Down to verse (1766)

Macadam Alley LXXIV

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Was named a bridge,

Not far from where we stand,

For loner, irony, time

Of Kiowan, Sioux, Comanche,

Dead warrior sons,

Or those, who once…

Each had his frontier,

We each, I now have mine.

 

It spans my mudholed river

That has its cranes, 

Its egrets, friends

With their Tourette’s

At drones.

Its whitewings moan,

Its mournings mourn,

Its mockers do catch flies

But do not chase the drones.

Too smart,

They do not dive or peck

The false necks

Of the new red tails.

They flee to fullest branches,

From all the morphs,

From common to the Krider’s

To sit with me

On flyovers.

They feel them long before I do.

They know the Ungod’s birds.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krider%27s_hawk

Down to verse (1765)

Macadam Alley LXXIII

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

The pain I chose,

The words I heard

To lead me here,

Well, not quite.

I did not hear,

Refused to hear.

Their word?

I come from choosing none.

 

The others chose theirs years ago,

Where ere they are, unknown.

Sam T fell out, 

Somehow got home,

The only one I've known.

Down to words (666)

Promised comment (15)

 

I could mystify the notion of this mindset. I could generate a dystopia from it. There is much cheap fiction that does that.  The fictions usually work because they are one-sided. They eventually give a drunk a cheap crying pole to circle. They then lead the audience out of the theatre, holding the same pole, or dancing with it, or worse.

 

Some are not cheap. They win academy awards in film or prizes in literature. There is much “self-discovery” in showing broken people and pictures of Dorian Grays. The age itself has often sketched its picture of a Dorian Gray. More lately it has been going back to Shakespeare, his multitudinous seas incarnadine, followed by some fancied independence.

 

I have no time for that. One ghost of mine once scared the bowel out of a minor horror film director by suggesting how he read the Gospel for laughs. It was ironic. For my ghost went on, a sentence or two later, to tell him how the 4^th century Greek St John Chrysostom did not care for laughs.

 

Anyway, I have no time for that.

Daddo’s game:

 

By all means a note that we may stand aside from it or reduce it to a graphic novel.

 

https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/macbeth/quotes/page/3/

Down to words (665)

Promised comment (14)

 

A bit more on the mindset:

 

For political purposes, both the left and the right miss the mindset to which this work refers. The cybernetic program of Derrida remains within the program of each party. It is obvious in the left with its political emphasis on class warfare. But it is also concealed in the right, in many ways, certainly in its prior reasons for endless wars that have backed foolish tribalism. Tribalism, simple enough in its origins, became an abstract, class warfare begun by earlier colonialists, who pushed human pieces about on their war planning boards.  The right also trades off the talking points of the left. Both sides have funded a multitude of consultancies, each with current planning boards.

 

Then in subsequent dealing, e.g., in the budgetary process, both parties traded one folly for another (e.g., military folly for social folly). Both sides divided us on their culture warfare boards into false bases. At points there was no budget at all, uncertain government funding, and a financial crisis. It will end with MMT and Fed compliance in the funding of all of it.  Fedtech uber alles.

 

The vote this fall will not one whit affect the problematic mindset until the basic elements of it are noted and changed. If we do not see the problem with the coming deconstructionist money and our places on its boards of intersectionality, we will stay lost. You may pick a side, but pick your pain.

 

The mindset runs much deeper than the politics.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

The social programs are obvious without mention. Below is an example of a simple war.

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Wilson%27s_War_(film)

 

In comparison to what followed, Churchill’s memoir of the Malakand was of a parlor game.

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malakand_Pass

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_of_the_Malakand_Field_Force

 

Down to verse (1764)

Macadam Alley LXXII

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

I lose my way here, Pops,

Here come I to thee.

I come, a perverse Virgil,

Having seen the giving up

Of voice, then words,

As numbers all in order,

One,

Now clicking Z’s commands,

Dead, instead, so thorough,

Not e’en circling Dante’s rings,

Not even numbered through

The frauds or murders,

Or for the simplest colors

Of wrong home.

Not for me to point out things

For sense, to see what’s

Out of joint but that:

Interminable clicking.

And none to grasp just what that is.

How might I show thee

Through this hell?

Down to verse (1763)

Macadam Alley  LXXI

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

My cosmetician

Of the cosmos,

Donna mi Prega

O how she dresses me,

While she ‘fesses me.

In solitary work

I sing to her.

 

We traverse paths

Of little hunts 

And large ones,

Skirt orchards of pecans

Now wild,

When clouds are thick

When rain does make 

Its hard, rare fall.

