03 Screams in My Ears- Bill Fay
04 96 tears-? and the Mysterians
05 Solitary Woman-Charlie Starr
06 Blue Days Black Nights-Buddy Holly
07 It Ain't Easy-Bowie
08 God's Gonna Cut You Down-Johnny Cash
09 Red Right Hand-Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
10 New Dark Ages- Dan Melchoir's Broke Revue
11 Sound of Silence- Simon & Garfunkel
12 Blues Run the Game- Jackson C. Frank
13 Hard Time Killing Floor Blues-Skip James
14 Train Song-Vashti Bunyan
15 'Til I Get It Right-Tammy Wynette
16 Does the Sun Still Shine- Janine
17 Hard Times- Baby Huey
18 Cry to Me- Solomon Burke
19 You Don't Love Me- Kim & Grim
20 No No No- LA Vampires & Zola Jesus
21 When Night Falls- Medicine Head
22 Down But Not Yet Out- Felt
23 Only A Shadow- Cleaners From Venus
24 I Cry (Night after Night)- the Egyptian Lover
25 We've All Time to Sleep- Grouper
26 Before- Jim Schoenfeld
shake that devil off,
sway that devil off,
cry that devil off,
put your arms up
like you're learning how to fly
straight out of this hole.
the world exists to tell us that we are not its personal problems. that is why we enter human relationships: to create spaces for the personal. it is the greatest sadness to encounter the indifferent world in a relationship space, and it becomes an im-personal space just like any other, like a bus stop. we get farther and farther away from that ideal, Lacanian 'Real' when we are me/me. the lines we draw between any notion of (us).
in Lyons, the "forest preserve"
littered with dead deer, illegal sport
,littered with litter;
all of it banal: thousands of
plastic straws, many colors, cigarette ends(the
american luxuries: riding in cars, smoking,
drinking x-tra large beverages:
simultaneously, an increase in pleasures)
shards of iridescence: broken cds.
shards of transience, moving through
landscapes at high speeds,
the landscape doesn't mind.
here it waits for more reminders of
you, which it will break down
to styrofoam confetti, longer lasting than
that moment,( quick flash of your hand in the night, the air
on your palm; letting go. )
and longer than
the foundation of Chicago
most of it now gone,
the remainder abandoned across
from a British Petroleum power plant(bp, yellow green),
which is busy, industrious
as this place is dead, forgotten.
6 cars in 2 parking lots,
assorted subjects sitting inside,
waiting, fucking, drugging.
winter is the best time for forests
which a mile away from the highway
it begins to seem.
the wind passes easily through the trees,
the movements of animals
amplified when lushness is
you can see everything coming,
in a winter forest.
there is the clarity of nakedness.
the slowing down of the earth's
things falling apart slowly in the cold.
walk slower, conserve your strength,
pull your breath around your head.
when you reach the railroad tracks,
keep moving over the rusty ties, the
white stones caked with alloy
to take one in your hand
" Truthfully, I am "homesick" for a land that is not mine. I am haunted by the steppes, the solitude, the everlasting snow and the great blue sky "up there”! The difficult hours, the hunger, the cold, the wind slashing my face, leaving me with enormous, bloody, swollen lips. "
(Alexandra David-Néel in a letter to her husband, Eugene Néel, 1916)
You honestly think I give a fuck about what you wore today?
For real, real?
While you were outside of a Starbucks.
Tweeting low-res pics of your hindquarters.
Showing off your crotch blowout.
I was in a fucking mine shaft.
Fading my selvedge.
And reading Glenn O’drama’s bio.
On my iPad.
You city slickers slay me.
You really do.
But I guess if Rozay is a dealer.
And Yeezy is a martyr.
Then y’all are some rugged motherfuckers.
But on the real.
When’s the last time you heard it like this?
Henley and suspenders.
Scragglepuss beard and lived in White’s.
Clay pomade and fucking boulders.
Do they let you bring a shovel to brunch?
Didn’t think so.
Just because I look like a 49er.
Doesn’t mean my swagger isn’t on a hundred.
I’m chillin’ in the Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Kings Canyon.
Prospecting for steez.
You’re drinking a Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Flatbush.
Prospecting for chicks with septum piercings. "
(subtitle: macho can die as far
as i'm concerned.
and worse yet "real") (yeah i 've been reading judith butler,
tells us what to do.
The people who taught us to count were being very kind.
It's always time to leave.
If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don't.
The wind blows your hat off.
The sun rises also.
I'd rather the stars didn't describe us to each other; I'd
rather we do it for ourselves.
Run in front of your shadow.
A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a
The landscape is motorized.
The train takes you where it goes.
Bridges among water.
Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading
into the plane.
Don't forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you
are nowhere to be found.
Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.
If it tastes good we eat it.
The leaves are falling. Point things out.
Pick up the right things.
Hey guess what? What? I've learned how to talk. Great.
The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.
As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.
Go to sleep.
You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.
Everyone enjoyed the explosions.
Time to wake up.
But better get used to dreams.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
(John Berryman, Dream Song 14)
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.
(Dream Song 29)
you are in a well.
you've fallen in,
you forgot why.
this is how it is now,
you've been here once
now. you can concentrate
on a pure thought,
like seeing the mouth of the well from far off
filled with light
after much time groping in the dark
which feels so close always
filling your hands with it,
pulling it close like a lover's hair
coming up with that dark air
fill your lungs, dear one
no one will hear you
take your time.
feel your way.
with this shroud
of everything that is not
until you forget
a lump of sugar
becomes greater than itself
and you are that.
you will be here
for the billions of years
it will take
to reform you
a stronger crystal
under a cloak of
and you will have time to
soon the intimacy of that nothing
will be shed
in shades of becoming
and your body will be
you will be reminded
of the fact of: your hands, reaching
out like a sleepwalker tentative
then your face
the weak winter sun creating
when you are ready
Stephen: XXX was good, i didnt ask about bf, i kissed her on the cheek cuz i was too scared for the lips, she was doing some thing somewherethe weird thing is she knows kinda where she is but is still all like high school about it
. . . . . . . . .
steve kane, just keep doing you.
an irish woody allen ain't got nothin on you baby.
Free Fridays is on hiatus but will be back, and interactive, in 2 weeks.