bullshit happens

From the good folks at the Onion, a timely piece on how ridiculous it truly is to turn to corporate media for anything resembling important information.

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life and the loud baby

I am sitting in my winter boots,
down in the living room,
worrying about the
sleep in death,
the DEATH
in sleep.

And I recall
the loud baby
on a bus
once
when I slow-rolled
up the Paulson,
the snow coming so hard
it hobbled the old horse
and lofted the windows
in a coat of potato mash.

Even though loud baby
only wept
and screamed a lot
something in the
inarticulate
infant
static
spoke to me.
It was a shabby
number,
a rendition
of
“Hang out the Stars in Indiana”
and went like this:

‘I remember my birth,
the sudden chill,
the dry, irritating blankets–
the incredible explosion
and bursting intensity
of LIGHT
and the bizarre creatures
swimming in this luminosity,
a strange moment,
SLEEP,
swept over me
and I recognized it
for what it was–
the same dark
peacefulness
which formed me,
silent THOUGHT,
rich in the power
of life and LOVE.’

‘I recall a time
before my SELF,
before THOUGHT;
I was not “I”
but part of THE ONE
[ much like a leaf
on a tree
until something happens
–a windstorm–
and the leaf drops…
toward
it-knows-not-where ].’

‘I remember
even before all this…
a distant room,
indistinct voices,
love,
pain,
sorrow…
a death,
“my” death,
my body
–the body of an old woman–
beneath me on the bed,
motionless,
my own eyes
staring up at me.’

‘And then
FALLING AWAY,
a dissolve,
wherein a
sweet forgetfulness
took hold.’

‘i forgot “I”.’

‘i forgot my true love’s name,
his/her face,
i forgot Earth
and all its beauty,
forgot my children’s eyes,
forgot DEATH
and that i had died,
LIFE
and that i had lived it.’

‘i was made pure in this,
this stripping away,
i forgot
SHAME
and GUILT,
i forgot
ENMITY,
JEALOUSY,
LUST.’

‘At last
i was
NO MORE.’

‘Fit to begin.’

And with that
the loud baby
drifted off to sleep,
finally,
for a bus is too small
for screaming infants
even if they are
PHILOSOPHERS.

But just before
total silence
and the storm’s rebuttal,
except for the droning
as the bus neared
Nancy Greene

I am certain
loud baby
gurgled
and in this
song
I heard:

‘All these things
come back to me
are clear as daylight now.
But with each passing night
the memory fades.
By the time
I can walk,
and speak,
am trained to think,
it will all be gone.

It, too, will pass away.’

(deleted) Lands

To call attention to the missing facts, data, names, places. To bring to life those who are outside the protection of a free, civilized society. To explore the idea of political economy. To hear the story from social labour–the ones on the ground, who leave no trace. To assess the precariat in all things (deleted). This is the project at hand.

porteur de la nuit

Lovelies… I mentioned this film the first day of classes. It is my favourite, and I could not in good conscience let this blopportunity pass out the end of semester’s digestive tract without bringing the film, once more, to your attention. If you haven’t seen it, Charlotte Rampling and Dirk Bogarde are, at turns, archly subtle, divine, insane with an evil love, and pursued by ex-Nazis. Please enjoy responsibly.

the love song of Aleistair Crowley

Mr. Bukowski:

there’s a song by T.S. Eliot
that goes for miles,
makes poets angry,
prosets, too
(you know the one,
fer fuck-sakes);

but I’m not sure
you ever tried too hard,
Chinaski:
poetry, prose–
that shit was something
to do between smokes,
or when the hangover
turned mystical,
and your flop-house buddies
bored your secret,
aristocratic soul.

i heard the corner bar
is almost extinct
in your native L.A.,
and i heard
when you backed so far
into a corner
you could only come out swinging
or drunk
or both.

What advice
(badvice?)
for me, or my peers
who would pick up
your cum-smeared torch?
your shit-stinking torch?
your union-man,
hypocrite-killer,
Motel No-tell torch,
your torch, man?!

(nothing comes)

dear Charles, I don’t
know if you’re interested
down in that grave’s
endless soliloquy
but
here’s some
early winter poesy…

and i only send my own
because I’m not well read
which means i don’t read much
and what i have seen lately
was a book on crack dealers in the 90s
which should have been FULL of poetry
but instead was muttering on about how
“the problem is structural”

“the problem is structural,
the problem is structural.”
don’t i know it, Chuck,
when all the stuff
purveyed as academic truth
is written in prose
like the prosaic is somehow
cleaner and neater
you’d wanna take it to dinner
see a movie
have a few drinks
maybe try to get into the pants
of truth-in-prose
maybe cop a feel
of prosey truth
maybe get it on
and in the hangover dawn
hope against all hope
that you didn’t fuck the truth last night

oh.
you did.

omygod you got prosey crust
and sore balls from the truth–
did you lose control with the truth?
did you let yourself go
when the truth had you
in its long arms?
did you come in the truth?
did you?

you did.

you sent your gift of life into the truth–
you might have…well,
surely truth doesn’t use birth control!!!!
you see where all this
(albeit hetero) linearity
is going? prosey truth is nothing to court lightly
you get on that dramatic arc and you’re
on for the long haul
for the ride
you might as well have a few drinks and get laid
because there’s
no stopping
the prosaic truth
once you get it
aroused
you’ve got FIVE FUCKEN ACTS
to get through.