On nights 

Then we do hide ‘neath

Blight of wild mesquite

And covered simmering fire.

We see the rotting tennis courts

Of decades past, 

An oath, a figure

Ne’er to play a game.

Down to verse (1762)

Macadam Alley  LXX

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Well, Pops, quid nunc,

I skip my stone to plunk

Before my man

Lloyd, son Boyd,

Who hold this bridge

And Haysoose whom you’ll see

From that high ridge

Who’ll preach 

At odd times,

Times of storms,

Are holiest Cids

This day

Or next,

With text of tongues,

Lost Pentecost way,

Full throats nighthawks

Coo roos doves.

Ah…

The drone above flies,

Z-man owns the skies

But never hears

Their bird’s God’s lungs.

Down to verse (1761)

Macadam Alley  LXIX

 

Sam gone to meet his woman

Far from town,

God how she makes it,

I don’t know,

Some kind of wife.

This isn’t Tintern Abbey, Pops.

She is not Wordsworth’s sister.

 

They do not walk 

A nature path

In lovely fallacy,

Triumph o’er strife.

No. 

We are what we’re cracked up to be, 

A no soul’s land of life.

 

To them,

To those opposed,

We all are dead,

You see,

Our language left

For politick

Of Jackie D’s deep sea.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lines_Written_a_Few_Miles_above_Tintern_Abbey

Down to verse (1760)

Macadam Alley LXVIII

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

I may be mad in rhyme,

Pops,

Old ghosts come in,

Come out of me,

In free or footed time,

A Christus come

To call me ‘Legion’,

Free me,

From my sum,

My demons all, 

But in my madness

In my rhyme,

While I fall,

While I stall,

He sails away.

I cannot grasp his message.

I have no access to his grace,

His time not yet in rhyme.

Him many she’s replace,

Dance their bellies,

As the others

All the rest,

Would sting him back,

Their strength,

Their numbered law,

That one, that number,

One for me.

I shun a mediatrix

Who curses all old words,

Yea, blocks his way,

For I am not allowed to pray.

I stand this day

Upon my shore

Await to hear it,

Not yet this day.

My soul is meek, but bleak.

In avians, I long for a tomorrow,

I understand they groan for it. 

I know their moans are not enough.

 

Sam and I do hear and watch our birds.

Daddo's game:

Mark 5:9-20

Down to words (664)

Promised comment (13)

 

Continuing with the demand of the academic: I never get to say what I was saying. Worse, I never get to test it. He will recast it immediately. My thought is a mere occasion for him to develop a new thesis. My old one never gets tested. The academic believes he has some right to demand that I answer an irrelevant question. 

 

The academic is like a Socrates who, in the professed interest of truth, badgers a Euthyphro or an Ion. That is a general folly I have dealt with many times in this thread. Derrida’s folly is a type of it.

 

Let me repeat.

 

“It is as I have shown it. Either you see it or you don’t. You’re welcome to dispute the facts as shown. And the connections that I make.”

 

There is Derrida’s On Grammatology. It is in that work that he writes about his cybernetic program that is to oust the concepts of soul, of life, of value, of choice, of memory from writing. These have been used to separate man from machine in the past. Writing, as previously understood, is to remain until these have been removed, until he says, its historico-metaphysical character is exposed.

 

This is a textual fact. These are also facts: 1) Derrida’s influence throughout university departments of philosophy, literature, history, social sciences, etc., 2) the removal of free speech (by speech codes, critical studies, etc.) from university discourse, 3) the removal of traditional historical statues, names, etc., from campuses, 4) the support of the campus press and administrations for this, 5) the support of much national media for this, 6) the wide support of tech and other companies which themselves have an interest in the cybernetic program working out, 7) the digitization of finance and banking.

 

I have detailed much more and shown how it differs from a true Marxism, which my old grumpy ghost, being pro labor (praxis), pro freedom rider, pro Franz Fanon, etc., insists that I do.

 

My old ghost and his fellows had one mindset. Derrida’s is another. Derrida’s has taken much of the country over. My old ghost’s mindset faded. That is all I care to offer at this point about mindsets.  I could offer more.

Down to words (663)

https://www.gatestoneinstitute.org/16520/cnn-lawsuit-dershowitz

Down to words (662)

Promised comment (12)

 

Another point with regard to these roving folks who tell me ‘we have to have this conversation’ : I don’t have to have one. Out of context, out of the blue, I owe no one a conversation if I have said nothing up to then.

