the manner in which her role as poet functions within the community as a source of empowerment for that community.
Intrinsically, she as poet is needed and valued as a healer, and as such the community derives strength,
we might say,
from its poets, wherein a symbiotic relationship between community and poetry thrives.
This community acceptance of course undermines bureaucratic control factors - Sabina was arrested briefly for hallucinogenic mushroom distribution once she became "famous," though she did not travel to do this; rather, others traveled to her for guidance - as Plato and Laura Bush both feared - but I imagine it isn't unreasonable to assume the the US put pressure on the Federales to somehow do something about this woman who had acquired a reputation they couldn't abide.
And then there's the business about the book, an issue which Gordon Wasson examines in his retrospective essay citing a document "assembled by Hernando Ruiz de Alcarón in 1629" wherein "Nahuatl Wise Ones" also refer to a similar source of authority known as amoxtli, or "the hand painted Códices of the Nahua."
And here there is plenty of room for specualtion, in consideration of whatever or wherever authority might intervene, and that perhaps having both negative and positive characteristics, depending upon motives and the source of that authority, AKA, dreams and visions as opposed to government surveillance or simply, Bill Gates or Wal Mart.
Unfortunately, I am out of time, but it's all quite intriguing and more than simply a game of the intellect,
the example which María Sabina offers being something huge and which might serve to help us dismantle the current socio/political/economic structures by which today we are being systematically crushed.
Tomorrow we might make it otherwise.
we might be moving
engage the untrue response
bodies burned beyond rrrrrp
bodies burned beyond rrrrrp
yet to be
from the crowds of the homeless mostly though not
exculsively consisting of men or so it
which might suggest concealment
secrecy should the number
of women homeless
(talk to me of
how did these bodies come to this
curious headline whereas the city moves
whereas the city vows to crack
down on pan
handling has this anything
has this anything to do with the dead one
one male another female
more grim statistics relatives
relatives must be notified what
comes to the brother
the population of bums
happen happened cold and then
colder which appears perhaps
erroneously mostly male strange
of some unknown wreckage
through the night
or maybe the morning -
to a world
uncommitted – yet -
superimposed – one passage
resting over another –
time under motion – big
wheels crush this highway -
and that – random but
everything you need to get a head in life!
(in case you don't already have one)
"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."
Iron? Brass perhaps, yes, or steel, which is more ductile, but iron is brittle; this is one of the main reasons steel was developed, to make hard swords which would hold a wicked edge.
And a side benefit is that steel has a much nicer ring, or vibration, in other words, and makes excellent guitar, fiddle or banjo strings.
Hit iron with a hammer repeatedly and watch it crack, an unlikely substance to resonate with a heart, unless one likes the militaristic overtones
of hardness, tough guys all.
"And now we are men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not for minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almightly effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark."
Can this guy's ideas be trusted? He almost sounds like an articulate GWB, or rather the other way around - but that's giving GWB far too much credit.
Of course I was shocked and saddened when I found out Walt Whitman wanted to annex the Yucatan peninsula for the good of the inhabitants and to bring them freedom and democracy.
Emerson's suspect. It's that perfect man business, or maybe he's simply a product of his time, but I remain suspicious for now.
I was probably about 4.5 years old, and one morning after a nightly rain I stepped out on our back stoop to witness a yard covered with mushrooms. So I methodically picked them and placed them on the stoop.
While I was thus engaged, my 1.5 year old sister toddled out and ate them. I have no idea how many she ate, but about this time my mom came out to check up on us and went into a frenzied panic. She said something to me, grabbed my sister and ran across the backyard directly toward the hospital.
I guess it was close. I still remember most of this, though I won't vouch for accuracy.
Anyway, they came home after awhile and my mom told me my sister had her stomach pumped.
Other than that, nothing happened to her, though she still can't stand mushrooms of any kind.
