Teaching last night, a class of about 18 students. All against the war except for a lone Israeli who looks a little like Barbara Walters. I felt sorry for her when she said, “Just because a majority believes something doesn’t mean they’re right.” No, I thought, but that’s democracy, my dear.
Author: Nada Gordon
skirt artist
entertainer
ESL teacher
poet
Fatigue makes me harsh and tough.
Because the sincere stuff is mawkish?
I don’t think I’m one for mawkishness.
Why is the Avengers song
IT’S THE AMERICAN IN ME
THAT MAKES ME WATCH THE BLOOD
POURING OUT FROM A GORED HOLE
IN HIS HEAD
ASK NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY
BUT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY’S BEEN DOING TO YOU…
ASK NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY
BUT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY’S BEEN DOING TO YOU!
so much more aesthetically effective, for me,
than all the sincere leftist music they play on WBAI in between the talking parts?
Incredible fatigue.
Wishing people would stop quoting Oppen.
Breathless Anticipation of Salve
I feel that my pose of objectivity is ridiculous. (210)
“I am myself a red head”(77)
Daily complexer forms and arcaner words. The more to mystify and bewilder?(79)
There is no way to not connect. (48)
These colleagues are trying for personal growth and must be oppressed by women laughing.(38)
…some people just don’t like squid and don’t care to decide which is good squid. (68)
Polymorphs — what is this feel like — mangled, managed (51)
On the streets there is only desire and frustration, anger and confrontation, emotions voided of self. (210)
[lines from James Sherry’s Our Nuclear Heritage]
Ron Silliman brilliant this morning — correctly alarmist.
Edwin Starr (sp?) died yesterday at age 61, of a heart attack, according to Amy Goodman. He was most famous for the song “War”, which Yahoo quoted yesterday in explaining the sudden rally of the stock markets…
RIP Edwin Starr.
A poem from the late 80s by me, read it on my website with groovy graphics if you want.
three for the seesaw
Crumpling the faces
who live in the folds
they
dare gaze
Wood grain
determines a
structure don’t
depend on the
fixative in my
tears. Said the
pitiable but
sympathetic
eponymous hero.
(I want the eye
of the public to
see)
Two simultaneous
time lines, each
in a different
country, it’s
pointed up like
the rain, but
we’re all lazy
now: dishes
boxes husbands
grey cool sky
messages tricky
raining out
saying “we shall
be released”
CIA soviets
siren on down to
the juke box,
pick out some
jingles and
seppuku. Put
them in prism
where they’ll
have time to
refract.
By *concrete*
he meant the LCD
display that
kept yelling
Silliman Watten
Hejinian. A curd
sat beside her and
she spotted with
mold.
(I want the eyes
of the public disease)
Anthony comes
home, drinks a
beer. Claire
calls to say
“I’ve been
putting names in
my writing” Ben
says we’re
desperate, we
put our friends’
names in, we
recognize
something.
(I want the eyes of
the puppet to see)
Better than the
deliberate rectangles
Herbert Hoover
pretended, or
the reverse type
manifestoes, a hill
of blueberries
threatening to
collapse on those
who dare climb
it, meaning
the sexual threat
of just leaving
the house.
(I want the eyes of
the poppet disease)
Your name may be
death’s head,
well, mine’s
made up.
(I want the eyes
of the puppy to
seal)
a: confusion is artifice. wipe off that paint.
b: I did and saw bland shapes (I ached to be beheld)
Otohime 