 

I may consent to your authority to demand it of me, but I do not have to. At that point, it takes on the character of something formal, like a deposition. In that case, in Britain and in the US, I have the legal right to remain silent.  

 

I do not have to deal with persons who think certain conversations are such that it is their right to demand them of me. It is not my problem if they want this. It is theirs. I do not have to endure it in any personal or business relationship. I can always end the relationship if other parties get too imperative.

 

The problem arises when there is a mindset that demands this of me. I believe there has come or is coming to be one, certainly on university campuses. There spoken language is being deconstructed before it begins. This comes out of Derrida’s Margins of Philosophy. Here begins a foundation for the predicates of social justice. They come out of what Derrida calls White Mythology, which Derrida claims to derive from Aristotle’s logic. The spoken language of Western culture has been under attack in all forms from this point.

 

Again, my old ghost insists that this is not Marxism in any form.  This is simply an immediate, foundational opposition to the culture of the West. There is not one drop of praxis in it. It is the intellectual stalking of the white man and his removal by means of critical studies.  A mere corollary is the hatred of the American system. The 1619 project is merely a narrative of the moment.

 

Now one can see how the right to be silent, buried in the simplest conversation, and fundamental to British and American legal systems, is under attack, all property and dogs with it. Most on the left find this a convenient avenue in discourse. The kid comes back from college with a dimly felt, brave new leverage. His right wing father thinks it is Marxism. My old ghost’s feathers are ruffled. 

Hardly anyone sees it.

Down to words (661)

Promised comment (11)

 

I am still playing with the academic, as one of my ghosts tried to be one. He tickles me to continue. He tells me:

 

An academic that would put me on his boot hill might start an inquisition thus:

 

“What is this that you are saying about this so called mindset?”

 

It might go on like this, with my reply:

 

“Nothing more than I have said already. My account is all I have.”

 

Rather than take issue with my extant account he might suggest an insufficiency, for I have not defined what a mindset is.

 

“But what is it?”

 

(as if this were somehow key.)

 

I might say this:

 

“It is as I have shown it. Either you see it or you don’t. You’re welcome to dispute the facts as shown. And the connections that I make.”

 

He might try to get me to take a position on the nature of a mindset. It is irrelevant. He might get me to take a position on the motives of particular people, maybe mine. That is irrelevant.  Politics is irrelevant. It makes no difference who wins what election. Etc.

 

If he gets me to go his direction, he has changed the subject. At the point where I am, I have gone where I have gone. Either I have gone right or gone wrong. That should be what is in question, not a new question.

 

The idea that there is another conversation that I have to have about another question is silly. There are countless questions that might arise this way, each of which needs an argument for asking it. The academic loves this, for he generates departments out of this. Maybe I hate departmental meetings, maybe that is my motive. So what? I do not bite at the ad hominem.

 

I simply have the same response. It is all I need.

 

“It is as I have shown it. Either you see it or you don’t. You’re welcome to dispute the facts as shown. And the connections that I make.”

 

If I wanted to offer a further explanation, again, I would not need to. At some point I may, God willing, creek conditions allowing, etc.

Down to words (660)

Promised comment (10)

 

There will be no Edgar Lee Masters for me, however. There is not the slightest charitable shovel for me in the postmodern ascendency. For I am the hated man, the Robert Johnson man. This is not hard to be. Any talker (not many of us left) will do.  So I repeat:

 

Fed’s Broadway XXXXVI

 

Street con VIII

 

Robert Johnson Man

 

I am the hated man,

The man who cannot speak a word

Or have a space

To ask the grace to have it.

For I am not allowed to pray

Or have a seat

Or pass away

To judgment day.

 

http://xroads.virginia.edu/~MUSIC/Blues/iihpojd.html

 

(Previously at # 289, 7/12/15)

 

The digital revolution will put us away, one by one, (or by generations, if necessary, in a digital form of genocide it will call evolution) as we cease talking, as we mirror each other’s words. That is what it is designed to do. It is succeeding. As money is free and character absent, its mindset, which consists of our remainder, will approach a flatline.

 

https://mauberly.blogspot.com/2019/08/down-to-verse-1450.html

Daddo's game:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spoon_River_Anthology

Down to words (659)

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-09-16/fed-signals-rates-will-stay-near-zero-for-at-least-three-years?srnd=premium

Down to words (658)

Promised comment (9)

 

I write in what I call verse or words. I say ‘down to verse’ when there is something I can show in a few words, usually with a metaphor or two. I say ‘down to words’ when I need a few more and some prose. No big deal.

