My Alba
Now that I've wasted
five years in Manhattan
life decaying
talent a blank
talking disconnected
patient and mental
sliderule and number
machine on a desk
autographed triplicate
synopsis and taxes
obedient prompt
poorly paid
stayed on the market
youth of my twenties
fainted in offices
wept on typewriters
deceived multitudes
in vast conspiracies
deodorant battleships
serious business industry
every six weeks whoever
drank my blood bank
innocent evil now
part of my system
five years unhappy labor
22to27 working
not a dime in the bank
to show for it anyway
dawn breaks it's only the sun
the East smokes O my bedroom
I am damned to Hell what
alarmclock is ringing
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Music for your Midweek: "Silent Noon" by Ralph Vaughn Williams sung by John Shirley Quirk
This song was needed for today. The perfect capturing of a moment.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Thursday Verse: "My First View of Western Prairie" - Eliza R. Snow
My First View of a Western Prairie
The loveliness of Nature always did
Delight me. In the days of childhood, when
My young light heart, in all the buoyancy
Of its own bright imagination's spell,
Beat in accordant consonance to all
For which it cherish'd an affinity,
The summer glory of the landscape rous'd
Within my breast a princely feeling.
Time's Obliterating strokes cannot erase
The impulse, with my being interwove;
And oftentimes, in the fond ecstacy
Of youth's effervescence, I've gaz'd
Upon the richly variegated fields,
Which most emphatically spoke the praise
Of Nature, and the Cultivator's skill.
Delight me. In the days of childhood, when
My young light heart, in all the buoyancy
Of its own bright imagination's spell,
Beat in accordant consonance to all
For which it cherish'd an affinity,
The summer glory of the landscape rous'd
Within my breast a princely feeling.
Time's Obliterating strokes cannot erase
The impulse, with my being interwove;
And oftentimes, in the fond ecstacy
Of youth's effervescence, I've gaz'd
Upon the richly variegated fields,
Which most emphatically spoke the praise
Of Nature, and the Cultivator's skill.
But when I heard the western trav'ller paint
The splendid beauties of the far-off West;
Where Nature's pastures, rich and amply broad,
Waving in full abundance, seem to mock
The agriculturists of eastern soil;
I grew incredulous that Nature's dress
Should be so rich, and so domestic, and
So beautiful, without the touch of Art;
And thought the picture fancifully wrought.
The splendid beauties of the far-off West;
Where Nature's pastures, rich and amply broad,
Waving in full abundance, seem to mock
The agriculturists of eastern soil;
I grew incredulous that Nature's dress
Should be so rich, and so domestic, and
So beautiful, without the touch of Art;
And thought the picture fancifully wrought.
Yet, in the process of revolving scenes,
I left the place of childhood and of youth;
And as I journey'd t'ward the setting sun,
As if awaking from a nightly dream,
Into a scenery grand and strangely new,
I almost thought myself transported back
Upon the retrograding wheel of time,
To days and scenes when Greece presided o'er
The destinies of earth; and when she shone
Like her ador'd Apollo; without one
Tall rival in the field of Literature;
And fancied then myself as standing on
That towering mount of truly classic fame
That overlooks the rich, the fertile, and
The far-extended vales of Crissa: or
That in some wild poetic spell, of deep
Unconscious recklessness, I'd stray'd afar
Upon the flowing plains of Marathon.
But soon reflection's potent wand dispell'd
The false illusion, and I realiz'd That I was not inhaling foreign air,
Or moving in a scene emblazon'd with
The classic legends of antiquity.
O, no: the scenery around was not Enchantment.
'Twas the bright original Of those fair images and ideal forms,
Which fancy's pencil is so prompt to sketch.
Instead of treading on Ionian fields,
I stood upon Columbian soil, and in
The rich and fertile state of Illinois.
I left the place of childhood and of youth;
And as I journey'd t'ward the setting sun,
As if awaking from a nightly dream,
Into a scenery grand and strangely new,
I almost thought myself transported back
Upon the retrograding wheel of time,
To days and scenes when Greece presided o'er
The destinies of earth; and when she shone
Like her ador'd Apollo; without one
Tall rival in the field of Literature;
And fancied then myself as standing on
That towering mount of truly classic fame
That overlooks the rich, the fertile, and
The far-extended vales of Crissa: or
That in some wild poetic spell, of deep
Unconscious recklessness, I'd stray'd afar
Upon the flowing plains of Marathon.
But soon reflection's potent wand dispell'd
The false illusion, and I realiz'd That I was not inhaling foreign air,
Or moving in a scene emblazon'd with
The classic legends of antiquity.
