Thursday, April 30, 2020
It’s raining hard today.
The day is more like night,
the spring is more like fall,
and in the yard a driving wind lays waste
to the little tree that, seeming not to, stands
steady and firm; it seems among the plants
like a too-green adolescent grown too tall.
You watch it. It may be
your pity stirs for all of those white flowers
the north wind strips from it; and they are fruit,
sweet preserves we set
aside for winter, those fallen flowers spread
across the grass. And your vast maternity
aches for them, all.
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
Monday, April 27, 2020
Sunday, April 26, 2020
My first thought upone seeing this:
Well, of course it is.
He's lost some weight, probably on account of the COVID.
Then, thought three:
Why aren't they using Rita's blood? What did Rita ever do to anyone?
Friday, April 24, 2020
[death(having lost)put on his universe]
death(having lost)put on his universe
and yawned:it looks like rain
(they’ve played for timelessness
with chips of when)
that’s yours;i guess
you’ll have to loan me pain
to take the hearse,
see you again.
Loving(having found)wound up such pretty toys
as themselves could not know:
the earth tinily whirls;
while daisies grow
(and boys and girls
have whispered thus and so)
and girls with boys
to bed will go,
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
In the branches the light
so that the limbs
on the moss
o nature—ah! less alone
should clothe me
with my shadow
nothing at all deceives me
it takes just everything
to conceive this
Monday, April 20, 2020
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Saturday, April 18, 2020
We miss seeing you dance along with us at shows, so let's do something fun together.
Let’s make an all-fan video for "In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company!"
It's all gone to hell!
But we're in good company!
How about you?
We miss seeing you dance along with us at shows, so let's do something fun together. Let’s make an all-fan video for CC!
Just put on the song, fire up your camera (your smartphone or computer will work, too), and with the help of the ‘good company’ around you, shoot your own tribute version of the original video from the, um…‘comfort' of your own home or wherever you are isolating.
Get creative! We love costumes, set pieces and props. Don’t have a fountain? Use the bathtub
Bring the kids and pets! But guys, keep your social distance and please do this safely and legally.
We’ll cut it all together into something amazing. And then we’ll share it with the world!
——— ——— ——— ——— ———
- Use your smartphone, laptop or any video camera. Does not have to be professional or high-resolution.
- Shoot in horizontal frame (holding your phone sideways). Don’t hold the phone vertically.
- Don't wear clothes with trademarks and brands, please. Make sure you get everyone in your frame. Don’t cut off your family’s heads.
- Dance (and lip sync) to the whole song from start to finish, if you can! We will pick out the best bits.
- Don’t edit your video – we will do that. Please leave in any unplanned mistakes or bloopers, those are the best!
Friday, April 17, 2020
Thursday, April 16, 2020
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
I have no body apart
From parts which form it.
I know no parts
Apart from a “body.”
Conflict with emptiness
A body with no parts
Would be unformed,
A part of my body apart from my body
Would be absurd.
Were the body here or not,
It would need no parts.
Partless bodies are pointless.
Do not get stuck in the “body.”
I cannot say,
“My body is like its parts.”
I cannot say,
“It’s something else.”
Drives, minds, things
Are like this body
In every way.
Is no conflict;
Objections to emptiness,
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.
Monday, April 13, 2020
"Town of the Dragon Vein"
If you wake up too early listen for it.
A sort of inverted whistling the sound of sound.
Being withdrawn after all where?
Does all the sound in the world.
Come from day after day?
From mountains but.
They have to give it back.
At night just.
As your nightly dreams.
Sunday, April 12, 2020
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Friday, April 10, 2020
Remember with me today—the word and counter-word of witness: the tactile dawn, emerging from my clenched hand: sun’s ciliary grasp: the stretch of darkness I wrote on the table of sleep. Now is the time to come. All you have come to take from me, take away from me now. Do not forget to forget. Fill your pockets with earth, and seal up the mouth of my cave. It was there…
Thursday, April 9, 2020
Wednesday, April 8, 2020
The restless pass the night hours in company
at half past three admit to being lonely.
digit on the clock’s dial, familiar
as supper time. This is not insomnia:
(a state of disturbance marked by anxiety,
tears, veronal, prayers to the Deity,
guilt, and a plenitude of self pity).
The wakeful are simply awake and quiet
at any hour—little concerned about it;
warm in the lamp’s glow, the soft bed jacket,
with cigarettes and fruit ready to hand;
a waltz whispered over the radio and
sleep hovering at the night’s end.
Tuesday, April 7, 2020
Monday, April 6, 2020
Sunday, April 5, 2020
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.
Saturday, April 4, 2020
Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.
