Monday, March 30, 2015

So in the afternoon we listened to Così fan tutte





   and after his
   dinner I gave
   him a rawhide
   toy, serving
   myself a Mus-
   cadet with a
   pigeon over
   pea shoots in
   a pale vinaig-
   rette. Gugli-
   elmo with his
   whiskers made
   us laugh.



























Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Lorenzo da Ponte
Così fan tutte
1789
Herbert von Karajan
Philharmonia Orch & Chor
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf
Nan Merriman
Rolando Panerai
Léopold Simoneau
Lisa Otto
Sesto Bruscantini
Walter Legge, producer
EMI, 1954©




Portrait of a household under siege


  Anticipate photogenesis,
  but gather up the read-
  ing lamps and cachepots
  for the excursions of a
  newborn English dog.






  Two years ago,
  his plane ar-
  rived from Cal-
  ifornia and he
  became Virgini-
  an.

  He's better at
  it, right down
  to his accent.





























   I requested an
   ornithologist,
   they sent me a
   cavalier. When
   there are wood-
   cock, his ora-
   tions stir the
   County. And be-
   tween these ep-
   isodes, we are
   plotting their
   return, polish-
   ing our marrow
   spoon, quietly
   inconspicuous.
   




   His genius for

   the victimless
   pounce has not
   yet gained the
   panache of his
   rising. Yet we
   accept this in
   such répartée,
   as heralds all
   to play.
   

















Winchimes Cypress Point





Sunday, March 29, 2015

Shared bath







 












 None of these is 
 a picture of any-
 thing I'm related 
 to without recourse 
 to memory. But no-
 body's designated
 to remember. One
 could decide to be
 illegitimate.



























ii    Jerome Blum
iii   Franz Kline





Saturday, March 28, 2015

Their reckless Saturday






    Asphalt giving up
    the creepy retail
    drink dissolving,
    traffic noise pa-
    thetically dis-
    persed. 

    













Thursday, March 26, 2015

We hear the moldings of fact






   
       Now there is waged a war
       of spectacles, and it is
       always urgent to extin-
       guish the alien vision.

       It isn't what we resemble
       as we assimilate informa-
       tion. It isn't how we look
       as we think about it, to-
       gether. It is that we do.

       Therefore, it isn't ever
       even, what we listen to, 
       that sparks the blaze we 
       didn't light. This is set
       by a nature we share. The
       moldings may be a bruise,
       may be a caress; beneath
       them, something stays. 
       
       It's that it is in us, to
       listen, that not a thing
       can ever stop. The war is
       against vitality. When we
       fall, we only rise. How
       horrible we must look, we
       allow anyone always to say.

       It is the fairest slight.





















































Luke Edward Hall
  project for a framing
2015©







Tuesday, March 24, 2015

He's a generation late


Imagine Rick Santorum 
or poor Joe McCarthy.
Man spends his whole
Senate career gaining
renown for his genius,
and someone comes a-
long to surpass him.





                       Gee, thanks, Mr Cruz. 
                       But I guess I can fig-
                       ure this out.
                                                       
                       















Émil Geronne



Memo on the misanthrope


I'd never actu-
ally heard this
guy before, but
his anguished
swoon on C-SPAN
came as plan-
gently famil-
iar pathology,
twisted parox-
ysms of panic.

We have our own
fox in the at-
tic, and nobody 
ever said any-
thing. How come?


       Tell him, if he
       isn't careful,
       I'll let him in-
       hale it.





       So Lothar .. betook himself to his gymnasium,
       and at the first whiff of all the delicious
       manliness within its echoing portals he snort-
       ed like a horse. The abiding smell of men's
       gymnasiums is a cold composite one, compound-
       ed of the sweet strawberry-smell of fresh male
       sweat, the reek of thumped leather and the
       dust trampled into the grass of the floor and
       confirmed there by the soapy mops of cleaners,
       but to eighteen-year-old Lothar this tang
       meant everything that the wind on the heath
       meant to Petulengro and he snorted it now like
       a horse let out to spring grass.






















Richard Hughes
The Fox in the Attic
Chatto & Windus, 1961©
The New York Review
  of Books, 2000©