29 November 2016

from Of Grammatology

There was in fact a first violence to be named. To name, to give names that it will on occasion be forbidden to pronounce, such is the originary violence of language which consists of inscribing within a difference, in clarifying, in suspending the vocative absolute.

— Jacques Derrida

Two Poems

Angela Peñaredondo

Historic Flaws

I am going to the mountains
where the alternating universe of autumn
descends over you at an erotic squat. Out of that blank
and meaningless Play-Doh of my psychic flesh
I am moving on. I am a pupil of fading antiquity.
Sprawled across the table, in a lament about healthcare
and the ineptitude of The System.
Nothing burns quite like The System. It comes at you
when you ask for help, displaying its super-talons
around a clutch of arrows, saying No.
“What deeds could man ever have done
if he had not been enveloped in the dust-cloud
of the unhistorical?” Nietzsche asks this morning
from a small pamphlet on my lap, issued in 1949
in New York City, which I am leaving now,
like a wife from her distant husband
who will not stop to ask her why she is weeping
while she slices apart his silk ties on the floor of the closet.

— Bianca Stone

22 November 2016

Factotum

I kept after her like a horny redneck drunk on beer in a Greyhound bus passing through Texas.

— Bukowski

08 November 2016

Sonya Huber

Life is Good 1 2 3

1 As if the gain itself, the good, the fat, were the point, as if loss wasn't what tied us to other people and broke apart our fake shimmering shells, as if loss wasn't the true wealth, the shape-shifter. As if this assertion of sunshine would be enough to blot out any depression—and much worse, as if one should therefore be ashamed to have the momentary flash of petulance: life sucks. As if teenage rebellion against life could be ignored out of existence with a smile. As if we could ever understand life—think of that—all of life, and declare it good, in the process stretching the word "good" out far enough to slacken it to the size of the universe; yes, let's make them equal and then we will be safe, take the precision of a narrow field and put in an equal sign so that we don't have to worry anymore. As if you were also in completely union with the reverse insight, the Buddhist om of universal acceptance of all phenomena, enlightenment itself, a roiling hell of death confronted, not captioned with a smiley face. You wear this shirt when faced by cancer, squeezing out the drops of shimmering life from a cup of orange juice, and I get that part, I revere that attention to the particular in the face of the extreme, but isn't that said with a shiver, in a serious font, whispered among loved ones, and not slapped on a bumper sticker? Maybe a smaller type size, and not comic sans. Its goofy joy strikes me as gloating when it appears on your jeep's spare tire, facing me in traffic, or is it a kind of anti-intellectual smugness that claims space for simple joy as if the simple things are the most true? In a way I get this is true, even when not stoned: Dude, cheese; air; teeth. But as if rejecting the complex were any way to live. As if it's almost on purpose that this slogan would stymie me, ease me into a world where over-thinking is extinct. As if in nostalgia for a time that never existed where things were imaginarily simple, where we might imagine we found union through gratitude toward every blessed blade of grass. And yes, I get that too, but secular gratitude also turns on itself, because the spiritual container is too weak, a water balloon, too much of a product, and it easily turns into a corporate appropriation, a shaming where we are required to say thank you, thank you to every boss and hellish moment, be grateful they gave you anything at all. As if any disruption in normal goodness were a lack of appreciation, as if orange juice were all we needed, as if.

which led me to obsess, to research the company (a pair of white Boston brothers, wealthy now from selling t-shirts) and to follow the evolution of the company's slogans, the move after 2010 from poor design to an appropriation of seventies-style graphics, washed-out never-been-there vintage and, of course, Namaste. They, too, sing America. As if I could relax into it for just a second, and then I would understand everything.

in a wind-tunnel of fragility at the edge of the crumbling world.

