Tuesday, December 12, 2017

SPY OF THE FIRST PERSON ~





Yes, the new Shepard book is quite good, he has refined the writing 
or his poor health has done it for him. 
No more time to diddle around. 
He’s more like Issa here. 
He goes back and forth in almost a dreamscape between himself (the injured) 
and watching himself from a short distance 
plus it seems memory of an earlier life and love 
and her awful sickness and early death. 
The ending is strong and clear-sighted and tragic. 
He ends with his dignity. 
I was in two fine bookshops yesterday, neither had the book, 
but perhaps both shops have already sold out.



Knopf 2017
prose





Monday, December 11, 2017

LOVE AND LANDSCAPE ~







Love And Landscape






Don’t ask us how we crossed the saltwater marsh

Grasses were high and easy under foot

The last stream was spanned by a driftwood plank

Thrown carefully into the muck

I didn’t sink and you didn’t sink

And when we came to ocean

Skittering of sandpipers

You held your dress and walked into the spray

It must have been also the sudden daylight that I loved









Us    






Between Ives and Messiaen you move and I move with you. In one more stupid mall with cheap price CDs and three hundred Sunday shoppers all with the same behavioral instincts, what’s to look at? The ceiling is more curious, all suspended with some panels complete, some open straight up to the no man’s land of steel trusses and cheapness. I know when it rains it rains in the book section, and wouldn’t you know? A leak in the roof still to be found. Before we leave with our fix of CDs Carson wants to take me back into the book section to show me where he sits each time we come right in front of a rack of comic books and he often brings real books to this chair. Now I know where to find him. I remind him this is the best way to use this place — read for hours on a rainy day respectful of the merchandise but don’t buy a thing. How I move with you is standing still, not even thinking of much; will it be a CD Ives or Messiaen juggling prices, and in green cotton dress between racks you hesitate in its alphabetical organization, tight waist and hips curve, a freshly and very fuckable look between us.






Neighborly





During the big snowstorm

that lasted almost a full week



three feet of snow and plenty of

kerosene lamps used



two horses broke loose from

somewhere, though we have a



good idea where, but first Sweet-

heart had to be surprised by the



two at the door as she turned

and how she couldn’t help but



see how one was bleeding at the

eye and the other seemingly wasted



so she took them back through the

deep snow to the road where all



things, even those you can’t afford

to love, come and go







The Reflex






One must understand

I hug my love every day



as the world gets worse

and worse and worse



I hug her many times

in a day



I smell her hair, feel

her waist, and even



look out a window

but I hug her




————————————

BOB ARNOLD
I'm In Love With You
Who Is In Love With Me
Longhouse 2012











Sunday, December 10, 2017

THE SUN ESSENTIALS ~












EVIL CHASING WAY ~








Set against the night country of New Mexico is a mystery that has never been solved. The novel follows the footsteps of a young reporter who has been assigned to witness a series of bizarre cattle mutilations. In his search for truth, he interviews tribal elders, scientists, FBI agents, state police, mediums, mystics, cattle and horse ranchers, and many other observers living in the high desert of northern New Mexico. One of his interviewees is a scientist who claims to have been taken aboard a “star car”. A Navajo medicine man confirms that he was abducted as well. A tribal friend tells the author: “There is a hole in the sky and things are coming out of it.” PRAISE FOR GERALD HAUSMAN “If you’re hungry for a book to keep you up past bedtime—with all the lights on—this tale is for you. Based on real unsolved mysteries, Evil Chasing Way deals with startling animal deaths that some attribute to aliens, skinwalkers, secret government research or a force of true evil. This is New Mexico’s own X File anchored in Hausman’s elegant prose and finely tuned descriptions of the Southwestern landscape.” —Anne Hillerman, author of Song of the Lion "Evil Chasing Way is something special. Part mystery, part magical realism, part personal journey, and very much mystical, I was irresistibly drawn into the story. I was captivated by the narrator, an inquisitive journalist seeking answers to the mysterious and often grotesque cattle and horse mutilations that once plagued southern Colorado and much of New Mexico. Experts raced from incident to incent, but credible explanations were few and far between. What happens when reality defies known science and rationality? That’s where Gerald Hausman begins. Then he draws deep from his well of knowledge of Navajo story and culture. (Think Tony Hillerman on steroids.) He takes you on a journey from the arroyos and high forests of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the craggy stone crevasses of the Grand Canyon. Along the way you meet shuffling skin walkers, extraterrestrials, and crafty coyotes. This is more than a novel. It’s an experience you won’t forget and it will leave you hungry for more."

 —Peter Eichstaedt, author of Borderlands and The Dangerous Divide



Speaking Volumes
18 Sleeping Dog Road
Santa Fe, New Mexico
87508


Friday, December 8, 2017

KEI MILLER ~







What  River Mumma Knows



River Mumma Knows things —

the underground trod of Hector's Spring,

of One Eye River. The tributaries feed

the red mangroves of Black River.

Over 100 square miles of Great Morass

are stomping ground of River Mumma.

She knows rocks under which

live large colonies of 'shrimp', or  'swims',

depending on how you learnt to say things.

She knows even more than Goby Fish

where in river bottom alligator lives.

Wag Water is her own most sacred home,

secret place where is kept the famous

golden comb. In Drivers River, Manchioneel,

swim three last manatees who are

to mermaids as chimpanzees are

to man. Some days River Mumma

just sits cool on a bank, waiting

for signs that prove the prehistoric cows

still evolve towards the magic of herself.