O, no: the scenery around was not Enchantment.
'Twas the bright original Of those fair images and ideal forms,
Which fancy's pencil is so prompt to sketch.
Instead of treading on Ionian fields,
I stood upon Columbian soil, and in
The rich and fertile state of Illinois.
Amaz'd, I view'd until my optic nerve
Grew dull and giddy with the frenzy of
The innocent delight; and I exclaim'd,
With Sheba's queen, "One half had not been told."
Grew dull and giddy with the frenzy of
The innocent delight; and I exclaim'd,
With Sheba's queen, "One half had not been told."
But then my thought--can I describe my thoughts?
No: for description's liveliest powers grow lame,
Whenever put upon the chase of things
Of non-existence; and my thoughts had all,
Like liquid matter, melted down, and had
Become, as with a secret touch, absorb'd
In the one all-engrossing feeling of
Deep admiration, vivid and intense.
And my imagination too, for once
Acknowledg'd its own imbecility,
And cower'd down as if to hide away;
For all its powers had been too cold and dull,
Too tame and too domestic far, to draw
A parallel with the bold grandeur, and
The native beauty, of the "Western World!"
No: for description's liveliest powers grow lame,
Whenever put upon the chase of things
Of non-existence; and my thoughts had all,
Like liquid matter, melted down, and had
Become, as with a secret touch, absorb'd
In the one all-engrossing feeling of
Deep admiration, vivid and intense.
And my imagination too, for once
Acknowledg'd its own imbecility,
And cower'd down as if to hide away;
For all its powers had been too cold and dull,
Too tame and too domestic far, to draw
A parallel with the bold grandeur, and
The native beauty, of the "Western World!"
- Eliza R. Snow
Happy Pioneer Day!
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Music for your Midweek: Son Lux - "Easy" (Blogotheque version)
It's too hot.
So here's a song that matches the weather.
A great great great live version of Son Lux's "Easy".
Stay cool, or not.
Enjoy.
So here's a song that matches the weather.
A great great great live version of Son Lux's "Easy".
Stay cool, or not.
Enjoy.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Thursday Verse: "#9" - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
#9
"Truth is not the secret of a few"
yet
you would maybe think so
the way some
librarians
and cultural ambassadors and
especially museum directors
act
you'd think they had a corner
on it
the way they
walk around shaking
their high heads and
looking as if they never
went to the bath
room or anything
But I wouldn't blame them
if I were you
They say the Spiritual is best conceived
in abstract terms
and then too
walking around in museums always make me
want to
"sit down"
I always feel so
constipated
in those
high altitudes
"Truth is not the secret of a few"
yet
you would maybe think so
the way some
librarians
and cultural ambassadors and
especially museum directors
act
you'd think they had a corner
on it
the way they
walk around shaking
their high heads and
looking as if they never
went to the bath
room or anything
But I wouldn't blame them
if I were you
They say the Spiritual is best conceived
in abstract terms
and then too
walking around in museums always make me
want to
"sit down"
I always feel so
constipated
in those
high altitudes
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Thursday Verse: "Revolutionary Letter #1" - Diane Di Prima
Revolutionary Letter #1
I have just realized that the stakes are myself
I have no other
ransom money, nothing to break or barter but my life
my spirit measured out, in bits, spread over
the roulette table, I recoup what I can
nothing else to shove under the nose of the maître de jeu
nothing to thrust out the window, no white flag
this flesh all I have to offer, to make the play with
this immediate head, what it comes up with, my move
as we slither over this go board, stepping always
(we hope) between the lines
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Music for your Midweek: Polica - Wandering Star
Hey there.
Slowly creeping my way back into blogging.
Being unemployed is EXHAUSTING.
But really.
I used to blog all the time to escape the monotony of work and school, and since I'm not doing much of either of those things, I haven't needed it as much. But there are still things I want to share, so here it goes!
This song has been on my radar for a while. Can't remember if I've shared it with you already, so please forgive me if it's a repeat. So You Think You Can Dance has started up again, so I'm even more interested in anything dancey. Enjoy:
Slowly creeping my way back into blogging.
Being unemployed is EXHAUSTING.
But really.
I used to blog all the time to escape the monotony of work and school, and since I'm not doing much of either of those things, I haven't needed it as much. But there are still things I want to share, so here it goes!
This song has been on my radar for a while. Can't remember if I've shared it with you already, so please forgive me if it's a repeat. So You Think You Can Dance has started up again, so I'm even more interested in anything dancey. Enjoy:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)