the naacp will make you cry

I could seriously give a crap about the fucking president, but yesterday Benjamin Jealous, the president of the naacp, made a beautiful speech:

also, it's Sun Ra's birthday today.

happy birthday to Sun Ra.

now, one nice thing about the internet is that everybody's internet is different from everybody else's.  we each get our weird own internet.  & if yours is anything like mine, today it bloomed completely Dan Magers.  I don't know whether it was planned or what, but a Magersia Majora swept over the land, filling my day with the cracked vaudeville of Dan's great new book partyknife.

MIND QUEEF, A ONE-ACT PLAY BY HITLER

Technically, the dumpster in back is part of the Whitney.

I love, and just push my heart out.

I can't be psyched to play Guitar Hero,

because it reminds me that I can't play real guitar.

A manner of fashion that could transcend ten months

and become the fashion forever.

I am quiet and also very boring.

The idea, the list, the spiritual realm -- a litany, a soul sick

list plus

transcendent, gravity plus parallel

plus journaling plus lament.

Also Zem is NOT San Francisco's eco-fashion guru;

she is San Francisco's eco-lifestyle guru.

This is important.

this book torques violences & there's a kind of a great electricity.  how to live where the "stars are geometric-utopian / and fascist"?  what to breathe in the flashing instant of being recognizable?  yourself upside-down.  sometimes I too "think that I'm doing all this cross training / so I can do more cocaine".  Dan's book is funny & itchy & uncomfortably like being someone.  "the fantasy of infinite impact", for real.

by the way the book hits stores in a couple weeks & for now you can buy it here.

Every Day

Every day

in a little way

things are done.

Every morning there is

a day.  Every day

there is a day.

Waking up in a bed

with a window with light,

with a place in mind,

to piss, to eat,

to think of something,

to forget it all,

to remember everything,

perfectly, each

specific, actual detail,

knowing nothing,

having no sense of any of it,

not being a part of it,

all right for you,

all right, you guys --

echoes, things, faces.

is terrific, right?  is Robot Creeley, auf keurz.

 Twilight Thinkers

Athens was dying, and with it the worship of knowledge.  The great systems had run their course: limited to the conceptual realm, they rejected the intervention of torments, the pursuit of deliverance and of inordinate meditation upon suffering.  The declining city, having permitted the conversion of human disasters into theory, no matter what -- sneeze or sudden death -- was supplanting the old problems.  The obsession with remedies marks the end of a civilization; the search for salvation, that of a philosophy.  Plato and Aristotle had yielded to such preoccupations only for the sake of equilibrium; after them, such concerns prevailed in every domain.

Rome, waning, took from Athens only the echoes of its decadence and the reflections of its collapse.  When the Greeks exercised their doubts throughout the Empire, the latter's downfall and that of philosophy were virtually consummated.  All questions seeming legitimate, the superstition of formal limits no longer prevented the debauch of arbitrary curiosities.  The infiltration of epicureanism and of stoicism was easy: ethics replaced the abstract structures, bastardized reason became the instrument of praxis.  In the streets of Rome, with carious recipes for "happiness," swarmed the epicureans and the stoics, experts in wisdom, noble charlatans appearing at the periphery of philosophy to treat an incurable and generalized lassitude.  But their therapeutics lacked the mythology and the strange anecdotes which, in the universal enervation, were to constitute the vigor of a religion unconcerned with nuance, a religion originating more remotely than they.  Wisdom is the last word of an expiring civilization, the nimbus of historic twilights, fatigue transfigured into a vision of the world, the last tolerance before the advent of other, newer gods -- and of barbarism; wisdom, what we call sagesse, is also a vain attempt at melody among the environing death rattles.  For the Sage -- theoretician of a limpid death, hero of indifference, and symbol of the last stage of philosophy, of its degenerescence and its vacuity -- has solved the problem of his own death... and has thereupon suppressed all problems.  Provided with rarer absurdities, he is a limit-case, which we encounter in extreme periods as an exceptional confirmation of the general pathology.

is true, no?  is komrad cioran, of kvass.

I urge... that a poem is not wise, even if it is: that any wisdom which gets into any poem is solely a quality of the moment of time in which there might happen to be wisdoms.
      There are obviously seizures which have nothing to do with wisdom at all.  And they are very beautiful.
                                            Or maybe I don't believe it's "beauty," any more than I believe it's "light"... how Bill has it in "To a Dog Injured in the Street," that he and René Char both believe "in the power of beauty / to right all wrongs."  Maybe I think this is also partial, social, wisdom.

"It is time (love) is difficult, Mr.
Beardsley"

                 I'm so foolish.  A song is heat.  There may be light, but light and beauty is no the state of: the state is the grip of (and it is not feverish, is very cool, is -- the eyes are -- ow did they get that way?

                                          "He who controls rhythm
                                           controls"

          This wld seem to me to be the
          END
                    Otherwise, we are involved in
                    ourselves (which is demonstrably
                    not very interesting, no
                    matter
                    who

howdy yesyes bop, mais non?  Charlez Olson, quack quack.

& also now, please download & read this totally interesting thing.

more & better posts soon, I promise.

tell your friends.