Aimee Herman

A redhead walks into a bar and orders a drink. 
“Barely iced, please,” she says. “Pulp of ginger. Fourteen cherries and a love note rim.”
The bartender with hair of yellow only partially understands. Hands her a see-through glass, taller than the tallest finger with enough liquid inside to qualify its worth at five dollars.
She pushes it aside and repeats herself.
“Barely ginger,” she says in a sour tone. “Pulp of a love note, please. Fourteen iced cherries and rim.”
The bartender stares.
If she weren’t so thirsty, she’d have noticed that his eyes were the color of Michael Jackson’s birthstone, if he were still alive to claim it. He used to be her favorite singer before. Before. Well, you know before.
“Maybe you can explain to me what flavor you are looking for. Or perhaps let me know the ingredients?” the bartender inquires.
The redhead, whose eyes are a color that cannot be compared to any singer or song for that matter, says, “Rhizome and bamboo. Like what cannot be reached or licked. Winter. Not December 28th or even week three of January. March 9th. Straddling morning and afternoon nap. The most romantic syllable, which has never been pronounced. Oh. And fourteen cherries.”
The bartender tastes irate on his teeth and does not know how to proceed.
So he hands her a glass. This one about as tall as one and a half thumbs pressed together. He begins to touch every bottle saluting him from behind. He removes each cap but leaves all the liquid inside. He stares at her with his Michael Jackson eyes as he slowly touches his heart—or where he learned it lives in his body—and rubs his finger tip over the circular rim. Then, without blinking, feeling the sting of too much air on his cornea, places fourteen cherries—one at a time—into his palm, slowly dropping into the glass.
He waits for her to drink it. Or push it away. Or tell him he is wrong.
The redhead leans over the glass and sticks out her tongue. It is not exactly pink. She carefully licks the rim and then just remains there, as though her tongue is telling her a story with its taste buds. She leaves the cherries alone. And then, walks out.

Brigit Pegeen Kelly


Cascarón

Clams Casino

Escargots à la Bourguignonne

Oysters Rockefeller

Lobster Thermidor

31 July 2016

My Father’s “Norton Introduction to Literature,” Third Edition (1981)

Certain words give him trouble: cannibals, puzzles, sob,
bosom, martyr, deteriorate, shake, astonishes, vexed, ode ... 
These he looks up and studiously annotates in Vietnamese.
Ravish means cướp đoạt; shits is like when you have to đi ỉa;
mourners are those whom we say are full of buồn rầu.
For “even the like precurse of feared events” think báo trước.
Its thin translucent pages are webbed with his marginalia,
graphite ghosts of a living hand, and the notes often sound
just like him: “All depend on how look at thing,” he pencils
after “I first surmised the Horses’ Heads / Were toward Eternity —”
His slanted handwriting is generally small, but firm and clear.
His pencil is a No. 2, his preferred Hi-Liter, arctic blue.
I can see my father trying out the tools of literary analysis.
He identifies the “turning point” of “The Short and Happy Life
of Francis Macomber”; underlines the simile in “Both the old man
and the child stared ahead as if they were awaiting an apparition.”
My father, as he reads, continues to notice relevant passages
and to register significant reactions, but increasingly sorts out
his ideas in English, shaking off those Vietnamese glosses.
1981 was the same year we vượt biển and came to America,
where my father took Intro Lit (“for fun”), Comp Sci (“for job”).
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” he murmurs
something about the “dark side of life how awful it can be”
as I begin to track silence and signal to a cold source.
Reading Ransom’s “Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter,”
a poem about a “young girl’s death,” as my father notes,
how could he not have been “vexed at her brown study / 
Lying so primly propped,” since he never properly observed
(I realize this just now) his own daughter’s wake.
Lấy làm ngạc nhiên về is what it means to be astonished.
Her name was Đông Xưa, Ancient Winter, but at home she’s Bebe.
“There was such speed in her little body, / And such lightness
in her footfall, / It is no wonder her brown study / Astonishes
us all.” In the photo of her that hangs in my parents’ house
she is always fourteen months old and staring into the future.
In “reeducation camp” he had to believe she was alive
because my mother on visits “took arms against her shadow.”
Did the memory of those days sweep over him like a leaf storm
from the pages of a forgotten autumn? Lost in the margins,
I’m reading the way I discourage my students from reading.
But this is “how we deal with death,” his black pen replies.
Assume there is a reason for everything, instructs a green asterisk.
Then between pp. 896-97, opened to Stevens’ “Sunday Morning,”
I pick out a newspaper clipping, small as a stamp, an old listing
from the 404-Employment Opps State of Minnesota, and read:
For current job opportunities dial (612) 297-3180. Answered 24 hrs.
When I dial, the automated female voice on the other end
tells me I have reached a non-working number.