I didn't feel very good about any of this, and I imagine that might have something to do with why I remember it all so vividly.
any of them. Nevertheless, sometimes minor conflicts
arise. For me, this has always had to do with dogs. This
morning at about 6:30 AM taking my dog up
to the local historical cemetery, I noticed one
of my neighbors had removed a tree next to
her driveway where the concrete had begun to
buckle. Since all of our houses are close enough to
hear stray bits of conversation when our windows
are open, it might arise that where precisely property
lines fall is not always evident. So I guess I shouldn't
have been surprised when I brought my dog again
to the graveyard this afternoon to find a curled piece of
paper tacked to another tree between the houses
where the other tree was removed yesterday. After
casting my dog loose to chase squirrels, I walked back
to read the paper, thinking it said something about a lost
animal. Instead it said, "Don't you dare touch this tree. Tom"
here follows a poem I especially like in this book:
in a tin can mirror
"she was a love child
he, a premeditated one
"theirs was a splendid house
color & form & sound
whirling & twining
within & around, above & below
the flora & fauna of their lives"
well said, but not
what i wanted to say
the music is playing
the dog is sleeping
i am thinking
of one gone upstairs
& why i'm not there
because i am a stupid old fuckup, that's why
& there's this herd of cows
keeps mooing fiercely in my head
& that's a lie
& you know it
moo, moo, moo
"the hind end of a cow
not all that attractive to us
is bliss to her boyfriends"
same old jungle
same old machete
certainly, always, talking
But every day SOUNDS drier than the last.
trowie chill thicket
“he’ll trespass on his own dissolving bones, here”
this wind this revenant furor of wind
in field cut creek seething brew suctions
doesn’t she brood while smearing ice
flush snow seasonal thaw standing knoll
madam macadam chainsaw circuitous hatchet
blade sling timber hiss nigh fervid
night(s) corner horse quarter moon riven
dusk courser sluice darkness hope over
cast duplicitous crow found leading sleet
sun terminate rage nor that she foundred
mix and snow crackle ponder brake slightly
strike few step all wholly divers or white
she smites then th’head froward stun sinewy
bareback strum tone summit dare darkening pass
night of that strange beast taken and splayed
youth shouldered that steed through the bush
dread slowly of cold who stands anywise
mid sun and moon one woman two shadows
sleep glisten for thusly I spies
astonished come nature foe lowly dub
lyric bone overthrow fulsome mine bluster
mar bitter borne trail laid spindle depth
green church leafy weather ward access
midst eyeball senescent portraits
rode after and into the forest strut
fervor seem ponder cracked mirror drip
blue notes and warble dawn(s) angle whoop
rhapsode blur bounding one thorny crevasse
In any case, the entire global social-political structure needs reimagining, and though I do think Heriberto's argument falls considerably short of what is really needed, he is correct to suggest that we who live in the US had best begin at home.
We have reached an obsolesence of nations. Mexico blends with the US, for instance, and the US shows improvements in many respects, but this is simplistic. The political lines between countries and as seen on maps are merely a product of simplistic imaginings, a failure of the enlightenment project. I propose we ignore these lines altogether.
Oops, I've never been in Boston, though people I know seem to move there,
Last week a woman told me, this is the last of the dog days, and since we've had rain every day for about two or more months, this means the rain will end. I've never quite understood the dog days and used to hear about them a lot more in Georgia than I usually do in the Carolina mountains. Nevertheless, I've never heard about them before in conjunction with whether it rains or not.
Still, we had three days in a row without rain, and those days seemed astounding in context. It was a subject of conversation around here, as if unbelieveable.
I suspect she is probably right though, despite today's brief cloudburst.
As usual, the "We Still Pray" crowd seems much more united and, well, dull than all the others.
1 cross + 3 nails = 4 GWB
No longer a Catholic, and never much of one at that (even as a kid the teachings sounded to me like twaddle), I don't invest much effort into burdening my selfsame soul with the cumulative guilt of human trespasses upon one another.
Over and out, the kid needs to use the computer for his homework.
As far as I'm concerned, the body is where we are at, though all our intellectualizing has set up a dichotomy whereby the head glorifies itself at the expense of the body. Most of us have this problem, some more than others, and we run into it, for instance, everytime we resort to Western medicine and the vast array of "specialists." One specialist might treat a special problem in one part of the body whereupon another problem someplace else is triggered, and our entire apprehension of the world is tempered by this "me first" tendency (being so impressed by our brains). It's a terrible sort of narcissm we get caught up in while everything else goes to hell.
And thus we get people like GW Bush et al whose response to almost anything is simplistic and self-centered as opposed to complex.
It's enough to make one cry sometimes.
And now I feel torn somewhat between the two, which seems kind of stupid. After all, they are only blogs.
I never did get hatstuck to appear as I would have preferred, but I got used to its ragged look, and really decided that the look gave it a kind of character. And here I am, talking about it in the past while still feeling much the same way about it in the present.
And I never know when Monica is going to pop up, which is very cool. I like surprises.
So onward with hatstuck, but what to do with the other?