 

It is not philosophy. I believe that philosophy is ground floor confusion. So I do not do it. Let me put it this way: I try not to. There is always a great temptation to inflate one’s words. Aristophanes saw philosophy as folly. Since I am no towering light, I hide under his skirt.  Or Austin’s.  Or Wittgenstein’s. Their threads are okay.

 

Verse or words, for me, is often an account, literal or metaphorical. It does not claim first principles. It typically does not tackle the ordinary how to.  But it may: the broken toilet.  Other than that, it simply starts somewhere, just as conversation does. Or it starts where I left off. Just as conversation.

 

If someone attacks me with first principles, he has already gone wrong. I don’t accept any. I don’t have to. He has to embark on a different discourse and cannot force me to do this. He needs the modals: the ‘should would’s’, the musts, etc.

 

I don’t. My account works without them. You see, I talk.  I do not need first principles to do this. I have a natural language that I learned at my mother’s knee. And she learned a language at her mother’s knee. So far as I can find a grave, that is the way it has been. No one has ever needed first principles to learn to talk. The philosopher constructs them after the fact. Then he argues that I needed them: his.

 

But I don’t argue philosophy. I talk. Those who insist that I have these principles do not want me to talk. They want me to follow their principles and forever confirm them. I simply refuse philosophy and continue to talk. I will not be engineered.

 

I may be wrong. But I do not need modals to be so. I am very good at being wrong on my own, thank you very much.

 

On my own account, there is little modus ponendo crescendo. If I get caught with that bad, old habit, it belongs with my Camel butts. If I do that, I need to edit, without philosophy.

 

One may cough at my verse, my words, their accounts. He may move on. Fine. He has a low opinion of me. Fine. An academic trades off that. He can have his society of Chomsky’s. To me this is dead. So is he. 

 

For him, so am I.  I shall need an Edgar Lee Masters to exhume me from his boot hill, or my mud hole, when he drops me there.

Down to words (657)

Promised comment (8)

 

The postmodern dialectic says it is opposed to capitalism.  It does not say that it opposes labor. My Marxist ghost in the movement long ago saw through that one.  He left well before the Rainbow Coalition. 

 

Without labor, there is nothing to test Marxism. For a member of the proletariat, the maxim is from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. You cannot test this without labor. You cannot ask a comrade ‘what can you do?’ if you are compelled to consider his identity as primary. An identity tests nothing. There can be no performance reviews of comrades. A dialectic of identities is meaningless for a doctrinal Marxist. Identities are immediately subsumed into a proletarian revolution.

 

Thus deconstructionism is not Marxism.  The final deconstruction of the debit and credit by MMT will be the confirmation of the end of capital and labor. Debits and credits get merged by global central banking. Traditional accounting is finished. Money is what the central banks say it is. This specter haunts more than Europe.

 

However, ultimately, identities are to be finished also. Otherwise, they will conflict over time. Thus, of course, do any notions of nationalism.  We are to become one in the postmodern, cybernetic program.  This oneness comes when we are all indistinguishable from machines. Again, to cite Derrida:

 

And, finally, whether it has essential limits or not, the entire field covered by the cybernetic program will be the field of writing. If the theory of cybernetics is by itself to oust all metaphysical concepts-including the concepts of soul, of life, of value, of choice, of memory-which until recently served to separate the machine from man, it must conserve the notion of writing, trace, gramme [written mark], or grapheme, until its own historico-metaphysical character is also exposed. (Of Grammatology, 1967, (p 9))

 

This accounts for politically correct language by which we are prepared for this glorious state in which there is to be no soul, life, value, memory, etc. We shall all be talking exactly the same as this state evolves.

 

If you have not noticed this evolution in your day-to-day business, if you are unfamiliar with HR departments, etc., I am sorry for you. You do not see the evolving mindset.

 

If you take umbrage, I am sorry, as well.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/From_each_according_to_his_ability,_to_each_according_to_his_needs

Down to words (656)

Promised comment (7)

 

There are many ways to turn western culture upside down. Good criticism may do this.  Paglia’s Sexual Personae works well.

 

Deconstructionism is a cheap form. It masquerades to its children as dialectic, but it has no praxis. Deconstructionism is a puppet show of identities with no work underlying them. There is nothing within its analysis to prevent a continuing division of classes into further classes, for there is no work to its identities.  They are simply identities.