-- Hai-Dang Phan

29 July 2016

from Anne Boyer's Garments Against Women

from The Innocent Question:
Monuments are interesting mostly in how they diminish all other aspects of the landscape. Each highly perceptible thing makes something else almost imperceptible.
from No World but the World:
There were seas (and these were rapid seas). There were islands (and these arose from the rabid seas). There were certain conventions at these times: to fly, to conference, to panel, to anthologize. In other circles it was to contest, submit, or award. I'd never been granted anything. I was perfectly willing to assign to my own refusal some sort of pathology. I was already sick, so what would I retrieve?
from Not Writing:
I would like to drink wine from a wooden bowl or to drink water from an emptied bottle of wine.
I am not writing stories based on Nathaniel Hawthorne's unwritten story ideas. I am not writing online dating profiles. I am not writing anonymous communiques. I am not writing textbooks.
from What Is "Not Writing"?:
There is talking which is like writing and which produces not writing in equal measure to producing writing. There is an amount of time not writing which is not wanting to actually have to talk to humans unless it is in order to get them to have sex or in order to convince them to leave. There is sleep, which is often dreams, which is closer to writing—dreams are more like writing than not writing in that they are not intruded upon in their moments by the necessities of all paid work, care work, social expectations, romantic love or talking to people.
from Ma Vie en Bling: A Memoir:
These systems that amplified my loneliness included cars, airplanes, computers, and telephones. These systems included universities, literary presses, major American cities, the U.S. mail, and several private mail carriers including U.P.S. and Federal Express.

21 June 2016


Antarctica.

I’d never before had the experience of beholding scenic beauty so dazzling that I couldn’t process it, couldn’t get it to register as something real. A trip that had seemed unreal to me beforehand had taken me to a place that likewise seemed unreal, albeit in a better way. Global warming may be endangering the continent’s western ice sheet, but Antarctica is still far from having melted. On either side of the Lemaire Channel were spiky black mountains, extremely tall but still not so tall as to be merely snow-covered; they were buried in wind-carved snowdrift, all the way to their peaks, with rock exposed only on the most vertical cliffs. Sheltered from wind, the water was glassy, and under a solidly gray sky it was absolutely black, pristinely black, like outer space. Amid the monochromes, the endless black and white and gray, was the jarring blue of glacial ice. No matter the shade of it—the bluish tinge of the growlers bobbing in our wake, the intensely deep blue of the arched and chambered floating ice castles, the Styrofoamish powder blue of calving glaciers—I couldn’t make my eyes believe that they were seeing a color from nature. Again and again, I nearly laughed in disbelief. Immanuel Kant had connected the sublime with terror, but as I experienced it in Antarctica, from the safe vantage of a ship with a glass-and-brass elevator and first-rate espresso, it was more like a mixture of beauty and absurdity.

18 June 2016

from Annie Proulx's Heart Songs and Other Stories

The first early snows came and melted and we were into Indian summer. The sky was an intense enamel blue, but the afternoon light had a dying, year's-end quality, a rich apricot color as though it fell through a cordial glass onto an oak table, the kind of day hunters remember falsely as October.


05 June 2016

Debbie Harry claims that she was nearly Ted Bundy's first victim.



The subject of a painting by Robert Williams, the artist responsible for the original Appetite for Destruction cover art, which was deemed too controversial and replaced.

the of and

Zipf's Law

from Annie Proulx's Accordion Crimes


Riley McGettigan, nineteen, wondering at the brevity of life, swooned with an arrow in his neck.

The Pelkys helped him into the back seat of their old sedan, Mrs. Pelky stuffing a bed pillow that still smelled of her night hair under his shoulder. Mr. Pelky, his driving confused by a sense of emergency, squealed onto the highway and sped for the hospital. The trees were in heavy bud, the wet road under the maples covered with their fallen blossom, as dark red as coagulated pools of blood. The car whirred past sloping maple, soft buff and genital-flesh blur, and below this purpled arc a line of popple flashed, then past veins of birch, then the curving line of the ridge and through the branches the puzzled sky, and they were past the roaring arms of the pines and the swamp filled with stalks, coming to the first fields and scratchy lines of red osier, bramble hoops, and all of it strung together with birdcalls and apprehension.

from Annie Proulx's Bird Cloud: A Memoir of Place

A final regret came when the nearby restaurant removed turbot cheeks from their menu, a serious blow, as I thought this delicacy a prime reason to come to the peninsula. Never before or since have I discovered this dish in any restaurant or fish market. God knows where all the turbot cheeks of yesteryear have gone—probably home to the fisherman's missus.

The air shuddered with volant snow like bead curtains in an earthquake. [...] In the whiteout the world fell away until there was nothing but panting elk and purple-faced humans.

Walking on the land or digging in the fine soil I am intensely aware that time quivers slightly, changes occurring in imperceptible and minute ways, accumulating so subtly that they seem not to exist. Yet the tiny shifts in everything—cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks—press inexorably on and on.

