Wednesday, April 29, 2020


POSTMODERN JUKEBOX featuring GUNHILD CARLING
"Dancing Queen"

Tuesday, April 28, 2020


MELODICKA BROS
"Take On Me"

Monday, April 27, 2020


POSTMODERN JUKEBOX featuring CASEY ABRAMS
"Umbrella"

Sunday, April 26, 2020


My first thought upone seeing this:
Well, of course it is.

Seoond thought:
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?
BORIS PASTERNAK
"Mephistopheles"

Every Sunday they left a circus of dust behind them,
as they poured out on the turnpike in stately, overcowded
                                                                                           carriages,
and the showers found nobody at home,
and trampled through the bedroom windows.

It was a custom at these staid Sunday dinners
to serve courses of rain instead of roast-beef;
on the baroque sideboard, by the Sunday silver,
the wind cut corners like a boy on a new bicycle.

Upstairs, the curtain-rods whirled, untouched;
the curtains rose like a salvo to the ceiling.
Outside the burghers kept losing themselves,
they showed up chewing straws by cow-ponds.

Later, when the long cortege of carriages
approached the city wall,
the horses shied
from the shadow of the Gothic gallows.

The devil in blood-red stockings with rose rosettes
danced along the sunset-watered road—
he was as red
as a boiling lobster.

One thought a snort of indignation
had ripped the lid of Heaven
from the skyline’s low vegetation;
the devil’s ribbons fluttered and danced.

The carriages swam through his eyes like road-signs;
he scarcely lifted a finger in greeting.
He rolled on his heels, he rumbled with laughter,
he sidled off hugging Faust, his pupil.

If you enjoyed this poem, why not read …



The Paris Review - Issue 26 (Fall 1961)

Thursday, April 23, 2020

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

FRIEDRICH WILHELM HEINE
The Ash Yggdrasil

It hasn't all gone to hell.

Yet.

Saturday, April 18, 2020


"This Little Light of Mine"
THE DEAD SOUTH

From THE DEAD SOUTH:

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! 
——— ——— ——— ——— ——— 
INSTRUCTIONS:
  • 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! 
UPLOAD YOUR VIDEO HERE.

Friday, April 17, 2020


EL DESIERTO
-
THE DESERT


Christoph Behl
Argentina, 2013

Thursday, April 16, 2020


DESTRY RIDES AGAIN

George Marshall
USA, 1939
ISMAEL REED
"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
Were sacrament?
(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
Meal

Next, he was attending the Asparagus Festival
In Freiburg
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
A cake

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
In Vegas
She was riding his broomstick
Hard
While feeding him gingerbread

The walls were caked with
Gingerbread, the doors, the

Floor, and the windows were
Gingerbread

Finicky about neatness
She kept sweeping his feet from
The table
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)

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

DOLEMITE

D'Urville Martin
USA, 1974

Monday, April 13, 2020

Saturday, April 11, 2020

CARL SANDBURG
"Monotone"

    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.

Thursday, April 9, 2020

PIT STOP

Jack Hill
USA, 1967/1969

LUCA STRICAGNOLI
"Clint Eastwood"

Monday, April 6, 2020


TRUCK TURNER

Jonathan Kaplan
USA, 1974
FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA
"Dawn"

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

Sunday, April 5, 2020

Saturday, April 4, 2020

FOXY BROWN

Jack Hill
USA, 1974

Thursday, April 2, 2020

COFFY

Jack Hill
USA, 1973
PIER PAOLO PASOLINI

The Church is the merciless heart of the State.
EMIL CIORAN
The Trouble with Being Born

Suffering makes you live time in detail, moment after moment. Which is to say that it exists for you: over the others, the ones who don't suffer, time flows, so that they don't live in time, in fact they never have.

Wednesday, April 1, 2020


SWEET SWEETBACK'S BAADASSSSS SONG

Melvin Van Peeples
USA, 1971
SEAMUS HEANEY
"Polder"

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.