My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?
route9litmag:

ON SOLIDARITY AND INSTITUTIONSby David W. Pritchard Alas and alack, the semester just starts and I’m out of town and missing things, including the first Live Lit of the year! But I was on a train that night, Friday, September 26, a train to Philadelphia to attend the wedding of two very good friends of mine, one of whom is, I am convinced, one of our greatest living poets. A post-wedding party was reconfigured to include a very exclusive poetry reading, in which I was one of eight featured readers, all of whom come from very different places, write very different poems, and are, in their own ways, just plain great. Before I simply rub all this in, I will mention that one striking thing about this reading, besides the greatness of the writing, was how its location, its geographical and social place, were almost entirely beside the point. At least, we were invited in various ways to contend with the way that space took a backseat to the events taking place within it. A curious problem, one I want to tackle in a different register. And so I will write about solidarity.
Read More

He Vagueblogged My Wedding: A Novel

route9litmag:

ON SOLIDARITY AND INSTITUTIONS
by David W. Pritchard
 
Alas and alack, the semester just starts and I’m out of town and missing things, including the first Live Lit of the year! But I was on a train that night, Friday, September 26, a train to Philadelphia to attend the wedding of two very good friends of mine, one of whom is, I am convinced, one of our greatest living poets. A post-wedding party was reconfigured to include a very exclusive poetry reading, in which I was one of eight featured readers, all of whom come from very different places, write very different poems, and are, in their own ways, just plain great. Before I simply rub all this in, I will mention that one striking thing about this reading, besides the greatness of the writing, was how its location, its geographical and social place, were almost entirely beside the point. At least, we were invited in various ways to contend with the way that space took a backseat to the events taking place within it. A curious problem, one I want to tackle in a different register. And so I will write about solidarity.

Read More

He Vagueblogged My Wedding: A Novel

(via ezrapoundinthetardis)

from “The Arriver,” a Counterblast to Industrial Lunches

Hegel says the state is an organism.

I say I’m heading out to hunt

the pigeon to extinction.

Gently Hegel lays his hand upon

my crossbow.

Have you not reason then to bee ashamed

and to forebeare this filthie noveltie

so baselie grounded

so foolishly received […]

(I’m conducting the chat in basic English)

The state is on the move

in some vague way I don’t think

carries over from the German.

Pigeons in dovecotes observe the state

rummaging through the garbage can

in exquisite little platinum booties.

It’s wearing an autumn jacket

and tallying several sets of resources

in its big mouth at once. Hegel says

one might as well try to understand God

by listing his attributes. Um,

where to begin? Let’s start with the basics.

Vast, annoyed, barn-door open.

from “The Arriver: A Song Against Theme”

There’s only one other person in Clark Park he’s

playing the trumpet scales and

three blasts of increasing volume and intensity

I like him, Hegel theorized the “rabble” and

immediately I gravitated towards it the big crowd

louder and lazier than I had dreamed of

Hegel, I don’t think this rabble you speak of exists

there are bad men with little moustaches loving

Walt Whitman publically

and I don’t think they get it, “gliding over all”

the thing only a ghost does, an aircraft,

a moth-man, an ideation, an electronic signal,

a big machine tapping out communiques,

a lunch hurled over the rampart, into

the courtyard of the abandoned creperie,

I got pizza sauce and cracker crumbs

all over the city’s many garbage piles,

all minute, gestural, etc.

“A man is invincible.” A man is invincible.

I’m feeling invincible.

Today is the day the lit I don’t like

burnt up and died but that doesn’t

make me any better or purer

without the essential gloss of ritual

which is also worthless. Hegel says

colonies are the natural children of

civil society and I’m seeing them

crawling from the drain-pipes in

monogrammed diapers. Everyone

desires a scene or an advantage—

everyone benefits from an increase

in specular vocations.

The heads of the town read poems 

at my wedding. They sprawled

over the slab. 

Everyone went to my reading

and loved it. I

am faster than the city’s horses,

my skin is stronger than

a billion lead bullets.

It’s Hegel Wednesday

Hegel says we don’t need to be shoemakers

to know if our shoes fit.

He’s secretly talking about the legal profession.

Hegel has been evicted from the city.