I'll have to think on it.
I told him I need about 100 of these tiny dogs to pull me on a sled across the snow this upcoming winter.
Irrationality is rife; we need only to recognize it for what it is. If there is knowledge, it is available to all; that is what we mean by knowledge.
tube money, travel or
have tube money will
travel suction pace
shut the door
that transition sucked
sucking money, placed
placing shut sucker
sucking tube money mister
mister man mister
mister man with an attitude
mister get up and go
mister money tube
he goes out driving ass
mister ass backward
ass backward racing
along kerpunk plunk
somewhat the hell
hell shot wherefore hit fire
pop spoken moment
turn at the report
face and took turns again
two hand touch
into the wall and gone
gun gone gounne gunne
gowne gune gon(e gonne
goon(ne gown gun
no knot duplicity
bullet being particulate more
bang for the buck
hriddeld o coarsen
redels ridel rædelse
rædan rayd rea d
let’s play name the old man
can’t dance say for mine tube
soul basilica bell chime nine and
bicycle into a bluster ear shot
my first memory is one of corrosion
on the megalomania of the Texas GOP noted that the Bush presidential campaign in 2000 was notorious for accepting cheap rides on corporate jets, and suggested candidate Bush "probably will behave just as badly in 2004." As alert reader Norman Scott points out, we can dispense with the "probably": Vice President Dick Cheney, who like the president is in the midst of a month-long (!) vacation, flew this week to a Wyoming fund-raiser accompanied by two military Blackhawk helicopters, two Air Force-operated luxury jets, and also the Air Force's largest transport, a C-17, which was in turn loaded with five Secret Service vehicles. Cheney mobilized all of this hardware solely to attend a reception at the remote ranch of multimillionaire Tom O'Gara, who made his fortune selling armored military and civilian vehicles. The event raised $175,000 for the Bush-Cheney campaign. And it's all profit, because the cost of the massive vice presidential entourage for this campaign stop is billed to you and me, the taxpayers.
"I'm all twisted," she said. "This is a horribly moral kind of car."
We'll go outside," I said hoarsely. She kissed my hands. "They're beautiful," she said. "Big and red and brutal... Will you keep me warm?"
I remember those words especially.
which might suggest a certain ruthless pride in a form more primitive, more primeval and bleak.
stuck I wait
in the interim
shadow beyond a sun struck
by glass for behind
me are windows as
well as before
and beyond the unceasing
of a city terra
cotta pots on either
side of an automatic double
door hold indent
the separatists angry
about some project
don't call danger danger
say strange stretching
the swimmers who
want to become
obviating the limitations of
cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo
the cuckoo is the first to breed
nine unnamed days equal one weakened
And so it happened that I was reading Lisa Jarnot where I could find her work online after having heard her for the first and only time, and Lee Ann Brown for the second, last winter out in the former dining room of Black Mountain College (now known as Camp Rockmont), when I came across her "Pigeon Collage" and then proceeded to write several variations or adaptations or whatever they are. This activity on my part, I suppose, might have been triggered by my finding out about Pom2 at this same Black Mountain recall event, since this is exactly the kind of appropriation the editors of this publication encourage, and seeing that I know Ethan Fugate as well (used to live around here), and he happened to be at this event as one of the organizers and one of three editors of Pom2.
In any case, here's one of those:
Savage unlit behest
of the bin-driven swine
enliven fly squeal and hog
spirit swill nigh
haphazard brood sow
raindrops and farmers and sty
walk and don’t waddle
smudge moonlit rib rack
tandem chop clacker and tusk
puddle blunt staple rut
back scratching red maple
echo arc autumn and moan
bog this reminder
big flight bayonet
barrelling into the brain
slack lasso neck porker toast
bacon stake couple three
belly swell bile and thrust
After writing several of these, I wondered what to do with them, wondered what the hell I was doing, and have been sitting on them since, and I suppose this blog is as good a place as any where they might briefly flash into the light before once again fading. They never hold still anyway, as each time I see them they undergo another change.
walked all the way from Gimlibet
skeels cornfab suff uh gogo
droll frm nt ld nglsh most
ax I dental connection
se Þe soð and riht fremeð on folce
chalice initiate sleeve eyelest tureen
barrel oblivion veer incident squint
comes asking improbable quotations by
roadside the some cars of wherein get eaten
got the coffee going and turned on the radio and tried to
achieve a functioning level of awareness, cleaned out the
thermos and filled it, sat down with a hot cup and watched
the cat rub its head on my ankles, the radio played garbage
and then suddenly switched to
a 30 minute radio play collaboration by John Cage and Kenneth Patchen
The City Wears a Slouch Hat from which comes the following:
(lots of rhythmic pot banging and traffic noises interspersed with dialogue)
--But, what use is it?