04 February 2015

Solitaire - Deborah Landau

That summer there was no girl left in me.
It gradually became clear.
It suddenly became.

In the pool, I was more heavy than light.
Pockmarked and flabby in a floppy hat.
What will my body be

when parked all night in the earth?
Midsummer. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I am not on the oxygen tank.

Twice a week we have sex.
The little girls poolside I see them
at their weddings I see them with babies their hips

thickening I see them middle-aged.
I can't see past the point where I am.
Like you, I'm just passing through.

I want to hold on awhile.
Don't want to naught
or forsake, don't want

to be laid gently or racked raw.
If I retinol. If I marathon.
If I Vitamin C. If I crimson

my lips and streakish my hair.
If I wax. Exfoliate. Copulate
beside the fish-slicked sea.

Fill me I'm cold. Fill me I'm halfway gone.
Would you crush me in the stairwell?
Could we just lie down?

If the brakes don't work.
If the pesticides won't wash off.
If the seventh floor pushes a brick

out the window and it lands on my head.
If I tremor, menopause. Cancer. ALS.
These are the ABCs of my fear.

The doctor says
I don't have a pill for that, dear.
Well, what would be a cure-all, ladies,

gin-and-tonics on a summer night?
See you in the immortalities! O blurred.
O tumble-rush of days we cannot catch.

07 November 2014

Earl Partridge, on his deathbed.

I loved her so. And she knew what I did. She knew all the fucking stupid things I'd done. But the love was stronger than anything you can think of. The goddamn regret. The goddamn regret. 
Oh, and I'll die. Now I'll die, and I'll tell you what, the biggest regret of my life, 
I let my love go. 
What did I do? I'm sixty-five years old. And I'm ashamed. A million years ago, the fucking regret and guilt, these things, don't ever let anyone ever say to you you shouldn't regret anything. Don't do that. Don't. 
You regret what you fucking want. Use that. Use that. Use that regret for anything, any way you want. You can use it, okay? Oh, God. This is a long way to go with no punch. 
A little moral story, I say, love. Love. Love. This fucking life, oh, it's so fucking hard. So long. 
Life ain't short, it's long. It's long, goddamn it. Goddamn. 
What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? Phil. Phil, help me. What did I do?

04 November 2014

You did it - Margaret Atwood


How long will you demand I love you?
I’m through, I won’t make
any more flowers for you
I judge you as the trees do
by dying.

01 November 2014

Lucia Stacey, via Broadside Thirty, Tin House


URBAN PUBERTY


That I have to go to the gynecologist
in Brooklyn, because I chose the cheaper

health insurance plan. That I will sit
speculum-sore for ages, waiting for the L.

That there’s no heat in my bedroom
(sexual or otherwise). That I have to go

to Bushwick to admit this to a stranger.
That I can blow smoke upon waking.

That I spent money on Sharon Olds
Anne Sexton, Victoria Redel, and wine

instead of chicken or peaches or beans.
That I did everything

I wasn’t supposed to (but only last Sunday).
That the ceiling fell

into the shower and I stood naked
on the deck to get clean. That no one saw.


That I learned indifference by watching
a mouse hemorrhage internally in glue.

That my laundry man has only one eye
and three teeth. That he said to call him Tony.

That I know what chemical to use
to disintegrate the body

of a pigeon, trapped and died in the wall.
That I held an accidental séance

because of all the candles and incense.
That I’ve considered the $5 psychics

selling fortunes on Canal street.
That I can recognize black mold.

That I recognize faces on the M72.
That I am recognized. That I am not.

28 October 2014

from Salon to Saloon.




French salon—from Middle French, from Italian salone (large hall), augmented form of Italian sala (hall), from Lombardic sala (room, house, entrance hall), from Proto-Germanic *salą (dwelling, house, hall), from Proto-Indo-European *sel- (human settlement, village, dwelling). Cognate with Old High German sal (room, house, entrance hall), Old English sæl (room, hall, castle), Old Church Slavonic селó (seló, courtyard, village), Lithuanian sala (village)—either augmentative of salle (room), or borrowed from Italian salone (hall), augmentative form of sala, salla (room); in both cases borrowed from a Germanic source such as Old High German sal (house, hall), from Proto-Germanic *salą, from Proto-Indo-European *sol-, derived from *sel- (dwelling).

Essentially, in its attempt to mimic French culture, the Old West mistranslated the French Salon to Saloon.