Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Cape May memories...
Found this picture in an old Thom McAn shoebox of the whole gang of us on the beach in Cape May. Steadfastly ignoring those threatening storm clouds. That's me with my legs sticking out. We were crazy for canasta that summer...
For Marcia and Mary Ellen that was a very special summer...
We'll never forget the day Arnold lost his Ball railroad watch, and everyone on the beach helped out trying to find it...
There was always that awkward time sometime in the late afternoon. Thank God for Uncle George, who always spoke up first, saying what was on everyone's mind: "What say we head across the street to Sid's for a cold one?"
Sometimes after the morning round of badminton no one really felt like going to the beach. After a brisk shower for everyone Tommy would make up a fresh batch of his "special" iced tea, and Mrs Biddle would break out the fresh canasta decks...
Sally was so proud of herself the day she caught that sand shark.
The stillness in the air was palpable the day of the big canasta tournament at the Colonial...
Christmastime was always special at Mrs Biddle's. Tommy's special mulled cider. The pock-pock of the balls from the billiards room. And as suddenly as the canasta craze had taken over the previous summer all at once now it was fan-tan, every day and all day, on the big dining room table, and everyone took their meals in the kitchen or else in the parlour...
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Mad Priest's Apprentice/roguegrader
\They had seen the lean tall fellow with the .22 on his back from quite a ways away. This was due to the bright orange safety vest, very tattered and flaking now that they had ridden closer, that the man was wearing atop his battered, colourless workalls.
They surrounded him, four horsemounted, hatted men. Behind the fellow, who wore a long and stylish mustache atop his thickly curled face, Gregory unslung his rifle. The rest of them already had
guns in their hands.\
\he tells them of his watching of the goats/
/his time in the hills, dreaming of the future/
/planning for it/
/watching the long slow life of the steppes/
/and dreaming of ways to fit Man back in/
/they are surprised/
/and eat goat with him that night/
/one of them stays at the cave, farewelling and goodbyeing/
/there is no rancour, it is very odd/
\the strange plants glow in the night, wishing silent vegetable incomprehensible thoughts while silver bugs ride their veins drinking moonlight/
the others rode on in the morning \
thinking on what the old man has told them \
of the Mother's concern \
for all life/
of the great ice/
She is bringing to shield us \
from the great storms of space/
still, he explained/
it was worth watching the goats \
it was always worth watching the goats \
and they had agreed, wondering/
wiping fat from their hairy chins/
in the flickering firelight \
by the old man's cave \
2009 Peter Greene.
Martino Oberto (1925-2011)
Born in 1925, Oberto ("OM") was a visual poet, asemic writer, anarchist, anartist, founder of the seminal vispo mag "Ana etcetera" (1958-70). His works have been exposed in solo and collective shows (with Munari, Dorfles, Fontana and many others) from the 50s up to now. He also made experimental movies, and wrote philosophical essays about writing & art. He lived in New York for a decade or so, then came back to Genoa in the 90s. His visions and projects of "powerless words" and "anart" [something like "anti-art"] are absolutely relevant, right now, even if they belong to his 1968 short movie "Before anarchism (freedom from culture)".
Here are a few links:
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Cold Water Sea Change
by Jesse S. Mitchell
Unending and bland as the day I was born
And my mouth twice as dry,
With withered digits, buried legs,
And two good front eyes, flat.
But you can tell I love you by the words I say…
Why there is no where to go but up.
You can tell by my tone.
You can tell by the time I spend spend spend
With you.
My God, look at my hands…
Look down at my hands,
You know, If I were a more sensitive man
I could run around, wild, and we could fix this
City,
By God, it could be a paradise.
My God, look at my hands
And how the blood pours out,
What is it that all this means to me?
What is that it needs from me?
But there I stand in the kitchen, knife in hand,
A silly Jew, salting the beef,
Draws out the blood,
Degenerates the essence
But I’ve said that before.
What good it does…what good it does.
Drawn,
Talk about drawn,
Thin,
Why I can barely feel my hands and feet, up to my elbows
Up to my knees,
Numb…
A phantom pain, maybe, but what good is a memory?
My God
My God,
Is this really me?
A thousand miles down,
Alone, at the bottom of the sea?
Is this really it,
What does your mother tell you?
Is this really all the bother?
A scrap of dried cloud/cloth
To smother out the rest?
A dried up utopia,
Just add water
Brine
Soak it over night.
Is this really me?
A thousand miles down,
Alone, at the bottom of the sea?
WEIWEI is FREE!!!
Ai Weiwei has been released after 80 days detention by the Chinese governement. He is safe at home.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
empty ski place
candy for lunch (empty ski place near Armstrong, B.C.)
thirty years old
running a shop
that sells nothing:
printed with the name of this place,
nowhere,
somewhere.
it’s empty: out of season ski strip.
fur hats and beaver t-shirts
compete jostling for no-one
we’ve gone in,
it was open
why we came up here
i don’t know
i don’t ski
there’s no snow right now anyway
she’s come out from behind the counter
pale, glitter, alone
her boyfriend is in town
there’s no business
i want to go
but the older relation
stays, chatting
of nothing
looking at well-priced
nothing
and this nothing-child
this poor lost beast
whose mother never even taught it
what to eat
offers us,
tentative
(normally there is no need
when there are more
customer people
they just talk , you know?)
of her empty time
and of her food:
a small plastic bag
with some coloured bits of candy in it:
her lunch, she says
desperatepaleglitter
such feelings as tear at my chest
and eyes
i cannot say
we have lost all our children
alone, they play
(adult), & all forlorn.