--What use is it! Did you ever hear a machine laugh before?
--No, I suppose not...
and as if Walt Whitman is in need of Harold Bloom as editor to a Selected,
and as opposed perhaps to the other way around.
I guess these are books for those too lazy to go out and find books for themselves,
taking all the fun out of it, and bleeding the life out of poetry in the process of such blatant commodification,
and yet another instance of that mindless shoveling as depicted so well by Creeley's "Supper."
I'm loading that cotton in eleven foot sack
I'm aloadin that cotton in a leven foot sack
I'm aloadin that cotton in a leven foot sack
got a twelve guage shotgun at my back
thunderstorms with a flashflood
watch this afternoon and evening
squirrels chase butterflies
in branched perpendiculars
the bird-baths are full
reflecting piled-up cumulus
a slither of scarlet & black
goldfish snap for crumbs
the sound of Mower himself
all afternoons surround
This book contains innumerable such gems, for as each page does contain a jewel-like poem, finely chiseled, apparently simple yet complex, and this poem sets us up for the kill from the very first line, though it isn't so evident on an initial reading. Even when the "piled-up cumulus arrives," it seems a commonplace detail, familiar as opposed to threatening, though as the poem continues into the concluding stanza with the (wickedly) exquisite opening line, "a slither of scarlet & black," chinks in the idyll of light allow beams of darkness to penetrate, and then we hear the grim reaper himself, buzzing down the street with his Big Lawnmower. So too, as the "goldfish snap for crumbs" (greedily!), I shall be food for the worm. The sounds alone in this poem guarantee it.
points, one skewered by I
was just thinking, another
by wonder yet frayed whether
habitat absent, hollow
tomorrows and happenstance
thrashed, jello mold ditty
flip sentiment's wrist, an
appeal punctilious musters ahem
thus deploying god willing one
harlequin aging, an alphabet
suit, mayonnaise helmets on
brash kangaroos, neon if only yet
nosing this plunder for uncertain ums
It seemed a guy was spied lurking around an empty house at the end of our short street, and I went by to talk to him this morning after spotting him just after dawn. He looked paranoid and hungry, so I brought him a bunch of bananas. It turned out he's a woman with some psychological problems who's squatting on the porch of this empty house, concealed as it his by heavy shrubbery.
I squatted down and talked to her for about ten minutes. It's hard to tell how old she is, but I guess she's about 30, and she behaves as if she's used to being pushed around. She was wearing a pair of shoes which look exactly like the ones I had which were stolen, and otherwise about all I learned is that her name is Denise, she is homeless, and she has a bicycle.
After talking to her, anger is impossible. My shoes, after all, are not all that important, and even if she is the thief, she's the one who is in danger, and now I'm worried about her instead. Her shirt is ripped wide open so that her breast and ribcage is exposed, and she seems almost totally defenseless. At least it's warm outside.
Otherwise, we live in a world which keeps people like Denise on the run. Under the circumstances, she seems disturbed to the extent that it would be difficult for her to hold a job, though of course, ten minutes isn't enough to properly judge her capabilities.
I don't know what else to do, but I do intend to go back to offer her a shirt and find out what else she might need such as a blanket. The bananas won't get her very far.
In the meantime, here's the crucial info:
María Sabina: Her Life and Chants written by Álvaro Estrada
translation and commentaries by Henry Munn
with a retrospective essay by R. Gordon Wasson
preface by Jerome Rothenberg
Ross-Erikson Inc., Publishers, Santa Barbara
Translation copyright: 1981 by Henry Munn
ISBN 0-915520-32-X (paperback)
Apparently, Álvaro Estrada was from the same village as María Sabina. She spoke very little Spanish, and though Estrada wrote the book in Spanish, it is, in effect, a translation from Sabina's Mazatec dialect. So the book I have is twice removed. Well, maybe it's actually three times removed, since Sabina's words are taken out of the context of her oral tradition and placed into a book.
In any case, our neighborhood thief has struck two weeks in a row, and I feel too distracted by this to want to deal with blogging or making links to all the above mentioned people, or comment on the book etc etc, though I want to.