[lessee, here,
there’s the pick-up line,
the grope,
the grope returned,
the undressing,
the make-out,
the slip-away]

but poetic truth
the country cousin
the truth that doesn’t care
about linearity
about what tired pick-up lines
you be usin’

poetic truth
can be brief
can do you in the train station washroom
will just as likely kill you
as sex you

poetic truth
wants to tattoo your face
poetic truth
gave you HPV
gave you Lerpes (lip herpes)
calls your wife
stares down the barrel
of your mid-life crisis
and laughs and laughs
poetic truth
is in the crack dealer ethnography
but buried in there
like Ezra Pound is buried in
The Wasteland
like Melville’s stoney heart
is buried in Woodlawn
but not really
not when you consider
the prose got to him first
the prosey truth

no
poetic truth
should
by rights
fill as many
academic journals
teeming over the desks
of professors and scientists
clogging up the libraries
(which are quickly turning into
shopping malls)
whole trade journals on mining
and plumbing
written only in poetry
car manuals
diet books
serious inquiries into airborne pathogens
haphazard oblique references
to misremembered Bonapartist mumblings
ALL IN POETRY!!!!

you see it, don’t you, Charles?
how poetry is the
future?
how poetic truth fits the email form
where prose fails
prose lacks the control
which the future
demands!

yeah, poetic truth
and i’m sure you’re
thinking
“fuck, what a
LONG OUIJA MESSAGE,”
and
“CHRIST, THIS IS ALL TOO MUCH
about poetic truth,”
but you wait
you wait until
YOU COMPLETELY DECOMPOSE
and start turning to humus
(no, not chick-pea dip)
and violating prosaic truth
ALL OVER THE PLACE
with your flowers
with your wormy verse
(again)

but i digress

i was over looking out the window
at my escape hatch
my six-shooter
my portable phone booth
my Firefly
and i thought
“i wonder where
that spaghetti highway leads,”
and
“why not bars of soap,
instead of tires?”
that sort of thing
which
made me
believe
i might actually
escape
the drear
suburbs of Moloch

but the GREED
has me in thrall,
and i’m’a slave
to my master’s degree,
and can’t you see, even from your tomb,
how this is slipping into prose? or wasn’t it always? fucking god, Bukowski, you’re a lame juggernaut but i respect your apetites and the horn with which you screamed them, lust, old man, i guess it trumps the eyeless businessman–even a weary monkey can get it up you just need to lift his hopes

the facts behind my cold sore (pt.1)

1. Victoria Minneapola gave me Lerpes
(Lip herpes) while necking and sexing–i’m not sure where,
maybe Stew and Heather’s, 2002.

2. Before I learned of the miracle of Lysine,
I would permit my cold sore to erupt, which,
when IN FULL BLOOM, looked and felt like a
small outboard motor had ripped a hole in my face.

3. The sore would typically last for almost a month!
An entire month with a giant, pus-y scab on my upper lip.

4. The Lysine, taken orally, causes SEVERE STOMACH ACHE
–feels like one’s intestines are being ripped out with
a dirty trowel–and can last for over an hour,
so debilitating nothing can be done but
get down on the floor and moan.

5. Victoria now lives in Australia,
presumably spreading the evil virus
throughout the Southern hemisphere.

6. 1 in 2 third world children will contract
the virus before they reach adulthood.

7. Herpes is permanent, with no known cure.
It comes from DEEP SPACE,
where, it is rumoured,
entire shadowy planets have
burst forth in volcanic holocaust.

8. Nathaniel Hawthorne, curiously,
makes no mention of the disease
in his masterpiece,
the Red Badge of Courage.

the facts behind my cold sore (pt.2)

Ministry of Lonely Men
Ministry of Spider Bites and Cold Soup
Ministry of Rented, Furnished Rooms
Ministry of Chance Encounters
Ministry of the Incendiary Glance
Ministry of Muted Orgasm in Boarding House
Ministry of Rinse, Repeat.

Ministry of Autumn
Ministry of Failed Affairs
Ministry of the Withering Glare

the Department of Forgotten Dreams,
Att: Office of Fitful Sleep.