Friday, April 3, 2020
"The Diabetic Dreams of Cake"
“Wall Street says that cake sales are low”
Or to put it bluntly
“Cake is fizz”
So why is a diabetic dreaming of cake
Asked to leave a temple
Because he didn’t know that rice cakes
(He managed to jam some into his pockets)
He dreamed that Mount Diablo was a Devil’s food cake
He began to munch it down until his path was
Interrupted by his Pancreas
The Pancreas had sticklike arms and legs
It was frowning
It put up a hand and beckoned him to halt
He pushed aside the Pancreas and finished his
Next, he was attending the Asparagus Festival
It was held in a great medieval hall and before
Each person there was a plate of asparagus
He started banging on his plate
Asparagus Nicht, Kuchen Ja
Next he was running across Central
Park, juggling a wedding cake without
Losing a single flake
Safely in some Brooklyn room
The news said that he had stolen
The cake from a tony East Side wedding
He didn’t take it all in
He was too busy eating the cake
And watching Julia Child bake
He was on a plantation doing
What looked like a goose step
He was twirling a cane
He was wearing a monocle
A black top hat
And shiny black boots
The master said, That takes the cake
Some of the slaves applauded
Others grumbled and called him a dandy
You can sleep with my wife and daughter tonight,
The master said
He started running because they were as ugly
Or shall we say beauty challenged as well
As booty challenged
Under an old Southern pine tree
He ate the cake
He was chillin’ with his witch
Not the one with a wart on her nose
And wearing a black cone-shaped hat
But a centerfold witch
You’ve seen her
She was honored at the AVN Awards
She was riding his broomstick
While feeding him gingerbread
The walls were caked with
Gingerbread, the doors, the
Floor, and the windows were
Finicky about neatness
She kept sweeping his feet from
But something outside of the window
Got her attention
Holding hands, two blond children were coming down the road
And here he thought that the bones in the fireplace
Were animal bones
She pushed him through the back door
But he persuaded her to give him a piece
For the road
Next he was sitting in on a congressional
Hearing on whether to classify pancakes
As cake. A conservative senator warned of
A slippery slope. What next? he said,
Icing on biscuits?
His mother learned to make chocolate
Cake when working for
A German family
Charlayne, whose mother was German, said
That the Germans used real cocoa
And so he found himself as tiny as a baby fly
Inside of his mother’s favorite cake bowl
He was climbing
The ladle to reach the icing around the
Rim of the bowl
He and Sigmund Freud
He kept falling backward every time
He was about to reach the top
Now they tell him that he has no free will
That bacteria inside his gut have goals
That don’t jibe with his
Or as the scientist says,
“Microbial manipulations might fill in
Some of the puzzling holes
In our understandings about food cravings”
In other words,
For his microbiome he is just a delivery system that
Brings them sugar
For them his body is a bakery
Is there no end to subservience?
He would find the conversation that his cells have
About him hair-raising
They crave cake even though
Cake spikes his sugar
And so as one grows older
While the external adversaries with whom
One had been feuding either die or
Break bread with you
The internal adversaries multiply
They couldn’t give a Twinkie about
Whether you live or die
The Paris Review - Issue 218 (Fall 2016)
Thursday, April 2, 2020
The monotone of the rain is beautiful,
And the sudden rise and slow relapse
Of the long multitudinous rain.
The sun on the hills is beautiful,
Or a captured sunset sea-flung,
Bannered with fire and gold.
A face I know is beautiful—
With fire and gold of sky and sea,
And the peace of long warm rain.
Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because morning and hope are impossible there.
And sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who got out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die;
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried beneath chains and noises,
an important warning to rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
Translated by Greg Simon and Steven White
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Today the sun was shining
so my neighbor washed her nightdresses in the river—
she comes home with everything folded in a basket,
beaming, as though her life had just been
lengthened a decade. Cleanliness makes her happy—
it says you can begin again,
the old mistakes needn’t hold you back.
A good neighbor—we leave each other
to our privacies. Just now
she’s singing to herself, pinning the damp wash to the line.
Little by little, days like this
will seem normal. But winter was hard:
the nights coming early, the dawns dark
with a gray, persistent rain—months of that,
and then the snow, like silence coming from the sky,
obliterating the trees and gardens.
Today, all that’s past us.
The birds are back, chattering over seeds.
All the snow’s melted; the fruit trees are covered with downy new growth.
A few couples even walk in the meadow, promising whatever they promise.
We stand in the sun and the sun heals us.
It doesn’t rush away. It hangs above us, unmoving,
like an actor pleased with his welcome.
My neighbor’s quiet a moment,
staring at the mountain, listening to the birds.
So many garments, where did they come from?
And my neighbor’s still out there,
fixing them to the line, as though the basket would never be empty—
It’s still full, nothing is finished,
though the sun’s beginning to move lower in the sky;
remember, it isn’t summer yet, only the beginning of spring;
warmth hasn’t taken hold yet, and the cold’s returning—
She feels it, as though the last bit of linen had frozen in her hands.
She looks at her hands—how old they are. It’s not the beginning, it’s the end.
And the adults, they’re all dead now.
Only the children are left, alone, growing old.
t's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening
I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record
Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear?
Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You'd been to the station to meet every train, and
You came home without Lili Marlene
And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well, I see Jane's awake
She sends her regards
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way
If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Well, your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free
Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried
And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Sincerely, L Cohen