Monday, January 9

And in those features shuckings of the seals,

With love light-sundered gone for the dark to grow kind.

John Peck, "Tombeau for Vernon Watkins"

Friday, January 6

In your garbage rose the rulers of the restless

Run the Jewels, "Rubble Kings Theme (Dynamite)"

Thursday, November 17

I worried about rain and I worried about lightning

But I watched them off, to the light of the morning
Marking the slope, slung low in the highlands

Bon Iver, "00000 Million"

Thursday, August 25

all is not well

                                   I have been wondering
              What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
                                   It is certainly not me.
              But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering
                                   Blood knows what it knows.
It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.

                                   Of course, it is talking of you.
              At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights,
                                   The sun plants one lithe foot
              On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming
                                   Its warm Arabian nights,
Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.

                                   Who shall, of course, be nameless.
              Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my
                                   As I'm sure you have, too.
              Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless
                                   Whose names are not confessed
In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquarried blue

                                   Of those depths is all but blinding.
              You may remember that once you brought my boys
                                   Two little woolly birds.
              Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding
                                   Your thrush among his toys.
And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.

                                   There is not much else to tell.
              One tries one's best to continue as before,
                                   Doing some little good.
              But I would have you know that all is not well
                                   With a man dead set to ignore
The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.

Anthony Hecht, "A Letter"

Saturday, August 6

Oh my dear, my dear

Perhaps your casual glance
will settle from time to time
on the sea's travelling muscles
that flex and roll their strength
under its rain-pocked skin.
And will see where the salt winds
have blown bare the seaward side
of the berry bushes,
and will notice
the faint, fresh
smell of iodine.

Anthony Hecht, "Message from the City"

Tuesday, May 17

no more

No more lines on the luminescence of light, of whatever variation.
No more elegies of youth or age, no polyglottal ventriloquism.
No more songs of raw emotion, forever overcooked.
No more the wisdom of banality, which should stay overlooked.
No more verbs of embroidery.
No more unintentional phallacy.
No more metaphor, no more simile. Let the thing be, concretely.
No more politics put politically: let the thing be concretely.
No more conditional set conditionally — let the thing be already.
No more children pimped out to prove some pouting mortality.
No more death without dying — immediately.
No more poet-subject speaking into the poem-mirror, watching the mouth move, fixing the thinning hair.
No more superiority of the interiority of that unnatural trinity — you, me, we — our teeth touch only our tongues.
No more Gobstoppers: an epic isn’t an epic for its fingerprints.
No more reversals of grammar if as emphasis.
No more nature less natural; no more impiety on bended knee.
No more jeu de mot, no more mot juste.
No more retinal poetry.

Vanessa Place, "No More"

Sunday, May 8

American truths

Shit, money, and the Word, the three American truths, powering the American mobility, claimed the Slothrops, clasped them for good to the country's fate.

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow

on breakfast

Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret by which - though it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off - the living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down ten or twenty the same assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects...

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow