around. It feels self-conscious, a stereotype. O koan, I’m hot because the Hilton’s on fire. Because the conference center is burning! I’m the severed breasts of my warrior mother, an ambidextrous archer. And I am the shit the entrepreneurs have taken on her honor.

Because I have survived extraordinary violence. Because I’m sensitive, I’m passionate, spontaneous. You ain’t. Because you not. An equation elementary as water. A formula of misinformation, a river that flows like mother’s milk. Let me explain: because I drank the Molotov. Now I am the revolution. Because I myself am hell. Because I myself am the pollution wafting from the Iraqi National Library’s ashes. I’m hot. Because I’m fly. You ain’t. Because you not. This is why. This is why. This. Is. Why.




Nick Demske is 4 real. Thanks BOMBLOG for this. Check out Demske’s first book,
Nick Demske, out with FENCE books. He blogs here.


MM

January 5, 2012

After a Greek Proverb by AE Stallings


Ουδέν μονιμότερον του προσωρινού


We’re here for the time being, I answer to the query—
Just for a couple of years, we said, a dozen years back.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

We dine sitting on folding chairs—they were cheap but cheery.
We’ve taped the broken window pane. TV’s still out of whack.
We’re here for the time being, I answer to the query.

When we crossed the water, we only brought what we could carry,
But there are always boxes that you never do unpack.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

Sometimes when I’m feeling weepy, you propose a theory:
Nostalgia and tear gas have the same acrid smack.
We’re here for the time being, I answer to the query—

We stash bones in the closet when we don’t have time to bury,
Stuff receipts in envelopes, file papers in a stack.
Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.

Twelve years now and we’re still eating off the ordinary:
We left our wedding china behind, afraid that it might crack.
We’re here for the time being, we answer to the query,
But nothing is more permanent than the temporary.


From the first issue of the 100th year of Poetry magazine.

MM

January 4, 2012

From “The Propositions” by Robert Duncan

3.

This is THE SENDING OUT.

I see the tree.   It changes.   Mineral
        vegetable   animal.   Of generations.
It exceeds me.

                              Come back. Come back.
Tell us of excess.
       What was the sign that limited?

Do not serve the tree.
This is the sending.

This place is littered with great stones.

       No more!    Return to the shore
we remember.   Do not go beyond our knowledge.

       Bring back that black thing.
       we did not have in our story.
       It alone to speak, to give strangeness.


In the field of the poem   the unexpected
       must come.

                         We wait.
                         It does not come.

There is a disturbance in the House.
I had forgotten its orders. The plants
      ask to be waterd.

If we have not set things to rights,
       the indwelling
is not with us, there are no instructions.


MM