Somewhere in Martha Brae lies the body

of Nora — selfish child who refused Dry River

token portion of ackee — small toll

for privilege of crossing; the girl insisted

she would rather dead.

Dry River call her bluff and come dung

heavy upon her head.

But River Mumma knows

not all things caught to be known.

Not all places ought to be found.

She cries 'Abu ye!  Abu ye!'

and swims towards her ground.



———————————

KEI MILLER
The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion
Carcanet, 2014









Thursday, December 7, 2017

WILLIAM H. GASS ~




WILLIAM H. GASS, 1986

Dominique Nabokov


1924 ~ 2017

————————————————

William Howard Gass was born in Fargo, N.D., on July 30, 1924, the son of William Gass and the former Claire Sorenson. When he was six weeks old his father moved the family to Warren, Ohio. William grew up during the Depression, spending summers in North Dakota. “These were the dust bowl years, too; grasshoppers ate even the daylight,” he wrote.

The New York Times
7 December 2017



    Fiction[edit]

    • Omensetter's Luck (1966)
    • In the Heart of the Heart of the Country (five stories) (1968)
    • Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife (illustrated novella) (1968)
    • The Tunnel (1995)
    • Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas (four novellas) (1998)
    • Middle C (2013)
    • Eyes (two novellas, four short stories) (2015)

      Non-fiction[edit]

      • Fiction and the Figures of Life (1970)
      • On Being Blue: A Philosophical Inquiry (1976)
      • The World within the Word (1978)
      • Habitations of the Word (1984)
      • Finding a Form: Essays (1997)
      • Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problems of Translation (1999)
      • Tests of Time (2002)
      • Conversations with William H. Gass (2003)
      • A Temple of Texts (2006)
      • Life Sentences (2012)





      BUKKA WHITE ~










      UNPUBLISHED CHARLES BUKOWSKI ~







      Ecco Press
      2017


      #1



      Oh, forgive me For Whom the Bells Tolls,

      oh, forgive me Man who walked on water,

      oh, forgive me little old woman who lived in a show,

      oh, forgive me the mountain that roared at midnight,

      oh, forgive me the dumb sounds of night and day and death,

      oh, forgive me all the sunken ships and defeated armies,

      this is my first FAX POEM.

      It's too late:

      I have been

      smitten.



      ——————————

      CHARLES BUKOWSKI
      Storm for the Living and the Dead
      edited by Abel Debritoo


      Debritoo claims, "February 18, 1994 manuscript; previously uncollected. In all likelihood,
      this is the last poem Bukowski ever wrote."







      Wednesday, December 6, 2017

      MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ ~



      Michel Houellebecq & Iggy Pop


      ————————


      By the death of the purest

      All joy is invalidated

      The chest as if hollowed,

      And the eye knows darkness in all.



      It takes a few seconds

      To wipe out a world.




      ——————




      My former obsession and my new fervor,

      You quiver in me for a new desire

      That's paradoxical, light like a distant smile

      And yet profound like the essential shadow.



      (The space between skins

      When it can shrink

      Opens a world as lovely

      As a loud burst of laughter.)



      ————




      When I have to leave this world

      Make it be in your presence

      Make it that in my last seconds

      I look at you with trust



      Tender animal with arousing breasts

      That I cup in my hands;

      I close my eyes: your white body

      Marks the limit of the kingdom.



      —————




      When it is cold,

      Or rather when you feel cold

      When a centre of coldness settles with a gentle movement

      Deep in the chest

      And jumps heavily between the lungs

      Like a stupid fat animal;



      When your limbs beat weakly

      More and more weakly

      Before stopping on the sofa

      Definitively, it seems;



      When the years turn flashing

      In a smoky atmosphere

      You can no longer remember the scented river,

      The river of early childhood

      I call it, in accordance with an ancient tradition: the river of              innocence.



      Now that we live in the light,

      Now that we live right next to the light,

      In endless afternoons

      Now that the light around our bodies has become palpable




      —————



      Traces of the night.

      A star shines, alone,

      Ready for distant Eucharists.



      Some destinies gather, perplexed,
      Immobile.



      We are marching I know towards strange mornings.




      —————




      The fine and delicate texture of the clouds

      Disappear behind the trees

      And suddenly it's the vagueness that comes before a storm;

      The sky is beautiful, hermetic as marble.



      ————




      When the meaning of things disappears

      In the middle of the afternoon

      In the gentleness of a Saturday

      When paralyzed by arthritis.



      The disappearance of railway sleepers

      On the iron tracks

      Happens just before the rain,

      Memories are exhumed.



      I think of my call signal

      Left at the pond's edge

      I remember the real world

      Where I lived, long ago.



      ————




      I am as free as a lorry

      Crossing driverless

      The territories of terror,

      I am as free as passion.



      ————




      In the mindlessness that takes the place of grace

      I see immobile lawns unfold,

      Blueish buildings and sterile pleasures

      I am the wounded dog, the cleaner



      And I am the lifebelt supporting the dead child,

      The unlaced shoes cracked by the sun

      I am the dark star, the moment of awakening

      I am the present moment, I am the north wind.



      All happens, all is there, and all is phenomenon,

      No event seems justified;

      We would need to attain a pure heart;

      A white curtain falls and covers the stage.



      ——————————————

      MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
      Unreconciled
      Poems 1991-2013 
      (bilingual edition)
      Farrar 2017
      Translated  Gavin Bowd