 

I need not work to be any of them. If I so fancy their costume, I am one in a kind of theater with them. I am a soup can. Contrary to the passivity of Dandy Andy, I can go to social justice war, depending on the day’s bend of it. If I change my label, I’m a new can. I may change my label anytime. I may reinvent myself and my cause. 

 

I may write my own character, thought, diction, scenery, song, my own plot, i.e., narrative. For now, you have to hear it, or better, watch it: my guerilla theater. I’ll make it into a Broadway show. If I blowup Broadway, I may make that into the show.  

 

However, this show of faces is to become a show of spineless numbers subsumed into the time series of Fed’s Broadway. Here there are no longer backs or bones. People have been sold their identities at a price. The Fed has paid for them with MMT. A monetary Nietzsche, Zerothustra, controls. He drones down a digital mountain. Nothing but Macadam Alley is left for a few shrinking souls. Backs and bones are largely gone. The three Kings are gone. Lucille is gone. There are spineless numbers to come and go, no genealogy to make sense of them.

 

That is the mindset in which we catch ourselves. There is no release in it.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Warhol

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_King

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freddie_King

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B.B._King

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucille_(guitar)

Down to verse (1759)

Macadam Alley LXVII

 

It proves so odd

To watch each class

Become its solitary self.

Reversed Hegelian elves

Do bring about,

Bring roundabout,

Full circle

Back to Marlowe:

(…Now I see that in thy wheel

There is a point to which

When men aspire

They tumble 

Headlong down…)

Old Mortimer,

New Santa’s litanies,

As each doth ,

Class by class, 

Fall back from mass

To ‘now’ and ‘here’

Then disappear,

Its special voting ticket

Done, mailed out.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_II_(play)

Also Chapter 1 of Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind

Down to words (655)

 Old note on monetary theme:

https://www.reuters.com/article/health-coronavirus-cenbank-idUSL8N2CU1Q9

Down to verse (1758)

Macadam Alley LXVI

 

So Pops, you nod.

It is so odd, to watch 

The solitary worker

Disappear abroad,

Yet have him

Still abound within you,

Willing to risk all

To stay outside.

And find a few 

Still willing to do same.

To hold these paths

Unshamed,

Somehow,

For drafts of life

That promise no committees

Seize our words,

However we do blurt

Or chirp,

That leave us to pick seeds

As doves,

That leave us to drink life,

As they do drink,

With no head toss

For false love

All about,

That leave us

With our ‘we’

To storm Bastille.

Daddo's game:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bastille

Down to verse (1757)

Macadam Alley LXV

 

You think me mad?

I have been mad before,

Mad of sanity, my gift,

For I can feel the mindset shift

To undermine my freedom,

Aboriginal.

Ah, the glory of a storm

To blow it elsewhere

Where it might mind

The minds of others,

All in singularity.

Ah, were it true,

But it is all in all now,

Rising from polarity.

Down to verse (1756)

Macadam Alley LXIV

 

You have been thrown to hell, Pops,

As some odd Virgil

I do meet you,

Troubled by your madness

And your wisdom,

And the depth 

Of what you saw

Before your time,

As Tod was sold us, 

Volumes, volt,

As money bursts from bloat,

As age demands 

Now no grimace at all.

We die with one,

We die without one,

We die with tics,

No MLKs,

Just FLKs,

Man Jacked vessels,

Man Jacked faces,

Panty faced for grace,

Laced for other later.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgil

 

‘Tod’ is death, in German.

 

‘FLK’ is funny looking kid, i.e., one with unknown syndrome that needs looking into.

Down to verse (1755)

Macadam Alley LXIII

 

We have our signs, Pops.

You’ll come to see them,

Master them as you did poetry

And languages,

You’ll see their shades

In faces and in hands,

We take our stands.

We know the words

We cannot use,

For sounds are caught.

We talk round spillways.

Rushing rain, high winds

Bring freedom.

We rejoice therein.

Down to verse (1754)

Macadam Alley LXII

 

We hardly speak here, Pops,

Well, we actually now

Speak more than those above,

And we have our clicking sounds

That mirror Z-man’s drones

When they come close.

Z-Mammy, Z man’s turtledove,

(He gets to fuck his love,

We aren’t told how,

Nor r we free to ‘magine,

But we do, her doo, her doo,

I’ll cum to that)

Her face appears 

When they come near,

Projected ‘neath her hat,

No longer V, but Z…

You’ll see,

You’ll get the drift

How we do shift, 

Whom they do not admit

To be here.

