Monday, November 18, 2019


With Usura

With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover their face,
with usura
hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall
harpes et luz
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,
with usura
seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines
no picture is made to endure nor to live with
but it is made to sell and sell quickly
with usura, sin against nature,
is thy bread ever more of stale rags
is thy bread dry as paper,
with no mountain wheat, no strong flour
with usura the line grows thick
with usura is no clear demarcation
and no man can find site for his dwelling.
Stonecutter is kept from his tone
weaver is kept from his loom

wool comes not to market
sheep bringeth no gain with usura
Usura is a murrain, usura
blunteth the needle in the maid's hand
and stoppeth the spinner's cunning. Pietro Lombardo
came not by usura
Duccio came not by usura
nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin' not by usura
nor was ‘La Calunnia' painted.
Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,
Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.
Not by usura St. Trophime
Not by usura Saint Hilaire,
Usura rusteth the chisel
It rusteth the craft and the craftsman
It gnaweth the thread in the loom
None learneth to weave gold in her pattern;
Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroidered
Emerald findeth no Memling
Usura slayeth the child in the womb
It stayeth the young man's courting
It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth
between the young bride and her bridegroom

They have brought whores for Eleusis
Corpses are set to banquet
at behest of usura.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

ANNE SEXTON - “The Fury of Cocks”

There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day’s light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theater.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby’s hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don’t say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming
into the sweet blood of woman.

(Original title: 大象席地而坐)

Hu Bo
China, 2018

It's been twelve days since I've seen a TP2020 bumper sticker.

A month ago you couldn't drive five minutes without seeing at least one. It's almost like the Human Decency Fairy came through and stole them all. Except there's not that much decency here across the street from MAGAland, and fairies aren't real.

SO the question is, Maggots, why have you all peeled the TP2020 stickers off of your cars?

Worried? No? Then what happened to the stickers. What happened to the "T---P, fuck yeah!" at every stop light? Come to think of it, what happened to the plethora of Hillary for Prison bumpersticks in the last few weeks?


There is a certain embarrassment about being a storyteller in these times when stories are considered not quite as satisfying as statements and statements not quite as satisfying as statistics; but in the long run, a people is known, not by its statements or its statistics, but by the stories it tells.”

Saturday, November 16, 2019


you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Friday, November 15, 2019


Othmar Pferschy, mid-1950s
(English title: RAGING SUN, RAGING SKY)

Julián Hernández
Mexico, 2009
ANNE CARSON - "My Religion"

My religion makes no sense
and does not help me
therefore I pursue it.

When we see
how simple it would have been
we will thrash ourselves.

I had a vision
of all the people in the world
who are searching for God

massed in a room
on one side
of a partition

that looks
from the other side
(God’s side)

but we are blind.
Our gestures are blind.

Our blind gestures continue
for some time until finally
from somewhere

on the other side of the partition there we are
looking back at them.
It is far too late.

We see how brokenly
how warily
how ill

our blind gestures
what God really wanted

(some simple thing)
The thought of it
(this simple thing)

is like a creature
let loose in a room
and battering

to get out.
It batters my soul
with its rifle butt.

Thursday, November 14, 2019


A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, and die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
MARK Z. DANIELEWSKI from House of Leaves

Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name.

And then the nightmares will begin.

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

Monday, November 11, 2019


László Krasznahorkai

In his dream she was sick and he cared for her. The dream bore the look of sacrifice but he thought differently. He did not take care of her and she died alone somewhere in the dark and there is no other dream nor other waking world and there is no other tale to tell.


Akio Jissôji
Japan, 1971

Sunday, November 10, 2019

John Isaacs.


Carlos Reygadas
Mexico, 2012

Polytunnels for All Seasons and Climates

Pam Dawling


Akio Jissôji
Japan, 1970

The years have touched me.
I worry that I grow frail with age.
But I only need to see
Your flower like beauty
For all anxiety and heaviness
To leave me.


Margaret Atwood

Saturday, November 9, 2019


Carlos Reygadas
Mexico | France | Netherlands | Germany
SAMUEL BECKETT from "The Calmative"

How tell what remains. But it’s the end. Or have I been dreaming, am I dreaming? No no, none of that, for dream is nothing, a joke, and significant what is worse.


I do believe that the intelligent person, the moral individual, must avoid evil and cruelty and dishonesties. One can try to pursue a path of virtue. That remains to us, I hope.

Friday, November 8, 2019


I think it better to keep a profound silence with regard to the christian fables, which are canonized by their antiquity and the credulity of absurd and stupid people.


It has been remarked by a wise man that he who wrestles with a hog must expect to be spattered with filth, whether he is vanquished or not. This maxim I have long known and appreciated; nevertheless, there are occasions when it must be disregarded. A man may be attacked in such a way that he is compelled to flagellate his hogship, even at the risk of being contaminated by the unclean beast.

Thursday, November 7, 2019


Perhaps a sin that humbles you is better than a good deed that makes you arrogant.

(Original title: BATALLA EN EL CIELO)

Carlos Reygadas
Mexico, 2005


Education is not the filling of a pail, but rather the lighting of a fire.


Grace Easton -
WENDELL BERRY - “How To Be a Poet”

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.   Sit down. Be quiet.   You must depend upon   affection, reading, knowledge,   skill—more of each   than you have—inspiration,   work, growing older, patience,   for patience joins time   to eternity. Any readers   who like your poems,   doubt their judgment. 


Breathe with unconditional breath   the unconditioned air.   Shun electric wire.   Communicate slowly. Live   a three-dimensioned life;   stay away from screens.   Stay away from anything   that obscures the place it is in.   There are no unsacred places;   there are only sacred places   and desecrated places. 


Accept what comes from silence.   Make the best you can of it.   Of the little words that come   out of the silence, like prayers   prayed back to the one who prays,   make a poem that does not disturb   the silence from which it came.

Wednesday, November 6, 2019


Carlos Reygadas
Mexico, 2002

Ghost stories

Leanne Shapton
L. J. SMITH - "Night World, No. 3"

People Die...
Beauty Fades...
Love Changes...
And You Will Always Be Alone

Tuesday, November 5, 2019


Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitations-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flagstaff-
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance , the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversions of the eyes of death-
Beneath it all, the desire of oblivion runs.


Human Instinct

THE FOUR FOURS 1963-1968

The Four Fours
ITALO CALVINO from Mr. Palomar

If all material were transparent—the ground that supports us, the envelope that sheathes our body—everything would be seen not as a fluttering of impalpable wings but as an inferno of grinding and ingesting. Perhaps at this moment a god of the nether world situated in the center of the earth with his eye that can pierce granite is watching us from below, following the cycle of living and dying, the lacerated victims dissolving in the bellies of their devourers, until they, in their turn, are swallowed by another belly.


Rhonda Fleming Hayes
URSULA K. LE GUIN from The Left Hand of Darkness

How does one hate a country, or love one? Tibe talks about it; I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?

What is love of one's country; is it hate of one's uncountry? Then it's not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That's a good thing, but one mustn't make a virtue of it, or a profession... Insofar as I love life, I love the hills of the Domain of Estre, but that sort of love does not have a boundary-line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope.