Sunday, November 26, 2023

Milwaukee Musings




Milwaukee is still a place where you can encounter guys on the street who look like secondary characters from a Fassbender film from the late 1970s - on Brady Street, on Locust. It speaks to a certain kind of wonderful freedom still present in the city.
WMSE 91.7FM is a formidable radio station. Randomly in the car at 91.7 over three days in the city, I heard: swamp rock psychedelia, gothic new wave maybe contemporary or maybe from 35 years ago, intoxicating slow jams on the Saturday afternoon Boogie Bang & Dewey's Sunday morning show featuring an audience-member recorded Benny Goodman concert from the 1930s and I recalled how Dewey's voice and his music curation defined my Sunday mornings for the decade of the 1990s. And the man persists, still conjuring wonder from stacks of vinyl scavenged from bins spanning the continent, I imagine.

FAUST DRUM CENTER, and its haunting allusions to the idea of selling one's soul in order to be able to play like John Bonham or Neil Pert, may be no more on Kinnickinnick Ave, but the street possesses a heady density of vintage clothing, furniture and record stores. Just walking by the vitrines, one feels less depressed... 






Tuesday, November 7, 2023

Poems Bombs Silence

AND WHEN THE VIETNAM WAR BEGAN SAN FRANCISCO STREET POET BOB KAUFMAN TOOK A VOW OF SILENCE TO PROTEST / ONE GUY NO MONEY NO WAY TO SPEAK TO STONE MEN DISTANT DECIDING / FOR 10 YEARS BOB ORDERING COFFEE WITH NO WORDS / SAYING I LOVE YOU WITH HIS EYES / THE HILLS OF THE CITY GROW STEEPER AT TWILIGHT / GOLDEN GATE PARK LEADS DOWN TO THE SEA / THE PACIFIC STRETCHING TO GREEN VIETNAM COVERED IN SMOKE / WHAT WOULD BOB DO AS NIGHT FALLS ON GAZA NOW IN NOVEMBER / THE MADNESS OF THE LAST CENTURY PERSISTING / WOULD HE APPROACH STOPLIGHT CARS AND CREATE-SPEAK A POEM / POEMS PUT BOB INTO PRISON WHERE HE WROTE MORE POEMS / OR WOULD HE FALL SILENT IN THE MIST RISING OFF THE BAY / ALLEYS CORNERS SILENCES STORMS BOMBS LIKE GREAT HAILSTONES MADE FROM LEAD AND FIRE RAIN ONTO ROOFTOPS IN GAZA / NIGHT'S NOT FOR SLEEPING / IT IS FOR WEEPING / WOULD BOB SPEAK OR WOULD HE SCREAM OR FALL SILENT FOR 10 YEARS 100 YEARS 1000 YEARS 10,000 YEARS?




All reac

Saturday, September 23, 2023

Stories from Many Realms





Cool art projects done by insufferable people
Indecipherable verse written by meticulous people
Bad song lyrics about opulence
Trance-inducing TV shows about cops, firemen, lawyers, doctors
Podcasts about podcasts about other podcasts done in
dim light with energy drinks, weed sometimes
Panicked dreams about inability, inaction

Losers


we lose jobs
we can't sleep
the moon expands and contracts
like a baseball hit by a bat
flying into the stands
then played in reverse
hurtling back toward the plate
medications quell mental storms
and produce new symptoms
weed is smoked or chewed
we feel anxious
a night caterpillar crawls on a branch
we see it beneath a flood light
calmly eating a leaf
water in the potholes
vaguely reflecting stars

Climate Summer 2023: Fans, Shit


 

Love in Late Capitalism

 

I love you unproductively
In sloth
In slack
For no reason
For no purpose
Loving you will not
Make us richer
Or more important
I love you the sun rises
Grasshoppers hop
Sea lions roar
(Do sea lions roar?)
The shadow of the clock
In the city square
Expands and recedes
Throughout the day
Not here
(I must picture a De Chirico painting
To see this)
We do not have
City squares or plazas
But lines of cars
That project no shadows
Only waves of heat & sound
As they move toward
Something distant


Painting by Anni Albers

Belly-Propelled

 


The revolution will be quiet & slow
Happens in decay & coalescing
A guitar string breaking
New instrument is formed
New songs are played
The revolution is slow & quiet
Beach waves breaking on the sand
People crying in the switchgrass
On the dunes among the lost creatures
The revolution is abandonment
Wildflowers overtaking
Derelict parking lots
The harvest moon seen through
The windmill blades On a mini-golf course
A baby snake swivels
Out of the tin cup hole
A crease on his belly Where it attached
To his mother
Inside her he was egg-held
He came out of her
Moving already, belly-propelled
Swiftly upon the fake grass