I'll be appearing on Saturday night at the Charles Olson Centenary Conference--looking forward to seeing everyone!
Friday, June 04, 2010
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
“America” is a smug, hardhearted, unforgiving nation of jackals, which
forever slaps itself on its back over how generous, selfless and idealistic it is. It is the most preposterous propaganda barrage since
Goebbels ran an office, in bloodier and more interesting times.
You go to the window. You look out at the immense night. You see the plow, you see the dipper, you see the fish and you see the net. Every thing blood and bone ever needed is shown and displayed in the sky. You can hunker down and pay the mortgage, and save yourself a lot of trouble, or you can see the show. There actually isn’t any other choice.
For a mere traveller has no access to the haunts...
Edward Dorn: The Air of June Sings
My eyes avoid
stone, larger than the common large, Goodpole Matthews,
that pioneer sticks in me like a wormed black cherry
in my throat,
No Date, nothing but that zeal, that trekking
and Business, that
presumption in a sacred place, where children
are buried, and
where peace, as it is in the fields and the country
should reign. A
wagon wheel is buried there. Lead me away
to the small
quiet stones of the unpreposterous dead and leave
me my tears for Darling we love thee, for
Budded on earth and blossomed
in heaven, where the fieldbirds sing in the
and there is possibility, where there are not the loneliest of
Oh, the stones
not yet cut...
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
two classic albums by John Fahey, including "Railroad I":--
In 1983 he recorded Railroad I for his Takoma label: a 10-song album with titles a mixture of Richard Brautigan's porch-side mysticism and
folky small-talk with a grizzled convenience store clerk. Some sound like ad hoc itineraries: “Frisco Leaving Birmingham,” “Afternoon Espee
through Salem.” Others are lent an ambiguous personal symbolism or naïve simile: “Summer Cat by My Door,” “Life Is Like a Mountain Railway” (“I ask you, is it?” Fahey mused in his liners). There’s the rail fan’s favorite: “Steve Talbot on the Keddie Wey,” a locomotive picker rhapsodizing the steel tracks laid along the Feather River Canyon.
There’s the conflation of the ineffable and the empirical: “Enigmas & Perplexities of the Norfolk and Western;” “Delta Dog thru the Book of
Revelation.” There are meditations and ruminations, vignettes and moderate and capable extrapolations of worn and ossified themes. There
are whimsical and worried tones; there are deep death tolls and ecstatic birth cries. And there is no clear statement about anything. True to
his word, Railroad I is a puzzle askew--scattershot, a colorful and emotive mess, bereft of configuration and purpose...