he would fight until they killed him-- Scott J Holliday, Normal
How avidly this barely typing dowager used to read, even now, in her mildly frigid tremors and soils to be coped with, probably forever in these frail encroaching years, which have finally felled Stanley Plumly, one of the few poets I felt compelled to explore since my ouster from the MFA farming system, I am a woman of action. If Notre Dame Cathedral burns, then we must do something, punish someone, even in the realization that ancient relics are frail themselves, I cannot accept that this fire was the result of construction crew carelessness, and in my sin of extracting vengeance, I cling to the refrain from every Catholic service inviting tranquility.
Peace be with you.
And also with you.
But I am not a woman of peace shrunken to convulsions of her colon making her little better than Ezra Pound singing his madness behind bars. No. I do not need any more of my rhetorical flourishes being forwarded to the FBI by disability centers, so I stop short of simplistic threats toward Llhan Omar, but make no mistake about how exacting I would be if I had the executive authority: I'd not only strip her of her elected office, nullifying her supporters in Minneapolis, I'd also strip her of her citizenship, forcibly return her and her family to Somalia. These are the sins of your ferocious Catholic atheist, who like Lucifer, rebels against divine will for the right reasons.
Notre Dame
Notre Dame, I grieve to glory most high. Macron had better have a salient explanation for the Catholic public at large. He needs a very credible spin. I am reading Holliday's novel. Its rapid pace belies its historical context. It's protagonist, a complicated freak, one who would have been right at home in the gallows of Jean Valjean's prison quarry.
Showing posts with label ezra pound. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ezra pound. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Did Hollywood North create Eric Harris?
"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Qualis artifex pereo
"You have the wrong Secretary." Senator John Kerry's immortal words to the spastic_dowager before he added more plumage to his stature.
Ambulatory individuals often find me humorous when I am intensely serious: "Dr. Creeley you taught someone who was a great influence on me!" I drove up to his table as if I were an ankle monitor ready to latch onto him, and to my great surprise, he burst out into a full throated laugh that made me love him instantly. I did not tell him his poem about killing crows determined the miserable course of my life, and I am starting to weep because Robert is dead, and even if I wanted to run to Jerry, to beg him not to die before me, to beg him to forgive me, to cry and cry on the shoulder of this habituated post modernist Shakespearean of whom I expected a more debonair career end, what good would it do? I am not quite ready to compare Hilter to Joan d'Arc, but the corrosion of poverty, the ignorance and ugliness of the human animal when compared to the beauty of other species we kill near indiscriminately due to lack of equitable distribution of resources and our inability to come up with pragmatic solutions, the fact that a good man never loved me, even if no binary partnership makes for completion, I have been up since noon yesterday, in the post-solstice of December, and I am exhausted, in the recurring motif of over-extension, too dark for anyone not to believe I need a leash, losing my track of acerbic tone, what is it I expect from posting like this? Later.
The later.
Sickness is the hatred of repentance... The poem is "The Crow" and it is in a smaller post-Vietnam collection of Creeley's work, less massive than the tome I purchased when he came to Philadelphia to wank our literary cunts. Robert is not my favorite poet, and on the whole the Beats are more vapor than substance, but "The Crow" is one of my favorite poems reflecting the exhaustion of the 20th century, much like De Niro's failed attempt at wit with the First Couple reflects the exhaustion of Western Imperialism finally giving way before Orientalism. It seems to have been settled with at least some veracity, that Barack is a typical progressive centrist, and I am not suggesting otherwise, but his mother seems to have been infected with John Lennon's bong paraphernalia, and piques my interest more than her disappointing golden child. In my initial post on this topic, near the close of my monetized account, I punned De Niro and Nero, and only upon revision realized this was more intuitive than the lazy carelessness of sarcasm.
Jerry cannot absolve in me what I cannot forgive in myself. I lost my bid to succeed as an American, case closed, the unforgiven in the mistakes of impulse. Pallid, my dour mother's bitter mouth inscribed on my expression like a destructive Artemis, sixty pounds too much of a belly in a stout frame, I am not apologizing to you or anyone else anymore for not reigning it in according to propriety, but, being tired, and Christmas stressed nine months of posts ahead, I shall refine this analysis as luxury allows, three cigarettes closer to cancer. I don't care.
Ambulatory individuals often find me humorous when I am intensely serious: "Dr. Creeley you taught someone who was a great influence on me!" I drove up to his table as if I were an ankle monitor ready to latch onto him, and to my great surprise, he burst out into a full throated laugh that made me love him instantly. I did not tell him his poem about killing crows determined the miserable course of my life, and I am starting to weep because Robert is dead, and even if I wanted to run to Jerry, to beg him not to die before me, to beg him to forgive me, to cry and cry on the shoulder of this habituated post modernist Shakespearean of whom I expected a more debonair career end, what good would it do? I am not quite ready to compare Hilter to Joan d'Arc, but the corrosion of poverty, the ignorance and ugliness of the human animal when compared to the beauty of other species we kill near indiscriminately due to lack of equitable distribution of resources and our inability to come up with pragmatic solutions, the fact that a good man never loved me, even if no binary partnership makes for completion, I have been up since noon yesterday, in the post-solstice of December, and I am exhausted, in the recurring motif of over-extension, too dark for anyone not to believe I need a leash, losing my track of acerbic tone, what is it I expect from posting like this? Later.
The later.
Sickness is the hatred of repentance... The poem is "The Crow" and it is in a smaller post-Vietnam collection of Creeley's work, less massive than the tome I purchased when he came to Philadelphia to wank our literary cunts. Robert is not my favorite poet, and on the whole the Beats are more vapor than substance, but "The Crow" is one of my favorite poems reflecting the exhaustion of the 20th century, much like De Niro's failed attempt at wit with the First Couple reflects the exhaustion of Western Imperialism finally giving way before Orientalism. It seems to have been settled with at least some veracity, that Barack is a typical progressive centrist, and I am not suggesting otherwise, but his mother seems to have been infected with John Lennon's bong paraphernalia, and piques my interest more than her disappointing golden child. In my initial post on this topic, near the close of my monetized account, I punned De Niro and Nero, and only upon revision realized this was more intuitive than the lazy carelessness of sarcasm.
Jerry cannot absolve in me what I cannot forgive in myself. I lost my bid to succeed as an American, case closed, the unforgiven in the mistakes of impulse. Pallid, my dour mother's bitter mouth inscribed on my expression like a destructive Artemis, sixty pounds too much of a belly in a stout frame, I am not apologizing to you or anyone else anymore for not reigning it in according to propriety, but, being tired, and Christmas stressed nine months of posts ahead, I shall refine this analysis as luxury allows, three cigarettes closer to cancer. I don't care.
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