It's just going to have to wait.
shoes right off the porch last night, the
idiot left the inserts, and the bottoms
were peeling apart anyway, but damn
Anyway, I'm not entirely satisfied with the look of this blog either, but I haven't located a template option which appeals enough to go to the trouble to swap. I haven't been able to figure out where other bloggers found or find their templates, and the free blogger options seem severely limited.
So too, I want to add more links, which I suppose I could be doing right now, and have been tempted to go copy somebody else's links, but feel kind of idealistic about that option not being very "personal." So instead I keep telling myself, "no time for that now," since adding links is less glamorous or fun than simply posting, with the exception of course, of Kasey's links.
Our cat in the hat is so cool snarling, Monica, that I like to go and admire it also.
(Thanks for the color codes, Jean)
I really feel this blog isn't pretty enough (serious complaint).
Can it be pink (serious? but doubting the possiblity)?
Vegtable Oil (Corn Oil and/or Partially Hydrogenated Soybean and/or Cottonseed Oils with TBHQ to Preserve Freshness), Guiseley Sandstone, Dehydrated Potatoes, Potato Starch, Corn, Sugar, Salt, Cheese Powder (Cheddar and Blue Cheese (Cultured Pasteurized Milk, Salt Enzymes), Whey, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, Malodextrin, Salt, Disodium Phosphate, Nonfat Milk, Citric Acid, Natural and Artificial Flavor, Lactic Acid)), Malodextrin, Potassium Chloride, Monosodium Glutamate, Buttermilk Solids, Mono and Diglycerides, Dextrose, Butter Solids, Artificial Colors (Yellow 5, Yellow 6, Red 40, Blue 1, Extractives of Tumeric and Annatto), Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Dehydrated Onion, Yeast Extract, Molasses Powder (Molasses Syrup), Dried Sour Cream (Nonfat Milk, Cultures), Natural Flavor, Disodium Inosinate, Disodium Guanylate, Malic Acid, Artificial Flavor.
(an adaptation after Lisa Jarnot's Pigeon Collage)
planet bin leaden
an activist rat and a
rat a tat tat
spit distant stray
mist squabble raunch star
vagrant surge starry splat
big bronco big bigger
yea big bushy brat
barrel broad yokel
wit clamber and flat
tootsie don’t scatter
rats trample mine hat
spit swindle seek orbit
a standoff combat
a laser beam wager
like this but for that
here it’ll take
a couple three cat
One of these happens to be Room at the Top, a book written some guy I've never heard of called John Braine. A google search, however, implies that he's a well-known author from the UK, and he's even published another book entitled, How to Write a Novel, not to mention a whole list of other stuff.
I'm not sure how I got this book, and I haven't read it, though I started it a couple of days ago and have now reached page 10. Apparently (from the blurbs), it's about a ruthless young man, and there are several superimposed ink drawings on the cover which serve to reinforce this impression, a head shot of a man sneering derisively, left eye perhaps blackened, a woman in a low-cut dress in a pose reminiscent of Rodin's The Thinker, yet showing some lower leg (first printing, 1958) and clutching instead her head, fingers tangled in her disheveled hair, obviously distraught. And then on the back, this:
This is the story of Joe Lampton, a charming opportunist who schemes and elbows his way to the top. Hot-tempered and coldly calculating, he's out for all he can get--power, money...love.
Anyway, I don't know if I'll finish this book or not, but I thought I'd mention it primarily because of the first paragraph:
I came to Warley on a wet September morning with the sky the grey of Guiseley sandstone. I was alone in the compartment. I remember saying to myself: No more zombies, Joe, no more zombies.
And this caught my attention, because I had been thinking of zombies after peeping at Kasey's zombie blog, and thus too about Wade Davis' book The Serpent and the Rainbow, recounting how he discovered what zombies are and how they are "made," and which I've read twice. I guess Bob Corbett's assertion that Davis kind of presents himself as an Indiana Jones type of guy might be accurate, though Corbett admits that "the book is certainly informative, interesting, and well written..[and] should be read by any students of Haiti." Well, it'd also be highly interesting to those who are discussing zombies. It's all very fascinating, and I'd recommend Davis' book to anybody who is not only interested in zombies, but poetry as well, since voodoo and poetry spring, I suspect, from a similar acuitive font, subject in any case to infinite variation.
I'm really traveling here. If this were a basketball game, the whistle would have blown, but it's not a basketball game, so I'll just push on toward the highlands of southern Mexico...
and Maria Sabina, but for now I've got to push the pause button.