2009 Peter Greene.
Hello and who has created this?
Hiya,
I was invited to contribute here, which is cool, but I'm trying to figure out who's site it is, the goals, etc. I think I kind of get it from what I see posted but if anyone wants to give me a clue, that'd be great. Meanwhile, I would be delighted if any of you wanted to join me at my own blog called 'Somewhere in Transition' and can be found at http://julialeebarclay.blogspot.com
Thanks for the invite, from whomever.
Greetings today from Maine.
I was invited to contribute here, which is cool, but I'm trying to figure out who's site it is, the goals, etc. I think I kind of get it from what I see posted but if anyone wants to give me a clue, that'd be great. Meanwhile, I would be delighted if any of you wanted to join me at my own blog called 'Somewhere in Transition' and can be found at http://julialeebarclay.blogspot.com
Thanks for the invite, from whomever.
Greetings today from Maine.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Republic of Biafra
by Jesse S. Mitchell
Today I believe in demons, my newest phenomenon and I am afraid of aluminum, it is made of poisonous gases. I tell you everything, I lost my back door keys, the cat is in heat and I may need new glasses.
Momentum…
Momentum…
Loud momentum…
I call you up on the telephone because I don’t like the look of being here all alone. It sounds like a Marlene Dietrich record over there, but I’ve been wrong before, like that time I thought I liked Gore Vidal. It’s too loud for ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ and I put a big hole in my floor. I think Biafra should have won that war, but you know that, you gave me the flag I have on my door.
Machines…
Machines…
Dangerous Machines…
It is the staring down the barrel of a gun, mouth of steel, bullet tongue, that makes me feel that the red devil is real. It’s all the want and the starving, that makes hands that grab all they can steal. It’s the shuffle and rough around the edges that make the little marks that we can’t explain. It’s the rainy days, that is all, that come from all these clouds. It’s all these thoughts thought out loud that make so much noise…and all these machines…and the little cracks in my voice.
Little songs…
Little songs…
Little songs I hear on the radio…
Today I believe in demons, my newest phenomenon and I am afraid of aluminum, it is made of poisonous gases. I tell you everything, I lost my back door keys, the cat is in heat and I may need new glasses.
Momentum…
Momentum…
Loud momentum…
I call you up on the telephone because I don’t like the look of being here all alone. It sounds like a Marlene Dietrich record over there, but I’ve been wrong before, like that time I thought I liked Gore Vidal. It’s too loud for ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ and I put a big hole in my floor. I think Biafra should have won that war, but you know that, you gave me the flag I have on my door.
Machines…
Machines…
Dangerous Machines…
It is the staring down the barrel of a gun, mouth of steel, bullet tongue, that makes me feel that the red devil is real. It’s all the want and the starving, that makes hands that grab all they can steal. It’s the shuffle and rough around the edges that make the little marks that we can’t explain. It’s the rainy days, that is all, that come from all these clouds. It’s all these thoughts thought out loud that make so much noise…and all these machines…and the little cracks in my voice.
Little songs…
Little songs…
Little songs I hear on the radio…
anhedron
anhedron: dive bomber
taking no side
i surround and keep inside
many lies
i laugh
at do
decajedron
and his twenty ways;
you're square, you have no idea
what flatland is like these days
since i got round, man,
i sure got round you
anhedron
i am beating on the inside of a rubber sphere
anhedron
Peter Greene 2010.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Alsk011 / differx. 2007
Sunday, June 12, 2011
bluthgelt's sayings
the village: iv:
bluthgelt's sayings: i.
the taxman he thinks
that he's a big star like Death
with everyone fearing
his cold smelly breath
his ledger a scythe
his work one of taking
one could almost forgive him
for the mistake he is making
when out by the barn
he goes to my goldpile
and finds just a hole now
and a hand to help lie down
and a stone for a pillow
on top of his head:
Death vs. Taxes:
Taxman lies Dead.
ii: bluthgelt was the baker:
bluthgelt was a man
now he lives Outside us
as a killer of a man.
still he does some service
the Elder Council knows
there are always some need killing :
so they keep a killer dog close
and when he spends his namesake
at the tavern or the fair:
no-one knows his name:
to us he isn't there
iii
for he wears a Council token
of freedom and despair:
a coin of gold
a red cross
twisted in his beard.
held there by a ribbon
of nanometric steel:
'twill grow now with his beard hair,
his madness
and his fear
as he crouches in his rude hut
just outside the Ways
waiting for the signal
the Council sometimes makes
counting up his gold
taxless, he is rich
alone amongst the robins
he yearns for a cold ditch
to pitch his pale form into
to strangle and to twitch
: but his heart it still beats strongly
there will be more years of this
this lesson to the others
that bluthgelt failed to learn:
kill not of your neighbours
or
forever
burn.
2009 Peter Greene.
Friday, June 10, 2011
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