Down to verse (1753)

Macadam Alley LXI

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

I stand afoot my river, Pops,

Sam gone to meet his woman

Far from town, 

I do say town, advisedly,

Its empty shells frown boards,

Now housing brown recluse,

Unsafe to step up porches,

Widows, rats, hornets colonied,

Sinks plumbed, water

Rare crumbed but for rain,

The county pool,

A pride of FDR,

Pre WWII,

All yards be dry.

 

Sam gone to meet his woman

Through rude old paths

Beneath the scrub.

Once trodden trails,

There are the caps, the pulls, 

From years ago

Scattered wrappers

From an ancient sweet,

A pumping station

Long grown to weed,

A bridge to it of Kiowa myth

That cited hope for seed,

Now rusted, picnicked dust. 

Sam, no doubt his way went that,

(No need to speak, I point)

Upriver, may have lost a wit or two,

But not his sense of cat.

Down to verse (1752)

Macadam Alley LX

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Derrida’s sea

Into which we sail,

With options

Full as London’s whale

(Who sank, ya know

The bank’s lunch pail),

But fuller still,

Of revolutionary time,

A singularity

That cannot rhyme

But in the bourgeois

Intellectual’s mind.

 

He is the vanguard, finally,

The fighter, planner, 

And mind so fickle

It would not know 

A hammer from a sickle.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_JPMorgan_Chase_trading_loss

 

One of my old ghosts, the New Left Marxist, finds it amazing how the intellectuals have taken human sensuous activity (praxis) from the solitary worker and redefined it, simply in terms of a negative dialectic that trades off nothing but disdain for the power of the white man. 

 

Tell that to Sam Taylor and my homeless homies. May the carbuncles of Uncle Karl come to burst boils on his chair.

 

I am homeless as a poet. My narrative is as homeless as any of theirs. 

 

We move toward a madness in our politics (both sides). We are being prepared for singularity. This is to be a time in which no lives matter, in which no narrative matters.  Ice T is quite right in the conclusion of his song.

 

At some point, God willing, creeks not rising (and other “spiritual” conditionals), I may come to comment on this. 

Down to verse (1751)

Macadam Alley LIX

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Will this one do?

Parmenides, who speaks

To all of one, in sum,

The one who spoke of One

That left poor Socrates confused,

Who claimed to follow not the One,

But priestess of the oracle, 

Refused she-priest, 

If you will, a Muse,

Who’d said him wise.

Ignoring her and Ion’s cries

Then took his mini coracle, 

His argument to sea, a ruse.

To paddle to it,

Battle with it,

Oblate of a kind,

Participant in fate.

The one who washes us 

As footnotes in it, late.

He left the One behind.

Ashore we mind our roundabouts,

Our stands for Golden Hinds,

Or prayer or war

In pantheons.

So far from truth that binds.

Down to words (654)

https://www.wsj.com/articles/feds-powell-says-interest-rates-likely-to-stay-low-for-years-11599251020

Down to verse (1750)

Macadam Alley LVIII

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Your line, Pops.

 

Silvery water glazes the upturned nipple.

 

L.A, its movie for a blind,

Far tippled,

Without Pan, maelid, dryad.

Visions for a kind,

Who would be Caesars,

Or vile, rank pleasers.

Posers that steal text of me,

Closers to debone me, 

To blood wreck, desiccate

My simple soul.

 

Mio Cid will do.

His East Valencia’s gods,

Dry bed maenads,

Craving heat,

Do drive the Gambel’s north

Tucson to Vegas.

Saving heat

For other vectors,

Yard birds worth

Of quite a different sector.

Donna mi prega.

 

He may do,

But he would not be,

For we sail into Derrida’s sea.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

Cantos I-III

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gambel%27s_quail

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pima_Air_%26_Space_Museum

Down to verse (1749)

Macadam Alley LVII

 

Pull down my vanity.

How start me

With what’s in front of me?

 

Old world.

Its gods,

Philosophies

That claim bare nods?

Yet, seized us, free,

Took liberties

Then spun us.

Away with free.

 

El Cid marched

Out from Burgos,

Back for burial.

Pageantry, pedantry

Poggio’s adagio.

Slow drawn,

Cimmerian mists,

Chimaera.

Illyrian deliria of Circes.

Useless son-seeds of trouble.

Pigs ne’er to sail or fly.

 

Daddo’s game:

 

Cf. Cantos I-III

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poggio_Bracciolini

 

All references are born to die,

Shot, sticky,

Killed in a Wiki.