Hegel is “happy as a pig in shit”

to be free from the hassle actually

he tells me confidentially

while I’m using a big metal object

to stamp my last name into

every single zine I own.

Last Will and Testament of the Young Hegelian

Hegel said education

is the art of making

people ethical.

 

I was all like

what’s that in German.

He was all like.

 

Nobody said the state

was like god on the march

but they said Hegel said,

oh well, ie.,

ach! oh vell!

 

See the 36 trolley veer

to the east.

See the beast who is best.

I was all like

deposited on the absolute

opposite end of the city

beneath a bridge

two guys in football pads

a park with a plaque.

See the beast who is blessed

with a park with a plague.

I got picked up by my wife.


Hegel said virtue is like

a virtuosity of ethics.

I can’t even catch a ball.

On the 36 trolley,

I fall over my own feet,

down the stairs,

dragged along the track.

Bzzt! Electrocuted.

It truly sucks.


History ends here, with me,

beneath my right and rail.

A Cautionary Tale

This essay is contingent on the notion

that the painting is only a painting when

looked at head on. From an angle,

it’s just a lot of branches wadded up.

A bird is living inside it.

A bird is eating a worm inside it.

A worm is slithering around

for no purpose.

A worm is of worth only in context.

 

Brave adventure, stop!

Hold, heroes!

I’m not the fiend you seek.

This isn’t what it looks like.

Paladin, haruspex, Noid, stop.

I’m not at all like other guys, all

spinning a flail around their heads and bellowing—

I’m the silent cousin of Concupiscence,

James Nyquil Jr.

beatonna:

Listen I can’t wait until July 1871 to get these tracks I need to hear them now

Auld Robin the laird
Auld Robin the laird (radio edit)

beatonna:

Listen I can’t wait until July 1871 to get these tracks I need to hear them now

Auld Robin the laird

Auld Robin the laird (radio edit)

(via hivvexen)

This Saturday’s most thrilling post-wedding poetry reading you’re not invited to. 

This Saturday’s most thrilling post-wedding poetry reading you’re not invited to. 

Thomas Gray’s Enchanted Forest

I said I would write this if three people at a party came to my reading tomorrow. If they do not, pretend I never wrote this. 

—-

Thomas Gray generally amenable

to any and all objects limping

sideways with great rejoicing

from one end of the vista to another.

A beast with an antler is just a friend

with prongs. A tusk could be

a benison. Just try it out once.

 

Home examining the obscure and the known.

His amazing register of unlisted men

serving well through spiritual havok, good grist

for the ol’ mill, ska is back, he whispers,

ska is back.

 

He said the language of the age is never language,

never recurs, is a heavy heavy monster sound.

His vestments hurled into a bog at the behest

of friendly creatures.

 

O his landscape contracts. His citation

of the top ten common birds. Whipoorwill,

helicopter, other thing.

The last of the great pre-romantics

sharpening his recorder on the mean part

of a meteorite. O my gosh—

all his charming pastoral clerihews

soaked to death by magical ichor. 

 

Thomas Gray in the forest feels his age

  • the heft of toneless being,

clicking a button on the side of an apparatus,

and so on, hurling his vest into the fraught

bog of the symbol of a beast.

 

He’s, like, what’s a poem of place?

He’s existing simultaneously in and out of it,

his fun pilgrim boots are flashing.

He’s a problem of temporality.

Thomas Gray, still young to fuck,

bellows, bellows, he claims,

he insists on. His moustache,

the element of fantasy.

Gray feasts on small rocks

he calls “snake bread,”

sated on chocolate milk coaxed

from a side hatch.

 

In the night, woodland karaoke

and making every mute animal

clap at the end.

Beloved by everyone.

Washing a tin plate

in the creek, I uncover

a photo of him

in the mud

and go steady with it.



Guess what? I’m also

a professor at Cambridge University,

in England, curiously elaborate,

paid my weight in antique graveyards,

hoary-headed swain, little field of tyrant fruit,

bunch of scraps.

snfprtch:

comefriendlybomb:

When both DWP and Amanda like one of my poems it’s always within like two minutes of each other. What does it all mean.

The real question is, what will you do when we both  ”like” your wedding SIMULTANEOUSLY right in front of your eyes 

well I hope everyone likes it. we want everyone to have a good time 

(via ezrapoundinthetardis)